#how much more bread can I be scraped over

[nomadicism]

Every year during our marathon of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogies, there is a scene in The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, that hits me harder every time I see it.

It’s where Bilbo says: “I'm old, Gandalf. I know I don't look it, but I'm beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel... thin. Sort of stretched, like... butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.”

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 3.7k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠 there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself mostly un-beta'd atm a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.

It’d be easier if they were.

Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.

Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.

Then came the separation.

Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.

And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.

See, war’s something he understands.

But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?

How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?

When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?

He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.

Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.

The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.

Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.

Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.

See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.

Hell, millions used to scream his name.

Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”

While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.

It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.

Something’s gotta give.

After all, he’s only one man.

But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.

A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.

At first, he kept his distance.

Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.

Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.

Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.

Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.

Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.

So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?

Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?

Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.

“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”

Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.

“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, “Nmfhm.”

Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"

“Mnhfmmmm.”

“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”

Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”

Shit.

“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”

Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.

Together they settle with a bounce of springs.

In the open space, you slide in.

The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.

“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”

“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”

Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.

You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.

“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”

Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.

“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”

“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”

Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.

“... Then pancakes it is.”

As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”

“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”

“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”

“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”

She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears. 

Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.

“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”

The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.

After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.

“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”

The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.

A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.

Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.

“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”

Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.

The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.

Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.

When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.

You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.

Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.

Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.

After all, he’s not yours to touch.

Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”

Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”

Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood. 

“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”

He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.

God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.

Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”

Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.

“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.

Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.

Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.

The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.

“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”

“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”

Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”

“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.

Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.

Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.

Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.

But here — with him — you shouldn’t.

Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.

When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”

“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”

Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.

“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”

The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.

He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”

You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.

Greedy.

Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.

However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog. 

Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”

Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”

“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, that’s not what I --”

He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”

Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”

“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.

Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”

Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.

Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?

Hell, you even cook and clean!

Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.

Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.

How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.

If he wasn’t so captivating…

“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.

When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.

Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.

Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.

He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.

“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”

With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”

The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.

“Woah! I--”

“Tell me something.”

Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.

“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”

The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”

You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”

“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.

The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”

He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.

Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”

Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.

“C’mon, be honest.”

With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.

Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.

“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”

“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”

“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”

“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”

“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”

In what world would you refuse?

The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.

He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.

Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.

“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”

Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.

Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.

You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.

He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.

"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."

Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”

"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."

part 2 dropping soon

[doctorwhoandfairytaillover]

Loving Arms (2)

Summary: The children of Viserys I from his wife Alicent Hightower had always been lacking in affection from their parents. They simply didn't realize how much until their widowed aunt was brought into their lives. (AU where Alicent has an older sister and her kids get the love that they deserve, takes place some time after the Driftmark event)

Part II: Family Dinner

A/N: No pairings as of right now as I want to focus on the familial and platonic relationships with Greens when they're still quite young. (credit for the divider goes to @kawaii-lau)

The royal family were not ones to eat a meal together often; typically dinner consisted of Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. Or Otto and Alicent, even simply Aemond and Helaena. But rare was the occurrence that Aegon would sit at the table to dine with his family and that all members, apart from his Majesty the King Viserys, would choose to eat with one another.

Of course, the elder Hightower daughter was unaware that it was solely due to her arrival that all were seated at the table.

The meal itself was sumptuous; fresh venison on a bed of roasted vegetables, bread straight from the oven, a hearty stew, and a variety of sweet cakes and treats. All things that (Y/N) did not hesitate to eat from her plate, famished from her weary travels.

It was quiet, save for the occasional scrape of knives and the clink of forks or spoons.

"Well," Alicent smiled. "Isn't it lovely that we can all come together and eat as a family after so many years apart. If only Gwayne was here as well, then it would be similar to our youth, don't you think (Y/N)?"

Her older sister offered a tense smile, "I suppose it is a bit like our childhood. I am surprised you still remember any of it since you were quite young at our last family gathering."

"It comes and goes, because as you say, I was quite young when... when our mother passed," Alicent smiled at her children and all three straightened. "But I am reminded of it when I spend time with my sons and daughter."

"Then I am sure she barely remembers then," Aegon muttered and earning himself a kick to leg from Aemond.

"Behave!" the younger scolded.

Otto cleared his throat and the boys sat up in their chairs once more.

"Let us move past all this," the Hand said. "No need to trouble ourselves with the nonsense of remembering bygones and look to the future. Keeping our family strong and well established.

"Hear, hear!" Alicent agreed while lifting her chalice in agreement.

His oldest daughter couldn't help but laugh at her father's words and shook her head.

"Did you find any humor in my words, daughter?" he asked.

The tone in which he spoke, seemed to trigger something in Alicent as she shrunk back in her seat and looked to the meal in front of her. Her older sister, on the other hand stared straight ahead to their father.

"I find it amusing that you say that, Father" (Y/N) said while cutting into her venison. "You didn't seem to find the notion of family all that important when you left behind two orphaned children in Oldtown for your elder brother to deal with."

A sweeping silence fell over the table.

"Or am I wrong?" she asked. "Mother had recently passed when you left Gwayne and I behind at Oldtown, taking only our dear Alicent with you. She was your favorite after all."

"Do not start with me, (Y/N)!" Otto scolded. "You know your brother was being raised to someday lead Oldtown in my stead."

"What about your recently disfigured daughter? Why was she left behind?" she asked. "Or were you too ashamed that my face would make you a laughingstock. When as your oldest daughter, I should have also been allowed to accompany you to find an advantageous marriage as well."

"Do not speak nonsense, (Y/N)." Her father grumbled, "It was to your benefit that you stayed behind, otherwise you would have never been able to marry your husband. I have always looked to ensure our family would be well off."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, a soft frown marring her features. Her father's response seemed to aggravate her more than she let on, as she stood up from her seat, scraping it heavily against the floor.

"I think I will retire to my chambers for the evening," she turned to smile softly at her nephews and niece. "I will see all of you early tomorrow morning, I have a few things that I brought you three from Dorne."

She turned stiffly to her younger sister and father, "Good night!"

The clicking of her heels against the floor echoed as she left the room, and the Targaryen siblings looked to one another before turning their gaze to their mother and grandsire.

"May we be excused, Mother?" Aemond asked politely.

Alicent looked to be apprehensive, but her father wanted to have a word with her and waved the trio off. Muttering to himself in annoyance over his eldest daughter's words and behavior that evening.

Aegon was quick to pull his younger brother and sister from their seats, hoping that he could avoid either of the adults minds from allowing them to step away. Knowing that they would attempt to stop the siblings if they knew that they would chase after their aunt.

"Come on, come on!" Aegon urged with a giggle, hurrying to catch up with (Y/N).

Something soft bubbled beneath Aegon's chest and he could not remember a time he had felt this way since his childhood had been marred by maltreatment, neglect, and unkind words. But seeing his own aunt stand up for herself, not letting his grandsire excuse himself for his callous actions of the past, it lit a small feeling of hope that perhaps someone could understand.

And he didn't want to let that feeling go.

Aemond was struggling through his own internal torment and insecurity. He did not want to get his hopes up that his aunt would understand his feelings about feeling othered and scorned for his appearance that was he felt was no fault of his own, but he knew that he truly wanted to know.

No, he needed to know if there was someone else like him.

Helaena, perhaps did not feel as conflicting emotions as that of her older and younger brothers, but she also felt that things would soon change with the presence of their outspoken aunt. Words had often failed her, those closest to her rarely were able to understand the young princess even when she was direct with her words. But now... now here was this woman, that was clear and did not mince her words and let her thoughts be known.

She wanted to learn from this woman that was not afraid to be herself.

And there, standing alongside her sworn guard was (Y/N) as she intended to ready herself in her chambers.

But almost collectively the three shouted, "Muña!"

She turned to them and as soon as her soft eyes fell on their figures.

She smiled.

And it was then, the three were absolutely certain that they needed her to be a permanent fixture in their lives.

A/N: And that concludes part 2! 🥳 Please let me know what you all think, I am honestly super pumped to continue this series.

PS. If your name doesn't show up highlighted, I am not able to tag you properly for some reason.

Tag List:

@minaxcarter, @hotleaf-juice, @pikomin, @deltamoon666, @cococrazy18, @firefairy, @dracaryxzs, @snowbunny58, @lacherrysouldy, @only4thefics, @queen-luna-007, @ambrivertenergy, @kayllineb12, @minejungwoo, @delaynew, @agustdeeyaa, @hueanhdang

[charliemwrites]

Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

--

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

John Shelby Vs. Breakfast - A John Shelby/Reader Short.

I haven't written for any of my Peaky lads in a hot minute, so I thought I'd do a little fun, fluffy piece for my fave ginge <3 Enjoy!

Words - 792

Warnings - None, just John being John!

Clattering. Swearing. Burnt toast. Those are what greet you after descending the stairs, coming into the kitchen to see perhaps the most unnatural sight in the world; John cooking. Or rather attempting to.  

“Bastard, bloody thing!” Yes, the cast iron pan handle heats up while cooking eggs and bacon in it, not that he’d realise, being a man. Naturally, he’s had a woman perform these tasks for him all his life, so why would he know that? “Oh, shit, shit, shit, not again!”  

At least this time when he reaches for hot metal, he has the sense to cover the end of the toasting fork with a kitchen towel, pulling the slices of bread from in front of the fire. “Fuckin’ hell!” 

You stand and watch it, the sexy, ginger ball of stress whirling like an agitated tornado around the space, John much too predisposed by messing up the preparation of breakfast to notice you there, his entertained audience of one.  

“Alright, I can save that. Scrape the burnt bit off. Right, kettle’s almost done. Sodding hell! How the fuck do women do this and make it look so bloody easy?” 

“Because we’re magicians,” you finally speak, watching him jump before he spins around, pointing at you through the chaos of his own making. 

“You should be in bed, still!”  

Shrugging, you approach, stroking his bare forearms, his sleeves all rolled up. “I was wide awake, so I thought I’d get up.”  

He bustles, waving his arms. “No, no. Ain’t supposed to be like this. I had a plan! Bring you breakfast in bed and now it’s all bloody going wrong!” 

Casting your gaze over his shoulder, your eyebrow flutters upwards. “I don’t think that has anything to do with me coming down the stairs, John. The pan is smoking, by the way.”  

His face falls. “Fuckin’ hell!”  

“Do you want a hand?” you offer, watching him move it from atop the range, scraping the slightly overdone eggs and bacon out onto two plates. 

He waves his hand towards the table. “No, you sit down.” 

“I can do the teapot, at least?” 

More hand gestures are directed. “Sit down, bab!”  

He’s adamant to do this, so tucking your dress, you take a seat, picking up the morning paper as he butters the toast. Finishing plating up the breakfast and pouring the tea, he brings it to you, everything a little crispy and haphazardly presented, your new husband looking at you from under a few furrowed brow.  

“Don’t look nothing like when you make it, but I hope it tastes alright, at least.” 

Digging your fork in, you take a first mouthful. “It’s lovely, darling. Thank you. What made you want to cook for me in the first place, though? You always denounce it as woman’s work. Not that you should. We’re in the twenties now, us women are to have our equality.” 

“Oh, not you an’ all!” he groans, rolling his eyes. “You and bloody Pol and your women’s lib!” His little wink indicates he isn’t a hundred percent serious, picking up a slice of toast and taking a huge bite, crumbs collecting at the corners of his lips. “And I did it because I wanna make amends. Ain’t proper that we’re married and I can’t take you on honeymoon. Nah. Even a weekend up the seaside would have been nice. Got all this fuckin’ shit round me neck, though.” 

Indeed, he has. You know well who you married, and the life of a prolific gangster is seldom easy. Or, in this case, flexible enough to allow for time away from Birmingham with his new bride.  

Reaching for his hand, you stroke the freckled flesh, cocking your head. “You’ve no amends here to make, love. I know, I understand. It is what it is.” 

“Yeah, but it bloody shouldn’t be, cos’ you deserve more!” he fumes, forehead creasing. “And I can’t give it to ya right now. Feel like a right bloody joke of a husband, I do.” 

“You know what you can give me, though?” you tease, John not immediately picking up on the connotations. “A bloody good seeing to.” 

He pauses his chewing, an eyebrow arching. “Get that scran down your neck sharpish, bab. I might not be able to take you away even for a weekend, but I can take you to bed instead.”  

To be honest, is seeing a lot of time pressed against a mattress beneath your new husband not the point of a honeymoon? You’ve always thought so, at least, therefore it matters not where that mattress happens to be. Whether further afield or Birmingham, as long as John is there, it’s all the honeymoon you need.  

A slightly cremated breakfast is an added bonus, too.  

[not-neverland06]

Bad Day

pt. two

part one

Bo Sinclair x fem!reader, Vincent Sinclair x fem!reader (not together, I don’t do that twincest shite) warnings: reader embracing the dark side, graphic descriptions of violence Summary: Another set of tourists, but this one’s different. You actually have to meet this group. They’re particularly difficult, too, causing more damage than any of you expected. Can you survive the night, again?

You focused on the way the knife glinted as it spread mayonnaise over the bread. You watched it glide through the thick substance and brought it back down, flipping the blade and smoothing and spreading it-

Your fingers tightened around the handle and you winced as you slammed your eyes shut. You couldn’t be around blades, even ones as dull as this, without thinking of that night. 

You’d fought, more than anyone else ever had, Bo told you. You’d also killed one of your friends in cold blood, no one had ever done that either. 

He had been tied up and vulnerable and you hadn’t even given him a fair shot at surviving you. 

You didn’t feel guilty about it, and that’s the part that haunts you. You didn’t try to justify your actions and cry yourself to sleep over the guilt you felt for being alive while your friends lay scattered throughout town. You slept deeply, peacefully, in the arms of the men who murdered them. 

You’d wake up after having a dream about that night and you would feel exhilarated because it had been the first time you’d ever truly stood up for yourself. You reveled in the power you’d felt when you’d swung that ax into his neck. 

You didn’t even remember their names. 

How fucked up was that?

You basked in the memories of their demise but their faces were lost to you. One blur that bled together the more you tried to picture them. 

You didn’t mourn them or feel pity, you felt no guilt, and that’s what fucked with you. Were you a bad person?

You had to be. 

But you’d never been one before Ambrose. 

You distracted yourself from the thoughts. You’d spiral and never get back up if you let yourself go down the rabbit hole. You tore off a piece of turkey and threw it at Jonesy, she pounced on it the second it hit the floor. 

You finished the sandwiches, one going into a brown paper bag the other a plate that you wrapped with plastic. You left the kitchen, winding around boxes and junk that they called sentimental. You’d gotten into a nasty fight with Bo a few months ago about cleaning the house up a little, but he had refused. 

