#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.”

[gossameres]

chapter one, second nature

pairing: jacob black x f. reader

notes: written from a washingtonian i am tired of the misrepresentation so it is my goal to accurately portray my state… but first chapter a lil nervy havent written in a year but!! had fun writing

genres: childhood friends, best friends to lovers, mutual pining

word count: 1.5k

series masterlist! next.

The road to Forks is a familiar one, even after two years. Evergreen trees blur past your window, their towering forms casting long shadows over the asphalt as your car hums along the highway. You didn’t realize how much you missed this stretch of Highway 101 till now—how the trees leaned in like close friends, how the air smelled like rain (because of course it does), how the damp air curled in through the cracked window and made everything smell like pine needles. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel following the beat of the radio, restless.

Your phone buzzes in the passenger seat.

Jake: You close yet?

A smile tugs on your lips. You can practically hear the impatience in his text.

You: Like 20 min out. Chill

Jake: Chill?? I’m literally pacing right now

You roll your eyes but a smile tugs on your lips. Jacob Black has always been like this—all energy, no patience. Some things never change.

Jacob Black. Your best friend since before you could spell your own name. You had shared everything with him growing up—scraped knees, projects in his garage, secret forts built from moss and driftwood down by First Beach. And as you drive past The City of Forks Welcomes You sign, your chest warms.

The last time you were here, you were fourteen, saying goodbye with a promise of a visit. Your dad’s job pulled your family to the buzz of Kirkland, where everything was cleaner, faster, and more modern. But life got in the way, as it does—school, your dad’s new job, the four-hour distance between Kirkland and Forks. Still, you and Jake kept in touch. Late-night calls, stupid texts, the occasional letters (because Jake thought it was funny to mail you doodles of his terrible car sketches and self-portraits). Still, Forks was yours in the way it mattered and now, thanks to your parents’ sudden, nostalgic purchase of a cozy summer house on the edge of town, it could be again.

You weren’t the same girl who had left, and from his photos, he wasn’t the same Jacob, either. He’d grown taller, broader. His baby face and chubby cheeks you used to pinch sharpened into somethin old, something you didn’t quite know how to name. And still—he was Jacob. Your best friend.

But now, you’re back.

Your parents arrived yesterday to get the house ready and you had stayed behind to finish packing, insisting on driving yourself. You needed the time to think and to tame your nerves.

Because Jake is… Jake.

When you were kids, it was simple. He was the little boy who taught you how to skip rocks, who let you steal bites of his fry bread at the rez cookouts he would invite you to, who tried to feign annoyance but eventually grin when you called him Jakey just to annoy him.

But now? You’re not sure who he is. What you guys are.

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake: I’m at your house btw

Jake: Tick-tock you better not be bailing on me

You scoff.

You: ?????

Jake: Your mom said I could wait for you so hurry up

Of course he was. You groan, but your pulse kicks up anyway.

You could see your parents were already inside the house by the time you pulled up—a modest, moss-draped place tucked between pines, just off a gravel road. Your parents’ car is parked out front. Right next to it is a black motorcycle.

Your stomach flips.

Slowly, you pull into the driveway right behind the already car park, take a deep breath, and step out. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. The front door is slightly ajar and you push it open.

“Mom? Dad?” No answer. You drop your bags in the foyer and head up the stairs, looking for your room at the end of the hall—

And then you see him.

Jake is leaning against your bedroom door frame, arms crossed, impatiently tapping his foot. He’s taller. A lot taller. His shoulders are broader, his frame more solid than the lanky boy you remember, and his hair was shorter now, shaggier, like he hadn’t bothered with it much. And when you made eye contact, his face looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe and something passed between you in the silence.

“Hey,” you said. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

“Took you long enough,” his face twitches slightly and he snaps out of whatever trance he was in, now grinning like he’s just won something.

“Shut up,” you reply, but you’re smiling.

He pushes off the doorframe and closes the distance between you in two strides. He pulled you into a hug that wrapped around your whole body. His warmth is immediate and almost startling, like standing in front of a bonfire. His hand lingered at your back a moment longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. You missed him. A lot.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

You smile against his chest. “Missed you too, Jakey.”

He exhales sharply and chuckles, like the words punched the air out of him. Then, slowly, his arms tighten around you.

“You still gonna call me that?” his voice is low, but there’s that familiar teasing lilt in it.

You pull away from him and look up to meet his eyes, smirking. “Mhm. Deal with it.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Please,” you say, stepping back with a grin. “You’d cry if I stopped, just like how you always did.”

“Only a little,” he shoots back, and there’s a spark in his eyes now, brighter than you remember. You’re not sure what it is—relief, maybe, or him just being awkward and shy.

Before you can reply, the sound of the front door creaking wider makes both of you glance down the stairs.

“Sweetie?” your mom calls up. “Is Jake still here?”

He winces slightly, already backing toward the stairs. “I should probably—”

“You’re staying for dinner!” she shouts before he can finish.

You blink. “Wow, ambushed.”

“I’ve been here ten minutes, she’s already planning the menu,” Jake mutters under his breath, then louder: “Uh—I mean, I don’t want to intrude—”

“Nonsense! You’re basically family.” your mom responds brightly.

He glances back at you, eyebrows raised, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “You set me up.”

“I did not. She just knows you too well. Besides, you’re the one that came her before I even got to Forks.” Jake just shakes his head and shoots you a glare, muttering something under his breath as he follows you down the stairs. You can feel the energy buzzing off him—slightly nervous, but trying not to show it. He’s still smirking like an idiot, but it’s more to himself now, like he can’t quite believe he’s here again either. With you, in person, not over text or call.

The house smells like Mrs. Meyers lemon cleaner and whatever your mom is preparing in the kitchen. Jake hesitates in the foyer, glancing toward the kitchen like he's debating a quick escape, but your mom appears before he can make a move. She wraps him in a hug like no time has passed and Jake stiffens for just a second before relaxing into it, careful and gentle in a way that makes you smile softly.

“You grew up on us,” she says, pulling back to look him over. “Look at you!”

Jake rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed but smiling. “Still the same guy. Just a bit taller.”

“A bit? You always did shoot up like a weed,” she laughs, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. We’ve got enough to feed a whole pack.”

He blinks at her words and nods. “Yeah. Starving.”

And then your dad strolls in from the backyard, wiping his hands on a rag, the scent of grass and sprinkler water trailing behind him. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the only kid in this town I trust near a sprinkler system. Bet you could fix ours without even looking at it.”

“I’m your guy.” he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck again. It was always a small habit you noticed he did when he felt awkward, shy, or nervous.

Your dad claps him on the shoulders as he passes. “Glad to see you again, kid.”

And just like that, he is. Wrapped into the space like he’s always belonged, fitting in the rhythm of it, even if the walls are different. Even if everything is different.

You watch him as he sinks into the chair next to yours, still buzzing a little like he doesn’t know where to put all the energy. He’s quiet now, but not in a bad way—more like he’s soaking it in, anchoring himself to something familiar. You slide a glass of water toward him and he takes it without looking, but his fingers brush yours for half a second too long.

And while he’s still Jake, it’s not exactly the same. But neither are you.

[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

[rynwrites4fun]

Love You Anyway (2) | Andrew Cody x Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Andrew Cody x F ! Brother’s Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: You and Deran ditch the rest of the school day, joining his brothers for an afternoon at the beach.

Word Count: 6657

Warnings: Nine-year age gap (late teens / late 20s) — Andrew Cody x reader are NOT together in the “Then” timeline, Violence/Physical Altercation, Injury (scrapes, bloody knuckle)

Author’s Notes: Hello! The amount of times I rewrote part 2 lol. I was like is this too much drama for the 2 part??? but then I was like you know what, fuck it bc the Cody’s are chaotic and end up in crazy shit a way, so be it! after the 1st part, I again scoured the depths of gifs to find young shawn hatosy (i saved a bunch so ya girl is prepared lol.) time to figure out the next part lol Enjoy - Ryn

(Someone yell at me bc I’m still only half way through season 2 🫣)

THEN: BEACH DAY, 2008

“Hey dork” Deran nudges your leg with his sneaker.

“Deran, I’m trying to focus,” you mutter, eyes locked on the open textbook in your lap, pencil tapping lightly against your thigh as you reread the same line for the third time. You were trying to plan out your essay for history class, gathering evidence and quotes for it.

Deran flops down beside you on the lawn, unwrapping a sandwich with zero concern for your concentration.

“What are you working on?” he asks, mouth full of sandwich.

“History paper. It’s due in a couple of weeks.”

He groans. “Can’t you just enjoy your lunch break? It’s called a break for a reason!” He shoots you a teasing grin. “You’re always trying to go above and beyond. Chill out for once.”

You roll your eyes, but your pencil stills in your hand. “Some of us actually want to pass.”

“Pff, You are passing,” he says through a bite. “You’ve got, like, straight A’s. You could fail one assignment and still graduate with honors or whatever”

You glance at him. “That’s not how it works.”

He swallows his bite. “It kind of is, though.”

You shake your head, eyes dropping back to your notebook. “I don’t want to barely make it. I want to do it right.”

Without a word, he reaches over and closes your textbook with one hand.

“Hey—”

He rummages through his bag, pulls out a wrinkled bag of chips, and tosses it onto your lap. “Here. Eat something. Be human.”

You huff, but you don’t toss them back.

His flip phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out with one hand, flipping it open like muscle memory. “Hello?” he says, already stuffing another bite of sandwich into his mouth.

There’s a pause. “Where?” he mumbles around the bread.

He stands up slowly, dusting crumbs off his jeans, phone still pressed to his ear. His brows draw together like whatever he just heard changed something.

He squints, glancing toward the front of the school. You turn to look, following his gaze—and there it is. Craig’s Jeep idling across the street, surfboards stacked crooked on the roof, Craig in the driver’s seat waving like an idiot. A breeze tugs at the palm trees lining the curb.

Deran hangs up and tucks the phone back into his pocket. That playful grin creeps across his face—the one you’ve learned to be very wary of.

“You up for the beach the rest of the afternoon?” he swinging his worn Jansport backpack over one shoulder like it weighs nothing

Your eyes go wide. “What? I’m not ditching.”

“Oh, come on,” Deran groans, dragging the word out with dramatic flair. “We’ve already survived half the day. Just two more periods. Let’s skip.”

He takes a step back like he’s daring you to follow, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Ditching two periods won’t kill you,” he says, flashing that boyish, reckless smile. “Seriously, you need to get your head out of the books. Live a little! We’re only young once—might as well enjoy it while we can.”

You hesitate. “I don’t know…”

“Come on,” he grins, holding out his hand like it’s a promise

You stare at it for a moment, heart thudding. You shouldn’t. You never ditch. There’s still homework to finish, notes to organize, things you told yourself you’d get done today.

but what would really happen if you skipped—just this once?

Your fingers tighten around the chip bag. “I don’t even have a suit,” you mutter, almost like an excuse.

But you’re already rolling the bag closed.

You unzip your backpack, shove it inside along with your textbook, and zip it back up.

Then you take his hand.

As you stand and swing the bag over your shoulder, he’s already grinning.

“We can stop by the store,” he says. “I’ll buy you one. So… is that a yes?”

“Yeah I gue—woah!”

Before you can finish, he yanks you forward and the two of you take off, laughing as you run across the yard.

��

“Oh man,” Baz snickers, resting his arms along the edge of the truck bed.

“What?” Andrew asks, brows furrowing. He’s in the bed of Baz's truck, his shirt already half-stuck to his back from the heat. His sunglasses hanging on the back of his neck. He’s moving beach gear around, before yanking at the handle of the heavy cooler wedged between two chairs.

Baz jerks his chin toward the parking lot with that trademark grin of his. “Check it out.”

Andrew glances up, eyes following the direction of Baz’s nod. That’s when he sees Craig’s Jeep pulling in, kicking up dust as it turns into the spot across the aisle. The engine cuts, the doors swing open—and then you step out.

Hair tousled from the wind. Laughing at something Deran says as he hops out behind you.

Andrew’s grip tightens on the cooler handle. “What’s she doing here?”

Baz shrugs, barely hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess Deran finally got her to loosen up.”

​​The last time they saw you was a couple weeks ago, when Deran brought you over to the house for their party. Andrew had figured that would be the end of it—that Deran would keep you away, that his warning that night would stick.

But apparently not.

Andrew doesn’t respond. His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking as he looks away and yanks the cooler free with a sharp tug, setting it down a little harder than necessary on the sand-streaked tailgate.

You spot them, Baz by the truck, Andrew in the bed. You break away from Craig and Deran as they take surfboards down from the rack from the top of the jeep.

You head toward the truck, lifting a hand in a small wave. “Hey.”

Baz grins wider. “Well, well. If it isn’t the little angel herself, come to grace us with her presence.”

“Angel?” you questioned.

“Yep,” he says, completely unbothered. “My new nickname for you.”

You figured it had something to do with those girls at the party—the way they’d made jabs at you for not drinking, smoking, not doing anything “fun.” Like being the only one with a clear head made you some kind of saint.

Baz still clearly thought it was hilarious.

You should probably tell him to cut it out. But you didn’t. Mostly because you knew it wouldn’t matter—he’d call you that anyway. And really, there were worse things to be called.

Angel.

It wasn’t the worst label to have.

Behind him, Andrew jumps down from the bed of the truck, not saying a word yet—but his eyes don’t leave you.

Baz throws him a look, then grins like he can’t help himself. “Honestly, this is perfect. Pope and Angel—look at you two. Holiest pair in Oceanside.” Bad throws his arm around Andrew’s shoulder.

Andrew knew that all too well.

Pope.

That one had followed him for years—another Baz original. He’d started calling Andrew “Pope” back when he took an interest in religion when he was younger. “Pope Andrew,” he’d say with a grin, and eventually everyone else joined in.

So yeah. Angel was probably here to stay.

Andrew knocks Baez’s arm off him. He mutters under his breath, “Don’t start.” rolling his eyes as he holds the cooler.

“You need some help?” you ask, stepping closer.

“We’re fine,” he replies curtly.

Then he turns, squeezing between the cars without another word, heading down toward the beach—leaving you standing there with Baz.

Deran and Craig come up beside you, their surfboards slung under their arms.

“Ignore him. He’s in a mood,” he tells you, glancing over at Andrew like it’s nothing new.

You nod, trying to push the unease down.

“When he is never not in a mood” Baz scores, grabbing stuff from the bed of his truck.

Craig nods toward the ocean. “Waves are decent.”

“You up for a surf lesson later?” Deran asks.

You hesitate, eyes drifting to where Andrew disappeared—his back already turned, putting distance between you like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Baz chimes in, half-grinning.

