#tools display racks

[shelving-racks-factory-kaso]

Display stand customization red series—client’s’ designs plan.

[monstersandmaw]

Male kelpie (dad-bod, single father, biker) x plus size f. reader - Part One (sfw)

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

CW: there is a very brief moment where a character (not Oats!) insults the reader for her size and uses some fat-phobic language towards and about her, unaware that she can hear him. If you’re sensitive to that, it is brief, but you can skip from “…you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.” to the paragraph beginning, “After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror…”. Also, if you squint, there’s a passing moment that could possibly be interpreted as the reader having some potential issues with food, but it’s not intended to be a big deal and it’s only for about two sentences. Still putting it in here too, just in case. 

Wordcount: 7562

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you managed to croak back at him before returning your attention, however reluctantly, to present options for your brother while the older man, Hank, hobbled out around the corner of the wooden counter to chat amicably with the man. You couldn’t hear what was said as the two chatted in lower voices, but it was evident that they were good friends. While they talked, however, you couldn’t help noticing that he stole occasional sidelong glances in your direction, and you felt your face warm pleasantly.

‘Oats’ was certainly an unusual nickname, but then again, almost everyone who rode with your brother also had their own nicknames for one reason or another. As you browsed, you wondered what Oats had done to earn that one. He certainly looked like a snack to you, but you vowed not to let your attraction to the stranger show. Awkward situations (or worse, silences) tended to arise when you let that happen.

He had a tanned, outdoorsy complexion, and longish, black hair that was tied back in a low ponytail that brushed below the collar of his black leather jacket. It looked like it had a tendency to flop into his face when not restrained by that out-of-place pink bow. He filled out the jacket very well, and clearly had a soft paunch, and his thighs looked frankly delectable in those thick, indigo jeans. You prayed you wouldn’t have to see him fully from the back if he turned around, to witness the way he filled out the seat of his jeans too.

Fuck. Concentrate.

Bike gifts for brother, not delicious-looking stranger you’re never going to see again.

“Well, I shouldnae hang about, I suppose.”

Oats’ voice cut through your musings in front of chain degreasers and you jumped a little. Glancing back over at him, you offered him a smile when he too turned to look at you one last time, and a slow, charming smile crept onto his handsome face.

“See you,” he said with a dip of his head. Before he strode from the shop though, he let his eyes roam once more down the length of you and he bit his lower lip, almost regretfully, then turned away abruptly.

Oh yes. He absolutely did fill out the ass of those jeans beautifully.

Quite honestly, you weren’t totally sure what you ended up getting your brother for his birthday. You took whatever it was to the counter in a daze, your mind replaying over and over the way he’d looked at you.

“Must say,” Hank said conspiratorially as he fished your change from the antique cash register and slid it across the polished, wooden counter towards you. “I’ve never seen Oats quite so taken with someone, miss.” He chuckled, his kind, whisky-brown eyes glinting. “You take care now.”

Swallowing, you nodded and left the shop, hoping perhaps to find Oats waiting for you outside on the street, leaning against his motorcycle, but life was not a movie, and wherever he was, he was not lingering in the hopes of seeing you. In fact, the street was completely deserted, so you crossed, clambered into your little hatchback, and drove home with the feeling that you’d let a pivotal moment in your life pass you by.

Your sour mood persisted like a raincloud for the whole week, but by the time you were driving over to your brother’s on Saturday for his birthday ride, you were trying to pull yourself out of it. You had your own helmet with you, secured in the back of the car, and beside it was (now wrapped) the present you’d got him. In fact, it was a chain care kit, and, although you hadn’t noticed at the time, Hank had thrown in a free keychain that said ‘In my defence, I was left unsupervised’ which was very on-brand for your brother. You had planned to go back and thank him for the freebie as soon as you could, but your brother’s birthday ride had been planned for that Saturday, and work had been hell that week, so you’d not had the chance.

Predictably, Alex wasn’t in the house when you rang the doorbell, so you followed the sound of metallic clinking and laughter, and went round the side to find him tinkering with his mad little Honda Grom in the garage, while his two best mates — Eggs and Sparky — were lounging around and either making unhelpful suggestions or lewd comments.

“Yo!” Sparky grinned when he saw you, sitting up straighter and almost falling off the mechanic’s tool chest he was leaning his weight against. At Sparky’s exclamation, your brother sat up and banged his head on the handlebars of the short little Grom with a curse.

“Hey,” you mumbled in Sparky’s general direction. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex scrambled upright and came over to hug you, probably smearing grease and dirt all over your armoured jacket, but since it was black anyway, you didn’t mind too much. Alex was about as opposite to you as it was possible to get — straight up and down like a beanpole, and tall. You took after your mother, inheriting all her thick curves and soft edges. Soft heart too.

“Thought this might come in handy,” you mumbled when Alex released you and you held out the brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Full Moon Motorcycles.

His eyes lit up when he saw the logo, and he tore into it like a chipmunk after a peanut, grinning in delight when he’d dismembered it, and in particular he showed off the keychain to his mates. Eggs snatched it and tried to claim it for himself, but Alex was having none of it, and the three of them scrapped and goofed around while you sat down on an old, metal stool in the corner and waited for the other two of your small party to show up, with a cool, curdling kind of dread in the pit of your stomach when you heard one name in particular. Nooner.

Within an hour though, you were all out on the road.

You took the pillion seat behind Alex, and warded his mates off at red lights when they came for his killswitch to immobilise him. A while later though, Alex zoomed off down the open road that would take you all out of town and towards the somewhat famous biker cafe, ‘Elusive Neutral’, that sat nestled amongst the fragrant heather of the rolling hills surrounding the old market town.

The sky was a gorgeous, autumnal blue and the weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and as your brother’s Yamaha flew along the winding A-road that was every biker’s dream, you cracked a smile and gently tipped your head back. As much as it had scared you when you’d first ridden behind your mother all those years ago, you did love the feeling of being out on a bike. Not that you were actually brave enough to want to try and learn yourself though. Something always held you back, made you wary and unsure, and then you inevitably felt down about that too. God, you wished you had Alex’s wild confidence.

Nothing good ever seemed to last for you though, and when Alex’s R1 had purred into the car park behind Eggs and Sparky, and you’d hopped off to let him reverse more easily into a space, you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.

“…if he didn’t have his fat sister with him, we could have fucking ripped it up along those twisties.” That, of course, had come from Nooner, named for the fact that he rarely stuck to two wheels and always pulled wheelies, or ‘nones’, whenever he got the chance. Out of all of your brother’s friends, he was the one you liked the least, for… obvious reasons.

“Talk about killing the vibes, huh?” Eggs replied, trying to suck up to him, as ever. “More like ‘crushing’!”

The reason Eggs had earned his nickname was that he’d lost a bet and shaved his head when they’d all been about sixteen, and he’d looked like a boiled egg til it grew back. You wished you had the sass to remind him of that every time his spine seemed to crumble in favour of earning a half-hearted snicker out of Nooner.

When Alex joined you, he caught the crestfallen expression on your face and frowned, but you shook your head and walked away from them, heading for the cafe alone.

“Can’t wait to shove some cake in her fat gob already,” Nooner added as an aside to Eggs, and your vision blurred as tears welled along your lashes. Why did people have to be so cruel? To trample all over someone else just to feel a little taller themselves?

You vaguely heard what sounded like Sparky’s voice countering the comment, but you didn't stick around either way. If you mentioned it to your brother again, he’d just say it was banter with the guys and not to take it to heart. Easy for someone who's never been on the end of that kind of comment to shrug it off, after all.

You ducked straight for the toilets when you got inside the airy, modern cafe, not even bothering to look around or find a table first.

After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror to see that you hadn’t turned your eyeliner into a panda cosplay, you headed out again and made for the little bar that doubled as a counter for people who were there solo to sit and eat instead of taking up a whole table to themselves. None of your brother’s friends joined you, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw that they’d settled themselves around a table in the far corner and already had a number for a server to bring their food order over. They hadn’t even waited for you.

“Fuck them,” you hissed through gritted teeth, taking a seat at the bar instead. The stools were made of old tractor seats, and they were surprisingly comfortable, and as you leaned your forearms on the countertop, the young woman behind the counter came over to you with a smile that made you feel a little better.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

You ordered a hot drink, and then took out your phone while you waited for her to make it for you.

For half an hour or so, you sat scrolling through social media and sipping your drink and telling yourself this was your brother’s day and not yours. He did come over a couple of times, but you declined to sit with his friends, and because he’d never had any real reason to doubt you before, he took you at your word when you told him you were happy enough where you were. “I don’t want to get in the way,” you said, and he believed you.

Patting you on the shoulder, he left you for the third time, and you looked down into the dregs of your drink with a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Outside, the sound of more bikes arriving made your ears perk up, and you wondered idly what they rode. Elusive Neutral had once been an old cattle barn, but it had been completely redone and the walls on two sides had been replaced with vast picture windows that showed the sweeping expanse of moorland beyond, and a small sliver of the car park at one end. Craning your neck, you saw a group of maybe five or six bikers draw up, some on hipster looking cafe racers and others on racy sports bikes. There was even a Ducati Panigale among them, and behind them followed an old, battered, blue pickup truck.

The door opened a little while later, and you glanced over, eyes drawn instinctively by the movement.

Above the general chatter and merry chinking of china in the room, the energy of the new group of bikers rose like a cloud of dizzy mayflies; buzzing and excited and full of joy. You watched them all with interest from your perch at the counter.

The first through the door was an absolute Amazon of a woman, with her long black hair restrained in a thick braid, and shoulders the width of a barn door. She was lean and tall, and in her biker gear she looked… incredible. Her face was strikingly handsome, but until she glanced down at the woman walking beside her, her features were hard and glowering and unspeakably stern. She held the door open for one of the others to follow her inside, but when she locked eyes again with the brunette by her side, her whole expression melted into unguarded adoration. Your gut twisted briefly with jealousy.

It wouldn’t matter to you who looked at you like that, if only someone would.

You looked away, and by the time you glanced back at the bikers, the whole group had filed in from outside. There was a guy with golden-brown skin and beautiful dark brown eyes who had his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of a pale, skinny guy in black jeans and a moth-eaten, black jumper, with his long hair tied back in a bun, and behind them came a strikingly attractive guy in a manual wheelchair, flanked by a very short biker with slightly anaemic looking skin. You wondered fleetingly if the guy in the wheelchair had ridden a motorbike there, and if so how, before you realised he was probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen, with long, flowing red hair and dark green eyes, and the kind of mouth that was made for laughing, and for kissing.

Jesus, was it an unwritten rule of being a biker that you had to be unfairly attractive? Even Hank, who you recognised with a start of surprise coming in behind the guy with red hair, wasn’t unattractive, in a bulky, older man kind of way.

The guy walking with him though… he truly made your stomach swoop.

It was Oats.

You looked away before he could spot you, sitting alone at the bar like some pathetic creature waiting for cocktail hour to begin. It was lunchtime on a sunny, autumnal Saturday though, and there you were sitting alone because you didn’t fancy sitting with your brother’s loser mates.

God, the way Oats had looked in his tough-looking leather jacket, with his eyes crinkled mid-laugh at something the guy in the wheelchair had shot back at them over his shoulder… You bit your lip and stared into the bottom of your cold, empty mug like it would divine some kind of solution to your situation for you.

The new group didn’t seem to notice you while they filed up to the counter, jostling and joking, and when they drifted off to another corner of the cafe, you turned back to your phone, trying desperately to resist the almost overwhelming urge to keep turning over your shoulder to watch them.

Before too long however, you startled at a soft tap on your shoulder, and you looked around to find Oats himself stepping back to a polite distance and smiling down at you like he’d found a treasure in an unexpected place.

“Hey there,” he said in that rolling, Scottish accent that did unspeakably indecent things to your insides. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but you were at Full Moon last week, right?”

Mute for a moment, you nodded, and mustered up a slightly dazed smile for him.

“You… here alone?” he asked, eyeing the currently-empty seats to your left and right. In fact, someone had only just gathered up their belongings and left.

“Kind of?” you croaked, letting your eyes slide over to the table where your brother and his friends were hunched over one of their phones, snickering at something. “It’s… It’s my brother’s birthday today. I… tagged along as pillion, but… you know… I’m kind of a spare part really.”

At that, Oats’ dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl and he looked across the room at them before returning his attention to you. Then, his unearthly, almost prismatic, silver-green eyes took in your empty cup and he grinned. “Can I get y’a top up?”

Your instinct was to refuse, but you bit your lip. This didn’t feel real. A cute, handsome, courteous guy was actually taking an interest in you.

“Sure. Thank you.” And the smile that spread itself across your face telegraphed your delight in a way that was impossible to disguise with any kind of suave grace.

Oats, however, seemed equally delighted, and nodded. The barista came back over and he leaned his weight on the counter to talk to her. He seemed to have that enviably easy manner with everybody, and he even charmed a free slice of cake out of her too with what felt like no effort at all.

“Chocolate? Or something else?” he asked you.

“Pardon?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you said, but he frowned.

“You sure? I’m gonna have a bit of their chocolate cake. It’s so good, it’s practically a sin.”

“I…” you faltered.

He didn’t pressure you though and shrugged easily, turning back to the barista. “Gimme two forks with that, love. Just in case.”

“No problem,” she beamed back while she bustled about, and Oats eyed the empty bar stool next to yours.

“May I?”

You swallowed your nerves and nodded. “Please.” And then, because apparently a demon of confidence had temporarily possessed you, you eyed his slightly helmet-flattened forelock and said, “No pink hair clips today?”

He guffawed loudly enough that your brother actually glanced over and frowned when he saw you talking with a stranger.

Oats snorted and shook his head. “No, not today. My daughter is still up in Scotland with her mother.” He fixed you with a more serious look and said, “She and I divorced, before you get the wrong idea about me flirting like this with a beautiful woman.”

The compliment caught you so off-guard that you just froze for a moment, but when the heat of a blush filled your face, you looked away and he chuckled.

“I’m not normally so forward, but I’ve been kicking myself for not talking to you when I first saw you in Full Moon. Hank was telling me just this morning what a muppet I’d made of myself for walking away like that.”

You looked behind you at the group of his friends and then turned back to him. “Won’t they think you’re being rude, ignoring them like this?”

He shook his head and smiled. “They’re probably all taking bets on how quickly you’ll shoot me down.”

“What? I’d have to be an idiot to do that.”

At that, his face split into a huge, handsome grin and he shook his head just a little. “Lucky me,” he said. “You ride?” he added, eyeing your jacket that was obviously a motorcycle jacket.

You shrugged. “Pillion. I’ve never ridden myself, but my brother lets me come out with him sometimes.”

Oats nodded, and then, as the barista set down his coffee, your top-up, and the plate of decadent chocolate cake with two forks, he said, “I’m Euan, by the way, but everyone calls me Oats.”

You introduced yourself, and then said, “Oats?”

He snorted and nodded. “Not the worst nickname, for sure.”

“Can I ask where it came from?”

Oats nodded and shunted the plate towards you first before leaning his elbow on the bar and watching you while he spoke. “I think it’s because I’m a dad, but I’m always prepared for most situations, and when it comes to my Natalie, she’s always hungry. I’ve usually got about a thousand granola bars stashed away about my person —” he said, cutting himself off to pat conspicuously at his jacket pockets. Pulling a slightly dog-eared crunchy bar from his breast pocket, he wielded it like a magic wand at you and said, “Case in point.”

“Hence, Oats,” you said, eyeing the healthy brand name on the packet.

“Exactly. Like I said, it could be worse. See the tall lass over there with the dangerous scowl?”

You didn't need to turn around to know which of his friends he was talking about, but you did anyway. “Yeah.”

“We call her Pixie.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” he chuckled, stowing the granola bar back into his pocket and taking a huge scoop of the chocolate cake with his own fork.

“What do you ride then?” you asked.

“Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said with almost exactly the same intonation and fondness as he’d just said ‘because I’m a dad’, and you couldn’t help smiling. “Can’t be doing with all these glitzy sports bikes and the like,” he added with a laugh, setting his fork down and blinking slowly. His lashes, you noticed, were thick and dark and enticingly long.

Laughing, you smiled. “Don’t say that too loudly — my brother rides an R1.”

“Nice,” Oats grinned back. “But nothing could entice me away from my girl.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, flirting with me then,” you said. Evidently that confidence demon was still lurking.

Again, Oats laughed, though it was more of a low whicker this time, and it rolled right through you and lit you up all over. God, how long had it been since someone had laughed like that for you?

“There are… exceptions,” he said in a rumbling murmur. “Tell me about yourself?” he asked, and you did.

You spent the next hour at least talking in an easy back and forth with him while he charmed a few more refills from the barista and a lot of answers out of you, before one of his friends sidled up shyly and waited for a lull in your conversation.

“Sorry to butt in,” the small, unbelievably beautiful woman said. She was the one who’d been on the receiving end of the adoring look from the Amazon, ‘Pixie’. She had chocolate-brown hair falling in thick ringlets around a gorgeous face, and, you were pleased to note, she had wide hips and a softness to her that a lot of the biker chicks you’d seen online didn’t have.