You hadn’t realized how many beers he’d had that night and chosen the wrong moment to suggest change. Something he was staunchly against. He hadn’t hit you, never had, but he’d thrown a bottle near your head, the glass shattering and bouncing off the wall. Some of it had hit you, scraping up the back of your arms and legs. It wasn’t too bad, but you hadn’t felt that terrified of him since the night you came here. 

You’d been petty, stolen his keys and camped out in one of the houses in town. You hadn’t been able to get any sleep, not with the wax family watching you, but it had gotten the message across. Lester had told you Bo thought you’d left and lost his fucking shit. Vincent, apparently, had been even worse. 

By the time you got back the house was in worse shape then when you’d left. 

Bo had told you he’d think about cleaning some of the stuff out. That had been three months ago.

You grabbed the flashlight off their father’s desk and used the hatch in the office, dropping down into Vincent’s lair. Vincent, when he’d discovered just how much you hated the darkness that led into his workspace, had started leaving a flashlight out for you. 

When Bo got pissed at you he’d hide it. You’d have to crawl to him and beg for it back. 

You’re pretty sure he didn’t care what it was that he stole, he just wanted to exercise some control over you. Remind you of your place in this town, under him.

The flashlight was a nice thought from Vincent, but it didn’t really help you much. You used it anyway, wanting him to know you appreciated how much he cared. Because you’re pretty sure he’s the only real reason you’re alive. 

When Bo had caught you down here, standing over Owen’s dead body, he told you he didn’t know if he was going to keep you alive or not. You knew he meant it, he wasn’t teasing you or playing around, he genuinely did not know what to do with you. You were an outlier in a long list of repetitive victims. 

Vincent swept in behind him, glanced down at the ax, the injuries all over your body, and hesitantly stepped towards you. They looked at each other, a silent conversation laying in their gazes.  

Vincent took a slow step towards you and you recognized his actions for what they were. A test. 

Earlier, you’d seen Vincent try to help his brother, ease his pain and wrap up his wounds. Bo had reacted cruelly, the only thing he seemed to be capable of. 

You watched with a blank stare as Vincent kneeled down in front of you, brushing his fingers over the scraped skin of your knee. 

You jumped slightly at the burn of flesh against your wound, but otherwise didn’t react. Slowly, he stood back up, grabbing your arm with a gentleness that wasn’t present in your first meeting. He led you back to his desk, flipping over the drawing of your face and pulling out bandages. 

Some of them he had to toss to the side because they were covered in wax, others he used on you. 

Bo watched it all with a frown on his face and crossed arms. “What the hell are you doin’?”

Vincent’s head shot up and his arms tightened around you. Again, you forced yourself not to react, not to flinch away from his hold and grimace as you heard his muffled breath next to your ear. Vincent didn’t say anything, didn’t move his hands to communicate, he blocked you in like a guard dog and after a moment you heard Bo cussing and storming out. 

He mentioned something about getting the restg of your group, but nothing after that. You could only relax once you heard the basement hatch slam shut. “Thank you,” you whispered to Vincent. He grunted, but offered nothing else. 

His fingers were quick, precise in the way they cleaned and wrapped your wounds. They were also surprisingly gentle for someone who had just slammed a blade through your friend's skull. 

Vincent kept you squirreled away down there, sleeping on a cot in the corner of his large and stuffy studio. You weren’t sure how many days or weeks had passed with him idly sketching you and sculpting different wax animals for you, the lack of windows made it hard to tell, but you do know you were much better off here than in Bo’s dungeon. 

You’d learned bits of sign language from him, you were bored and he seemed eager to teach you. To finally have someone who would speak his language too. 

He was kind in his own way, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t eager to get the fuck out of there. 

Bo had stormed down one day, saw you, and lost his goddamn shit. Apparently, he’d thought Vincent was only keeping you around for a bit of fun and then killing you. The fact that you were still alive, and being taken care of, nearly gave him an aneurysm. 

Again, Vincent hadn’t let Bo hurt you. He’d protected you from his brother’s wrath and forced Bo to accept that you were staying. 

Sometimes you wished you weren’t kind to him. That you had yelled, kicked, and clawed at him. Called him a freak and told him to go to hell and find his precious momma. You would be dead, sure, but you wouldn’t be here. 

Thoughts like that had disappeared a long time ago, left with the summer heat. You knew it wasn’t Stockholm syndrome, you’d been a psych student before your world was flipped on its axis. You knew what the signs were, but this wasn’t loving them to save yourself. 

This was accepting that there was no place for you in society anymore, not after what you’d done. Not after you’d actually helped Vincent sculpt his wax around Allison’s pretty face. 

You’d enjoyed it, a sick satisfaction from seeing the bitch dead, your survival a victory over her. 

When she’d been alive she had a top. This really cute white, lacy number and no matter how many times you asked, she would never let you borrow it. She had no qualms stealing your clothes and never giving them back, but god forbid you ever even looked at that top.

It hung in your closet now, yours to do with whatever you pleased. You smiled every time you thought about it. 

“Vince?” You knocked on the doorway and clicked the flashlight off as the door creaked open. The warm glow of candlelight leaked out into the dark abyss. You slipped inside, shuddering at the rush of heat that hit you. It wasn’t always hot in here, only when he was preparing a new batch of wax. 

You frowned, he only did that when there were visitors coming. Lester must’ve called ahead, told them he spotted someone on the road. You closed the door behind you walking towards his desk and dropping the plate on top. Your fingers skimmed over the sketches, catching on another one of you. 

You picked it up and smiled, it was a sketch of you curled up on the couch with Jonesy, your face pressed into her fur as you slept. You remember waking up from that nap, frowning when you heard wood creaking behind you but not seeing anything. 

What a weird little stalker. He knew he could ask to sketch you and you didn’t mind, but he always ran away like you were gonna be mad at him. You shook your head, placing it back down, and walked further into his studio. 

You found him sitting at his table, curled over something you couldn’t make out. You could see his wrist flicking, the carving tool in his hand, and figured he was making another animal for you. You already had a whole shelf full of different animals, practically your own wax zoo. 

“Hey,” you whispered, hands creeping slowly along his shoulders. He tensed slightly before he leaned into you. “Brought you lunch.” His movements paused to sign, Thank you.

You glanced down at his hair, curling around him like a dark curtain and frowned. “Vince, you got wax in your hair again.” He shrugged and continued working. You sighed, walking back towards his desk and rustling through drawers until you found the brush you’d left down here for him.

Sometimes you think he does this on purpose because he likes how you take care of him. You ran the brush through his hair a few times trying to make sure you’d gotten all the wax out. He let out a low groan, his head tilting back and thudding against your chest as you stood behind him. 

You chuckled, scratching your fingers along his scalp and he let out a long sigh, melting into you. You’d have to force him into the shower later, to wash everything out of his hair. It was astounding how stubborn both brothers were about just showering. 

You weren’t sure why they resisted so much, maybe it was something that happened between them and their parents. Either way, it was a fight to get them near the water and even then you had to bribe them with your body, luring them in like a siren just so you could wash the grime off. 

You braided Vincent’s hair away from his face and he stilled, temporarily becoming your doll while you did what you wanted to him. He was always a bit easier than his brother. He was eager to please, even more eager for your praise. For you to tell him you were proud of him. 

You leaned down, pressing a kiss against the waxed cheek of his mask. “Eat your lunch, please.” He nodded but the second you backed off he was back to carving into the block of wax before him. You sighed and glanced around his space, collecting the dishes of other half-eaten meals you’ve brought down. 

The bell rang above you and you let out a sigh or relief as you stepped into Bo’s shop. A cool breeze rustled the fabric of your top. Seems like he got the air conditioning up and running again, even in winter you could still wear a tank top and shorts and be sweating. “Bo?”

“Back here!”

You walked towards the garage, brown bag clutched tightly in your hands and poked your head in. He was bent over, head under the hood of a car and oil smeared all over his coveralls. Your eyes traveled over the car he was working on, wincing when you realized it was yours. 

You hadn’t used it since you’d gotten here. You’d seen Bo towing it in, along with Owen’s but you’d always avoided paying too much attention to it. You weren’t sure why he bothered working on it, maybe it was a taunt towards you or he was just bored. You never really knew with him. 

“Brought lunch,” you offered, walking towards his work table and jumping on top, the bag going next to your thighs. He lifted himself up, looking towards you and smiling. 

“Thanks, hun,” you hummed in response, sticking your neck out as he approached. He chuckled, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. 

He reached for the bag, pulling out his lunch and taking too big of a bite. “‘M gonna have to go up to the house,” he mumbled through a mouth full of sandwich. “Need to change before our visitors get here.”

You nodded, staying quiet as he stared at you. You’d gotten used to this look and even more used to what was about to happen after. He’d tell you to follow him and would help you off the desk, deceptively sweet as he tugged you down to the room below the garage. 

Then he would tape you up, muttering to himself about not letting you leave. You’d submit easily, letting him do what he wanted. It was easier than trying to tell him you were staying. 

But his gaze shifted back to the car and you frowned at the side of his face. He should’ve told you to move by now. Instead he leaned back against the desk, his hand skimming your own. He didn’t look at you while he spoke. 

“Want you to work on your car.”

You blanched, eyes going wide as you stared at him. That wasn’t even close to what you were expecting. You had gotten so used to sitting under that grate, listening to the screams of his victims as he hunted them down. Now, he wanted you up here, wanted you to see it. 

What was he doing?

“What?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “fucked somethin’ up, want you to fix it.” He crumpled the bag into a ball, tossing it into the trash can and turned back towards you. You didn’t see anything on his face that would give away why he was keeping you up here on the surface and it set you on edge. 

This had to be some sort of test. Maybe he was seeing if you would try and use the new victims to escape or warn them off. Or he wanted to see if you could pretend like you belonged, go along with his act and keep the victims feeling safe and compliant while he killed them off. 

What the fuck?

You were used to how things worked in Ambrose. There was a system set in place, one you had learned to follow. This went against what you’d come to know and it was setting you on edge as you watched him walk off, heading up the hill and towards his house. 

You stayed glued to the desk for a while, you weren’t sure how long, but it was enough time for Bo to have cleaned up. He popped his head inside the garage, suit on, and frowned. “What’re you doing? Move your ass.”

You jumped, leaping off the work table and rushing towards the car. He laughed at your panicked movements, staying a moment to admire your ass as you bent over the hood before you heard his boots on the gravel, heading towards the church. 

You didn’t appreciate this switch up with him, how erratic his moods and behaviors were. He made it impossible to track and read him, to fully understand why he worked the way he did. 

You were grateful that, at the very least, he had given you a distraction from trying to figure out what this test was and if you were in trouble or not. 

You inspected the car, forcing yourself to remember everything he’s taught you while you’ve lingered in his shop. 

“Oh, they're right here.”

You jumped, rolling out from underneath the car and glancing towards the doorway that connected the garage to the auto shop. Two unfamiliar voices echoed within Bo’s shop. 

“Fan belts?”

“Yeah,” a guy and a girl. You poked your head over the top of the car and saw the guy was a lot taller than you and broader. Shit, you really hoped you didn’t run into him once they figured out what was going on up here. “But he doesn’t have the right size.”

“Just pick one, Wade, I don’t want to be in here much longer.”

“Alright, just hold on Carly.” You grabbed a rag, wiping your hands off and stepping towards them. 

“You plannin’ on stealin’ that?”

They both jumped, whipping around towards where you leaned in the doorway arms crossed over your chest. “No,” the guy rushed to defend himself, his girlfriend shaking her head frantically. “We left some money on the counter, we just needed to get out of here, that’s all.”

“There you are,” you all turned towards Bo. His posture matched your own, leaned against the entrance to the shop, hands tucked in his pockets. God, he looked good. Now that you weren’t fighting for your life you could fully appreciate how handsome he looked all cleaned up. Bo glanced at you then back to the other two, “She botherin’ you?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, glaring at him over their shoulders. He winked when they faced you and you figured he was putting on another show. Huffing out an irritated breath you rolled your eyes and turned back towards your car. You frowned at the oil streaked along your skin and clothes, you’d never be able to get the stains out. 

“Oh,” Carly started, shaking her head and glancing back at you again. “No, of course not, we just didn’t know that there was anyone in the shop.”

“She’s new, don’t like lettin’ her around customers, too much attitude.” You could practically see his smirk from under the car. He was probably so proud of himself, being able to tease you without you snapping back for once. 

“She’s fine, um, I left some money on the counter, but you don’t have any fifteens.” You watched as Bo’s feet moved towards the register, most likely pocketing the money. “Is that enough?”

Bo’s tone was easy going, the perfect southern gentleman as he helped a poor lost couple. “Close enough. You know, I’ve got the right size up at the house. Only a couple blocks from here…”

You forced yourself deaf, trying to block out the rest of their conversation. These people weren’t exactly assholes and they didn’t seem particularly deserving of what was about to happen. Your friends were bad people, you didn’t feel guilty about them, but there was something about this couple that had your stomach burning in anxiety. 

Maybe this was why Bo had you outside, playing mechanic with him. He wanted you to see the harsh reality of what it was they did here. you couldn’t always cover your ears and pretend it wasn’t happening. Was this what the test was? See how committed you were to him and Vincent, to Ambrose. 

You used the car as a cover, dropping the wrench beside you and covering your face as you tried to decide whether you were going to cry or throw up. It was fine, the idea of all this, when you were hidden under the grate. The straps were a reminder that it could be you up there being hunted again. 

Being face to face with the victims was entirely different. 

A hand slammed down on the roof of the car, the metal reverberating around you, “Hey!”

You screamed, jumping up and nearly hitting your head on the underbelly of the car. You rolled out, glaring at Bo while he stood smiling down at you. He kneeled down, laying a hand around your thigh and squeezing. 

“You’re gonna stay here, keep an eye out for any more of their friends, and behave. Okay?”

You nodded and he dug his nails in, “Yes, Bo.” 

“Good girl,” he stood up and walked towards the garage door. You watched him, afraid to take your eyes off his back. He turned back around, one last lingering look that had you feeling cold, “Don’t fuck up.” You flinched as the garage door slammed down behind him. 

“Help! Help me, please!” You jumped up and ran to the front of the auto shop. Carly ran face first into you, her fingernails digging painfully into your skin as she looked behind her. 

“Shit,” you grabbed her biceps and pulled her away. “What’s going on?”