“She’ll be fine—she'll be with us,” Craig replies.

“So you down later?

Baz just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he’s down towards the beach.

“Yeah, I’m down,” you say.

“All right. Craig and I are gonna go out for a while. We’ll come back in and teach you”

—

You went to the public beach bathroom to change into the suit Deran bought you. A one-piece floral rashguard swimsuit with bright colors and a pattern.

When you got down to the beach, the brothers had gone in the water. Deran and Craig were cutting through the waves, loud and reckless as ever, while Baz waded in farther down the shore.

Andrew was just stepping out of the ocean, water streaming down his chest, board shorts clinging to his frame. He ran a hand over his wet curls, the sun catching the droplets on his skin. You didn’t feel anything for the Cody brothers—not like that—but you’d be lying if you said they weren’t attractive. Fit, sun-kissed, and so effortlessly at ease in their own skin.

Still, it was Andrew you couldn’t stop staring at. He wasn’t bulky, just solid—broad shoulders, defined lines, that quiet strength he carried without needing to show it off. He moved with a calm confidence, grabbing a towel and walking past you like you weren’t even there.

“You just gonna stand and stare all day?” he asked as he dropped into the chair beside the cooler, voice even, eyes fixed on the horizon—never once looking your way.

You blinked, caught, heat rising to your face. “I—I wasn’t… staring.”

“You seem pretty fixated,” he said, casually toweling off his hair, still not looking at you.

It unnerved you—the way he could read you so easily without even meeting your eyes. Like he knew exactly what you were thinking… and didn’t care.

“I wasn’t staring. Or fixated,” you muttered.

He raised his beer to his lips. “Sure.”

Just that. No teasing, no smugness. Just calm, flat certainty. And somehow, that made it worse.

Flustered, you dropped your things beside him and sank into the sand, brushing your hair back as a gust of wind came off the water. He still hadn’t looked at you.

You sat there beside him, the heat lingering on your face as you leaned over and grabbed the sunscreen sitting on top of Deran’s towel, squeezing some into your palm before rubbing it onto your face and legs.

You shifted, unsure. You didn’t know how to act around him—not after the last time you talked to him after their party a couple weeks ago, when he’d looked at you with that same unreadable face and told you you didn’t belong.

Andrew didn’t say anything else. Just drank his beer and let the silence settle.

It wasn’t uncomfortable for him—you could tell. He sat still, steady. He lived in quiet the way most people lived in noise.

“You’re not getting in?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Later,” you said simply. “Deran and Craig are gonna teach me how to surf.”

He gave a slow nod, like he wasn’t surprised, then took another sip of his beer.

“Skipping school for surf lessons, huh? That’s one way to learn,” he said quietly, a hint of dry humor in his voice.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Sometimes you gotta trade books for waves. ”

“That sounds like something Deran would say. Well, don’t let the waves wash away what little sense you’ve got left.”

“Yeah,” you answer, trying not to let his tone get under your skin.

“So you just do whatever Deran tells you now?”

“No…” you say slowly. “Deran didn’t make me ditch. He just… convinced me.”

Andrew scoffs under his breath, shaking his head like that’s somehow worse. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

You glance at him, feeling the weight of his judgment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks over at you, “I expected Deran to ditch…” Andrew says, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “You’re the last person I thought would skip school.”

You shrug, trying to play it off, even though your skin feels warmer under his stare. “Well, here I am.”

“Yeah…” he says, gaze lingering. “Here you are.”.

You could tell he had a problem with you being here. He didn’t say it outright, but it was clear—in the tone of his voice, in the way he carried himself. The vibe he gave off said it all.

“Look, I think we… got off on the wrong foot…at the party” you say, referencing the party from later weeks ago.

Andrew doesn’t even blink. “We didn’t get off on any foot. ”

“Really?” you say, the word sharper than you mean it to be. “Because we had been talking. You didn’t seem to have a problem with me then. And then suddenly you say I don't belong?”

Andrew’s expression doesn’t shift much, but his jaw tightens. That flicker of something crosses his face—guilt, maybe, or regret—but he doesn’t own up to it.

“You don’t,” he says, too flat, too fast.

The words land harder than you expect. You blink, once, trying to keep your face neutral.

“Wow. Okay. And you still don’t care to explain why?”

You cross your arms, not to look defiant, but because it’s the only thing keeping your hands from shaking.

He looks away again, like that’ll make it easier. “It’s not personal.”

You laugh, dry. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You shake your head, eyes narrowing. “You know, for someone who says they only talk ‘when it’s worth saying… when it matters,’funny how most of what you say just makes you sound like a complete asshole.”

He exhales, barely audible. “This isn’t about me being an asshole.”

“No?” you snap. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels a hell of a lot like it is.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger—more like restraint. “You don’t belong here. That’s not me being an asshole, that’s just the truth.”

“Right,” you say, your voice flat now. “Thanks for the reality check, Andrew. I appreciate it.”

“Whoa, what’s going on over here?” Baz’s voice cuts in as he saunters over, clearly amused. “having a little holy quarrel?” He grins, eyes flicking between you and Andrew.

You scoff “I get why you guys call him Pope now” you direct it to Baz as you stare at Andrew “—because all he does is sit back, observing everyone like he’s some higher power, judging them like he’s got us all figured out. Knows it all, full of wisdom, right? Oh, wise one.”

Andrew snaps back, quick and sharp. “You done?”

You clap your hands together. “In Jesus’ name I pray,” you say sweetly, your expression innocent for a half-second—then it shifts, hard. “A-fucking-men,” you spit, seething.

You push off the sand and head toward the water, leaving Andrew and Baz behind.

Andrew exhales a long, deep sigh.

Baz bursts out laughing. “What was that?”

He drops into the chair beside Andrew, still grinning, skin sun-warmed and hair tousled from the ocean. A few drops of water flick off his shoulder as he leans back, relaxed in that effortless way Baz always is.

Andrew doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you as you enter the water, laughing with Deran as he comes back in from the surf. The sound of your laughter carries just enough to reach them.

“You ever seen him like that?” Baz asks quietly, nodding toward Deran.

Baz huffs a quiet laugh, almost fond. “He looks like a goddamn golden retriever.”

Their younger brother acted like a normal teenage kid when he was around you. Carefree, easygoing, laughing at dumb jokes or complaining about school like it actually mattered. Something he—Baz, even Craig—never really got to be. They’d had to grow up fast, too fast.

So did Deran, in his own way. But at least he got to experience some sense of normalcy. Maybe not much, and maybe not for long, but enough to remember what it feels like.

“She shouldn’t be here. She’s not supposed to be part of this,” Andrew mutters. “Not the beach. Not us. Not any of it.”

Deran lifts you into the air and spins you before dropping you into the waves. You pop up sputtering, laughing, and swat at him.

“Yeah?” Baz says, as he glances at Andrew’s expression. “It’s the beach, Pope. You trying to ban her from public sand now?”

Andrew doesn’t answer, and Baz lets out a soft breath, almost amused. He looks back toward the water. “Looks like it’s a little late for that.”

They watched you throw your arms up in mock defeat as Deran splashed you. You laugh, bright and unbothered, the kind of sound that didn’t belong anywhere near blood or secrets or guns tucked under beds.

“You know what I mean.”

“Relax. They’re just having fun. It’s not like Deran dragged her out on a job.”

Andrew’s jaw tightens. “That’s not the point.”

Baz raises a brow, still watching him. “You’re really wound up about this, huh?”

Baz shrugs. “She’s not around anything,” he says, voice even. “As long as Deran keeps her out of the real shit, she’ll be fine.”

Baz and Andrew continue to watch you and Deran in the water—Deran flicks water at you again, and you shriek, chasing after him now.

Andrew exhales slowly but says nothing, taking a sip of his beer.

Baz looks at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Look, I don’t know what your motive is here. But you don’t owe her anything. She’s not your problem.”

Andrew’s eyes cut toward Baz, his jaw tight. “I’m aware she’s not my responsibility.”

Baz is unconvinced. “You say that, but you’re acting like she is.”

Andrew doesn’t respond, his gaze already drifting back toward the shoreline.

Baz, trying to ease the tension says “It’s a beach day, man. She’s not walking into anything but sand.”

—

Eventually, Craig came in from the surf, shaking water from his hair as he joined you and Deran.

“Ready for your lesson?”

Deran and Craig walked you back to shore, dropping their boards on the sand. They knelt beside you, demonstrating how to paddle out, find your balance, and pop up on the board. The waves crashed gently nearby, a steady rhythm in the background, and the sun warmed your skin as you listened closely, soaking in every word.

Deran leads the way, taking you out into the water while Craig stays on shore. You borrow Craig’s board, the smooth surface slippery under your hands. With Deran’s steady guidance, you paddle toward the waves, your heart racing with every push.

You catch a wave and manage to pop up—but your balance wobbles, and you fall back into the water. Deran grins, teasing but encouraging.

He then shows off a bit, cutting through the surf with ease, pulling off tricks that make you smile. His confidence pushes you to try again, determination growing with every attempt.

The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The two of you sit side by side on your boards, quiet except for the gentle lapping of the waves and the distant call of gulls overhead. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, glowing gold under the fading light.

You glance toward the beach. From out here, the shore looked far, but you could still make out Baz’s loud gestures as he talked with Craig, and Andrew—still, quiet, arms crossed—watching the water.

Watching you, maybe.

You weren’t sure.

The ocean rolled gently beneath your board, sun glinting off the surface.

“I don’t think your brothers like me all that much”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, and Deran’s still staring at the horizon, watching for a wave you could ride.

“They just don’t know you,” he says finally, voice low. “Not yet. They’ll come around”

You give a small, dry laugh. “Pretty sure they don’t want to. I mean Craig's fine, Baz tolerates me…But Andrew…he’s…”

He shakes his head, looking out toward the horizon again. “Complicated. Always has been.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

You scoff “I beg to differ”

Deran wanted to tell you—wanted to explain what he saw that night at the party when he came back with your drink. The way you sat there, unflinching under Andrew’s stare, not afraid, not intimidated like most people were. How Andrew, for once, didn’t shut down or walk off. He stayed. He talked.

Andrew didn’t talk to people. He barely tolerated most of them. But he watched you. Listened when you spoke.

Deran saw it. And it stuck with him.

But now, with the two of you drifting in the water, the sun low and the world quiet, he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, a grin spreads across his face, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes as he spots something behind you.

“Alright, this is it! This is the one!” he says, pointing toward the rising swell.

You glance back. Your heart starts to pound, adrenaline rushing just in time to see the wave forming, growing taller as it rolls toward you.

“Paddle, paddle, paddle!” he shouts, and you both take off, cutting through the water side by side.

You dig your hands into the cool water, pushing forward with everything you’ve got. The wave lifts you, and you pop up, shaky but steady, balancing as the water rushes beneath your board. The salty spray hits your face. For a moment, it feels like you’re flying.

You hear Deran cheer behind you.

Then, suddenly, a voice cuts through the roar of the ocean: “Watch it!” The guy drops in right in front of you, and you gasp, startled. It all happens so fast—the board shifts beneath you, your balance lost.

You fall off, plunging into the cold water. Fear spikes in your chest as you surface, heart racing from the shock.

Deran calls out after you as he paddles toward you, worry clear in his voice. “Shit, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine!” you say, treading water and grabbing hold of the leash to pull your board closer. “That guy came out of nowhere!”

“He fucking dropped in on you, almost clipped you,” Deran snaps, anger flashing across his face.

He’s angry, really angry. There’s something fierce in his eyes, protective. His knuckles are white around the edge of his board as he steadies it near yours.

He’s got that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s about to do something reckless.

“Deran—” you start, voice uncertain.

But before you can get another word out, he turns and starts paddling hard toward shore.

You curse under your breath and paddle after him, heart racing again for a different reason now. You knew exactly what was coming. Deran was going to find that guy, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

—

You and Deran drifted further down the beach during the last few sets, far from where the others were, and too far for them to notice what was about to happen.

Deran made it to shore, board tucked under his arm, his pace quick and determined as he stalked after the guy who was several feet ahead, heading toward the showers.

With what energy you had left, your board in arm, you pushed through the soft sand to catch up, your breath coming fast. The tension in the air was thick, and you could see the way Deran’s shoulders were squared, his jaw tight, his whole body humming with anger.

“Deran,” you called, just loud enough for him to hear, “let’s go back to your brothers.”

He didn’t slow down.

“I’m okay, Deran!”

“But that wasn’t okay!” he snapped, stopping suddenly and whipping around to face you. His eyes were blazing, chest rising and falling with every breath.

You caught up to him, stepping in front of him, your board still clutched tightly in your hand. “I’m fine! I wasn’t hurt! It’s not worth it! Don’t start anything, please!”

He stared at you for a second, jaw clenched, like he was holding something back—like he wanted to listen to you, but couldn’t let it go.

Then he turned without a word, storming off again toward the showers.

“No, I’m gonna fucking say something!” he snapped over his shoulder. “He shouldn’t have dropped in and cut you off like that! That was your wave! You could’ve gotten seriously hurt!”

His voice carried down the beach, sharp and heated, drawing the attention of a few people nearby. You hurried after him

“Deran don’t!” You protested.

The two of you made it to the showers. Deran propped his board along the public's restroom building, you did the same

“Dude, what the fuck?!” Deran shouts as he barrels up to the guy rinsing off at the showers.

The guy turns, startled, water still running down his back. “What’s your problem, man?”

“You’re my fucking problem,” Deran snaps, getting in his face. “You don’t snake someone like that—she had the wave. You nearly ran her over!”

“It’s a crowded break. Shit happens.”

“Watch we’re you’re fucking going dipshit!”

“Deran, let’s go!” You’re pulling Deran back when the guy mutters under his breath, just loud enough to be heard over the showers,

“Maybe she shouldn’t be out there if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Deran freezes.

You feel it before he even moves—his whole body goes rigid, like a switch flipped.

“The fuck did you just say?” he growls, spinning back around.

The guy shrugs, a smug grin spreading across his face. “It’s not my fault she wiped out. If she can’t hold her line, maybe she shouldn’t be out here.”

That’s all it takes.

“Deran!”

They clash instantly—shoving, fists flying, raw fury spilling over. The scuffle spills from the showers toward the nearby parking lot. Dirt dust and some sand kick up beneath their feet, the sound of grunts and punches echoing off the pavement.

You move without thinking, rushing after them.

“Hey—!” you shout, trying to wedge yourself between them, hand outstretched.

But in the chaos, a wild backhand meant for Deran catches you across the face and you hit the asphalt.

“Shit!” Deran barked, breaking from the scuffle.

You barely registered the way your hands and knees were scraped raw from the ground, your vision blurred.

