#buddy swanson

[mrsaltieri-real]

That’s it. That’s the post. Whose YOUR favourite murder boy?

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Since no one got around to asking and I want to share, Buddy Swanson isn't one for costumes (outside the Metal Killer fit) but when you ask and insist he agrees, leading to dark wash jeans, a black t shirt, a collar and kitty ear headband, he lets you put whiskers on him too.

[adaricruz]

u gon tell me there’s a horror musical n the killer is a metalhead

[early20sfailingplenty]

Home cooking, homicide // final(est) girl Bex x Buddy Swanson

A/N: Happy happy birthday @bisexual-horror-fan!!! Writing this for you was sooooo much fun and I can't thank you enough for all of the films we've shared, the discord chats, the streams, the writing, the commissions, just... everything. You have helped me make me braver and bolder and louder and prouder and you influence me every day in your teachings. You make this world a brighter, better, gentler and wiser place and I don't know what I'd do without you!!! I'm very proud of you and how far you've come and will continue to go.💖So here's to you, Bex, happy fuckin' birthday!! You're the final girl to end all final girls! Just as well you have a slasher to complement you on your journey...😉👀

Also, fun fact! The title of this gift is from Motörhead's song Eat The Rich, which is one of my favourite song of theirs! I was listening to it while writing this introductory note and got inspired by the lyric

"Get a sweet thing on the side Home cooking, homicide"

And here we have it! I hope you enjoy!! If not, I'm happy to write you something else.🥺💖

Word count: 2, 543.💕

You wondered how many people could say that their work shifts doubled as a date with their partner... not many, you would wager. Not that you could afford to, even if you wanted to, what with the meagre wages you and Buddy were paid for the incredibly demanding and repetitive work you did. You practically ran the entire kitchen between yourselves; both of you doing double the work listed in your job descriptions. Camilla was also hired to work here, but with her now working on the next production, she was rarely if ever on a kitchen shift. You and Buddy had been picking up where she should have been, so it was more work for the same money... typical capitalist bullshit. Even at summer camp.

But still... The point stood.

How many other people could say that their work shifts doubled as a date with their partner?

For you and Buddy, food was an every day guarantee and a joint staple in your daily routines. It was a joy to cook, a wonder to be able to eat what you wanted while you were on shift so long as you had the ingredients. Sampling dishes to make sure that the food tasted good wasn't strictly a necessity but you always said that doing so was for 'quality assurance purposes'; and it never failed to make Buddy smile at you fondly over industrial cans of food. To be able to take care of one another while you worked as best and as fast as you could as you got swept off your feet trying to feed the tens of kids at camp, the managers, actors and cast members, the musicians and everyone else who worked behind the scenes to make the magic happen on the modest stage, was a gift. You loved the life you and Buddy had built together and you loved the way you loved each other. You loved food, trying new recipes and dishes, eating and hanging out, and even doing the dishes was fun when you had Buddy standing shoulder to shoulder with you. He would sometimes flick bubbles over at you, trying to distract you, but you would only grin and swat at his ass with a sharply aimed towel the next time you walked past him. He always saw you coming. Sometimes he allowed you to do it, a smirk on his face with the sharp crack of the towel, and sometimes he simply dodged. It depended on his mood and how playful he felt.

It was just good to share the camp kitchen with Buddy, and your own passion and love for food and eating only made everything all the more richer for you. Buddy could take or leave cooking, he didn't care. Hell, he couldn't wait to get the hell out of dodge, but you made the kitchen what it was for the both of you. Your presence made everything brighter and more hopeful for Buddy, and he showed his appreciation for you through physical affection and food.

Buddy was always fun to watch in the kitchen. He cared little for the 'freaks' you both cooked for every day and yet he never allowed his emotions to get in the way of the role he had to play in the kitchen. The food itself was never affected by his hatred for his job and the person he was employed by. It was a hard slog in the kitchen daily for people he cared not for, but it was also a chance to spend the day with you. The both of you knew what you were doing in the kitchen and you knew the layout of the camp kitchen like the backs of your hands, so it was little more than a dance around one another to make the daily menus happen and even come up with some dishes which were rare treats; something you cooked just because you loved it. Or, if the budget allowed, just because you could.

Like oven done ribs.