She backed up, wiping her eyes and gulping as she tried to catch her breath. “That- that guy, Bo, I think he did something to my boyfriend.”

“Alright, calm down, it’s okay.” God, you were just as freaked out as her. What the fuck were you supposed to do? “Let me get the phone, we’ll call someone.”

She nodded, running to the door and locking it. She pressed her face against the glass and peered outside, keeping an eye out for him. You knew you didn’t have long before she started to get suspicious. The station had a working phone, but there was no way in hell you were actually about to call the cops on Bo. 

You paced back and forth, running your hands through your hair as you looked around, trying to find a solution. Your eyes snagged on the wrench by the car. You whipped your head over your shoulder, Carly was still stuck to the window. You ran for it, grabbing it and turning back towards her. 

You raised your hand up, wincing as she caught your eye in the reflection of the glass. “What’re-”

She crumpled to the ground with a thud, crimson pooling around her arms. 

You saw in the reflection Bo approaching you from behind, back in his coveralls. “Atta girl!” You didn’t react when he slung his arms over your shoulders, squeezing you and planting a sloppy kiss on your cheek. “Did good, baby.” He released you, huffing out a big sigh and walking over to the girl, “Alright, grab her ankles.” His tone was no longer adoring going right back to business. 

You looked at him like he was crazy, ”Bo, what?”

You dropped the wrench to the ground and he frowned from where he was picking up her wrists. “You got a problem?”

”Yeah! What the fuck are you doing? Why am I doing this?” He dropped her arms unceremoniously and you winced at the crack they made against the cement. He stepped over her, stalking towards you and you stumbled back, heart beating faster in fear. 

His hand snapped out, grabbing you before you could make it far. You whined as he dug his nails into your cheeks, puckering your lips and gripping your jaw hard enough for it to creak. “You’re doing this ‘cause I said to. Do we have a problem?”

He was so good at making you feel small. You wonder how Vincent’s put up with it all these years. “No, Bo,” your words were muffled by his grip, but he got the message. He released you, but you didn’t go far, his arm wrapping around waist and pulling you into his chest. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his hand coming up to push some of your hair back. “It’s alright, darlin.’ We all make mistakes, right?” His tone was condescending, his smirk even more so, but you played along like he wanted you to. Nodding and accepting when he pressed a violent kiss to your mouth, your teeth clashing together and lip splitting from the force of it. 

He backed away from you, chuckling loudly and going back to the unconscious girl on the floor. You grabbed her by the ankles like he’d told you to and helped him drag her down to the basement. He propped her head on your shoulder while he unlocked the door and you struggled under her dead weight. 

“Why is she going down here, Bo?”

Your mind went to the Polaroids covering the walls, the things he’s had you do in that chair and you felt anger burning in your gut. Not worry or fear for her like you should feel, but white hot burning rage at him for trying to pull something like this.

He looked over his shoulder at your expression and grinned, “Nothin’ like that, baby. Little bitch put up a fight and wrecked my truck, I ain’t done with her yet.” 

A good person would wince and whisper and apology to the unconscious girl, say they were sorry for the pain she was about to experience. Instead you felt sated, relieved, and completely fine with hauling her body up into the chair and taping her down. 

You held her legs down as he taped them and she started to move around. Bo tossed you some superglue and you gripped her by the jaw, clamping her lips shut and pouring glue over the seam of her mouth. She whimpered and you ignored her, moving mechanically, distancing yourself from the fact that she was a real moving person. In her place was a wax statue, full of imperfections that you needed the glue to fix. 

All three of you looked up through the grate at the sound of the boots stomping in the garage above you. Bo shared a look with you and nodded towards the door. You let the girl go, slipping out of the basement and closing the door behind you. You came up through the entrance behind the register, glancing outside to see a man in front of the garage. 

You let out a breath of relief, closing the door to the shop as you stepped into the garage, he hadn’t got a chance to see the pool of blood. “Can I help you?”

He turned around, a particularly bitchy look on his face. “Looking for my sister, Carly, seen her?”

There was a loud yelp and you frowned. You walked towards the work table, reaching for the stereo and turning the volume to Bo’s music on. You covered the grate from his view as Deftones blasted through the small garage. 

“Sorry, it’s my dog, she hates new people.”

He gave you an awkward smile and nodded. “Yeah, might’ve seen her. Pretty girl, blonde hair?”

He nodded his head, giving you an appraising look. You weren’t sure if he didn’t believe you or was checking you out. You really preferred that he didn’t believe you, you weren’t prepared to deal with Bo if he thought someone was moving in on you. ”My boss, Bo, took her and her boyfriend up to his house a few minutes ago. They were lookin’ for a fan belt.”

“His house?”

You shrugged, “He keeps extra shipments there. Wasn’t too long ago, you want me to take you?” 

He sucked on his teeth, shaking his head and backing away. “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

You panicked, fists clenching as you watched him retreat. “It's really no problem.”

“I said I’m good,” he snapped. 

You could see Bo creeping up behind him, the same wrench you used on the guy’s sister in his hand. If he turned around he would see Bo. Carly was easy to take out, she was small, trusting. This guy looked built and like he’d been in a few too many fights. “Wait!” You shouted, too scared to come up with a good distraction. 

He glared at you and opened his mouth to say something just as Bo struck. The wrench came down on the guys head with a disturbing crack, but he didn’t fall like he should have. He stumbled forward and whirled around on Bo, his fist catching him in the jaw and tackling him to the ground. 

You could clearly see blood pouring down the back of his head, but he remained unphased as he  pounded into Bo. “Shit,” you cursed, darting to the side to pick up another weapon but you failed to notice how the man had stopped beating Bo. He must’ve seen you moving somehow because in a split second something was slamming into your side and the air was leaving you as you were slammed into the cement. 

You groaned, feeling like your lungs had collapsed and curled up in an attempt to protect yourself as he directed his attacks towards you. “Nick!” A shrill voice screamed from the grate. “Nick!” He leapt off of you, heading back towards Bo and ripping the keys off his belt as he made a run for it. 

Your vision was red, blood pouring down from a cut on your forehead. You took in a painful breath, your lungs wheezing, your ribs had apparently taken the majority of his punches. With your brain pounding against your eyes you rolled onto your knees and crawled towards Bo. 

He wasn’t as badly injured as you had thought he would be, must’ve gotten in a few hits of his own. “Bo,” you grabbed his shoulders, gently shaking him. “Bo!” You tried again, shouting this time and slamming his head down on the cement. 

He groaned and you let yourself fall back, head lolling on your shoulders as you tried to get your vision to stop swimming. “Shit, he got me.” Bo sat up, wiping the blood from under his nose, “Get home.” He ordered, tone not leaving any room for an argument. You nodded as he stormed off, but instead of going home like he told you to, you laid down on the cold cement and groaned. 

Should lungs hurt?

You eventually managed your way to the house, once you’d got breath back, your injuries weren’t as bad as you’d thought they’d been. You stumbled into the doorway, glancing at a trail of blood leading into the office and trudging your way to the fridge. You grabbed a beer and threw yourself down on the couch. 

It didn’t take long to hear footsteps creeping towards you. Your heart clenched when you saw how hesitant Vincent was to get near you. You loved Bo, but he could be a real fucking dick to his brother. You leaned your head against the cushion, rolling it to the right and smiling at Vincent. 

It seemed to be enough for him to feel comfortable approaching you. He kneeled on the floor beside you and fussed over your scrapes. “I’m fine, really,” you reached up, taking his hand in yours and trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I think they got Bo pretty bad, though.”

He tugged his hands from yours, taking off his gloves and signing. How bad

”One of the guys, he’s pretty strong, busted his sister out from the basement after attacking me and Bo. Actually managed to knock Bo out for a minute.”

Stay here

“Wait-” you reached out, trying to grab the back of his sweater but he was already making a run for the front door. It slammed closed behind him, his truck starting up a minute later. You sighed and fell back against the couch, letting your eyes shut as you tried to relax. 

You hadn’t realized just how relaxed you’d gotten until you heard the door slam. You jumped up, glancing out the living room window and realizing how dark it’d gotten. You moved off the couch, placing your beer on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen. 

Bo was leaning on the counter, already a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was completely soaked in blood, his nose leaking and a bandage wrapped around his arm. “Holy shit, Bo, what happened?” 

You ran forward, hands instinctively going to the arrow buried in his arm. “Back off!” He snapped. You frowned and stepped back from him, trying not to upset him any further. You heard the rumble of a truck on the driveway and you glanced through the window. 

Two bodies lay in the bed of Vincent’s yellow truck, a blonde girl and some guy you hadn’t seen before. Vincent jumped out, Jonesy following behind him, and made his way towards the door. You opened it before he could, grabbing him by the cardigan and making sure he wasn’t hurt like Bo. 

He took your hands in his and shook his head, gently moving you back. “What have I told you about leaving without me?” Bo shouted. “You wait for me!”

Vincent nodded, not bothering to respond to Bo. There was a moment of tense silence before Bo offered a half-hearted smile to Vincent, “We’re almost done, Vinnie, momma would be proud of ya.”

It was the closest to an apology Vincent would ever get, you all knew it. Bo can’t apologize, his parents had permantly fucked with his psyche, and it started with his dad doing a risky surgery to seperate his boys. Vincent’s face would permanently be ruined but you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Bo had gotten the fucked mental end of the separation. 

“How many are left?” You asked, reluctantly releasing Vincent’s hands. 

“The girl and her brother,” Bo paced, taking a swig of his whiskey. He hissed and clutched his hurt arm. “Alright, help me out with this.”

You had to hold yourself back from snapping at him. Oh, can I help now? Dick. You grabbed hold of what was left of the arrow and yanked as hard as you could, Bo clenched his teeth and let out a loud pained groan. You winced at the amount of blood that started coming out, Vincent moved you to the side, already having a bandage ready and tying it tight around Bo’s arm. 

“Where do you think they headed?”

Bo grunted, speaking through clenched teeth, “House of Wax.”

You nodded and stepped back from him once it seemed like Vincent wouldn’t need your help. “I’ll go with you both.”

”No,” Bo shouted and Vincent shook his head wildly. 

“Don’t be a dumbass, you need my help. They’ve already kicked your ass, I’ll stay out of sight, promise. I just want to be there in case they get the upper hand.” Bo looked unsure and Vincent was still shaking his head. You placed a comforting hand on both of their arms and begged, “Please. Let me help.”

Bo shook his head and your stomach dropped, worried he would say no. Finally he let out a long sigh, “Stick with Vincent.”

You nodded, feeling Vincent’s hand grab onto yours as he led you outside. Bo grunted and slowly followed after you both, his left arm stiff beside him. 

You followed Vincent into the bowels of the House of Wax, he moved slowly, keeping one hand behind him to make sure you didn’t bolt. You weren’t planning on it, but they didn’t seem to completely trust you for some reason. 

You heard footsteps ahead, quck and frantic, rushing through his workshop. Vincent pulled out his bone handle daggers and ran down the rest of the steps. You stayed on the stairwell, keeping your head peaked around the corner. 

The brother was in there, rushing through the workshop and knocking shit over without a care in the world. He hadn’t noticed Vincent yet, too busy looking for something. You weren’t sure what he wanted, or what the plan was until you saw him grab a pile of sheets, getting ready to throw them in the fire that kept the wax warm. 

Shit, he was going to set the whole damn place on fire. 

Even if you did manage to kill these two, it wouldn’t matter, the police would come, they’d see the bodies. Bo and Vincent would be locked up and you…

Well, you didn’t really know what would happen to you. 

You could always plead insanity, show the jury the scars from your bonds and they’d think you were just a victim forced to do the unimaginable. 

You considered it for a moment, letting him get away with this, thought about the freedom that might await you. There was an empty feeling associated with that image, you’d miss Bo and Vince, miss the fucked up life you were living here. 

There weren’t any worries here, just make sure the victims didn’t make it past the woods and you were fine. No taxes, or wondering how you’d afford to keep living in your overpriced apartment, no fucked politics. You were free to be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted. 

You grabbed a lead pipe off the stairs and threw it at the wall. It provided enough of a distraction for him to drop the sheets, not yet making it to the fire, and for Vince to grab him. You watched long enough to see the knife go through his throat and then ran back up the stairs towards Bo. 

You heard screaming before you made it through the door, Carly shouting something at him. What worried you was that you didn’t hear him respond. You turned the corner, feet sticking to the wax as you gripped onto the doorway for balance. 

She was standing over him, baseball bat in her hands poised to bring it back down over his face. You could already see blood leaking down his face from where she’d hit him before. Without thinking you charged at her, wrapping your arms around her middle and taking her down to the floor. 

She let out a surprised yelp but you didn’t let her get much else out before you were wailing on her. You don’t know what happened after you grabbed her. You only remember punching her the first time, remember your knuckles splitting and your blood mingling with hers as she wrestled with you. 

All you could see was Bo laying on the floor, not moving, as this bitch stood over him with a bat. You were blinded by rage, a hot fury burning in your gut and keeping you moving as you pounded your fists into her. You felt satisfied by the sound of her bones crunching under you. 

She screamed at you, words you couldn’t hear as your blood rushed through your ears, and threw her hand up into your chin. You groaned, jaw whipping to the side. She pounced on you, digging her fingers into your throat until you couldn’t breathe and flipping you both over. 

You dragged your nails down her face, the skin digging under your nails like warm wax. You dragged your palms down until you could feel her throat, the movement it made as she took in a deep breath. You felt it bob up and down under your touch and you squeezed. She let out a strangled yelp and you could feel yourself slipping. You were becoming lost in a place of animalistic panic. 

You were almost dead, the man you loved was most likely lying dead next to you as you fought for your own life. Your vision was cloudy until it went completely black and then you felt arms wrapping around your chest and pulling you back. You kicked and screamed, still in fighting for your life until you recognized the voice in your ear. 

“Alright, it’s alright, it’s over.” You slumped back at the sound of Bo’s whispers. You ignored the feeling of his blood leaking into your shirt as he sat down with you, pulling you into his chest and squeezing until it hurt. 

You didn’t mind the pain, though, embracing it because it meant you were both alive. Both of you were okay. You reached back, wrapping your arms around his neck and melting into him. Carly lay dead a few feet in front of you, her face mangled and you looked down to see her blood soaking into your clothes. 

You had your own wounds from where she’d fought back, bleeding lacerations that you’d fix later. For now you sat with Bo, watching as Vincent stomped towards you both. In a minute you’d get up, help them clean up the house and the bodies. Then you’d all go home, you’d make dinner, pass out on the couch and wake up in one of their beds. Probably Bo, if his panicked grip was anything to go by. 

