#country apple hand cream

[y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff]

Bath and Body Works Country Apple and Juniper Breeze Healing Hand Cream

1990s

CA found on Poshmark, user margaretbocian

JB found on Ebay, user sgd1952

[iplayghoul]

let the light in

xx: cowboys! eren & onyankopon x reader . .

9.9k words — life on a ranch, porn with plot, tension, feelings, eventual sex, fucking in.. mud & rain, reader is referred to as 'she', 'girlie' etc, use of 'daddy', lots of spit & being dirty, reader is a country bumpkin, light arguing, thumb in ass, pussy spanking, spitroasting, cunnilingus, crying, some squirting & creaming, lots of shortened words & punctuation (country dialect duhh), not proof read sorry, awkward moments.

notes: been writin dis since december 2023... enjoy u guys :] rbgs appreciated

“hiya mrs. brown!”

worn out boots of marble cake pink and brown swirls, graze the dirtied gravel near the elderly woman's cottage as you slip from the horse. mary-lou, you affectionately call her, dusting her pinked moist nose with a pat before hobbling onto the stone path. over the horizon, the pastel orange and yellows of the sun threaten to melt into your skin, kissing it golden as the morning begins and so do your deliveries. 

golden-blonde, french curl braids woven into your roots fall past your lower back ending in thick, loose curls, some held together by bows and others hair clips. they bounced with every step. mrs. brown was the first on your list of deliveries today. on cool mornings like this when spring teases its approach, you often bake little treats for the other villagers. apple tarts, blueberry jellies, cherry pies with freshly picked fruits, warm buttery honey-milk breads and healthy breakfast muffins: all made with ingredients grown at home! but, we'll explore the garden later.

calling this a village was a bit of a stretch, realistically, a happy delusion at most. acres of farm property was shared by each of the residents whose homes were nearby, despite the farm areas creating distances of land behind them. tok, tok, tok! the haste below mary-lou's hooves pulled you back to your task as you rearranged the goodies and stepped onto the wooden plank. mrs. brown sat atop her rocking chair, crocheting a blanket you'd commissioned. a chuckle, “ [  ] , dearest, always in y’head, aren't yuh?” mrs. brown softly muttered, deep brown skin crumpled besides her lips, short pastel curls tickling her ears. hands busied with the neapolitan coloured yarn. her countryside twang was a pleasant aerated tone, reminding you of your own parents. 

you huff and offer a smile. “mrs. brown I've—”, “must I remind you, dearest, eleonora,” the playfulness in her voice offers it a quiver. “and let me guess . . . cherry pie?” thin, quivering lips stretch to a smile, your plump ones mimic hers as you nod with a sweetened expression. “yes, eleonora, I know how much y’love cherry pies n’–”, “and my grandson does too, y'know!” you stop to stare at her as she wears nothing but a smug look on her face, her head bobbing side to side with a ‘you know damn well’ manner. 

eleonora lived mostly alone. when her daughter married, giving her a sole grandson they'd moved to the city. luckily for her, and you, her grandson moved back on his own to the country. he fixed cars, motorcycles, tractors– you name it, he's got it covered. she said his name was onyankopon or, ony’. to be honest, you spied around one time to catch a glimpse of him. back when you first moved in and eleonora became immediately smitten with the idea of you and her grandson as potential lovers, you snuck around where ony's ranch was, peaking at who the man could be. you barely saw him really, the small flash of him you saw all greasy with engine oil was so far away! but infatuation always grew in you from a small bud, slowly growing before flower petals started spilling out your throat.

“are ya’ stoppin by him too, darlin’?” she pries further, “I ‘dunno els’ . . . y'know I haven't actually met ‘em right?”, “oh I know dear,'' she breathes, “ he's strong, he's tall, he surely is handy ‘round the house and- and he's not ‘onna dem toxic masculine things i hear ‘bout on the Internet! I think he's had a boyfrien’ b'fore, that must count!” she relieves your hands of the heavy treats while speaking, “eleonora . . .”, “c'mon darlin’, you've got t'get married someday, n’ imma’ be the flower gal!” 

all you can do is shake your head and accept the sweet kiss to the cheek she offers you before trotting back to your horse. mary-lou grew rather impatient! settling her brown and white spotted body to the ground awaiting your return. to be completely honest, you craved love. the partying, sex and relationships of college got old and moving here right after left you high and dry with the weight of ‘unlovable’ bearing down on your shoulders. the lack of men your age was . . . a troublesome dilemma but who were you to complain? you hiked yourself back onto mary-lou and continued your journey to the next cottage home. 

looking over the blueberry skies and whipped cream clouds kept you in grandiose delusions of a love so pure and sweet, like powdered sugar that you could indulge in, maybe one day.

♡

“down girl, down!” 

The rough, deep voice shakes the silence near the upcoming ranch. after your deliveries, you'd end up with a few apple-cherry tarts remaining, sometimes the neighbours are vacationing in the city, or insist you keep some! by this time, the sun shone fully now, its warmth tingling your skin. “awe, shucks, man!” another voice caused your brows to furrow, peering up ahead at the ranch . . . the one in which eleonora's grandson resided. from what you could see without the sun in your eyes, two men of tall statures– roughhousing with gorgeous horses. the one in the cowboy's hat was doing a terrible job of trying to calm one of them. their manes were a beautiful silky white, shining healthily under the sun as they lifted their front legs to the air before trotting around the . . . shirtless men again. mother would scold you now if she could see you openly ogling at the two, you push that thought to the back of your mind.

mary-lou slows on your command beside their ranch gate, huffing and happily shaking out her mane as she watches the other horses play. something possesses you to hop off with the remaining tarts, awkwardly shuffling to the fence– your pink-brown boots were worn mismatched to your strapless white lace top and similar mini-skirt. “uh . . . howdy there fellas!” both men turned to your direction, blocking their eyes from the sun and beginning to stroll over.

the closer view made your breath catch in your throat. the one on the left, you assume is el's grandson, his skin was a dark mahogany brown, he glistened slightly with sweat in the sun, deeply defined muscles prelude veins below his belly button then covered by bright blue jeans and black cowboy boots to match his hat.

he had a handsome face. 

thick two-toned lips spread to reveal a bright smile, a few teeth plated with gold caps as he teased the man to his right. this man had dark, black, shining curls that rested atop his shoulders, two eyebrow slits decorated with piercings, matching ones on his . . . pretty lips. his skin was a dusted tan, sunkissed tone and he wore black jeans atop his brown boots. You couldn't miss the tattoos that crept up the side of his abdominals, you were curious.

“how c'n we help ya’, miss?” the left spoke up and your cheeks felt hot, it's been a while since you heard that pet name, you chalked it up to the blazing sun. “well, uh, you're eleonora's grandson, right?” you nibble on your nails nervously, he nods, “I just . . . thought it’d be nice to give y'all these extra treats i baked.” pushing the basket in their direction and allowing the dark haired one to peep under the cloth, he had a mischievous look to him and he elbowed the other in the ribs with a slick smile, “wass ya’ name, pretty? ‘m eren, dis is ony’,” he pointed between them, “ n’ y’made these y’self, ma’?” eren pulls out a tart, staring down at you through long eyelashes, “oh! uh I‘m [  ], n’ yes! I did n' I grew all'em fruits m'self too!” you bounce on the heels of your boots, nervously.

ony’ stays mostly quiet you've noticed, taking in your outfit as well, his eyes raking over you. eren warmly feeds him a bite of the tart as their horses trot over to mingle with mary-lou. “how long ya’ been livin’ ‘round here, sugar?” ony’ speaks up soft and mellow, grabbing himself his own tart to taste. eren reaches out to pet mary-lou. “i guess it’s been a about a year now! y’see i moved out ‘round here after college.” you nibbled your shiney bottom lip, “what ‘bout y’all? your grandma talks ‘bout you all the time, but, i ain’t really seen you round here?” you turn to eren who makes a kissy face at mary-lou before turning to you. “i mostly tend to the farm ma’, as y’can tell, ‘m better with the animals than ony’ here.” he flashes you a smile and props his arms against the fence biting his lip and lowering closer to your eye level. ony’ playfully smacks his arm, flashing a gorgeous smile with his gold teeth sparkling in the sun, “shut up, man.”

you look away quickly, catching yourself staring at his lips, he certainly doesn't miss it. you totally push the basket towards eren’s arms, “y’c’n have the basket y’know i always weave more, i’ve gotta get goin, now,” you rush, “wait– take m’ number, pretty,” eren offers before reciting it a couple times so you’ve got it down. “n’ which onna’ these ranches ‘s yours, mama?”, you're mounting mary-lou once more, “it's not too far! it's the ranch with the blue fence n’ the pond out front!” 

♡

the days after that remained uneventful, with no deliveries of any kind, you preferred to remain on the ranch tending to the animals and house work. you'd never texted eren, only saved his number and stalked his contact profile . . . and opened his chat section many-a-times without saying anything. taking a liking to someone new is hard. you don't forget the many times a partner toyed with you, assuming innocence and naivity of you based soley off your appearance, then doing whatever they'd wanted behind your back. you were past that now, hopefully at least; the concrete walls you used to block others out wasn't something you'd liked to be reminded of.

padding out the back door, the coldness of the stone path chills beneath your bare feet. your toes painted with the cutest design within your artistic range, accompanied by the musical arrangement of your anklet. you pick up a dirtied bucket with the many things you'd needed to complete your chores for the morning, taking a long look at the expanse of the ranch. 

a deep breath of clean air, healthy green fields relieve your eyes of their stress; partly cloudy skies was the forecast! weather for hanging outside, the cumulus clouds indicated it to be the perfect day for fishing too! the pond was still, the little lambs were just waking up in their pen, the gardenias were blooming; the white dexter cattle mulled around, seemingly bored behind the fence. just as you begin to walk by with the bucket of feed, the cows behind let out soft, deep ‘mooooo’s’: a ‘good morning!’ greeting in their own way. each receiving gentle pets to their fur.

your mental list of duties was shorter today: pet the cattle, inspect the lambs & brush their fur, throw feed for the chickens & clean their coupes, feed the dogs, feed the fish.

you couldn't help but wear your best little dress to do the tasks today, a simple white thing that cupped your breasts just right. “oh, how are ya’ buttercup!” you squealed in delight as the silky white wolf dog rushed up to lick your feet, his opposite onyx counterpart, bentley offered a short bark to show her delight, sitting peacefully and obediently. she'd recently fallen pregnant with pups, confusing as you'd given both animals the proper precautionary procedures! while filling their food bowls, you couldn't help but be reminded of eren and ony’. your toes dug into the grass a bit, excited at the idea of . . . sharing your home with someone else again. both men seemed pleasant, highly attractive, but feelings always confused you. perhaps they were only being decent human beings to you, nothing more.

to be honest, you hadn't had the best history with relationships. it's part of– it's one of the main reasons you'd decided to move out to the countryside. casual sex was fine, yeah, whatever, you enjoyed it. however, when it comes to your relationships, you refuse to believe you attract shitty people. from making fun of how excited your are by things, to the way you dressed, wore your makeup, your hair, how you cry— the whole works had been used against you. there was only so much of it you could handle. moving away meant . . . fresh start, new people, new experiences. and most importantly, a place where everyone did as they pleased. as much as people think gossip goes around in small villages, the country area was mostly pleasant. neighbours traded crops for items, enjoyed each other's company and minded their own business.

sitting beside the pond, bentley and buttercup eagerly cuddled up at your side; the joy this life brought you was comparable to hot chocolate at the end of a winter day. now you think about how long its been since you could cuddle someone on a cold day. it probably hasn't been since your mother was alive. now was a good time to visit eleonora.

♡

a raspberry lemon loaf warmed your hands as the weather began to cool. the trudge to eleonora's ranch was tranquil, pleasant animals, butterflies and chirping birds kept you occupied for most of it. that is, until your boots dragged to a stop in the dirt, noticing a familiar face in el's front yard. 

onyankopon's hair was short, brushed into smooth waves atop his head and faded on the sides, revealed by the lack of cowboy hat. he was shirtless, once again, knee deep in the dirt of his grandmother's yard where he dug the soil for new plants. you swallow, nibbling a plump lip that made your mouth spring from the strawberry flavoured gloss. a colder breeze blew up under your thighs, blowing your simple little dress slightly; furrowing your brows with concern as you peered at the beautiful bright sky, you force yourself to walk up to the gate and begin to unlatch it. 

eren's grassy green eyes meet you first, his hands busily feeding a plump cherry into his mouth. pretty pink lips sucked them in, unwelcoming to the juicy red droplets that escaped the cherry. he licks his lips to pull them in. you take a deep breath and focus on not dropping the raspberry lemon loaf. “h-hiya everybody!” you greet, noticing eleonora seated in her usual spot on the rocking chair of her porch while observing the two men. 

you hold the loaf somewhat close to you and swallow hard, walking along the stone path of which both men were at either side of. ony’ in the dirt and eren manspreading on the front steps. you held eyes with the ground. “howdy ony’, eren, nice to see you two ‘gain,” you say in a pleasant mumble as you make way up the stairs to eleonora. “brought you this raspberry lemon loaf els’!” you look at her smiling slightly, caught off guard by that signature smug look she held. what insane thoughts about your love life could she be brewing now? the silence from the two men was noticeable too, you were sure they'd turn to look at you as you presented the treat for el’, “my, my! well doesn't this just look lovely!” she claps clammy hands clad in flower themed rings and laughs jolly. “ony’, son, could you get us some tissues n’ forks? oh- n’ eren darlin’ why don't you bring out the pitcher ‘f lemonade with s'm glasses.” the two men stand as she calls upon them, uttering out their deep ‘yes ma'am's’ as they towered above you in walking by. your eyes trailed them slightly before turning back to eleonora who never (not once) misses your silent pining.

ony’ wore his jeans low on his waist, the band of his boxers showed off its maker's name. eren, on the other hand, wore a white wife-beater below unbuckled blue overalls, leaving them hanging over at his waist. “so, have ya’ found y'self a boyfren’, honey?” eleanora asks somewhat loudly as the two men shuffle around the kitchen bearby and your eye widen. “now what kinda’ question is that els’?” you sputtered, “you know I haven't got one.” eleonora giggles like a school girl. you take a cool seat onto the steps. eren and ony’ share small smiles as they return with lemonade and dishes. ony’ takes a seat in a chair opposite eleonora, elevated above you whilst eren makes himself comfortable back in his spot across from you on the steps. raspberry lemon loaf is shared around with the cool glasses of not-too-sweet lemonade to wash it down, eating brought silence besides low groans from the two men who seemed to enjoy your baking. their groans were not sensual, but pressing your thighs together was still a must as a reaction to the unexpected sounds of pleasure. fuck, you felt like a creep. eleonora complimented your skills, asking, “[  ] , did ya’ grow these in the box gardens y'made?” you nod and swallow quickly, all attention to you as eren mumbles ‘box garden?'. ``yea els’, the box gardens ar’ doin’ great, but I've got some extra wood around I think I'mma try to make a few more like the boxes I bought from the market!” eleonora smiles as if she were expecting to hear you randomly bring up your recycling duties. 

“ony’, can't you n’ eren build those boxes f’[  ]? I strongly believe lil’ ol’ her shouldn't handle all dat’ wood . . .” you internally blush deeply at the innuendo and take the final bite of your slice of the loaf. eren speaks up, “y'sure right on we can, els’ . . . y'okay wit’ us helpin’ y'out ma?” he takes a quick glance up at ony, locking eyes with him who also lets his stare above you burn into your scalp. “s– sure, I don't mind!” you mutter out lightly and eleonora gives a jolly clap, “well ain't that just darlin’! the day's young, y'all can get started right now!” you have to hold your breath to avoid your last sip of lemonade going down your larynx. the two men mentioned how they're not busy the rest of the day and wouldn't mind before you can even collect yourself. somehow, coming over to eleonora always results in you being roped into another scheme of hers.

and just like that, you found yourself on a quiet . . . and awkward walk back to your ranch with the two young men following closely behind you. anxiety bubbled in your stomach, clamping your lips shut to avoid letting the insecure feeling from escaping your lips. the nerves were getting to you with every second that passed by. “s-so, uh– wassup wit y'all ‘round here?” they both walk up to match your pace. “oh, well, ony here prefers to do all the technical shit like– fixin’ cars n’ all'at.” eren shoves his palms into the pockets of his overalls, walking up ahead where he could look back at the two of you while talking, he maintains glances with onyankopon that you just don't seem to understand. “I prefer to stay on the ranch n’ watch the animals– y'got any besides that horsie?” 

“oh– yea i've got m’ horse, mary-lou, two wolfies: bentley n’ buttercup.” a sweet smile stretches on your face, tummy warming a bit. “oh! and I've got names f'all my fish in the pond, my little lambs– oh they're just the cutest! a–and my fluffy cows! they're lovely,” you clasp your hands in excitement, eyes following your footsteps, sputtering happily over the animals. “gosh, n’ I'm tryin’ out a little butterfly area in my front garden, but m’ not the best at it, can’t tame butterflies y’know— they pee on ya’ too! that's fuckin’ crazy,” you reveal with a giggle. as you look up to ask the two a question, you can't help but blush, embarrassingly at that. eren and ony stared at you with pleasant smiles, deeply dimpled too. “oh my, m’ sorry for my ramblin’ how rude of me–”,”no. no, keep talkin’ pretty.” ony's deep voice encourages you and you peer curiously at him: trying to figure him out. he turns away from you licking his lips and spares eren a look before he starts walking again. it urges you both to continue onto the ranch as well, eren shakes his head with a chuckle; he thinks he’s got a handful on his hands. 

“y’got a boyfren’ ‘round here, [  ] ?” eren brushes hair over his shoulders, asking the question calmly whilst maintaining a look up the path, ony’s arm brushed yours as he walked close by. “well– no, what about you?” you melt your lips together before stuttering out,”wait, not– i mean, girlfriend . . . well– i don’t care–!” ony barks out a laugh while eren turns around to give you a bright smile, all three of you burst into giggles. “nah, no girlfren’ or boyfren’, ma’.” ony speaks up gently, “but, uh– me n’ E’ might be lookin’ for a third to make us official, i dunno.” your eyes widen but ony gives a nonchalant shrug, handsome face glowing with a smug smile like he didn't just drop #thebomb on you. it reminded you of his grandmother, you look to eren who’s looking back at you and onyankopon with just a slight grin and your breath catches in your throat. “oh! there’s the ranch just up ahead,” you blurt out and skip past eren, scurrying over to unlatch the gate to your front garden as the two followed you in.

now your heart felt like it could melt. like– like a huge strawberry ready to burst! what did ony’ mean by that?  oh, how you felt like a dizzy little dove. luckily the dogs rushed up to you, excitable and ready to meet the new visitors who they eagerly sniffed. ony’ and eren were happy to roughhouse on sight laughing with the dogs and complimenting the patch of primula's you were trying to grow, the pretty pinki-ish flowers were just beautiful. you lead them through your home, overly conscious about each step you took while they surely eyed every nook and cranny of your decor. “um- y'guys need anything? I've got some snacks . . .”, “nah, we're good,” eren mumbled, sounding obviously distracted by their nosey observations of your living space. you hear the tone of your dryer going off just as you unlatch the netted back door that served as another layer next to the already opened wooden one. 

“holy shit,” ony’ whispered, your organization of the backyard was impeccable. clean and solid fencing around the cows, plants on the left with storage on the other. you left the two to walk out into the cold breeze that passed by as they observe the surroundings and the pile of wood waiting for them; all while you quickly rushed to the laundry room nearby to dislodge your clothing and stuff them into a basket. you hurry back out to join them.

“so, here's one of the other boxes i made,” you gesture to the dirty box filled with planted Spanish thyme, “i know it looks kinda wonky but, hopefully you guys can do better,” you offer an awkward laugh and sit on the back steps, legs crossed. 

eren and onyankopon share a look, then grab some planks bringing them more into your line of view with some of the tools nearby and sitting in the grass. even in your own home, you felt a little out of place. in silence, eren and ony’ shared alot of chemistry you didn't understand. despite this, what ony’ said on the way here never left your mind. “y'guys got alot ‘f experience . . . relationship-wise?” you scratch behind your ear. they worked separately lining up wood and nailing them into place, muscles working diligently. “mm, yea. ‘guess y'can say that ma',” eren glances at ony who hums low and offers you a small smile.

“it's jus’ that– ‘m thinkin’ ‘bout watchu said earlier . . .” you blink, fumbling, “unless that was like a joke ‘r somethin’—”

“i wasn't joking.” onyankopon confirms calmly, his jaw tight. you allow the silence to continue for a few beats, eyes flickering back and forth between the two and your hands petting the dogs that came to lay beside you. “we don't expect ya’ to jus’ trust us like that, missy,” eren offers gently, shoving his curls into a small bun and you nibble your bottom lip. 

ony's brows furrow and he's hammering the last few nails into his box before he speaks up. “how c'n we get to know you ma’? me n’ E’ been . . . chillin’ for over a year. since college, actually, n’ we been watchin’ y'too. w’dont expect you to feel the way we do in 10 minutes or even in a day. let us get t'know you.” you squint a little.

“y'serious?” your chest feels a little hot and you're praying to the gods you don't fuck this up. “c's i don't intend on gettin played wit’ ‘specially not out here, y’hear me?” and you don't mean to raise your voice a little, the sounds just flow out. “hey, hey now,” eren pushes his finished work aside and stands, tugging his overalls up, hands resting on his hips. “we don't got no bad intentions, sugar, chill wit’ us,” and you blink up at him, unmoved.