“Coco,” Oats beamed. “Meet my new friend.” He introduced you by name, and Coco smiled at you, holding out her hand.

When your palms connected, you felt a warmth rush through you and you felt like your heart skipped a beat. The feeling like you could tip forwards and drown in her endless, dark brown eyes almost unseated you, but she let go of you and stepped back with a pretty smile on her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Pleasure to meet you. Just wanted to tell Oats that we’re thinking of heading off soon. Ariel has a photoshoot he wants to get to in an hour or so, and Demon’s keen to get going as well.”

Oats nodded, and you tried not to let your stomach drop down to your boots at the thought of all this coming to such an abrupt end.

Coco turned her head sharply to look at you just as the feeling hit, and she smiled faintly. “You could always stay here though, Oats,” she added with a pretty smile. “We’re only going back to Full Moon, and Demon clearly has no intention of lingering there…” She shot a meaningful glance back at their table. Demon, the guy with dark hair and tanned skin, was seated with the guy he’d entered with now draped in his lap, his skinny legs dangling as he sprawled languidly back against the guy’s muscular chest. Demon whispered something into his ear before he clearly bit the shell of his boyfriend’s ear, which made him sit abruptly upright and flush a vibrant pink.

Oats laughed again and shook his head. “Fuck me,” he chuckled privately. “Never thought I’d see the day. You guys go on. I’m… I’m very much content here.”

“I can see that,” Coco smirked, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, you turned to Oats with a hot flush of your own in your face and said, “Don’t stay if you don’t want to… I’m sure my brother will be leaving soon anyway…”

Just as you said that, and before Oats could reply, Alex reappeared at your side and jutted his chin in Oats’ direction. “You good?” he chirped at you.

“Fine,” you replied. “This is Oats. I met him at Full Moon Motorcycles when I was buying your birthday present.”

“Oh,” Alex replied, holding out his hand for Oats to shake. “Good to meet you, man. You tell her what to get for me? If you did, it was a good choice.”

“No,” Oats said carefully, his grey-green eyes sliding back to your face even while he shook your brother’s hand amicably. “No, whatever she got you, it was all her.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said. “Listen, sis, we’re gonna hit the road in a while. Nooner and Eggs want to hit the twisties for a bit, but I can’t really do that with a backpack, so Sparky said he’d give you a ride home, if that’s ok.”

You swallowed. “Um…”

“I can give her a lift,” Oats replied after a swift glance in your direction. “She’s already got her own lid, and there’s room on the Bobber’s double seat for both of us.”

“I don’t know, man,” Alex said with a wary frown.

“Your choice,” Oats shrugged easily, looking at you and holding his hands up just a little.

For a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure, but the idea of wrapping your arms around Oats’ thick middle and sitting astride his gorgeous bike kind of decided it for you. Besides, it was a long time since you’d done anything truly just for yourself; simply because you wanted to. You nodded at your brother. “It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

Nodding to reassure him, you smiled again and Alex backed up a pace. “Cool. Text me later, ok?” he said as he retreated towards his friends, clearly trying to hide his excitement at not having a passenger for the great, twisting section of A-road they were heading for.

“Will do. Have fun, and don’t crash!” you called after him. “Or get a speeding ticket!”

He waved a hand over one shoulder without looking back, and you laughed and returned your attention to Oats. “Brothers.”

“Bikers,” he replied. “You try telling that to any of that lot though —” he gestured towards his own group of friends who were now filtering out of the door. “You ready to head out too or do you want to stay?”

You did want to stay, but the seat wasn’t that comfortable anymore, and you wanted to move around a bit. “No, I’m good to go,” you said and prepared to slide off the stool, but Oats stepped down first and held out his hand to you. You didn't need helping down, and his playful little smirk told you he knew as much, so you rode out the last of that demonic possession and let your fingers slide across his palm and he steadied you off the stool.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

“Pleasure.”

You picked up your helmet from where you’d stowed it on the floor at your feet and straightened to find him waving casually across the room to the good-looking guy with the ethereally pretty boyfriend. Before he stepped away from you and made towards the door though, you cleared your throat and said, “Oats?”

“Mn?” Looking down at you, his entire attention honed in on you, like you were the centre of the universe, and you swallowed back a sudden welling of emotion.

“Listen… Thank you… for… coming over to me today. Like I said, it’s my brother’s birthday, and he was here with his friends, and he only included me so I didn’t feel completely left out, but…” Accursed tears washed over your eyes for a moment but you blinked them away furiously and ploughed on regardless. “I’m really glad I came along today anyway,” you finished rather pathetically.

His full, beautiful lips curled into a gentle smile and he blinked softly and exhaled. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words private, as though you weren’t standing in a busy cafe surrounded by people and the cheerful clatter of coffee cups and laughter. “I’m really glad I did too. I wasn’t going to, you know? I was going to stay at home and edit a boatload of raw photographs for a client, but Demon convinced me to come out. I guess I owe him.”

“‘Demon’? For… For the speed?” you asked, wondering how he came by his nickname.

“For the horns,” Oats replied in deadpan humour. “Have a look if he’s still there when we go outside. You ready?”

You followed him out of the cafe with a nod, and just as you took a deep, indulgent breath of fresh, heathland air, Oats’ group of friends filed out past you on their bikes. The one named Demon was in the lead, and the nickname made immediate sense. Sitting astride a blood-red Panigale, with his boyfriend clinging on behind him like a limpet, the guy had pale, curving horns fixed to the crown of his helmet.

“Yeah, that tracks,” you said, and Oats waggled his dark eyebrows.

The Amazon had a Yamaha R1 like your brother’s, but hers had a pearl-white wrap that made it look almost spectral, and riding out in front of her was Coco on a yellow and black Honda Hornet.

The telltale red plait told you that the guy in the wheelchair was on a modified Kawasaki, with unusual struts at the back that looked like they would come down when he stopped to stabilise him instead of having to take his legs off the foot pegs, where they were currently Velcro-ed in place. Watching the whole group file out was Hank, standing beside a battered old pickup. In the bed of the truck, you could just see that the red-headed biker’s wheelchair secured in place.

Hank waved the last of them off, then glanced over at Oats. The older man lifted his nose just a little, as if he too was enjoying the fresh, moorland wind that whipped across the car park, and he nodded once at Oats, and then at you to your surprise, before clambering stiffly up into his pickup and closing the door. It shut with a raucous yelp of rusty hinges.

You stood there and watched Oats’ friends all file out, all waving at Oats as they passed, before they set off down the road in a roar of revving engines to leave a lonely looking Bonneville waiting patiently near the stone wall of the car park nearby.

“Yours, I presume?” you said, nodding at it.

“Yup.”

“She’s a beauty,” you mumbled, self-consciousness prickling at the sides of your neck for the silly comment.

Oats beamed though, his sea-foam eyes lighting up as the crinkles around his eyes and the slight dimples in his cheeks creased under the force of his obvious pleasure. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy. You ready? Oh, wait, you should put your address into my phone before we get going,” he laughed.

You nodded, taking the offered phone from him. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin as you took it, and a tiny thrill passed through you that you did your best to quash. With your address plugged in and a route home waiting to be followed, you handed it back to him and looked up into his handsome, rugged face as he smiled.

“Cheers. Let’s go,” he said, and you trailed along beside him over to his bike, heartbeat thudding in your ears with your nerves.

He swung a leg over and turned the key, then pushed the bike upright and nudged the side-stand in with his left foot before flicking the switch and bringing the bike to life. She growled beautifully, the low, thundering rumble of her engine sounding far more visceral and primal than your brother’s sports bike did. Perhaps it was the design of the lower-slung Bonneville, with its visible parts that made you think of a Steampunk aesthetic, but you instantly preferred it. Plus, the double seat looked way more cushioned — and less precarious — than the one you’d perched on to get to the cafe that morning.

Oats got himself comfy while you slid your helmet on, then he looked over his shoulder at you and nodded, so you took that as your cue and got settled on the pillion seat behind him. The footpegs were already down. The pulsing purr of the machine beneath you was almost enough to distract you from the fact that you were entrusting your life to a relative stranger, whom you’d never seen ride before, and as you climbed on and rested your hands politely on his shoulders, you felt a shiver travel through your whole nervous system.

“Do whatever’s comfortable for you, obviously,” Oats said over the noise of his bike, “But if you want to hold my waist — if you can actually get your arms around my middle, that is,” he chuckled self-effacingly, “— feel free. Totally up to you.”

“Thanks,” you yelled back, and, because apparently that pesky demon of confidence was still kicking around, you hugged his torso.

It was wonderful.

Slowly snaking your arms around his middle, you felt your chest press against his back and you caught the way he inhaled slowly and tried not to wonder what it meant. It felt so good to hold him that you had to remind yourself it wasn’t a hug. It was to keep you in place while a gorgeous stranger drove you home on his equally gorgeous bike. With a final thumbs-up to check you were happy, to which you replied with a nod of your head and tried not to clack your helmet against his, he pulled away and your heart leapt for the sheer joy of it.

Where the R1 was built for sleek speed and bursts of power, the Bonneville was build to be enjoyed, and oh gosh, did you enjoy every curve.

And not just the curves in the road, either.

Oats was soft, but he was solid, and the urge to rest one hand on his thick thigh was almost overwhelming, until he took the corners at just the right pace to be exhilarating without you having to worry about your safety, and you clung on instead and laughed behind the safety of your visor.

It was all over way too soon, and as the Bonneville chugged into your road like a steam train and halted outside your poky, terraced house with its quaint little kitchen garden out the front in the postage-stamp of space between the pavement and the house, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. Please don’t let this be it, you thought desperately.

You went through the motions of getting carefully off the bike without staggering or falling, and again, Oats held out his hand to help steady you. You gripped his fingers gratefully and when you gave an extra little squeeze to his hand at the end, you could have sworn he answered with one of his own and a throaty chuckle.

He dismounted too, which surprised you, and you wondered if you were going to have to ask him inside. As much as you wanted that in principle, you desperately didn’t want it to happen today because the house was a mess: laundry was still hanging up all over the place, and you’d cooked a curry the previous night and it was definitely still lingering in the air.

Oats took off his helmet but left his bike idling, which went a little way to reassuring you, and when you looked more closely at his expression, you thought you saw a hint of something familiar lingering in the corners of his eyes. Was he nervous?

Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thick, 5 o’clock shadow that looked like it lingered pretty constantly no matter the time of day, Oats took a deep breath, held it, and then smiled at you. “Fuck,” he exhaled, and laughed. “I’m… very rusty at all this.” He held his helmet in both hands before him, toying with the strap.

“If I gave you my number, would you maybe like to meet up again?” you asked, taking pity on the man.

“Very much,” he said softly. “Like I said, Natalie is with her mum for the holidays, and apart from a wedding I’m covering next week, this is a pretty slow time of year for me. I’m free… mostly whenever.”

The reminder that he had a daughter with someone else did make you wonder what you were letting yourself in for. Children weren’t really something you had any expense of, since neither you nor your brother had shown any parental inclinations yet, and you weren’t particularly close to your cousins who had small kids.

“Ok, let me give you my number and we can figure something out.”

That done, he slid his phone back into his pocket and zipped it up, biting gently at his lower lip for a moment. “I know it’s bold,” he said, “But may I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped and soared. Breathless, you looked up at him and whispered, “Yes.”

His tiny, gentle, lopsided smile heralded the kiss’ approach, and he took your jaw delicately in one, leather-gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. They were soft but insistent against yours, and you answered with a little moan as your eyes fluttered shut.

He groaned, pulling you closer with a low growl so that you were pressed flush against him for a moment before he stepped back and exhaled roughly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded, feeling like you were floating inches above the ground.

You watched him re-mount his bike and adjust himself a little once he was settled, then he revved it playfully for you, and rode away after a final look back at you. He flipped his visor down as he pulled away, and you watched the bike and its rider disappear down the road.

‘Soon’ couldn’t come soon enough… 

__

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[simdertalia]

🫧🧼🧦 ACNH Laundry Set 🧦🧼🫧

Sims 4, base game compatible. 23 items. I hope you enjoy! This set is brought to you by the lovely patrons who voted 💗

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

Set Contains: -Clothes Line | 3 swatches | 922 poly -Clothes Line Decluttered | 1 swatch | 604 poly -Dryer Decor | 6 swatches | 828 poly -Drying Rack | 4 swatches | 2394 poly -Drying Rack Empty | 4 swatches | 1338 poly -Extractor Fan | 6 swatches | 1148 poly -Iron 1 | 1 swatch | 479 poly -Iron 2 | 1 swatch | 682 poly -Ironing Board | 5 swatch | 1206 poly -Ironing Board Small | 4 swatches | 924 poly -Iron Shelf | 3 swatches | 2304 poly -Iron Shelf Decluttered / Slotted | 3 swatches | 838 poly -Iron Shelf Wall | 3 swatches | 1206 poly -Iron Shelf Wall Decluttered & Slotted | 3 swatches | 302 poly -Missing Sock | 3 swatches | 54 poly -Rustic Wash Tub | 2 swatches | 1197 poly -Sewing Machine | 10 swatches | 1198 poly -Sewing Supplies | 6 swatches | 1198 poly -Terrarium | 3 swatches | 1171 poly -Terrarium Display (no dirt) with Slot | 3 swatches | 480 poly -Terrarium Empty with Slot | 3 swatches | 558 poly -Utility Sink (functional) | 1 swatch | 1210 poly -Washing Machine Decor | 6 swatches | 1197 poly

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-Laundry Basket is part of the Mother's Day Set -Crystals

The rest of my CC

[fullt4nk]

submit to me (shuriri x reader) 18+

hey 🤭 this is my first time writing on tumblr and im lowk scared.. like what do I even say in one of these authors notes things??? prolly gonna pop up every once in a while with smth for people to read idk yet tho 🤷🏾‍♀️

gotta give cred where it’s due, this is heavily inspired by @generallysapphic their works are incredible

warnings: reader and riri are subby lil whores, tribbing, lottaaaa lotta lotta sex, basically porn w/o plot, voyeurism if yew squint, maybe a lil degradation if yew squint

some translations: zithandwa zam- my loves, uthando- love, khawulezisa- hurry up

bored, bored, bast i’m so bored.

I have gotten no attention from my loves all day and I was starting to get angsty. swinging my legs back and forth on the desk I was sitting on, I played around with riri’s hammer that was placed on the desk and hummed a small tune.

riri walked over to me as I jumped from my place on the desk; finally, some attention. I smiled at her expectingly as she walked over, excited be with one of my girlfriends.

she walked right behind me to reach for her tool box. well damn.

as she picked up a tool from her took box she turns to shuri, “shuri catch,” she yelled, throwing a wrench from her tool box right towards shuri.

she caught the wrench with ease. “how many times do I need to tell you to stop throwing heavy objects around riri?” last time riri threw a cogwheel towards shuri without looking, she broke a prototype shuri spent hours working on… it didn’t go well for her.

“my bad baby,” she said walking back to her original spot at her desk. I watched them work with a hot feeling in my stomach. damn they look good. with shuri in nothing but a tank top and sweats, i watched her arms flex every time she used that wrench. riri had on a sports bra and shorts. i watched her perfectly pierced nipples on display through the bra as thoughts of my lips attached to them racked through my mind

I could feel myself getting more fidgety as i watched their bodies move and work away at whatever they were building. at this point, anything was better than sitting and watching them work themselves to death in this damn lab. an idea popped into my mind and I fake a yawn best I can, throwing my hands above my head and stretching. my slightly cropped shirt lifted and a small portion of my midriff became exposed as riri watched me, eyes drifting.

just what I wanted

“you good?” she questioned. she looked me up and down and she could tell how bored I was just by looking into my eyes. “we’ll be there in a minute just wait a little longer baby.”

“nah i’m tryna take a nap… i’ll be back in a minute,” I said, looking and riri with a certain look. she immediately caught on to what I meant by “nap” and bit her lip.

“um yeah shuri I think imma go too. we been working since 7am and i’m tired as hell,” she said, only half meaning it. yeah she was tired, but not tired as in “I wanna sleep” tired. tired as in “i’m tired of working and wanna mess around” tired.

“you two go ahead, i’ll be there for diner.” shuri gave riri a kiss on the forehead and walked over to me to hug me. “get some rest, zithandwa zam.”

“haaah fuck please please please,” I whined and writhed all over the place. riri’s clit rubbing against mine having too big of an effect on my orgasm. “please don’t stop. need it need it so bad.”

“nghh im gonna cum fuck i’m gonna cum so hard ohhh my god,” riri’s eyes were glued shut as she wailed and moaned on top of me. her dripping pussy on mine like felt like heaven that I never wanted to let go of. and fuck the sounds she made, all whiny and high pitch. she especially got like this whenever we were tribbing, saying it was her favorite way to get off.

“please, please, please, wanna cum, fuck i wanna cum, i wanna cum all over your beautiful pussy please let me cum!” she babbled into my neck as my legs shook. fuck she’s cumming, I can feel her pussy get impossibly wetter. it drips against my folds and it’s just enough to send me over the edge.