Life would go on as it always had, except you’d never have to see that chair again. You’d never be looking up through a grate as blood pooled on the garage floor. You’d go with Bo when he went to the city for supplies, you’d be able to pick out clothes that weren’t plucked from the hands of the dead. 

It wasn’t right. 

You weren’t a good person. 

You didn’t deserve salvation or heaven after all of this. 

But you’d found it and you were perfectly happy. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie House of Wax (2005), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[leaderwon]

RECIPE OF LOVE : KSN | 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐝𝐚𝐲 — 𝟓)

Synopsis : A simple cooking class turns into a hilarious adventure when Sunoo’s playful antics and your clumsy mistakes lead to total chaos in the kitchen. Despite the mess, Sunoo’s sweet gestures make it a day you will never forget.

Warnings : Playful teasing, accidental messes, light physical touch

wc : 1.6k+

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The aroma of freshly baked bread hit your senses as you stepped into the cozy cooking studio, the soft hum of classical music playing in the background. Sunoo stood beside you, already bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.

“Look at this place,” he said, gesturing dramatically to the rows of polished countertops and neatly organized ingredients. “We’re basically on one of those fancy cooking shows. Gordon Ramsay, who?” You laughed, adjusting the apron the instructor had handed you. “Let’s just hope we don’t burn the place down.” “Speak for yourself,” Sunoo shot back with a grin, tying his apron in a perfectly neat bow. “I’m a natural chef. Just watch.”

The instructor began explaining the recipe (a classic pasta dish with freshly made sauce) but neither of you paid much attention. Sunoo was too busy poking fun at your overly serious expression, and you were too busy rolling your eyes at his antics.

When it was finally time to start, things went off the rails almost immediately.

“Uh, Sunoo?” you called, holding up a measuring cup filled to the brim with flour. “How much of this are we supposed to use again?” He leaned over to look, squinting at the recipe card. “It says half a cup, but honestly, who measures things? Just eyeball it.” “Are you sure?” you asked, hesitating. “Trust me,” he said, flashing a confident smile. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

vYou decided to take his advice and dumped the entire cup into the mixing bowl. A cloud of flour puffed into the air, covering both of you in a fine white powder. “Oops,” Sunoo said, blinking through the flour that now coated his lashes. “You said to eyeball it!” you protested, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean that much,” he shot back, laughing as he grabbed a towel to wipe his face. “At least now you look like a ghost. Very spooky.” You smacked his arm lightly, but the playful smile on your face gave you away.

As the class continued, the two of you made mistake after mistake. Sunoo cracked an egg too forcefully, spilling it all over the counter, and you accidentally turned the mixer on too high, sending ingredients flying in every direction.

“Okay, this is officially a disaster,” you said, trying to scrape bits of dough off your apron. “It’s not a disaster,” Sunoo replied, holding up a slightly lopsided pile of chopped vegetables. “It’s… character. Our dish has personality.”

Despite the chaos, neither of you could stop laughing. The other students in the class sent amused glances your way, and even the instructor shook her head with a smile as she passed by your station.

When it was finally time to plate the pasta, your creation looked nothing like the sample dish. The noodles were slightly overcooked, and the sauce was too thick, but Sunoo proudly held up the plate like it was a five-star masterpiece.

“Behold,” he announced, presenting it to you with a flourish. “A culinary triumph.” You snorted. “It looks like a kindergartener made it.”

“Hey, rude,” he said, pretending to be offended. “But you know what? At least we had fun. That’s what matters, right?” You nodded, smiling at him. “Yeah, you’re right. This was way more fun than I expected.”

As the class wrapped up, you found yourselves sitting at a small table by the window, sharing bites of your imperfect creation. The evening sun cast a warm glow across the room, and for a moment, everything felt calm.

Sunoo leaned back in his chair, watching you with a soft smile. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I’m really glad you came with me today. I can always count on you to make things fun.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, but you tried to play it cool. “Pretty sure you’re the one who turned this into a comedy show.” “Yeah, but you were the perfect co star,” he said, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at you. His gaze lingered for a moment, and the playful energy from earlier softened into something warmer.

Before you could think of a response, Sunoo suddenly sat up straight. “Wait. I almost forgot!” “Forgot what?” you asked, watching as he rummaged through his bag.

With a triumphant grin, he pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box and slid it across the table to you. “Here. For being my partner in crime today.” You blinked, surprised. “What is this?” “Open it and find out,” he said, leaning forward with anticipation.

Carefully, you unwrapped the box, revealing a delicate charm bracelet with tiny cooking themed charms, a rolling pin, a whisk, and a little heart-shaped cookie cutter.

“It’s so cute,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sunoo, you didn’t have to…” “I wanted to,” he interrupted, his smile soft but genuine. “I saw it last week and thought it’d be perfect for today. Now you’ll have something to remember our disastrous but iconic cooking adventure.”

You stared at the bracelet, your heart swelling at the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “Thank you, Sunoo. Really. This means a lot.” He waved a hand dismissively, but the slight pink on his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s nothing. Just… wear it when you miss me, okay? That way, you’ll always have me around to tease you.”

You laughed, slipping the bracelet onto your wrist. “You’re unbelievable.” “And yet, you still hang out with me,” he teased, standing up and holding out a hand to you. “Come on. Let’s go get some real food to make up for our sad excuse for pasta.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. As you walked out of the studio together, the bracelet on your wrist jingled softly with every step, a sweet reminder of a day you knew you’d never forget.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[sassenach77yle]

7x10 “Brotherly Love”

THE NEW MEDICAL CHEST sat on the table in my room, gleaming softly in the candlelight. Beside it were the gauze bags of dried herbs I had bought during the morning, the fresh bottles of the tinctures I had brewed in the afternoon, much to Mrs. Figg’s displeasure at having her kitchen’s purity so perverted. Her slitted eyes said that she knew me for a rebel and thought me likely a witch; she’d retreated to the doorway of the cookhouse while I worked but wouldn’t leave altogether, instead keeping silent suspicious watch over me and my cauldron.A large decanter of plum brandy was keeping me company. Over the course of the last week, I had found that a glass of it at night would let me find surcease in sleep, at least for a little. It wasn’t working tonight. I heard the clock on the mantelpiece downstairs chime softly, once.I stooped to pick up a box of dried chamomile that had spilled, sweeping the scattered leaves carefully back into their container. A bottle of syrup of poppies had fallen over, too, lying on its side, the aromatic liquid oozing round the cork. I set it upright, wiped the golden droplets from its neck with my kerchief, blotted up the tiny puddle from the floor. A root, a stone, a leaf. One by one, I picked them up, set them straight, put them away, the accoutrements of my calling, the pieces of my destiny.The cool glass seemed somehow remote, the gleaming wood an illusion. Heart beating slowly, erratically, I put a hand flat on the box, trying to steady myself, to fix myself in space and time. It was becoming more difficult by the day.I remembered, with sudden, painful vividness, a day on the retreat from Ticonderoga. We had reached a village, found momentary refuge in a barn. I’d worked all day then, doing what could be done with no supplies, no medicines, no instruments, no bandages save what I made from the sweat-sodden, filthy clothes of the wounded. Feeling the world recede further and further as I worked, hearing my voice as though it belonged to someone else. Seeing the bodies under my hands, only bodies. Limbs. Wounds. Losing touch.Darkness fell. Someone came, pulled me to my feet, and sent me out of the barn, into the little tavern. It was crowded, overwhelmed with people. Someone—Ian?—said that Jamie had food for me outside.He was alone there, in the empty woodshed, dimly lit by a distant lantern.I’d stood in the doorway, swaying. Or perhaps it was the room that swayed.I could see my fingers dug into the wood of the doorjamb, nails gone white.

A movement in the dimness. He rose fast, seeing me, came toward me. What was his

“Jamie.”

I’d felt a distant sense of relief at finding his name.

He’d seized me, drawn me into the shed, and I wondered for an instant whether I was walking or whether he was carrying me; I heard the scrape of the dirt floor under my feet but didn’t feel my weight or the shift of it.He was talking to me, the sound of it soothing. It seemed a dreadful effort to distinguish words. I knew what he must be saying, though, and managed to say, “All right. Just… tired,” wondering even as I spoke them whether these sounds were words at all, let alone the right ones.“Will ye sleep, then, lass?” he’d said, worried eyes fixed on me. “Or can ye eat a bit first?” He let go of me, to reach for the bread, and I put out a hand to the wall to support myself, surprised to find it solid.The sense of cold numbness had returned.“Bed,” I said. My lips felt blue and bloodless. “With you. Right now.”He’d cupped my cheek, calloused palm warm on my skin. Big hand. Solid. Above all, solid.“Are ye sure, a nighean?” he’d said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Ye look as though—”I’d laid a hand on his arm, half fearing that it would go through his flesh.“Hard,” I’d whispered. “Bruise me.”My glass was empty, the decanter halfway full. I poured another and took hold of the glass carefully, not wanting to spill it, determined to find oblivion, no matter how temporary.

Could I separate entirely? I wondered.

Could my soul actually leave my body without my dying first?

Or had it done so already?...

95 NUMBNESS~An Echo in the Bone

[velvetcloxds]

HEAVEN CAN WAIT | A.H.

pairing: groundskeeper!aaron x heiress!reader

word count: 1.5k words

warning: nothing? you simply have to listen to heaven can wait by dean martin as homework

summary: in a form of contained rebellion, you move to a little cottage on a farm in the middle of nowhere to be alone, well alone with the handsome groundskeeper you agreed to keep around to chase the critters away

Dinner was plain but tasteful, a simple recipe you'd found in the old cooking book Aaron found while cleaning the place before you moved in. The silence was beginning to get more bearable during dinner, soft smiles and quick glances filling the time between forks scraping against plates and talkative cows rebelling against the moon. Aaron was getting more comfortable spending time in the main house with you instead of retreating to his cabin at night. Despite your days being everything you'd dreamt of, the picture of peace, nights were still a challenge. The idea of having no company besides your own thoughts and the occasional wandering donkey strolling by was still something to get used to. You'd been finding reasons to have him over at night, a creaking floor, a window that wouldn't close, really whatever you'd discovered during the day- though soon enough late dinners seemed an easier offer than handy work at midnight.

"Do you think it's getting better?" you dared, being adventurous between a bite of pasta, it startled him despite the delicate delivery, his mouth full and bread roll still caught between his teeth- you smiled shyly. "My cooking," you explained and he had some time to think about it as he chewed.

"It's never been too bad," he offered and you had to admit, it was an exciting prospect, having a proper conversation with him.

"Really?" he hummed as an answer, focusing back on his plate, eyes robbed from your view. He really wasn't one for needless pleasantries.

You weren't sure where your father found him, though everything you knew about him was partly fabricated by imaginative daydreaming, you felt drawn to him like no one ever before. He was kind, in ways you weren't used to men being kind, gentle in ways that belonged to novels. You wanted to know all that there is to him, though mystery has its appeals, it was odd being so consumed by thoughts of someone who was still mostly a stranger. You'd thought it merely loneliness, disconnection from the world, too much time spent reading the vintage novels of buried authors that had a way of painting pictures too soft and romantic.

For a while, you'd found yourself comparing him to the likes of Franz Kafka, though seemingly not as disturbed, definitely as morbidly unwilling to see the interest of his own character, the romance of his budding presence. Maybe even the lyricism of Chet Baker, equal parts devotion as melancholy. He was handsome, more so on the colder days when he'd be in too much of a rush to rid the chiseled features of his face of the stubble climbing past his lips. When he'd wrap himself in a thick turtle neck sweater, granting you freedom from being distracted by the flow of his neck to his shoulders, much like the smooth melodies, the soft harmonies of wordlessness of Ella Fitzgerald. You couldn't understand, how you'd allowed yourself such pleasantries of thinking, such poetic comparisons when you were sure he'd not considered the same.

"Fall is starting soon," he spoke over his glass of wine, and with his scarf discarded when he sat down you found a moment of curiosity with the veins in his neck, the movement of his adam's apple. "I imagine you'd want me to come over sooner in the afternoon?" you lifted a brow, momentarily wondering about the request and then looking towards the door, the wind not agreeing with the aged wood, the sound something awful as you attempted to look back at Aaron who offered you something like a smirk when you did.

"What?" you breathed, tugged at the loose cardigan around your shoulders, now very much aware of the wind and the trees brushing against the window and the tiles you now regretted embracing with bare feet.

"The sun sets earlier this time of the year," he explained with foreign casualty, the small kitchen table making it easy for him to reach over and take your empty plate, and you stole a second to settle when he brushed past your should on his way to the sink. "The wind makes the power unstable, but I have candles to spare since you're uncomfortable with the dark and I'd bring over some wood for a fire since you get cold so easily."

You'd be embarrassed if you weren't so enlightened, in awe by his prolific insights into your being, it made you wonder perhaps if he was just as curious about you as you were about him. Though your father had to give him at least somewhat of a background regarding why you'd settled here, you wondered if he had to creatively fill the blank pages too.

"I'd have to learn to make soup, or stew at least," you decided not to take note of his observations, standing instead to take the empty pot and half-full bottle of wine from the table. "If I remember correctly you mentioned something about being able to make bread," he scoffed, a familiar sound, more so than his voice, when he spoke it never seemed to sound the same, always tinted with whatever he was doing or feeling, you'd speak to him so scarcely that every time felt like a different person.

"Sourdough," of course, he'd brought you some in the first week you'd moved here when you weren't as comfortable with the recipe book yet. "It would be perfect with your stew," he didn't see your shy smile, it had been swallowed by the time you went to stand next to him, fingers burning at the accidental contact when he took the pot from you to wash it as well.

You'd turned the record player on earlier, a gift from your mother, a set of records from the sixties to go with it, you'd turned on the first one that you found, it tended to get lost around Aaron, the volume of his presence something deafening despite his silence. Now, however, it felt too loud, transportive in its harmonies of love and longing and time frozen somewhere in a notebook full of souls and lyrics. It drifted through the cold stone cottage like leaves would move with a breeze and hummed through your nerves like poetry had been written into your veins in simple seconds. Forced you to savour it before it ended and though Aaron's hands were still busy in the sink you stole a glance to see him lost in thought, eyes glazed in memory maybe, a fantasy and you felt like you knew everything there is to know in that second.