It was a low effort meal (most of the things prepared in the camp kitchen were as the palettes of children and teenagers could be somewhat... limited, as could be the assigned budget) but it tasted so good – it was one of your favourites for a reason and Buddy loved to surprise you with it on special occasions; such as your birthday. He had squirrelled away some of the budget so that he could get you the ribs without anyone aboveboard finding out. You could have bought the ribs yourself, they were often on your grocery lists, but where was the fun in surprising you with your own food?

When asked, you could rattle off the ingredients like it was the back of your hand, and this was how Buddy had gotten the recipe from you. Emphasis had always remained on the apple cider vinegar being applied before the rub, which involved so many herbs and spices it had initially made Buddy's head spin, but now the gathering and application of these flavours to the ribs had become second nature to him. He wasn't as quick about it as you were, but he was close.

It always made your heart fuzzy to watch him, his dark curls hanging over his blue eyes, his eyebrows reaching for each other in concentration as his hands moved over spice bottles and herb packets, pulling one out and then either using it or putting it back with a slight shake of his head when he had picked out the wrong one.

Sometimes you helped him, sometimes you didn't... It depended on how bored you were, how busy the kitchen was and how evil you felt. Buddy always found the right one eventually, and watching him struggle could be fun. It wouldn't be fun for the food, though, so more often than not, you helped even when Buddy was more than capable of doing it himself.

You just liked to be close to him.

"You think these ribs will take long?"

Buddy's voice was quiet, his tender blues fixed on you as he asked a question he already knew the answer to just to hear your voice. He was soft like that sometimes, but only for you. His final girl.

"Nah," you shook your head, eyeing Buddy with a gaze almost as hot as the heat coming from the preheated stove. "Two, two and a half hours max. Want the meat falling off the bone, get it all nice and tender."

Buddy nodded his head. He was becoming increasingly distracted, quiet, while Camilla was becoming louder, more annoying. You had never liked her. You wondered what was happening to the Swansons, but you figured things would reveal themselves in all good time. And if not, well... Buddy was private, he kept things to himself, but if he felt the need to talk to you, then he would do so when he was good and ready and not a second before. It wasn't your place to push. Buddy knew you were there for him as surely as he knew he had curly hair, and you felt comfort and security in that knowledge too. The love which existed between the both of you was as natural and as easy as breathing. You didn't have to think about it.

It just was.

Buddy was a rather affectionate man. He didn't seem that way, but sometimes instead of flicking soap suds at you at the kitchen sink when the both of you were washing up, he would instead shuffle to stand behind you so that he could rest his forehead on the back of your shoulder, or he would wrap his arms around your waist and pull you flush against him. There were no intentions other than giving and receiving love in equal measures. He had been so deprived of touch and love; the upbringing he had received after his mother's murder wasn't love, not really. It was walking on eggshells and sitting on a secret so callous and cruel that it had twisted him into the man you knew him as; childhood trauma left to fester turned into a wound that never healed and instead ripped open and bled more still every time he had to face the man who ran the camp and the Swanson siblings' lives: Roger McCall.

It was a wound which never stopped bleeding, but you did what you could to help Buddy patch himself up.

You could have only ever suspected that patching Buddy up so that he could begin to heal was not what he wanted. No, what Buddy wanted was revenge. On Roger, on the industry, on his sister for becoming an actress... The Metal Killer was bloodthirsty and if revenge was what he wanted, then... it was revenge which he would have.

But not yet... the timing wasn't right. The place was, but the time had yet to pass. The much anticipated opening night of The Haunting of the Opera was when Buddy would get his revenge and Camilla would most likely end up being collateral damage. Buddy didn't want that for her, he really didn't, but he had chosen his path and she had chosen hers. It seemed that their life path, which they had always walked through together, had a fork in the road and they would be going their own ways. They were twins. Buddy and Camilla had always lived life together, but somewhere along the way did the fates show Buddy that they were to die alone, separated from one another in all ways but blood.

Never to meet again, if Buddy's own show went to plan. He was devastated to potentially lose his sister but if that was the way it had to be, then so be it. She had made her bed by deciding to follow her mother's footsteps to the letter. Buddy had dug the graves he needed, since he had failed in his plans to stop his sister from becoming an actress. All that was left was for the sands of time to turn their tricks, as they do on everyone. Buddy had accepted the way things would go. You were kept in the dark, your suspicions rising but otherwise left unattended, but your own role would show itself in time.