The guy stumbles back, hand half-raised like he can take it back. “Shit—I didn’t mean to—she got in the way—”

You blink through the sting as you sit up.

Deran drops to his knees beside you, hands gripping your shoulders, frantic and wide-eyed.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he says quickly, voice tight. Then his expression shifts when he sees the blood at your temple. “Fuck—your head. Hold on.”

The guy stammers something under his breath and backs away fast, grabbing his board in a rush before turning and sprinting off.

“Hey—!” Deran half-rises, fury flashing through him, but he stops himself. He can’t leave you.

“Fuck!” he hisses, torn, but kneels back beside you, one hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you wrong.

Gently but urgently, Deran helped you to your feet, one arm steadying. He didn’t say anything else, just guided you back toward the beach where his brothers were, his steps quick, protective. The surfboards were forgotten, abandoned and left without a second thought.

Craig was the first to spot the two of you coming down towards them on the beach. Standing up from the spot in the sand.

“What the—?” he said, rising to his feet fast, his eyes locking on your face. “What the hell happened?”

Deran’s jaw was tight, his voice low but barely controlled. “She got hit,” he muttered. “Some prick surfer dropped in on her. When I confronted him, we swung—and she tried to get in the middle.”

All three brothers stood now, the shift in energy sharp and immediate—like a storm rolling in.

Baz shook his head, voice heavy with disbelief. “You started a fight with her there? What the hell were you thinking, Deran?”

“I was just—” Deran began, but you cut in quickly.

You take a breath, steadying yourself.

“Yeah, the guy hit me—accidentally. I got in the middle trying to stop it. So, it’s on me.”

You glance at Deran, then back to his brothers, trying to calm the growing tension.

“Deran was trying to protect me, even if he went about it the wrong way”

You shifted beside Deran, the air still thick. You’d tried to stop him. You knew he was acting out of instinct, maybe even out of fear, but that didn’t excuse it. You hadn’t needed saving. You were fine before all this.

Andrew stood still, jaw clenched, eyes dark and cold. He looked past you, like the anger was burning beneath the surface. “Well where’s the guy now?”

“Gone,” Deran snapped. “Ran off like a coward soon as he realized what he did.”

Craig and Baz exchanged a heavy sigh before groaning in frustration, the sound thick with exasperation and disbelief. Baz ran a hand through his tousled hair, while Craig’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw tight in silent irritation. Andrew’s fists clenched at his sides.

“What does he look like?” Andrew asked.

Deran described the guy who’d dropped in on you in the surf—his build and characteristics.

Andrew didn’t respond. He just stared at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched tight.

At this moment you left like an inconvenience to all of them.

Baz shifted in the sand, glancing at Andrew with a knowing look. He could see it coming—what Andrew was about to do.

“I take her to the truck,” Baz said suddenly, cutting through the tension. He was already moving toward you, his voice more serious than usual. “Grab our shit and let's bounce.”

Craig and Deran nodded wordlessly and moved to gather the towels, cooler, and scattered gear.

Baz didn’t wait. He placed a hand gently on your back, steering you up the sand. “Come on, angel,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

—

You sat on the tailgate of Baz’s truck, the cool metal pressing against your skin. He stood in front of you, his eyes focused and steady as he cleaned the cut on your temple, gently wiping the scrapes on your hands and knees with water from a bottle and the edge of his shirt.

“Well, good news—you don’t need stitches,” Baz said, glancing up at you. “It’s minor. Just bled a lot.”

“Do you feel dizzy or anything?”

“No, it just hurts”

You stayed quiet, your mind still reeling.

“You okay?” he asked.

Baz looked at you for a long moment, then wiped the last bit of blood from your skin. He tossed the bloodied shirt into the truck bed behind you.

“I told Deran I was fine,” you murmured. “Told him not to start anything.”

“Yeah, well… you know Deran. Fine doesn’t mean shit to him when he thinks someone messed with someone he cares about.”

He ripped open the bandage and gently pressed it to your temple, then stepped back, tossing the wrapper into the truck bed.

A few minutes later, Craig and Deran came walking up from the beach, arms full—towels, boards and the cooler.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asked

Deran dropping the gear beside the truck. Craig set the cooler down beside the tailgate with a heavy thud.

Baz nodded behind them.

And then you saw him: Andrew. Walking quickly down the road toward the group, his pace steady like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Where the hell did you—” Craig started, but stopped when his eyes landed on Andrew’s hands.

You felt your breath hitch, your eyes widening in shock. “Oh my god…” you muttered.

His knuckles were split and raw, streaks of red smeared across his skin, quickly becoming aware of what he had done.

He headed straight for the cooler beside you. He popped it open, grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and poured it over his hands. The blood washed away in thin pink trails, disappearing into the dirt.

None of the brothers said anything.

They started moving again, business as usual—Craig and Deran went to strap the boards back onto the Jeep, Baz shook out the towels, acting like Andrew’s bloodied hands weren’t still dripping into the dirt.

But you stayed where you were, perched on the tailgate, watching him.

The water bottle hung loosely in his hand now, his other flexing and curling like the ache hadn't fully set in yet. His face was angry but something about the way he kept his head down, shoulders taut, made your skin prickle.

And something in your chest tightened.

He hadn’t said a word. Not to you. Not to anyone.

But you knew.

You didn’t know how you knew—but you were certain: the guy who dropped in on you out in the surf? Andrew found him. Andrew finished what Deran had started.

After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes locking with yours. His expression was angry—but you knew it wasn’t aimed at you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You hesitated, the answer caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“I… yeah,” you said quietly.

“Andrew…” you began, your eyebrows drawn together as you searched his eyes, your voice unsteady—unsure of what you were even trying to say. Grateful? Scared? Both?

He looked up after a long moment, eyes finding yours.

Andrew was angry.

It wasn’t because Deran started the fight with the surfer—or even because he did it for you. He understood that and probably would’ve done the same.

What bothered him was where it happened—in front of you.

He felt guilty, too. He’d warned Deran not to bring you around, but Deran hadn’t listened. He’d let his temper loose right there, reckless and stupid.

Still, Deran’s violence wasn’t the worst.

Deran had thrown punches, but Andrew? Andrew snapped.

When Deran brought you to the beach—hair wet, scraped hands and knees, bleeding forehead—there was no thinking. Andrew hadn’t seen the fight;only hearing what you and Deran said. But that was enough. That guy hurt you. That was all Andrew needed to know. No logic—just sharp, searing rage. He saw red. The kind of red that drowns out reason, leaves bruises on someone’s face, and blood on his knuckles.

Andrew had gone off and beaten the shit out of that surfer—and now you were seeing the aftermath. His knuckles were raw and reddened, the skin split open in places where it had met something—or someone—hard.

But he looked away, breaking eye contact, jaw tight like he couldn’t stand to see whatever was written on your face.

“Hey, you okay?” Deran asked, jogging up beside the truck, worry etched across his face.

“Yeah, Baz patched me up,” you said quickly, voice a little breathless, trying to keep the tremor out. You forced a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Deran said quietly

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze for a split second before looking away. “Don’t do that again, please. I didn’t like that at all.”

Before Deran could answer, Andrew spoke up “Deran, I need to talk to you.”

Deran looked between the two of you, frowning, then nodded. “We’re just about done packing up. How about you head to the Jeep? I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

“O-okay.” You slid off the tailgate, your legs a little shaky as you walked across the lot to Craig’s Jeep, the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders.

Behind you, you could feel the tension shift the second you were out of earshot.

“I handled it.”

“Clearly,” Deran muttered, eyes flicking to the blood on Andrew’s knuckles.

Andrew’s voice sliced through the air—quiet, but razor-sharp.

“Next time you’re gonna confront and fight someone, do it when she’s not around. Don’t do shit like that again—understand me?”

Deran shifted his weight but didn’t back down. His eyes met Andrew’s evenly. “Yeah.”

Andrew didn’t soften. “I don’t want her around.”

Deran’s voice sharpened, “I’m not cutting her out just because you say so.”

“Did you not listen to me the first time? At the party?” Andrew’s tone went colder, more pointed. “She won’t last around us. I don’t want her around.”

“She’s my friend”

Andrew’s jaw flexed like steel, his eyes narrowing. “You really think it’s okay to drag your friend into this shit?”

Deran’s nostrils flared, frustration bubbling under his calm facade. “She’s not in anything,” he shot back, voice rising slightly. “You act like I brought her in on some job.”

Andrew took a step closer “You think it starts with that? It’s already started — the party, ditching school, the fight. This is how it happens. Piece by piece. One day, she’s too deep, and there’s no crawling back.”

Deran knew Andrew was right.

They only had a few months of high school left. You’d be going to college soon, off to some different world he couldn’t follow. Deran wanted you close—needed you close. He wanted to soak up every bit of your goodness before distance tore you two apart. It was selfish, he knew that. Even if it meant putting you at risk by keeping you around.

But you made things feel lighter. Easier. Like maybe the weight of their world didn’t have to crush everything.

College would take you away, and with you would go all the small moments that made life bearable.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Deran said stubbornly, like just saying it out loud could make it true.

Andrew didn’t argue this time. Just gave him a look—one that said you will learn.

Because his little brother wasn’t going to listen.

He was going to have to learn the hard way.

“You know what—fine,” Andrew snapped, jaw tight. “Keep her around. But when shit catches up to us—and it will—she’ll be the one standing in the crossfire.”

His eyes were sharp, voice low and cold.

“You keep pulling her into this life, that blood’s on you. Don’t come asking us for help.”

Deran didn’t say anything at first. Just stared back, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose.

“Deran, let’s go!” Craig called from the Jeep, his voice cutting through the tension.

Deran looked at Andrew one last time. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the Jeep.

You had watched them through the rear windshield. They had been arguing—low voices at first, then sharper, more tense, like a storm building just beneath the surface. You couldn’t hear the words, but you didn’t need to. The way Andrew stood, rigid, and the way Deran’s hands kept flexing at his sides told you everything.

Deran climbed into the passenger seat without a word, slamming the door harder than necessary. Craig gave him a look but didn’t say anything, just threw the Jeep into gear and pulled away from the curb.

You stayed quiet in the back, heart still beating too fast.

You were still trying to wrap your head around why Andrew had gone after the surfer. It wasn’t even his fight to begin with. Was it just because you were his little brother’s friend—an extension of Deran?

He didn’t even like you or want you around, so why did he do it?

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just instinct. Protection by proximity.

You glanced out the window as the beach faded behind you, sunlight slanting low across the water.

You didn’t understand Andrew. Not really. You were still trying to figure him out—where you stood with him, what he was thinking behind those unreadable looks and clipped words.

But one thing was clear: he wasn’t indifferent.

And that was enough to keep you wondering.

LYA Tag: @obfuscateyummy @princesssunderworld @jumpingjackalope @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @alexandrathegreat3 @cozyfanficnook @livingavilaloca @oldmanbunnylover @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere

Love You Anyway | Then (1) (2)

[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.”

First | Previous

Masterlist

[cece693]

That fic you wrote about Steve and Buck and the reader drafted for war? How dare you, my heart shattered and now I gotta sweep the pieces up. (I mean this in the best way possible) your writing is absolutely incredible. Keep it up I can’t wait to see what you do next and I’d love to see more of Steve/bucky or just Steve/just bucky.

Awww, thank you so much! I loved how the fic came out and am surprised to see others also liking it. I do have some ideas on how to make it more angsty but for now, I want to include the reader just sending letters to his boys and making them worried sick for his wellbeing. Enjoy!

Promise to Return Pt. 2

Time had a funny way of dragging on in the months after you left. Steve and Bucky both felt it—even when the sun was shining or the city was bustling, there was a hollowness that settled in the space you once filled. It started with little things: Bucky snapping at Steve for something trivial—like leaving the window open or tapping his foot constantly—and Steve responding in a sharp tone. Neither wanted to talk about why they were really frustrated; neither wanted to voice the truth that haunted them: You were gone, in harm’s way, and they could do nothing about it.

The day your first letter arrived, it felt like a jolt of electricity through the tired hush of the apartment. They tore it open together, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. The scrawl inside was messy, words cramped like you’d had to fit every sentence onto a tiny scrap of paper:

Dear Steve and Bucky, I’ve only been gone a short while, but it feels like years. Some nights, I lay awake in the thin canvas tent we’re calling home, and all I can think of is the warmth of your arms. I’d give anything to feel you beside me, even if only for a moment. Life here is a blur of training drills, endless marching, and the constant dirt that clings to everything—my uniform, my boots, my skin. But I’m okay. Sometimes I can almost hear you, Buck, telling me to keep my chin up the way you always do. And Stevie, I picture that soft smile of yours and the determination in your eyes. It gives me courage. We haven’t seen combat yet, but word is we’ll be moving closer to the front soon. I try not to think about the danger. Instead, I think of home—of you two, and how you always fought over who got to hold me first. (I hope you’re still not fighting too much, but if you are, at least kiss and make up afterward, all right?) I miss you both more than I thought possible. Write me back. Tell me everything—tell me how Brooklyn’s holding up, how my folks are doing, and most of all, how you’re doing. Stay safe. I love you, always.

They read it three times over. By the time they finished, tears stained both of their cheeks. They quickly pulled out a pen, set on informing you about what's been happening in town, how your parents are handling things and how much they missed you. They tried to make it sound comforting, hopeful, full of love. Because that was the part of them that still worked—the love. The arguments were brutal, but then another letter would arrive and everything would return to normal—as if you were the glue holding their love from crumbling to dust.

My Steve and Bucky, It’s been a rough few weeks. I don’t want to worry you too much, but I’d rather be honest. The mud is up to our ankles, constant rain drenching us to the bone. The nights are long and cold. I’ve been pushing through, though. Some days, I can’t get the memory of home out of my head—the smell of fresh-baked bread from the bakery near the apartment, the warmth of your arms around me when you’d both squeeze in close at night. We had a scare yesterday—enemy planes overhead. The bombs fell close, rattling our nerves. But I got lucky, walked away with just a few scrapes. I keep telling myself, “If I can make it through one more day, I’ll be one day closer to home.” If you’re fighting, promise me you’ll make up by the time I get back. I’m counting on the two of you to be in one piece—physically and emotionally—when I step off that train. I want to come home to the two men I love, not a cold apartment full of bitterness. I love you both, deeply. Write soon—hearing from you gives me a kind of strength nothing else can. —Yours (always)

They clutched that page, tears trailing down their cheeks. Steve rested his head against Bucky’s shoulder, and for once, Bucky let him. They stayed that way for a while, breathing in tandem, wishing you weren’t so far away.