Desires was like something written by Maya Angelou, completely consuming, too much dept to mention them out loud but you realized the reason Aaron was such an anomaly to you was because of the desire your heart had hidden in simple out-of-reach visions. His arms wrapped around you in a laughably uncharacteristic way, hands sprawled out over the wrinkles in your sundress, daringly close to the strings that hold it together. Eyes closed, conscious dreaming as his voice drawls lowly by your ear, lips brushing your skin, shivers up your spine, airless like you were floating about the room instead of moving ever so slowly to the music. There was a numbness to his touch, phantom, as if your body wasn't yours, as if his fingers weren't real. You wondered if it could last forever, how long the song would play, when the record would stop, you wondered if reality was really worth all of that if a second of hallucinatory bliss could spread through your body like fire, burning through every muscle.

"Would you like to stay?" you cleared your throat, voice unsteady somehow and you weren't sure what you were hoping for, truly you'd experience much more of heaven in your head, in the pages of your journal. "The cake is still too hot for me to decorate it."

"I could stay," he agreed and you truly used every ounce of willpower not to look as he dried his hands, a soft smile, an unfamiliar promise as you caught the briefest glance at your lips, up your face, back to the wall. "I've been meaning to fix your bookshelf for all the new novels you found at the market," you wanted to object, to suggest that he didn't have to work, and could just stay for a while, but he was walking off into your room already. About halfway through your mumbled musings while folding the tablecloth and napkins, he stuck his head out from the hall. "Why don't you restart the record before you come this side," you only had it in you to nod with a smile, hoping it didn't seem too eager, too hopeful. You did as he asked and with a little twirl, you grabbed your book from the coffee table to go watch him work.

Heaven can wait.

[hotluncheddie]

For the @steddie-spooktober day 22 prompt : leaves

rated: E (?) | cw: none | tags: housewife role play, feminisation, established relationship

🍁💕🍁💕

Eddie bought the place from a guy Hopper knew. A plot of land in Illinois, just outside Kentucky. A place to rest, to build roots. A new home.

After four platinum albums and near constant touring, Eddie made his lawyer find a clause in his contract titled ‘give me a fucking break.’

So after a final summer of shows. Eddie bought the land officially and did the closest thing he could to marrying Steve Harrington.

He bought a home for Steve, to get him away from the city. He was always complaining about it, about wanting a change - especially now that Robin had settled in an apartment with her girl and had gotten comfortable at her job with the museum. (Eddie flies them out during holidays. He’s rich now, and he’d do anything to put a smile on Steve’s face.)

So Eddie bought Steve a house, and a ring. And it was all very wholesome, and sweet. And Eddie always looks forward to coming back once he’s finished whatever show, interview or meeting that whisks him away. He’s always craving his little bit of wholesome, his little life of sweetness.

He’s also usually craving something else. Something that’s maybe less wholesome, and sweet, depending on how you look at it…

Eddie wipes the sweat from his brow, leaning over the pot of canned sauce he’s stirring. He still can’t cook, and every time worries it’ll mess with the fantasy.

But he can’t think about that now, checking he definitely set the timer for the garlic bread in the oven. He did, 5 more minutes.

He hears Steve kick his boots against the wall outside the frontdoor. He’d wanted to finish moving all the fallen leaves together to be readied for compost. They no doubt tacked themselves to the bottom of his shoes.

The door unlocks and Eddie scrapes a hand through his hair. He hears Steve shuffle around, taking off his jacket and hat. Eddie re ties his apron, pulling the strings tighter around his waist.

‘Honey I’m home!’ Steve calls.

Eddie tenses for a moment, then goes back to stirring. He shivers as Steve’s thick, work worn hands slip around his waist and squeeze. The smell of Steve’s hard earned musk making Eddie’s knees weak.

‘Hey baby.’ Eddie murmurs, as Steve kisses up the side of his neck.

The timer going off makes Eddie jump.

He shoos Steve into a chair and bends to take the garlic bread out of the oven, arching his back a little more than he needs to.

‘Okay, I, uh, think I just need to dish up.’ Eddie says, slightly frazzled, making sure everything is turned off and grabbing plates out.

‘C’mere a sec?’

Eddie turns, smoothing down his frilly apron and stepping over to where Steve’s sat, legs spread. In his flannel and blue jeans he’s as close to a cowboy as Eddie’s ever seen. (The tabbed off page of his old play girl doesn’t see much action anymore, rendered useless by the man before him.)

Steve pulls at his wrists, making Eddie sit straddling his knee. Eddie bites his lip at the friction on his cock through the thin cotton shorts he’s wearing.

‘How’s my best girl huh?’ Steve asks, pulling Eddie flush against him.

Eddie whimpers. ‘Good.’ He rasps. ‘Missed you.’

‘Missed you too, did you cook me something nice?’ Steve tucks a lock of hair behind Eddie’s ear.

Eddie opens his mouth to answer but Steve shifts his thigh and grips Eddie’s hips to grind against him. Eddie moans.

‘What was that?’ Steve asks.

‘Yeh, yes.’ Eddie manages. ‘Pasta.’

‘Ah, just like a good little housewife huh? Go serve it up then.’ Steve says, lifting Eddie’s writhing form off his leg and smacking him on the ass.

Eddie serves up two plates, hands shaking, dick tenting his shorts.

He can’t wait to see what Steve has planned for desert.

🍁💕🍁💕

Tag list (lmk to be added / removed) : @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m @thecatkingsthrone

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots @chameleonhair

[sincere1ystar]

can u write some peeta fluff? it doesn't have anything to do w the games, just pure comfort <3

btw i love ur page sm !!

Stars in Heaven

peeta mellark x fem! reader

Peeta comforts you when you have a bad day (includes childhood friends to lovers trope)

authors note: thank you so much anon :) also i’m so sorry this took so long 😭

When you thought of Peeta you didn't see the victor of the 74th hunger games or the performer who had managed to win over the Capitol, instead you saw the baker boy from District 12 that you fell in love with. Childhood was sweet with him, the two of you grew up together in his family’s  bakery surrounded by fluffy batches of bread and the smell of freshly baked cupcakes coming out of the oven. 

Those were the old days of course, now you were all grown up and wed to the same boy who you grew up playing in the fields with. You two had a bakery of your own now, he insisted it would be a perfect tribute to your shared childhood. And maybe one day when you two had children of your own they would run around the wooden floors just like the two of you had when you were kids.

Peeta fit your body so right to the point when he would come home during those late nights and his arms slowly started to embrace you with your back turned to him, you didn’t have to open your eyes to know it was him. Peeta never complained about the long and taxing days, just simply buried himself in your arms everytime he came home. As long as he had you it would all be somehow okay

“Sweetheart”, he murmured softly one night as you woke up from the sensation of him slowly wrapping his arms around you, “Oh go back to sleep… I didn’t mean to wake you. Guess I should try to be more quiet nex time hm?”

You just sleepily mumble in response as your half conscious body buries itself more into his soft embrace. You had a bad day so weren’t around to help at the bakery much today so you didn’t get to see too much of Peeta. Instead you spent majority of the day in bed overthinking, letting your anxiety getting the better of you. “I missed you”, you mutter softly, “You work too much…”

“Do I?”, he responds innocently as he brushes through your tangled hair with his fingers.

You nod in agreement. “Too much”.

“I know sweet girl I’m sorry… Don’t worry too much about it just go back to sleep alright?”, his words embrace you as sleepy slowly starts to tug at your eyes. “Yeah that’s it honey.. It’s alright I’m here now”.

The last few days you’ve seemed a bit off and you know Peeta has noticed by the way he holds your head as you rest on his chest. He knew sometimes plagues from the past bled their way into the present, and in those times he would just hold you close to his chest since listening to his heartbeat always calmed you down. The screams and wails playing throughout your mind were replaced by the soft thump of Peeta’s heart. Your last thought before you drift off to sleep was how nice it felt to have your limbs tangled over his. How comfortable it felt to be surrounded by his security and love. The little boy who put a bandage on your scraped knee the first time you fell off your bike as a little girl had now grown up into a man who kept you together everytime you felt like you were breaking as he held you securely in his arms.

[leilawdwwrites]

Rhysand x Shadowsinger F reader

Rhysand and Reader have kissed a few times but now its time to do the deed. Straight up smut lol. Let me know what you think!

Sub rhys lol

Word count: 2134

Rhys’ Pov:

   Rhys collected soup, bread, and a large water pitcher with two glasses for y/n and him. 

Rhys returned to y/n, placing the tray on the dresser before closing and locking the door. He gave y/n the food and changed into some more comfortable clothes before he joined her. 

After they ate, he put their food in the dresser next to the door. He would deal with it tomorrow; he couldn’t be bothered now.

Rhys closed the curtains, then slid beneath the covers.

Now, the only source of light they had was the candle lamp. It was dim, but he could still make out her face. 

   He turned over his side. y/n’s eyes fluttered open. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I feel a bit drained but not too tired.”

Rhys pressed a kiss against her head. He was stroking her hair with his fingers. 

y/n relaxed with his touch, closing her eyes. Rhys stopped, looking down at her as if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He smiled.

y/n opened one eye. “Don’t stop.” Rhys continued to stroke her hair. “My mother used to do this to me when I was younger. I’ve missed it- I haven’t had anyone do it for me before.”

“Say the word, and I’ll stop the world for you. Say the word, and I’ll stop everything for you. Say the world, and I won’t stop at anything to look after you.”

y/n smiled, which melted his heart. He pressed a light kiss to her mouth. y/n leaned up, running her fingers through his hair. He stared into her deep turquoise eyes. She was perfect.

“You’re so beautiful.” 

“You think?” She said in disbelief.

“Yes.” Rhys ran his hand down her arm, “do you not think so?”

y/n shrugged, “Not really. I’ve been compared to my sister my whole life. If you think I’m pretty, you should see her. I’m nothing compared to her. I don’t get how you would even like me-” y/n snorted, “you’re beautiful, and I’m just me…”

“Meaning?” 

“I don’t compare to her.”

He snorted. If  only she knew.

“y/n. Listen to me; let me make this clear. You are the most beautiful person I have ever met.” It was the truth. She was like a goddess. “In every way, you’re lovely.” He placed a hand over her heart. 

“You’re kind.”

“You’re thoughtful.”

“You’re loyal.”

“Caring.”

“Considerate.”

“Intelligent.”

“You’re a strong woman who has gone through so much and helps people give up-even at your hardest times. I could go on. You’re beautiful inside and out. I love you. You’re mine. If you’ll have me.” He didn’t expect her to say it back after everything.

“Yes,” She nodded.

y/n then pushed him onto his back, sliding on top of him until she was straddling him. He was instantly hard. He would never admit it, but he didn’t mind being dominated by her one bit. Only her. Never anyone else.

“Can I,” she whispered.”

“Yes.” 

He couldn't contain the sight of her. Her white shirt clung to her chest, slightly revealing her peaked nipples. The thing he would do for this woman…

y/n took off his pants along with his undershorts. He felt her wetness against his thigh, even though she was wearing underwear.

y/n scooted closer to him over his cock. She teased him, rubbing her sweet cunt over his cock. He moaned at the friction, but it wasn’t enough. 

“Patience,” y/n smirked down at him as she rubbed her calloused hands over his cock, scraping her nails down him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, gripping the sheets. 

y/n sat up properly on him. He perished when she tossed off her shirt. Y/n got off of him, taking her underwear off. He started to get up. 

“Lay down.” She ordered, and despite everything he did.

“Good boy,” she purred enticingly. He couldn’t help the way his cock jerked up. y/n touched him lightly, and he jerked up, needing more.

   She withdrew her hand, stepping back. She wrapped her shadows around his ankles and wrists preventing him from leaving. If Cassian and Az found him…

“Y/n…” He tried to pull free. 

“Trust me.”

He was hesitant but looking forward to where this was going.  He oddly liked the control she took over him.

“Wait here.” She changed quickly.

“Not like I can move.”

“I’ll be quick.” She smiled, then he was gone.

What on earth would she be doing?

    Reader’s pov:

   Her heart raced as she got atop night and sped towards the city of velaris. She found exactly what she was looking for—a sex shop. 

She was nervous she had never done something this scandalous.

She looked around quickly. She must have looked lost, and a female illyrian assisted her.

She explained to the woman what she wanted. The woman smirked, and she went on her way.

    Rhysands pov:        

   Rhys heard the door click, and y/n was instantly inside. She wore an oversized, long brown coat. 

He wasn’t hard anymore, but he was sure it wouldn’t take long. y/n locked the door again, lighting three more candle lamps.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

y/n giggled. It was such a sweet sound. “You wait and see,” she said with a coy smile.

He groaned impatience, his cock growing.

y/n slipped the coat, revealing a dress coated in gold diamonds; it showed off all her curves, revealing her cleavage.  All he could think about was being between her breasts.

y/n removed her shoes and socks, pulling the desk chair to the end of the bed.

She didn’t sit just yet.

“Enjoy the show,” she whispered.

Oh fuck. 

   Rhys watched as she ran her hands down her body-palming at her breast-releasing a soft moan when she rubbed her cunt. She strained against the ties, but it was useless.

y/n slipped off the dress slowly, revealing sexy black lingerie. It was perfect for her, and she slowly took it off, touching herself in the process; there was nothing that turned him on more than crawling to him on the bed. He tried to reach her but remembered he was restrained. He watched as y/n removed the lingerie covering her breasts. They fell delicately. 

y/n traced the outline of her breasts, getting closer to the centre with every circle she made with her index fingers. Then she pinched her nipples. He saw the pleasure that she felt, and it was exactly what he wanted to make her feel. 

y/n suddenly did what he least expected: she leant down and pressed her breasts around his dick. He almost came at the first stroke. 

Her breasts felt perfect around him. He savoured the feeling. She brought her breast up and down, occasionally touching his cock.  

Precum formed at the head. y/n shook her head. “Not yet.” y/n sat up and he tried to protest, but it did no good.

y/n trailed her finger over where his cum lay on the tip of her breast, pressed it to her lips then swallowed.

He would erupt, not in that way but in an impatient way. He needed her closer.

“When you cum, I want it to be in my mouth, not between my breasts.” Before he could respond, y/n’s lips were around him. She took him deep. It felt as good as he had ever experienced. 

He moaned, unable to help himself. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair but could not.

y/n’s head bobbed up and down. She was taking him deeper until he hit the base of her throat. 

   “You’re doing so well.” y/n pumped the base bottom of him. He thrust up, and that was enough to make him cum right there.

y/n moaned as he filled her up. She took him down with ease. She stood back up, and he watched the cum dribble down her chin to her breast.

y/n took the rest of her lingerie off until she was completely naked. y/n sat on the chair, propping her feet up so he could see her fresh cunt.