Until then, though, he was cooking oven done ribs for his final girl's big thirtieth birthday. And, oh, what a filthy decade it was to be. You and Buddy had plans to make money. Both of you had employment history with food, so it wouldn't be too difficult for you to work with Buddy in the restaurant he wanted to open one day. Probably in New York - that's where the money was. With money came power, and with power came the ability for Buddy to get out from underneath Roger's nails. Camilla too, if she wanted. It was looking increasingly like she didn't want to; she wanted fame, she wanted her mother back and she thought that pipe dream lay in following her mother's path. She was wrong, Buddy knew that, and so did you, but Camilla hadn't quite caught up yet to the fact that the industry she had dreamed of participating in ever since she was a child would eat her alive.

By the time she woke up, it would be too late.

The oven beeped, preheated to the correct temperature, and Buddy cast his eyes over the ribs to check them over before he slid them into the oven, smoothly kicking the door shut as he flipped a heavily grease stained white towel over his broad shoulder. It was one smooth movement; he had had years of practice. The mountain of dishes which had accumulated during the making of lunch made him scoff in derision. It was becoming harder and harder for him to take this job seriously. His dark ambitions were so important, his rage and trauma bigger than he. He just wanted Roger and the freaks to shut their faces, he wanted to get out, to get away, he wanted his own money and his own place, Buddy wanted freedom with no one remaining from his previous life except you, especially after spending most of his life living out choices which were made for him by a man he loathed.

As the ribs cooked in the oven, baking in the spices and the meat's own juices, you and Buddy entertained one another with jokes, miniature food fights (conducted using only waste products like bell pepper hearts or bits of spaghetti which never made it into the pot from where Buddy had thrown it in the general direction of the pot of boiling water without a care for where the uncooked pasta landed), and generally working hard to feed the entire camp. No matter the situation, you fought hard and somehow always made things work. Watching you in the kitchen, watching you go between cooking and cleaning up, always humming and singing, often made Buddy wonder how you would handle The Metal Killer. He knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that you would handle it and him with grace.

When you decided to do something, nothing and no one would stop you. It was what made you a final girl. It was what made you the final girl. You would survive the camp but all others around you would fall - the ones on Buddy's Wall, anyway. The rage within Buddy was strong enough that he could bring down someone twice his size, he could bend limbs and appendages with little effort; the kitchen had given him more skills than just time management. It had given him muscles, it had given him the weapons and the means with which to protect himself and his sister, to protect his final girl even though she could and would protect herself. Buddy admired the way you faced a situation with the seriousness it required and did everything you could even when it felt wrong, because you knew it was right. It was a distinction observed in few people. Buddy had only ever been able to keep quiet about the things he had seen, the things he knew, but you spoke up, you used your voice, and Buddy felt comfort in knowing that you lived for yourself in the way he had never been able to, no thanks to Roger.

The last hour of cooking the ribs involved basting the meat with its own juices every ten minutes, and so entertainment slowed, but the affection between you and Buddy remained as strong as ever. While the camp's menu for the various departments and age ranges had been fully catered to as per Roger's instructions, you and Buddy had somehow managed to find the time and ingredients to make your favourite sides to accompany the oven done ribs. It was to be a fire birthday meal, but the plans didn't end there. Not today, not with so many years of your life to celebrate alongside the promise of many more to come. More often than not, Buddy had more plans than actions, but on your birthday, your birthday, Buddy had more actions since the only real plan was to celebrate his final girl. His.

[tinalbion]

Let me hit you one more again, Buddy Swanson.

Triple bingo 😭 like come on, how could I not?!

[lucifers-horror-harem]

Buddy Swanson accidentally doing this at least once

person who tries to become a serial killer but they've worked in kitchens for so long that when they try to sneak up on someone they say "behind, knife" on reflex, alerting their would-be victim to their presence

[dream4kiptvstream]

Must-watch Cillian Murphy movies and TV shows you didn't know about

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[lightofthemoonglow]

kinktober day seventeen

Threesome or moresome | Fisting | Vore

Buddy Swanson and Sam Wescott

dedicated to the amazing @bisexual-horror-fan

The head counselor. The head cook. The only nurse. The top three positions of authority at this camp. Kirk, Spock, McCoy, she calls them. Sam is their Kirk, being the actual leader that is the glue holding them all together, the balance between the other two. Buddy is their Spock, the pragmatic one that isn’t as expressive, but there’s so much heart to him underneath that exterior. And she’s the McCoy, the whirlwind with a big mouth and bigger emotions. They’re all passionate people though, the three of them somehow having found a way to make it work enough that people want to work with them, the kids want to come back. It’s easy, yet it feels like it takes over everything when they’re all together.