“cumming, cumming, cumming im cumming-!” I silently screamed into riri’s chest and softly bit her nipple to quiet myself down. “ngh-! fuck fuck baby do that again please,” she begged

I softly bit her nipple again looking into her brown eyes, licking and biting softly as she moaned and squirmed in my arms. because her nipples were pierced, her sensitivity was through the roof as she arched her back, forcing her chest further into my face. I couldn’t help it as I began moving against her, wanting more friction on my clit. I knew I was overstimulating her, but god she felt so good.

“shit please baby please,” at this point I was begging just to beg. I just wanted more of her and her creamy pussy on mine. I wanted to smother myself in her chest as I sucked and nibbled on her perky nipples. fuck I could do this all day.

“wow. so I leave you two alone for 30 minutes and you’re already going at it like you’re in heat.”

fuck.

riri is quick to jump down from my lap, leaving my wet cunt exposed to shuri. “f-fuck um-“ riri panicked looking anywhere and everywhere to avoid shuri’s piercing gaze.

“shhh no need uthando. both of you, go back to what you were doing.” she tilted her head to the side and smirked in amusement. she was planning something, I could see it in the way she looked me up and down.

“please shuri-“ I whined as my breathing picked up, excited to know what she had in mind. “nope, no help from me. c’mon give me a show you two. i’ve been working so hard to protect this nation, i think I deserve a private performance.” she is vividly eyeing my fluttering cunt chuckling at it’s reaction to her presence.

me and riri are looking at her like deer in headlights, wide eyed and shocked at shuri’s request. we’ve never done anything like this before and judging by the look on riri’s face, she’s just as shocked and turned on as I am.

“khawulezisa, i don’t have all day,” she demands in a deep voice, thick with her accent, and fuck it’s so sexy. she takes off her tank top and throws it somewhere around the room, exposing her perfect torso and breasts. riri slowly climbs on top of me again and her clit slightly rubs against mine, making us both moan out.

we slowly find our rhythm again, grinding against each other with our eyes shut. there’s a new found feeling that makes me clench around nothing, knowing that shuri is watching me and riri moan and rub against each other. our chests are rubbing against each other, making riri pant even louder and heavier.

shurir stalks her way over to the bed to whisper in riri’s ear, “you like having your nipples played with like this?” as reaches between us, she’s squeezes and rubs riri’s nipples. riri moans in ecstasy, rubbing faster against me. shuri’s low voice in riri’s ear is enough to have her like a bitch in heat, grinding her pussy on me. “nngh, fuck riri slow down!” our clits gaining more friction causes a high pitch whine to escape my lips, as my eyes roll back; god this feels so good.

“haaa fuck shuri please. need you so bad, need to feel you, need to feel you deep- haah!” moans and pleads roll off my tongue like it’s nothing, begging shuri to fuck me. “poor usana, need something long and thick in this pretty pussy huh? what, riri isn’t enough anymore? she seemed like enough before I walked in here,” she says, reaching in between us to run her fingers through my folds. she rubs against me and riri, as we grind into shuri’s hand.

shuri could feel the wet spot between her draws as she watched her love’s pathetically rub against each other. she wanted nothing more than to take them right then and there, but she had to be patient and enjoy the scenery in front of her. “wanna cum usana? wanna cum for me? c’mon cum all over each other. fuck, it’s so wet I can see it. I can hear it. go on my love’s, cum for me.”

fuck that’ll do it.

riri is absolutely gone. shaking, crying of overstimulation, moaning, she was all fucked out as her thick creamy cum spilled over my pussy and shuri’s hand. my cum mixing in with hers as I bit into her neck to quiet my squeals.

“look at you two, such good girls for me yeah?” shuri’s lips connected with mine as she slipped her tongue into my mouth. fuck she drives me crazy as her tongue explores and licks every crevice of my mouth. she detaches from me, a string of spit keeping us together.

she turns to lean into riri, as riri completely opens her mouth for shuri, reaching her tongue out. shuri sucks on riri’s tongue, slow and sensually, letting her tongue into her mouth and bobbing her head up and down. riri whines and pinches her nipple, feeling her cunt clenched around nothing.

shuri slaps her hands away from her breasts and says “patience my love, i’ll take care of you..”

LMFOAOA I PRESSED THE POST BUTTON TOO SOON BY ACCIDENT 😭

but we’re already rackin up some typa engagement ok I see y’all !!

maybe i’ll write more, who knows BUT FOR NOW THIS IS WHAT I GOT

[lovelynim]

I saw you wrote for chilluc once and i wanted to ask for the "tools/toys" prompt with lee diluc, if possible

also congratulations for reach the 500 followers milestone!! you deserve it all and much more!

Dangerous Collection

Genshin Impact - Childe x Diluc

[500 Followers Milestone Event - "Tools/Toys"]

A/N: Sooo, i got this 2 requests with ChilLuc for the event and decided to focus on the first one, but I added some bits of prompt into it, heheh

Summary: Childe is giving Diluc a tour through his house and decides to show his collection of weapons, but one particular object catches the couple's attention.

Word count: 1641 words

This wasn’t the first time Diluc visited a wealthy home, but, still, this was at a totally different level from whatever the nobles at Mondstat were up to. Tartaglia - or “Childe”, as he would present himself - would constantly tell him to not worry about the bill or the price of some gift whenever they hung out, so the redheaded assumed he was, well, rich.

Rich was an understatement.

“I hope you don’t think I'm trying to make it up for something else,” Childe said cockly, feeling his ego being fed by Diluc’s expressions of awe and surprise whenever they walked into a new room of his stupidly huge house.

The other man sighed, trying to ignore the second meaning hidden in those words. Shaking his head, he gave the ginger a slight smile. “The only thing I’m thinking about is if you ever feel lonely at a place this big,” he teased as he continued to walk, admiring the rather luxurious furniture.

“Nah,” Childe scoffed, following his partner around, “There are some people that help me take care of it and… you’ve been coming over more often, I don’t get lonely at all ~” Childe mused, catching Diluc off guard with a sudden hug from behind. The ginger rested his chin on the other’s shoulder, amusing himself as he watched Diluc shiver and his cheeks turn into a faint pink.

Before the silence completely surrounded them, Childe clicked his tongue, letting go of the other man and taking a few steps ahead. “Wait, there is one more room I want to show you,” the enthusiasm in his voice was clear as he reached out for Diluc’s hand with a smile on his face.

Being nearly dragged across the stupidly large hallway, Diluc tried to keep up with the fatui’s pace, “c-can’t you slow down a little?” He chuckled, following the man around his house. 

A couple steps ahead, the ginger stopped in front of some kind of fancy door. It seemed a little heavier than the others in the house and, when Diluc looked at the lock, it was sturdier and thicker as well.

“Tartaglia,” Diluc muttered, staring at the door knob and feeling the ominous aura that seemed to come from behind that door.

“Yes?”

“What’s in there?”

Childe smirked, placing his hand on the knob and looking over his shoulder. “Nothing much… just my collection ~” And with a move of his wrist, he pushed the door open. “Ladies and handsome men first,” he muttered as Diluc walked by, making the redhead roll his eyes.

Inside the room, different shelves, racks and stands held… weapons. Thousands - maybe more - of them. Bows, spears, swords, knives - all kinds of deadly devices displayed in some kind of exposition.

“I-is this your collection? Weapons?” Diluc said, taking some slow steps deep inside the room. “There is probably enough weaponry here to start a war, Tartaglia,” he continued, turning back to the man standing on the door.

The ginger smiled, gently caressing the sharp edge of a spear that was near him. “Most of those are dull already. As I said, it’s just my collection, not my personal arsenal,” he smiled, noticing how the others continued to look around.

Diluc was no expert, but he could tell how some of those were way older than they looked - especially some old editions of the Knights of Favonius’s weapons. Rich people were really… eccentric, he thought. 

While letting his eyes wander over the weapons displayed nearby, Diluc found one in particular that caught his attention.

“Tartaglia,” he called, looking back to the ginger, who quickly sprinted over him.

“Yes?”

“What’s… that weapon for?” The redhead pointed out towards one of the shelves, directly towards a feather duster. The harbinger blinked a few times, looking to his partner before looking back at the object. Was he for real? Or was he just fooling around? He knew Diluc could be a little dense sometimes, but that…

One of the servants that worked on the house must’ve left that after cleaning the room, which was a reasonable excuse, but to mistake it for some kind of weapon? Tartaglia let out an audible chuckle, amused by the other’s obliviousness. “Don’t you recognize it, ‘Luc?”

The comment made his cheek turn into a shade of red clone to the one of his hair, crossing his arms in annoyance and looking away. “I-it looks just like a duster to me, but you have all the kind of stuff in here so…”

Childe rolled his eyes. Well, he was not that dense, after all, but there was still some room to mess with him. The ginger walked over the shelf, picking up the feather duster. “So you really don’t know it,” he muttered, turning back to Diluc as he used the wand part to lightly tap on his hand. “This is one of the most dangerous weapons I have in here.”

The seriousness in his voice made Diluc shiver. Childe didn’t seem to be kidding about it, and that only made him even more curious about that “weapon”. It looked so harmless, just like any other duster, maybe it was some kind of disguise to its actual power?

Childe’s smile grew wider when the other seemed to take the bait. So innocent… “Want me to show you how it works?” 

“R-right now?” Diluc gasped, snapping back from his trance, “but isn’t it dangerous?”

“Did you forget who I am? There is no weapon in Teyvat that I didn’t mast-”

“Except bows.”

Childe’s eyebrow twitched, letting out a disappointed sigh while Diluc let out a small laugh at him. “Fine, almost no weapon in Teyvat that I didn’t master. So, do you want me to show it to you or not?”

“Hmm,” Diluc pretended to wonder, trying to make some suspense. He knew how much Childe loved to show himself out and brag about his combat skills - which seemed to be the case this time - so it was a simple matter if he was going to entertain him or not. “I don’t kno-”

“Oh please, don’t be a killjoy, will you?”

Diluc chuckled, smiling while Childe pouted at his teasing. “Very well… show me how it works, then.”

His eyes sparkled as the redhead finally said the words he wanted to hear. Barely able to hold the mischievous intentions inside any longer. Quickly wrapping his arm around Diluc’s chest, the ginger pulled him closer in a swift move, making the redhead gasp in surprise.

“W-what are you doing?” He tried to protest as Childe held his wrists together with one hand, attempting to squirm off the other’s grip with no avail.

“Didn’t you ask for a demonstration, hm?” The other said cockly, using his free hand to slowly rail Diluc’s shirt up, exposing his bare midriff. With a half confused, half embarrassed look, the redhead tried to understand what all that was about. “Let me show how deadly this ‘weapon’ can be, ‘Luc”

“W-wait- ahah! T-Tahahartaglia!” Diluc gasped, pressing his eyes shut as the first giggles burst through his lips. With his free hand, Childe used the feather duster to gently caress Diluc’s exposed skin, covering those sensitive spots with the ticklish and gentle touch.

Keeping the redhead firmly in place and his hands out of the way, Childe chuckled along, alternating between quick strokes and slow traces, letting the feathers do their job and amusing himself with Diluc’s laughter. “Isn’t it great? Some may call it a merciless tool, but I find it to be such an amazing weapon…” He talked into the other’s ear, letting his breath tease his sensitive ear, finding adorable the way Diluc tried to scrunch up his shoulders to protect himself.

He should have predicted something like this, it hurt his pride to think he let himself fall for such a stupid explanation. Of course it was just a feather duster, not some kind of ancient weapon. “E-ehehenough nohohonsense!”

“Nonsense? Is that what you have to say about my collection, ‘Luc? I’m offended…” Childe mused, pulling his partner into an even tighter hug as he nuzzled against his cheek, showering him with brief kisses as the feathers were making him laugh his head off. “If you apologize… Maybe I can show you some mercy, what do you say?” 

“F-fihihine!” Diluc gasped when the feathers trailed over his stomach, trying to suck it in to avoid the soft caresses. “I’m sohohorry!”

“For what?”

“F-fohohor- agh, stahahAhahap!” He shook his head, his knees wanting to give him and drop his body to the floor, but Childe was putting up some effort in keeping him in place, leaving him no room to run to. “F-for cahahalling it nohohonsenseheh!”

“Hmmm… and what do you have to say about my weapon? ~” Childe continued, not wanting to spoil the fun just yet.

“T-Tartahahglia! Plehehease!” Diluc cried, throwing his head back in a fit of laughter as the ginger used the feathers on his side.

“Come on,” the other replied, grinning as he kissed Diluc’s cheek again before slowly sliding his lips close to his ear. “You can give it at least one compliment, right? You can do it… or are you that ticklish, ‘Luc?”

Those words sent a shiver down the redhead’s back. His cheeks burned in a bright shade of red - an adorable one, if you asked Childe - and he had no option but to submit. “N-nohohoh! I-it’s great! Ahaha, okahahay?!”

“Alright, alright… I’ll let you slide off this one easily,” Childe said, lowering the feathers, but keeping Diluc’s wrists held together. 

“A-ahah… a-aren’t you going to l-let me go?” 

“So soon, ‘Luc?” Childe grinned like a predator staring at his prey, leaning his face close to Diluc’s - close enough to feel the heat from his blushing cheeks - brushing his lips against his. “I’m not quite done with you…”

“W-what do yo- aHAha, T-TartaHAHaglia!! NohOHOH!””

[drabblesandimagines]

400 Request ^_^

Fencing practice with Barnabas x fem reader, please❤️

Thanks, anon - I went more for a sparring practice vibes, I hope that's okay! 400 Followers Event details. Distracted Barnabas x fem reader 884 words

“Show me your positioning.” Barnabas begins to circle you as you adjust your stance under his gaze, his footsteps echoing around the sparring hall. Racks of weapons line the sides for training purposes, one from which he’d chosen the swords for today’s practice session. He wouldn’t dare wield Odin’s sword against you of course, but there would be no wooden training swords in your lessons either.

The Warden of Ash hums before he stops behind you. “Nearly.” His hand grips the back of your left thigh then, another on your hip, manoeuvring them by an inch or so. “There – feel the difference?”

“Mm.” You agree, acknowledging the difference of balance to a moment before.

“Show me again.” He commands, walking back round to your front.

You step out of position and fall back into it, adjusting a couple of times before you’re confident you’d reestablished it and look up at him, hopeful of praise.

“Better.” He nods. “Remember that, for I will not go easy on you, sweet one.”

“I would be offended if you did.”

He smirks, before taking a few paces to collect his own sword from where he’d laid it earlier, twirling it in his grasp and readies his own stance - leaning forward, and tucks his arm behind his back.  

You’d asked him why once, assumed it was to just show off his prowess with the blade. He’d scoffed, amused at your naivety, “If,” he’d stressed, and you knew that meant it was a very big if indeed, “I were to be injured, I could switch arms and continue, of course.”

“Focus.” His voice brings you back to the present moment. “Ready?”

“Ready.” You nod, and the battle begins.

His movements are fluid, his footwork more of a dance, the sword acts as an extension of his arm more than a tool being wielded.

You, on the other hand, are not as graceful, have a tendency to want to rush all in with a flurry of attacks. Your latest sessions have been on practicing your patience, the king warning you that you’d tire yourself out quickly and leave yourself vulnerable if you did not.

Not that he expects you to ever have to fight to defend your life – he would never allow you to find yourself in a situation without him or his Lord Commander there to protect you, but you’d pleaded to be taught and he’d caved so easily from your pretty pout.

“How?” You grunt, the impact from the clash of blades has sent you stumbling back, but somehow you maintain your balance.

“I know you so well, I can read your actions before you make them. You need to work on hiding those emotions, my sweet.” He walks forward as you step back, trying to maintain your defence. “You’re allowing yourself to be distracted.”

Are you truly so easy to read? Your eyes do keep falling upon his chest – his shirt appears to be lower than usual, more of his scar on display – but he can’t have noticed that, surely.

Lost in your thoughts, he takes advantage and lunges forward, ever graceful, and you step back without thinking of your positioning, toppling backwards.

The cold stone is there to meet you – Barnabas wasn’t one to coddle you in practice in a training pit lined with sand to soften any impact – and you know there’ll be a nasty bruise for your error. Swiftly, before you could think of getting back up to your feet, his sword is under your chin, using it to tilt your face up towards him. The way he controls the blade is truly a sight to behold. He knows how to manipulate the pressure just so, enough to not cut you but the threat is ever present.

A victorious smile is plastered across his features. “Do you yield, my sweet?”

You sigh, and the blade clangs against the floor as you drop it from your grip. “I yield.”

He kicks your blade away, as if you’d try and trick him, before he swipes his sword a couerl’s whisker away from your neck and bows with a flourish.

“Dead.” The arm that has been behind his back is now in front of him, offering you a hand. “I did say I would not hold back.”

You take his outstretched hand and he pulls you up with ease, tugging you forward into his chest. He throws his own blade down then and wraps both arms around your waist. “You are improving.”

“You tease me.” You lament, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“Mayhaps, but not here.” He moves an arm away from your waist and begins to walk you forward. “Come – a bath is in order.”

“Why?”

“One, I am sure that fall is already smarting.” It is true, your tailbone is throbbing from the impact and a warm bath certainly would help to soothe.

“Mm. However, one suggests there is a two.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to the side of your temple before lowering his lips to your ear.