He blew out a frustrated breath. He could see her dripping. He didn’t think it could get any better, so she began to touch herself.

He watched her touch herself. It was fucking glorious.

She circled her entrance before plunging her two fingers into her cunt. It wasn’t sweet. She moaned as she pumped himself.

Rhys moaned at watching her pleasure herself; the desire for it made him go insane.

y/n pumped hard and fast, moaning loudly.

“y/n,” he begged. “Please. I need to be with you.” He panted.

y/n released her fingers, sitting on him again; she rubbed against his cock and put her fingers in his mouth. She tasted like nothing else he’d ever felt. He wanted her to fill his mouth forever. 

y/n turned around so her ass was facing him-then she was riding him again; she slammed down on him hard and fast. Her moans were bliss, an unforgettable melody against his ears.

She was so tight and wet against him. It felt just right. y/n was so warm, and he fit inside her perfectly.

“Rhys.” y/n moaned. She was so close. He could sense it.

“y/n. Face me. When you cum I want to see your face.” So y/n did; one second, she was riding him with her perfect firm ass on his chest, and then she turned around and slipped onto his cock. 

He watched as y/n’s perfect breasts bounced as she rode him. “Rhys…” His name on her lips was his undoing, and he erupted in her; it wasn’t until she came too her cum dripped down his thigh, and at the feeling, it made him erect again. He heard y/n moan, and he thrust deep into her.

“y/n, if you don’t fucking untie me right now, I’m going to be fucking you in every place in the fucking room.”

y/n raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”

“I’ll untie you, but I will hold you to that promise.” 

Then the invisible ties around his wrist and ankle were gone, and he bent her over the desk, his cock hammering into her.

Fuck, she was so tight, Rhysand pulled her hair back, turning her head to face him. The way her eyes rolled back and the sounds she made made him sink even more profoundly.

“Rhys. Rhss. Rhys.” y/n chanted his name, moans rolling off her lips along with his name. 

“Fuck y/n,”  he growled. Her moans became louder, and the pitch increased. Her moans were everything he ed. needed  

“y/n, I need to be on top of you. Please.”” He panted.

“ “What are you waiting for, then?”

He didn’t even take a second until he flipped her on the bed and was inside her.

   Everything he wanted was right before him. He couldn't help but think about what he did to deserve such a fantastic woman.

Rhys slid in her again. He had already lost track of how many times they had fucked. It seemed endless-and neither of them wanted to stop and would probably pass out before they stopped.

“You feel so amazing.” 

He sensed her smirk, and in response, Rhys flipped her over on the bed and pounded into her. The sounds she made were utter bliss. “y/n,” he moaned. He was so deep in her, hitting the hilt. 

   Her scream vibrated around the room as they both came together. Rhys pulled down. His come dripped down y/ns leg.

“You okay?” He whispered.

y/n nodded, laying down on the pillows. “That was...a scream of pure joy.” y/n panted softly, “It felt amazing.”

“Good.” Rhys returned, then went beneath the sheets.

“But-” y/n began to protest. 

“You want more?” He chuckled 

y/n gave him a look that told him.

“y/n,” He looked at her; she was sitting now lying next to him. 

“We need to sleep.”

“But I need more. Please.” She begged.

“y/n lay on my chest. Relax.” y/n did so and put her leg over his.

He pinched her nipples while sliding his finger through her wetness.

“You need to sleep, baby,” he stroked his hand down her thigh.

“I know,” she moaned softly.

“Sleep, baby,” He whispered against her ear.

He rubbed her back soothingly, not in a sexual way but to get her to sleep.

It didn’t take long for y/n to fall asleep, but all night, he was thinking of her and what tomorrow would be like.

[aylacavebear]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 3

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 3305

Warning: Angst, longing. Not much that I can think of.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 3

Graduating just before summer wasn’t anything like a traditional school ceremony, but your pack made sure it felt special. Professors Zimmerman and Saltzman were there, standing alongside nearly half the pack. Your parents even got you a gown, ensuring you had at least a small taste of normalcy you’d never quite had.

Afterward, the celebration stretched long into the evening—music thrummed through the trees, laughter, and dancing filled the clearing, and the scent of roasted meat and sweet pastries lingered in the air. The adults passed around bottles of beer and whiskey, and, to your surprise, your parents allowed you one drink. You savored the cold bitterness, rolling the taste over your tongue like it was some kind of milestone. It felt like one.

Since that night in the forest—the last time you’d heard him—you hadn’t returned to the place that called to you beneath the full moon. Instead, you lingered closer to the cabins, never straying too far. You never sang. That song belonged to you and him alone, a quiet secret in the night, and you weren’t ready to share it with anyone else.

Two other families lived on the land, and over the months, you grew closer to them. The elders of both families took care of the pups during full moons, wrangling them when instincts ran high and patience ran thin. Beverly, one of the omegas, took you under her wing, teaching you how to bake everything from crusty bread to delicate pastries. Jess was usually right there beside you, covered in flour and grinning as she stole bites of dough when Beverly wasn’t looking. Then there was Melody, the other omega, whose expertise lay not in baking, but in handling the chaotic energy of young wolves. She had a quiet authority that pups seemed to respect, and she passed on tricks—how to redirect a tantrum, how to settle an anxious shift, how to recognize when a pup was playing versus picking a fight.

Despite your scent making most of them wary, a handful of the more rambunctious boys ignored the instinct to keep their distance. They sought you out, eager for rough-and-tumble games, drawn to the fact that you didn’t mind a little dirt or a few scrapes. They tackled, they wrestled, and you fought back just as fiercely, earring bruises that you wore with pride.

Jess thought you crazy for putting up with them, but you could see the admiration in their young eyes. You weren’t delicate. You weren’t something they had to tiptoe around. And in their own way, they made you feel like you belonged.

When Jess presented as omega after turning sixteen, she was overjoyed—and for this celebration, you didn’t hesitate to join in. She wasn’t just your best friend; she was your sister in every way that mattered, the one person who understood you in ways your pack never fully could.

But beneath your excitement for her, there was a quiet sadness you kept locked away, hidden deep enough that it wouldn’t taint your scent. Because this changed things. No more late-night games, no more laughing over ridiculous jokes, no more movie marathons where you both fell asleep on the couch before the credits rolled. And she wouldn’t be tending the pups with you anymore, either.

Still, today wasn’t about you. It was about Jess. And you refused to let your own feelings dampen the joy of her moment.

When you finally managed to steal her away from the crowd, pulling her outside and into the cooler night air, you didn’t waste time getting to the one thing that had been nagging at you for hours.

“What’s your weird thing?” you asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.

Jess blinked at you, confused, until realization dawned. “Oh, that? Umm…” she hesitated, chewing her lip in thought. “Honestly… I don’t know. I haven’t noticed anything weird.”

Your shoulders slumped in disappointment, lips pulling into a slight pout. “Well, when you figure it out, you totally have to tell me.” Jess grinned. “You’ll be the second to know.”

That was just how it worked between you two. She’d be the first to know, of course. And you’d always be the second. Just like she was for you.

But then, something changed. It was subtle—a flicker of something different in her expression, a shift in the way the porch light caught her face. You leaned in, brow furrowed, trying to see better, but the shadows weren’t cooperating. Without hesitation, you grabbed her hand and all but dragged her toward the porch, stepping into the pool of warm yellow light.

Your breath caught. “Oh my god,” you murmured, staring at her. “One of your eyes, it’s a different color.”

“What?” Jess fumbled for her phone, pulling it from her back pocket with frantic hands. She flipped to the front camera, zooming in. “Holy shit…” she breathed, eyes wide as she stared at the screen. Leaning against the porch post, you crossed your arms, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “So, who do you know with hazel eyes?”

At first, she didn’t even register your words, too caught up in examining the reflection staring back at her. “I don’t know anyone with hazel eyes,” she muttered absentmindedly.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, ya do. You just don’t know his name because you never talked to him.”

That got her attention. She finally looked up, only to let out a resigned sigh. “He graduated before summer,” she mumbled, slipping her phone into her back pocket.

Without a word, you pulled her into a hug, letting her press into your shoulder. Most people found your scent unpleasant, but not Jess. To her, it was comfort. Familiarity. Home. 

“You’re a Winter,” you reminded her softly. “We always find our soulmates.”

Jess exhaled, the weight of longing settling between you both. “I just wish I’d at least gotten his name,” she admitted.

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, offering the reassuring smile you knew she needed. “Hey, when it’s time, you’ll see him again.” Then, nudging her playfully, you added, “Now, let’s go back inside and celebrate. Tonight’s your night.”

And just like that, her grin returned, bright and full of promise.

—------------------------------------

The number of alphas still coming to meet you had dwindled. Even with the elders covering the travel expenses for those who couldn’t afford the journey, none had been your soulmate. And with your twentieth birthday rapidly approaching, a thought kept creeping into your mind—was it time to venture back into the forest to find the wolf who had answered your song all those years ago?

Your pack didn’t voice their concern outright, but you felt it in the way they moved around you, in the way conversations quieted when you entered a room. You didn’t need to scent their unease—it lingered in every glance, every hesitant touch. Even meals with your parents had become tense, their smiles just a little too forced. Then, two nights before your birthday, they finally dropped the news over dinner.

“After the next full moon, we’re moving back to town,” your mother said carefully. “To our old house.”

You barely had time to process that before your father added. “It’ll be easier to do more research from there. There might be other alphas that didn’t see any of the stories that were published. We promise, we won’t give up until we’ve found him.” His tone was firm, reassuring, but the worry in his eyes betrayed him.

Jess and her family weren’t moving, at least. That was one thing you didn’t have to mourn. You forced a small smile, trying to ease the tension in the room. “It’ll be weird not having you guys around, but… maybe some space wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

That seemed to settle your parents some, but the unease in your gut didn’t fade.

For nearly four years, you had pushed the alpha from your thoughts, resisting the pull to step into the woods on the full moon. But now, with your parents’ news and Jess talking more about her plans for college, it felt like the right time—maybe the only time—to see if that wolf was still out there.

You only told Jess about your plan. She immediately offered to go with you, but you both knew how dangerous that would be for an unclaimed omega during the full moon. Even if the chance was rare, sometimes soulmates found each other under the moon’s light—and when that happened, the pull was unstoppable. The mating was inevitable.

It took some convincing, but you finally reassured her that you’d be fine. If it came down to it, you’d climb a tree and wait for morning.

The two weeks leading up to the full moon passed in a blur of packing boxes and sorting through old memories as your birthday quietly came and went. It didn’t feel like much of a milestone—just another day, another number. Your mind was elsewhere, fixed on what was coming, on the unknown waiting for you beneath the full moon’s glow.

—-------------------------

Like all the full moons before, the three groups disappeared into the forest at dusk, vanishing into the trees in their respective directions. Jess had hugged you tightly before she left, her excitement outweighing the cautious optimism in her eyes. Normally, you’d spend the night helping Beverly and Melody tend to the pups, but tonight, you had other plans. You’d apologized to them earlier, and though they had accepted the lie you’d given, you could still feel their lingering concern.

Standing at the cabin door, you exhaled a shaky breath before stepping out into the night. The earth was soft beneath your bare feet, cool and damp with the memory of the sun. You curled your toes against it, grounding yourself, before taking another breath—deep, steadying. Tonight, you would find him. The wolf who had always answered your song. The further you walked from the cabin, the harder your heart pounded. You weren’t one to struggle with anxiety, but tonight, it coiled around your chest like a vice, making each breath feel shallow. The forest was alive with sound—owls hooting in the distance, small creatures rustling in the underbrush, darting away from unseen predators. But none of it mattered. Your focus was on the path ahead, on the place where the trees thinned before growing thick again—the furthest you had ever dared to go. Until now.

When you reached the familiar cluster of trees, their dense canopy blocked most of the moonlight, leaving only fractured silver beams to guide you. The scent of pine and damp earth surrounded you, grounding yet intoxicating. Your pulse roared in your ears as you stepped deeper, weaving through the darkness.

Then, ahead, a glimmer of moonlight—an opening in the woods no more than ten feet across. A clearing. The moment you stepped into it,  you felt the tension in your chest ease. You tilted your head back, gazing at the moon’s glow, and finally—finally—you could breathe. The familiar stirring deep within you made your skin hum with awareness, and before you could second-guess yourself, you closed your eyes and sang.

The melody left your lips like a whispered secret, a longing confession carried into the night. And God, you hadn’t realized just how much you had missed this until now.

As your song faded into the stillness, something inside you unraveled, the weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying lifting from your shoulders. I needed that more than I thought. It was the closeness of the answer howl that brought goosebumps to your skin. A sound so familiar yet somehow more visceral this time. He’s close. 

Taking a shaky breath, your gaze shifted to the left, toward the darkness beyond the small clearing. He’s that way. At first, your feet refused to move as literally every emotion mixed together and held you in place. I need to do this. I have to know.

Shaking your head, pushing the emotions away, you forced yourself to move. One step. Then another. Each movement felt like wading through deep water, your legs heavy, sluggish. Slowly, though, it became easier, determination pushing you onward. A gentle breeze kissed your skin, bringing with it the scent of an alpha. He’s close…

The forest thickened around you, towering old-growth trees standing like sentinels beside younger saplings nestled among ferns, lush grass, flowers, and bushes. Another breeze came, but this time from behind, like it was trying to guide you further. 

Then—a sound. A quiet, broken whimper, and you froze.

The sharp pang of anxiety tightened your chest, stealing your breath. Your lips parted, but no sound escaped. Time felt like it stood still, moments stretching into hours, unable to move or make a sound. When you heard his whimper again, it seemed to snap you out of it. The sound was raw, aching.

Drawing in a steady breath, you forced your body to move, slipping between the trees, careful to keep yourself concealed. The bark was rough against your fingertips as you inched forward, using the cover to say unseen. And then, at the clearing’s edge, you stopped.

The sight in front of you was both beautiful and somewhat confusing. A towering, half-rotted tree stump stood a few feet away, remnants of its ancient form stretching nearly three times your height. Around it, tufts of grass, ferns, and delicate flowers blanketed the forest floor. But it was what was beyond that sent a prickle of unease down your spine. The chainlink fence.

Nearly ten feet tall, it stretched in either direction, marking the boundary between your pack’s land and another’s. The elders had forged an unspoken rule—during the full moon, no wolves were to come near the borders, out of respect for the neighboring pack. Just standing here, you were breaking a sacred tradition.