It wasn’t until months had passed that Bucky and Steve realized, with sinking dread, that your most recent letter had in fact been your final one. At first, neither of them wanted to believe it. It had arrived, tattered at the edges and water-stained from its journey across war-torn oceans, but it had arrived, and so they assumed more would follow. They devoured your words over and over, clinging to the affection you poured onto the page:

My Brooklyn Boys, I’m all right, but things are worse than ever. We’ve moved positions so many times I can’t keep track of addresses. This might be my last chance to write for a while—our lines are closing in on the enemy, and rumor says we’ll be engaged in heavy fighting soon. I won’t lie to you: I’m scared. I’ve seen good men go down this week. Men I shared cigarettes with and talked about what was awaiting us back home. It’s hard to see that and not wonder if I’m next. But I made a promise to come back. I hold onto that promise for dear life, the promise of seeing your faces again, feeling your arms around me. Maybe that’s naïve. But hope is all we have sometimes. Please forgive me if the letters stop for a bit. I’ll try to keep them coming, but I can’t control what happens here. Just know that, no matter what happens, I love you both with everything I have and am. I think about you constantly. Be safe, and be strong for each other.

When your final letter first arrived, neither Bucky nor Steve panicked. You’d warned them: “Forgive me if the letters stop for a bit,” and they assumed it would be a short break—maybe a week or two before you found another chance to put pen to paper. After all, you’d been late before, but never by more than a month. Two months, at most.

But five entire months dragged by. Five months of an empty mailbox. Five months of carefully folded hopes, clutched tight each morning and slowly unraveling each night.

They reread that last note so often its edges grew soft, the folds worn from constant handling. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Steve would wake to find Bucky asleep in the armchair, your letter clutched in his hand as if he’d drifted off tracing the curve of your words. Other times, Bucky would come home to find Steve hunched over the kitchen table, silent tears slipping onto the paper. No matter how many times they scoured each line, the reality never changed: you were gone, and they had no clue where you were, or if you were even alive.

Bucky was the first to snap under the weight of uncertainty. He’d been restless for weeks, ducking out late in the evenings, returning with a haunted look in his eyes. One night, as Steve sat hunched at the dinner table, rereading your last note for what felt like the thousandth time, Bucky slammed the door behind him.

“I just enlisted.”

For a moment, the words didn’t compute. Steve blinked, setting the letter aside. “You—what?”

“I went to the recruiter’s office,” Bucky repeated, his voice trembling with anger and fear all at once. “I signed the papers, Steve. I’m shipping out as soon as they process me.”

Steve shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “What the hell, Buck?” he demanded. “We talked about this! We were waiting—for news, for a letter—”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “That’s the thing, Stevie. There isn’t any news. Not for five months! It’s been radio silence out there. God only knows what’s happened—I can’t just sit here hoping a letter might show up tomorrow.”

“You think I like sitting here, not knowing if he’s alive or not?” Steve’s voice cracked, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “But enlisting— that’s not how we were supposed to handle this. You remember what he wrote. He wanted us to be safe!”

Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. “Safe? While he might be—” His words choked off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“So your solution is to go get yourself killed, too!?”

The argument escalated quickly—voices echoed off the walls, rehashing every fear they’d kept bottled up. “Why didn't you talk to me first?" Steve sought. “We could’ve come up with something else! We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I am talking to you, right now,” Bucky shot back, though guilt was already gnawing at him. “I just—I couldn’t wait any longer. If you’d seen your own face these past months…you’re wasting away, Stevie. We both are.”

“That’s why we have to stick together!” Steve insisted, tears finally slipping. “He’d want us looking out for each other. Not running off alone.” He stared at Bucky, betrayal written all over his face. “So, that’s it? You’re leaving, and I’m just—what, supposed to watch you go?”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Bucky admitted, throat working as he swallowed back tears. “But I don’t see another option. If the recruiters won’t take you, you’ll be stuck here anyway. At least this way, one of us is in the field. I can look for him, find out something.”

“That’s not good enough,” Steve murmured, voice thick with sorrow. “I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky’s eyes hardened at those words. He heard what Steve said, but all he could feel was anger coiling in his chest. It wasn’t just rage at the war or at your disappearance—it was anger at Steve, for voicing the unthinkable. “Lose me?” he echoed, fists clenching at his sides. “So you’ve already made up your mind that we lost him? That he’s…gone?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You’re the one acting like he’s dead!” Bucky barked, voice raw. His breath came shallow and ragged, as if each inhale cut him like glass.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve protested, but his shaky tone betrayed the fear he tried so hard to hide.

Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them bristling. “Then why are you telling me you ‘can’t lose me too’? Huh?” His voice wavered on the last word, hands trembling as he fought the urge to punch something—anything to escape this horrible feeling in his chest. “I’m not dying, Steve. I’m fighting to find him. Because I still believe he’s alive—why can’t you?”

“I do believe,” Steve said, voice trembling. “But it’s been five months since his last letter, Buck.”

“And that means we give up?” Bucky’s tone was half-accusation, half-plea. The weight of those months of silence crashed down on him, but he refused to accept it. His eyes burned. “You think I don’t feel that ache every day? I wake up and wonder if today’s the day we find out…something. But I won’t let it be the day we give up hope.”

Steve looked away, a harsh sob caught in his throat. “We’re not giving up. But we have to face facts. You’re running off to sign up for a war you might not come back from. What if—what if he never…”

Bucky flinched as though struck. “Don’t,” he hissed, voice frayed. “Stop saying ‘never.’ He’s out there somewhere—maybe buried in the thick of it, pinned down, unable to write. Maybe—” His words broke into a choked whisper. “Maybe he’s just trying to survive.”

Steve tried to speak, but emotion knotted his throat, and no sound came out. He watched as Bucky turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, tension radiating off him like a storm about to break. “Buck, please,” Steve managed at last, almost stumbling after him. “Don’t—Where are you going?”

Bucky paused with his hand on the doorknob, shoulders heaving. He half-turned, giving Steve a wounded stare. “I need space because sitting here in this apartment for another second without answers is killing me. If you won't stand by me—" He swallowed hard. “Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.”

“That’s not fair,” Steve croaked, but Bucky was already out the door, slamming it behind him with a resounding crack that seemed to echo through the empty rooms.

For a long moment, Steve simply stared, heart hammering in his chest. Then reality hit him like a punch to the gut, and he crumpled to his knees right there in the entrance hall. A ragged sob tore from his throat, shaking his entire body.

He pressed his hands to his face, unable to stop the torrent of tears. All he could see was the half-faded memory of you—your warm smile, the way you used to loop an arm around his shoulders or tug Bucky into a playful headlock. All he could hear was Bucky’s agonized accusation: Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.

“It’s not true,” Steve whispered to the empty air, voice cracking. “I swear it’s not.” But there was no one around to hear him. Nothing but the echo of silence, and the ghost of your promise that you’d find your way home—somehow.

[monster-disaster]

I am fully obsessed with Diman the dragon and saw that requests are open so I thought I'd shoot my shot and ask for more of him!!

I love the smut but I also love how domestic he is with the reader <3

I think it'd be so funny if he were all disappointed that the reader didn't lay any eggs after their sex marathon and she's like "diman, babe, light of my life, man/dragon of my dreams, humans don't lay eggs, they get pregnant"

Their dragon hybrid kids would be the cutest I know for sure that poor girlie would get knocked up with triplets lmfao

dragon!Diman x human!Reader Good to know: pregnancy

Previously: [dragon] Diman [dragon] Diman +1 [dragon] Diman + NSFW Alphabet

"Don’t stare at me." Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, laced with a frustration that isn't entirely fair. You can't explain it entirely either.

"Sorry, love," Diman replies immediately, but the weight of his gaze remains. His steady attention presses against your skin, warming you up from the inside out.

"Diman!"

You hear the rustling of the nest as he shifts. His claws scrape against the rough stone ground, and you can feel the weight of his steps underneath you.

"Yes, love?" he asks, amused. He nudges your back gently. His exhale ghosts over your neck, raising goosebumps along your spine. As an answer, his child stirs inside you. Your hand snaps to your swollen belly with a gasp, feeling them kick and stretch.

"Oh," you breathe, eyes widening as another little nudge ripples beneath your skin. "They are awake."

Diman hums. The deep, rumbling sound makes the air vibrate around you. His massive form leans over you, casting a shadow that dims the firelight in front of you. Then, with all the tenderness of a devoted mate, he nuzzles into your belly where his child moves.

A deep purr breaks free from his chest, seeping into your bones. "Mummy is too hungry, huh?" he teases. "Can’t sleep next to that grumbling stomach."

"Hey!" You gasp, scooting away slightly with a glare. "I can’t help it! The midwife’s visit lasted longer than I thought!"

Ever since your pregnancy became obvious, Diman has had no trouble tracking down people; old friends, acquaintances, or those who owe him favors, to ensure your comfort. The midwife’s visit today was the final one before you give birth, a last check to confirm that you and the baby are healthy and that everything is ready. She was thorough, taking her time to examine you, ask questions, and reassure you with a gentle smile. By the time she finally left, after Diman's endless questions, you were tired and hungry.

"That’s a good thing," your dragon reasons. "It means she is thorough."

He is not wrong. The midwife knows exactly how to handle him, wherever they first met, she is not the least bit intimidated by his size, his growling, or his endless barrage of questions. If he gets too overbearing, she puts him in his place with a sharp tongue and a firm hand, something you are more than grateful for. Diman can be a lot, especially now that you are so close to the finish line.

"I know," you sigh, giving the stew one final stir before pouring yourself a generous portion. The rich scent of spices and freshly baked bread fills your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach give another impatient growl.

Without hesitation, you scoop up a steaming spoonful, then groan with satisfaction. "So good!"

You don’t have many cravings, but red meat has become your weakness, something you’d almost be willing to kill for. Well, not you, but Diman. The dragon has taken it upon himself to go out every few days, hunting and bringing back anything that can make you and your baby more comfortable. You are spoiled. Utterly, shamelessly pampered in a way you have never been before, and while you hate to complain, sometimes, it’s a bit much.

Like right now.

"You are still staring," you grumble between bites.

Diman doesn’t even flinch at the accusation. If anything, his eyes gleam with even more warmth. He can't help it. There’s something mesmerizing about the way you sit curled up by the fire, bathed in its golden light, wearing one of those flimsy but comfortable dresses that drape loosely over your form. You can’t sit still, not with the constant ache in your back, but the moment you take that first bite, tension melts from your body. Your shoulders loosen, and Diman watches, utterly transfixed.

"Sorry," he murmurs, though you both know it’s a lie. He isn't sorry. Not in the slightest.

Something primal and urgent stirs in his chest. Seeing you like this, comfortable, warm, and well-fed, ignites something deeper than just affection. It’s instinct. He needs to do more. He has to hunt again, bring back more food, and find the midwife because what if she missed something and-and-and-

"Diman." Your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "I need you here," you groan, reaching behind yourself in an attempt to straighten your aching back. Your already half-empty plate is in your other hand.

"Of course, love." His words are followed by a rustle of movement. His scales drag over the floor, and after a second, you feel his long tail curl around you, pressing firm and warm against your back. It holds you steady, supporting you exactly where you need it. "Anytime," he adds with a hum, settling down beside you. He positions his body just the right way to keep himself between you and the entrance of the cave, even though nobody could take a step inside the mountain without his knowledge.

Silence settles between you, thick with warmth from the quiet crackle of the fire. As you finish your meal, you let yourself sink back against Diman, his body a steady wall of strength behind you. One hand rests on your stomach, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the swell of your belly. Any irritation from before has long since faded, replaced by the deep, steady comfort of his presence.

"What?" you ask, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch him still watching you.

Diman exhales, and for once, there is no teasing in his voice, no playful remark. Just raw honesty. "You are the best thing that ever happened to me," he murmurs. "You and the little one."

The words land deep. Your breath catches, and before you can stop them, tears spill down your cheeks in hot streaks.

Your throat tightens as you let out a shaky sniff. "Now you did it! Who knows when I will stop crying again!"

Diman grins, unbothered by your outburst. He nudges your leg with his snout, both affectionate and teasing. "It's fine. I better get used to all the crying before the baby arrives."

"Oh, shut up." If it weren’t for the way your voice breaks, you are sure you would sound more annoyed, but instead, the words come out soft. Fond. Completely ruined by your love for the oversized lizard next to you, all around you.

[antinousletmehit]

thank you for saving my life by opening request 😭😭😭😭😭

Bro I NEED the reader finally telling Odysseus what she has went throught what she has seen when their having their little moment together

If you can ofc I won't pressure you to do it!

Let this one rot in my askbox for a while, hope you enjoy!!

——-

It happened over dinner, when the room was alive with chatter and the warm glow of firelight. She had been quieter than usual, absently twirling a piece of bread between her fingers while Telemachus sat beside her, his arm resting protectively around her waist. Antinous, as always, was keeping a watchful eye on her, though he masked it well beneath his usual smirks and remarks. Odysseus, sipping from his cup, had casually brought up the past, how things were before the war, before everything changed.

“I never knew much about your life before the suitors came,” he admitted, glancing at her. “You always kept quiet about it.” She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the bread. It was rare that she spoke of it, even to Telemachus. But something about the way Odysseus asked made her exhale slowly and decide to share, just a little.

“There wasn’t much to say,” she murmured, voice soft. “Antinous and I… we didn’t come from much. We were poor, barely scraping by. He did what he had to so we could eat.”

Odysseus tilted his head. “Did what he had to?”

She swallowed, glancing at Antinous, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. He didn’t stop her when she continued. “He stole.” She lowered her gaze to her lap. “He pickpocketed, snuck into food stores, sometimes even tricked people out of their coin. He made sure I never went hungry.”

The room had quieted slightly. Even Telemachus looked like he hadn’t known the full extent of their struggles. Odysseus furrowed his brows, setting his cup down. “You mean to tell me… you were just children on the streets?”

“Not completely,” Antinous cut in, arms crossed. “We had a place to sleep, most nights. But food? Money? That was never promised. So I made sure we had it.” His gaze darkened slightly. “And when that wasn’t enough, she went hungry, not me. I refused to let her starve.”

Odysseus fell silent, staring at them both. A realization was dawning in his eyes, something he had never considered before. He had never asked what kind of life she had lived before she arrived at the palace. Never considered that the girl he once dismissed as a foolish suitor’s sister had spent her childhood struggling just to survive.

And he—he had treated her as if she were nothing more than an annoyance, a part of the problem. He had let the suitors come into his home, had let them take up space, and in doing so, he had unknowingly taken away the first real stability she had ever known. Guilt settled deep in his chest. “I didn’t know,” he admitted after a long pause. “Y/n… I didn’t know.”