Of course there are rumors. There have been since the first day they had come together, forming the power trio. But only after the whispers had died down did they come true.

–-

“What are you two troublemakers up to?”

Sam ambles over to the lakebed, where a canoe is parked. Steve had asked someone, anyone, to finish testing out the lake gear after he had needed to rest his ankle after incurring an extremely minor injury involving a gopher hole. Lucky for him, Taylor the crafts counselor was helping him in these trying times.

It's the last day of setup before the kids arrive. In fourteen hours, they'll be here and their time will be consumed for the next couple of months. There will be very little personal time for a while.

"We are celebrating a perfect score on the safety inspection." She smiles up at Sam, languid and slow as she beckons him to join her and Buddy on the blanket laid out on the ground. It’s one they’ve laid on countless times, having been ruined by paint and glitter their first summer together. It’s strange how time has become divided between before and after they met. She’s on her back, knees bent as she looks up at the sky as Buddy sits normally, one knee bent and the other leg flat on the ground.

Sam joins them, sitting on her other side. It's a familiar layout, her in the middle. One of the photos on the homepage of the camp website is of the three of them, her arms around their backs as her head rests on Buddy's chest, though she's looking up at Sam, the camera catching her mid-giggle.

"Kids are due tomorrow. Gonna be the last time we have any privacy for weeks." Buddy sighs, gazes out at the water. He shifts around, his head going into her lap, a place he's familiar with. "And then it's back to the city." He's got a fancy restaurant gig lined up at the end of the summer. As it turned out, one of their returning campers had a father who owned this swanky place and constant talk about Buddy's meals had eventually gotten the guy to call him. After years of sticking it out at various places that weren't nearly as nice, it was good for him to have a win. But that would mean not seeing each other for a while, not until around wintertime.

"You make it sound like you're marching to your death." Sam tries to joke, but it is very clear how he feels about the gang splitting up. He moves to grab a bottle of water but pricks his finger on a burr. "Ow!"

"Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?" She jokes, but it's not really a joke. The time is now, and they all know it. It's now or maybe never because so much could change in the next several months.

"Yeah. I do." Sam's voice is serious, he knows the implications, what it could lead to. But it's dark, the camp is quiet, it feels like they're the only people in the world right now.

Her mouth is soft, gentle against his. Buddy looks up at them, sort of but also not really trapped between their bodies. It's not for long, because Sam pulls back soon, his lips smeared with cotton candy lipsmackers. There's no going back now, it's like Eve biting the apple. The line is gone, all pretense is out the window. It's at the bottom of the lake, alongside the paddle Steve broke last summer.

"I think I…" Buddy can't even come up with a convincing lie, he knows what he wants and they know it too. She leans up, he leans up and he can taste both her and Sam on her mouth, bringing forth a soft moan and Buddy gripping a handful of her hair.

It's not going to be like in a bad porno. It's not a V, it's a triangle. Their first summer, as if to foreshadow what was to come, she had insisted that love triangle was a stupid phrase to refer to two people fighting over another. A triangle is complete, it's when everything flows together perfectly. Those situations are a love V because two points never meet. Buddy and Sam kiss like they've done it for eons, falling together as naturally as she had with them.

If they leave the blanket, the spell will be broken, so that's where they stay. It's where it all began, it is where it will come to the natural conclusion. It could have only ended this way.

She's between them once again, all of their shorts pushed down, her shirt pushed up as Sam's hands grope at her bare tits. No need for a bra in the summer, she'd said over and over again. Buddy's cock is rutting between her thighs as he spits into his hand to jerk Sam off. She's kissing the both of them as much as she can, they're kissing each other, it's a mess of drool and teeth. Sam's hand goes between her legs, searching for her clit.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," Buddy grunts, kissing her neck in between words. "Should I -?"