“Two, you may gaze upon my chest to your heart’s content. I will have my lady get her fill before our next session.”

“I do not think that is possible.” You admit as your cheeks flush.

“Then next time I shall don my armour.”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[foodandfolklore]

Kitchen Witch Essentials

I want to preference this by saying your priorities of tools for your craft will vary as you get more experienced. If you get more into baking, you may choose to invest in a kitchen mixer. If your path goes more down drinks, you might want to get a French press. This list is for those starting out or looking to maintain general witchy cooking. Nothing on this list is mandatory, so don't feel like you need to go spend money just because it's on this list.

This list will also assume you have general kitchen stuff, like pots, pans, and knives. You may not have everything, but you have enough to cook.

Wooden Spoon

If for whatever reason you don't have a wooden spoon, and you want to do kitchen magic, I strongly recommend you go and get one. You can get them at any store that sells Kitchen Utensils, including the dollar store.

For some kitchen witches, the wooden spoon is like a magic wand. Allowing the witch to direct energy. Personally, I just enjoy using natural materials whenever I can. Also, it's just such a useful tool to have when cooking. You can stir your food on stove top, and since it's made of wood you don't need to worry about damaging non stick surfaces. If you're boiling pasta, stirring with a wooden spoon helps get rid of the foam overboil. You can also just leave the spoon over the pot to prevent pasta water overboiling. Baking bread? Flip the spoon around and use the handle to bring the dough together.

Some people choose to add sigils or other symbols onto their witchy spoons. If you decide to do this, please do not use paint or stain, as this can come off while cooking. Unless this will be a display only spoon, of course. Safest way is to laser burn a design. Check etsy for custom spoons.

Herbs/Spices you know the properties of

I'm sure you already have some non perishable Herbs or Spices in your pantry or spice rack. Black Pepper, Garlic powder, Cinnamon, Paprika, that kind of thing. I want you to pick one and deep dive into the history of that Herb/Spice. What it's been used for in the past, what are some common magical properties and associations; what do YOU associate with it. Write down the magical association, like protection, banish negativity, prosperity, ect. Start with one, work your way up to three. If you have trouble memorizing, keep a little cheat sheet near by.

Now when you add these seasonings, you know what energies you can add/attract with your food.

Mortar and Pestle

If you already have another way to grind spices, like a coffee grinder, this does not need to be a priority. And if you have arm or shoulder issues, I don't recommend using. The main benefit to using a mortar and pestle is the crushing style of grinding tends to release more aroma and flavor then the cutting style of a coffee grinder. If you plan to just use for dry spices, you won't need a very big or fancy one. 20 dollars should get you something small and solid.

Make sure you are getting one made of stone. I tried a wooden one and it's garbage. I use it to hold messy spoons. There are also metal ones, and while I've never tried one, I encourage caution. I worry about long term use stripping whatever coating is stopping it from rusting.

Jars

Glass Jars are so great to have in the kitchen. Leftover sauce? Put it in a jar. Suddenly made a jam? We got jars to put it in. Meal prep overnight oats? Jars are here for you! They're just great for storage. And you don't need to buy them. Lots of things come in jars; just give them a hot soapy soak, scrap the label off, wash and reuse. If you prefer mason jars, I recommend washing the lids by hand. The lids aren't meant to be reused for jarring, so they rust fairly quickly after a few washes. You can buy replacement lids, however.

Plastic Containers

Jars are great, but things get a little dicey when you want to put stuff in the freezer. Water likes to make sure everyone knows it's cold by puffing up bigger; like look at me, I'm freezing here! Which means, there's a chance your glass jar can shatter.

But freezing food is the best way to preserve food since you don't need to add anything like extra salt or sugar. So get some freezer safe containers. I love making batches of broth and stock, and freeze it for later. Or if we have a lot of leftovers, I'll freeze enough for a dinner another week, incase I don't have enough spoons to make dinner one evening. And don't worry, you can wash and reuse plastic containers too.

I'll also freeze food I notice is starting to go weird. If I buy a huge bag of baby spinach, but can't get through it all, I'll transfer it to a freezer bag. Adding frozen spinach to food as it cooks is one of the easiest ways to up your nutrients. You can also freeze other vegetables, just make sure you cut them up first.

Crock Pot/Slow Cooker

Every Witch Needs a Cauldron, and these are Electric Cauldrons. Prices vary mainly based on the size you want. There are different brands, different colors; you can even get some in the theme of your favorite fandom. But they all have the same 3 core settings: High, Low, and keep warm.

Slow cookers are....well, slow. Which is great for certain kinds of food that need to sit for a long time, like meats. But it's also great for Kitchen Witches with a lot going on. Non witches will "Set it and forget it" but it's a good idea to stir every once in a while. Which is where the magic comes in. So, if you're a scatter brained Witch, Like me, or have ADHD and have trouble focusing, an electric cauldron might be for you. Throw everything together in 15 minutes, then give it love and attention when you remember. Normally that happens when you start to smell the food.

Again, this is my preference. Some Kitchen Witches I know prefer to identify a specific pot as their cauldron. Some went and got an actual full size, cast iron cauldron; which is amazing but not feasible for most. I grew up using a slow cooker, so I'm very comfortable around one. But if it's not your thing; that's fine. Maybe your cauldron will be a rice cooker or a Boston Shaker.

[ventiswampwater]

what have I done (to deserve this)

bo sinclair x afab!reader

rating: explicit

word count: 4k

Bo POV. It’s the day before Valentine’s. Bo goes shopping at a bargain outlet. In true romcom fashion, you’re there too. 

Chance encounter meet-cute. Except it’s with the worst man this side of Baton Rouge. Sucks! But you get to make out with him! Hope that’s worth the incoming pain and misery, bestie!

Crossposted on AO3 here. 

Very self-indulgent and GOOFY. A heaping dose of humor and general dumbassery. Big warning for Bo being Bo. We’re in his head and he is, as always, so stupid. Reader does not have a car for porn reasons. That’s it. She’s a public transportation whore for roadhead purposes. She’s also kind of annoying. And a bratty bimbo. 

The title of this fic comes from the song “What Have I Done to Deserve This” by Pet Shop Boys. It’s just a jazzy lil 80′s track that I could 100% picture playing in a bargain outlet over shitty speakers. Bo’s on his Gen X shit.

I just wanted to write about Bo encountering a chick who immediately wanted to hoover him down. Ambiguous ending with some unsettling implications.

This fic is a birthday gift for @raccoonspooky​! 🦝💝👻 MWAH!!! I LUV U!!! HAPPY BDAY!!!! HAPPY BIRF!!! DAY!!!! HERE’S STUPID!!!! 4 U!!!

The bargain outlet stretches out in front of him, large yellow signs hanging from the warehouse ceiling. Sales down every aisle, 25% off on all kitchenware. Music blares out of loudspeakers, spitting out a song that Bo hasn’t heard since high school.

He’s thinking of his mother again.

Packed into the family car, bumping down the road to the department store. Just the two of them. Mama would tell him that it was because he couldn’t be left alone, that he wasn’t trusted like Vincent was—up at the big old house, drawing his pictures and staying out of the way.

Time seemed to drag on days like that, plodding along ungainly as Trudy slowly perused shelves. It always felt like he would be stuck there indefinitely, rotting away in front of the floral baking sets and printed potholders. When people congregated around the racks, Bo would reach up and grab her hand. Surrounded with onlookers, she’d let him hold onto it.

Sometimes they’d pass by the toy aisles, but she never gave them more than a passing glance. These trips weren’t for him, after all. Despite that, he looked forward to them with an odd giddiness.

Bo couldn’t be alone, but Vincent couldn’t get this.

Vincent didn’t get to watch himself reflected in the shining glass of the displays that their mother stopped at, tutting over bottles of perfume. He didn’t get to see the chrome and glossy mirrors, the array of beautiful women with long nails behind the counter tops. It wasn’t for him.

Bo would return home smug, carrying Mama’s bags. He always made sure to catch his brother’s eye.

Look. Pay attention. This is mine, it’s all mine. It isn’t yours.

He got in trouble one day. He couldn’t remember for what. Whatever it was, she got angry, and the trips stopped.

That department store had long since been razed. There weren’t a lot of things that stayed the same. Tradition was lost and paved over, turned into this.

Picking up a basket, he makes his way to the back of the store.

The hardware section is pitiful. It always is.

Tools are strewn everywhere, each one emblazoned with illegible clearance stickers. They never have the shit that he needs here. He sifts through the pile of haphazardly stacked tools, pulling a wrench out. It’s a twelve-inch, decent weight. He wraps his hand around it and knocks it against his palm. It’ll do.

On his way out of the aisle, he snatches up two rolls of duct tape and a pack of braided nylon rope.

There are some things you can never have too much of.

He cuts through the clothing department.

A store display looms overhead, announcing another sale. A woman pouts out of the ad, the heaving curve of her breasts spilling out of black lace. He feels something under his foot. Bending down, he plucks a bra off the ground. There’s a boot print across the front, dirt smeared across the polka dots.

“Good afternoon, shoppers!” A voice crackles over the intercom. “Two-for-one deals comin’ in hot this holiday season—”

Trudy would hate this place, with its messily stacked piles of clothes and the incessant beeping of the registers. That’s part of the reason he’s here.

“Um. Excuse me.”

“Huh?” He blinks, jerking his head up.

“Sorry, I just…” You look at him quizzically, your lips pursed. You’re holding a bra that looks identical to the one in his hands, sans dirt. “Need to get…uh. Behind you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He shuffles to the side. “Go on.”

He flicks through the rack, shoving the ruined bra unceremoniously to the back.

“You buying a bra?”

“Yeah.” He says absently. “For my sister.”

“…You’re buying your sister a bra?”

He turns to look at you. Wrenched away from the padded curve of the bras, he finally has a chance to assess you. Cute.

“Sister-in-law.” He amends.

Your brow scrunches in confusion and you nod slowly, fidgeting with the bra in your hands.

“I’m just messin’ with you.” He smiles.

“Okay.” You huff out a perplexed laugh.

He’s rummaging through the detergent when he sees you again.

“We just keep running into each other.” You remark.

“Seems like it.” Gesturing at the duct tape and utility gloves in his basket, he flashes you a smile. “Gotta get some stuff for work.”  

“You a plumber?”

“Uh, no.” He’s unable to hide the flicker of indignation that twitches his lip up into a sneer. “Mechanic.”

Your lips curves into an open-mouthed O and he glances down at your left hand. Finding your ring finger conspicuously bare, he files that away for later. It’s not like he gives a shit, but less collateral is less collateral.

“I run a station not far from here.”

“That’s cool.” You pick up a lint roller. “Well, nice to meet you.”

Bo finds you in the Valentine’s aisle. Or you find him. He can’t really tell.

“Are you followin’ me ‘round here, girl?” He shoots you a bemused smile. “You gonna tell me your name, stalkin’ me like this?”

“Maybe. What’s yours?”

“Bo.”

“You buying that for your sister-in-law too?” You nod towards the box of conversation hearts he’s holding. “Can’t imagine your brother likes that much.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. We share everythin’.”

“Oh yeah?” You grab a box of chocolates off the shelf, placing it in your cart. “Seems messy.”

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“That depends.” You quip. “What’s your brother look like?”

He angles toward you, resting his hand on the shelf.

“We’re twins.”

Your eyebrows raise.

Couple months ago, he had one downstairs that kind of looked like you. Same hair color. He has a lock of it in one of the gas station drawers. Her ID’s in there too, but he doesn’t remember her name. He couldn’t place it at first, but that’s who you remind him of. Another version of you, maybe. You’ve got the prettier mouth, though.

“Surprised this one didn’t sell.” You pluck a card off the wire rack. A goose peers off of the paper, surrounded by hot pink lettering.

VALENTINE, WON’T YOU LET ME GET A GANDER…

You flip the card open. With a sigh, you hold it up so he can read it.

…AT THEM HONKERS.

“That’s a good one.” He nods appreciatively.

The food court is tucked into the corner of the store, a collection of neon signs and scuffed tables. The whole area smells gray, strings of cheap cheese and the lemony reek of industrial cleaner.

As he appraises the menu, he notices you at the drink fountain. When you turn, your eyes go wide.

“This isn’t what it looks like.” You exclaim.

“Huh.” He sighs. “Darlin’, you keep this up and I’ll have to call the cops.”

You open your mouth once, close it.

“You hungry?” He gestures toward the menu.

“You’re not from ‘round here, are ya’?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Hmm.” He murmurs out his acknowledgment. “You should stick ‘round for a bit. Nothin’ like Mardi Gras in Baton Rouge. Family vacation?”

“No, it’s just me.”

He hides his laugh around a forced cough. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he clears his throat.

“Sorry. Cigarettes.” He smiles at you. “I’m thinkin’ ‘bout quittin’.”

You chew idly at your slice of pizza, your eyes drifting over his face. He arches a brow.

“You like what ya’ see?”

“I’m not sure.” Your lips twist into a smile. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

You have a lot of damn nerve.

“You do this a lot?” He fixes you with a pointed look.

“What? Go shopping?” There’s something so hopelessly dumb about your expression. You’re blank and brainless, an assortment of curves and painted-on prettiness in front of him.

He imagines paddles whacking the careening Ping Pong ball of your thoughts across your brain. A thought misses the paddle, ricocheting off the side of the board. Game over. Fiddle with some buttons, start over. Another one comes to take its place, bopping uselessly in your skull.

He’s met enough of your type that it shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow it always does. Someone this stupid shouldn’t be allowed to wander too far. And yet, here you are, all by yourself. Just you and your flimsy hold on rational thinking, wandering around his state.

If he hadn’t have met you here, lord knows what trouble you would’ve gotten into. You’d probably have wandered out into the bayou. Blinking all pretty, getting stuck in the muck. Wrenching open a gator’s mouth and stepping into it just because you were curious how many teeth it had.

He’d pay good money to watch that.

“Don’tchu act all shy ‘bout this. You know what I’m askin’.” He tears the straw wrapper into tiny pieces, his gaze trailing down your neck and onto your breasts. “Ya’ make a habit of goin’ ‘round and propositionin’ men in stores?”

You choke out a laugh, your eyes going wide.

“I’m not propositioning you!”

“Whatchu doin’ eatin’ my pizza, then?”

“What am I…doing…” Your eyes twinkle with barely contained glee. You muffle a laugh around another bite of pizza. “…Eating…your pizza?”

“Yeah.” He leans back in the chair. “Ya’ seem pretty happy to be sittin’ right there. Eatin’ my pizza.”

“You’re very cute.” You wipe your mouth off with a napkin, staring pointedly at his hands.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Grabbing a slice of pizza, he takes a bite.

It’s awful. Grimacing, he manages to swallow it down. Glancing down at it in disgust, he lets it fall limply back into the box. It takes him a moment before he remembers to readjust his face into one of tranquility, winking over at you.

“You know what.” You deliberate for a second, your eyes darting to his lips. “I think I am propositioning you.”

“There’s a theater next to my shop.” He smirks. “You wanna catch a movie?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt your work.”

“I got all the time in the world, honey.” He winks. “Truck’s outside.”

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” You rest your chin against your palm.

“Not yet.” He shakes his head. “Hardly know ya’ yet. That’d be jumpin’ the gun.”

“Alright. Fuck it.” You grin. “Let’s go.”

Standing in line at the register, he reaches into your cart and snatches out the box of chocolates.

“Hey!” You put your hands on your hips. “What are you…”

“Ya’ think I’m gonna make a girl buy her own chocolate? What I look like to you?”

You move to say something, your eyes glittering.

“If ya’ say plumber—” He gives you with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll tan your hide.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” You stage-whisper, loading up the belt with items.

“Goddamnit, girl. Let’s get you outta this fuckin’ store.”

Pulling down a side road, he parks the truck.

“Hand me that, would ya’, baby?”

Rustling in the bag, he pulls out the box of chocolates. Ripping the plastic off, he tugs the lid open. He takes a bite of one. Cheap, shitty chocolate. Puts it back in its slot. Picks up another one and takes another bite. Caramel, but it’s still—

“You wanna give me my chocolate back?” You tap on his arm.

“Sorry, darlin’. I bought it. It’s mine.” He smirks at you. “Maybe if ya’ ask all pretty, I’ll give ya’ one.”

Your mouth falls open in shock and you let out a frustrated huff.

“That’s not fair!” You exclaim. “You lied.”

“Lyin’? Nah. Just omittin’ some details, sugar. It’s how we do it down here in Louisi—”

You clamor into his lap, making a grab at the chocolate. Popping one in your mouth, you bug your eyes out at him.

“Bad girl.” He tosses the box onto the dashboard. Reaching up, he grabs your chin, pulling you closer.

You taste like chocolate when he kisses you, his hand slipping down your jaw to tighten around your neck. You hum happily into his mouth, your hands on his shoulders. He can feel your breath under his fingers, the pulsing hammer of your heartbeat against his palm.

You’re always so close to death, to all that red and heat underneath, and you don’t even notice. He could press down a little more, constrict your airflow. Make it hurt. You need that, don’t you? You don’t have any fuckin’ structure. Leave you with your throat burning, your eyes swollen with tears. Make you thank him for that.