She gave him a small, tired smile, as if she had already accepted long ago that no one had cared enough to ask. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, voice gentle. “It’s over.” But Odysseus, for the first time in years, felt like he had failed someone—not as a king, not as a warrior, but as a man.

And it did matter.

[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.

[esquilone]

- Winter Violets II

──────────୨ৎ───────────

RDR2 | Charles Smith x F! reader

❤︎ Summary: After everything that happened with the gang, Charles Smith sets out for Canada in search of a new beginning. Far from his past, he dreams of a peaceful life, maybe even a family. Riding along the vast, silent roads of Canada, he never expected to find anyone. But then, he heard it. A call for help. A voice lost in the wind. When he stopped to help you; a woman, he thought it was just a fleeting moment. But when, months later, your paths crossed again, something felt different. It became clear that this was never just a coincidence. Could there be something more to it?

❤︎ Genre tags: Explicit (not in this chapter)

WARNINGS ⚠️ : mentions of violence against women, blo0d, corpses and mention of cannib4lism (supposedly). Nothing too extreme.

Author's notes: this text hasn't been completely revised yet, I'm probably going to avoid Canadian accents because I don't know if they make the texts strange or something... but since it's set in the South, where people don't have such strong accents, it won't be strange if I take out some accents, I'll try to keep some dialogues, I hope you like this chapter, the hardest part for me is organizing it and putting it into English. c:

FIRST PART HERE! 01

Chapter 2

Time had passed since that night when you and Charles shared dinner. Mornings had returned to their usual silence, and your routine hadn’t changed much. But then, small details started to bother you.

First, there were the footprints near the fence. Not Charles’s from that day—these seemed more recent, and you knew how to recognize his. These were different, neither his nor yours, and there was more than one pair. They had appeared in the dead of night, close to the chicken coop.

Then, there was the constant feeling that someone was watching you.

You brushed off the thoughts and went about your routine. Morning arrived lazily, bringing with it a thin mist that lingered over the trees. You opened the front door and took in the fresh air, the scent of damp earth and wood filling your lungs. The wind rustled the leaves, making tiny hairs on your skin stand up, as the first rays of sunlight touched the porch.

It was always like this. Silence, routine.

With a sigh, you adjusted your skirt and went to fetch water from the storage outside. The rope creaked slightly as the bucket rose, rough wood scraping against your palm. With effort, you poured some of the water into a watering can and made your way to the backyard, toward the garden. The plants were lush, their green leaves gleaming with droplets of morning dew. You moved between them, carefully watering each one—mint, rosemary, thyme… The scent of herbs blended with the damp soil, bringing a comforting sense of peace and lifting your mood

Once you finished, you sat on the porch, pulling out your sketchbook. The pages bore faint smudges of graphite from your fingers and small stains of watercolor—remnants of hours spent capturing the tiny details of the world around you.

Today, you chose a raven.

It always appeared nearby, perching on the trunk of a dead tree by the fence. A solitary creature, always watching, as if it knew something you didn’t. Maybe it understood how isolated you felt—just like it. The only difference was that it was freer than you. Perhaps that was why it came to visit you from time to time.

With light pencil strokes, you started with its wings, then its sharp, attentive eyes—so dark yet intelligent. You lost yourself in the details of its feathers, the shape of its beak, the elegant curve of its neck.

Time passed without you noticing.

You only realized it when your stomach growled.

Setting the sketchbook aside, you went to the kitchen. The scent of coffee still lingered from earlier, mixed with the faint aroma of bread you had baked the day before. You grabbed a cast-iron pot, tossing in a few pieces of potato and carrot, stirring slowly as the soup warmed.

The kettle whistled on the stove, steam rising steadily. You set aside some chamomile tea, letting the leaves steep into the hot water.

Washing the dishes was an automatic process—your hands in the icy water, the soft clinking of plates, the soap bubbles sliding between your fingers. But your mind kept drifting back to the footprints near the house… It was strange.

You tried to ignore it. Maybe they belonged to travelers passing through. Maybe your imagination was playing tricks on you, and they were just your own footprints.

But when you went into town, an unexpected warning left you uneasy:

— Miss, be careful when you head back home. — The old postman adjusted his worn hat, glancing around before lowering his voice. — There are some strange men about.

— What do you mean? — You frowned, gripping your bag of supplies.

— A house was burned down this week. — He let out a sigh, shaking his head. — And a ranch was raided. Livestock killed and stolen, tools gone… — His calloused hands clutched the bundle of letters against his chest. — Just stay alert.

A chill ran down your spine. You knew the region could be dangerous, but something like this hadn’t happened in years.

— Have these men been seen around here?

— Not yet. But if it’s anything like last time, they start in the outskirts and then move in deeper.

You swallowed hard and thanked him, grabbing your packages and walking away with hurried steps, ready to go home. You knew the postman as well as your father once did—he wasn’t the type to lie. But the region wasn’t dangerous, and if something like that had happened, it was probably farther away.

The house was peaceful. The only sound was the occasional creaking of wood under the heat of the oil lamps. You were finishing your meal, the last remnants of dinner still warm on the plate. A simple meal, but satisfying. With a sigh, you pushed the chair back and gathered the dishes. The water in the basin reflected the soft glow of the flame as you washed everything, feeling the lukewarm touch on your fingers. The movement was automatic, almost soothing.

It had been a long day.

After your visit to town, the conversation with the postman kept echoing in your mind. He had always been a kind man, not one for many words, but today… today, something felt different.

“Be careful around these parts. I’ve heard of some strange folks lurking around farms. Just stay alert, alright?”

You knew how to take care of yourself. You always had. But for some reason, his warning wouldn’t leave your mind.

With a sigh, you grabbed a towel and went to the room you used as a bathroom. The water in the bucket was cold as it ran down your skin, the shock sending a shiver up your spine. You rubbed your arms, your face, letting the coolness ease some of the tension.

When you were done, you put on your pajamas—a long-sleeved cream-colored blouse with delicate blue bird and leaf details, along with thick fabric pants, comfortable against the night’s chill. You turned off some of the oil lamps on your way to the bedroom, leaving only one lit on the bedside table.

The old double bed was made of dark wood. You lay down on the sheets, staring at the ceiling. The silence around you felt heavier that night, pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible warning.

A strange chill in your stomach.

Maybe it was just anxiety… but why?

You pulled the thick blankets over your body, a nearly childish gesture, seeking comfort in the warmth of the soft fabric.

“Don’t be silly. Everything is fine.”

Even so, you clutched a pillow, hugging it against your chest. Your eyes slowly drifted shut, but the silence didn’t bring rest.

Then…

A noise.

Low, coming from outside.

You opened your eyes slowly. Your heart jumped in your chest, alert to any sound.

It was quick—maybe the wind, maybe an animal.

You took a deep breath, trying to ignore it. Maybe it was just your imagination.

Eventually, sleep won over, but it didn’t last long.

An hour later, your eyes opened again.

Your throat was dry.

You sat up slowly, feeling the cold wood under your bare feet. You grabbed the oil lamp and stood up, pulling a sheet and a blanket over your arms, trying to shield yourself from the sharp wind creeping into the house. Even though you were used to solitude, something about that night made your body tense with unease.

You walked to the kitchen, trying not to think too much about the strange discomfort weighing on you.

The water bucket was still near the sink. You picked up a clay cup, crouched down, and dipped it into the dark, cool liquid. You drank slowly, feeling it run down your throat, refreshing—but not enough to chase away the restlessness.

Cup in hand, you walked slowly through the house, your thoughts scattered.

For a brief moment, you thought of Charles.

His calm demeanor, his sharp eyes. The way he always seemed to sense when something was wrong.

Maybe it was just paranoia, but a part of you wished he was around.

And that’s when you saw it.

You stopped by the window, the cup still between your fingers. Outside, under the pale moonlight, the chicken coop was open.

Your heart pounded harder.

The fence stood dark and empty, the small door wide open, swinging slightly with the wind. You frowned. You were sure you had locked it before going to bed.

A sense of unease crept over you.

Setting the cup aside, you took a deep breath and walked to the back door. Your hand hesitated over the handle for a second.

Then, slowly, you turned it…

And stepped outside.

The moonlight bathed you as soon as you opened the door, and you clutched the blanket tighter around your shoulders and arms while your gaze swept across the property, stretching out in moderate size. The dewy grass and the almost absolute silence only intensified the feeling that something was out of place.

You walked with careful steps, the sound of your footsteps blending with the soft whisper of the wind. As you neared the chicken coop, the dim light revealed its simple structure and the animals resting inside. For a moment, everything seemed normal. You closed the coop door with an almost automatic gesture, but the lingering sense that something was wrong persisted.

As you made your way back along the dirt path, a low, indistinct noise—perhaps the rustling of leaves or a distant groan—made your heart race for a brief moment. A shiver ran down your spine. It wasn’t the paralyzing fear of living alone, but rather a vague, inexplicable discomfort, as if the silence itself had become suspicious.

Keeping your eyes sharp on the darkness around you, you decided to return to the warmth and safety of the house. You shut the door firmly, locked it, and, for a brief moment, stood in front of it, trying to convince yourself it was just your imagination.

Back in your room, you lay down in your parents’ old but cozy bed. The soft sheets and thick blankets had been carefully arranged. As you settled in, your thoughts tangled together—the image of the chicken coop, the strange sound, the vulnerability you couldn’t quite explain.

You closed your eyes and hugged the pillow against your chest, trying to surrender to sleep, hoping that the cold and the silence of the night would fade into nothing more than another small detail of your solitary routine.

Two days after that unsettling night, at dawn, you woke up with the vague memory of the strange sound and the eerie sensation you had felt. Still dwelling on it…

With your mind full of thoughts, you decided to face the day with your usual chores. First, you headed to the backyard to tend to the chicken coop. Dressed in simple clothes and still wrapped in the lingering warmth of the blankets you had used to ward off the wind, you began scattering feed for the chickens. As your careful fingers let the grains fall to the ground, you couldn’t help but notice something felt different. Normally, the soft rustling of feathers and the comforting clucking would fill the air. But today, something was off.

After feeding the animals, you went to collect the eggs to bring them inside. The nagging feeling wouldn’t leave you, so you decided to count the chickens.

Your heart picked up its pace.

Two or three were missing.

The realization left you stunned. In this region, you were sure there were no predators that fed on chickens—no foxes, no wild animals you knew of.

What?

The discomfort grew as your sharp eyes scanned the perimeter of the coop, searching for any sign of what might have happened. Nothing pointed to an intruder or an opportunistic animal. And yet, the unease remained.

Without wasting any time, you secured the coop firmly and, trying to regain your composure, continued feeding the remaining chickens. Then, with slightly trembling hands, you gathered the eggs and carried them inside, where you prepared your simple meal. But the feeling of loss and the mystery of the missing birds clung to you.

After finishing your chores, you returned to the backyard to water the garden. As you poured water over the plants with the same delicate care as always, despite your unease, your mind drifted between doubts and a faint fear you couldn’t quite understand.

The cold seeped into the skin like tiny, invisible blades. It was nothing Charles couldn’t endure, but still, he pulled his poncho a little tighter over his shoulders before crouching to check one of the traps he had set near the river.

Nothing.

Straightening up, he cast his gaze over the gray sky stretching above the open landscape. The wind howled strong that morning, shaking the trees around the camp, making Taima snort softly in annoyance.

— Yeah, I don’t like this weather much either — he muttered to the mare as he knelt to tend to the nearly extinguished fire.

He hadn’t slept well the night before.

Something about the silence in the region felt… off. Not that he believed in bad omens, but years of a wandering life had taught him to trust his instincts.

And his instincts told him something was out of place.

He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts. The day demanded work. He stood up and walked over to the small pile of hides and furs he had set aside for sale. Local traders paid well for good material, and he already had a decent amount to bargain with.

Taima followed him as he prepared to leave. Charles ran a hand along the mare’s neck, feeling the warmth of the animal against the cold skin of his own hand.

— Come on, girl. We’ve got work to do.

He mounted the saddle, adjusted the gloves on his hands, and guided the mare onto the dirt road leading to the small town. The plan was simple: sell the materials, get supplies, and maybe have a word with the gunsmith about new arrows. But as he moved farther from the camp, the strange feeling from the previous day settled in the back of his mind once more. He wasn’t the type to get carried away by paranoia, but something about that quiet land felt off.

The forest at dawn was a place of silence and expectation. He rode Taima naturally, taking in the fresh scent of damp earth and pine resin in the air. The mare’s gallop was firm and rhythmic as he guided the animal through familiar terrain, passing moss-covered rocks and streams winding through the trees. The cold wind cut across his face, but he was used to it. In Canada, the cold was a constant presence, even in summer, and he had learned to live with it. After all, he was an American.

Hunting required patience. He dismounted, tied Taima to a low branch, and proceeded on foot, stepping carefully through the sparse grass that still remained in some spots. The tracks were fresh—deer. He crouched, studying the signs closely: deep marks in the soil, some leaves grazed. Ready with his bow, he moved forward in absolute silence.

When he finally spotted the animal, his body reacted instinctively. He pulled the bowstring back slowly, feeling the tension in his fingers, and aimed precisely between the deer’s ribs. He released the arrow. The impact was clean; the deer leaped once before collapsing to the ground, panting. Charles walked over to it and, with a swift knife stroke, ended its suffering. Skinning and cleaning the kill was part of the routine. With expert skill, he removed the hide, separating meat, bones, and organs, making use of everything he could. His hands were stained with blood as he secured the hide to Taima’s back and prepared to return. Along the way, he caught a few more rabbits, easy to snare with simple traps. All of it would fetch a good price in town.

The small village was busy, at least by local standards. Simple wooden houses, a general store, a blacksmith, and a saloon clustered around the main road. Charles dismounted and walked straight to the gunsmith, where he sold some of the feathers and pelts he had gathered.

As he waited for payment, he overheard conversations around him.

— Have you heard? — a man’s voice asked another.

— What? Heard about what? — the other responded, confused.

— Another cabin burned down this week… — one of them murmured.

— They took everything before that. Left nothing behind, not even the horses. Lucky for the owners, they weren’t home at the time.

Charles didn’t react, but he listened carefully.

— Must be just some drifter, people without a place to go — another said, trying not to show concern.

That was unusual. Sure, there were always thieves and outlaws, but frequent arsons and looting weren’t common in such a peaceful region. It wasn’t for nothing that he preferred to travel through those parts. He received his payment, left the shop, and led Taima out of town.

As he rode back along the path near the river, the sound of running water caught his attention. But that wasn’t what made him stop—it was the figure kneeling by the riverbank, washing clothes.

You.

Your bare arms worked against the soaked fabric, scrubbing with determination. Your hair was tied up carelessly, a few loose strands falling over your face. And yet, you looked so… right.