“m'kay, let's just say i decided to ‘chill’ wit’ y'guys,” you stand up, fold your arms and start, “what exactly are we g'nna do, hm?” you look back and forth between them, not missing the way your buttercup whines on the steps where she lay, evidently fed up with all the chatter. “y'got 3 seconds n’ don't say sex. one,” 

“who said anythin’ ‘bout sex?” ony’ joins you two as he puts the tools down, “two,” “yea, y'better shut that shit up. let's bake sumn together, show us around y'day, hang wit’ us at our ranch, talk about shit. fuck y’mean sex?” you stubbornly stay silent and stare. eren’s jaw bone pokes out with the way he clenches it. “we're not lookin’ for sex. if we wanted sex from you we coulda seduced you a long time ago, sugar,” he shrugs with a smile and you lick your lips, sighing. “okay, ‘m sorry. I’–I'm such a bad host,” you mutter out, “y'all want anything to eat? or some water.” you hear a low ‘okay’ from ony’ so you shuffle away to the kitchen to grab some bottles for them.

you tried to focus on the coldness of the bottles on the way back as a way to cool your temperament. “i moved out here wit’ intention ‘f startin’ fresh n’ shit.” you start, tossing them bottles before plopping yourself beside buttercup who nuzzled her cold nose into your thigh. the two men were sitting once again, evidently having spoken to each other in your absence.

your voice was shaky as you took a deep breath, garnering the courage to speak up for how you felt, “i'm tired of gettin’ dogged out, n’ played wit’ n’ allat bullshit.” you pout.

“‘m not exactly sure how gettin’ involved wit’ two handsom’ fellas is gonna help me figure out to– to i dunno, regulate m’ emotions.” you frown and shove some braids back behind your ear, “s’ like i damn near avoided it– i moved back t’the country damnit.” a sigh, “i cant just figure out how to adore n’ love– people again or if i'mma be able t'dish it out as much as before.”

“you get what i mean?” your ramble ceased as you finally look up from your focus on your knees and look back and forth between ony and eren. ony chuckles softly while eren offers you a smile and speaks up.

“we'll take it slow, you'n gotta ‘love’ anybody yet, mama,” ony nods at his words, “gotta build a friendship wit'chu first, we not playin’ ‘round.” 

♡

a week or so passes in which life goes by as normal. you spend your days busying yourself with gardening and grooming your animals, baking treats and new concoctions. the only exception is eren and onyankopon have somehow easily squeezed themselves into your life.

on your deliveries you hear, “howdy, ma',” they chase across their lawn and hop across the fence to drag you inside and sit you down in the warm house where the two eagerly pester you to try the . . . ‘shrimp alfredo’ they whipped up. 

thus, the two would end up in your kitchen, breathing over your hair whilst you instructed them on the proper technique. “naw, i don’ told E to do all'at,” onyankopon protests. so too do they pester mary-lou and your dogs, roughhousing and giving them baths much to their dismay.

through many experiences you learn, onyankopon isn't particularly fond of being tickled, or of wearing shirts. he stays shirtless almost all twenty-four hours of the day and you can only avert your eyes. eren is obsessed with overalls and has an array of them: gray ones, distressed ones, short ones, and he never buckles them properly.. on the ranch, the two gorgeous white haired horses were named armin and reiner, two friends they shared from college. sparkling like diamonds as you're given the opportunity to ride them each around the boys’ ranch in the golden sun. you'd also learned that the two were sexually . . . fluid, they'd called it. vaguely, they'd mentioned their sex lives and based on what they said you couldn't help but assume they were talking about each other. who else was there out here except you?

“yeeehaw! can't catch up, can'ya’?” eren howls and shouts as he trots across the ranch on his horse, ony lagging behind in the chase. here you sat on a wooden little bench near the steps of ony' and eren's ranch; clad in a simple white cropped tank and blue jeans with a chunky belt, your cream coloured cowboy hat sit pretty atop your head. a pretty calico cat licked at your bare feet and nudged you for pets. 

at this point, you felt yourself slipping. it was obvious by now you'd grown to enjoy each other's company and serious conversations were imminent.

what were we, how will the dynamics work, what would they expect from you? just then you felt a tap to your forehead.

“heya, girlie,” eren squats down before you to grab your attention, “watchu, thinkin’ ‘bout,” ony’ mumbled, toying with a toothpick between his teeth. 

you smack glossy lips together, “jus’. . . ‘bout us three y'know? how- like, where do we go fr'm here huh?” your eyes flutter, cheeks warming. you feel the silence actually, eren and ony’ are doing that stupid thing where they talk to each other with their eyes. 

butterflies flap their wings about, joyous as ever. it makes you smile a little, as you're beginning to grow nervous. “let's talk inside ma’,” onyankopon suggests, stepping past you into the house where eren follows. 

“me n’ ‘ren c'n take care ‘f each other n’ you, know that?” 

you all shuffle onto the dark gray couch in the living space. ony’ and eren's ranch had a deep modern aesthetic. dark oak accents adorned both the outside and inside, complimented by gray and brown shades of furniture. 

“i know that . . . ,” you pout, 

“so wassup,” eren stares you down, the emerald swirl of his eyes warmed your belly yet you couldn't maintain eye contact with him for long, eren just had that kind of stare without realizing it himself.

“‘m g'nna be frank, ion wanna impose on nothin’ y'folks got . . . n’ my past relationships ain't been the best.” you huff and continue, “‘m jus’ puttin’ that out there. i feel like we've been talkin’ for a while n' I'm fond of y'all.” 

“i jus’ don't wanna be the one to mess things up,” you finish in a whisper. 

onyankopon hums low and eren plays with his lip ring, “n’ das’ all, girlie?” he asks and pursed his lips, dimple deepening at that. you give a nod and a small ‘yup’ while intertwining your hands onto your knees that were pressed together. “y’ talk to us, we talk to you, got that? if it's an issue y'got: don't hesitate to let us know,” ony’ iterates.

eren makes a noise of agreement, “y’communicate everythin’ wit us, sugar, we're serious,” and you nod slowly. “‘kay . . . i get that,” your eyes feel a little wet with emotion, ones you're not too sure of yourself.

you were happy to hear them affirming their commitment yet still anxious for the future. regardless, you couldn't help but lurch forward, you grab the back of eren's neck to press a sweet strawberry jelly flavoured kiss to his cheek, leaving a baby pink glossy print on his cheek along with a loud ‘mwah’ as you smiled. similarly, you crawl over his lap to do the same to ony’ who only bit back a grin, gold capped teeth glistening in the light much like the glossed smudge on his face.

♡

inevitably came the days you'd call the ‘honeymoon’ phase in a relationship, except it lasted what felt like forever.

these days you preferred to be cuddled up in your bedroom, legs being warmed by a black, gray and white blanket you were committed to crocheting. with a couple dark, gloomy days where the usual creamy clouds frowned down on you, the animals often retreated to their pens and little beds of hay to seek warmed from stormy weather. buttercup and bently invaded each others personal space in their dog beds down at the living room, you smile a little at the thought.

“yeen gotta be like that, ony’,” you hear eren groan in a mischievous pout as the two men exit your bathroom smelling of your bath soap. onyankopon mumbles something of ‘’s a stupid idea’. you giggle under your breath, hands hard at work weaving and looping the thick yarn for the blanket. 

“ [  ] , watchu’ think, sugar?” eren plops himself onto the bed, “hm?” still fixated on your progress, ony’ huffs from his seat on the ottoman, lotioning his chest and arms then turning back to rub some excess onto eren's foot. “i told ony’, let's take the horses f’ a ride, ma’, he talkin’ bout ‘oh it's rainy’, i think it'll be chill,” he smiles big and winks expecting something of an applause for his great idea of fun.

“ion mind whateva’ y'guys wanna do, jus’ once we shower ‘gain after, ‘fore we get sick,” you shake your head at the thought. ony’ smacks his teeth, “c'mon, don't support him.” 

“what, playin’ in the rain is fun, baby!” you chuckle, eren simply props his head on his palm, enthralled by your meticulous work. regardless, he nods mindlessly in agreement at the discussion.

just like that, cowboy hats and boots were thrown on and you head down to the stables to round up the horses. ony’ and eren raced each other down to them before you could even get a word in. the thought reminded you of buttercup and bently who currently settled and slept with one's head atop the other.

the fresh rain smell hits your nostrils quickly, smelling of the humidity off the grass and pitch of the street. you could audibly hear the wind bristling about the bushes as it cooled your skin. all you wore was a thin white tank top, jeans along with your classic pink-brown boots to match your hat. eren and ony’ warmed up the horses, encouraging mary-lou to shake out her mane and trot a little. onyankopon was seated by reiner, rubbing at his legs to warm him a bit and doing the same to armin. of course, you stare unabashedly, his muscles (unclothed) bulged with each motion, waistline visible amid his jeans.

you stare so much so, that you don't even notice eren come up to your side to press a wet kiss to your neck, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and gives your ear a kiss too, “starin’ at my man, girlie?” he laughs boyishly and you swat him, “dat’s m’ man too, freak,” he gasps falsely at the insult and you speed off to grab the harness for mary-lou; ony’ pretends he didn't hear the bickering and mounts his horse.

“s’ not rainin’ all too much now, see?” eren comments, scooping his hair back into a low bun under his hat. the three of you clicked and clocked through the damp grass and onto the street, letting the drizzle of rain moisten your skin with each speckle. you gnaw at your bottom lip, lost in thought as you trail behind the two men. at the same time, another cold gust would brush past you three, drying your skin again. yet, as you flinch when a particularly large droplet mands on your cheek, the rain picks up again and you smile.

sometimes moments like these felt so good, connecting with nature and taking in the beauty of the weather. it didn't stop you from being distracted, eren's white wife-beater was getting soaked. the tattoos creeping up his side peaked through the material and stared right back at you. you bitr back a groan and cover your warming face with your palms, wiping it clean of rain, while eren and onyankopon fall back on their horses. the peaceful silence with nothing but the ‘tock’ of the horses’  hooves kept your mind wandering. 

now drenched, you could only imagine peeling off these clothes, a strap of your flimsy little tank top blew off your shoulder, and you felt the material sticking to the bulge of your breasts nestled in your black bra that now stood out ten times as much. god, you felt like a fuckin’ pervert. you couldn't even bring yourself to look down at your own chest, feeling scandalized enough. something about thinking of yourself in . . . near erotic situations such as this made your clit thump like a sweet little rabbit's nose.

nonetheless, you ignore it and allow the rocking atop mary-lou as she walks to distract you. onyankopon rides his horse nearer to yours and eren does the same, you gasp under your breath when ony’ nudges you. “wassup,” he murmured, “nothin’ ‘m jus’ distracted.” you comment plainly and eren huffs out a laugh beside you. 

all you do is stare down at mary-lou and pet her mane, the pulse between your legs pushed to the back of your mind. “y'so bad at lyin’, know that?” eren laughs, you blush and groan, “no ‘m not, shut up,” 

“chill, chill,” ony’ whispers, in his stupid, sexy, amazing, deep voice and you let out a big shuddering breath. as you're riding you feel ony's wet bicep brushing against yours. this had to be the end of you.

ony’ reaches an arm behind you, stretching to meanly pinch eren's shoulder. you're not sure what that meant but you didn't care to know. “where we ridin’ to?” you ask, rubbing glossy lips together. “mm, let's jus’ head to me n’ ony's ranch,” 

“kay,” you settle with that, sweet n’ soft.

“wanna race, jaeger?” ony’ slips in lowly, pulling ahead and looking back at you two with his. . . stupid handsome smile, “h- hey now, let's not–” and you're interrupted by shouts, “let's go!” eren pulls off.

you groan softly, hiking up mary-lou’s harness a bit as you begin to gallop behind the two men. the raindrops stung against your skin and you whined trying to catch up to the two and your breaths harsh. with each hard breath you let out you couldn't help but let it bubble up into laughter, you just felt so good. 

you felt giddy, blinking away raindrops that attacked at your eyes and racing past the two men, who yelled and called out to you, “yo, ma’ we gon' catch up,” ony's cowboy hat flies back behind his head, held up by the string beneath his string as he pulls the white horse forward chasing after you.

the three of you speed past grunge fencings and rosey bushes all bowing their heads now from the deluge. your tank top was completely soaked, and you imagine so was eren's when you pulled in the gates of their ranch and headed around back where you could free mary-lou to run around in the fenced horse enclosure.

you sit on the ground and linger near the side of the house by some plants, boots kicking about scattered hay and picking up sticky mud. eren and ony’ pull in the same time, wet chests heaving and eyeing you as they quickly hop off and lead their horses to the enclosure. “you win, watchu want?” eren huffs out, swinging his hat off and tossing it to the side, letting the rain seep into his curls. “hm?” you moan while rain kisses you, “i get a prize?” 

he nods and slumping down against the wall next to you and propping his arm on a plant. you take the time to stare at his pecs . . . light brown nipples peaking through at you. eren catches you staring, it forces you to look away quick and brush a wet braid out of your face just as ony’ arrives.

“yall chillin’?” 

“yea . . . mama's chillin’ alright,” eren smiles up at ony who lays in the grass beside you. “she baskin’ in her– win,” eren laments, reaching forward to tickle you and you bark out laughter lurching at him. his fingers pet your ribcage and you grab eren's shoulders, “what the– fuck! eren!” you squeal and wrangle with him. ony’ sits in the wet dirt beside you guys with his hands resting behind his head, basking in the rain and ignoring the shoves and pushes nudging him.

“i swear t’ god ‘ren, you– ack!” eren flips you on your back and you land hard with your head on ony's thigh while he wrangles your hands above your head. digging your feet in the ground for leverage couldn't help with the mud slipping beneath you. onyankopon only hums in amusement, watching you stop struggling beneath eren, your chests bouncing with gasps of air.

“you . . . y'know that's not fair, eren,” “i know what's not fair, sugar?” he stares you down, grip on your wrists tight with his chest pressing against yours. the swell of your breasts popped out of your tank top, glistening and sticky when it touched his skin. “mmm, you want somethin’?” he sucks his lip rings into his mouth teasing you, eyes wide and glossed over, throat drying. you lick your lips and slip from his grasp, sitting up and leaning your back onto ony's chest. just as you make that decision you swallow hard feeling his wet chest through your thin top. you wipe some wetness off your forehead evidently applying some mud that was on your arm to the spot.

you catch your breath, rubbing dirtied arms onto your shirt to clean them as best you could. you felt filthy but god, your fat little cunt ached laying in the dirt. 

“onyan'” you call out to the man behind you with your eyes trained on eren who simply sits back smiling impishly at you, “yea, sugar?” 

“wan’ m’ prize,” it comes out in a whine.

“yeah? ‘n what's that gon’ be,” he murmurs low in your ear, eren still hears him. you let out a ‘hmph!’ deep in your throat. then, you drag dirty hands against your tank top before peeling it off you and above your head, tossing it into some grass elsewhere.

crawling on your knees, ass arching in ony's direction, you gesture to eren with a finger, “come here, c'mon,” and you grab the back of his neck, kissing up his sweaty wet throat licking and sucking up anything your mouth touched. you press your lips to eren's, cold wet metal between you two when you let his tongue into your mouth, sucking it up when your lips lock hot.

eren groans into your mouth, hand gripping at your ass concealed by your jeans and he falls back into the mud. you reveled in the slick sound of your lips separating from each other, tuning out how soaked your jeans were getting in the rain. the ambient pelting sound on the rooftops only edged you on further, sitting in eren's lap.

“fuck, you're nasty,” eren mumbles against your lips when you pull away for a second, fingers toggling with the buttons on his jeans. he resists a big smile, elbows resting in the muddied dirt to hold himself up while you roughly tug his jeans down a bit. just enough room for you to reach his dick.

“see how she treatin’ me, ony'?” eren wipes rain off his nose, locking heavy-lidded eyes with onyankopon then down at you, “she roughin’ me up ‘cause she won,” he grumbles and you pull his cock out.

eren flinches when his dick is exposed to the rain, tan-brown tip oozing pre mixed with droplets. your knees dug into the mud beneath you, ass arching up. you stare shamelessly at eren's dick, letting the saliva build up about your tongue while you press a few kisses to the tip. his breath shudders above you, leaning his head back for the rain to fall on his face. “c'mon, pretty, do watchu want,” you grip him tight, feeling like your palm could memorize the girth and veins that popped out. then, tugging him up slightly, you slot your mouth in the gap between the bottom of his dick to his balls. sucking on the skin, you let you built up salivation drip down his balls, slurping the heavy sack onto your tongue.

you suck eren's balls into your mouth, swirling your tongue around mounds and his mouth drops open revealing his tongue ring. he grins, giving you a loud shameless groan, he was certainly showing off for ony’ who sit behind you watching. “suck it like dat, yea,” eren mumbles to you, licking the rainwater off his lips. he lets you have your way a bit more, focused on your features: the way the rain made your eyelashes clump together, the droplets sliding down your nose, to the spitty goop around your mouth all over his balls.

“c'mon, c'mon,” he pulls your mouth off him with a hand gripping the base of your hair, licking the splittle off your chin then kissing it into your mouth and swallowing your whines. “y' fuckin’ nasty, jaeger,” onyankopon mutters lowly behind you and eren bites back a smile. “filthy ass, take that shit off,” you up off your knees, flopping back on your ass where you fiddle with the buttons on your jeans. 

your cheeks burned, both eren and ony's eyes grilled into you and everywhere you touched got streaks of mud in it after having your hands dig into the sopping ground. on your arms, your boobs, eren's shirt. slowly, you shucked your jeans down, slipping them past your ankles along with your boots. your panties were stuck up your ass when you sit in some wet patches of dirty hay, tossing the jeans aside realizing you wore significantly less than the other two men with rain beating all over you.

eren and ony’ share a look then eren's the first to lurch forward gripping your legs with his muddied hands, pushing you back to lay in the dirt and kissing about the clear parts of your belly. he nips at the swell of your breasts in your bra, sucking and kissing wherever he saw fit. “er– eren,” he's prying your legs apart, pushing them ‘till your knees were besides your ears. “eren, stop–,” then he's plucking your panties out your ass and sliding them up your thighs, he stretches the thin little things beyond repair to sling them off your ankles. “what the fuck,” you whisper, eren's fucking unreachable n’ you're both staring at your fat puffy cunt. he takes a second to look to the side at ony’ before returning his attention to your pussy, sprinkles of water sliding down, yet the blubber of slick collected between your lips was noticeable.

the pretty thing was so fat your hardened clit could barely peak through. eren dips his tongue deep, digging at your hole then dragging his tongue through your folds illiciting a low gasp. the cold metal bar in his tongue nudged at your clit. he curled his tongue around the bundle of nerves, giving it a few flicks before spitting and licking another strop up your cunt. “feels– fuckin’ good, eren, oh,” you whimper, his gentle motions paired with the ambient beating of rain against your skin had you on a high. he shakes his head side in your cunt, arousal making sticky strings beside his cheeks as his nose nudges the fat of your pussy. “holy shit,” you press your head into the soft ground beneath you, eyelids fluttering shut when eren suckles softly on your clit. you hum and moan, licking your lips and feeling your head spin, “‘ren . . . oh my god,” he slurps noisily suctioning his mouth over your pussy, sucking hard over and over and over again relishing in the throb of your clit against his tongue.

“he knows, baby,” ony’ murmurs and your mouth drops open with a loud moan, his voice just did something for you. you felt the muscles in your legs twitch, itching to close them with each swipe of eren's tongue and swirling pleasure in your tummy. your hands dig into the dirt behind you, legs quivering.

“tastes fuckin’ good don't it?” he's mumbling and eren's groans into your pussy sends shockwaves against your clit, he nods vigorously. “ohh– shit,” you sit up on your elbows digging in the mud, hair soaked and heavy and your legs only spread wider; your eyes trained on eren's tongue making sloppy circles around the fat mound in your pussy.

eager, you slip your hands into eren's wet curls, stuffing his face into your cunt, “eren, eren– yea-ah!” his groans rumble in his throat and here came the fucking waterworks. your climax comes hard along with several slick kisses to your clit, beads of sweat and rain slipping down between a furrowed brow and a guttural moan ripping from your throat.

eren's mouth releases its latch onto you, your legs flopping into puddles of dirt beneath you. “prepped her f'you,” eren licks his lips and looks to onyankopon who sits there with a fat bulge beneath his jeans although unbuttoned.

“mm yeah?,” you both shuffle over to the wet patch of hay ony’ sat in, slightly less soaked albeit equally as muddy.

onyankopon gestures to eren with two fingers as he lifts himself up, brushing water from his face and allowing eren to take a seat against the wall. your eyes flicker between them, sitting with your butt resting on the heels of your feet feeling exposed. it doesn't help that eren reaches behind you to unhook your bra, your cheeks feel hot. nevertheless, you slip them off your arms.

onyankopon shucks down his jeans just below his ass,  “ [  ], come right here,” walking on your knees you shuffle forward to ony’ who puts a hand above the swell of your ass, pressing his bare chest to yours. ony's gaze is something serious, he bends his neck and clasps his lips to yours. it's slow, methodical and hot. onyankopon breathes deep and groans into your mouth. your body goes limp a little: drooping in his grasp and relaxing against his body as his tongue gently guided yours against his own. “mhm, okay . . . okay,” he presses a few kisses to your lips with a squeeze around your throat as he weans you off his mouth.

“turn ‘round,”

you whine, “w'nna look at'chu,” 

ony's unmoved, he swallows, “look at ‘ren, baby,” and he guides you as you turn in the slippery mud to arch your ass up to him, his palm glides down the small of your back deepening that arch while your head rests on your folded arms before you. the position makes it hard for you to focus properly on eren, you peep at him through your eyelashes.

your cunt is sticky, swollen lips bound together by the white film of your arousal after the orgasm eren gave you, and you feel ony's hands kneading your ass. he spreads them, watching your pussy lightly spread open with it. you hear his belt buckle jingle slightly as his hands continue to massage your back right along with the downpour. ony’ grips his cock in his hands, tugging the thick thing lightly a couple times. he catches eren staring as he pumps it harshly before pressing the fat tip against you. 

“fuuuck,” ony’ slaps his cockhead at your entrance letting it get coated by your arousal before slipping the first inch in slowly and already you're speechless. “holy– shit,” your cunt stretched to accommodate the girth and ony’ grips the curve of your back for leverage, letting out a guttural groan while slowly inching into you. 

he sits in it for a moment, allowing you just a moment to familiarize yourself with the fat pipe he just lay in you; then, he's pulling out slowly and pushing in again and you whine. “what the fuck,” you feel ony’ lean his weight over you, and you gasp as he starts smacking his hips to your ass.

paired with the wetness of the rain, his hips leave a stinging slap against you and you're faltering with your tits mushed against the mud. eren left your pussy sloppy, your cunt whipping up loads of cream slick around ony's cock and your mouth is just ajar. jaw tightening with shallow, whiny moans cascading past your lips, ‘ah's and ‘oh's are all the men hear. “mm, ony’,” you try to murmur, body giving way fully to the mud beneath and ony's grip on your tightens,”watchu’ want, hm',” he grumbles.

oh how he knows nothing of the way your clit throbs everytime his heavy balls slap against your cunt.