“I don’t really do this.” You murmur against his lips.

“Whatchu doin’ right now, then?”

You laugh, a breathless little noise. He reaches back and gathers your hair together at the back of your head. When he tugs your head back, you gasp.

“How bad ya’ want it?”

“I—” Discomfort flashes over your face. “Wait, um. Hold on. This is really awkward, but—”

You readjust yourself in his lap and he drops his hand, watching as you reach under your shirt. Biting down on your bottom lip, the strap of your bra slips down your shoulder. Working it through the sleeves of your shirt, you blow out a huff of relief. Stretching your arms to extricate the loops, you tug it free, tossing it onto the floor of his truck.

You turn back to him with a bashful smile.

“Movin’ fast, girl.” 

"The wire's been digging into me all day.” You shake your head, glancing over your shoulder at your discarded bra. “I needed to get a new one, but—I got kinda distracted."

"And whose fault is that?"

You look at him curiously, as if his question is strange. You lean forward and flick at the brim of his cap, smiling.

"Well, yours, technically."

“Don’t see how that tracks.” He leans back onto the headrest. 

“You distracted me.” Your voice goes high-pitched and melodic, a sing-song lilt that makes his hand tighten into a fist at his side. 

He exhales, snorting out a laugh. 

“You know what?” 

“What?” You tilt your head, raising your brows.

“I changed my mind. I’m killin’ ya’.”

You blow a raspberry at him, rolling your eyes. 

“Not yet, c’mon.” You whine, dropping kisses down the bridge of his nose. “It’s like you said. We haven’t even gotten to know each other yet!”

“You’re tryin’ my fuckin’ patience, girl.” 

“Good.”

You’re a bratty fuckin’ thing. Untrained, not an ounce of discipline in you. You rock your hips against him, wetting your bottom lip. Tart and wild, a stubbornness coasting under your skin.  He wonders how long you’ll be able to hold onto all that sass. What he’ll have to do to make sure you lose it. He can’t wait to see you cry—you’ll taste sweeter then, curled up inside yourself.

What kind of fuckin’ coincidence. 

“Look at’chu.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“What’d you say? Take a picture, it’ll last longer?”

“Oh, don’tchu worry, baby. I will.” He grins. “Gotta get you all warmed up first, though.” 

Slipping his hand between your legs, he rubs at you through your jeans.

“You’re not fucking me in your truck.” With a giggle, you still his hand, tugging it back onto your hip.

“You gonna try to stop me?”

“Um, yeah.” A shriek of laughter spills out of your mouth and the movement rocks your body against his lap. “Anybody could see us!”

“Ya’ gonna tell me that’s what you’re worried about?” He squints at you, squashing down the glare that threatens to darken his features. Not yet. “After grindin’ on my lap like that?”

“Look, I’ve got a better idea.” Shimmying off his lap and onto the passenger seat, you grin at him. “When’s the movie?”

“The movie?” It takes a moment before the realization hits him. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he clears his throat. “Oh, uh—an hour.”

“And how far away is it?”

“Uh, twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Well. I don’t wanna miss it.” You tilt your head, raising a brow. “What if there’s a line?”

“There ain’t gonna be a line.” He says definitively, a wave of exhaustion settling over him. 

“You don’t know that.” You laugh. “Anyway. I think…you should drive us there. Now. So we have time.”

He’s barely started the truck back up when he feels your hands at his belt, undoing the loop.

“The fuck you doin’?”

“Trust me.” You unzip his fly, pulling him out of his boxers.

You could be sweet if you wanted. All sugar. It’s easier that way, but you won’t want it easy. You’ll make him fight you for it.

You work your hand over his cock with a sigh of contentment. Your thumb teases over the slit, rubbing precum over the head of his cock. He feels a spike of irritation at you for wasting even an ounce of his spunk on your hands. As if to apologize, you bow your head, running your tongue up the underside of his cock. You’ll have to do better than that. Licking up the sensitive skin of his frenulum, you tease your mouth around him, letting him twitch against your tongue.

“Ya’ gonna suck it or not?” He snaps, keeping his eyes locked on the road. He doesn’t need to look down to know that you’re smiling.

“Don’t be grumpy.” Your voice floats up from his lap. “I’m just taking my time. You’re just so pretty.”

Pretty? Anger rushes through him. Calling him that—thinking you can, thinking that there wouldn’t be any consequences. Who raised you? For all your pathetic staring, you haven’t even seen what’s in front of you. 

The lack of respect is sickening, making his balls feel heavy and tight. He needs to be down your throat, if only to shut you up. Give you something else to focus on. Every moment you’re near him, you’re signing yourself away. Doubling back, going over the contract in bubbly cursive.

You’re entirely unaware of how many marks you’re tallying up. Every swirl of your tongue sinks you deeper in debt. He wonders if you’d laugh if you knew just how many apologies you’re setting yourself up for.

With a hum, you take him into your mouth, swallowing your lips around his cock.

“Take it deep. Don’t you stop.”

A noise erupts from your mouth, but it’s garbled around his cock. He can’t tell, but he could have sworn that was a laugh.

He stops the truck abruptly, the movement thrusting him deeper into your mouth. You gag around him, a disgustingly wet noise at the back of your throat. With a wet pop, you pull your mouth off of his cock. The sudden loss of sensation draws a frustrated growl from his lips.

“Be careful.” Your lips are back on him. Mouthing kisses down his length, your nose bumps against his skin. “Don’t crash the car.”

“I’ve been drivin’ this truck for longer than—” You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and the sentence falters in his mouth.

He pictures you standing in the theater lobby. Confusion in your eyes, a slackness to your jaw. It’s odd and you’ll know it, right away. But you won’t do anything about it. You’ll second guess yourself. You think you’re so smart, don’t you? With that sweet little twist of your lips, batting your eyelashes at him, resting your hands on his shoulders. He wonders how long it’ll take for the confusion to lift. The realization settling over you, chilling you to the core.

You’ll look back at him and you’ll know.

A lifetime of mistakes all falling into place, your scream lost under the palm of his hand.

You should be fucked there. That’s how it should go.

He can’t wait. Not for anything, ever. Mama was always saying that. And with the wet clasp of your mouth around his cock, patience isn’t manageable. How could it be? You’ve taken up all of it, trapped it in your smile. He doesn’t have any more to give.

You bob your head up and down, resting your hands on his thigh. 

“Good girl.” He mutters. You moan and he clenches his jaw, tightening his hold in your hair. “Just like that, c’mon.”

You raise your head off his cock again and murmur out his name, and his grip on the steering wheel turns his knuckles white.

You better be enjoying saying it. Let it live in that slutty mouth of yours for a while. It’ll be off limits soon.

There’ll be other things to call him. Later. He can see several of them in his head, stacked fifty feet high in neon. He probably won’t even have to tell you which one he wants, you’ll come up with it on your own. It’ll bubble up in your little head and you’ll drool it out helplessly, stuffed full with cock. Makeup smeared down your cheeks, caked under your eyes. He’d like to see you when you’re trying to fold into yourself. When you’re trying desperately to be anything but pretty for him.

He’s ready to take the shiny veneer of this personality off. It’s slipping now, he can feel it. 

“Ain’tchu glad you met me?” He grunts out, his breaths coming out shallow.

You’re going to hate him soon enough, and he’ll be able to remind you that you didn’t before. That you can’t fool him into believing you don’t love his cock down your throat, that you don’t want his hands on you—he knows better, and you do too.

You moan your agreement against his cock. Glad, you’re fuckin’ glad. You’d better be.

He bucks up into your mouth when he cums, smacking his hand down on the steering wheel. You’re choking around him, making desperate little huffs through your nose. For your credit, you keep him in your mouth, tightening your lips around the base. He eases his foot off the accelerator, wetting his lips. 

The truck slows to a crawl as he pants, leaning into the steering wheel. He shudders when he feels your lips tug off his cock, swirling your tongue around the oversensitive head.

“We there yet?” You cough a bit, carefully tucking him back into his boxers.

“Christ, girl.” He whistles through his teeth, glancing over at you. “Actin’ like I didn’t just fuck ya’ throat.”

“You didn’t fuck me. I fucked you. And no one saw.” Wiping your mouth off with the back of your hand, you giggle.

“Little cocksucker.”

“You loved it.” You chirp smugly, winking at him. It takes everything in his resolve not to grab you by your hair and slam your forehead into the dashboard. He can’t get blood in his truck again. Shit’s unprofessional. And he’s nothing if not a stickler for appearances. There’s a way to do these things, and you’ve forced him to rewrite his script halfway through the scene. He’s almost impressed with your lack of morals.

He can only imagine how wet you must be, soaking through your jeans. With the way you were moaning around his cock, your pussy must be aching for it.

He should lay a fuckin’ towel down. Protect the goddamn seats—he can’t get your blood on the upholstery, and you know that. 

Tryin’ to leave your mark some other way, ain’tcha?

“Is this it?” You ask brightly, peering out the window.

“Yup.” He parks, turning to you. “Think you can do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Just gotta check on somethin’ with the truck. You wanna run into the shop and put this on the counter?” He grabs the chocolate box off the dashboard and stuffs it into the plastic bag. “Wouldn’t want it meltin’.”

“Sure.”

You hop out of the truck, looking at him expectantly.

“Go on, pretty thing. I’ll be right behind ya’.” 

As you push the door of his shop open, he stuffs your bra in the glove compartment. It’s cute. You won’t be needing it.

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds: Chapter Four Ouef

TW: Crime scenes, Yelling, Blood, Gore, PTSD, Mentions of Abuse

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty

Each member of the Turner Family has a full plate in front of them. In front of Will, an empty place setting. "Table has been set. Family dinner. I wasn't invited. I take my seat at the empty plate. My seat. My place setting, next to Mrs. Turner. I am the guest of honor." Will monologues, The YOUNGEST TURNER holds a fork in her hand with a small stalk of broccoli impaled on its tines. "No one has taken a bite of their dinner. Except the youngest. Unless you eat your growing foods, you won't get any dessert." Will continues, The Youngest Turner pops the broccoli in her mouth. "No one is bound. No one leaves the table. All afraid to move. Even the little ones behaved themselves. I brought my new family to this home invasion, controlling the Turners with threats of violence."

WILL'S P.O.V. -

He stares dispassionately into middle distance. "Threats that turned to action." THREE SIMULTANEOUS GUN SHOTS ring out in the dining room. "The Turner Family is executed simultaneously with the exception of Mrs. Turner. Who dies last. This is my design." The Turner Family is now face down in their plates, with the exception of Mrs. Turner -- who stares directly at Will. "I shoot Mrs. Turner, gun against the canvas of her forehead. Looking her directly in the eye

when I pull the trigger." BANG. It rocks her head violently back before swinging forward into her plate, Will leaning across the table holding a smoking gun.

OMNISCIENT P.O.V. -

JACK CRAWFORD standing in the dining room doorway, watching Will -- who now wears rubber gloves and is no longer holding a gun, but his arm is still raised. A moment, then: "What do you see, Will?" Jack asks looking at Will with a concerned look, "Family values." Will responds after taking a moment "Whose family values?" Jack looks at Will but Will is unable to answer that question...

WILL GRAHAM'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM/BEDROOM - DAY -

Will's pack of misfit DOGS sniff and wander the house. Suddenly, they all go still. Tails motionless, heads turns to observe an DARK PRESENCE with curious interest. Hannibal appears at the front door, Will's house lit up behind him Holds up LINKS OF SAUSAGES. Dinner time. Dogs occupied, Hannibal stands before a cluttered BOOKSHELF. He scans the bindings, pulls one out for a better look: an instruction manual on fly fishing. He raises an eyebrow. A DRAWER glides open. Hannibal inspects a pile of OLD T-SHIRTS looking for clues to Will's past -- instead he only

finds white t-shirts, a dozen of them neatly folded. Telling in its own way. Unceremoniously displayed in a partially disassembled state. Through Will's glasses, Hannibal picks up the pieces of the disassembled BOAT MOTOR and puts them together effortlessly. Hannibal enters to find Will's FLY TYING GEAR arranged on the table. There is a RACK of COMPLETED FLIES. A VICE, LAMP,

MAGNIFYING GLASS, YARNS, THREADS, FEATHERS, and HOOKS. Hannibal sits at the station, admires Will's handiwork, such delicate lures for catching fish. Hannibal applies himself to tying off an incomplete SALMON FLY, expertly using the TOOLS of Will's hobby -- THREAD, BOBBIN, SCISSORS, PLIERS. His surgeon's precision in play. Having completed his work, Hannibal admires the FLY and HOOK. He presses his THUMB gently against the pointed BARB, and keeps the pressure on until he draws a drop of BLOOD. Without lingering on his act, Hannibal sucks the lone DROP from his thumb-tip. The sound is not unlike a quick KISS.

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND - PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL - ABIGAIL HOBBS' ROOM - EVENING -

A private patient suite with many of the comforts of home. She gazes in the mirror. The bandages on her neck have been removed and we see her fresh, angry SCARS above her white

slip. She runs her fingers across the wound before tying a scarf around her neck to conceal it from the world.

"I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf to pass. Or a turtleneck, the right high collar." Abigail says as-

PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL - GROUNDS - EVENING -

-she walks with ALANA BLOOM, a casual therapy session. "Part of the process of recovery. And hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here. Sharing will help normalize." Alana says walking along side Abigail "I'm not normal. Not anymore." Abigail scoffs, "What happened to you isn't normal." Alana points out, "Some of these women aren't even sharing. They speak in little girl voices telling everyone what was done to them and how they hurt without saying a word about it." Abigail says a little frustrated "Certain traumas can arrest vocal development. Victims can sometimes broadcast victimhood involuntarily." Alana informs Abigail, but she just shakes her head

"Not me." Abigail says as she adjusts her scarf, "That's not necessarily true. Your victimhood has a high profile, thanks to Freddie Lounds." Alana points out to her and Abigail sighs "I'm a celebrity victim. Someone here asked me if I kept my stained clothes." She says as she makes a disgusted face, "How did that make you feel?" Alana asks, stopping and turning Abigail towards her "Like I wanted to go home. But I don't have a home anymore, do I?" Abigail says looking down with a sad expression and crosses her arms. "You will. We'll help you find it." Alana says rubbing Abigail's arm comfortingly. "Abigail, I want you to give the support groups another chance." Alana suggests, well more like a demand but not as harsh. "Support groups are sucking the life out of me." Abigail groans out childishly "Isolating yourself can suck just as hard." Alana says back intelligently......

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Hannibal looks up as the BUZZER on his desk RINGS. Hannibal OPENS the door to find Dr. Y/N L/N waiting for him. "Hi." I say sweetly, "Do you have an appointment?" Hannibal says raising an eyebrow "Do you have a Glass of Wine?" I chuckle

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER -

Y/N clinks her wine glass to Hannibal's wine glass. "Interesting day?" Hannibal asks curiously, I nod "The grief work, the trauma intervention, it's all on course I think Abigail may be wrestling with a low-grade depression." I say refering to what Alana was telling me and my own mental health while Hannibal Drolly eyes the large swig Y/N takes of her wine as he sits closely next to her-- "She?" Hannibal asks raising an eyebrow, i chuckle "Nothing wrong with a little self-medication, right, Doctor? Professional neutrality be damned, it's hard to see such a bright, young girl go so adrift." I say with a slight sad Smirk, i truly do care for Abigail and her well being in an Motherly way. "One can certainly lose perspective tucked away for weeks in an ivory tower. Perhaps it's time Abigail's released from clinical treatment." Hannibal suggests while taking a sip of his wine, i tilt my head "Released where? Back into the wild?" I ask raising an eyebrow, "Spending each day immersed in tragedy may be doing more harm than good. Abigail should be out in the world finding her footing, giving her the confidence to move forward." Hannibal explains, I shake my head

"Abigail is in no condition to tackle real-world issues like where she's going to live, what to do about school, hell, where her next meal is going to come from." I say quickly, but i desperately want to be the one to help her, "I'm not suggesting abandonment. We are qualified to help her." Hannibal says as he places a gentle calming hand on my arm and i sigh relaxing slightly, "This is a girl who was very attached to her parents. Overly so, in fact. As much as i would love to, Us stepping in as surrogates would only be a crutch. Abigail needs to work things out for herself in a safe, clinical environment Just like Alana Told me when i offered the same suggestion. That will give her the confidence to move forward." I say sighing sadly, Seeing Y/N isn't about to budge, Hannibal bows his head. "I defer to the passion of my esteemed colleagues." Hannibal says politely "Have soapbox, will travel." I say looking in Hannibal's eyes shockingly not being afraid to do so, "Passion's good. Gets blood pumping." Hannibal says as he is appreciating the flush in Y/N's cheek as he caress' her arm...