But none of that mattered. It was what lay beyond the fence.

Deep, emerald green eyes—so intense they seemed to pierce into your soul. Even though you remained partially hidden behind the tree, you knew—he saw you. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he shifted back to human form?

“I’m sorry, wolf. I’ll go. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” you murmured apologetically, taking a step back. The last thing you wanted was to cause tension between his pack and yours.

A whimper stopped you.

He moved closer, his massive form barely making a sound, his gaze locked onto yours. You hesitated, tilting your head as you studied him. He didn’t seem upset that you were here.

“I won’t get close. My scent bothers others,” you offered softly.

But he shook his head. 

Your brows knitted together in confusion. Then, with a small yip, he tried to get your attention, his tail giving the barest flick. The unexpected sound made you giggle. “My scent doesn’t bother you?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You tried not to get your hopes up, but the warmth of a smile tugged at your lips.

The wolf practically grinned, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth before he stepped closer to the fence. Tentatively, you mirrored his movements, stepping fully into the moonlight. 

His expression shifted—pure awe, even in wolf form. The intensity of it sent heat creeping up your neck, making you blush.

You felt almost giddy, like a schoolgirl, but tried to keep focused, now only a few feet from the fence, as was the wolf. “Will you shift back, so I can see who you are?” The moment the question left your lips, realization struck. “I—I can look away,” you added quickly, not wanting to put him in an uncomfortable position.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he whined, lowering his head as he sat back on his haunches.

Understanding dawned. “You can’t shift back to human form while the moon is up, can you?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

Your chest tightened in sympathy. “I can’t shift at all,” you admitted, offering a small, understanding smile. “So, I understand.”

Now that he was in the full light, you could truly see him. His coat was a stunning mix of deep brown and golden highlights, streaked with darker shades that gave him an almost untamed beauty. Strong. Wild. And those eyes—piercing, swirling with emotions you could almost name. He was beautiful.

For a long moment, you simply sat there, watching him. Then, with a small smile, you broke the silence. “I guess I could talk, and you could listen if you want.” The wolf’s tongue lolled out of what looked suspiciously like a grin, his tail giving a wag. The sound made you giggle. He tilted his head, intrigued, which only made you laugh again. That sound—your laughter—seemed to excite him. He bounced onto all fours, his tail wagging wildly, letting out a series of happy yips. 

Your laughter mixed with his playful sounds, echoing into the quiet forest.

That night, you sat there, talking to him for hours. You told him about your pack, your family, and what it was like growing up different. He was attentive, animated even, reacting to your words in small but unmistakable ways. And yet, you noticed something—he never crossed the invisible line between you. He stayed the same distance from the fence that you did. That detail lingered in your mind. 

After a while, you glanced up at the sky and sighed. “It’s late. I need to go home, wolf.”

The wolf whined, the sound tugging at something deep inside you.

You hesitated, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise,” you told him sincerely, and he wagged his tail. “Then, until tomorrow night, wolf.”

That strange, almost-smile appeared on his face again, making warmth bloom in your chest.

You waved to him as you walked back into the forest, feeling happier than you had in a while. The events of the last few hours replayed in your mind. You hadn’t exchanged names. You hadn’t even spoken in the same way. But, whoever he was, he was your soulmate. It was more than just a feeling—it was certainty. And the proof? Your scent didn’t bother him at all. More than that, though, you felt safe with him.

—----------------------------------

The next morning, you told Jess everything. Predictably, she nearly vibrated out of her seat with excitement.

“Oh my God, you found him!” She grabbed your hands, squeezing them. “Okay, you need to take someone with you. Maybe they can scent him and figure out his name!” You groaned, scrubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t, Jess. I was at the fence. That’s like the one rule no one is allowed to break. Ever. I don’t even know what the punishment would be, and I don’t want to find out.”

Jess sighed dramatically, taking a slow sip of her coffee as she mulled it over. “So, let me get this straight. You found your soulmate, but you don’t even know his name.”

You let out a dry chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “Tell me about it. The fates have a twisted sense of humor.” You exhaled, shaking your head. “But it makes sense. I can’t shift during the full moon, and neither can he. It’s just… the opposite.”

Jess scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, that is pretty twisted.”

Over the next two nights, you returned to that spot, knowing full well you were breaking the rules. But you couldn’t stay away. 

Both nights, he was already there, waiting for you. The moment he saw you, his eyes lit up, tail wagging as he let out that happy yip. 

And yet, despite all that warmth, all that connection, you still had no idea how to figure out his name. Or how to find him. But you weren’t giving up. Not now. Not ever.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 4

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[softgh0stbites]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Eclipsed Affections

Rating: Sfw but suggestive + a lil vulnerable Vincent.

Pairing: Vincent x Reader

Summary: You and Vincent have interacted much for the past week since your last encounter. Though ever the softie, he can't help but interrupt your brooding session on the beach with no idea of how to make it up to you. Read these for previous context: Where Desire Slumbers & Dawn's Resolve

Notes: I am not writing a serious fanfiction but my heart hurt for the way I left the last ramble post and I needed some closure- ♡ I think Vincent can be misunderstood sometimes as a character, that he is cold- but I think he's incredibly kind but awkward to show it usually through acts of service instead of words of affirmation (at least right now) I was up late at night everytime I came back to this so there's probably a lot of misspellings and maybe some parts are rushed but I hope you enjoy~ ♡ also someone please listen to Under The Weather by Corpse and tell me it doesn't match him GODDDD I need someone to bounce ideas off of and music ♡ I'm so into writing for this man.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It had almost been a week since your last encounter with Vincent. The memory of that moment lingered vividly despite you trying your best to clear it up. It was the way your heart had plummeted as he left you standing there, dumbfounded, embarrassed, dejected... maybe even a little angry; that made moving on difficult. His eyes, boiling with anguish, had seemed to plead with you, almost begging you to stop him. But the butterflies in your stomach had long since dropped dead, leaving you unsure of what was right anymore. You rarely locked eyes, but it wasn't like you didn't see him after that. He seemed to do anything to stay away from you and vice versa, even when the others would watch with curiosity you didn't want to entertain.

You sighed, shaking your head to clear the intrusive thoughts while your hands busied themselves breaking apart bread. You were hungry, ravished from your journey but you didnt feel like sitting with the group and cooking out over a grill or sitting at one of the pubs. Especially if he was there, so close to you but distant anyway. Utensils would’ve been helpful, but you didn’t have any, and the loaf crumbled unevenly under your grip. Seated on the beach of Costa del Sol, you watched the dreary sun slowly sink toward the horizon. Its soft, molten orange glow only annoyed you more—it was the same color as Vincent’s eyes, mocking you.

The bread crumbled further as your hand tightened, frustration bubbling over as you muttered a string of curses. Reaching for the jar nestled in the sand beside you, you unscrewed the lid with quick, practiced fingers. The honey glistened inside, and you dipped your fingers in, spreading it on the bread without care for the sticky mess. You didn’t mind. You could always lick it off later.

'I wish it was him licking it instead with an apology,'

Groaning at the stray thought, you shoved the honey-slathered bread into your mouth, chewing loudly in a futile attempt to drown out the ache in your chest. That night, when you had cried quietly into your pillow, it hadn’t been for yourself. No, it had been for him. You ached for the man who was so convinced he didn’t deserve even the simplest affirmation.

You finished the bread and licked your fingers one by one, your tongue sliding between each digit methodically. The sticky residue would’ve been a nuisance if you decided to join Aerith and Tifa for cards later, though the thought felt distant. They’d already noticed your mood over the past week, pressing you despite your insistence that it wasn’t a big deal.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you stared out at the darkening waves, the scrape of loneliness rising behind your eyes. Even the sun was abandoning you, slipping away to hide behind its lover, leaving you here in the itchy sand with sticky fingers and crumbs on your face.

Amidst the rhythmic sound of lapping tides, the soft clink of metal broke through, unmistakable and familiar. Your heart sank and burned all at once. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Of course it was him. Of all times, why now? He probably wasn’t even here on his own volition—maybe the group was waiting on you for something.

The clinking stopped, and the last light of the sun threw his shadow over you. You clenched your thighs with your palms, steadying yourself before forcing out the words.

"Is something happening? I’ll just be a few more minutes." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your voice to stay even despite the hammering pulse in your throat. "Please."

The final word quivered with unspoken desperation—a silent plea for him to leave. If he wanted you to move on, to stop feeling this way, he needed to walk away. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t smell him, or you’d be undone all over again.

But he didn’t leave.

The sand shifted behind you, and a steady warmth radiated at your back. Something soft brushed against your bare shoulders, and the hair on your neck stood on end. Opening your eyes, you glanced down at the shadow cast over you. Vincent had seated himself at your back, lounging lazily with one leg outstretched, the other bent at the knee. His head drooped slightly forward, his posture casual despite the tension crackling between you.

Irritation bubbled in your chest, mixing with the undeniable yearning to lean into the silent comfort he was offering.

"That wasn’t an invitation, you know," you muttered, a sharp edge in your voice.

If it bothered him, he didn’t let it show. "I thought we were sharing nice views," he replied, his tone as dry as ever.

"You’re facing the wrong way, and the sun’s leaving us behind," you sighed, your exhaustion seeping into your words. Despite yourself, you scooted a little closer, cautiously leaning into his back. He didn’t move away.

Despite everything, you wanted this. You should’ve known it would take time, patience, effort. A soft chuckle rumbled through him, low and unhurried, and you couldn’t help but wonder if his humor was that dry or if he’d caught on to what you were implying.

"Would you prefer I turn around?" he asked, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. There was a quiet note in it—almost like he was asking for forgiveness.

You leaned further into him, your head brushing against his shoulder blades. He was so tall that even the small bump made your neck ache, but you didn’t care.

"Do you even know how much..." You stopped, stumbling over the words in your head. "Do you... think of me?" The question slipped out in a whisper, hesitant and vulnerable.

If he could feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs, you’d have thrown yourself into the waves out of sheer embarrassment. You could handle it if he said no if he finally shut you out completely. But deep down, you knew better. There had been too many moments—unspoken glances, the brush of his hand against yours while unpacking boxes, the way he always seemed to linger near you. His body betrayed what his face worked so hard to hide.

"Often," he admitted, his voice low and steady.

Before you could respond, he shifted behind you. The next thing you knew, his legs slid around your frame, his knees bent and enclosing you as his arms rested lightly over them. You were trapped, but the weight of him didn’t feel oppressive. Instead, it was grounding. Comforting.

"Too often," he added, his breath warm against your ear. The tone of his voice was thick, lazy, syrupy, and god when it brushed the shell of your ear you wanted more.

He didn’t quite touch you, and you knew that if you wanted to, you could get up and he wouldn’t stop you. He’d let you leave. But something about this moment felt different—this was far too forward of him.

Tilting your head back, you looked up at his face, catching his eyes for the first time in what felt like a month. He was beautiful in the way only he could be, his hair sticking to his skin from the heat, a dusting of peach along the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. But it was his eyes and their slight vulnerability in dusky depths that held you. He watched you as you watched him, and your mind lagged, struggling to process that he actually thought of you.

Your lips tilted into a half-smile. "Well, you don’t show it, do you?"

You reached up, your fingers brushing toward him instinctively a part of you knowing he wouldn’t push you away. There was something different about him, it was something softer. You noticed his mouth working at the top of his neckline, lips parting and closing again, before he let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry all his restraint.

"How would you like me to show it?" he asked, his tone challenging, dripping like poison unto you. A poison you'd drink yourself stupid with.

"Vincent," you began, bracing yourself for the vulnerability in your next words, "I don’t want you to pull away from me anymore." Even as you said it, you felt the rise of panic, ready to run if he rejected you again. You didn’t think you could handle another cold refusal.

But instead of answering, his hand settled near your waist, hovering as if asking for permission. The heat of his palm radiated through your clothes, and even though he didn’t touch you, you could feel the electricity in the air between you. He leaned forward, tilting his head down to meet your gaze fully. Your neck began to ache from the angle, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. His bangs fell into your eyes, tickling your nose, making you shiver.

God, he had to be ridiculously flexible to contort down to you like this.

"I can’t—" he started, his voice faltering as the sun flared in his eye. He swallowed hard, his words thick and heavy. "I need— I want, but I can’t..." His voice cracked slightly, and your breath caught as you stared at him. His lips, parted ever so slightly, were the perfect shape, a cupid’s bow you couldn’t stop imagining against your own. You wanted to feel their softness with your fingertips, your teeth, your tongue.

Gathering your courage, you let yourself lean against him, resting your head on his collarbone if only it wasn't covered with his cloak, buckles, and leather. Your lashes batting up at him shyly. "You want?" you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. "Tell me."

Your voice made your cheeks burn, the sound of it so unfamiliar, almost foreign. This was all so strange like one moment you were trying to forget him, to bury this infatuation, and the next, you were slotted between his thighs with him looking like he wanted to devour you whole.

Slowly, carefully—as if not to startle you—he moved, although he probably never could with how loud his movements were in general. The crinkle of leather and the soft click of his gauntlet sounded loud in your ears as he raised his hand, sliding it under your jaw. His touch was impossibly gentle, his glove cool against your skin as he tilted your face upward, stretching your neck a little further, exposed. He was studying you like he was committing every detail to memory. His thumb brushed a lazy, feather-light stroke along the side of your jaw, over the sweep of your ear and towards your temple. His gauntlet fingers left a trail of icy fire in their wake, making your mouth dry and you felt your resistance to forgive crumbling under his care.

He touched you as if you were glass, his grip sweet and fragile. The ocean breeze picked up, ruffling your clothes and making you shiver as you closed your eyes, momentarily overwhelmed.

"Everything," he finally murmured, the word purring from deep in his chest, thick with vulnerability. "Anything you’ll give me. Whatever you need from me." His tongue darted out briefly, wetting his lips, and your gaze lingered on them, sinful and inviting.

You couldn’t stop yourself. Shifting, you captured his hand in yours so it didnt hang useless between you, turning to nestle on your knees so you could meet his gaze at eye level. Your head spun with thoughts, ideas of what to ask for or what to take since he was offering so freely. But something nagged at you. Something twisted about this self-service he was offering.

As you leaned closer, you noticed the bleary haze in his eyes, half-lidded and dusky. You inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of liquor. It was bitter and strong. The realization hit you like a splash of cold water.

"Are you—?" you started, pulling back slightly, unwilling to let this go further if he wasn’t in the right state of mind.