“wan'— wan’ it deeper, please,” and you gasp hard when ony’s hand comes up to your ass, digging his thumb into the curled rim of your butt before bringing a foot to the ground for leverage; his ankle beside your ear, you eagerly grab onto it. “got fuckin’ good manners, don't she?” he grunts out, and the other man nods. 

onyankopon gives you two warning strokes, pressing his cock to the hilt and curling his thumb inside your ass and you feel overwhelmed. then, you gasp in a loud sob  as ony’ starts drilling his cock deeper into you, his hips smack you hard and his weight presses you everytime he drives his cock in. “fuck, fuck–,” you're squealing, hands draw digs into the mud as you can't help but writhe against the mud. “feel good?” you all but whine in response, “feel fuckin' good?” “ye- yes!” you mewl out. ony’s muscles contract and you can see it in his leg, intent on keeping you from sliding away from him under the soaked muddy slop.

the noises are . . . obscene. pornographic bursts of air shooting out amidst the stirring up of your melting cunt and your cheeks burn with embarrassment along with fresh tears streaming but you're breathless. “so fuckin’ loud,” ony’ mumurs,  his lips curling into a smile when he hears the noises you make.

“m’– fuck, m’ sorry,” you weep and your walls squeeze ony’ tight. you feel a glob of slick collect at the tippy top of your cunt, the fat bulge of your clit and stickily drip down onto the ground with each rock of your bodies. “takin’ m'shit fuckin’ good, sugar,” onyankopon drawls low and you sob.

you hear him whistle above you and with  a quickness eren's pants come into view. he sits, legs spread with his groin in line with your face against the ground. he scoots forward enough so he can lift your head and replace the mud beneath your nose with the musk of his balls. “‘ren, ‘ren, ren,” you're chanting, itching for your orgasm approaching with each quick and sloppy drag of cock in you. “m” right here, girlie,” ony's pummeling you from behind and your drooly mouth now has eren's pretty tanned cock slapping against it. “holy– fuck, hng- shit,” you mutter out before you're latching your lips onto eren's tip, inviting him into your mouth. he controls it, gripping your braids and rocking your head onto his dick.

“c'mon, c'mon, takin’ that shit s'fuckin’ good,” eren praises when he starts to snap his hips into your mouth, matching ony's strokes. he strokes your soaked hair gently, juxtaposing the nasty aggression each rock of his hips brought. you gagged, muffled, globs of spit streaking down your chin as you relaxed your throat for eren's dick. in the same way, you're making a mess on ony's cock, coating his length in hot creamy release that trickled down your own cunt. “she's fuckin’ creamin' on it, E',” and you moan when eren laughs cruelly above you, “cream on y’fuckin’ cock, ma’,” he grunts.

each drag of cock against the ridges of your cunt, the slosh of your mouth had you moaning in a frenzy. “was’ ya’ problem, huh?” eren groans out, and onyankopon knows exactly what your problem is.

“mama's bout to fuckin’ nut, huh?” he can feel the extra squeeze around his cock and rolls his neck to let some rain coat his face and distract him from his own ache. they listen to how you squeal around eren's cock, hands grabbing at his jeans and ony’ pumps his thumb into your ass consistency. 

“mmm, fuck,” onyankopon hums, angling himself so the curve of his cock digs at you just right, and he smiles: satisfied when you start to squirm and fuss beneath him. eren pulls you off and you sob, coughing a little to clear your larynx. you whimper as eren all but ruts against your face. “keep her right fuckin’ there,” ony’ groans and you grasp onto eren's jeans, cunt twitching with each movement yet eren forces your shoulders back to keep your body where ony’ wants you: daggering his cock into you with a forcefull quickness that eren's rutting mimics. 

“ohmygod, oh!” you blubber out, chanting ‘shit, shit, shit's

“gon’ leave you fuckin’ gapin’, quit playin’,” and you weep.

your hips twitch and you feel the knot in your stomach stiffening, “wan’ you're cum, want y'all's c–cum, fuckkk,” wail into eren's skin and take his cock back into your mouth just as your cunt spurts and your ears feel clogged from the rush of blood to your abdomen. “take it, take it, take that cum, baby,” eren groans. you felt light-headed, stars twinkling at you around the edges of your vision as your eyes rolled and soon you were forced to blink away the brain fog to swallow the thick loads eren gushes into your mouth. 

he whines, unabashedly and onyankopon gives you a couple more strokes before his cock is digging into you to bury his surge of cum into you with a hiss.

eren falls back, letting you catch your breath and stroking rain away from your face. ony’ pulls out quick before you start to get sore, giving your cunt a few wet slaps before eren's pulling your limp aching body onto him to give you some relief. “gotchu’, gotchu’.” he consoles.

“c'mon, E,” ony’ rushes, “huh?”

“gotta’ get out the fuckin’ rain,” he puffs out a laugh before he's lifting you off eren. they both try not to slip in the mud, hurrying off into the ranch for long hot showers.

[kyuuppi]

help, my boyfriend has no sex drive! (5)

Pairing: Kenma x reader (f)

Contents: smut; established relationship; feminization, "femboy", heavy praise kink (Kenma); rough sex; creampie; Christmas themes

Words: 3.4k

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

“But as long as you’d love me so—

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snoooow”

Kenma tries not to visibly cringe at the cheery music as he emerges from his office, finally finished with his obligatory three-hour “Christmas special” stream.

As you had been for the past month, you’re softly singing along to some Christmas carol playing from your shitty laptop speaker. You had busied yourself with reorganizing the presents under the full-sized tree—something you had insisted on buying for the apartment.

Kenma had little more interest in most holidays than the “free day from school” perks. But as he watches you scurry around your shared living room wearing candy cane-themed stockings, an oversized ugly Christmas sweater, and a hundred-yen-store Santa hat, Kenma is thankful you had expressed your desire to celebrate with him. He will gladly participate in anything that makes you this innocently cheerful. 

Your background music is abruptly cut short and you frown when you realize your laptop has just died again. But the disappointment is cut short when you notice Kenma, standing awkwardly by the couch in the dark Christmas sweater you had insisted he wear for his stream. 

“KenKen—your stream is over?”

Kenma smiles softly at how eager you look, eyes practically sparkling. 

“Yeah, I’m free now. You wanted to open presents, right?” 

You nod quickly, guiding him to the couch and leaving only to retrieve a cup of hot cocoa—extra whipped cream—and a slice of homemade apple pie, placing them both in front of him on the coffee table. He thanks you quietly, predictably digging into the apple pie first. 

“So I think we should start with your family’s gifts first,” you begin, already passing him a small stack of presents, all wrapped in identical green and red paper. 

After nearly half an hour you two had finally worked your way through nearly all of the presents. Most were the typical things–an abhorrent amount of socks and pajamas from your families, Kenma’s mother gifting both of you very cringey matching couple sets with any video game character she saw. You had to try very hard not to laugh at Kenma’s face when you opened a matching Kirby and Jigglypuff sweater set with a handwritten heart note.

“Aww, don’t pout KenKen, your mom was just being thoughtful.” “They’re not even in the same series.” 

A few gifts had been surprising–namely Kuroo’s cat ear headphones—to which Kenma promptly sent a text telling Kuroo to never buy him Christmas gift ever again— and even a signed pro jersey from Hinata. Even if he didn’t voice it, you noticed how touched Kenma seemed by the gesture and you made a mental note to buy something to display it in the apartment. A few gifts were even from Kenma’s fans, sending various game merchandise, snacks from their country, and even fan art of the two of you. 

Finally, the last remaining gifts were the ones you made for each other. You didn’t want to pressure Kenma to buy you anything fancy–and you also couldn’t afford to reciprocate with anything fancy, so you set a strict budget. 

Kenma was unexpectedly good at keeping secrets so you weren’t sure what he had gotten you–probably a game he wanted you to play together but the box was unexpectedly big—

Regardless, you knew what you got him , and it was something you had been thinking about for months. Needless to say, you were eager for him to open it. 

“Who should go firs—”

“I’ll go!”

Kenma raises a brow but complies as you all but shove your gift into his hands. The outside is unassuming—a flat package wrapped in red paper with a holographic silver stick-on bow in the center. Somehow, he feels vaguely uneasy. 

Cautiously, Kenma begins unwrapping the gift. You practically vibrate with excitement in your seat, eagerly watching as his thin fingers peel away the final layers of colorful paper. 

Finally, your present reveals itself, soft nylon fabric in a bright red shade. Kenma seems confused, unsure of what exactly he is looking at until he shifts and the fabric unravels into two long strips. 

“Ta-daa,” you cheer, “your very own pair of thigh-high stockings!”

Kenma looks horrified. 

“This is a joke,” Kenma states, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as you. 

“What do you mean? Don’t you like them? Look, they’re even Christmas-themed!”

You guide his hands over to the top of the socks where a large red ribbon sits. Two short red strings dangle the ribbon with a small, fuzzy white ball at the end each. You make him squeeze the soft ball for good measure. His expression doesn’t change. 

“Why would you buy me these? You wasted actual, real-life money for this,” Kenma bemoans. 

“Didn’t your fans suggest something like this before? I think they called them programmer socks—”

“ Oh my god please stop talking.”

Kenma lets out a long, suffering groan as you eye him with an absolute shit-eating grin.

It’s fine, he thinks. You wanted to be a little shit like Kuroo but it was just a prank. He could probably Venmo back the money you wasted on this and never have to think of this situation ever again. He’ll toss them in the back of the closet next to those cat ear headphones Kuroo bought him. 

He is proven wrong when you nudge his shin with your own stocking-clad toes and give him an expectant look. 

“Well?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to try them on?”

Kenma’s brain very obviously fries and you have to resist the urge to laugh at his expression. 

“C’mon, I spent actual, real-life money on these," you tease, throwing his words back at him, "I wanna see you wear them at least once!”

“You have to be joking,” he all but whines. 

Your excited expression tells him you are very much not joking. Kenma considers refusing more firmly. He knows you genuinely care about him and would never push him to do something he was uncomfortable with—or at least so long as it wouldn’t actually kill him.  

But your eyes are wide and practically sparkling as you look at him expectantly with that cute little grin–the crippling humiliation that will likely haunt him every night for the rest of his life is nothing compared to your happiness. Kenma sighs deeply and you know you’ve won. 

He ignores your excited squeals as he stands up and shuffles towards the bathroom in something akin to a walk of shame. 

As Kenma stares at his own lithe form in the mirror he’s positive that he has never felt so mortified in his whole life. Not when he accidentally set a ball into Lev’s face during a match in high school. Not when he missed his ult in a team fight and cost his team the ranked match in League. Not even when he came so hard he nearly passed out while getting his dick sucked during a live stream. 

Kenma can barely even recognize himself in the mirror, eyes flitting from his familiar golden gaze down to his oversized black and white Nightmare Before Christmas sweater and, finally, to his thin legs wrapped in an inappropriately bright red pair of thigh-high socks.

Somehow, the stockings feel even more exposing than if he were just naked. He feels like some cheap, poorly drawn femboy character in a hentai. One of his first thoughts was they don’t look nearly as appealing on him as they do on you. His legs are too lanky–straight and lean from years of volleyball but missing the curve of healthy fat yours have. His face heats up as he visualizes your thighs currently clad in your own pair of red and white striped stockings. 

“KenKen are you ready yet? You’re taking foreeeeever!”

His heart rate picks up and he tries to remind himself it's just you, the person who makes him feel safest. He’s going to go out there, you’re going to see how cringe he looks, then you'll both laugh and never talk about this again. 

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, immediately meeting your gaze as you sit on the couch where he left you. Breath bated, he watches as your eyes dart down his body, darting around his lower half with your mouth agape. He tries his best not to squirm under your stare. 

“Fuck, Ken,” you chuckle breathily, “you look amazing.”

Kenma’s breath hitches, certainly not expecting that type of response. As you continue to take him in he realizes your gaze looks almost hungry, like you’re ready to devour him–shit, are you seriously into this?

He finds his answer in the way you motion him over, helpless in how his body obeys before he can even process the silent request. You reach out hesitantly, fingertips so close to his thighs he can feel your body heat even through the thin fabric. You glance up at him, asking permission, and he’s nodding immediately, desperate for your touch.

Your fingers land near his left knee, trailing up slowly and making his whole body tremble lightly. When your fingertips catch on the hem of the stockings he nearly gasps and then you're brushing his soft skin directly, only stopping when you reach the edge of the sweater that’s just barely covering his rapidly hardening cock. 

“You’re so pretty,” you praise, "my pretty boy."

Kenma makes a choked sound, surprised and mildly offended but also awfully turned on to hear any form of praise from your lips. No, he wants to argue, you’re the pretty one –but you look up at him, so pleased, that he can’t remember how to speak. 

“And now we match,” you sing, tone innocent as you raise your leg between his own. His eyes follow, nearly hypnotized by the contrast between your red-and-white stockings against his red ones before your clothed shin brushes against his crotch in a way that is anything but innocent. He has to grab the back of the couch near your head to keep his knees from buckling as he groans.

You seem to take some form of pity on him because you let up on his crotch with a giggle, making room for him to sit down beside you and catch his breath. Even when you let him rest your attention never strays from the item of clothing, hand idly stroking his thigh while you continue to drink in the sight of his pale skin contrasting with the scarlet cloth. 

“Do you really like it that much,” he asks, almost hesitant. 

He’s surprised at how sheepish you become, moving your hand away as your face slightly flushes. 

“Um–yeah. I know it’s kinda weird, sorry, you just look really pretty sometimes.”

Kenma frowns slightly and takes your hand back, returning it to his thigh with his own on top of yours. The action was meant to reassure you but it felt too bold and he avoids eye contact as he speaks.

“You don’t have to apologize, I don’t hate it…”

He sees the way you perk up, practically beaming, from the corner of his eye and is quick to clarify less you try to buy him a pair of panties or something next year. 

“It’s not my thing—I prefer seeing you in cute clothes…but I can try things like this if it makes you this happy.”

“Aww, KenKen, that’s so sweet!”

Kenma huffs, breath nearly knocked out of him when you launch yourself into his chest, planting noisy kisses all over his face. He tries his best to scowl but he’s pretty sure he’s failing by the way you giggle at his expression. Your Santa hat gets knocked off in the commotion but neither of you care. Kenma even takes the opportunity to bury his fingers in your messy hair as your kisses finally focus on his lips. 

Eventually, the kisses deepen, morphing from quick pecks to slow and open-mouthed. Your tongue invades his mouth, gravity giving you a clear advantage as you take charge of this kiss. But not one to easily accept defeat, Kenma takes the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass in a way that has you gasping in surprise. You start to grind on him, both of you letting out soft sounds between kisses. 

It’s you who pulls away first, making Kenma softly whine in protest, gaze hazy as he blinks up at you in question. 

“Wanna ride you,” you explain simply. 

Kenma hisses out his approval and obediently waits as you pull down your lounge shorts. You yank them down your legs and fling them across the living room with a little too much force, accidentally hitting the Christmas tree. You laugh at the sight of your fuzzy white shorts hanging on the tree like some soft of kinky Christmas ornament but Kenma is quick to redirect your attention by pulling you back down for another kiss. 

He grips your ass again, this time bare, and moves his fingers to prepare you for his dick but—

He abruptly stops and pulls away from the kiss in shock. 

“You’re already this wet?” His expression looks genuinely surprised and you can’t help but giggle. 

“I told you, you look really pretty.”

Kenma groans, not sure if he’s annoyed or turned on but his cock throbs all the same. You pull up the bottom half of his sweater to reach his black boxers. He’s so hard that it's almost difficult to get them off but he helps you pull them down just enough to free his leaking cock. It takes a moment to properly position yourself from this new angle, hindered by your bulky sweater and the headrest of the couch digging into your side but you manage to guide his leaky head to your drenched hole and ease down.

You both groan as he breaches your cunt, your wetness making the slide smooth even as you reach his thick base.

“F-fuck, Ken, you always feel so good,” you moan.

The praise feels like a punch to the gut and he’s thankful he’s already lying down so he can’t embarrass himself further by losing his balance. He’s coming to realize even if feminization isn’t his thing, praise might be. He thinks he'd do just about anything if it pleased you—if it made you look down at him with those shiny eyes and call him your good boy—fuck. Kenma has to force himself back to reality before he makes himself cum too quickly just by his own fantasies. 

You readjust your weight, leaning back and using his bent knees as leverage. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his stockings as you begin to move, raising to his tip before dropping your whole weight down. It feels good—mind-numbingly so—but he finds it looks even better. The angle you put yourself into gives him an unobstructed view of your face–eyes pinched closed and reddened lips open in pleasure, your breasts–soft and bouncing with every movement–and, best of all, your tight hole sucking him in with every uptake. 

He can’t tear his eyes away from where the two of you are connected. A creamy white ring is quickly forming at the base of his cock from how soaked you are, thin strings sticking to your pussy like webs. Framing it all are your thick thighs, muscles straining with your movements and squeezed by those god damned red-and-white striped thigh highs.

Fuck, he wishes he could record this.

He has apparently said that aloud on accident because now you’re grinning down at him conspiratorially. 

“Y-yeah?” you stutter out, “you wanna make a movie with me?”

Kenma doesn’t verbally answer but he doesn’t need to. Instead, he’s gripping your hips and guiding your pace, making you bounce on his cock faster while his own hips start to meet your thrusts. 

It has only been a few minutes but it's becoming clear your stamina is far from athletic. Your thighs burn and your pace stumbles but Kenma is quick to take advantage of the situation, using a strength you didn’t know he was capable of to roll you over and push you face down. 

“Kenma, wh—oh!”

Any dissent you had intended to make is abruptly cut off when your boyfriend, one knee digging into the couch for leverage, feeds his length back into your greedy hole and sets a pace that has you nearly screaming. His hips snap into you, hard, and you scramble to find something to hold on to. One hand finds the armrest of the couch near your head, nails nearly tearing into the fabric, while the other ends up behind you, digging into his thigh as he rams his hips into you. You’re drooling as you manage to stutter out a barely coherent statement through your moans.

“K-Ken, so h-hard, fuck—”

“Yeah,” He replies, sounding breathless but not nearly as wrecked as you. You curse his retired high school athlete stamina. 

“Am I still your pretty boy?”

The question momentarily shocks you. You aren’t sure what response he’s looking for but you answer honestly, too fucked out to ponder on it. 

“Y-yesyesyes, the prettiest! ”

“You like getting fucked by your pretty boy?”

“Yeeeess, I l-love it—oh god—”

One hand reaches up to grip your hair, tugging your hair in a way you aren’t sure is punishment or a reward. You cry out all the same, cunt squeezing him for dear life as he hits something deep deep deep inside of you. You’re fairly certain you’ve never been fucked this hard in your life. The sweet, no-sex-drive-having boyfriend trope becomes little more than a pipe dream as his hips smack into your ass without reprieve. 

“‘m g-gonna cum,” you warn.

Kenma’s grip on your hip tightens and he adjusts his angle to hit the spot he knows makes your toes curl and your pitch turns airy. The nail in the coffin comes when he releases your hair, but only to start rubbing your clit, remembering your favorite rhythm from the time he watched you masturbate. 

Expectedly, you cum, toes curling and squeals reaching a pitch you think might cause your boyfriend hearing damage. Your whole body seizes with your orgasm, cunt spasming and thighs squeezing shit as you please for him to stop, go harder–you aren’t sure. 

Kenma forces you to ride through it, fucking you even as your hips stutter violently and never letting up on your pulsating nub. It's only when you're nearing tears from the overstimulation that Kenma stops, moaning sweetly as his own orgasm overtakes him. He collapses against you in exhaustion as warmth fills you from deep inside, making a mess on your thighs as it gushes out between you. 

“Mm, y’r heavyyy,” you complain sleepily. 

Kenma grunts something in response but doesn’t bother moving. In fact, he seems to make himself more comfortable by moving his hands to find your own. He slips his long fingers in the spaces between your own, locking your hands together. Your heart swells at the action, constantly reminded how much this boy loves you even when he doesn't vocalize it very often.  

You allow him a few more moments of peace, listening to his harsh pants die down into something more calm before you speak again. 

“By the way, what was my present?”

Kenma stiffens against you, having completely forgotten about Christmas altogether. Quickly, he pulls away from you and the loss of warmth almost makes you regret saying anything. On shaky legs, Kenma shuffles over to the forgotten box, wrapped in royal blue paper and topped with a pretty gold ribbon. He comes back to the couch, gingerly helping you sit up before placing the box on your lap. 

You’re immediately surprised by the hefty weight of the box and grow curious as you tear at the paper. Within seconds, the logo and picture on the box become clear, making you gasp in shock. 

“Kenmaaaa,” you whine, trying not to tear up as you pout at him. 

To his credit, Kenma looks honestly guilty as he avoids your eyes. 

“We set a twenty-thousand-yen spending limit, ” you remind him.

“I know but—this is basically a necessity. Your old one was going to die any day now,” Kenma reasons, helping you pull out the shiny new laptop –in rose gold no less. 

“And it's a gaming laptop–that means you can play with me more so it’s basically a gift for me more than you,” he continues. 

You know he’s absolutely pulling excuses out of his ass but you can’t help the rush of affection at how much Kenma wants to spoil you. He always buys you the things you want, even when you insist on not wanting to take advantage of him as a wealthy streamer and businessman. He usually comes up with some excuse, I was going to buy one anyway so we can share or I have too much money this month, taxes will be a hassle if I don’t spend it. 

But he is right–your old laptop was on its last leg and every time you opened a Word document for school you had to pray it wouldn’t crash before you could save your draft.

You softly smile as you trace the box with a finger, elated that he even remembered which color you wanted. He grins at how pleased you clearly are, even if you won’t say it. 

“Besides,” his grin suddenly turns sly as he places a hand on the swell of your hip, “I heard the webcam is really great for recording movies.”

[a-998h]

Return to Gravity Falls

@angelqueen27 & @eisheth

Contains: Implied Platonic yandere

"Wake, Starlight," a familiar voice tells me.