"No." She doesn't care, there's no risk. Nothing matters right now, and she encouraged him without uttering a word after her brief insistence that he come all over her thighs. The mess can always be cleaned up after all.

But it's Sam that comes first, shooting off all over her belly and Buddy's hand. She's so close and yet Buddy beats her to the punch, smearing her inner thighs and the blanket with his spend. Before she can even protest, a hand from each of them is between her legs and she's coming with a sharp cry that scares away a small flock of sleeping birds.

There's no awkward silence afterwards, merely some smiles and a suggestion that they clean off in the lake. It was always meant to end this way, after all and now all they need to do is wait for another moment like this to come around.

[clemsfilmdiary]

Lethal Weapon (1987, Richard Donner)

10/25/24

[applesontheground]

fine-tuned & over easy 🎸

i have finally written for mr. buddy swanson -- aka the 🤘 METAL KILLER 🤘 . this has been a long time coming, and rewatching Stage Fright with the pals this last week just solidified my brainworms. enjoy! <3

NSFW | Word Count: 2,822 | Buddy Swanson x GN Reader

contains heavy PDA, guitarist!reader, enough snark and metal references to kill a rhino

This wasn’t your average sleepaway camp.

You knew that going in, but it still didn’t prepare you for the sheer amount of singing you were hearing within the first few days.

You didn’t hate it, a music fiend yourself, but it was very odd to be greeted to the harmonizing teenagers before you could even finish tying your apron behind your back, preparing for a long breakfast shift in the camp kitchen. You peered out the window, scratching a stray piece of sleep from the corner of your eye. It certainly wasn’t your style, but you could survive the saccharine nature of the upbeat lyrics. After all, some of those kids were, well, kids.

Despite the understanding, you still had to complain while the mess hall was desolate, “Do they always start so early? Just, up and at ‘em?” Setting a pan on the stove, the sole company in the room sighed, “Oh man. I’ll tell you right now that it’s only 7AM, and once everyone’s awake…” He paused, turning to you with tired eyes and a scoff, “It gets so much worse.”

Buddy Swanson was his name, an almost mousy look to him with modest dress and brown curls kept at a length short enough to maintain without becoming a hazard in the kitchen. He had mentioned to you he maintained a specific length solely for that reason. Won’t catch me in a hairnet. His personality was anything but unassuming; the sarcasm palpable, getting you to become nothing but amused chuckles whenever he dared open his mouth.

“Please tell me they leave it outside. It echoes so bad in here.” You then grumbled, looking up to the rafters with a shake of your head. Buddy merely laughed, “Aw, [Y/N], you really are new here.” To which you asked him, “Hey. McCall said you needed the help, right?”

He huffed before turning away. “Yeah, I guess. Can you get started on either the eggs or the sausage?” Losing your attitude, you threw a towel over your shoulder and chirped, “On it.”

You and Buddy didn’t make a bad team in the kitchen. Even if there were these moments of mutual complaining, the aforementioned snark aimed straight for each other’s throats, both of you had enough drive to get through it. In small confines, loud environments as is, it was hard not to be reminded of what needed to be done. If anything, there was an emerging solidarity from being two people who just didn’t care for the theatre despite working at a theatre camp.

Although, something began to talk to you about Buddy, and it was saying that he may know a little more about the world of song than he wanted to let on to anyone who gave him the second look. He could sit on a high horse for now, but while he was chopping an onion, you caught him doing a fairly steady rhythm; it was something that wasn’t falling in line to a simple four-beat that everyone knew how to do, necessarily, but it was a little more complicated. It was as though there was a tie in his mind on two notes that he was keeping in time with.

1 +a 2, 3 +a 4, 1 +a 2, 3 +a 4.

You could keep up with it because you were a bit inclined yourself. Again, not in a ‘prance around the fields belting out like a rooster’ way, but more of a…’maestro whose only audience were the two pillows on your camp bed’ way. Your acoustic guitar stayed in the safety of your quarters. The space looked more like a broom closet than a bedroom, but then again, that’s what came with being a last-second hire to cover when Buddy’s sister was unable to. He had given you the low-down that she was “falling in line with the theatre freaks”, and you couldn’t quite place if he said it because he detested her for that or if he just didn’t like being without her. You didn’t consider yourself the prime replacement, but again… you got the job done and heard him out without dismissing him. That was all he could ask from you.