Your movements were practical, habitual, as if you had done this all your life. The simple dress you wore was already a little wet near your ankles.

Charles dismounted slowly, watching. He hadn’t expected to run into you so soon again. You hadn’t noticed him at first, too focused on your task. But then, you felt it. A slight shiver on your skin, a strange intuition. When you tilted your head and looked to the side, your gaze met his.

He didn’t speak immediately. He just stood there, his mare drinking from the river beside him, observing. You blinked, surprised, then sighed.

— Are you following me, Charles? — your voice was light, almost playful, but with a hint of suspicion.

Fool.

But even without looking, he could still hear the rhythmic sound of clothes being wrung, water dripping, and wet fabric sliding against the stone.

— So, did you find any work? — your voice sounded casual, but there was a slight nervousness in it.

Charles lifted his gaze again, a little surprised. You had never been rude to him, but most of the time, you seemed to avoid him, as if his presence bothered you in some way. At least, that was the impression he had. You rarely looked at him directly, and now, striking up a conversation out of nowhere, had caught him off guard.

You were still focused on the clothes, running your hands firmly over the fabric, not meeting his eyes. The white foam dissolved in the current, disappearing downstream.

— Picked up some small jobs. — he answered, rubbing the back of his neck, now without the poncho since it wasn’t as cold anymore. — Leather, feathers, a bit of hunting. Whatever I can sell and trade for other things.

You nodded, lifting the soapy cloth to rinse it in the clear water. The rolled-up sleeves of your blouse left your forearms exposed, and as you pressed the fabric against the stone, a thin stream of water slid down your skin to your elbow before dripping into the river.

Charles noticed it and, for an instant, his gaze lingered there, distracted. But he quickly pulled himself together when he realized you were watching him from the corner of your eye.

— And you? — he asked, breaking the tension.

You shrugged, raising the garment to wring it firmly between your hands. The sound of wet fabric snapping under your fingers echoed softly.

— The usual. Taking care of the house. But there are things that need fixing.

He tilted his head slightly.

— That doesn’t seem like work you should be doing alone.

You smirked, leaning forward to wet another piece of fabric, your hips naturally following the motion.

— That’s exactly why I asked if you were still looking for work.

He stayed silent for a moment, just watching you. It wasn’t the first time someone had offered him a job like that, but coming from you, the proposal felt different. It wasn’t out of pity, nor because you saw him as some desperate outsider. It was simply practical—you needed help, and he knew how to do that kind of work.

You let out a small sigh, tossing another drenched, wrung-out piece into a basin on the rock.

— The fence is a mess. I need to reinforce some parts before something decides to get through. I couldn’t do it alone.

Charles glanced away toward the water before nodding slightly.

— I can take a look.

You smiled slightly, returning to scrubbing the clothes against the stone. This time, without realizing it, Charles watched for a little longer than he should have. After wringing out the last piece of clothing, you tossed it onto the pile you had made on the rock. The sun was already strong, and the water slowly dripping into the river darkened the soil below, forming small puddles between the stones.

You picked up one of the buckets and poured the remaining water onto the ground, watching the muddy stream slide until it was absorbed by the earth. Then, without much hurry, you placed the clean clothes inside the buckets, stacking them carefully to keep them from falling on the way back.

— If you want to stop by later, it can be in the morning or after lunch. — you said, picking up the second bucket and lifting it.

Charles gave a slight nod.

— Alright.

You didn’t prolong the conversation, just adjusted the handle of the bucket on your forearm and started walking back home. The sound of dry leaves crunching under your boots mixed with the soft murmur of the river behind you, where Charles remained, watching as you walked away.

He stood still for a moment after you left, observing the slight sway of the bucket as you moved. Then, he sighed and turned, heading toward where Taima grazed calmly near the closest tree. He patted the mare’s neck before adjusting the reins, mounting without haste. His plan was to return to camp and get things organized before anything else. The new pile of hides he had prepared earlier needed to be tied and stacked properly for drying, and some arrows had to be replenished.

The way back was quiet, with few sounds besides the hooves against the dry ground. Charles thought about the town, about the comments he had overheard earlier regarding strange happenings in the area. People disappearing, animals found dead without explanation… He didn’t like paying attention to rumors, but something about that kind of talk unsettled him.

At camp, he dismounted and got to work. He set aside wood that was still usable for firewood, checked the hides, and sharpened his knife. It was a silent but useful routine. While organizing the furs to sell the next day, he found himself thinking about you—about the way you scrubbed the clothes against the stone, how your body moved so naturally. How, for the first time, you seemed less distant or uncomfortable when speaking to him.

After a while, he pushed those foolish thoughts aside and finished what he had to do. Tomorrow, there would be work.

The morning sun cast a soft light over the land as you stepped outside. The fresh breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and a few light clouds floated across the sky.

You wore a simple dress, made of soft, lightweight fabric, without the excessive volume some women in town preferred. The delicate fit accentuated your silhouette without constraining you, allowing you to move comfortably. The short sleeves left your arms free for work, and as you walked through the yard, the fabric brushed lightly against your legs.

You headed toward the area where you kept the tools, needing to organize a few things before Charles arrived. The thought of seeing him again brought a strange nervousness—not quite anxiety, but a different sensation, hard to define. As you sorted through some stacked wood and checked the nails and hammers, you heard a sound in the distance. Hooves and firm, steady footsteps approaching along the dirt road.

You turned slowly, and there he was.

Charles walked with his usual calm posture, guiding Taima beside him. The sun cast subtle shadows across his face, and he looked completely at ease in that landscape, as if he belonged to that kind of life.

You opened the small back gate and held it for a moment before stepping aside, making room for him to pass.

— This way. — you said, pointing toward the fence.

He simply nodded and entered. You led him to where the damage was most evident, quickly explaining what needed fixing. Charles listened without interrupting, observing the damage attentively.

When he began sorting the wood and organizing the tools, you returned to your own tasks. You cleaned up around the porch, checked on the chickens, and after a while, walked over to Archer, your horse, who was resting near the side enclosure.

— It’s a beautiful day, huh, boy? — you murmured, running your hand along his neck and giving him a few kisses. Archer snorted softly and shook his head, as if responding to your affection.

The early hours of the morning passed peacefully. The sound of wood being cut blended with the wind, and you noticed that Charles worked unhurriedly but with precision. He didn’t waste movements. You watched him for a moment, observing him without realizing it. There was something fascinating about the way he handled the tools, the quiet strength behind each action.

After a while, you went back inside. But as you passed through the kitchen, you felt a slight discomfort seeing him out there, working alone since early morning. He hadn’t asked for anything, but still…

Without thinking much about it, you grabbed a mug of hot coffee and stepped outside again.

You walked over to where he was, the strong, bitter smell filling the air between you. Charles noticed your approach and looked up, a bit puzzled to see you standing there, until he saw you holding the mug with both hands. His face didn’t show much expression, but the way you slightly lowered your head, as if unsure about the gesture, made him accept it without hesitation.

— Thanks — he said, taking the mug from your hands.

You nodded slightly, stepping back as he took a sip.

You leaned against the porch wall, lightly crossing your arms, unaware of the naturally feminine grace of the gesture. The morning breeze played with a few loose strands of your hair as you looked at Charles, still holding the now-empty coffee mug.

— So? — your voice came out softer than you expected. — What do you think needs to be done? Can we fix the fence, or will we have to replace something?

Charles lowered the mug and looked at the enclosure, as if analyzing every detail again. He stepped closer to the structure, tapped one of the wooden posts lightly, and frowned.

— I think one side of the fence is hollow inside — he remarked. — The wood is rotten in some spots. If we just reinforce it, it might not last long. Better to replace this part altogether.

You sighed and uncrossed your arms, nodding.

— Makes sense… Is it a lot of work?

He shook his head.

— Nothing a bit of new wood won’t fix.

You thought for a moment before offering a small smile.

— Well, we have a carpenter in town. We can go there today with the wagon.

Charles just nodded, as if he had no issue with that.

— Then let’s make a list first — he suggested.

You agreed and went inside to grab paper and a pencil. Charles followed shortly after, and the two of you sat at the table. As you wrote, he suggested the necessary materials: wooden planks, nails, some hinges for reinforcement, and a new latch for the small gate.

— This should be enough — he said.

You checked the list, gave him one last look, and then stood up.

— Alright, I’ll get the wagon ready.

Outside, you let out the other horses, who were already waiting patiently, and adjusted the wagon’s harnesses. Charles helped secure everything in place, checking the fastenings while you tied a final firm knot.

Before getting into the wagon, you quickly passed through the porch and went inside, heading to your room to adjust your outfit. You chose an aquamarine-blue dress—your favorite color—made of soft, lightweight fabric that fit well without being too extravagant, something more appropriate for going out. The sleeves were rolled up just above your elbows, and the small lace-trimmed buttons down the front gave it a discreet yet practical touch. You put on a delicate hat, tying it under your chin to keep the wind from blowing it away.

When you returned, Charles was already sitting on the wagon bench, holding the reins. You climbed up beside him, carefully gathering the skirt of your dress so it wouldn’t get caught on the metal parts, and settled into the wooden seat.

— Ready? — he asked.

You held your hat against your face to shield yourself from the wind and nodded.

— Ready.

Charles clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, making the horses take their first steps. The wagon began moving smoothly along the dirt road.

The journey was peaceful, with only the sound of the wheels creaking against the ground and the rhythmic trot of the horse. You gazed at the landscape, enjoying the crisp morning air and the scent of damp earth.

— Thanks for helpin’ with this — you said, making conversation.

— It’s no problem — he replied simply.

Silence settled for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You adjusted your hat and glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

— Have you worked much with wood before? — you asked, your voice carrying the subtle lilt of your Canadian accent.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the road.

— A little. I’ve built cabins, reinforced some fences… Things like that.

— Damn. — you admitted, absentmindedly playing with the brim of your hat. — So you must know exactly what you’re doing.

He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

— Enough to make sure the fence doesn’t fall on anyone.

You chuckled softly, and the sound seemed to relax him a bit. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just a natural pause. You liked that about him—how he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with words.

— Have you ever stayed in one place for long? — you asked after a while.

He thought before answering, his eyes narrowing slightly under the sun.

— Not often. The longest was about six months, and another time maybe five. Depends on what I’m doing. But staying in one place too long ain’t always easy.

You absorbed those words, wondering if he was only talking about work or if there was something deeper behind his answer. You didn’t want to push.

Give him space. It’s not even your concern !!!

The town wasn’t large, but it was bustling that morning. Merchants arranged their stalls, children ran through the alleys, and the scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery. You guided Charles toward a small carpentry shop at the end of the main street. He pulled the wagon up beside the weathered wooden entrance. You stepped down, smoothing your dress and adjusting your hat before heading inside.

— I won’t be long — you told him.

He simply nodded, staying beside the wagon.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut wood and varnish. The carpenter, a stocky middle-aged man, looked up as you approached.

— Ah, good mornin’, miss! What can I do for ya today? — his voice carried the rough drawl of a seasoned craftsman.

You pulled the list from your pocket and handed it to him.

— I need these wooden planks and some nails.

He skimmed through it quickly and nodded.

— I can get that together for ya. Need help loadin’ it up?

— No, thank you. I have someone helpin’ me with the wagon.

The carpenter headed to the back of the shop to gather the materials. Meanwhile, you glanced around, taking in the shelves stocked with tools and carved wooden pieces.

After a few minutes, he returned, carrying the planks and other supplies.

— Here ya go. I’ll have one of the boys help load it up for ya.

You smiled in gratitude.

— Thank you.

While you waited, you chatted with him about the farm, mentioning the work that needed to be done. He listened attentively before crossing his arms and letting out a small sigh.

— Well, just be careful on the road. Ya know how things are these days—never know who might be lurkin’ around.

A small chill ran down your spine, but you kept your expression neutral.

— I always am.

He nodded, and soon the helpers loaded the wood onto the wagon. You thanked them and said your goodbyes before heading back to where Charles was waiting.

Charles stood beside the wagon, his posture relaxed yet attentive. When you approached, he lifted his gaze to you, and for an instant, your eyes met. There was something about him… a quiet kindness that contrasted with his strong appearance and the way he always seemed prepared for anything.

— All set? — he asked, his voice low and calm.

You nodded as you climbed onto the wagon.

— Yes. They’ve loaded everything. We can go.

He got up beside you, took the reins, and with a soft click of his tongue, made Archer start moving.

The ride back began smoothly. The wagon swayed slightly with each bump on the road, and you adjusted your hat to keep the sun from shining directly on your face.

— The carpenter said to be careful on the road — you commented after a while.

Charles glanced at you from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the trail ahead.

— And he’s right. It’s always good to stay alert.

You held your hat against the wind, watching the trees slowly pass by.

— Have you run into any trouble around here?

He shrugged.

— Not much. Nothing serious, but I heard some talk last time I was in town.

— What kind of talk?

He pressed his lips together slightly, as if deciding whether or not to tell you.

— Strange folks passing through these areas. Unusual movement.

You frowned.

— Bandits?

— Maybe. Or just people looking for trouble.

Silence settled between you again, but this time it was heavier, as if both of you were considering the possibilities.

The wind blew a little stronger, and you pulled your shawl lightly over your shoulders. Still, even with that lingering sense of caution in the air, there was something comforting about Charles’ presence. The road was long, and you’d likely arrive home around five or six in the afternoon, but his company made everything feel a little easier. Even though you barely knew him.

The wagon followed the dirt road, rocking slightly over each uneven patch. The afternoon sun gilded the landscape, filtering through the trees and casting soft shadows on the ground. The wind was warm but pleasant, making the loose strands of your hair escape from the improvised bun, fluttering around your face.

You tucked the strands behind your ear, an unconscious gesture, as you observed Charles beside you. He guided the wagon with ease, holding the reins firmly but without urgency. There was something about him — the steady posture, the sharp eyes on the road, the way he seemed to belong in that setting, as if the natural world was more of a home to him than any town or city.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but your curiosity began to grow. There was still so much you didn’t know about him:

— Charles… — your voice broke the calm. He tilted his head slightly to show he was listening, though his gaze remained on the road.

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting your hat against the setting sun hitting your face, before asking:

— What’s your full name?

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. His fingers adjusted the reins absentmindedly before answering.

— Charles Smith. — The response was straightforward, but he noticed your expectant expression and sighed, relenting a little more. — My full name is Charles Chatunka Smith.

— Chatunka?? — you repeated, tilting your head. The sound was different, unusual—at least to you.

He nodded, still focused on the road.

— My father was African American, my mother was Lakota. The name came from her.