Opening my eyes, I'm met with the all too familiar set of bright blue eyes. My older brother, Mason, who has the stage name Dipper. I sit up in bed, yawning and rubbing my eyes of all sleepiness. Smelling pancakes, I figured my older sister, Mabel, was making her special strawberry chocolate chip pancakes. Those two were part of a magic act called, the Mystery Twins. We'd been traveling across the country for weeks and I was always excited to explore where we ended up this time.

"Morning big bro," I tell him.

I know he has a new bolo tie, but he has a million so I wouldn't now what every single one he owns looks like. He gives me a head pat and tells me to get dressed as he leaves the room and closes the door.

I throw on a blue shirt and black shorts, paired with my sneakers. I spend extra time brushing my hair, knowing Mabel would do it herself if she didn't think it was good enough. After brushing my teeth, I join my siblings at the table. Mabel, who's normally blank blue headband had a teal gem decoration on it, handed me a plate with a smily face pancake and apple slices.

"Morning little Starlight," she calls me.

I smile despite my annoyance. I have a name, Reader, but my siblings have never used it. It was always, Starlight this and Starlight that for as long as I can remember. I wanted to let go of the dumb nicknames, but last time I tried I started feeling guilty. Dipper and Mabel would say that they only wanted to have a bond with me, so I let them keep calling me that name. When their magic act took off, the dragged me along with them.

I look down at the smiling pancake, I loved that stupid whipped cream smile when I like 6, but Mabel keeps putting it on my pancakes. I don't really mind, it's whipped cream after all. I finish the pancake, and go to leave the table, but without even looking up from his plate, Dipper says.

"Eat all your apple slices, you need to be healthy,"

That pancake was huge, and I was feeling full. Trying to argue that point was useless as Dipper said that I could only be full if I finished those stupid apple slices. It bothers me that they can't see that I'm not a little kid anymore, plus I'm only three years younger than them. Giving in, I eat the apple slices and let Mabel take my plate and silverware. Looking out the window, I recognize some familiar scenery.

"We're back home?" I ask my siblings. They nod and smile.

We were away from home for so long, my heart might burst from the excitement of returning. Before I can leave the table to explore my hometown, Mabel stops me.

"We have something for you, Starlight," Mabel says as Dipper walks over.

With a dramatic flurrish, Dipper pulls out a white box with a blue ribbon bow on it. Opening it reveals a sliver bracelet, a dark teal stone embedded in the center surrounded by my star sign.

"Where and when did you get this?" I ask.

They both chuckle and Mabel tells me it was bought after one of their New England shows. I take their word, and put it on. It fits perfectly and looks beautiful. I hug them both before we heard our Great Uncle/ Manager Stan say Dipper and Mabel have to do a rehearsal for a show happening in about two weeks time. I get two kisses on the cheek as the pair leave. Once that car is outta view, I run out the house's front door.

Nostalgia hits like a freight train as I wander the streets of the town I knew and loved. Greasy's dinner was where it always stood, with Speedy Susan being a one woman crew. Gravity Falls may look like a hick town in middle of nowhere Oregon, which is true, but I see it as a wonderful place full of woods to explore. As I walk around, I feel something solid run into me as I fall backwards.

"I'm so, so, so, so sorry!" A high pitched voice says.

Looking as I stand, I see a girl with a color hippie like outfit, and a white haired boy in a sweatshirt, it's summer. The girl keeps apologizing and I let her know I'm ok. She sticks out her hand.

"Nice to meet you, My name is Pacifica Southeast, but please call me Pacifica," she tells me.

I tell her my name. She smiles and pushes the nervous sweatshirt boy closer. He looks like he really doesn't want to talk to anyone, not because he's better, but it's mor elike, he'll go the way of the narwhal if he even things of talking to strangers. He slowly sticks out his hand for a handshake. I return the handshake and tell him my name.

"M-My name is Gideon Pines," he tells me.

I nod and apologize for being in their way. Pacifica says her and he brother had plans to explore the nearby woods, then asked what I was doing. I explain my exporting and Pacifica says we should do it together. Normally, Dipper and Mabel would pull me away, Dipper making me wash my hand because he thinks that I'll get "poor people germs" and Mabel would say I need to spend more time with family. But, they aren't here.

"Sure, sounds fun" I tell my new best friends.

The three of us enjoy our wilderness expedition, spotting animals and plants of varying kinds. It was nice to have friends, Dipper and Mabel just scare them off, saying I only need my big brother and sister. I catch my reflection in a small creek, I have dirt stains on my hands, face, and shirt with messy hair. It's been so long since I've looked like this, ever since Dipper and Mabel had become the Mystery Twins, they would always keep me under their ever present eyes.

The laughter dies down as the sun starts to sink below the trees, casting the town and forest in a comfortable orange glow. Pacifica hands me a folded piece of paper, urging me to open it. When I do, I'm greeted with an address, but it's not one I know.

"It's for a place called the Mystery Shack, it's where me and Gideon live so you can hang out whenever you want!" She cheerfully tells me.

Stuffing the paper back in my pocket, I have memories of Dipper and Mabel insulting the Mystery Shack and telling I have no reason to go to "that dirty tourist trap". Now, I have friends and a reason to visit, I start making my way to home, trying to hide the evidence of my wilderness fun. Opening the door, I'm greeted with the stern looks of Dipper and Mabel.

"Do you have any idea how worried we were?" Mabel asks in a somewhat emotional manner.

I try my best to answer, but it doesn't help. Dipper scolds me as Mabel is setting up a make shift spy in our living room, going on and on about how I was "darted by hooligans". Dipper does nothing to calm her, only fueling the fire. Dipper calmly tells me that I shouldn't be around strangers as they could hurt me. Honestly, I think the most dangerous thing in this town are the woodpeckers. Dipper takes the paper as Mabel scolds me.

Well, despite being grounded, I'm still happy that we're back in Gravity Falls. Nostalgia softened the blow of grounding. Looks like I'll have to rob Dipper's room for that address. I wonder what it would be like to have real friends, not overprotective siblings.

[creepswrites]

MEAT PIES (Thomas x Reader)

as a result of the poll i made, here is a lil something with Thomas Hewitt! also, this is sort of in celebration of 500 followers so thank you so much for that!! :D

Thomas Hewitt x gn!Reader (they/them)

Summary: You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

WARNING: 18+, violence, murder, c/nnibalism

Living in Travis County was becoming more and more difficult, particularly in Fuller. There were whispers around town that the meat processing plant had gone bad. The latest drought had caused illness in the cattle but the plant did nothing about it, continuing work as expected.

Those whispers had reached your ears almost immediately. Fuller was a relatively small town as is and the sick meat would be bad for your business.

Currently, you ran a little corner store making and selling various baked goods, though your little meat pies were especially good. Despite the town's size, you had various customers come in almost every day. When you'd first moved to town about two years ago, many of the older residents had turned up their noses when you'd continued to work on Sundays, not being particularly religious yourself.

Their attitudes quickly changed once they got a taste of your baking though.

You made various things as well, from cakes to breads to cookies. There was little you couldn't make. In summer, you'd whip up vanilla ice creams with apple cobblers and in winter you'd make warm honey and vanilla cakes. The town couldn't get enough of it.

Today was a warm day, as were most days in Texas. You'd just finished cleaning up one of the tables when you heard someone come inside. "Be right with you!" You called over your shoulder as you finished wiping down the table with a disinfectant wet wipe.

When you spun around, you smiled at a familiar face. "Hey Mrs Hewitt, how can I help ya?"

Luda May Hewitt was a regular of yours, always paying you generously to bring home some of your cakes and plates of cookies. She bought more than any other customer but you certainly weren't complaining. Sometimes she'd bring you some of her own family recipes for you to try, always looking proud when they came out a success.

You were always respectful to her, which you could tell she also appreciated. "Just here for the usual, dear." Luda May smiled at you.

With a quick nod, you slipped back behind the counter and began collecting chocolate clip cookies into a paper bag. "Did somethin' a lil different with 'em this week." You gave the old woman a secret smile. "Added a bit more salt to this batch, so let me know what ya think!"

"Ooo!" Luda May smiled. "I'm sure they'll be delicious as always. My Tommy's such a big fan of your bakin' you know."

You looked up at her, giving her a raised eyebrow. "Tommy?"

She nodded. "He works at the meat plant. Walks by your lil store every day on his way to work but he's too shy to come in, poor dear."

"I hope I don't scare him," you laughed good-naturedly as you sealed up the bag before collecting a dozen cupcakes into a paper tray. "He's welcome to come in if he wants! Can make him a hot chocolate if he shows up before openin.'"

Luda May gave you a fond look. "You're such a darlin,' don't know what angel sent ya to Fuller but I know the whole town's grateful." She paused, fidgeting with her fingers. "You heard 'bout the plant, right?" Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke.

You nodded at her, leaning closer over the counter like the two of you were sharing a dark secret over the little cakes and cookies. "Yeah, heard the meat was bad."

"Not just bad, dear." Luda May frowned. "Been stomach infections all over the country 'cause of the spoiled meat. A health inspectors comin' out this week to see."

A soft gasp left your lips and Luda May nodded sadly. "I mean... is the plant-?"

Luda May gave a wistful smile. "You've heard the rumors. I'm sure you've seen the families movin' out of Fuller this past month. Everyone's already cut their losses an' moved on."

You frowned, crossing your arms over your cool counter as the old woman opened her purse to pull out coins and bills to pay you. "What're you gonna do?" You asked her, chewing on your lip.

She looked at you with a soft look. "Don't you go worryin' about an old woman like me. I ain't last this long on pillows and cotton." She teased you, making you smile slightly. "I got my boys to look after me. We got a farm out in the country, we'll get by. I still got my job at the community center, for now."

As she slid the money across the counter and took the two bags of sweets, you gave her a polite wave. "Let me know if I can help somehow, yeah?"

Luda May just gave you a smile as she left, leaving you alone in the empty store as the bell of the door echoed emptily. You just hoped her family would be okay.

The Hewitts were a fairly reserved family but were the heart of the little community. Luda May and Charlie had a strong presence in the town and, despite the sheriff's best attempts, the town looked to the Hewitt family for advice. So you'd heard of Thomas Hewitt - Luda May's son who, according to rumors, was mentally challenged and physically disabled. You'd never met him but you'd heard stories.

You finally got to meet him just a few days after Luda May's visit.

It was early in the morning and you'd barely gotten dressed when you padded downstairs in socked feet to your little shop. You lived above the store in a small, one room apartment. It was convenient though!

A knock on the glass door confused your still-sleepy brain. You crept towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it. An enormous man stood there, staring at you with surprise. His hair was long, messy and matted, and he wore a mask over his mouth that obscured a lot of his face. You opened and closed your mouth for a minute before managing to choke out a few words. "Thomas, right?"

He nodded and you felt yourself smile. "Luda May told me 'boutcha! C'mon in," you stepped aside and shuffled back towards your coffee machine. You heard Thomas enter slowly, shutting the door carefully behind him. "You want coffee?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

Thomas looked dirty, the apron he wore stained with blood. If he didn't work at the meat plant, you would've been more alarmed. He just stared at you, unblinking. "Hot chocolate?" You tried, earning a quick nod. "Comin' right up!" You gave him a bright smile as you set about making coffee for yourself and hot chocolate for your guest.

"Luda May says you walk by my shop a lot." You hummed as you worked. "You're allowed to come in, y'know? I ain't gonna run you off."

Thomas was silent still. You got the feeling he didn't talk much. So you went into the back room as drinks brewed and opened one of your storage boxes. Despite the dusty, rough nature of the rest of the town, you prided yourself on keeping things clean and tidy. So you grabbed two cinnamon rolls and went to reheat them in the little oven.

All the while, you felt eyes on you. For some reason, you got a heavy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it down. He was strange, not dangerous.

You slid the man a mug of hot chocolate and a warm cinnamon roll across your countertop with a smile. "Yer always welcome here."

To be polite, you turned your back to him as you drank your coffee to let him take off the mask he wore to eat better. The two of you enjoyed breakfast in relative silence until, without much fanfare, Thomas stepped away from the counter and slipped out the front door, back into the Texas heat.

He was strange, without a doubt, but he meant well. It was clear Luda May adored him so he must just really be shy with strangers. You'd start stocking up more hot chocolate, despite it being summer, for if Thomas ever visited you again.

And, later that very afternoon, hundreds of men were seen leaving the meat plant. It was shut down for good by the health inspector. You watched from your windows as the angry men stormed home, yelling in protest and anger with each other.

You didn't see Thomas in the crowds though. You hoped he was okay...

With the meat plant shut down, life in Fuller came to a complete stop. Where once it had been difficult, it was now near impossible to continue living there. At least 85% of the town moved away by the end of the month, abandoning their properties or selling them. The town, effectively, shut down in a matter of weeks.

But you remained.

You didn't have anywhere to go or the means to leave. Selling the property was an option but where would you even go? You didn't exactly have a means of moving. Your little car couldn't hold all your possessions and getting a moving company to help was ridiculously expensive...

You felt trapped.

Luda May visited you late one afternoon, a sad smile on her face. "Hello dear." She said softly, the overhead bell ringing to announce her arrival.

Glancing up from the catalogue you were browsing, you smiled back. "Hey Mrs Hewitt. How can I help ya?"

She made her way up to your counter, looking down at the catalogue before looking back up at you. "The Jamisons moved away." She said softly. Your eyes widened and you straightened up. "Just this afternoon." Her voice was shaky as you reached over to hold her hands.

"I'm so sorry..." Your voice was soft as the old woman looked close to collapsing. "I know how close they were with the town, I-"

Luda May held your hands back tight. "It's been so hard, havin' everyone move away just like that. Like this town ain't worth nothin' without the meat plant." She grit her teeth against a wet sob. "My Tommy ain't got no place to work an' we- we can't leave. But if everyone else goes, what'll happen to us? What'll we do?"

You let go of Luda May long enough to slide over your counter to hug her. "I'm so sorry. I- I wish there was something I could do to help..."

She held you tight as she let herself sob. You swayed with her for a moment, trying your best to console her. "Ain't nowhere left to work in this town. We can't survive on pennies from my community center job, sweetheart. It's gettin' too hard." Luda May wept.

You felt for her, truly. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know. You an' your family have done so much for me, for the town. Least I can do is repay the favor."

Luda May pulled back slightly, wiping her cheeks. "You're too good for this world. Certainly the Lord blessed us when he sent you to this town." She sniffed once, straightening up and adjusting her glasses. "You should come on by for dinner tonight. We got guests comin' over an' I think you'd fit right in."

"Oh!" You perked up, smiling at her. "I'd love to! I've got this pie recipe I've been meanin' to try out, I think y'all will love it."

Luda May smiled and nodded along. "I got two hours left in my shift at the community center. I'll come on by and getcha after, alright?"

You nodded excitedly. "I'll get cleaned up. Thank you, I'm honored to be invited along!"

When you turned to hurry up the stairs to your little apartment, you missed the way Luda May's smile faded away. Her heart ached with remorse for what she was sentencing you to.

As she left the store, she cried silent tears for the betrayal she was about to give you.

But, as promised, Luda May came to pick you up just as the sun was going down. You'd gotten cleaned up, dressed nice in light clothing to protect yourself against the hot Texas afternoon. An airy, white and blue striped shirt with the collar pressed nicely alongside matching navy blue shorts. The boots you wore were simple and the cleanest shoes you owned.

When Luda May spotted you, smiling and waving at her as you clutched a wicker basket in your hands, she almost told you the truth. Almost made up a lie to keep you from coming over, to save you from the fate that Charlie - Hoyt, he'd insisted now - would surely sentence you to. But he'd been right. The family needed to eat.

She just wished you'd left town earlier. Packed up your cute little things into neat, nice boxes and left this shithole of a town. But no. You'd stayed because you were sweet. And you trusted her. Which only made her feel worse about putting you into this situation.

You, who had only ever been so kind and loving to her, her family, Tommy...

But she didn't say or do anything. She just smiled as you got into her old truck and drove you down the old, dirt road towards the Hewitt house. The old blue truck rattled but you were polite and didn't say a thing. You were too good for this world, in Luda May's eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, there could be a way to save you still.

The Hewitt farm was much bigger than you imagined. The large, manor-like house lay surrounded by various barns, cattle pens, and a nearby junkyard. You didn't let it show on your face but the whole place felt... Dirty.

Like dirt caked every surface, even lightly. As though if you were to drag your fingers across anything, you'd find layers of dirt and dust left on the tips of your fingers. You suppressed a shudder as Luda May left her truck, shutting the door rather loudly. You were quick to follow her up to the big house, stumbling slightly as you hurried.

"Now, be wary of the boys. They tend to be a bit rowdy this late in the day. Once dinner rolls 'round they'll settle. If any of them give you trouble, you come straight to me." Luda May said as you approached the door.

You gave her a quick nod. "Yes ma'am."

The smile she gave you was fond but it was also... something else.

Before you could figure out what, you heard a scream. Your heart lept to your throat but Luda May took your hand in hers and squeezed. "The boys play rough. They're alright, dear." She gave you a warm look. "Lets just get inside 'n outta this heat."

You obeyed, swallowing down a sick feeling you had rising in your stomach.

The inside of the house was. Messy, to say the least. But, you had to remind yourself to be polite as you were guided from the foyer to the kitchen. Some dishes lay in the sink, making Luda May curse. "Monty!" She called somewhere into the house. "Next time ya fuckin' leave dishes in the sink, I'm havin' Tommy throw your damn truck out!"

You blinked back in shock. You'd never heard her talk like that.

A man, who you could only assume was Monty, poked his head into the kitchen. "God damn woman, ain't my job to clean the place!"

Luda May scoffed. "I pride myself on runnin' a clean house. You start undoin' my hard work an' you can sleep in the barn with the other stupid animals!" She let out a loud huff. "Where's Tommy anyway?"

Monty shrugged. "Ain't seen 'im. Might be downstairs." He looked you up and down, over and over. The gesture made you feel dirty. "You can go look for 'im while I entertain our, uh, guest."

"Absolutely not." Luda May said, scrubbing a plate with a brush. "They're my guest, you an' Charlie can keep your dirty hands off. They're the sweet baker from down the road who makes those sweets y'all like so much."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are they now? Well I'll be damned."

You flushed under all the attention, fidgeting nervously with the basket in your hands and deciding to just set in on the counter nearby Luda May. "I could, um, go find Thomas. If- if you wanted?"

Anything to get away from Monty's leering eyes.

Luda May nodded to you. "He should be down in the basement workin'. Don't mind if he doesn't hear ya, you can shout."

You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

The sounds of heavy footsteps on the staircase above made your stomach swoop and you quickly opened the door and slipped inside. Your breath caught in your throat as the sounds got quieter, the screams turning to gurgles and the chainsaw dying down. Fearing the worst, you were silent on the rickety, old, wooden steps that went down into the darkness of the basement.

You held your breath as you neared the bottom, looking out into the dimly lit room.

Ice-hot fear shot through you at the sight. Thomas, standing over a man's body that was strapped to a table. The chainsaw he'd used lay on a bench beside the table as he appeared to be skinning the eviscerated man laying before him.

Thomas looked up at you and you slapped your hand over your mouth to cover your gasp. Tears filled your eyes as you scrambled back up the stairs, utterly terrified. You tore open the front door and took off running, only going faster when you heard Thomas chasing you.

But he knew the land better than you.

Eventually, through all your running and hiding, you found yourself cornered in one of the large, dusty barns. The ceiling and walls were wooden and the floor was just loose dirt. You whimpered when you saw Thomas's shadow approach you, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stood in the open doorway, meat cleaver in hand as he stared at you. You backed up until you hit the wall but Thomas kept approaching you. "Are you going to hurt me?" You choked through a sob.

Thomas froze and just stared at you. You could tell your question had surprised him but he was quick to recover. He nodded. You felt your heart sink as you slid down to the dirt floor, curling up on yourself.

You sat there, curled up in the fetal position, and began to cry openly. Thomas made a soft grunt but you couldn't hear, too busy crying. You didn't want to die, much less at Thomas's hand. He'd always seemed nice, if a bit intimidating, but you thought he and Luda May were good people.

The memory of the basement flashed in your head and you blinked up at Thomas with wet, red-rimmed eyes. He seemed to deflate then, sitting down criss-crossed in front of you, careful to keep his distance. He set the cleaver down and put his hands in his lap and just watched you.

You sniffed. "Can... can you at least do it quick?"

Thomas looked guilty as he made a grumbling noise. You wished, momentarily, he could talk to you. At least then maybe he'd tell you what he was planning to do to you. Instead, he surprised you by picking up the cleaver and tossing it further away before looking expectantly back at you.

You blinked. "You're... you're not going to hurt me?"

Thomas shook his head.

"Are..." You swallowed a thick lump that had been lodged in your throat. "Are the others...?"

That made Thomas pause. With a thoughtful look, he shook his head once before holding out his hand to you. Slowly, like you were reaching for a dog that might bite your hand off if you were too fast, you slid your hand into his.

The size difference was considerable. His hand was at least a quarter size bigger than yours, if not more, and it was rough. You knew he'd worked at the meat plant cutting up meat so of course he'd have workers hands. He gingerly ran his thumb along the back of your hand, trying to reassure you.

"You won't... let them hurt me, right?" You asked, voice low.

He nodded his head, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. Whatever had changed his mind about hurting you, you weren't willing to question it. "Okay." You said softly, letting Thomas help you stand up. Your clothes were covered in dirt but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Though you did almost retch when you saw the blood on his apron.

"Tommy, where'd you-" Luda May called out, freezing when she saw you with Thomas. He still hadn't let go of your hand as he stepped in front of you with a pleading sound. Luda May's shoulders seemed to sag. "I'm sorry, dear." She looked at you with a remorseful look. "I... I was hopin' to keep you from findin' out. Charlie's been... persistent 'bout gettin' food for the family an' I had no choice."

Your mind slowly caught up to what she was saying. "You... you brought me here to... to be killed and eaten?!" Tears began falling again, streaking down your dirt-covered cheeks.

Thomas squeezed your hand again and you felt like throwing up. Luda May didn't say anything as she looked to Thomas. "Charlie'll be angry to know you're keepin' them alive. Are you sure about this?"

He nodded once, still standing protectively in front of you. As terrified as you were - of both Thomas and the entire concept of being made into dinner - you felt a bit reassured that he was set on not hurting you.