BANGOR, MAINE - TURNER HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT -

Jimmy Price stands, PHOTOGRAPHING the dinner table of death. Brian Zellar is in a CROUCH, checking WOUND ANGLES. Beverly Katz collects FINGER PRINTS from a GLASS of SUNNY-D. Jack finds Will at a remove, looking at FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHS. "Karen and Roger Turner. Childhood sweethearts. Owned a successful Real Estate business. Pillars of the community. Three children." Jack Tells Will about the victims "Minus one." Will points out while looking at a family photo, "A son, Jesse, disappeared last year. Last confirmed sighting had him boarding an RV at a rest area on route forty-seven. Possible runaway, probable abduction." Jack says acknowledging the missing child from the family massacre, "Or both." Will points out, "Hundreds of tips, but not a single one held up past lunchtime. When misery rains, it pours." Jack says knowingly and almost sarcastically, This sentiment is counter to the smiling faces in the photos. "False faces in family portraits. Layers and layers of lies betrayed by a sad glint in a child's eyes." Will says picking up a photo of Jesse, Jimmy SNAPS a PHOTO of the DINNER TABLE, commenting --"Norman Rockwell with a bullet." Jimmy snickers, "Any signs of forced entry?" Jack asks his crew, "Perimeter is clean of scoring and rupture. No broken windows or torn screens. It's all sealed up tight." Beverly states coming into the room, "They probably rang the doorbell." Jack inferences, "I've got bullet holes on the upper sections of the wall and again over here." Beverly says pointing out the bullet holes.

"Pull the slugs for ballistics." Jack orders Beverly politely, "If they aren't frangible, it shouldn't be a problem." Beverly says looking up back at jack, "Those elevated termination points match what I see on these bodies --" Zeller moves toward the table, indicating what he means "-- angled cranial impacts, coupled with acute exit wounds and conical spray, the shooter was firing from low to high, probably crouched." This odd information strikes a chord of epiphany for Will, he moves back toward that collection of family photographs."How long since Jesse was abducted?" Will says putting the photo back where he found it."Just over a year." Jack responds turning to Will, Returning to the stack of photos, Will stops on one in particular: a much younger version of the missing boy. THE PHOTO Six-year-old JESSE TURNER holds a STUFFED OCTOPUS, one of its dangling arms in his mouth. His mother sweetly looks on.

B.A.U - MORGUE - DAY -

The CORPSES of MOTHER TURNER, FATHER TURNER, and their TWO CHILDREN covered in sheets are presented on slabs for inspection. Jack faces Zeller, Price, Katz, Graham and Now L/N. He's like a demanding father, presiding over his children as they present what they've just learned at school. Will stands slightly apart, not quite fitting into this surrogate family. "I'm glad we didn't have guns in my house. I would've shot my sisters to get them out of the bathroom." Zeller says chuckling "I liked having a big family." Beverly says smiling, "My parents gave me a gift. A twin. who wouldn't you want two of me?" Jimmy says sarcastically rolling his eyes. "Let me guess only child?" Zeller says looking towards Will and pointing at him, "Why do you say that?" Will tilts his head in curiosity, "Family friction is a catalyst for personality development." Zeller points out An odd remark, but Beverly swoops in to take the sting away. "I was the oldest, so all the friction rolled down hill." I say calmly smirking thinking about all the trauma my childhood came with just because i am the oldest. "Yes all the attention and responsibilities given to firstborn children prime them for future success." Jack says looking at one of the childrens bodies, I go over and lean against the wall with Will. "My baby sister got away with murder. She had 'em all fooled." Beverly says looking at the clipboard in her hands.

"I thought middle were the problems." Jimmy says looking over at Zeller, "The middle is the sweet spot."Zeller winks back, "Always trying to figure out where they fit in. Forces them to use different strategies navigating up and down developmental spectrums. They can be great politicians. Or lousy ones." Will says looking over at Zeller, Jack Crawford, who has been studying the crime scene photos as he looks over each of the bodies, observes: "All of the victims have defensive wounds. Except for Mrs. Turner." Jack says as he hands Will the crime scene photos of Mrs. Turner. "There's acceptance in her body position. Forgiveness, even." I say observing the photo in Will's hands, Will realizes that he missed something that Jack didn't.

"What kind of victim forgives her killer at the moment of her death?" Jack says incredulously,

"A mother" Will says Never taking his eyes off Jesse's mother --

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Hannibal sits opposite Will, smiling warmly before asking: "Tell me about your mother." Hannibal says sitting across from Will "That's some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter. Low hanging fruit." Will says tilting his head, "I suspect that fruit is on a branch, very difficult to reach." Hannibal points out "So's my mother. I never knew her." Will offers, "An interesting place to start." Hannibal says calmly "Tell me about your mother. Let's Start there. Quid pro quo." A fan of the language, Hannibal enjoys Will's use of Latin. "Both my parents died when I was very young. The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16." Hannibal tells Will, Will considers that, understanding Hannibal a little more clearly than before -- or so he thinks. "You have orphan in common with Abigail Hobbs." Will points out, "I think we'll discover you and I and darling Y/N have a great deal in common with Abigail. She's already demonstrated an aptitude for the psychological. Quid pro quo." Hannibal says smiling, Will is unwilling to return the volley. "There's something so foreign about family. Like an ill-fitting suit. Never connected to the concept." Will says numbly and looking at the ground bittersweetly. "You created a family for yourself." Hannibal states refering to his companionship with Abigail and Y/N.

"I created a family of strays. Thanks for feeding them while I was away." Will expresses his gratitude, Hannibal nods his "you're welcome," then: "I was referring to Abigail and Y/N." Hannibal points out, Hannibal lets Will get used to that idea, then: "Tell me about the Turner Family. Were they affluent? Well to do?" Hannibal asks about the case, "They lived like they had money."Will raises his eyebrow, "Did your family have money, Will?" Hannibal asks, Will shakes his head. "No, We were poor. I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to boats on Lake Erie." Will says smiling back on the fond memories, "Always the new boy at school? Always the stranger?" Hannibal says knowingly, Will chuckles and nods "Always." Will smiling happily.

"What grudge was Mrs. Turner's killer harboring against her?" Hannibal asks about Will's theories "Motherhood." Will states with his head tilted and a serious look on his face. "Not motherhood, a perversion of it." Hannibal replies.

HANNIBAL'S HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT -

Hannibal dishes a generous portion of sausage onto Jack Crawford's plate. Jack fills his lungs with the aroma. "You promised to deliver your wife to my dinner table." Hannibal says plating Jacks food and sitting down in his own chair. "We've got to polish our act. Can't have you diagnosing our marital problems in one fell swoop. What am I about to put in my mouth?" Jack says before he puts the fork in his mouth, "Rabbit." Hannibal replies quickly. "Should have hopped faster." Jack smirks and laughs as he takes a bite of my food. "Yes, he should have. But fortunately for us, he did not." Hannibal smirks as he takes a bite and savors the rich taste of blood sausage."Our friend Will seemed haunted today. And Y/N seems worried." Jack says non-chalantly "We don't know what nightmares lie coiled beneath Will's pillow Nor Y/N's." Hannibal points out,

"Children killing other children. Not an unfamiliar notion for Will." Jack says Knowingly "You still suspect Abigail Hobbs in her father's crimes." Hannibal suspects more than asks, "Doesn't matter what I suspect. It matters what I can prove. Ms. Hobbs has been absolved of any crime." Jack says believing that Abigail Hobbs had something to do with her fathers crimes"Yet? And as for Y/N, why would you say shes worried or anxious." Hannibal cocks his head to the side curiously. "Y/N has a rough past with her family, and it seems as though she has developed a lot of mental health issues due to that on top of the ones she already had." Jack says taking a sip of his wine, "What kind of past, Were they abusive?" Hannibal asks curiously, "Its not my story to tell but- yes." Jack says as he nods his head,

"Unfortunate for such an intelligent, beautiful and sweet woman. But her mind is brilliant you have to give her that, Her ability to understand and feel emotions on a deeper level whether its in everyday life or being at a crime scene with Will, she understands more than Will and its incredible." Hannibal remarks fondly of the woman. Jack nods in agreement "Will needed someone like her to be his partner out in the field." Jack says taking another bite of his food. "What Will needs is an anchor and someone who understands him and his mind. And that is what Y/N can do for him, not only that but he can use Me and her as anchors. But remember Y/N does the same thing that Will does when she analyzes a crime scene and it might affect her worse than it does Will because she does Feel Everything she doesn't just feel and see the crime scene she can Feel both the Killers and The Victims emotions as if she were them and it sticks with her." Hannibal reminds Jack.

F.B.I. ACADEMY - LECTURE HALL - DAY -

Will Graham stands in front of a classroom full of F.B.I. Trainees, mid-lecture on an as-yet unexplored killer. "Most of the time in sexual assaults the bite mark has a livid spot in the center, a suck bruise In certain cases, they do not. For some killers, biting may be a fighting pattern as much as sexual behavior."Jack Crawford ENTERS With Dr. Y/N L/N crossing to the front of the hall "Class dismissed. Everybody out. What did I just say?" Jack screams at the Trainees, and I jump, The F.B.I. Trainees gather their books and quickly EXIT. "You're making it difficult to provide an education, Jack." Will says frustrated with Jack, "We found a match for a set of prints pulled from the Turner house. They belong to Connor Frist, a 13 year-old from Huntsville." Jack says with a serious face "Another kid?" Will asks leaning on his cabinets behind his desk, "Another missing kid. Vanished 10 months ago. Case never solved." Y/N tells Will coming out from behind Jack, "How many kids in the Frist family?" Will asks coming towards Y/N,

"Three. just like the Turner family." Jack says sighing before continuing "We're ready when you are. And you're ready right now. Let's go.", Will looks over at jack "Your expecting a crime scene?"

FRIST HOME - LIVING ROOM - DAY -

Unseasonably decorated for the Christmas holiday. Through the artificially frosted windows, there is a flurry of movement... armed, DARK-CLAD FIGURES creeping in swiftly and silently, moving along the outside of the house. A GLOVED FINGER hits the PAUSE BUTTON, silencing Burl Ives and his misplaced holiday cheer. Jack Crawford has turned off the music, surveying the scene with Will Graham, Dr. Y/N L/N, Zeller, Price and Katz at his side as DARK-CLAD FBI AGENTS fan through the home, weapons at the ready. A well-decorated and colorfully illumined CHRISTMAS TREE reaches to the high ceiling. DOZENS OF CHRISTMAS PRESENTS ring the bottom of the pine. Most have been roughly unwrapped and hastily opened, shredded by feral kinder. Several other scattered presents have remained untouched. the FRIST FAMILY, MOTHER, FATHER and TWO CHILDREN gathered around the tree in their PAJAMAS and ROBES, partially concealed by tattered and torn gift wrap. All dead. And have been for some time. The FAMILY DOG trots out from behind the Christmas tree, carrying a chewed-off arm in its mouth. The dog drops the arm at Will's feet. "Merry Christmas." I say eyeing the arm. Brian Zeller casually examines the partially eaten tissue of Mr. Frist's throat.

B.A.U. - MORGUE - DAY -

Will Graham, Dr. Y/N L/N, Zeller, Price and Katz examining the DEAD FRIST FAMILY, Mother, Father and two children (discreetly covered) as Jack Crawford looks on. "Mr. Frist and the children killed first... Mrs. Frist saved for last. Same as the Turner's." Jack says looking at the uncovered faces of the Frist parents "Not exactly the same. Something went wrong." Will says looking at me "Not a single present under the tree for Mrs. Frist. Who doesn't buy their mom a Christmas present?" Beverly says sadly looking at Mrs. Frist, I look down bitterly "Took her presents, took her motherhood." I say my voice twinged with sadness,"Who was the additional corpse in the fireplace?" Jack says looking at THE EDGE OF A CHARRED SKULL, FEATURING --

INCINERATED FABRIC, FEATHERS in the ashes around the skull.

"I'd say Connor Frist." Will says climbing on the counter, Zeller and Katz inspect Mrs. Frist's corpse. Just below her hairline, a puckered entry wound stands out against her smooth, pale skin. Zeller uses his gloved hands to part Mrs. Frist's hair above the entry wound revealing dried, matted blood. "Shooting her once wasnt enough,Bullet deflected off the curvature of her skull, and travelled beneath the scalp to its final resting spot at the base of her neck." Zeller points out, "And It still didn't kill her." Jack asks confused "Hydrostatic shock of shell hitting skull would've caused brain damage." Beverly explains to jack, I go over and sit next to Will looking over at him before i realise something. "Her body went into convulsions. Conner Frist went into a panic. He had been prepped to shoot his mother, but not watch her suffer." I say empathetically Zeller turns Mrs. Frist's head to the side revealing another entry wound that is clearly bigger. "Shot her again to put her out of her misery. Different gun." Zeller gives the idea, "So someone else shot Connor's mom." Jimmy speaks up. "Connor couldn't put his panic back in the bottle. So he was shot too." Jack says looking back at me and Will. Beverly moves to the burnt corpse and pulls a charred feather from his skull. Jack tries to puzzle it out. "Whoever shot him... disowned him." I say shaking my head with a frown.

F.B.I. ACADEMY - LECTURE HALL - DAY -

Will sits alone at the table in front of the room. Y/N enters. Studying the photos of the two boys, Will doesn't look up. Not much can distract him when he's concentrating. "Ever heard of Willard Wigan? He's this artist who does micro sculptures, like putting the Obamas in the eye of a needle. He's so focused that he can work between beats of his heart. I guess archers do that too, right?" Y/N asks wanting to distract or ease her partners anxiety. Will doesnt look up and continues looking at his computer. "Hm?" He hums still looking down, "What are you looking at?" Y/N asks as she moves around to see what has captured Will's attention. It's only now that he acknowledges her presence. "These kids are both small. Underweight for their age." Will says as he rubs his temple "You think there's a possible ADHD diagnoses for both boys. Ritalin, Focalin, any medication containing methylphenidate can affect appetite and slow long-term growth in kids." She asks because she herself has ADHD and took medications for it when she was a child. A beat as Both partners inspect the two photos. Then --

"Another thing about Willard Wigan? He had a lonely childhood. He used his tiny sculptures as an escape." She continues "Who's Willard Wigan?" Will says Confirming that he paid no attention to what she was saying when she entered the room. Y/N smiles as she goes behind him and leans on his shoulder. "Price got a hit from the ballistics-matching program he's been running on the two family murders. The bullet that put Mrs. Frist out of her misery matches three used in a murder in Bangor, Maine a year ago. Mother of a 13-year-old boy shot to death with her own gun." She says as Will turns his head to look at her raising his eyebrow, "13-year-old milk carton material?" He asks perking his head

B.A.U. - BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE SERVICES - DAY -

"C.J. Lincoln disappeared six months before his mother's murder and hasn't been heard from since.' The picture of C.J. Lincoln is displayed on a MONITOR, along with his JUVENILE RAP SHEET. Jack, Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz are gathered around the monitor studying C.J. Lincoln. "He has none of the characteristics of a sociopath or a sadist." Will points out, "Right, No shoplifting, no malicious destruction of property, no assault and no battery. He was kind to animals for god's sake." Jack says in a tone i don't recognize "But the firearm says we're looking at Peter Pan to our Lost Boys." Will says knowingly and seemingly frustrated, "It requires a sophisticated level of manipulation to convince boys to kill their families in cold blood." Jack says seriously, "Kindness to animals doesn't suggest that kind of sophistication." I point out slightly frustrated, "He's older, been out in the world. Could've picked up a few tricks." Jack suggests.

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER -

Hannibal studies Will and the WRAPPED GIFTS on his lap. "Has Christmas come early? Or late?" Hannibal asks, Will stares, then shakes off the murderous association. "One was for Abigail the other for Y/N." Will says taking off his jacket, "Was?" Hannibal questions, "Thought better of it. Wasn't thinking clearly. I was upset when I bought it. Maybe still am." Will explains frustrated and running a hand over his face. "What is it?" Hannibal asks Will, "Magnifying glass'. Fly tying gear." Will says looking at a letter opener on Hannibal's desk "Teaching Them how to fish. Abigail's father taught her how to hunt." Hannibal points out, "That's why I thought better of it. At least for Abigail." Will says bitter-sweetly, "Feeling paternal, Will?" Hannibal asks ask he stares at Will's back, "Aren't you?" Will spits back as he turns around placing the letter opener back where he found it. "Yes. Our good friend Dr. Bloom has advised against taking too personal an interest in Abigail's welfare. Tell me. Why were you so angry?" Hannibal asks Will,

"I'm angry about these boys. I'm angry cause I know when Me and Y/N find them, We can't help them. We can't, We can't give them back what they just gave away." Will raises his voice slightly, angrily and frustratedly. "Family." Hannibal replies calmly, "Yea. We call them the Lost Boys." says a quiet Will. "Abigail is lost, too. Perhaps it is our responsibility, yours, mine, and Y/N's to help her find her way." Hannibal suggests.