His explanation was simple, but there was something beneath it—something that suggested Charles wasn’t a man who often spoke about himself.

— It’s a beautiful name. — You smiled, and he finally glanced at you, seeming a bit surprised by the comment. — I think it suits you. Simple and mysterious. — you added.

He didn’t respond, but his lips curved slightly into what could be a subtle smile.

— And you? What’s your full name? — He looked at you now.

You told him, and you saw Charles nod slowly, as if committing it to memory.

— Beautiful… — he remarked, and this time, it was your turn to be surprised.

You smiled softly and looked away, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

— Thank you…

The conversation continued, flowing naturally. You spoke more than he did, even though you were naturally shy. But there was something about Charles that made it easier to keep talking. He listened attentively, responded when necessary, and his calm demeanor contrasted with the chaotic world around you. He paid close attention to details—something rare. At one point, you laughed at something you had said, brushing your hair away from your face again. The sound was light, more relaxed than you expected. And for a moment, Charles observed you—his dark eyes capturing details: the curve of your soft lips, full of life, the sparkle in your eyes, the delicate way your fingers moved the loose strands. But he quickly looked away, focusing back on the road ahead. Silence settled between you again, but this time, it felt more comfortable. The road stretched long before you, and you traveled it without much hurry.

The road narrowed as you approached the area where your house was. There wasn’t much left… just a few more hours and you’d be back. That was when Charles started to slow the horse’s pace, his gaze locking ahead.

— Something’s wrong…— he muttered, his deep voice tense.

You followed his gaze and felt a shiver run down your spine. Further ahead, three men stood in the middle of the road, armed and wearing predatory expressions. A few more were scattered around, circling an overturned wagon on the side of the road. Another empty wagon. The thin smoke in the air made it clear it had been burned on purpose.

Charles pulled the reins to a stop and remained still for a moment, his muscles tensing.

— Well, well… what do we have here? — one of the men said, walking toward you with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the loaded wagon and whistled. — Looks like you folks found yourselves a nice treasure.

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pounding.

— We're just passing through – Charles said, his voice calm, but controlled. He didn't make any sudden movements, keeping his hands visible.

Another of the men laughed, approaching from the side.

— In passing? And carrying all this? Hm... I don't know, it seems that maybe we need to charge a toll.

— Hey, you guys there! Get off the wagon, now. No cute.- the other thief shouted.

Charles exchanged a quick look with you, which seemed to be stiff as a rock, before letting go of the reins slowly and going down. You hesitated for a moment, but the way they screamed and talked made you immediately follow him. Charles in front of you, like a shield.

— Look at that… Obedient ones. That makes things easier.

Another man laughed, tapping his gun against the palm of his hand.

Charles remained firm, but you saw his jaw clench. Then, the first man tilted his head and looked directly at you, the way his eyes slid over your body making your stomach turn.

— Well, well… what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here? — his voice was laced with fake concern.

— Come on, sweetheart, no need to hide behind him. Step forward, let us see you properly…

You could feel your blood rushing faster than normal.

— And what’s a little thing like you doing running around with him? — The man’s voice was thick with disdain and cruel amusement, clearly referring to Charles’ skin color. He didn’t even bother looking at him, his eyes shamelessly roaming over you instead.

You frowned, feeling a chill down your spine, but before you could respond, he took a step forward, tilting his head with a crooked grin.

— A pretty thing like you… You could be keeping much better company. — His gaze swept up and down your body, lingering on your hips. He slowly licked his teeth. — I bet plenty of men out there would love to have a woman like you.

Your fingers clenched involuntarily around the fabric of your skirt, and you swallowed hard, instinctively looking away. Coward.

Charles remained motionless at your side, but you noticed how his body stiffened. His shoulders tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw standing out beneath his skin. The fingers near the shotgun at his belt turned white from how hard he was gripping them.

— Come on now, darling, no need to hide behind him. We just wanna talk… — The bandit laughed, and the others joined in.

— LEAVE SHE ALONE!! — Charles growled, his voice filled with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. His tone startled you a little.

The bandit merely raised an eyebrow, studying him with pure contempt, as if Charles’ anger was insignificant. A sneering smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

— Oh… The mutt knows how to growl.

Charles still hadn’t moved, but his silence was as heavy as his presence. It was like a storm about to break — a silence thick with something dark, simmering beneath the surface. You could feel the tension radiating off him, even without looking directly.

— Relax, redskin, no need to get all worked up. — The man taunted, throwing his head back. — We ain’t gonna hurt your little lady… Maybe. — The laughter that followed made your stomach churn.

You frowned at the man’s words, discomfort growing in your chest. But when he licked his teeth again and let his eyes wander over you once more, this time pausing at your chest, watching the way it rose and fell with each breath, before stepping closer, a cold shiver ran down your spine. You felt nervous.

His eyes locked onto yours, sensing your discomfort. A filthy, twisted smirk formed on his lips.

— You know… I think we could just take this wagon. But… — He made a dramatic pause, pretending to consider, then chuckled, throwing a glance at his men.

— I could do better… I could kill you both, burn your bodies, devour you. This red one first, of course… and you, my love… — He left the sentence hanging, taking another step closer, his mocking tone laced with something darker.

Your body stiffened. Fear exploded inside you in a way you hadn’t expected. Your father had taught you to carry a gun, to never be weak… but now? It had been so many years since you’d seen or heard of a robbery. And you never thought you’d feel like this. That you’d shake inside like this. But these men were strange.

The bandit’s grin widened when he noticed your silence. But before he could step any closer, Charles moved. He stepped forward again, placing himself directly between you and that man. The bandit took a step back, annoyed, and then, in an instant, drew his gun and aimed it straight at you.

Your heart leaped in your chest, your legs seemed to go weak. The world felt like it was spinning as you lowered your gaze to the ground, trying to control your breathing. Fear crawled inside you like poison. Charles, however, did not move. He did not blink. He just stood there, between you and the gun, his body rigid as stone.

The gang leader sneered:

— Hey, Darkie, she ain’t worth dying for. Just another little bitch!

Charles’ breathing turned heavy. He did not hesitate. The bandit beside him got distracted, glancing at one of his men rummaging through the wagon’s cargo.

It was his mistake.

In a swift and precise movement, Charles drew his gun and fired. The first bandit fell backward, a large, dark hole in his chest. Before the others could react, Charles moved like a predator, drawing his revolver and firing two more times. Another man collapsed, bleeding from his neck, and the third shouted in surprise before running into the brush, heading toward the trees—but Charles shot him in the head before he could escape.

The scent of gunpowder filled the air. Silence returned to the road.

You shivered. Your chest rose and fell uncontrollably, your vision blurred by the shock. You barely recognized yourself. This was a peaceful region. You had never seen anything like this up close. You didn’t even notice the few minutes passing as he walked quickly toward you. Charles turned to you, his dark eyes scanning your face carefully. His breathing was still slightly quickened from the fight, but there was something else there—concern.

— Are you alright? — he asked, his voice low, rough, but filled with care and worry.

You blinked, the sounds around you seeming muffled, distant. The world still felt unstable beneath your feet, the air still heavy with the scent of gunpowder and dirt. You wanted to answer, but your throat was dry. Charles didn’t touch you right away, respecting your space. But when you took a step toward the wagon and your legs wobbled, he stepped in a little closer, his hand hovering near, ready to catch you if needed.

Your body trembled. You knew you should move, get out of there, but each step felt slow, like walking through quicksand.

— Take a deep breath — he murmured beside you.

You tried, but the air felt shallow, weak.

— I… I’m… — The word came out so faint that you doubted you had spoken at all. Still, Charles nodded, patient.

— Stay calm, try to relax. You’re okay.

He extended his hand, not to force you, but to offer the choice. You hesitated for a second, then let your fingers touch his arm, feeling the thick fabric of his shirt against your skin. Charles didn’t move right away, just letting you take the support at your own pace.

When you finally managed to climb onto the wagon, your movements were still hesitant, almost mechanical. You sat down slowly, your back meeting the wagon’s hard wood.

That was when a distant sound cut through the air—wheels and hooves approaching.

Charles turned his head toward the road, eyes sharp. You heard it too, even in your dazed state.

A second wagon came into view, carrying two men and a woman—probably local farmers. They slowed their pace when they saw you, their faces tense as they noticed the bodies on the ground and the lingering tension in the air.

— Shit… Everything alright here? — one of them asked, gripping the reins more firmly.

Charles nodded slowly but didn’t fully relax.

— Some men tried to rob us — he answered.

The newcomers exchanged concerned glances.

— Did you kill them?

— Didn’t have a choice — Charles said simply, without any pride in his voice.

One of the men sighed and shook his head.

— This is happening more and more… We’re heading into town. We’ll let the law know. They need to be aware these bastards are lurking around here.

Charles nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

— Appreciate it.

They exchanged a few more words before moving on. You remained where you were, eyes still fixed on some undefined point, the men’s voices mixing with the echoes in your own mind. Charles then climbed onto the wagon beside you, adjusting the reins. The horses were still restless, and he ran a hand along one’s neck, murmuring something low to soothe them.

You felt the wagon begin to move, the wheels creaking against the packed dirt road. The familiar sway should have been comforting, but everything felt off, like you were still trapped in the moment that had just unfolded.

The way back was silent.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but seeing your house in the distance brought a strange sense of relief. As soon as Charles stopped the horses in the yard, you stepped down slowly, your legs feeling a little steadier but still uncertain. Without saying anything, you walked to the porch and sat down with a short sigh, trying to regain your composure.

Charles watched you for a moment before tying up the horses and following. He didn’t want to invade your space, but he also didn’t want to leave you alone in that state.

— Do you want some water?

You blinked, pulling your eyes away from the ground.

— What?

— Water. — He repeated, pointing to the bucket nearby, the one you had filled to pour into the house’s water filter.

You hesitated but eventually nodded.

He poured some and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his as you took the cup, and you noticed that he was warm, strong, yet at the same time, not intrusive. It was a strange contrast, but comforting.

— T-Thank you. — Your voice came out quiet. You took a sip, feeling the coolness spread through your chest.

Charles then sat beside you on the porch, his weight making the wood creak slightly beneath you both.

He didn’t speak immediately, just looked ahead, toward the golden horizon of the setting sun. You knew he wanted to ask something, but he seemed to be giving you time.

You swallowed hard, still feeling your pulse racing.

— I… I didn’t expect that. — You admitted, your voice coming out almost in a whisper.

Charles turned his head toward you, his dark eyes studying you carefully.

— No one does. — He replied, his voice deep but calm.

You lowered your gaze to the cup of water in your hands, your fingers trembling slightly around it.

— I’ve seen things like that before, when I was younger. — You inhaled, hesitating. — But… it’s been so long. I thought…

You stopped because even you didn’t know exactly what you had thought. That these things didn’t happen there? That you’d be more prepared?

Charles didn’t push you to continue. Instead, he gave a small nod.

— They were cowards. — He said, his voice firmer now. — Men like that… They live to scare others.

You took a deep breath, trying to hold onto his words. But a part of you still felt uneasy, a lingering trace of fear clinging to your chest. Your eyes met his, and you noticed the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his hands were clenched against his thighs. Charles seemed calm, but you knew this had angered him.

Then, without thinking too much, you reached out and touched his arm.

The touch was light but enough to make him look at you.

— Thank you. — You said, and this time, your voice was steadier.

He blinked slowly, then shook his head.

— You don’t have to thank me.

But you did.

Because, as much as you felt guilty for what had happened, as much as you hated the idea of feeling so vulnerable, you knew that if Charles hadn’t been there, things could have ended much worse.

You swallowed hard, letting out a sigh.

— You… are you okay? — The question came out almost hesitant because you weren’t sure if he would even care to answer.

Charles raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected that question.

— I’m fine. — He said simply.

But you noticed the way he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if he were reconsidering everything.

You pressed your lips together, feeling a slight heat rise to your face.

— You… well, I just wanted to… — You stopped, trying to find the right words.

Charles frowned slightly, and then he noticed something—your hand was still resting on his arm.

Your face grew hot, and in a hurried motion, you pulled back, embarrassed.

He didn’t laugh or tease. He just watched you for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and turning his gaze back to the horizon.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with something unspoken.

After a while, he finally spoke:

— You should get some rest. I’ll stay around and finish unloading the wagon.

You nodded slowly.

— Yeah… I think I will.

The last hours of that day passed sluggishly after that. You tried to go back to your unfinished tasks, acting as if nothing had happened, but the feeling of unease never left you. During the day, you kept yourself busy to stop thinking, but at night, every creak of the wooden house made your body tense up.

In the end, the decision came almost impulsively.

You found Charles in the late afternoon, near the fence he had started inspecting earlier. The low sun cast long shadows over the field, and he was finishing securing some planks when you cleared your throat. He glanced over his shoulder at you, his dark eyes studying your expression.

— You should stay here.

The way his brows furrowed and then arched showed exactly what he thought about that unexpected invitation.

— What? — His voice carried both suspicion and confusion, and you felt a slight warmth rise to your face.

— I mean… — You crossed your arms, looking away for a second. — You’re going to help me with the fence, right? So… it doesn’t make sense for you to keep coming and going with those dangers out there.

Charles kept his gaze on you for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the situation.

— Are you sure?

The question made your heart race, but you stood your ground.

— Yes. Just for a while.

He wiped his hands on his pants and tilted his head slightly, as if still thinking it over.

— I can set up a camp outside. I don’t want to be a bother.

You frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh.

— You don’t have to sleep outside, Charles. I have a spare room.

He remained silent for a moment. You could tell he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, but before he could argue, you crossed your arms, trying to hide the nervousness in your voice:

— Look… I’m not the kind of woman who scares easily, but… after what happened, I don’t know. — You glanced away for a second before looking at him again. — I’d rather know someone is here.

This time, Charles didn’t answer right away. You noticed the tension in his shoulders, as if he were processing your vulnerability.

In the end, he nodded slowly, though somewhat uncomfortably.

— Alright.

(…)

When night fell, you led him inside the house. The wooden floor creaked beneath your feet as you guided him down the hallway, stopping in front of a door.

— Here. — You pushed the door open and stepped in first, lighting a lamp to illuminate the small room.

It was a simple but comfortable space. A modest bed, an old dresser, and a chair near the window. You remembered sleeping there years ago before moving into your parents’ room.

Charles stopped at the doorway, observing the space as if unsure what to do.

— Are you sure about this? — He asked once again.

You rolled your eyes, already tired of his insistence, and looked at him innocently, like a pouting child.

— Yes, I already said so. Now, just come in.

He hesitated before stepping inside and placing his small bag of belongings on the chair. You left for a moment and returned with clean sheets folded in your arms.

— You don’t have to do that. — He said as he watched you approach the bed.