Luda May sighed quietly. "Alright. Dinner'll be ready soon. Proper meat." She shot you a reassuring look. "You two get cleaned up. Charlie'll be back soon."

Thomas tugged your hand gently, looking down at you and asking you to follow. He guided you to walk ahead of him, gently pushing you along after Luda May. You glanced over your shoulder as you walked to spot Thomas picking the cleaver back up. When he noticed your alarmed look, he quickly put it behind his back with wide eyes.

You almost laughed at the hysterical nature of it all. You were being invited to dinner - which you nearly became - and the guy who was going to butcher you was hiding the cleaver so you wouldn't be scared of him. Like you were a kid who had no object permanence.

Thomas genuinely did not want to scare you. You knew that. It didn't make you any less terrified though.

Charlie Hewitt - or Sheriff Hoyt as he was calling himself now, as you were terrified to learn he'd also killed - was currently having a fit.

When you'd come downstairs having mostly cleaned off in the bathroom, he'd spotted you quickly. When Luda May informed him you were a friend of Thomas's and definitely not dinner, he'd been enraged. He'd started throwing things around the house, yelling at Luda May and Thomas, who both stood strong. "I asked ya to find somethin' for dinner and ya bring back nothing? Just some sad lookin' baker kid who ain't worth jack?!"

Luda May glared. "You give em any trouble, I'll beat ya black and blue and make ya sleep outside, ya hear? I ain't puttin' up with your shit tonight, Charlie."

"Hoyt, it's Hoyt now!" He yelled back, smashing a plate.

"Every dish you break, you buy a new one!" Luda May yelled, smacking his arm hard.

Hoyt's eyes fell on you as he glared. When he moved forward to grab you, Thomas was quick to interfere. You ducked behind his arm as he stood between you and Hoyt. "Thomas. Move." Hoyt snarled.

But Thomas didn't budge. In fact, he looked surprised as he looked down at you clinging to his forearm, terrified out of your mind. While you were scared of everyone in the room, Thomas was the most likely to defend you and defend you hard. The cleaver he'd been carrying was laying out on the table and, while you'd known Luda May longer, you doubted she'd be able to use it against Hoyt if he came closer.

"I won't ask you again, boy," Hoyt snarled. Thomas calmly lifted Hoyt up by the collar of his shirt and threw him aside, sending the man crashing into the table with a hard tumble.

Luda May spoke up then. "That's enough!" She snapped at both Hoyt and Thomas. "You two clean up this mess."

Hoyt glared over at her. "We look after family. They," he pointed a finger at you as he stood, "ain't family."

You shared a nervous look with Luda May, who remained steady. "They may as well be. Far as I'm concerned, they're the only one who provided food for dinner tonight." She glared down at Hoyt. "While you were runnin' around playin' dress up."

Hoyt was quiet. "What'd they bring?"

"Meat pies." You said quietly. When Hoyt looked at you, you repeated yourself louder, fearing his anger. "I brought meat pies. L-lamb ones."

The room was silent. "Ya brought lamb pot pies?" Hoyt asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. You nodded frantically and he sighed. "Alright, fine, ya can stay." He grumbled, leaving the room with a huff.

You looked up at Thomas with nervous eyes. The mask he wore obscured a lot of his face but you could see his eyes. He blinked slowly, a softness there you were surprised by.

Clutching his arm tighter, you let yourself relax as Thomas stood protectively beside you. You could survive this, you thought to yourself.

You will survive this.

[jamneuromain]

Wild Child Chapter. 1

Series Summary:

As the granddaughter of the sole Duke in your country, you know that you were going to marry some douche prince, because it is the only way to solidify the grasp the future king has on the Upper House. On the flight home, you come up with a brilliant plan to defy your upcoming matrimony.

Bringing a random man to your grandfather's place, and say you have a boyfriend already.

"Is there anything else I should know about? Before I meet your family?" Ari cocks his head to the side, watching you adjusting your cerulean Valentino dress when you wave your hand dismissively.

"Just say we're in love and help me get out of marrying this D-bag."

Ari Levinson x You

#i didn't know he is my fiance-douchebag-prince

#when i did, it was too late

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Flight CM80072 from London to Ancetol. This is your Captain speaking. My name is…”

The broadcast started as you stuffed your ears with your earbuds. The screeching static along with the horrible noise whenever the captain chewed the mic in his lips and popped every consonant as if he couldn’t speak otherwise.

You should have brought your earplugs.

Or fly your private plane.

Correction: Fly your family’s private plane.

But you guessed they were still mad at you, which was probably the reason why the bodyguard they sent simply handed you an envelope with an airplane ticket inside.

“Would you like to see the menu?” The stewardess asked you with a kind smile, handing you the thick book of menu, “We have foie gras, smoked salmon, or veal rolls for the main course. Of course, you can also choose the vegan meal. All the ingredients are listed below the dishes.”

“I’ll have the veal roll.” You took a sip of the lemon-flavored soda she gave you earlier, “First course - the shrimp, and dessert would be the … ice cream, with extra berry toppings?”

“Excellent choice, Miss Y/L/N.” The stewardess nodded, taking notes of your demands, the impeccable smile still on her lips, “Any drinks?”

The bodyguard to your back coughed. Very loudly. Very spontaneously. As if he would be dead if someone didn’t hand him a glass of water or ship him off to the chemotherapy very soon.

“Cappu…” you changed your mind as soon as you were “reminded” that you were not allowed to drink alcohol, "Screw it, apple cider please.”

“Miss -” The bodyguard in the full black suit tried to warn you, “His Lordship won’t be pleased.”

“His Lordship,” you sniggered, “desperate measure to demonstrate his control over me, huh? Plus, I don’t think I recall our King has issued any announcement on the succession of the title. So, Lord him all you like. Pathetic man. I’m not respecting someone who participated perhaps even less than a minute in creating me.” You muttered the last few words under your breath.

You could practically imagine what “His Lordship” would do when he hears the report from the bodyguard, word for word.

He might throw some crystal ornaments to the wall, shouting at the top of his lungs, as if that would reinforce his authority.

A man to your right chuckled. Like you, he was just approached by the stewardess regarding his meal choice, now sipping scotch on the rocks. You glared at him. He looks like a man in his 30s. Terribly well dressed. The suit fitted his tailoring right up to his cufflinks. Golden cufflinks, you might add. White shirt without a tie. Long hair with a full-grown beard.

“Sorry, can’t help but overhear.” He raised his hands and folded them on his knees, “I’m Guy. Guy Thomas.”

“Mr. Thomas,” you shared your given name with him, but left out your family name, offering to shake his hand.

“Guy.” He stressed, “You’re from Ancetol?”

You were born in the outskirts of Ancetol, the capital of your home country, Ballenia, one of the few countries that are still ruled by a monarch. Your mother was relieved that you were blessed with a quick birth. But your father wanted nothing more than a boy. A boy that could take the family title and carry the family honor. Probably why he didn’t make an appearance until the second day of your birth. Reluctantly. You might add.

You spent the next couple of years of your life in a small town in Ballenia, growing up with your mother who thought innocently that your father would miraculously love you and accept you both as family.

You stopped believing in “a happy marriage” a long time ago. No. You stopped believing in “marriage”. And the fairy tales. And the lovely stories that told you one day, Prince Charming would come to rescue you riding his big white horse and ask you to be his wife, and some happily ever after bullshit.

No.

The reality was, fairly close to the story of your family, where the “Cinderella”, your mother, was abandoned by the prince, who is your father, and he had a couple of mistresses when Cinderella was only allowed to be presented during formal circumstances.

Ah yes, after all, a divorce would destroy the reputation of His Lordship. Making them look bad if they kick a civilian woman out of the door. The press would go frenzy about it, spreading the news that the “Cinderella” had been divorced by the cold-hearted heir of the Duke.

Luckily, or, unlucky for your father, it was your grandfather who carried the Duke title. Your grandfather who was equally displeased with you, a useless girl. Your grandfather, who passed away quite recently. Three days ago.

Hence, your urgent return. And some pretenses for the reputation of your family.

So, sunglasses it is then. During the funeral. With a white handkerchief. No one will see your dry eyes incapable of producing tears, not for that old bastard anyway. You thought to yourself, eyeing the huge bulk of a man next to you.

Did you forget to mention that the late Duke did the same trick as your father? Marrying a civilian woman and keeping a dozen mistresses in the same mansion they live in?

“You sound local.” You commented on the way he speaks English, “Are you from Ancetol as well?”

“Aww, what gave it away?” The man switched to fluent Ballenian, the language you haven’t heard of for years, and asked you, sounding sincere, “Is it the ‘r’? I always mess up the ‘r’.”

“Your name doesn’t sound local though,” you buckled your seatbelt as the stewardess stepped close to inform you the plane was ready to depart, lowering your eyes to fumble with the metal link, “Guy Thomas. Very American.”

Ari, no, Guy, pushed a little smile on his lips.

Of course, this name sounded American. You would freak out if he told you his true name.

“My mother is American and my father is Ballenian.” Which was 75% true because his mother was half American. The other half Danish.

He went by “Guy Thomas” when he was having fun among people and didn’t want to spoil everything by announcing he was Ari. The fucking prince of Ballenia.

Total mood killer.

“Are you here for business or pleasure?” You joked, “Or visiting your family?”

“Mostly business.” Ari fabricated a lie out of nowhere, “I work as a manager of my family business.” Technically that’s not a lie. He even slipped in some details for credibility.

Family business, the kingdom.

Manager, well sort of, since his dad owned the country.

“And I’m back in Ballenia to secure a deal.”

You lacked interest in business and all that, waving your hand as if dismissal, but allowing the stewardess to come and take away the food and drink in front of you, “hard to do business nowadays, especially when the Minister of Foreign Trade is a jackass.”

“You speak as if you know him.”

“Please, he’s been in that position for fifteen years.” You rolled your eyes.

The minister tried to get you to marry his hideous, lazy, pig-like son who knows nothing more than eating, smoking, and partying. Promising your father to “sweeten the deal” by favoring the company your mother owned but your father controlled.

Your father really would have said yes if it weren’t for the deal years ago, promising you to another man already. A man more powerful than the minister or his son will ever be.

“Of course, he is a jackass. If not now, then somewhere in his 15 years of gripping the foreign trade.” But you were not telling a total stranger about you being promised around like a Ming-Dynasty Vase. “Just look at the new announcement he made with the U.S. What deal did he make? None! Claiming that ‘further efforts are needed’. Further my ass. The Ambassador from the States could barely keep the smile on his face for Christ’s sake.”

Ari took a mental note to look into this “jackass” Minister.

“What about you?” He asked, “Visiting your family? Plan on staying here long?”

You pursed your lips on hearing the question.

Visit your family? How about dead family?

You were here to attend your grandfather, the late Duke’s funeral.

Staying long?

You wouldn’t curse yourself like that.

The longer you stay, the more probable your father and your mother will talk you into marriage.

You loved your mother, but for Christ’s sake, “I hope not.”

Ari didn’t respond to your reply. He simply hummed, making you confused about whether he agreed with you or not.

The plane did not wait for a minute more before departing into the air. A short while of gravity shift brought you 30,000 feet up in the sky. You pulled down the blind as the annoying sunlight burned your eyes, getting up for a bit more leg room and heading to the bathroom.

In the blink of an eye, a violent turbulence threw you off your own feet.

The soft ring of the safety belt sign turned the orange light on, while you slowly came to your senses that you weren’t embraced by the ground, but rather a firm body wrapping around you. One arm on your back, holding your upper body, another hung – rather awkwardly – in the air. You were sitting on his thick thighs sideways. Your ankle hurting. You were pretty much sure you twisted it with your damn heels.

“Miss Y/L/N!” The bodyguard hurried towards you, completely disregarding the tremble of the plane, rushing to your side. “Miss, I need you to try and stand up.” He held out an arm, leaning towards you to help you up.

Seeing him trying to assess how hurt your ankle was, you were very touched that he was concerned and reacted quickly. Maybe a small pay rise for him if you get back to your home?

Your bodyguard sighs, shaking his head with a disapproving look, “If this is your way of trying to escape the deal, his lordship won’t be pleased.”

Oh yes, the deal. The deal that simply packed you like a FedEx item and threw you to the palace door. The deal that promised you to the prince, right after you were born. The deal that you were told by your parents to honor for as long as you can remember. The deal lurking in the corner and bit you in the ass whenever you had done something to displease your father, reminding you over and over again that the only reason that you were alive was the fucking deal.

Apparently, your father had left out a most important piece of detail when instructing this bodyguard to “guard” you from running away.

You hardly ever do as you’re told.

“I think my ankle is broken.” You said dryly, pointing at your feet, not even trying to pretend that you can convince no one with your bland facial expression, “Can’t get up.”

Ari bit his lips so that he wouldn’t laugh.

You were sure as hell an interesting soul.

If he had any doubt or concerns regarding marrying you, a complete stranger in a matter of weeks, he now had none.

He thought you were the kind of girl who was a black sheep in the family, a wild child, with tattoos on your eyeballs or something. But you were nothing like his imagination.

Wild? Sure.

Black sheep? Compared to your father, the to-be-Duke, who seemed more like what the term was describing.

Ari raised his eyebrows, “Although I wouldn’t oppose you sitting on my thighs,” he nodded towards the stewardess who lurked behind the thin veil of curtain, “I’m afraid she would be unable to do her job properly if this continues.”

You clenched your jaw. Ignoring the extended hand from your bodyguard, you stood up, feeling instantly a sharp pain stinging your bones.

Bathroom was long forgotten, not that you have a chance to reach there on your own, you slumped down the seat and made sure you pushed the seat back until you could almost lie down like on a gurney. Lifting the hurting ankle on your other ankle, you closed your eyes.

Fuck his lordship.

The pain throbbing on your ankle. Your body dipped in both the coolness of the AC and the heat from your spine and the back of your head.

The few hours on the plane became more and more unbearable.

The veal roll didn’t lift your spirit in any way when it was brought to you.

The meat itself was fine. Only that it tasted like wax to you. You let out a long exhale as you outstretched your leg to ease the stress. Finishing the meal barely, you pushed the plate away, not even looking at the cider that you were thrilled to piss your father off with, and asked the stewardess for some paper. Empty sheets for writing.

She was clearly dumb-founded by your request, but hurried to carry your idea out.

You thanked her when she brought you some sheets, torn from some notepad as there were jigsaw razor edges on the side of the paper.

If the pain and the fact that every second you were closer to Ballenia was bothering you, you only needed something more bothering to take your mind off.

Ari narrowed his eyes when he cast a glimpse that you pulled out a pen from your bag from the overhead compartment and started writing on the empty sheets of paper.

Call him nosey but he wanted to know what you were writing.

Too inconvenient for him, your letters scribbled too small for his eyes to see. Occasional glimpses couldn’t help him read your writing. Nor that the content on your phone was clear enough for him to read either.

He did know that should be a text of some kind.

What text though? That was the real question.

…not some kind of text that could curse the royal family of the Ballenia, right?

Ari was almost amused by his own thoughts, before a shiver ran down his body and stuck an idea in his mind that this was totally and perfectly possible.

…you wouldn’t, would you?

Hard to tell. You weren’t exactly obeying the orders to marry him. Delaying it a couple of times in the past three years. And now, hearing that you had just called a minister “asshole” … or was it “butt ass” (?), anyway, something about ass, behind his back, and that you could mull a long face over your own bodyguard? Ari couldn’t figure out your temper and your actions all of a sudden.

The adjectives, that your father and his father used when they were talking about you, didn’t even come close to you.

“Kind” “Warm” “Considerate” “Perfect Princess”.

“Exceptional”. Maybe this was the right word.

Definitely different and strong-minded.

He could almost imagine the changes you would bring to his family and the kingdom.

He could discuss politics with you. You had your own thoughts and ideas, which was a good sign. Talk about foreign policies. Speaking of, he should really have someone fetch your dissertation from your university to understand where lies your interests. He’d allow gossip on the table too, if that’s what you like.

Ari hated gossip.

And there he was, imagining the future with you, before you were willing to marry him.

“If you want the book, I can lend it to you.” Your voice snapped him out of his fantasies. You had stopped scribing and rubbing your knuckles with your other hand. Pursing your lips together, you had, obviously, found out that he had his eyes glued to you.

“I’m sorry?”

“The History and Nature of International Relations.” You shrugged, twirling your wrist and your shoulder for writing too long, “I gotta warn you though, it’s pretty boring.”

Ari knew the correct answer to his question, but he asked either way, “You are studying it?”

“No. Yes. Hmpf,” You pouted at your change of words, “I did. I was. I was studying International Relations.” Something blipped in your mind, “Did you know this book?”

Ari smiled, “Took a course in International Relations years ago. I’m surprised they are still using it as an example of a textbook – where did you study?”

“NYU.” That’s a plain fat lie. You had a friend studying at NYU, but you were not planning on giving all your personal information away to a complete stranger, “You?”

Ari cocked his eyebrows. You were studying in Cambridge. He read that from your file.

“University of Ancetol.” Because studying there demonstrated the confidence of the Royal family in their country’s educational system. From there, the lies weaved themselves from his lips, “Got an undergrad degree and started to take over the family business. I visited New York last year,” along with his father, the King, but they travelled as quietly as they could, initiating a state visit without disturbing the press, “I miss school, now that I’m thinking of it.” Ari sighed deeply, “Wanted to get a grad degree but work’s too busy.”

“A manager in your family business?” You teased him light-heartedly, “Surely you can spare the time and study for a grad degree.”

Ari chose to evade this question. Reaching for his suit pocket, he fished out a business card with his name (Guy Thomas) and phone number on it, handing it to you, “Grad school doesn’t exactly tolerate me flying all over the world for … my family business.” He pushed his soft brown hair behind his ears, his eyes sparkling with a hint of joy that he had successfully fooled you, “Jewelry, my specialty. Diamonds, pearls, gemstones … call me if you need anything.”

“Oh, and she got her Master’s degree two months ago.” Ari casually dropped this to his parents in the middle of having dinner, he almost felt proud of his future wife, “Majoring in Political Science and International Relations. With a merit… no, distinction. The top 10% of her class.”

“We want a princess, not a college professor.” His father looked rather disappointed, “We were promised a princess.”

Ari didn’t understand.

If it were to be a marriage without love, he’d rather his spouse would be clever than bimbos who need help spelling “distinction”. Clever would mean he has a handful to deal with, yes, but what’s the fun in talking with someone who only cares about mani-pedi and the latest fashion magazines when he would be running the country?

Why wouldn’t they want someone smart as his wife?

“Your father is right, Ari,” his mother, Queen Olivia, reminded him with a softer tone, “we don’t need someone academically outstanding. We only want her to care for your home, you, and your future children.” She then turned to Ari’s father, King Victor, with blame framing her tone, “Told you should’ve just kept her with us when she was born. I knew Y/L/Ns were incompetent in raising our son’s future wife.”

Ari nearly spat out his food, “HOUSEWIFE?” Earning the “Shhh” from the Queen, he ignored the palace rules and the rules of being a prince altogether, “You want a HOUSEWIFE as the future queen?”

“For the moment.” Olivia waved her hand as if all this was not important, “Only temporal. After you get acquainted with the Upper House, you could divorce her and we’ll find you a proper wife.”

Taglist: @irishhappiness @patzammit

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[bullet-prooflove]

13. Cause I know you and you know me And we both know where this is gonna lead - from your Country prompt list feels very Nick Torres for me - do you think you could see it for him too?👀

Tagging: @kmc1989 @Divergent146 @whateversomethingbruh @district447 @stelacole

Where Evil Grew - Nick has to tell you the bad news about your sister.

The night Nick tells you they’ve found your sister’s body is the night you completely fall apart. You’d always had this hope, this stupid hope that Katy was alive somewhere, that she’d gone AWOL, taken off to Nashville. Nick are shatters that when he informs you her corpse has turned up in a construction worker’s backyard. You spend the night peppering him with questions and raging against the world before he puts you to bed.  

“Stay.” You request reaching for his hand and Nick, he can’t deny you.

You end up lying next to each other under the blankets, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You take comfort in the press of his firm body against yours, the heat of him. His lips chase away the tears that leak down your cheeks, his nose trailing along yours until his mouth brushes over yours and the sensation of that, it drowns out everything else.

It's Nick that draws away, Nick that becomes the voice of reason because you’re grieving your sister and he’s only three months sober.

“Not like this.” He tells you, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek. “When it happens…”

He trails off because he can’t bring himself to say the words.

I want it to be because you love me.

“I should leave.” He says, his lips brushing over your forehead before he slips out of the sheets. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check on you.”

“Don’t bother.” You say turning your back on him and drawing the sheets up around your shoulders. “I don’t want to see you again until you’ve found my sister’s killer.”

“Look I…”

 “Just go.” You say coldly and Nick feels that ache in his chest returning. “I fucking mean it.”

So he does. You don’t take his calls after that, you ignore his texts. A couple of weeks later Dale Sawyer comes into work like a cat that’s got the cream and Nick doesn’t realise, not then, what that man has to smile about.

“You were right.” You tell him the night he turns up on your door step to give you the news they’ve caught your sister’s killer. “To leave that night, it’s not how things should start between the two of us.”

You’re sitting at the kitchen table sharing a pot of Earl Grey tea. The teapot is something Ducky gave you for your birthday, as NCIS’s historian and custodian of records you work together closely investigating your cold cases.

“I’m sorry.” You say as you sip from your mug. “For the way I spoke to you, you deserved better than that.”

“You were grieving.” Nick reminds you before he gestures at the funeral brochures stacked next to you, your notepad sitting upon the top. “Do you need help making the arrangements?”

You sigh as you push the brochures towards him, shaking your head.

“I don’t know what she would have wanted.” You tell him as you wrap both of your hands around your mug. “It’s not something we talked about, she was so young when she disappeared…”

You tilt your head away because your eyes start to sting, and Nick, he reaches for your hand clasping it tightly. He knows that grief, it just keeps coming and no one can combat that. It’s overwhelming, it drowns out your common sense, makes things less manageable.

“You said your sister liked Alison Krauss.” Nick begins as he picks up the notepad and pen. “Let’s start there.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[darklydeliciousdesires]

La Dolce Vita - John Shelby/Cosima Changretta (OFC).