The two of you maybe had an hour of comfortable silence before the doors were unlocked, and you watched the fanfare file in. It echoed just as jarringly as you anticipated, stifled laughs from your cohort as you stood there for a moment with a look of utter contempt on your face before focusing back on a pan of biscuits you were sliding onto the cooling rack. Of course, he ushered you to man the counter, meeting the first bright shiny faces with a tired but willing “Morning, what kind of eggs do you want? Bacon or sausage?” The phrases and the questions were practically echoing in your skull by the forty-five minute mark.

Still, there were moments you could pause in your own theatrical performance, look at Buddy with an honest grimace or a quiet comment that would never leave a comfortable place behind the counter. He slugged you lightly at one point, eyes catching something beyond the kitchen. “[Y/N], how about you take this one? Real showstopper.” He asked, turning away as a dark-haired kid with a trilby approached you.

“The usual,” He beamed, snapping at you in an attempt to be charismatic. Suppressing a full-body cringe, you replied in a short voice, “Everyone gets the same thing, sir. How do you like your eggs?”

He stammered, your stare making him look like he was five seconds away from throwing himself out of the nearest window. “Oh, uh- I’ll take them scrambled. Thanks.”

Watching him walk off after handing him his tray, seeming as though he was reviewing mental notes on why the interaction didn’t go to script, Buddy merely observed with an impressed smile bit back. “Again, early in the morning and they’ve got stupid hats on, too?” You whispered, and he let himself laugh, throwing you a towel to get a spill on the counter. Without missing a beat, you fixed your eyes on it just to distract yourself.

“Wait until you find out who’s the Stage Director.”

You looked at Buddy first. Then gave a glance to the boy in the trilby.

“Oh, you’re fucking with me, right?”

“Feels good after sweating your ass off in the hurt locker, right?” Buddy asked as the two of you stepped out onto the camp’s dock. You quickly made for the edge, hanging your legs off and rolling your jeans up to the knees so you could submerge your aching feet, cool down after standing in front of ovens and frying pans since dawn. He joined you, crisscross when he sat beside you. “You’re keeping up pretty nicely, [Y/N]. Maybe you aren’t just some stray they picked up.”

You scoffed at that, and muttered, “I told you; I have experience. Most kitchens are pretty hectic, and I’ve had my share, even if this was a split moment decision.” You gently knocked your knuckle against his arm, the slugging turning into its own language between the two of you, and pointed out, “Just so you know, I’m not the only one who got hired last minute.”

Buddy cocked his head, a breeze coming off the lake and up from under the dock making his hair flutter slightly, “No?”

“Nah. Some other guy is being brought in next week to teach the kids about…I don’t know, paper mâché crafts for the stage, something like that.” A hand flew up over your head in a clueless shrug to the wind, “He’s got some artistic merit, and apparently we need a guy for that.”

He was the one to huff now, “Great. More clowns for the circus.” You sat a little straighter and gawked, “Oh, what? First, I’m a stray, now a clown? I was hoping I’d at least be, like, an acrobat or lion tamer.”

Buddy paused, then asked, “Well, who’d be the lion?” When you were silent, staring at him expectantly, he turned to meet your gaze.

“Come on, [Y/N].”

“You went there, not me.”

“Stop it.”

“Meow.”

“I said stop.” Despite raising his voice mildly, both of you were laughing, and you weren’t in the slightest bit scared when he gently shoved you. You tipped your chin up to face the high noon sun, taking in another deep breath and enjoying the mid-summer air that was perfectly cooled by a close body of water. Out here, you couldn’t even hear the current classes back at the camp, a more than welcome reprieve.

In his lingering stare, watching you soak in the sunlight, Buddy noticed your necklace. “Since when did you wear guitar picks?” Your attention spun down from the sky, seeing his focus on your collarbone. On top of your shirt, the plastic was fastened to your neck by a thin silver chain. It was just a statement, but also a way for you to wear your hobby quite literally on your sleeve. You hummed an affirmation and replied, “What about it?”

“Do you just think it looks cool, or do you actually play?”

That same curiosity you had felt hearing his knife work made you answer his question with one of your own, the corners of your lips quirking.