You ignored him and started laying out the sheets, smoothing the fabric with your hands.

— I like things clean. — You answered simply.

Charles sighed but didn’t argue further.

When you finished, you stepped back and wiped your hands on your apron.

— There. Now you have a place to sleep.

He looked at the bed, then at you, and let out a low sigh.

— Thank you.

You just nodded before stepping out and closing the door behind you.

Later, when the smell of food filled the kitchen, you called for Charles.

He was in the room, occupied with something—maybe organizing his belongings or just finding something to do to keep busy.

Hearing your voice, he stepped out, running a hand over the back of his neck, looking slightly out of place inside the house.

You both sat at the table, and for a while, the only sound was the clinking of utensils against the plates. You weren’t sure how to start a conversation after everything, but deep down, you felt like you needed to.

— A few days ago… the postman mentioned something to me. — Your voice was calm but carried a certain weight. — He said he heard stories about ranches being raided… burned.

Charles lifted his eyes from his plate, attentive.

— Is that so?

You nodded slowly, twirling your fork between your fingers.

— I didn’t think much of it at the time… I thought they were just rumors, you know? But now… after what happened… — You hesitated for a moment before continuing. — It doesn’t feel like just a distant story anymore.

Charles set his utensils down, the muscles in his arm tightening.

— I heard something similar when I went to sell pelts. But I didn’t think it was real.

— I thought the same. But now I know it is. — You let out a sigh, running a hand over your face.

Silence settled between you for a moment.

— D-Do you think they’ll show up around here? — Your voice came out almost in a whisper.

Charles thought for a moment before answering, his voice deeper than usual.

— I don’t know. But… if that’s the case, it’s best to be prepared.

You swallowed hard, feeling a chill run down your spine.

— But calm down, you’ll be fine. — He looked at you as he spoke.

The thought of being alone in that house, with the risk of men like them coming back, made your stomach twist.

And in some way, Charles’s presence there made it all feel a little less frightening.

You ate slowly, taking small bites of food, chewing delicately. Every now and then, you lifted your eyes to Charles, glancing at him briefly. He was a big, strong man, with a calm demeanor but always alert to everything around him.

For some reason, you found yourself staring more than you should. But whenever you realized it, you quickly looked away, focusing on your plate as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

In the corner of the table, resting on a chair, was a worn-covered notebook and a pencil. You pulled it toward you absentmindedly, flipping open to a random page and beginning to sketch as you continued eating. Your fingers traced small, unfocused lines, a habit of yours whenever you wanted to keep your hands busy.

Charles noticed.

— You draw? — His voice broke the silence, low and curious.

You stopped for a second, lifting your eyes to him, feeling a slight warmth rise to your face.

— Ah… — You hesitated, gripping the pencil a little tighter. — Yes… a little. Since I was a child. My father used to say I had talent, but I never took it too seriously.

Charles observed the notebook for a moment before nodding.

— That’s good.

You smiled shyly, scribbling a little more before looking up again.

— What about you? Do you have anything you like to do? Any hobbies?

He chewed another bite of food before answering.

— I like hunting. It’s what I do best.

You chuckled softly.

— Yes, I noticed.

Charles gave a small smile.

— I also work with herbs. Learned a lot from some tribes I met… and I learned more about different kinds in Canada.

Hearing that, you tilted your head slightly, curious.

— What did you like most about Canada?

It took him a moment to respond, his eyes seeming to travel to a distant place in his memory.

— The peace. The clean rivers, the vast forests… the privacy. — He exhaled, almost as if he could smell the damp earth at that moment. — The snow in winter. It’s different from anything I’ve ever seen.

You smiled, picturing the scene he described.

For a while, silence settled again—comfortable, yet carrying something unspoken. You hesitated before speaking, and when you finally found the words, your voice came out softer:

— Thank you… for today. Again…

Charles lifted his eyes to you.

— You don’t need to thank me. You already did, and now you’re letting me stay.

— I do need to. — You lowered your gaze to the notebook, your fingers tightening around the pencil. — That man… He looked at me in a way that made me feel… dirty.

Your stomach turned at the memory—the way his eyes roamed your body, as if you were something to be taken, consumed. For a brief moment, you wondered if your clothing had been… inappropriate.

But Charles, noticing your discomfort, cut off your thoughts, almost as if he had read them.

— It wouldn’t have mattered what you were wearing. No bastard should look at a woman like that.

Your head snapped up in surprise at his words, and Charles seemed to realize it too, running a hand over his face and exhaling lightly.

— Sorry about that. — He looked embarrassed, which was… kind of cute.

But instead of scolding him, you laughed. It was a soft laugh, but genuine.

Charles looked at you for a moment, as if your laughter had caught him off guard. Something inside him stirred at the sight of you smiling like that. You noticed his gaze lingering on you, and suddenly, you felt a little nervous.

Maybe it was because it had been so long since you’d had a conversation like this with a man. He seemed to hesitate before asking:

— Don’t you feel strange… with me here? I mean, I respect you, but… aren’t you afraid of what people might say?

You blinked a few times before answering, and when you did, your voice was firm:

—huh?¿….I think it’s ridiculous to judge someone by their appearance.

Charles remained silent for a moment, just watching you. His expression seemed… admiring.

You noticed and felt a small wave of nervousness spread through you. Shifting your legs under the table, you averted your eyes, not entirely sure why you were reacting like this. Without prolonging the conversation much further, you began gathering the plates. Charles stood up to help, picking up the cups and carrying them to the sink. Together, you cleaned the table and organized everything without saying much more.

Once everything was in place, he stepped back, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.

— Good night.

— Good night, Charles.

You watched him leave the room, and for a moment, you stood there, thinking. Then, deciding it was time to rest, you walked to your bedroom and closed the door behind you. The wooden floor creaked lightly under your bare feet.

Passing by the mirror, you stopped for a moment, looking at yourself. Your face seemed… lighter. Maybe it was the relief of being home, of having someone there. But there was also a certain tiredness in your eyes.

You turned toward the window, closing it slowly. Then you walked to the bed, adjusting the blankets and pillows. The room was cozy, lit only by a dim yellow light.

Before lying down, you picked up your sketchbook once more. Running your fingers over the worn cover, you opened it to the last page you had been drawing on.

Sighing, you placed it inside the drawer of the nightstand. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the blankets wrap around you.

Tomorrow, there would be much more to take care of…

WOW, I STARTED THIS LAST FRIDAY AND I ALREADY FEEL EXHAUSTED! I did some research, but I’m not sure if all my sources were reliable. I looked into racism in Canada during the XX century, and it seems that in many ways, the country was quite racist, especially in the South, where there was more American influence. I also researched Charles’s mother and found some indications that he might have inherited her last name, but I didn’t find any official confirmation! If I made any mistakes here, I sincerely apologize. If you’d like to comment or clarify anything, feel free to send me an ask (anonymous or not, whatever makes you comfortable).

Either way, I hope that anyone reading this chapter remembers to like or reblog my work!

Bye bye ~ ~

—————

People who asked to be mentioned: @photo1030 @aotlover2002 @latvsflwrr @zizizi-blogs @millieisawriter (I had commented on something like that months ago, I think)

[oleander-cup]

puff puff - yn is stressed about a baking eval and osamu helps her calm down // wc: 1.5k // pairing: osamu x baker reader // content: smoking, shotgunning a cigarette, this is not an endorcement for smoking, panic attacks, leaning suggestive towards the end

She stands in the kitchen, flour patches all over her black apron. There’s a piece of whipped cream stuck to her face and she can feel it but makes no move to wipe it off, there’s no time for that. Shit. Her bread is still in the oven but she’s not done piping her cream puffs. She takes a deep breath and tries to finish following the guide she had printed out. How much time is left in the class period? When is she cleaning up? Does she even have time to practice cookies? Does she-

“Do you need help with anything?” She realizes she’s frozen in place when the familiar voice of Osamu reaches her ears. She nods her head but can’t find it in her to speak. “Do you just want me to talk to you while you finish up?” She nods again and he stands at the end of the table. “You only have one more eclair, and then you can get your bread from the oven.” Usually she would hate this…but she finds it oddly encouraging?

She sniffles and takes another deep breath as she pipes the last eclair. She sets the tray on top of the stove, the metal makes a small scraping noise against the stone of the burner covers. “Y/N, hot hand.” She looks at her outstretched empty hand about to grab the tray from the oven and stands back up. She takes the oven mitt from Osamu who already placed a cover on the table for the sheet tray to sit on. “Okay raise the temp to 204.” She moves the dial slightly and puts the cream puffs and eclairs in the oven. She temps the bread and smiles when it’s correct. She rushes over to the sink and washes her hands before putting on the nitrile gloves sitting on the table. She can feel the heat of the bread through the gloves as she puts it alongside the rolls on one of her prepped plates. 

“Have you done the cookies yet?” 

“No.” Her voice breaks as she rushes to get a mixing bowl and mixer. “When do we clean up?” She asks in a nervous state as her frustration grows when the bowl won’t click into place. Osamu takes the bowl from her and sets it on the stand. “I need to do it myself Miya.”

“It’s not comp day yet,” he says gently as he flips the holders over to keep the bowl in place. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be okay.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“We have an hour before we’re cleaning up. Let me help you finish.”

“Sounds dirty when you say it like that,” she jokes and he smiles. He shakes his head and hands her the last ingredients in the fridge. “Thank you.” She allows him to take the dirty mixing bowl to the dish room and he brings her a clean one. His hands rest on the end of the table as he stands with her, he could sit down in the classroom but instead he stands with her. She’s not aware enough of the people looking at her but Osamu is, he looks unimpressed at them and they quickly turn their heads away. He’s glad she hadn’t noticed the stares. 

When she finishes rolling out the cookie dough onto the sheet tray he gives her a smile. “See, you’re going to do fine tomorrow.” She takes the eclairs and cream puffs from the oven and he puts the cookies in for her. “What are you going to do with all this food?”

“You’re like a dog, going around from door to door begging for food.” She lets out a small laugh at the thought and when her mouth closes and she keeps smiling he can see her canines poking out from under her lip. He shouldn’t be staring at her lips but he can’t help it, would she taste sweet like the deserts she makes. 

“Aww most girls would like that,” he crosses his arms and bends down to lean against the table. She grabs the sheet tray of pastries and he opens the door of the blast chiller for her. “Everything will get done, don’t worry about it.” 

“Easy for you to say, you have to make one dish in two hours.” She rolls her eyes as she teases him. 

“Hey, we’re not even competing against each other.” He pokes her shoulder.

“No, but it’s just amusing teasing you.”

“I’m glad you get amusement out of it.” It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll go get the whipped cream, go get out the eclairs and cream puffs from the blast chiller.” She nods and grabs the tray. Osamu hands her the can and she starts filling the pastries before setting them on another plate. “See, just cookies left and those will be done quickly.” 

“Really…thank you for helping me.” 

“It’s no problem.”

“Why aren’t you stressed?”

“Like you said, I only have to make one dish. Why don’t you come over tonight and we can watch a movie to get your mind off of it.” 

“That sounds nice actually.” 

Osamu ends up taking her leftover food with him but won’t let her skip out on eating so he splits his dish in half with her. The two sit on his couch, nicer than one would expect for a college student. The cushions are plush and velvet and after being on her feet the whole day she’s happy to take his shoes off when she gets inside. 

Somehow the movie turns from watching it to them talking to each other. “You can call me Osamu, you know, it’s not like you’re a stranger. You’ve been my station partner for the better part of almost two years now.”

“Okay Osamu,” the name feels foreign on her lips but she finds she doesn’t mind it. He smiles at her and gets up with a stretch to put the dirty plates in the sink. He slides open his balcony door and motions for her to join him. “It’s freezing out here.” He shrugs and pulls a lighter and box from his pocket.

The lighter is purple and somehow it’s not what she had expected. “You smoke?”

“Sometimes,” he mumbles as he cups his hand around the end to protect it from wind as he tries to light it up. It takes a few tries but he lets out a sigh when it works. “Mostly when I’m anxious about something,” he flicks the cigarette with his thumb to get rid of the ash. 

“Hmmm, I thought you weren’t stressed.” 

“I’m not. I’m anxious, there’s a difference.” He throws her a lopsided smile. 

“Can I try it?” 

“Sure come here,” he motions his head and she pushes off the doorframe and heads towards him. He puts his hand under his chin and takes a long drag. If she listened closely she’s sure she could hear the sizzle of the cigarette as it burned. He brings his mouth closer to hers and she’s unsure of where to put her hands so she settles for resting them on his shoulders. Her eyes close as he moves closer and his lips brush against hers. 

Her mouth drops open as he blows the smoke through the opening. “Breathe dumbass,” there’s a warmth to his voice and she hadn’t realized she was even holding her breath until he had said anything. She finds herself chasing after him as he pulls away. “Not too bad?”

“No.” She drops her hands swiftly from his shoulders and he swipes his thumb over her bottom lip before she steps away. “Not bad, I guess.”

He leans his arms over the rail as she leans against the brick wall and thinks over what happened. One of her hands traces her lips and thinks about what could have happened if they were closer. After a few minutes he drags the cigarette butt against the railing and flicks it over the edge. They go back inside and she finds herself looking at his lips more than she cares to admit. Would she taste the bitterness of cigarettes if she were to kiss him now? 

He doesn’t get far before she’s grabbing the neckline of his shirt and pulling him to her lips. He lets out a gasp in shock before his hands find themselves at home on her hips. Her hands tangle in his hair and as she leans closer to him his hands reach down to pull her legs up. They wrap around his waist and her back hits the wall. She pulls away as both of them are slightly breathless and her chest heaves as she looks between his eyes and his lips. He finds himself closing the distance again and his tongue peaks out from his lips and swipes against hers. She pushes him back with a sigh. “Sorry,” he starts to apologize but she shakes her head and puts her hand over his mouth.

“No. No, you’re fine. Just, I don’t want to go too far.” 

“That’s fine. Is…is kissing still allowed?”

“God, please.” And they return to each other. They stay connected for another few moments before pulling away again when she yawns. They both let out small laughs and rest their foreheads against each other. “I guess it does work, I’m not so stressed about the competition anymore.”

“Glad to have helped.” 

gen taglist (fill out this form) @tansypansydandy @phoenix-eclipses @h-llsp-wn @megapteraurelia @nomyimi @ottocre @xiaoquanquans @yatoatyourservice @avis-writeshq @fweakygyatt

masterlist

[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+

masterlist

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.

[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

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101

Tag List: @nancymcl @lovelydisc @luahmeeks @alternativeprincess94 @kailalaland

@ladykitana90 @muhahaha303 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @suckitands33 @stoneyggirl2

[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.