Part two is here, besties! :) I hope you all enjoy it, as I am loving writing these two together. You'll notice too that I gave John a few less kids than we see in canon, just to make it a little easier on myself as the writer, lol!

Words - 4,218

Warnings - Each part will be adult only content, from swearing to eventual smut and violence. Minors DNI.

Part II - Purgatorio

Countryside living was something John had become accustomed to during his marriage to Esme, his beautiful country pile and vast grounds a much more desirable location than the smoggy suburbs of Small Heath. After her death, he had sold it, returning to the latter until he was married again.  

As predicted, Cosima detested living in a back-to-back. Her continued complaining as well as his desire for what he had come to enjoy was what led him to purchase another countryside property, choosing the small village of Wythall in Bromsgrove, buying a beautiful, spacious cottage for her to spruce up. It was far enough from Birmingham to leave his troubles within the swirling smog and looming viaducts, but near enough that he could be back on Watery Lane for his business endeavours in just over forty minutes by car.  

Married life was not ideal, being a person wed to someone he didn’t like, whose tempestuous nature often put him directly in her firing line. However, he could not discount her qualities. A spoiled princess with expensive tastes (the cottage renovation had cost him a fortune) she might have been, but god, she worked her fingers to the bone. 

“Oliver, Mary, Katie, Freddie, Seamus, come along! We’ll be late, get your skates on!” she called, hurrying back to the kitchen were five sandwiches lay on the chopping board, freshly baked bread with liberal fillings of egg and ham, Cosima cutting them into their required shapes. Squares for Oliver and Seamus, triangles for Katie and oblongs for Mary and Freddie. She knew well the likes and dislikes of her stepchildren.  

Wrapping each in baking parchment, she placed them into individual brown paper bags, an apple and a couple of custard creams put in too, five lunches folded neatly and handed to each child as they filed into the kitchen, smartly dressed in their immaculately pressed uniforms. “Give your father a kiss and let’s get moving, come on. We’ll miss the bell! Blinking hell, Seamus, look at your mouth. Toothpaste all over, come here!” 

His son’s mouth was wiped with her handkerchief, the boy squirming, Cosima bopping his little nose with her finger once done before she herded them through the kitchen. “Quickly, quickly, come on!” 

John couldn’t believe she was the same woman who had originally thrown a puce faced fit upon finding out she was to be stepmother to five children, with how well she’d taken to mothering his brood. For Cosima, she’d eventually seen the little ones as a blessing, something to take her mind off the fact that she detested being married to their father.  

Picking up her wicker basket, she followed them out the door without looking at John once, leaving him to sigh and return to the sitting room, drinking tea while reading the morning paper. With the addition of the wicker basket, this meant she would be stopping at the local village shop on her way back from the school, meaning he had roughly an hour before she would be through the door and ready to scrub the house from top to bottom.  

That was something else he couldn’t fault her for; she kept a beautiful home. John just preferred to be nowhere near her while she was going about it. She’d always find something to pick at him about, and he was tiring of it. He did try, to have something more resembling of an actual marriage rather than a setup of convenience with his beautiful young bride, but she shot him down at every step. Her contempt did nothing but continually fester, it seemed. She still couldn’t forgive him for the demise of her father and brother.  

Keeping an eye on the grandfather clock, he waited until fifty minutes had passed before whistling for Dot and Bo, his two faithful springer spaniel bitches. “Yeah, that’s right. We’re off to get a couple of grouse, maybe a pigeon or pheasant an’ all.”  

The dogs began to circle and yap excitedly as he pulled his shotgun from the cabinet, packing ammunition and draping the gun over his arm, heading into the kitchen and wrapping himself some cheese scones in a clean tea towel, placing those in his bag, too. If there was another thing his wife excelled at, it was all things culinary. He’d come directly in her vexed crosshairs upon eating his first meal prepared by her three months before, stating that he did not “eat wop food” as he’d coined her lasagne, without actually even trying it.  

As soon as he’d put a forkful into his mouth, he’d been a very, very rapid convert. It had been perhaps the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, Cosima standing with her arms folded, smirking at his swift change of heart over her food. He now looked forward to every meal she prepared for him with gusto, although couldn’t bear to sit in her company while eating it. He’d try and make conversation, and she’d sulk and pout. It was irksome to say the least.  

His leaving the house was timed impeccably, seeing Cosima walking back down the lane as he was heading out of the garden and into the few acres of lush, green fields that came with the cottage. She even got the money out of that, too, allowing local people to graze their horses upon it when resting their own pastures. While John and the dogs headed for the woods, Cosima let herself into the cottage, putting her apron on and beginning her housework.  

Once her beautiful home was sparkling – not that she allowed it to be any other way – she took the rugs out to beat the dust from them and then returned to the kitchen, making preparations for the children’s dinner. A local lady from the village was coming by to that evening to keep an eye on them while she and John headed back into Birmingham, the family gathering for Polly’s birthday meal at a restaurant upon Broad Street.  

Although she held her husband in a more or less permanent state of contempt, she did actually like Polly. She found her to be strong, intelligent, and once you got to know her, very loving towards her family. It had taken a while for her to thaw, but now the women did get along well. Certainly, Cosima had much more time for her than she did John or Tommy.  

Stirring the pasta sauce in a large pot upon the cast iron range, an original Victorian fixture of the cottage, Cosima sighed. She should be happy. She had literally everything she’d ever wanted, a beautiful home, huge garden, a couple of lovely dogs, a brood of children – and although not her own, they adored her as much as she did them – as well as a handsome, successful husband; whom she couldn’t stand.  

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. John was a nice man, he had a wicked sense of humour, he was a staunch provider, and he was so handsome she caught herself swooning over him all the time. She could see him trying hard to at least have some semblance of a meaningful connection with her, but she couldn’t help herself in shooting him down each and every time. Why?  

Guilt. 

He and his family were why two fifths of her immediate one no longer breathed, and she was to simply forget that and be content, happy in her new life with John? Her father would turn in his grave to know she had now acquired the surname of Shelby. He would be utterly livid. 

“But he isn’t here.” Her statement fell from her lips along with the little splashes of tears from her pretty eyes, eyes so blue that her beloved father had often joked that she couldn’t be his. “She’s the milkman’s, isn’t she?” he’d say in jest to her mother. Of course, she was his, though. A tear landed in the sauce she stirred, Cosima pulling her handkerchief from her dress sleeve and drying her eyes.  

The sound of barking became audible, the kitchen door opening, Dot and Bo being told to sit. “You got that towel, Cosima? I don’t want their muddy feet ruining your clean floor.” That was another thing about John, he was always appreciative of how immaculately she kept their home. Some men merely waved it away as a woman’s work and had no respect for such, but not him.  

“Hold on.” Moving to the cupboard under the sink, she pulled out one of the more raggedy tea towels she kept for the purpose of paw cleaning, handing it to him. 

He took it, a small frown creasing his handsome features. “You been crying?”  

Immediately, she straightened, sniffing as she held herself with her usual dignity. “Garlic, in the pasta sauce. It made my eyes water.” 

“Ah, right.” Moving back outside, he made sure each paw was clean and dry before letting the dogs in, removing his muddy boots and leaving them at the back door. Making his way in, he sniffed the air, half wishing that they were staying at home to eat whatever it was his wife had crafted, it smelled so good. “Let’s have a little try of that, give us a spoon.” 

“No, it isn’t ready yet,” she bustled, returning to the pot.  

He bit his tongue. “I got two pheasants, a grouse and a couple of pigeons. They’re in the outhouse hanging up. Just let me know when you wanna use ‘em and I’ll go pluck ‘em. I know you don’t like doing that.” 

“Okay. Oh, John? That floorboard by the front door has come up again. Can you go and fix it down? I left nails and a hammer on the phone table.” 

“Yeah, in a bit. Wanna have a tea and warm up a bit first.” 

She sighed, chewing her cheek. “No, now please. Before the kids come home. I don’t want them tripping on it while they’re playing.” 

“They ain’t coming home until gone three. Just give us half an hour, eh?” 

“Bloody get it done now, John! Before you forget!”  

Ahh, it had almost been quite civil for a moment. “Oi, watch your fucking tone, woman. I told you I’d get it done and I will. Fucking bad tempered mare.”  

“Stop calling me a mare!” 

“Well stop behaving like one in season then, and I might, eh?” he shook his head, chewing on his toothpick aggressively. “Always fucking blowing up at me for no fucking reason. Sort yourself out, for fucks sake!” 

“Fine!” she raged, flinging her arms in the air with her usual dramatic flair, “I’ll go and do it!” 

“You do that.” He moved to the kettle, filling it with water, intent on having his tea before he went and helped her with the task. He wouldn’t have forgotten either, but she couldn’t just let him be for five minutes while he had a drink and thawed out from the February chill, oh no. She had to pick at him.  

A few minutes passed, John letting the tea steep in the pot as he snacked on a slice of bread slathered in butter and Cosima’s homemade blackberry jam, the sounds of her swearing in Italian drifting through the house until suddenly, a yelp.  

“What the bloody hell’s she done,” he muttered, placing the bread down and moving to the hallway, finding her kneeling down, holding her thumb in a tight grasp. “You alright?” 

“No, I’m blinking not!” she cried through her tears, “I’ve hit my fucking thumb with the cursed, wretched hammer!” 

“Here, let me see.” Pulling her hand from her grasp, he examined it, the knuckle bright red. “At least you ain’t split the skin. Come on, let’s get it under the cold tap.” 

“No, I’m fine,” she snipped, pulling her hand away and attempting to grasp the hammer again. 

“Leave this, I’ll get it done. Come on.” 

“Fuck off, I’m alright!”  

Again, he bit his tongue. “It’s gonna swell unless you get it under the cold water.” 

“I said I’m fine!” 

Rolling his eyes, he pulled her up, her screaming protests falling on deaf ears as he lifted her with ease into his arms, carrying her through to the kitchen. She struggled, swore at him, batted at him with her hands, John tiring of it. “Oh, stop all this malarkey and just let me help ya!”  

He forced her hand beneath the tap, turning it on, holding it there while she winced and continued to cry. All he was trying to do was help her, and she couldn’t even let him do that. Finally, she relaxed a little, sniffing and wiping her tears, her thumb throbbing angrily. “Have I broken it?”  

“Give it a wiggle.” She did. “Did it feel like someone pushing a hot pin into it?” 

“No. It smarts, but it isn’t as bad as that.”  

“Then nah, ain’t broken, bab.” She went to move her hand, John gently directing it back under the stream of cold water. “Few more minutes, or it’ll blow up like a bloody golf ball.” 

“Then I’d look a right state, all teary with my golf ball thumb.”  

He chuckled, putting an arm around her on instinct. What was even more surprising? She leaned into his hug, allowing herself to be comforted by her husband. It was a first, a little thread of connection woven between the warring spouses, John turning the tap off after a few moments and reaching for the soft, white hand towel. “Come sit down and have a cuppa. I’ll go and finish the floorboard.”  

“No, it’s okay,” she protested, shaking her head. “I should think about getting ready, I have to do my hair and it takes forever.” 

“Sure? I’ll drop a nip of brandy in it for ya?” 

She pulled from him, whatever it was that had opened up closing again rapidly. “No, I’m fine.”  

For the sake of a quiet life, he left it, recognising that there had been a little progress there between them, if only very small. He went and finished fixing the floorboard, done within minutes and returning to drink his tea, his little brood coming crashing through the door half an hour later, the house once again full of noise.  

A few hours later and they were ready to leave, the children happily eating their spaghetti al Forno while Mrs. Baxter sat knitting, keeping a watchful eye upon them. Cosima was quiet all the way to town, John giving up in the end and letting the car be filled with nothing but the sound of their strained silence, glad to see his brothers and other family and friends once they arrived at the restaurant.  

His wife continued to be sullen throughout the meal, only really talking to Polly and Lizzie and even then, the women had to work hard to keep the conversation going with her. In the end, the former took it upon herself to pull the newest Shelby aside a little later that night, steering her over to the long, oak bar after she had returned from the ladies. 

“You’ve a face as long as Livery Street, madam,” Polly observed, passing her a gin cocktail. “What’s the matter? You can’t still hate our John, not after how good he’s been to you regardless of that contempt.” Her words were delivered with care, but they did not lack their usual bite. Polly would be protective of her nephews until she drew her last breath, no matter how much she genuinely did like Cosima.  

The young woman took a sip of her drink, placing the dainty glass down, accepting one of Polly’s clove cigarettes with thanks. They were a rare treat from her usual preferred brand of Park Drive, Cosima loving the warm, spicy scent of the burning clove, yet unable to smoke more than a couple at a time on account of how much they made her cough when she did. “I want to be happy with him, Pol. I honestly do, but I can’t get past it all.” 

She didn’t need to elaborate. “It’s been and gone, love. You feel guilty though, I see that.” This woman, god. She was so remarkably perceptive. “You have to move on with your life. If your brother and mother could, then there’s fuck all stopping you, is there?” 

“But my papa...”  

“Cosima, your father is gone, and you are still here,” Polly cut her up with, reaching to lightly grip her forearm. “We women, we suffer the collateral damage in the wars fought by our men, and your father was not blameless in his part. He was a gangster too, just as my boys are, just as your brother is. You know this world we live in, and living is what you have to do, sweetheart. If you keep on holding that burning contempt for John, I’ll tell you now, you’ll be the one who ends up scalded.”  

Her eyes were fixed upon her, unblinking, drawing on her cigarette before lifting her glass to her mouth. “Let it go. Set yourself free, for god’s sake. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, you hear me?” 

She nodded. “I do. Easier said than done, though, it seems.” 

“Horse shit.” She slapped a gloved hand off the bar, shaking her head as she tutted. “Life is as hard as you make it for yourself, my girl. Stop punishing yourself because you think that’s what your father would do, should he still be alive.”  

Again, Cosima was startled by Polly’s intuitive assessment of the situation, straightening and knocking back the rest of her drink. “Thanks for the chat, Pol. I know you’re right, but...” 

“But you’re a typical hardheaded, fire blooded Italian. Listening to others don’t come easy to you, I know. Just know that if you made it easy on yourself, that man over there? He’d soon treasure you like you were the rarest jewel on earth.”  

Cosima got up, heading past the table and outside, finishing the cigarette and reaching into her little sequined bag to pull out her own gold case, lighting up one of her own. She felt agitated by Polly’s words, pacing up and down as the discomfort of being told what to do rolled through her ceaselessly. She knew why it annoyed her the most, though. Polly was right.  

Still, it was in Cosima’s nature to fight it at any given opportunity.  

“How’s ya thumb feeling now?” 

Turning, she looked into the radiant, cloudy blue eyes of her husband. All she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts for a little while, but no. “Stings a little, but it’s okay.” 

He nodded, taking a pull on his cigar. “And you? Thought we were actually starting to talk to each other kinda civilly earlier, then you went quiet on me.” 

Her stare was through narrowed eyes, the magma in her blood rising in heat. “Always my fault, isn’t it?” 

“That’s not what I said, Cosima.” 

“No, but you meant it, didn’t you?” 

For fucks sake. How much harder was this tempestuous madam going to make his life? “You need to stop putting words in me mouth, love. Getting right tired of it, I am.” 

Her beautiful lips were held in pout a little longer, drawing angrily upon her cigarette, not able to escape the intensity of her husband's stare as finally, she pushed her pride down. “I’m sorry.”  

“Well, look at that. Twice since we were married, you’ve said you were sorry. Some fellas make it to their diamond wedding anniversaries without hearing it once from the missus. Ain’t I lucky, eh?” His attempt of a joke fell flat, her face unmoving. God, she was whittling him down to his last nerve, and rapidly. “Ain't you ever heard of smiling, Cosima?" He charged her with, eyeing her defiantly. 

She pulled the white fox fur warming her pale curves tighter around herself, taking one last drag upon her cigarette before flicking it away. “If you give me something to smile about, I might.” 

Oh, he had his work cut out for him, John scratching his jaw. “I’ll stick my fucking face between your legs for about half an hour, then you’ll be grinning like a loon, you miserable cow.” he muttered, but not nearly quietly enough 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” 

“Nothing, bab,” he grinned, gritting his teeth behind that forced smile. “Nothing at-fucking-all.” Give her something to smile about? She had a nerve. He’d bought her a beautiful cottage, gave her fifty pounds a week to buy whatever she wanted for herself completely aside from the housekeeping money, and was working his arse off in an effort to be a good husband. He felt like telling Tommy where he could stick his Changretta truce. Nothing, it seemed, would make her warm to him.  

He headed back inside, leaving her standing there alone, lighting herself another cigarette as she pouted, but mainly at herself. She knew it had to stop, she had to cease being – as he had quite rightly coined her – a miserable cow. The guilt of it, though. Oh, the guilt.  

“Oi, love,” an approaching man called to her, flanked by two others, “how much for a bit of how’s your father, eh?” 

“I beg your fucking pardon?” she spat, her mouth dropping open.  

Looking her up and down, he smirked. “You’re a bird standing on a street corner with a low-cut dress on. Ain’t hard to see you’re touting for business, so how much?”  

“Wait there,” she gritted, lifting her chin defiantly. “Let me go and fetch my pimp.”  

Marching back into the restaurant, John thought she was coming to have a go at him all over again, taking in her thunderous expression. “John! There’s a man out there who just accused me of being a fucking prostitute!”  

Arriving with him at the bar, she drew stares from all around, the less coarse clientele tutting and muttering, Tommy touching a hand to her elbow. “Keep your voice down, love.” 

“I will bloody not!” 

John cut in, nodding to his brother. “Take us out to him.” Her heart all but stopped dead at seeing the look in his eyes, the immediate, highly angered state her words had caused to rise within him like a leviathan. He might’ve been annoyed with her, but still, one mention of her being spoken to disrespectfully and he fired into action. Taking her hand, he walked her from the restaurant, Tommy at her other side.  

“This your pimp, is it? Oh, two fellas, eh?” 

“Ar, lad. She must be good!” one of the other jokers with the man who had disrespected her offered, the three laughing.  

“Gonna be laughing on the other side of your face in a minute, mush. Now, which fucking one of you called my wife a whore?”  

“Me,” the central man spoke, stepping forward, “Cos’ she looks like a whore, don’t she?”  

John eyed him with cool defiance, lifting his chin while stepping closer, their noses almost touching. “Wanna know what you look like, mate?” 

“What?” 

“A man with a really fucking nice smile. A Small Heath smile, as I like to call ‘em.” Removing his cap, he swiftly headbutted the man before him, shattering his nose across his face before grabbing him, gripping his throat in a formidably tight grasp. Using the razorblades upon the peak of the trademark flat cap, he slashed open his face at the corners of his mouth, the skin tearing. “You’ll never fucking speak of my bloody wife like that again, you fucking hear me?” 

While he took care of him, Tommy laid punches upon the second and third, one of them breaking free and beginning to beat John across the back with his fists, Cosima setting her bag down in one of the flowerpots that flanked the restaurant entrance, removing a shoe.  

Charging with a wobbly gait, she hitched up her dress and jumped onto the man’s back, beating him in the face and head with the heel of her shoe, until he was bloody, the heel hitting his eyeball as she snarled. “Don’t you dare touch my fucking husband! Don’t you dare!” 

The men got out of there quickly once Cosima had neatly dismounted her target, John calling after them. “Next time, you lose your fucking tongue, ya cunt!” Breathless, he turned to his wife, raising an eyebrow. “Well, at least I managed to put a smile on someone’s face tonight, eh? Nice work with the shoe an’ all, by the way. Didn’t know you cared.” 

He turned to head back inside with Tommy, straightening themselves after the ruck, Cosima reaching for his shoulder, turning him. He was about to speak again, his words of further sarcastic retort blocked by her lips landing upon his, her arms tightening around his neck. 

Her kisses were blooms of roses growing through wildfire, soft yet burning, John clasping her dainty body to his as he felt his insides cinder upon her heat. He’d fantasised for months about how it would feel to kiss those plump, pink lips, desire running rampant through him. Pulling away, her cheeks flushed, pupils inking, John leaning in for more she happily gave.  

When they parted again, she smiled. Finally. All it took was a smidgen of violence.  

[cheeseplants]

Fic: The Apple Doesn't Fall Far Chap 2 & 3

I posted Chap 2 on Wed, but in case you missed it - here is 2 & 3.

Crowley is off to make some trouble in tge village of Whickber, and Aziraphale does not know what to do when a tall dark attractive man marches into his bookshop. Not that he is looking at him like that.

Read Chap 2

Read Chap 3

Start here

Excerpt from Chap 3

He couldn’t help his eyes flicking from one piece to the next, wondering what kind of person collects all this until his eyes landed on a blonde man hidden behind an ancient Globe that probably still showed several countries that no longer existed.

The man was reading, and didn’t even flinch when Crowley walked towards the counter at the front of the shop. He was wearing a faded cardigan, a tartan bowtie, and his hair was a shock of white blonde that beamed brightly against the dark mahogany of the bookshelves. He seemed utterly still, with a pair of hornrimmed glasses on his head, absorbed thoroughly in a book, with a pile of others next to him. 

Aziraphale’s aesthetic appeared to have not changed in the last 200 years, despite the fact he was clearly around the same age as Crowley. One of those eccentric types who pretends they are from another age. He walked up to the till, and jammed his finger on a bell on the counter.

Aziraphale didn’t budge, barely looking up from his book. Crowley jammed it harder, and peered around the corner to see if there was any movement, still nothing.

Finally, he slammed his hand down with a piercing ring and yelled “Oi, you.” 

Aziraphale startled, peering up to meet Crowley’s gaze, he sighed, taking his time to put in a bookmark and placing the book he was reading carefully on a side table next to him. He stood up, and patted the tops of his cream-coloured slacks, before walking towards the counter. 

Crowley saw him properly now, and had to admit, there was something rather charming about him. The way his light blonde curls flickered under the warm lights of the bookshop, his back romrod straight and his hands clapsed in front of his soft stomach. Aziraphale was a long way from the type of people Crowley hung around with in London, and an even longer way from his family that were scattered around these parts. 

It was as if he had fallen directly out of a Charles Dickens novel, and looking around Crowley thought that he couldn’t imagine him looking any different in this setting. In fact, Crowley started to wonder how out of place he looked here in his sleek black jeans and spiked red hair. His mind went back to his cousin Beez, who he could never imagine stepping foot into a place like this.