He stilled, and for the first time, a rare and crooked grin spread across his lips. His sharp canines flashed, making you swallow hard. You didn’t know what he found so amusing, but the sight of his grin struck something deep in your chest. He carded a hand over his face, ruffling his dark locks and leaving himself even more disheveled than before.

After a moment of composure, he answered, his grin fading as he met your gaze with quiet intensity. "No. Unfortunately, I’ll never have the luxury of letting go." His tone was heavy, but his lips quirked faintly, almost self-deprecating. "You’re not some villain out to steal my virtue, so don’t trouble yourself."

His hand slid back under your chin, guiding your face closer to his as his gaze dropped to your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed instinctively, thinking this was it, finally...

"What if I am a villain out to steal your virtue?" you squeaked, half-joking, half-desperate.

His breath ghosted over your cheek as his nose bumped against the top of your cheekbone. Slowly, he inhaled, as if memorizing the scent of your skin. His nose brushed lower, gliding along your jaw before returning to hover near your lips. The sensation sent shivers racing down your spine.

"Tough luck," he murmured, a quiet smugness in his tone as if to say it was never in question to begin with, his virtue. He continued his gentle ministrations, making heat pool low, fire stocking your belly. His lips were whispering over the places his nose touched, but only slightly, not daring to touch you quite yet. He had said that touch was very important to him, so the act of this was unthinkable to you. You hadn't thought you'd be sitting here being stock still as he took pleasure in teasing you with haunting trails of that mouth. You were almost worried he would end up finding sticky honey and crumbs if he continued at this pace, hoping to god it wouldn't ruin the moment.

In all the silence passing between you again, he was making you lose your train of thought to reply, your throat swallowing as his lip just barely fluttered over your pulse point before he continued to make you squirm.

His voice low and velvety, a dangerous whisper. "What do you plan to do with my virtue once it’s yours?"

He was entertaining you while also asking a weighted question, his face pulling back slightly to meet your gaze as your eyes opened. You could see how strong his restraint was, like stone, ceremoniously holding himself together without letting a single crack show. But now, here with you, those cracks were visible, his facade slipping as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, the weight of his stare pinning you down.

Before you could answer, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost as if the words weren’t meant for you.

"I’ve already given more of myself to you than I meant to," he admitted, the frustration clear in his tone. His eyes dropped for a moment before meeting yours again, his brow furrowed. "You shouldn’t want me. You’re something I was never meant to touch, but I keep reaching for you. I can’t stop."

The raw honesty of his words made your heart ache. You could see how much he hated admitting it and hated the truth of it. His problems felt like they went far deeper than just a man betrayed by Shinra and left to wander alone. There was a darkness clinging to him, a weight heavier than regret, and it was clear it had been with him far longer than you realized.

You took his hand that was still in yours, raising it to your cheek and nuzzling against his knuckles. The cool material of his glove contrasted with your skin, but you didn’t care. Slowly, you lowered his hand to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there, like a quiet apology for being the source of such turmoil.

"You haunt me too," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. You kissed each of his fingers as he watched you, his gaze flickering occasionally toward the darkening horizon, like he needed to steady himself. "You’re my ghost, drowning in regrets I don’t know anything about." You paused when his teeth bit down on his bottom lip, the flash of his sharp canines staying in your mind. "But I’d never think less of you for struggling with what you carry."

Before he could retort with self-pity and dismissive ideas about himself and what you should think of him, you squinted your eyes as if to say; Save it. You weren't usually so bold, but this idea that you're sitting in front of him being vulnerable as well. Another crash of water against the tides pulled you both from the intense stare off, your mind struggling to catch up to all that was occurring but nothing about Vincent was simple- you knew it. He was already giving you so much more than he ever did, spoke to you more than he ever had, you couldn't falter in this moment. Your hands were trembling at the idea that you could make one wrong move or simply open your eyes to find you had fallen asleep on this wide beach.

After a moment, you let go of his hand and rested your head on his shoulder. It felt silly to want to hold him tight, especially after a moment ago when you’d wanted him in an entirely different way, not as tender. But right now, more than anything, you wanted to make him feel safe. If this was all you could offer, then so be it. Your arms carefully wrapped around his neck, cautious not to brush against his skin. Your fingers wanted to slide into his hair, but you wouldn't push it considering his shoulders were still stiff regardless of the golden shoulder pads he wore underneath the cloak. His gauntlet shifted softly as he pressed his hands against your upper back, his fingers spreading wide as he pulled you closer with a quiet, low grumble. He finally slumped a bit forward, cheek resting in a tilted fashion on the side of your head, puffs of his breath stirring your hair.

You stayed silent as the moments passed until your eyes began to close from exhaustion, both emotional and physical. Vincent didn’t seem to mind. The quiet was his element, his steady breaths and the sound of the tide lapping against the shore, keeping you from fully drifting off.

You knew he wouldn’t say anything like I fancy you, I love you, or even I like you. You could deal with that. Maybe you’d never hear those words from him, and maybe he didn’t want your love, only your kindness. It didn’t matter. As long as he stayed like this, as long as he was yours in these moments, you could be content. This version of him was yours to keep, and you wanted to hold onto it selfishly.

Still, the thought of him opening up to others someday, making meaningful connections, or finding peace in conversation was comforting. You didn’t want to keep him entirely to yourself. But here, now, in the warmth of his hands on your back, his thumb brushing softly against your shoulder and rubbing lazily down to your lower back and up again, the quiet comfort he shared with you, this was yours.

Vincent was your forbidden fruit, and you were more than keen to sink your teeth into him. Gently at first, but firm if you must.

[cecilyv]

New Fic: the chain I forged (9-1-1, buck/tommy)

Happy Holidays, my friends. @liminalmemories21 and I had Tommy get Christmas Caroled just for y'all. Wherein he meets some ghosts (or possibly hallucinates as a result of whatever was in those shots Lucy handed him last night). Either way, he’s too old for this shit.

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." — Jacob Marley, in Charles Dicken's, A Christmas Carol

11.6k | General Audiences

[Read here on Ao3]

He comes awake abruptly, the hair on the back of his arms standing straight up. He lays there, trying to get his breathing back under control, when he hears the chair creak on the other side of the room. Shit. Fuck. Damn. There’s someone here. And not in the fun kind of way, the way he'd gotten used to with Evan — shit, Buck (he still gets that wrong in his head, when he's half asleep, still a little drunk). He'd gotten used to Buck getting up in the middle of the night, and then pausing before he got back into bed to take a sip of water, put on chapstick. Six months shouldn't have been enough to overwrite the pattern of a lifetime of sleeping alone. But— He still reaches for Evan — fuck. Buck. He still reaches for Buck when he wakes up, expects the heat of him next to him in bed, expects his pillow to smell like Buck’s shampoo and aftershave.

This time though, there's a person in his room and it's not Buck; doesn’t sound like him, smell like him. He breathes and smells dirt and cold and rot. He keeps his eyes closed, facing the ceiling, trying to remember what he might have on hand to defend himself with. Tries to figure out how this person got into his house without setting off the alarms. What he's here to steal.

"I know you're awake," whoever it is says, voice low and raspy like he doesn’t use it much. There's a rustle of fabric as the guy shifts position. "I ain't here to hurt you. You can go on and sit up, open your eyes."

He pushes himself up warily, flicks on the light and blinks in the sudden brightness. Blinks again. A burglar in a Halloween costume was not on his list of possible scenarios. And why, he wonders, if you're going to dress up to break into people's houses, wouldn't you wear a mask?

He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and a vest, but what Tommy can’t look away from (and doesn’t want to look at at all, honestly) is his skin so tight across his face it’s translucent ( like butter scraped over too much bread, a voice in his mind echoes). And the guy has— He squints, and then shakes his head. Looks back. Those look a lot like the inflamed boils Evan — Buck — had had. This seems very specific for a Halloween costume robbery. He would have expected more dead president masks.

"Uh. You're welcome to take whatever you want. I'm not going to fight you on it." It's just stuff.

The guy — the cowboy? — crosses his arms and looks annoyed. "Ain't here for your stuff."

Tommy glances at his bedside table like that's going to reveal that he'd gone to bed with a kitchen knife, or a hammer, or something useful. There's a glass of water and a book he's been saying he's going to read for going on a year now. "Okay. So, why are you here?" Keep him talking, he thinks.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Ain't here to kill you either. Didn't I just say I weren't here to hurt you? Keep up."

He's not sober enough for this. "Okay. I give. Why are you here?"

The guy relaxes, like he's been waiting for this cue. "I'm here to show you what has been, what is, and what is yet to come." And Tommy thinks, okay, Galadriel.

Tommy gives him a blank look, and the guy elaborates. "I owe a debt." He stops, like that’s all the explanation he thinks Tommy should need.

Tommy wracks his brain, but, "I think I would remember meeting you. Was it on a call?"

"Didn't say it was to you.” Pauses and says reflectively, “I wasn't always a good man, but I always paid my debts, and no one can say different." There's another pause and then, “Unless it was to a bank."

Okay, sure. This seems … nope, he’s got nothing. This seems like nothing he can possibly put a name to. This is clearly what he gets for letting Lucy talk him into going out after their last shift, and then letting her buy them shots. The wages of sin. Or something. "Are you seriously telling me you’re here as the Ghost of Christmas Past? Because you owe a life debt? To someone? Who is not me?"

The Ghost — sure, why not — nods, like he's glad Tommy is finally catching up.

He looks closer at the guy, really looks and — leather vest, chaps, boots, boils. Just fuck his life. "You're Billy Boils, aren’t you?"

Billy makes a face, like he tasted something nasty. "William James McCurdy. At your service.”

[cjlouwho]

prompt: buck discovers that tommy is a fantastic baker. its a very casual reveal at first, like tommy makes a loaf of bread for the soup buck makes. as time goes on, tommy starts making more elaborate things - chocolate croissants for a brunch, fruit tarts for a picnic date, a single tier cake with elaborate icing detail on their first anniversary.

This went in a different direction, but I got the baking part! Hope you like it!

“Damn it! Ugh! Damn it!”

Tommy peeked out the bathroom door to where Buck was getting dressed in their bedroom. “What's wrong?”

Buck tossed his phone onto the bed. “I forgot I was supposed to bake stuff for Chris' class. I wasn't working when I told Chris I'd do it, then Mark asked if I could take his shift and I- I forgot.”

“When's he need the stuff?”

“I'm supposed to drop it off at Eddie's tonight so Chris can take it with him in the morning.”

Tommy turned off the bathroom light and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge. He watched Buck very closely as he put his shirt on. “I can do it.”

Buck froze briefly, his shirt crumpled up at his neck. “I, um, no, it's- it's okay. I'll just order something to be delivered.”

“I'm serious, Evan, I'll do it. I know how to bake stuff.”

Buck sighed, pulled his shirt the rest of the way down. “Christopher is really picky about what he takes in, Tommy, if it's not just right he'll blame me for it for the rest of his life.”

Tommy got up and walked over to Buck, placing a hand on either side of his face. “Ev, I've got this, I promise. I'll take it to Chris tonight, and tell him he can toss me off the edge of a cliff if the desserts are not well received.”

Tommy gave him a kiss to wipe away the apprehensive look on his face.

“Fine,” Buck agreed. “But you better watch yourself if you tell him the cliff thing. He's very strong.”

*****

“What the hell did you do?” Buck called out as soon as he walked in the door the next day.

“Hello to you too, honey,” Tommy answered cheekily, waiting on the couch for Buck to come in the room. “So good to see you after a whole day apart. Oh, a kiss? For me? You shouldn't have!”

Buck entered the room, hands on his hips, and from the look on his face he was not amused. “Care to tell me why I got a text from Christopher this afternoon saying that he no longer needed me to make my famous double chocolate chip cookies for the charity bake next month because, and I quote, 'I want Tommy to make his chocolate croissants and fruit tarts instead.'”

“Seems pretty self explanatory, hun.” And, okay, maybe Tommy was being a little bit of a dick, but he loved when he got Buck all riled up. It was pretty hot.

“You know I know how to use a rotary saw, don't you?” Buck asked pointedly.

Tommy cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, I do too. Evan, are you threatening to chop me up over baked goods?”

Buck kept his glare for a moment before dropping the charade. His shoulders slumped as he plopped down across from Tommy on the couch. “No,” he replied, “but... but you made croissants? And tarts?”

Tommy shrugged. “I am a man of many talents, Evan, and you have yet to scrape the surface.”

“We've been together for nearly a year, there's not a surface on you I haven't scraped... except this, apparently.”

Tommy smiled. He reached for Buck's hand, bringing it to his lips for a little kiss. Buck rolled his eyes, but melted into the touch. “I saved you one of each,” Tommy said, giving Buck that sheepish grin he loved so much.

“Alright,” Buck got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen, “let me go try these life changing baked goods that got me fired.”

Tommy listened to the rustling in the kitchen. He gave it a few seconds, then got up and quietly snuck into the room, watching as Buck took a bite of the croissant.

He closed his eyes, obviously relishing the taste. As Buck went for seconds, Tommy cleared his throat, causing Buck to jump. “Jesus!” he yelped, mouth full.

“Sorry,” Tommy replied with a laugh. “How's it taste?”

Buck tried to play it cool. “S'good... I guess.”

“Really?” Tommy questioned, eyebrow raised. "Just good?"

Buck groaned. “Okay, fine! It's delicious! I had no idea you knew how to bake like this, Tommy. When'd you learn?”

“Lots of stuff going on in my head when I got discharged from the army,” Tommy replied, keeping the topic light. Buck already knew everything about that anyway. No reason to dwell. “I started baking then, because when you're baking you have to focus on the ingredients and what you're doing. Did it more when I started working for Gerrard. Not so much after I started therapy, although I do still enjoy it.”

“Well, you're amazing at it. I can see why I my cookies have been thrown into a bottomless pit to never return.”

Tommy moved closer to Buck, wrapping his arms around the man's waist. He pressed a kiss to his mouth, tasting the residual chocolate that lingered. “Why don't we both bake for the charity thing?” Tommy offered.

“And compete with you?” Buck scoffed. “Hell no. But do me a favor and make me more than one next time. And don't eat the tart, I haven't tried that yet. Also, we're having a celebration at the station next week for Jenny. She's coming back from maternity leave. Do you make cakes? Could you make it look like an open stomach in the middle of a c-section? Oh, Jee will definitely want cupcakes for-”

As Buck rambled out a long list of occasions that required baked goods, Tommy couldn't help but wonder if this was the plan all along.