“Do you?” He brought his eyes back up to you, and already kicked himself when he realized the way interest piqued on your face was downright contagious.

Oh, he was good.

Good with his pace, his rhythm, his…his fingers. Years of practice, the skill embedded in the muscle memory, and further shown in the way he moved up and down the fretboard. You let yourself unapologetically stare, the excuse that you admired a skilled musician ready to go should he catch you. He had offered to bring his own guitar, but you said he could see yours without a second thought. Someone besides the two pillows deserved to know about it, and if there was a soul at the camp who you’d think to give the exception to…it was him.

“Sorry if the D-string’s sharp, likes to go up when I’m not looking.” You joked, and Buddy replied, “Sounds fine to me.” He paused in his quick work, and one thing you had caught in his warm up work was that he was playing something far more accustomed to an electric rather than your acoustic. Like he had read your mind, he then admitted as he put his hand on the body of the instrument, “Not my favorite thing to go acoustic while I’m out here.”

You were once again curious, beaming, “An electric guy, huh?” Buddy scoffed, “I guess you could call me that. I’d even adopt the term metalhead.” You hummed in thought and replied, “If you didn’t wear the plain clothes all the time, I’d say it fits you.”

Buddy rolled his eyes and asked, “What does a metalhead look like, [Y/N]? Just because I don’t show up-“ He reached over and used a finger to flick the pick still sitting around your neck, “Wearing spikes and shit, it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” You eased him with an assuring nod, hand giving an assuring pat to his knee as you murmured, “Hey, I’m not trying to kill you over details. I like metalheads. Far preferred over the theatre singing.”

Standing from the bed, you knew he was staring at your back – hard. Maybe it was the weird gesture you just did, and panic set in as you tried to divert and asked him with eyes on your door, “So, do you want-“

He let the same hand that had messed with your necklace now come around one side of your hip, and he asked, “What do you mean by that?” Looking at the movement, trying to fathom that was really him touching you, you stuttered, “I…I-I didn’t mean anything bad by it, just…” You didn’t know your cool could be lost this quickly and turned to look back at him.

He smirked to the sound of your voice tumbling from its own high ground. He knew he was shooting down the other voice in the kitchen that always had something smart to say, and it only felt better to see you didn’t totally retreat, and even start to stammer harder as your heels dug in, rather your hand went over to feel his on your side, “Look, I just mean that-that I’d rather rock out to some…some of the basic stuff, even: like the Metallica and the-“

He scoffed, “Oh, I’ve got a taste for hair metal, actually. Motley Crue, Quiet Riot…” He guided you back to face him with the other hand on the opposite hip, helping you carefully ease back down to the bed and start to straddle him, your eyes flickering for a split second to make sure you weren’t directly in his lap as he went on, “Twisted Sister, all that old shit are my personal favorites.” He shrugged, eyes trailing back down your chest as he became a bit lost in the thought, “Even the Priest, Halford’s voice is undeniable.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You agreed, breathless and completely distracted despite trying to convince him this was still about the music.

He gave you one look, chin tipped up to yours in a silent question. You replied by resting your palms on his shoulders, easing down against his abdomen slightly and then staying still. “Your move, metal messiah.” You dared breathe out, and that was all he needed to hear before his teeth found a home near your neck. He didn’t give you the time to even laugh at your own quip, a grin on your face from both the joke and the sensations sparking over your body.

“Felt that,” He murmured as his hands then ran past your shirt, pulling it down your shoulders to peek at the goosebumps for himself. You looked away, fine with him seeing your exposed skin but not sure how five minutes ago you were still giving him a hard time and now here you were, getting shirtless in a shimmy of your shoulders.

Your hands fell to the back of your neck, feeling for the clasp. Buddy’s fingers trailed up, scrambling to catch your wrist and push your palm down to stop you. “Leave it,” He insisted, and your hands fell away again, the pick tapping your bare chest as you adjusted to push up against him and press an honest, almost frustrated kiss to his lips. The kind that wished it would bite him, but was too shaken to actually do it. A fluid motion, he tipped his head up to lean into it, a hand flying to grab you by the base of where your hair grew against the back of your skull.

Hearing a grunt deep in his throat made you realize you weren’t the only one who was a little pent up.