B.A.U. - JACK'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Jack, Zeller, Katz, and Price hover around the CASE BOARD that bears the PHOTOS OF EACH OF THE BOYS they've identified as taking part in the family killings. It also includes a TIME LINE of their respective abductions, the dates of the murders they participated in, and a MAP pinpointing where each of the murders took place. Jack twists a PUSH PIN into the map at Bangor, Maine. Y/N and Will are sat next to each other shoulder to shoulder leaning on a cabinet. "Bangor, Maine. Stamford,Connecticut. And most recently, Reston, Virginia."Jack says frustrated, “That places each of the murders approximately five hundred miles from the one before it.” Jimmy says eloquently, Zeller shakes his head raising his hand “You're trying to attach a geographical pattern to murders that took place weeks apart.” Zeller says sarcastically

“Our shooters are minors. Middle children from traditional affluent families.” Will says causing everyone to look towards us. “They're not traveling by Greyhound.” Beverly quips, Jimmy laughs “I drove my dad's car when I was 14.” Jimmy says shaking his head. “They're moving southbound, we're looking somewhere on the border of Georgia and North Carolina.” Jack says as He CIRCLES the area on the map.“There's hundreds of towns in this area. Off every freeway ramp.” Zeller say exasperated, “Got a better idea?” Jack says looking at him with raised eyebrows, “Throw darts.” Seller says shrugging as He wilts under Jack's gaze.

“There's a pattern. Less to do with geography than psychology.” I say rolling my eyes at Zeller’s sarcastic behavior.

“What kind of kid would do this?” Jack wonders out loud , “And what kind of kid would follow a kid who would do this?” Will wonders back quirking his eyebrow. “There's no indication these kids came from abusive families.” Jack says trying to find a rational explanation, I shake my head tapping my hand on the cabinet, “No, No, No, Capture-bonding. A passive, psychological response to a new master.” I say looking towards jack and then towards Will, “Y/N’s right! It's been an essential survival tool for a million years.

Bond with your captor, you survive.

You Don't, you're breakfast.” Will says nodding his head in agreement with me.

“Get files on every missing boy within 200 miles of North Carolina.” Jack says pointing towards Me, Will, and Beverly.

B.A.U. - EXAMINATION ROOM - NIGHT -

Will, Beverly and Y/N sit at a conference table with many discarded file folders of missing or abducted kids. There are FOURTEEN PICTURES arrayed in view, a range of faces. “If we're looking for our next Trilby, are we assuming C.J. Lincoln is in the Svengali role?” I ask quirking my eyebrow and smirking. Bev looks up at me smirking then starts chuckling “Sounds like me at fourteen.” She says looking back at the files, “Without the interference of a leader, these kids would never consider violent action.” I say letting my psychiatrist side out. “A fuse yet to be lit.” Bev says tilting her head, “A buried darkness. An inkspot on their soul. It takes a catalyst to bring that to the surface.” I say but then look over at Will noticing The conversation makes Will uncomfortable. He paces the table, studying in turn the fourteen pictures.

“Our Trilby's a boy, a paradox in the midst of a normal family, an outsider who doesn't look like one. He'd be good at a vocation, something inventive or mechanical.” He says as he leafs through files, discarding ones that don't fit.

“You Would've been a perfect candidate.” I say smirking at Will playfully,“So would you.”he smirks back looking at me with his greenish-blue eyes, we hold intimate eye contact. “He'd have hobbies that require hand-eye coordination, that are off the beaten path... that link up to what his father does for a living. Something that consumes him so as to keep him engaged.” He says moving on and breaking eye contact. “The devil makes work for idle hands kind of thing.” Bev says as She's skimming the files, tossing ones aside. Bev holds up a photo; it's a boy named Chris.

“Here's one. Family moved from Biloxi, to Charleston to Fayetteville in the last three

years. He won Junior High award for his work on pretty sophisticated computer circuitry.” She says handing Will the file. “Chris O'Halloran.” He reads out loud as he skims the file, “Why do you think these kids are susceptible to C.J. Lincoln?” I ask smiling sweetly at Him, “Because he may have a brother, but their ages or interests set them apart. A brother without a brother.” Will says Looking up at me holding the same intimate tension filled eye contact we did earlier.

O'HALLORAN HOME - NIGHT -

Featuring an elegant, A-frame house oozing with lazy, Magnolia-scented Carolina charm. A FLORIST DELIVERY VAN quietly pulls up in front of the A-Frame. Jack Crawford emerges from the sliding side doors as F.B.I. AGENTS and ARMED SWAT MEMBERS swarm toward the house. A SWAT GUY with an air-ram blasts open the door. Jack leads our team behind the front guard of SWAT... through the house, following the SWAT TEAM, followed by Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz, guns drawn and at the low ready. They sweep through the house, splitting off to cover various rooms, balletic in movement... Jack, cautiously bringing up the rear. Weapon at the ready, he carefully steps toward the back of the house. The backyard. Where the O'Hallorans were in the process of a barbecue lunch. But something's gone wrong.

“F.B.I., Drop the weapon!” Jack shouts as He motions Will and the others forward. A BARBECUE TABLEAUX played all over America every weekend of the year. Weber grill. A-One steak sauce. Burgers and dogs cooking red hot. Only one thing wrong... THE LOST BOYS (C.J. Lincoln, Jesse Turner, and Chris O'Halloran, along with TWO OTHER BOYS) are formed in a semi-circle around the terrified O'Halloran parents (Dad, Mom, a

boy and a girl). C.J. holds a gun to the O'Halloran Father. JACK CRAWFORD bursts into the yard. SWAT is there in various

positions. Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz bring up the rear. C.J. tenses his finger on the trigger to fire at Mr. O'Halloran. BLAM! In a split second miscalculation, C.J. misses his dead-to-rights shot of the back of Mr.

O'Halloran's head and instead takes off a portion of his ear. A SECOND SHOT RINGS OUT and C.J. is hit in the shoulder Looking up through the grill, C.J. Lincoln face-plants on the grill, cheek seared at 400 degrees. Chris O'Halloran BOLTS. A SWAT MEMBER raises his gun, but Will takes off after the young boy.

“I got him.” Will says bolting after Chris and I bolt after Will C.J. sprawled dead, everyone else frozen in shock. Zeller pulls C.J. off the grill, his body slumping to the ground. Mr. O'Halloran clutches his bloody ear, alive. SWAT MEMBERS cuff Jesse Turner and the other boys. WILL sprints in pursuit along with Y/N and several other SWAT MEMBERS as CHRIS O'HALLORAN, is running for his life. “Chris, stop.” Me and Will shout compassionately, Chris pulls up short. He turns around. And we see that in his hand is a GUN, to reveal Will, Caroline and several SWAT GUYS taking positions ten yards away from Chris. “Don't shoot.” I shout at the SWAT GUYS. “You don't have to worry about C.J. anymore. It's okay. You're home now. Put down the gun, Christopher.” Will says his eyes pleading, Chris shuffles on his feet, eyes welling. And this is when Will and Y/N have a realization -- “Shoot them, Christopher.” ANOTHER FIGURE emerges from the shadows. She too has a gun in her hand but it's at the back of Christopher's spine.

Will and Y/N lets their guns FALL TO THE GROUND. “Shoot him, Christopher. Like I showed you.” She says in his ear, Chris's traumatized glance pierces Will's heart. Tears well in my eyes as I look at Chris, he reminds me of my late little brother.

“Christopher, please.” I plead sadly not wanting this to end even more badly than it already has. She raises her gun. BLAM!

The shot is so immediate and unexpected that Will checks his stomach to see where the bullet hit and then panics and looks over at Y/N looking her over concerned. It takes a moment for Will to realize he hasn't been hit at all and neither has Y/N.

The woman spins, her shoulder erupting in a cloud of arterial spray as she is hit. Chris's arm goes limp at his side. REVERSE TO REVEAL BEVERLY KATZ, gun outstretched, smoke

issuing from the barrel. Will kneels in front of Chris, gently taking the gun from his hand. Will watches as Beverly

moves in and almost motherly guides Chris away.

Y/N crosses to fallen Eva on the ground; she takes sharp breaths, tensing through the pain. As the SWAT TEAM surrounds her, Will stares down at her. Condemnation at what

she's done to these boys...

HANNIBAL'S HOME - FOYER - NIGHT -

Hannibal holds the door open as Y/N ENTERS, annoyed with him and searching for the words to express it.“As someone who makes such a big deal about common courtesy, I'm a little taken aback, slash a lot taken aback, that you would check Alana’s patient, Alana’s patient, out of the hospital without permission. I'm not a professional scold. Don't put me in this position ever again. Because quite frankly I hate yelling and I hate having to yell at you.” I say exasperated and a little sad, “I'm sorry.” Hannibal says expressing his feelings, I feel bad for yelling at him “Rude, Hannibal. Shockingly rude.” I say a little frustrated but more so at myself than him. “You have every right to be upset with me. I overstepped my bounds.” He says looking down, “Your lucky it was me they called instead of Alana. Where is she?” I ask in a sad motherly tone. “She's in the dining room.” He says pointing towards the dining room, Y/N moves toward the dining room, but Hannibal puts a gentle hand on her shoulder to slow her down. “Y/N, Alana was right.” He says stopping me in my tracks, I turn towards him.

“She Often is. Have to be more specific.” I say narrowing my eyes, “She wasn't ready to leave the hospital. She experienced a bit of anxiety so I gave her a sedative.” Hannibal says shaking his head“A sedative? Hannibal What did you give her?!?” I ask like a mother concerned for her child “Just Half a valium. She may be a little hazy.” He says smirking amusedly at my motherly concern, Hannibal and Y/N ENTER to find Abigail sitting at the table

with food and teacup in front of her. “Hi, Doctor L/N.” Abigail says as she smiles at me, “Hi Abi, You were expecting me?” I say smiling, titling my head towards the third place mat. “In the interest of honesty, we were expecting Will. But my phone calls went unreturned. Please. Sit down.” Hannibal says smiling as he pulls out a chair for me, I do as instructed. “Are you hungry? Hannibal made breakfast for dinner.” Abi asks me, I smile and look at her happily. “I could eat.” I chuckle happily, Hannibal notices Abigail smiling at he and Y/n.

“What is it? What do you see?” Hannibal asks Abigail kindly and almost fatherly.

“I see family.” Abigail says smiling at me and Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles at Y/N, who is more thoughtful, happy but also unsure about how to feel about Abigail's admission. Nevertheless, off that artificial family tableau

[sizzleissues]

its a heist (1007 words)

Toxinelle and Griffe Noire

Chimneys pile high, sheets of thick smoke billowing out. It reaches the sky, touches the belly of the curtain of clouds that never seem to part and pries its way in. By one stack a dark bird peers down at the maze of narrow streets, tiny beady eyes searching for a glint of light or the quick movement of a rat. It bends to the point of taking off again when a gloved hand grabs it, pulling it back.

The bird struggles in Griffe Noire’s grasp, a strangled cry leaving its slim beak. Griffe Noire grins down at it, his smile bleeding white into the dusty evening.

Toxinelle looks on with her nose scrunched in disgust, averting her gaze as Griffe Noire bites down. 

“Do you really have to do that?”

Griffe Noire drops down off the chimney, tossing the beak aside, and shrugs. “Gotta practice.”

They make their way off the roof, into the patchwork streets. If the citizens of London are alarmed by their sudden appearance, they don’t say anything. Toxinelle takes the lead and Griffe follows, hands crossed behind his back and head up, looking curiously in every direction. His eyes dart to the people who are fancily dressed —adorned with pearls— quietly ushering their children out of their way. He bares his teeth and snarls, watching in delight as they scuttle away like bugs. 

He looks out for homes whose doors are a little cleaner than their neighbours, the plaster and brick better held together. Places with valuables most certainly inside. 

But that isn’t why he’s in stinking London of all places.

“Stick close. We’re keeping a low profile,” Toxinelle calls over her shoulder. Adrien quickens his saunter to a brisk walk, catching up to her side. Their hands intertwine as naturally as putting one foot in front of the other. 

“What’s the plan?” He asks. Then lower, close to her ear. “My lady.”

She shivers beside him, squeezing his hand. He smiles, proud of himself. Her eyes remain firmly fixed ahead as she recounts to him the plan.

It's not often she takes the lead role of things. The way their powers work, he does the damage and she figures out how to get them out of it. Now it's entirely up to her. He will be her tool if she pleases.

“They don’t know we’re coming but we’ve made ourselves rather obvious. We’ll need to blend in.”

“Do we have to though? Can’t I just cataclysm the wall and take it.”

Toxinelle sighs and then gently pats his chest, skipping ahead.

“That defeats the point. They can’t even know what they have is worth stealing.”

-

The shop is cramped; merchandise spilling off shelves, stacks of old outdated tech in unreachable corners while tables in front display a series of vaguely offensive badges and a rack of clothing thick with dust cloaking an entire wall. The room is narrow, with a small loop of space to walk through. Music bleeds out the edges of a few ancient radios, none powerful enough to cover the whole store so multiple play at slightly different times. 

There’s a teenage girl at the counter of the shop. Her dark hair flops over her face, limp with the years of damage done by dye. Her elbows rest on the counter, in the only spare space as the rest is covered by an assortment of oddities and knick-knacks that the owners obviously need to sell off. She uses one hand to prop up her head and the other to flick a toy windmill round and round and round. 

The girl lifts her head to the two global super villains walking through the door, before sinking back down again. Just another Tuesday.

Griffe Noire disappears into the back of the store to poke around the box of used VHS tapes while Toxinelle approaches the counter, her mouth curving into a shark-like smile.

“Hi!” She sticks her head out and startles the  girl. She stumbles back, knocking over a display of e-cigarettes. Toxinelle keels over with laughter, cackling as the girl regains her footing. The girl looks between the two of them, Griffe returning with his VHS tapes, finally realising just who they are. 

“You-.”

“Let's make this simple.” Griffe Noire interrupts, laying the tapes down, bar one. He grips it in his hand. “You let us take a few things, free of charge, and you get to keep your head.”

He crushes the tape and tosses it to the ground. The girl nods.

They fold so easily.

-

Dressed in blue shirts and black slacks, Adrien holds Marinette’s hand, quietly staring at the space between two statues. Behind them a child gasps at the giant stone statue, crying to his mother that it's holding up the sky. From the corner of his eye he watches Marinette glance up. Her jaw sets.

“Are you ready?” She asks.

“I am.”

“Good, it's time.”

They step into the space between and part, walking down opposite pathways. 

-

His hand plays with the lanyard, spinning around the id badge he just swiped off a dozing attendant. His path takes him up to a restricted area of the building, keeping his head low as employees move to go to lunch. 

Adrien slips into the control room and gets to work. Switch off cameras, set off alarms and clear all files and then erase all evidence he did anything. All they can think is someone tripped a fire alarm. Like Marinette said, they can't even know there was anything to steal.

He watches Marinette sneak into the store room from the security cam, reluctantly shutting down the system as planned when she reaches an impassable door. A tape pops out from where it was recording, beeping at him.

Next he places all of the days recordings into a bin, piling stacks of paper on top of them. He lights a match and drops it in.

The alarm wails and he stumbles out the control room, letting himself be swept up by the panicked crowd. People pay no attention to the pre-recorded voice calling them to proceed slowly as not to damage the displays, pushing and shoving to save their own necks.

Adrien laughs.

-

In the night there’s a glint of light at the bottom of an alley. The ground is damp and smells of urine and the churning of over worked heater systems rattles through the walls. Griffe Noire waits, his eyes stalking a rat in the dumpster. He’s interrupted just as he moves to pounce.

Toxinelle walks in, a bag over her shoulder. She pats it, with a gorgeous twisted grin on her face.

“Got it.”

She removes the box from the bag, blowing off the dust. Its made of a wood older than most nations that should have degraded. Its by a miracle it hasn't. Its decorated with gold leafing, intricate concentric circles crossing and looping together. Griffe Noire takes it with shaking hands.

“The lost miracle box.”

“It's ours.”

-

This was me practicing atmosphere and description. Trying to something I guess - let me know if its doing the correct emotions because we could have just circled around to boring XD

It fascinates me to no end that there are multiple miracle boxes of miraculous. Not just our Chinese one and the American one. This is the Hibernian miracle box.

Oh and they were robbing the British museum

ehhehehehehehe

IDK LET MY HAVE THIS

[monstersandmaw]

Oats the kelpie (single dad, dad-bod, absolute softie sweetheart) is now up on Patreon on early release! You can read it right now for $3, or for $5 you can have access to everything pre-2020 mothballing.

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

Wordcount: 7562

Preview:

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

Read the whole thing right now over on Patreon, as well as everything else in my exclusive masterlist, plus February's story involving a holiday romance with a naga in Starfall Springs...

[johannestevans]

One Pater to the Next.

“You’re the first one to strip down today,” Abdirak says. “A true penitent.”

“I’m a penitent of no one’s, young man,” says Lillen, “but as far as I know, your mistress loves no one else as she does a masochist.”

“How true that is,” says Abdirak. “Against the wall, sir, please and thank you.” He purrs on the last two words, and Astarion looks at the tattoo on the back of Lillen’s neck as he walks forward, resting his palms against the wall. “Shall I manacle you in place?”

“If you want me to put you over my knee once you’re done with your ministrations,” says Lillen, and to Astarion’s fascination, Abdirak actually shivers.

“Tempting,” Abdirak says. “What tool would you like, Lillen?”

“Which is your favourite?” Lillen asks.

Astarion can’t help his soft, “Oh fuck,” as Abdirak picks up a mace from his rack, and he shares a delighted look with Shadowheart. Between them, spoilsport that he is, Wyll looks quietly horrified.