Yet, he couldn’t help but feel this bookshop gave off a similar sense of those teenage memories he had of the cottage. Rustic, old, comforting, like being wrapped in a large blanket and being handed a cup of cocoa. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale stood in front of him, his shoulders stiff. 

“If it isn't Aziraphale,” Crowley said, ignoring the rumble that staring directly into Aziraphale’s sharp blue or was it green eyes seem to cause, probably those six shots of expresso.

“And you are?” Aziraphale’s eyes darted towards the door.

“Crowley, ‘member? I phoned you about the cottage.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, yes,” Aziraphale said slowly, shifting his feet slightly, as if he was desperate to bolt at any moment.

“Just Crowley.” He leaned forward on the counter and Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Look. I guess you know why I’m here.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I am afraid I have absolutely no idea.”

“I was thinking that you might know something about these plans to knock down my aunt’s… my cottage.” 

“What makes you think that?” Aziraphale’s body tensed, and his knuckles whitened, dents forming in the curve of where he fingers dug into the skin of his hands. 

“You’re on the Council, aren’t you? Surely it is part of your civic duty to share what you know with interested residents?”

“Resident? You moved here?”

“Well, it was your idea.” Crowley smirked. 

“It was nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale’s voice raised, and then he lowered it again. “I do hope you are not going to involve me in any of your ideas, whatever they are.”

“Ideas? Who said anything about ideas? I am merely a resident enjoying living in a run-down cottage, which so happens to be in the way of some awful office complex that personally I don’t think you are a fan of.”

The silence between them was deafening.

“I…” Aziraphale shifted again, “What makes you say that?”

“Call it a hunch,” Crowley said. He was beginning to enjoy watching this man squirm on his feet, it was frankly adorable. He blinked and watched Aziraphale’s bright blue-green eyes looking up at him. “Ngk. Erm. So come on? What the Hell is going on?”

“It’s an office building project. We’re encouraging new businesses to the area.”  Aziraphale’s voice was flat.

“You sound so thrilled.”

“I told you, I don’t have to agree with the plans to go forward with them.”

“I see.”

“I am not helping you.”

“Fine, I’ll find another way.”

“Fine.” 

“Nice bookshop by the way.”

“Oh… thank you.”

Thanks as always to @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon & @happynachohologram for the beta!

@goodomensafterdark

[yummcook]

Caramel Apples: The Best Quick and Easy Halloween Dessert

Caramel apple are used in Halloween celebrations in different countries and children are special fans of this wonderful dessert. You can easily prepare these delicious and beautiful apples at home throughout the year and eat them as a dessert or snack.

This different apple is eaten a lot during Halloween celebrations, and the main ingredient of this dessert is apple, and you should use fresh and healthy apples in it, and if you like sour taste, use green apples that taste sour in this dessert. And learn the easiest way in Yummcook.

Ingredients for Caramel Apple: The Best Quick and Easy Halloween Dessert

Prepare one apple for each person and be sure to use good apples in this Caramel apples.Apples5 PcSugar150 GramsCream1 CupMelted chocolate1 CupButter1 Cup

Caramel apple recipe: The best quick and easy Halloween dessert

Step 1

First, wash the apples and remove the sticks and put a wooden skewer in the center so that you can move it by hand.

Step 2

Put the sugar on the heat until it melts and after it melts, add the butter and mix together until the butter melts and remove from the heat.

Step 3

Add the cream to the sugar and butter and mix it with a mixer until it becomes puffy and a beautiful caramel color.

Step 4

Put the apples in the caramel and then put them in the melted chocolate and put them on parchment paper so that they don’t stick to your dish, and you can use colored chocolates or coconut powder and pistachio powder to decorate them and store them in the refrigerator for 2 hours. until the chocolate hardens.

Benefits Caramel Apple: The Best Quick and Easy Halloween Dessert

Vitamins and antioxidants

Improve brain function

Increase energy

Caramel Apple Cons: The best quick and easy Halloween dessert

Constipation and digestive problems

High sugar

Increase calories

Reduce fiber

conclusion

Caramel apple is popular in all countries of the world and it is related to the Halloween celebration, which has a very good taste, and with this recipe, you can easily prepare this dessert throughout the year. Of course, for Caramel apple, it is better to use small apples, and if you like sour and sweet taste, use green and sour apples. Prepare this dessert for Halloween this year and share your opinion with us.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Aim True (Bridglar)

The runner-up of the "country loves songs" prompt poll was: Trick Shot

Virginia City gets cheesier every year. John is just glad the worst of the Nevada heat hasn’t made an early appearance; last year, it reached triple digits in spite of it being only May. 

“Mr. Bridgens!” Three of his students wave to him from in front of the “Olde West Shooting Gallery.”

Why they’re attempting a middle English spelling in a state that never saw a British colony is beyond him, but he waves back as he crosses the road to join them. 

Ostensibly, this field trip is to cap off the senior year with a celebration of Nevada history. John doubts more than a handful of students see it as anything other than a chance to spend the day browsing souvenir shops, daring each other to go into the plethora of haunted hotels, and gorging on ice cream and caramel apples. But they look forward to it, and he does like seeing the young minds he’s shepherded through AP or standard English have a day to just be young and carefree. 

Principal Franklin sets only three mandatory events for the day: getting to the bus on time, getting back on the bus on time to depart, and seeing the live “Wild West” show.

The trio of students tells him all about the Silver Queen as they find seats in the open-air theater. John ends up between Franklin and James Fitzjames, the drama teacher. He wishes he’d taken a cue from VP Crozier and brought a large hat; the sun is baking his scalp, and the flies keep buzzing past his ears. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, cowpokes of all ages, prepare for the wildest show this side of the Rockies!”

The crowd cheers with mild enthusiasm; it’s only the 11am show, after all. No one has had time to imbibe from the saloons lining the street. Not that John would anyway; he’d sooner die than be a derelict chaperone. 

A stetson-bearing figure bursts through the central curtains and the staff, and a few of the seniors, hoot and clap. Thomas Blanky, former and much beloved shop teacher, gives an exaggerated bow before launching into the same speech he gives every year.

“Howdy folks! We’re just plum tickled you could join us all on this fine, Friday mornin’. We got a real fine show for you today full of sharp shootin, trick ropin’, and the prettiest face in the west” he winks, “the rest of my troop ain’t bad either.”

Bad accent aside, John enjoys seeing his old colleague acting the ham. Blanky runs through a handful of mildly impressive trick shots, including popping balloons taped to the hats of his fellow performers. 

Next is a comedy act involving a literal dog and pony (and a cockatoo), the handler going by Irving insisting that the routine is wholesome while his co-presenter and the exotic bird do everything they can to undermine this assertion. 

The third act earns an incredibly loud cheer from James and Francis, as well as from the rather odd duo behind them of Goodsir (biology) and Collins (P.E). Lady Silence, as Blanky calls her, steps onto stage, and John is tickled to see she’s sporting period-accurate Shoshone clothing. Her act consists of more elaborate trick shots, all of which she does without uttering even a peep of fear while permitting a tarantula, then a scorpion, then a rattlesnake (“really a gopher snake” Francis mutters, only to be elbowed by James) to climb on her arms and hands.

When Lady Silence is done, she’s followed off stage by the loudest cheers so far, including a “Brava” from Goodsir. 

Act number four sets John's heart beating quicker; knife throwing has always struck him as one of the more dangerous endeavors one could pursue. It doesn’t help that Mr. Irving is back, looking a bit too convincingly terrified as one Mr. Hickey outlines his silhouette with knives. When both men exit in one piece, he relaxes and listens to Blanky introduce the final act. 

“And now, to close out our show, the amazing, whip-smart, hawk-eyed, Harry Peglar!”

John’s heart speeds up again. 

The man smiling out at the crowd with quiet showmanship and earnest excitement has the most handsome face he’s ever had the pleasure to see. 

Harry tips his hat and proceeds to shoot smaller and smaller targets from the air. The coin shot is so impressive that he even hands it to Crozier to inspect before and after the shot. As he straightens and tucks the coin into his pocket, his eyes fall onto John

“For this next trick, I need a charming assistant. How about you, sir?” 

John blushes, his instinct to demur, but both Franklin and James urge him forward, and so he allows Harry to pull him up onto the stage. Some of his students cheer, and he can tell without looking that many phones are pointed his way. 

“What’s your name, sir?”

God, does the man have to address him that way? He can only pass so much pink off as 

sunburn. 

“John.”

“Tell me, John, do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Good man.” Harry claps him once, friendly, on the shoulder, “you do, however, know what one of these are?” He produces a cigarette from his pocket. 

“Yes.” He smiles, “I said I don’t, not that I never.”

Audible shock from some of the students earns a laugh from the crowd. 

“Are you willing to hold this in your mouth for me? It won’t be there very long.”

John obligingly parts his lips only to realize, belatedly, that Harry meant for him to take it from his fingers. Without missing a beat, the trick shooter places it against his lower lip with a grin. 

“Now, John, I have another question. Do you know what this is?”

He holds a bullwhip up to the crowd to “oohs” and “ahhs.” John, slightly distracted wondering where the man had been hiding the implement, nods. He’s fairly certain James is cheering extra-excitedly; he did make John watch all four Indiana Jones films. 

“Here’s what I’m going to do, John. I’m going to light that cigarette for you. And before you even have a chance to inhale, I’m going to put it out from all the way over there.” He gestures eight feet to his right.

Harry looks over his shoulder, still audible to the crowd but with clear sincerity, “Do I have your permission, John?”

He nods again, trying not to imagine all the other things he’d grant Harry permission to do if he gave him that same look once more. 

“Wonderful! Let’s have some cheers for my brave volunteer!”

He uses the cacophony to huddle in close to John, who steadies the unlit cigarette steady with his fingers so the younger man can click a tarnished Zippo beneath it. Then, in a blink, he’s out of reach, unfurling the whip and testing it, bantering with the crowd but keeping his focus clearly on John. 

“Ready, John?”

Not knowing what else to do and feeling too tense to nod, he offers a thumbs up. 

“Hold still now, I’ll have that out for you in three, two, one.”

Crack

His ears ring, though the claps from the crown and the lack of any blood on his face tell him Harry managed his trick beautifully. He holds up the remainder of the cigarette, increasing the cheers. 

“Well done, John!” Harry practically bounds up to him, “let’s give him one more round of applause, folks!”

John means to leave the stage to the performers once more, but before he can, Harry grabs his hand and brings him down into a bow along with him.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s an hour left to go on the field trip, and John is an extremely icy cold brew that Fitzjames treated him to. Most of the students are staying close to main street, finishing up their last purchases and taking endless pictures of each other.

“They were a fun crowd.”

He turns to find Harry leaning against a streetlight, still in his cowboy costume, ten times more handsome than anyone who ever played the role on screen “school groups can be hit or miss.”

“I’m glad as well; an excellent show deserves an appreciative audience.”

“Easy to put on a good show when you’ve got good help. I, um” he reaches into his pocket, “I have to go get ready for the show at two, but I meant to give you this before you hopped off stage. I always like to give it to my volunteer for that trick. This time I was a little flustered and forgot.”

Harry holds out the coin from his sharpshooting trick, dropping it into John’s palm. 

“Oh, I-” He’s not sure if he means to protest, or say thank you, but Harry cuts him off by closing his palm for him, keeping his own hand around it.

“Something to remember me by.”

A flash of a smile, followed by someone shouting his name from across the way, and then he’s gone. John stands, watching him walk toward the theater, and savoring the ghost of those fingers around his own. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Late June finds him back in a much hotter Virginia City, the sun refusing to drop behind the mountains quickly enough to provide a much needed respite from the glare. He hadn’t expected to visit again so soon, but Silna and Goodsir invited him to meet them for dinner; the Delta Saloon has begun serving a special, twice-monthly menu of period accurate fare and he’s very excited to see if it’s any good. 

Arriving early–there’s been bad traffic the last two days so he erred on the side of caution–leaves him ample time to ponder the historical artifacts tucked away in the corners of the saloon. He’s reading the plaque on the “suicide table” when a figure steps beside him. 

“Anticlimactic, I always thought.” 

Harry smiles when John looks his way, the undercurrent noticeably changing from friendliness to hope when John smiles back. He’s dressed in modern clothing; a black tank top, tan shorts, and ankle hiking boots (much better protection against the dust, pebbles, and sunburn than the sandals of most of the visitors). 

“The story” Harry continues, “that it’s named that when what happened is one or two people might have killed themselves because of losing money at it, not because someone used it in one, or died right on the wood. Besides, if that’s the bar for calling something a suicide table, I’d bet half the slot machines from here to Vegas need the same plaque.”

“Agreed. Though I do enjoy the thought of preserving some piece of the past, even if it’s to make salacious signs about it.”

“Did you come all the way back just to read our signs?” Harry says with a hint of cheek. 

“That depends on if there are any you think I’d like.” He turns full-on toward Harry, who aims for a subtle looking him over and fails.

When his phone buzzes, he considers dropping it in the nearest pitcher of water. 

“One moment, I’m meeting Silna and Harry, other Harry, that might be them.” 

H. Goodsir: Running late, courtesy of the majesty of nature.

Attached is a photo of a herd of mustangs, who seem utterly disinterested in moving from both lanes of Highway 50. He shows it to Harry, adding, “That’s not sarcasm; the man is delighted any time he sees the native wildlife. Which doesn’t always end well; we were driving to a conference in Tahoe once and he stopped to look at a large black bear. Still in the car, of course, but poor Mr. Collins was still rather stressed by the proximity.”

Harry laughs, then tilts his head towards the bar, “Sounds like we might have time for a drink?”

“I’d say so.”

John orders a gin and tonic, paying for Harry’s lager with a playful, “they don’t pay teachers that poorly” when the younger man tells him he doesn’t have to. 

“What do you teach? I didn’t get the chance to ask and I’d been wondering.”

“English, two classes of honors and the rest for seniors and a handful of juniors.”

“I hope they get on better with you than I did with mine; we got into an argument over Tess of the D’urbervilles and I’m not sure he ever got over it. The dyslexia didn’t help; he thought I wasn’t applying myself.”

“That’s a shame. There are lots of ways to assist students who struggle with reading, for any reason. And as a teacher, I’d argue it’s part of the job to make sure you do.” He sips his drink, “may I ask what the argument was?”

“I just thought it was worth talking about how Hardy has a lot of opinions on farming and morality for a man who probably never did any farm work. All well and good to talk about the evils of modernization taking us away from nature, but acting like the things that make running a farm ten times easier are evil because they don’t match your imagined idea of the life seemed…shallow. And I thought that might be an interesting angle to look at the book from. Mr. Thompson disagreed.”

“I happen to think it’s an excellent point.”

A shrug and a sweet smile, “Might have just come to me because I grew up on a farm. You grow up shoveling cow shit, you have some thoughts on the pastoral.” He flinches, “pardon my french.”

“Harry, I was in the navy for ten years, I’ve heard profanity that would make the devil faint.”

“That’s why you have tattoos. I noticed them during the show and, um” he takes another sip, licking his lips after in what’s either an automatic motion or a bid to drive John mad with desire, “I’ve been thinking about them ever since.”

He forces himself not to say that if he’s a very good boy, Harry might get to see the rest. This can just be a friendly drink. If Harry wants it to be more that’s for him to decide. John won’t push it. 

“None of your own?”

“Not yet. I want to get a line of poetry but I haven’t decided on which.”

John is very glad for this; if he’d managed to get Harry into bed only to find lines from one of the greats etched into his skin, he might have fainted. 

“Who are the contenders?”

A snicker, “Thomas Hardy, for one. I do love his poems about nature. I like Whitman too, but it’s so hard to choose…”

They spend a good half-hour discussing the merits, and ironies, or tattooing varies stanzas onto oneself. By the time Goodsir taps him on the shoulder, they’re leaning far enough towards each other that his glass nearly hits Harry’s jaw when he jolts in surprise. 

“I was starting to worry you’d be stuck there all night.”

“I’m sure.” Goodsir says with a smile and a glance at Harry that suggests he doesn’t fully believe him, “they eventually realized there were better places to rest their hooves. I got some wonderful pictures though.”

“You’re going to run out of memory at this rate. Again.” Silna keeps her amused look as she adds, “do you want to eat with us, Henry?”

“Oh no, I don’t want to intrude, I was just keeping John occupied while you got here. I ought to be going, it’s not the longest drive back to Dayton but I’ve got a mountain of chores to do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Silna. Nice to see you, Harry, and it was wonderful talking with you John.” He offers a final, parting smile. John watches him go once more, wondering if doing so makes him lecherous, or if he even cares if it does. At the door, Harry pauses, looking back, and his face brightens when he sees John is looking at him. Then he winks and steps into the finally cooling air.

“Your right pocket.” Goodsir murmurs as the waiter leads them to a table.

John ventures a hand into his shorts and finds a slip of saloon napkin next to the coin, the one he’s been carrying like a lucky charm for a month. 

Give me a call

It’s followed by a phone number. Harry didn’t have a chance to write it while they were talking, which means he must have done it the moment he saw John in the bar. 

Silna shakes her head, “I told him I could just give it to you for him.”

“You trick shooters, you do have a flair for the dramatic.” Goodsir pulls out her chair. 

“If we didn't, no one would watch.”

John lets them banter for the moment. After all, he has to attend to the pressing matter of asking if Harry would like to join him for coffee tomorrow.

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Paulatim sed Firmiter (Slowly but Surely) - Sunday evening

Only one scene to go and (multi) chapter 11 is wrapped

Unless I get murdered for this one lol

Warnings: None, just domestic fluff

Taglist: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @rileyslibrarian

Previous / Masterlist / Next

Sunday evening

Captain Price and Dr. Green’s house

John’s proud beaming face was proof enough to his wife that she had been right about persuading him to invite the ‘kids’ to dinner. Also, the bigger dinner table had been a success, allowing them all to be comfortably seated, and the numerous dishes to be displayed on it.

Heather had roasted a couple of big chickens, made vegetable sides, mashed potatoes, gravy, Yorkshire puddings… and had thought it wouldn’t be enough, given the unholy appetite of the four men present. Johnny had an endless pit in the place where his stomach should be, Kyle was no better, her husband was another bottomless hole when it came to food, and even Simon, given the opportunity, ate like there was no tomorrow.

Thankfully, Kyle brought apple crumble and ice-cream for the dessert, Gabi brought tasty, delicious rice with beans as per her home country recipe, and Christine not only brought a Spanish charcuterie board, but also made a lasagna. Johnny and Simon appeared with several wine bottles, which were as welcomed as the food brought by the others.

And given the rate at which they were eating, there would be no leftovers.

‘‘I can’t believe you’d date a helicopter pilot after almost falling out of one’’ Johnny laughed at Kyle, who didn’t look offended in the slightest as he kept stuffing his mouth full of food with a wide smile.

‘‘Diego is not Nikolai. He doesn’t fly like a madman at least’’

‘‘Who’s Nikolai?’’ Christine and Gabi asked almost at the same time, with genuine curiosity, and John started an intrincate explanation about who the Russian fixer was, that they went way back and even Heather knew him, and told a flowery tale about the time when Gaz almost fell off the helicopter during Kate Laswell’s rescue…

‘‘Wait, wait, wait’’ Christine interrupted, her blue eyes wide and a surprised look on her face. ‘‘What do you mean, ‘rescue’? When did that happen?’’

‘‘November last year’’ Kyle clarified, stealing the last Yorkshire pudding from Johnny’s plate before he noticed.

‘‘Ye bloody asshole…!’’ Johnny complained, trying to steal it back, but Kyle had already taken a bit out of it. ‘‘Ah’ll get back at ye for that!’’

‘‘Johnny, language!’’ Gabi laughed, slapping lightly his arm.

The food by then was mostly gone. After hosting the boys several times, Heather had learned soon that instead of  serving entrées, mains and dessert, it was better to just place everything on the table and sit back to enjoy the spectacle. Some were still stuffing themselves with the remains of the chickens, while others were already enjoying the dessert.

Everyone looked full and content, which made her heart happy, and she smiled at her husband. John smiled back at her, and his hand found hers under the table, brushing his calloused thumb on her palm.

‘‘You look happy, sweetheart’’

‘‘I am’’ Heather whispered back, still smiling. ‘‘I like having them here. Can we do this more often?’’

‘‘Not weekly’’ John rushed to say, and she laughed.

‘‘No, no… but a couple times a month at least’’

John grunted non-committally, squeezing her hand before releasing it when he saw Christine standing up.

‘‘If you excuse me just for a minute, I have to make a call’’

‘‘But what about the rest of your ice-cream!’’ Johnny followed her with his eyes, but she ignored him, already scrolling in her mobile phone while she stepped outside, followed by Simon’s gaze.

‘‘Well, thank God’’ John sighed, side-eyeing Kyle and Johnny when they stole Christine’s remaining ice-cream. ‘‘I hope that means Kate will stop asking me to make her take her calls’’

‘‘She’s stubborn’’ Heather smiled, patting her husband’s knee, and he looked at her, amused.

‘‘Which one of them?’’

Heather laughed, and turned her head to look at Simon, who was just listening to the banter around him, as always. He had finished eating a while ago, but had not pulled down his balaclava yet. Wether that was because he forgot, or because he was comfortable in the current company, Heather didn’t know, but she relished in the opportunity to see as little as she could of her friend, scars that made her heart ache and all.

He noticed she was looking at him and his eyes turned to her, in a silent question, and Heather just shrugged and smiled.

‘‘I’m happy to have all of you here’’

Simon simply nodded, his arms crossed over the table and his eyes returned to the arch that led to the hallway, where Christine had disappeared. Heather smiled again and tried to exchange a knowing look with her husband, but John was emptying his glass of red wine.

Christine stopped in the hall, still able to listen to the sounds coming from the dining room next to the kitchen, but far enough to not disturb them with her conversation, already dialing the number.

‘‘Took you long enough’’ Kate Laswell’s voice was a bit dry when she answered after making her wait for almost twenty seconds, but Christine went for the throat.

‘‘What the fuck is this shit about you needing rescue back in November?’’

‘‘Oh’’

‘‘Oh? What the fuck, ‘oh’? Start explaining why and how you were kidnapped and I didn’t know a thing about it’’

‘‘You were… unwell back in November, honey’’ Kate’s voice was gentler now, and Christine gritted her teeth.