You had to get into a new pair of clothes after the playing session. Not necessarily because they had gotten ruined, but you needed to present yourself as the person who didn’t just make out to an audience of your two-pillow crowd.

The opening act was a pleasant surprise, walking into the kitchen to see Buddy had already made his way in there, and was speaking with Camilla, his sister.

“There you are, [Y/N].” She tilted her head and asked, “Why’s lunch running late?”

You looked up at her, and without a second more spent scrambling to think of a lie, you answered, “Uh, I…I fell in the lake this morning. Had to go change my clothes before coming back, put Buddy behind.” Her mouth fell open, then the giggles began as Buddy stared hard at the back of your head. You played along, “Yeah, it’s my bad. I was being an idiot, so if Mr. McCall asks, it was me.”

She caught her breath, and eased, “Aw, everyone makes mistakes.” Buddy waggled his eyebrows at that, turning to look at her, “I’ll just tell him the locks on the kitchen doors got jammed. It’s fine, he’s got bigger problems with opening night coming up, all that.” You nodded, watching her give one last gesture of leave to her brother and then walking out of the kitchen.

“Didn’t tell me you were a better actor than half the freaks here.” Buddy teased, and you just gave him a sharp glance, but found it was getting harder to be rude when those jagged eyes were on you now.

You merely shrugged and hummed, “I have my talents.”

He shook his head, and with a passing glance to make sure no one was by the openings to the room, he pulled his shirt down slightly. The ident of a guitar-pick shaped mark on his chest made you nearly fumble your apron as you once again tied it around your waist.

“You sure do, [Y/N].”

[ferociiumarchive]

« @bloodykneestm » stabbed the heart ;

" It disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional. "

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

🌹Giiiive

For every 🌹 received in my inbox I'll post one random sentence of a random WIP I'm currently writing:

You leaned over and batted your eyelashes at him. A gentle tug on the leash had his gaze snapping up to yours. “How do you expect to get a treat when you’re misbehaving like this?"

[alpacinocharactertournament]

looking at the pacino flicks i havent watched yet to watch today &

[fly-boy-in-the-sky]

California Monotagari (California Story) 1982 Artwork PART 1

Nagged off my buddy Max on Twitter @/cutecats96 so everybody thank him for the scans lol

California Story is seen as the predecessor to Banana Fish following very similar themes, as well with taking place in New York City too, except set in the late 70s. I highly recommend you read it, I did right after I finished the BFish manga, its around 50-60ish chapters.

The story follows Heath Swanson who's run away from his home in San Diego and travels cross country to NYC to live with some friends. On the way, he meets another runaway kid named Eve, who's dream is to visit California. Eve grows an attachment to Heath and follows him along to New York and they begin on their time surviving NYC in the late 70s.

Also, this story is where Jenkins and Charlie first showed up fun fact, so it too takes place in the same world as banana fish.

[dream4kiptvstream]

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[lxvvie]

Gurl

Yk who simon kind of gives me the vibe of???

HIM. Hes so grumpy lol. Refused to seek help. Like yeah ill just take Benadryl and sleep the gsw off s ok luvie. Like this stare is so simon coded 😂

Also I feel like out of everyone price has the most potential of having 2 ex wives named Tammy. He KNOWS when they are near and hes terrified. She the reason why he has high blood pressure and cortisol level. Its why he choose to do long term deployments lmao. Tammy cant find him if hes 1/2 way across the continent. OR CAN SHE🤣

Simon's inner Swanson comes out when someone asks a stupid question, says something silly, or bothers him before he's had his Cig and Cuppa.

I also think under different circumstances, Price and Graves would be excellent drinking buddies who bond over their former fuckboy ways. Price is very much the one who's experienced his fair share of Tammys in his youth. Young, dumb, and full of cum he was. He avoids certain places for that very reason because every time he meets up with one of his exes, they fuck. The rest of 141 wouldn't believe it if he told them.

Graves just slept around. Folks never thought he'd settle down... until he met you. When you meet some old friends of his, or, hell, a former fuck buddy, and they ask how you did it, how'd you get him to slow it down, you're confused and say, "I didn't...?"

Because it's the truth. Graves pursued you heavily.

Of course, Graves and Price don't compare to the God of the Fuckboys that is... Russell Adler. He could teach those rookies a thing or two. Or three. Fuck, how else do you think he got those scars?