‘‘I could walk’’

‘‘Barely’’

‘‘That’s low’’ Christine snarled, looking in the direction of the dining room when she could hear louder laughter, from Kyle, Johnny and Gabi. ‘‘You can’t expect me to…’’

‘‘I can. You were hanging on to your sanity by a thread back then’’ Kate sighed lightly before continuing, soothingly. ‘‘I didn’t have time for anything, Christine, much less for calling for help. I barely had time to radio John and Gaz.’’

‘‘You’re fucking lucky’’

‘‘I know’’

‘‘I would have gone’’

‘‘I know… My wife says thanks for the almond cake recipe, by the way’’

Christine grunted something under her breath, relieved to hear Kate’s low laugh and deciding to ignore her obvious attempt at changing the subject.

‘‘It was nothing’’

‘‘Can we talk when I’m back? I prefer talking to you face to face’’

‘‘… sure. When are you coming back?’’

‘‘Soon. Gotta go, my wife is threatening me with a wooden spoon through the window, I’m not supposed to answer calls on my work phone when I’m off’’

‘‘Serves you right’’ Christine mumbled again, and Kate laughed. ‘‘See you soon’’

‘‘See you soon’’

She sighed and returned her phone to her pocket, and turned around to go back to the dining room. But she found herself face to chest with Simon, who was standing a couple of steps away from her, in silence.

‘‘Joder! (Fuck!)’’ Christine gasped, but then she smiled and laughed, visibly relieved. ‘‘Sorry, did I take too long?’’

‘‘No’’ Simon shook his head, hands inside the pockets of his hoodie as usual, but his balaclava was still hooked over his nose. ‘‘Gabi is recruiting Johnny and Kyle into helping do the dishes’’

‘‘Oh yeah, her and I talked about it before coming’’ She nodded, taking a peek at the dining room arch door, and then at him again when he didn’t move an inch. His eyes were focused on her hair. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘I’ve never seen you with your hair down’’ He murmured, and she couldn’t help but blush, thankful for the dimness of the hallway. It was true that she had decided to wear her hair down for once, instead of in her usual ponytail, braid or bun. And sitting next to him at the dining table, she had noticed him looking at her quite often during dinner.

‘‘Oh, and what’s the veredict?’’ Christine giggled softly, trying to make a joke, but her smile faltered when he leaned in slightly, bringing his face closer to her hair. She even stood on her tiptoes discreetely, feeling stupid, but strangely excited.

Simon was feeling conflicted, once that he initiated the movement before he was even aware of what he was doing. Now, with his nose mere inches away from the crown of her head, so close that he could smell her shampoo – something with flowers, he guessed – he fought himself to keep his hands inside his pockets. They were in Price’s hallway after all.

Being away for almost a week had been torture, and now, having her this close…

‘‘I like it’’ He rumbled, his subconscious feeling her shudder with the sound of his voice. ‘‘I like your hair’’

‘‘Now you’ll say it makes me beautiful to wear it down…’’ Christine teased, trying desperately to hide the way her body was trembling, specially when he finally buried his nose in her hair.

‘‘You’re always beautiful’’

A loud crash sounded in the kitchen, and then a chorus of laughter. They stayed like that for a couple of seconds more, without moving, and finally, she stepped back, he pulled down his balaclava, and side by side went to the kitchen to see what the other three were doing with the dishes instead of washing them.

Half hidden by the dinning room hallway, Heather and John kept their silence until the kitchen’s door closed, and then she smiled sweetly at her husband.

‘‘Oh, honey’’

‘‘That wasn’t Ghost over there’’ John looked half glad and half concerned, with one arm wrapped around his wife’s waist, feeling her excitement. ‘‘That was Simon’’

‘‘I know’’ Heather could barely contain her happiness. ‘‘Oh, honey, I’m so glad’’

‘‘So am I, sweetheart, but…’’ John hesitated before asking, knowing the answer beforehand. ‘‘Don’t think about it as their friend. What’s your professional opinion?’’

‘‘I can’t speak about my patients, darling’’ Heather teased, jabbing a finger into her husband’s full stomach and giggling when he growled and grabbed her hand.

‘‘Then don’t speak about your patients, speak about our kids’’

She giggled again, and then tangled her fingers in his muttonchops lovingly.

‘‘I remember Simon back when I met him in that London café, with you. All smiles and cocky attitude, and so happy with that little toy plane that he had bought for his nephew’’

John nodded, his blue eyes a bit glossy now thinking about back then. He missed that Simon. He was glad that Simon was still there, inside of Ghost, somewhere, and that little by little, the shell was breaking.

‘‘If you’re asking if I think what it’s growing between him and Christine is good… yeah, I think it is’’ Heather continued, tugging lightly at his facial hair and giggling when he grumbled. ‘‘It’s a curious thing. What she needs most is to take care of others, to feel useful. And to be taken care of, to feel loved, needed. And the same goes for him’’

‘‘Well… we’ll see how it goes’’ John sighed, listening to the laughter and the clattering of dishes coming from the kitchen.

[bakingtherapy]

Just Keep Baking #15 Swiss Apple Cake

Sul Sul, gerbits. Recently, I honestly felt like I was swimming in apples. Daphne and I had been given so many apples for free and we both didn’t want to throw them away. 

So, I have been making nothing but apple recipes for the last few weeks. And I decided that I was going to explore apple recipes around the world. Because I didn’t want to be burned out on the classic apple pie, or apple butter. So, I randomly picked countries or regions with different apple recipes. 

Today’s recipe is a Swiss Apple Cake. When I saw this recipe, I had no idea what it was going to taste like. I thought it would be fun to try. 

The first thing you are going to do is make your crust. Yes, a cake that has a crust. 

To do this you will cream together your butter and part of the sugar until it is creamy. Whisk in 1 egg. Zest a full lemon and add half of the zest to the butter mixture. If you do not have a lemon on hand you can add 1 teaspoon of lemon juice to the butter mixture.

Add your flour and salt, and mix it until smooth. 

Chill it in the fridge for 30 minutes or in the freezer for 15 minutes. 

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. 

After the dough has chilled, roll out the dough. 

Put the dough in a pie dish and pierce the dough with a fork. 

This is where I changed the recipe a little bit. The recipe calls for ground hazelnuts. I didn’t have that, and I Googled “what is a good substitute for hazelnuts?” and the search came back to say that almonds were the best. And so on top of the crust I put almond flour, which is finely chopped almonds. 

In a medium sized bowl you are going to add another teaspoon of lemon juice, or the lemon zest, with part of the sugar, eggs and milk or cream. 

Core and dice your apples. Distribute them evenly over the base and pour over the cream mixture. 

Bake the cake for about 40 minutes. 

This cake was different. I had to explain to Daphne that it was in fact a cake and not a pie. Honestly speaking she didn’t care whether it was classified as a cake or a pie. She said that she really liked it. The crust was one of her favorites. Because of the almond flour on top of the crust it made it taste like a fortune cookie. Which I thought was interesting. 

I hope that you liked this recipe. Feel free to check the recipe out in the description down below. Vadish, Dag Dag. 

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[caffeinated-beverage]

HEADCANON LIST FOR MY PERSONAL MUSES!!!

First, though, let me list their names:

Ąžuolas: 1p Liet

Tatjana: Nyo Liet

Raivis: 1p Lat.via

Rebeka: nyo Lat.via

Motega: 1p Ame.rica

Kima: Nyo Ameri.ca

Kateryna: 1p Ukr.aine

Jomari: 1p Phil.ippines

Hiraya: Nyo Phil.ippines

Hafoca: 1p Ice.land

Björk: Nyo Ice.land

Madam Chaikova: 1p Bel.arus

Anastazy: 1p Pol.and

Kaishek: 1p Hon.g-Kon.g

Karling: Nyo Hon.g-Kon.g

-Ąžuolas gets airsickness when flying in the plane. HE DOES LOVE VISITING OTHER COUNTRIES THOUGH but flying in the plane makes him feel nauseous. Good that he can teleport though, yea? :D Ofc, he's technically not SUPPOSED to TP into another country bc of things like,, visas n whatnot. But unless someone snitches, no authorities will ever know :P

-When Tatjana was in the hospital for a recent major surgery, there was someone visiting her & trying to make her laugh, at a point where it was still painful for her to speak, let alone *laugh* 🤦 they meant well, ofc. but still.. that hurts.. :(

-Raivis stims by stretching out his hair curls, fluttering his eyes, rocking side-to-side, rolling his eyes (he's not trying to be rude, i promise you! it's subconsious, and means absolutely nothing!), crossing his eyes, rubbing his hands together, clicking his pen (this drives Ąžuolas NUTS, but he tries not to say anything), whistling, shaking his head, etc. He toys with his bracelets, sits there are stares at the little dust particles floating around in the light, and loves to try and balance the light switch and watch the lights flicker in rooms (this also drives Ąžuolas absolutely BONKERS!!). He also likes to open and close the fridge door and just watch the light in there go on and off. And whenever he walks past any fences, trees, or bushes, he has to run his hands on them.

-Rebeka enjoys herbology, and likes to make potions :)

-Motega actually really dislikes pickles. He also doesn't rlly like sour stuff, but his reaction to tasting something sour is absolutely hilarious xD

-Both Motega & Kima really enjoy playing baseball, but they don't play it professionally

-If you go tipping Kateryna's cows, she'll tip YOU over next >:(

-Ąžuolas & Motega are gossip buddies.

-Ąžuėlis & Mote skype each other every night (or day), and just chat about general things, AND ALSO spew about whatever gossip they heard recently.

-Tanja is the type to make sure nobody who comes to her house will ever starve while they're there

-Raivis & Hafoca are QPR partners who have sleepovers as often as they are able, give each other "tattoos" with markers, cuddle on the sofa watching cartoons, etc.

-Rebeka has abit of a crush on Karling. Karling barely knows her 😂

-Motega & Ąžuėlis kiss each other goodnight

-Kima would buy you a new ice cream if u dropped urs on the floor

-Kateryna is the type to lie and say she's already eaten a big meal when she goes to someone else's house & they offer her food, bc she doesn't wanna be a burden :((

-Both Jomari & Hiraya know about mythical sea creatures, know they exist for real n whatnot, but they don't tell anyone bc they were required to keep their sightings secret

-Hiraya is the type of person who is making spam musubi at 2 in the -freaking- morning 😂

-Raivis & Hafoca like watching & poking fun at those fake 3AM videos together

Madam Chaikova is the type of person who always must have either a scented diffuser, or scented candles going in her house

-Anastazy has two yappy pomeranians who will bark at literally anything & everything, and somehow ALWAYS know when he spills his drink or drops his food/snack.

-Björk secretly enjoys kids' cartoons

-If you were to read Jomari's diary, you will see several hand-written articles in full-detail about his encounters with mythical sea-creatures, which might not be so "mythical" afterall..?

-Hiraya is an AMAZING cook. Could go professional if she ever wanted to. She makes god-tier halo-halo, puto, & pan de coco.

-Hafoca's favorite drinks are apple juice, yogurt smoothie, & coca-cola

-Madam Chaikova has a itty-bitty black cat that is missing one eye. Her name is Rybka, and she helps her with alchemy <3 and, unlike her MOMMY, she is a very sweet lil' cat (madam chaikova is a grouchy old lady lol)

-Anastazy doesn't know what to do with flowers when they are given to him, so he just eats them 🤦

-Björk really does not like to go swimming, because ✨ insecurities ✨

-Karling is the type who gets to go on a vacation once per summer (so jealous fr)

-Ąžuolas plays basketball as a recreational activity. Also, he gets really into it when watching basketball on the tv. He be yelling at the tv screen and everything

-If you have to confess something to Tatjana, DO NOT approach her with an "I have to tell something to you, but pls don't be angry 🥺 ", because if that's the first thing you say to her, she will already be heavily suspicious, and also way more likely to get mad if you tell her something slightly anger-inducing.

-Raivis can see ghosts, but he's been seeing them for so long, he is too used to them to get scared. He knows every ghost that lives in his apartment building by 1st & last name, age, gender, and appearance. And, if one of his plates suddenly crash onto the floor for seemingly no reason, he knows exactly who is to blame for it.

-Rebeka loves boba tea. Also, her favorite candies are always chocolates. Also, she tries to cook & make concoctions, but it always gets really messy. She does try to clean up after herself though, but she still manages to leave something behind, proving that she's been up to something

-Kateryna grows corn, wheat, & soybeans in her farm, and also has some apple trees.

-Motega isn't really too much into drinking, but he may have an occasional drink during social occasions. Also, he's slightly addicted to energy drinks. And when it comes to pepsi vs coca-cola, he is 100% with coca-cola, but his boyfriend ĄŽUĖLIS prefers pepsi >:(( But they both love cream soda tho

-Kima has a dog; she's a pitbull/rottweiler mix named Brownie. Brownie, despite being a big & muscular dog, thinks she's a lapdog and has a habit of jumping up into EVERYONE's laps, even guests. Also, headcanon Eng.land screams like a little girl every time that dog jumps on him 😂

-Jomari is an ocean fisherman. He's been in this profession for a long time, too, so he even knows how to handle the types of sea creatures everyone is afraid of, such as sharks, squids, crabs, etc. He knows the best spots to catch the most fish, and the best methods for getting them. Also, he ironically owns & wears this hat:

-Hiraya owns a motorcycle, but she still uses public transport sometimes.

-At some point, Hafoca was in archery classes. He was the top student in these classes, but he was always incapable of taking compliments/praise from others 😂

-Madam Chaikova has very granny-type hobbies, such as; knitting, embroidering, gardening, baking, reading, birdwatching, crotcheting, hiking, quilting, alchemy (potion-making), witchcraft, etc.

-Anastazy drives a motorcycle. And, there have been many occasions where some assholes stole his motorcycle despite him using a lock for it, but he has always managed to report it & get his motorcycle back. But in the meantime while his motorcycle was missing, he'd carpool with Ąžuėlis.

-Björk is the type who always oversleeps & is grouchy when she wakes up, and also gets difficult whenever someone tries to get her up. But then, when she wakes up & sees the time, she freaks out and is like, "OMG NOR.WAY!!! WHY DID YOU NOT WAKE ME UP?!?!" whilst she runs around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to hurry up & get ready. Also, she always has messy hair due to her usually waking up late & not even having time to brush her hair a bit, let alone style it in any way. There have even been a few times when she showed up mildly smelly, bc she was in such a rush that she forgot to put on deodorant 😭 She's always atleast a little bit late to wherever she was going, too 😂

-Karling snores like a train 😭

-Kaishek is the type of kid who takes his nintendo switch with him everywhere

[sfrecipes]

Pennsylvania Dutch Apple Pie

Photo courtesy of America's Test Kitchen /Joe Keller

Serves 8

The headnote says, "Why this recipe works: Bakers in Pennsylvania Dutch country are voracious, turning out a delicious assortment of pies: shoofly, butterscotch, mixed berry, and our favorite, Dutch apple. The hallmark of this pie, aside from its crumbly topping, is its creamy apple filling. But we didn’t rely on the traditional cream to achieve it. Instead, we cleverly added melted vanilla ice cream to the filling for creaminess with more body (melted ice cream is essentially custard) and a rich vanilla flavor that nicely complemented the apples. After slicing the apples, we let them sit in the melted ice cream along with cinnamon, sugar, and lemon juice until they were soft and pliable; this way, they packed easily into the pie plate and created a cohesive interior that cooked evenly. Before baking, we sprinkled a mixture of melted butter, flour, brown sugar, and a good dose of salt over the top of the pie for a supremely buttery crumble. Letting the pie cool completely before slicing into it allowed it to firm up so that we could produce beautifully clean wedges with neat stacks of apple. We prefer sweet Golden Delicious or Gala apples here, but Fuji, Braeburn, or Granny Smith varieties also work well. You may substitute ½ cup of heavy cream for the melted ice cream, if desired. This pie is best when baked a day ahead of time and allowed to rest overnight."

Pie

              2½ pounds apples, peeled, cored, halved, and sliced 1/4 inch thick

              ½ cup melted vanilla ice cream

              ½ cup raisins (optional)

              ½ cup (3½  ounces) granulated sugar

              1 tablespoon lemon juice

              1 teaspoon vanilla extract

              1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

              ½ teaspoon table salt

              1 recipe single-crust pie dough (see below)

Topping

              1 cup (5 ounces) all-purpose flour

              ½  cup packed (3½ ounces) light brown sugar

              6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

              ½  teaspoon table salt

1 For the pie: Toss all ingredients in large bowl until apples are evenly coated. Let sit at room temperature for at least 1 hour or up to 2 hours.

2 Roll dough into 12-inch circle on floured counter. Loosely roll dough around rolling pin and gently unroll it onto 9-inch pie plate, letting excess dough hang over edge. Ease dough into plate by gently lifting edge of dough with your hand while pressing into plate bottom with your other hand.

3 Trim overhang to 1/2 inch beyond lip of plate. Tuck overhang under itself; folded edge should be flush with edge of plate. Crimp dough evenly around edge of plate. Wrap dough-lined plate loosely in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about 30 minutes. Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and heat oven to 350 degrees.

4 For the topping: Stir all ingredients in bowl until no dry spots remain and mixture forms clumps. Refrigerate until ready to use.

5 Working with 1 large handful at a time, distribute apple mixture in plate, pressing into even layer and filling in gaps before adding more. Take care not to mound apple mixture in center of plate. Pour any remaining liquid from bowl into pie. Break topping (it will harden in refrigerator) into pea-size crumbs and distribute evenly over apple mixture. Pat topping lightly to adhere.

6 Place pie on aluminum foil–lined rimmed baking sheet. Bake until top is golden brown and paring knife inserted in center meets no resistance, about 1 hour 10 minutes, rotating sheet halfway through baking. Let pie cool on wire rack for at least 4 hours or preferably 8 to 12 hours. Serve.

Classic Single-Crust Pie Dough

Makes one 9-inch single crust

            1¼ cups all-purpose flour

            1 tablespoon sugar

            ½ teaspoon table salt

            4 tablespoons vegetable shortening, cut into ½-inch pieces and chilled

            6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into ¼-inch pieces and chilled

            3 tablespoons ice water, plus extra as needed

Process flour, sugar, and salt in food processor until combined, about 5 seconds. Scatter shortening over top and process until mixture resembles coarse cornmeal, about 10 seconds. Scatter butter over top and pulse until mixture resembles coarse crumbs, about 10 pulses.

Transfer mixture to bowl. Sprinkle ice water over mixture. Stir and press dough with spatula until dough sticks together. If dough does not come together, stir in up to 1 tablespoon ice water, 1 teaspoon at a time, until it does.

Transfer dough to sheet of plastic wrap and form into 4-inch disk. Wrap tightly in plastic and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 2 days. Let chilled dough sit on counter to soften slightly, about 10 minutes, before rolling. (Wrapped dough can be frozen for up to 1 month. If frozen, let dough thaw completely on counter before rolling.)

Recipe from:

[gorbalsvampire]

Tag Nine People You'd Like To Get To Know Better

FAVOURITE COLOUR(s): Dark, rich purples and reds. Greens: British racing, chartreuse. Bottle greens and browns. Black and white contrasts. Glasz eyes are the most beautiful on Earth. Love a check or tartan pattern. I paint all my miniatures in cold blue/bronze or warm purple/brass contrast unless physically prevented from doing so.

FAVOURITE FLAVOUR(s): Rock salt and woodsmoke and paprika in a thin batter. Rich thick curry sauce - warm and textured, not hot-like-burning. Whole milk and sour cream. Fresh carrots and tomatoes - just chomp those fuckers down. Sourdough and soft cheese. Tea with an undertone of citrus or an abundance of honey. Mulled apples. Dirty chai. And above all, peppermint.

FAVOURITE MUSIC: Tradgoth and post punk (basslines you can slink to), trip hop (take me somewhere far away), post rock soundscapes (the more elegiac the better), prog (but more the Pink Floyd pomp rock than wildly experimental stuff), anything Jim Jarmusch or Polly Jean Harvey ever touch, sad country and sleazy swamp rocks. Music for people who want to crawl into a swamp, cop off, and drown each other.

FAVOURITE MOVIE(s): Franklyn. Withnail & I. Only Lovers Left Alive. I detest busy plotting and spectacle and run on vibes. But also, because sometimes I'm From The Nineties And Also British, Guy Ritchie's entire oeuvre. Sin City has a nice vibe even though it's a nasty piece of work. Possession (1981) and Nosferatu (1979) - I'll watch Isabelle Adjani in anything. Or Eva Green. Give me pale, deathless, insane women.

FAVOURITE BOOK(s): UGH! Anything by Terry Pratchett. S T Gibson's vampire stories. Anything by Susanna Clarke. Earthsea. The first four books of Anno Dracula. Anything by Laura Shepherd-Robinson. Alis Hawkins' Oxford novels. Seth Dickenson's Masquerade and Tamsyn Muir's Locked Tomb. The Wolf Hall trilogy. Sherlock Holmes and weird post-Holmes stuff from Obverse. T. S. Eliot, William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, and a raft of contemporary Welsh poets - Cath Drake, Katherine Stansfield, Christopher Meredith. If I had a guilty pleasure, Black Library novels (John French, Matt Farrer and Aaron Dembksi-Bowden) would be it.

FAVOURITE SERIES(es): Doctor Who, Lock, Stock..., The Biederbeck Trilogy, What We Do In The Shadows, LA By Night, The Thick of It and... Taskmaster. Taskmaster is my religion. I like seeing the Bit all comics do get tested to destruction. And podcasts: Poorhammer, the 40K Badcast. I get my hobby chat fix from those.

LAST SONG: :Of The Wand And The Moon:, 'Hold My Hand'

LAST SERIES: The Thick of It (rewatch).

LAST MOVIE: Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (comfort rewatch, I've been poorly)

CURRENTLY READING: Viriconium by M. John Harrison.

CURRENTLY WATCHING: nothing

CURRENTLY WORKING ON: ideating a festive V5 one-off and new chronicles for next year, but otherwise taking it easy (I've been really poorly)

TAGGED BY: @silkenred

TAGGING: @heywizards @biomechanicaltomato @gwenynen-bach @gingerbeer-queer @robotslenderman