The tattoo on the back of Lillen’s neck is the symbol not of Oghma, the one he wears on his armour front and on various of his jewellery and personal effects, but that of Deneir – a candle lit over an eye. On one of his wrists, Astarion is aware, he has another tattoo, a harp, which belongs to another of the bardic gods – and on the opposite wrist, an ibis, the symbol of Thoth.

Deneir’s candle spatters with blood with the first blow Abdirak brings down against one of Lillen’s shoulders, and Lillen groans in pain, but not just pain. His back bows forward slightly, his fingertips pressing into the stone, and with the older man’s head turned to the side, Astarion can see his eyes close shut, his lips part.

The next blow comes down, and Lillen moans again – more blood, but not too much, although Gods, but there are ragged cuts down his shoulders from the bristled sharpness of the mace, and then Abdirak brings the mace down a third time.

“Young man,” bristles Lillen immediately. “Are you flagging with the fatigue of the day already?”

“My apologies,” Abdirak says. “I lost my grip.”

The fourth blow seems to be the hardest yet, and Lillen’s moan is loud as he falls forward against the stone, his back bowed, blood dripping down the marks on his back, and he takes a few moments to catch back his breath, evenly, slowly.

“Thank you,” Abdirak says. “You’ve been an inspiration of mine, Master Anmactíre, since I saw you displayed on the candle rack in Arabel all those years ago – I had just entered my fifteenth year. I touched myself to thoughts of the wax as it fell over your body, the way you writhed and cried out in pain, for years before I found my mistress’ embrace, and ascended to greater heights of pain and its administration. You brought me to her.”

“That is gratifying indeed to hear,” Lillen murmurs, and reaches up to pat Abdirak’s cheek.

[dapandapod]

Bring a friend home

Hello there! I honestly don't remember what the exact prompt was, but @firefly-party insisted on Jaskel something something Ikea, and thus, here we are! It was one of those eves I'm convinced I'm hilarious, lets see if you agree xD Please enjoy this silly madness!

On Ao3 here

See, there is thinking outside the box, and there is thinking outside the box. Then there is IKEA. Ikea is the kingdom of DIY and flat boxes. There is nothing you can’t do with a poor man’s budget and imagination, just ask youtube.

Which is why Jaskier finds himself getting lost by the couch section, and then again by the kitchen tables, and then there were the pretty lights and the cool shoe racks. HIs favorite was hot pink, in case anyone was wondering.

Oddly enough, Jaskier’s goal is the kid’s section.

He knows they are supposed to be at the end of the lap, and learned the hard way that short cuts really is just short for really-fucking-lost-where-was-that-blasted-map.

All he needs is the huge roll of drawing paper, and he means the HUGE one. It is heavy as shit, and well, maybe he should have brought something to carry it with, but that was future Jaskier’s problem, and now present Jaskier is cursing past Jaskier for getting distracted by the funky looking bed set.

It will be fine, probably, if he can make it to the downstairs area there should be those heavy duty baskets.

Jaskier is contemplating if he should buy the low budget pens as well, wondering if his niece and their Infinity Art Project will be worthy tools, when something catches his eye. There, by the exit, there are giant plushy baskets.

See, Jaskier is not a big fan of plushies, not really. They lack the warmth and the weight a person would have, but they are also much, much less dramatic than a person, probably.

And there, between the orangutan and the giant panda, there it is.

It is blue and white, and has just the one row of teeth, which his niece would have plenty of words about if she was with him.

It is soft and it’s silly and it’s silly and it's perfect, and Jaskier possibly said that out loud because there is one of those yellow striped shirts with the blue print turning around, and it takes him a moment to look up from that unfairly well shaped chest and into the face of a giant.

Which he also might have said out loud, if the twitch of the giant’s lips is anything to go by.

“Hej,” The man greets, of course he does, as if Jaskier speaks Ikea. “Anything I can do for you today?”

His name tag says Eskel, and it takes a WILD amount of willpower to not blurt out ‘How about me?’ and instead just stand there gaping for a moment, clutching his huge roll of paper.

“Your shark only has one set of teeth,” Jaskier says after one heartbeat too long, Eskel’s eyebrows lifting with the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I hear teeth make them harder to cuddle, and frankly, I myself find too many teeth a bit concerning. Tried to bring it up with the design team, but turns out I’m not very good at swedish,” the giant says, and Jaskier is feeling weak.

Actually yes, the paper roll is getting too heavy to hold the way he is, so he shifts, considering whether to either put it on the floor or between his knees, because that clearly is the right way to hold a giant huge fucking paper roll.

“Bitemarks are hot though,” Jaskier says before he can shove his entire fist in his mouth, which also would have been an unfortunate thing to do in front of this man. “I’ll just-” Jaskier says, turning on his heels to flee, only to walk almost straight into one of the display shelves.

He is saved by a big hand on his shoulder, and then not saved when Jaskier proceeds to drop the monster of a paper roll an inch from his toes.

The thud of the paper landing on the concrete floor makes Jaskier just close his eyes and accept his doom, because there is no way paper nor floor survived that.

“Ah, let me get that for you,” Eskel says, and when Jaskier opens his eyes again, the giant yellow striped man is kneeling in front of him, picking up the paper roll like it weighs nothing to him. It probably doesn’t.

Jaskier is wondering if Eskel would be able to pick him up as easily, and firmly shuts that down.

“Where to? Do you have a basket or a shopping cart?” he asks, and Jaskier is an embarrassed, shamed, blushing puddle on the floor.

“Ah, I was just… going to get that and get to the registers.”

Eskel nods sagely, and nods towards the shark plushies.

“Go give them a squeeze. You just might find a cuddly friend to bring home,” he says, and Jaskier…cannot.

Either this man is as dense as a brick and doesn’t realize what that sounds like, or he does.

Either way, Jaskier does walk over to the shark cage, the iron bars of the plushie basket holding an unholy amount of soft and silly and perfect bodies with staring eyes and too few teeth. BLÅHAJ, he reads, completely unable to pronounce it, but bewitched anyway.

He squeeze one, as instructed, and then the next. But the way the first one is looking at him, as if betrayed, Jaskier can’t help but to pick it up and hold it as he squeezes the others.

It is very nice to hold it actually, and Jaskier realizes he is indeed leaving here with a shark, and he is mentally preparing himself for the berating his niece will get him when they are introduced.

Finnigan. That is his name now. And he knows he will be berated even more when the niece finds the pun in there.

Turning around, Jaskier is surprised to see the employee is still watching him, and still holding that huge, now slightly dented paper roll for their Infinity Art Project.

“You are a good salesman, I’ll give you that,” Jaskier says, wagging his finger at Eskel.

“I’ll help you down the stairs with this, your hands look rather busy,” the giant says good naturedly. “If you don’t have more to pick up from here, that is,” He adds, stopping himself halfway to the stairs.

Lovely, simply lovely, and the way the scar stretches when he smiles, Jaskier squeezes poor Finnigan very hard to his chest. Good thing he isn’t a squeak toy, or this would have been very awkward.

“No, I’m done, thank you. But I can take it myself.”

“It’s alright,” Eskel waves him off with one hand, WITH ONE HAND, SIR!

It is simply unfair how some people just are like that, it is almost insulting how one person can be this kind and handsome and strong at the same time.

It is probably illegal somewhere, and Eskel will be put in handsome-jail if he ever goes there. Fuck, Jaskier needs a coffee and to shut his brain the fuck up.

They walk together down the stairs, but then Eskel just follows him and refuses to let the giant huge fucking paper roll down. Jaskier explains the Infinite Art Project and Eskel makes a contribution with a handful of those hand sized miniature pencils from one of the dispensers and winks as he tucks them into Jaskier’s bag. Well fuck.

Their time is up when Jaskier actually arrives by the registers and is forced to choose which line is the shortest and which one will offer him more time with this hunk of a human.

“When can we expect the art exhibition to begin? Any chance one can get an invite, considering how I am contributing?” Eskel asks, and oh boy, yeah, that man probably knows what he is doing.

Jaskier feels himself giving a crooked smile and pretends to consider it.

“For the meager price of One Cinnamon Bun, I might even let you in on the process itself,” Jaskier dares, heart racing and hands sweating. Poor Finnigan, they haven’t even left the store yet, and he is already on cuddle duty.

“A man should know his worth,” Eskel agrees with a nod. “You got yourself a bargain. Though I will add in a chosen beverage to go with it, in about fifteen minutes when my shift is over?”

Oh dear lord, Jaskier is going to combust on the spot.

They part ways, allowing Jaskier to dump his stuff in his shabby little car and to run into the bathrooms and check out his hair, only to meet up again by the Bistro outside the register area.

If Jaskier felt weak from seeing this man in yellow and blue stripes, it has nothing on him compared to Eskel in civilian clothes.

Eskel is enlightened about the arts of a 7 year old, and Jaskier brings home two cuddly friends from Ikea that day.

[themarginalthinker]

RPM

(Prompt for @ria-coolgirl, who suggested a sleepover with the boys listening to cheesy pop music! Sorry if this kinda got away from that, but hopefully you'll think it's cute lol)

Paul likes music, and wants something to keep him and everyone occupied. He decides to hit up his favorite record store.

-

Call him crazy, call him a tippy-tapping fool, but if ever one was to meet Paul Harris meandering down the Boardwalk, you'd almost have to call it dancing.

Always a tune in his head, always something playing that only he could hear the melody of. Paul danced to the beat of his own drums, and it was some damn good music if he did say so.

Such wandering, feeling the rhythm, took him lots of places. Little pop-up stores that happened over the summer months, here and gone again for the warm nights. Markets and art fairs that stayed active after sunset were fun, Marko liked those. Sometimes he'd mosey into a shop just following an idle thought, see what was about, and under the stares of the clerks (who tried their best to pretend they weren't staring) he'd make his way back out. Usually with something tucked into his jacket or pocket they weren't aware of. (Hey, you can't leave a store without getting something, that was just stupid.)

Tonight, the music in Paul's head was quiet, and disorganized, like a radio you just couldn't get to pick up a signal. It needed tuning - and he needed something to sink his (metaphorical this time) teeth into.

Streetlight Records, his haven away from haven.

Tucked neatly between two much larger buildings, the door for it almost hidden away just around the corner and in an alcove, one might have almost walked right past it. The doorway, however, was lit with garlands of twinkling lights they put out in the summer, and the base of something was humming out into the street, advertising for all who wished to open their eyes and ears, and take a chance.

Paul slips into to the doorway.

The shop was longer than it was wide, and it wasn't a whole lot of that to begin with. Along the left wall and down the straight middle isle, starting basically at the door so close you'd bump into it if you weren't careful, shelves upon shelves of LPs and EPs. Bins filled, racks a mash and collection that a vinyl dragon would go green with envy over. Some were arranged by year, others by genera. Artists' faces in posters and their album art, if they were popular enough, hung from the light strands wound around the ceiling and support beams. Under those were cases of cassettes, displays for tape recorders and the empty tapes to go with them.

The right side was a little less packed, but no less interesting. The glass case under the counter top and register boasted more gift-shoppy material, for those who only knew what played on the radio and when confronted with the font of auditory wonders before them, chose to stay in shallower waters. Racks of post cards, books of music history for the well-listened eggheads, more expensive maintenance tools for people's instruments.

And speaking of, further in the back sat displays of sound equipment for bands. Paul had spent more hours than he could reliably remember giving the old Fender some much-needed love and attention, here with lights and amps where it's rich, rolling sounds could be appreciated.

The place was a feast for anyone looking to discover something about themselves, and Paul was never satiated.

Paul slips past the immediate shelves to get to the front register, hands finding the glass surface and beginning to tap along to the muted cacophony in his head. It was deserted for the moment, but you didn't need supernatural senses to smell that someone had been here not too long ago, partaking in something that made the music sound even better. Paul leans over the desk and eyes the thick, beaded curtain that lead to the back rooms.

"Hey Randy! If you don't come out here someone's gonna come in and steal your signed Grateful Dead shirt!"

Indeed, said shirt was hanging up, proudly displayed on the wall behind the counter. It was a much prized possession - and in some real amount of danger from some fingers more sticky than not. It was also a surefire way to get the attention of a certain shop owner.

There's some sounds from behind the curtain, shuffling and maybe something falling over as someone jumped up, either at the threat or the owner of the voice issuing it. Paul hears the shout back before he can actually make out the words. If there were words being said at all.

Judging from the practically-visible cloud that follows the man who emerges from behind the curtain, it's more likely the latter.

Randy's and older dude, not 'old' but certainly a decade and a half Paul's (visible) elder. His hair is crow black, shoulder length and wavy, held back with a tie and a wrapped, psychedelic bandana. His eyes are blown to space, he's got a red press mark on his face, clearly the picture of a man getting ready to close up for the night and getting the evening come-down started a little early.

He'd probably known who had come in from the shout, but seeing him at the counter changes something in his face. How his back straightens. Eyes dart to the doorway, and then into the depths of the store. Looking for people who follow like ghosts in each other's wake.

His shoulders only relax a little when he finds it's only Paul, still looking at him expectantly. His half-smile could simply be the weed, and being tired. Paul lets it be.

"The man of the hour," Paul says, holding out a hand.

Randy huffs a laugh, and reaches out to take it, grasping it and pulling it in to touch forearms. To his credit, he no longer reacts to the cool skin as it touches him. One too many smokes - or maybe one too many touches with something like Paul to bother reacting.

"Yeah, sure. Only for you."

Paul takes his hand back and places it on his chest. "I consider it the highest honor, dude."

Randy nods a little.

These were words exchanged back and forth easily enough. Informal formalities, but a certain script maintained all the same. Like the glass counter between them. Crystal clear, but a barrier.

The shopkeep shrugs, and leans on his elbow. "Well, you got me here. What's up?"

Paul keeps drumming his fingers on the counter. A pattern only he can make sense of.

"Well, believe it or not, I'm actually not here for anything in particular," Paul says. "I'm uh. Actually looking for something along the lines of. New."

Randy blinks, cocking his head a little. "New?"

"Ya."

Believe it or not, immortality came with downsides. Well. Maybe not downsides so much as reoccurring stumbles. One of which being that the 'new' turned into 'old' faster than one would think, and even for someone who could listen to the same song on repeat for a whole day, there was a whole world of new things being made. New songs, new artists, new sounds. Collecting them to preserve perfectly forever like all the trinkets of the past stored in the cave. Immortal memory.

Randy however, looked over Paul like he'd started growing a second head. However, he knew better than to quibble. The script had run out, and Paul was looking at him expectantly. He was the expert in these things, and his customer had asked for goods.

"Well, we do got some stuff here, towards the front-"

Paul knew what Randy was pointing out, but he shakes his head. The silver bangles Marko had threaded into his hair shake with a metallic clicking, his blade of his earring glinting in the low lights. Randy stops mid-sentence, not about to waste Paul's time on the air it took to make the words. He knew better.

"Nah, man, I don't mean like, new releases. I mean just. Like. New. Somethin' different."

Something to scratch the constant itch of eternal stagnation amidst constant, unstoppable change.

Randy is silent, looking at him. There isn't much of a semblance of the polite, sleepy smile he'd been wearing earlier. Paul keeps looking right back at him, fingers drumming, drumming, drumming away at the counter. Nails clicking against the glass. Dragging.

It's only when Paul moves, shifting from one foot to the other, in a fidget, that Randy comes back into motion.

"Right. Sure. Okay, yeah, I just- hang on."

Paul nods a couple times, a little 'sure' thrown in as well as Randy moves off with maybe a little too much pep in his step, especially considering it's back behind the curtain and into another room. Where Paul's relaxed stare isn't on him the whole time.

There's the sound of boxes being moved, the clack of plastic cases - ans to ears more sensitive, dark mutterings. Paul pretends it's the rattling of the old water pipes along the ceiling.

He reaches over, to one side of the counter, and snatches up a couple jacket patches from the bins left out for sale. Marko had mentioned wanting to potentially start a new jacket project soon. Paul tucks them into his pocket.

Randy comes back after a few minutes. In his hands is a box, and in that box is a mess of things. A couple records, their sleeves looking a little battered, more than a few cassette tapes that looked much more recent, though one had a cracked case.

Paul reaches forward before Randy can say anything and pulls out something from the lot - a magazine, and from the provided pouch in the back of it, a small disc.

"Oh, I love Flexis!" Paul says, grin wide. "They're not making them much anymore."

He holds up the small, colorful record disk, and Randy's shoulders relax a little. He'd pleased the beast.

"There's not a whole lot, I think they only ran that edition with the Flexi for a while, but I had it kinda lying around, so."

Paul snorts. "What, you're using this to pawn your junk off on me, man?"

He flicks a finger at the box, tapping it rather harshly. Randy, again to his credit, doesn't flinch. But from the twitch under his eye, it's a near thing.

Paul grabs the box from him before he can try to say anything else. "I'm joshing you, dude. Jeez. You need some stronger stuff if you're this wound up. You know I'll take anything. You got good taste."

Randy lets Paul take the box from him, fingertips meeting for only a second. Paul's nails are sharp against his skin.

Paul tucks his prize under one arm. With his other, he digs into some pocket or another in his coat. From it, he produces a set of bills. He slaps them down on the countertop.

"You're a pal, Ran-the-man. Catch ya next week!"

Without waiting for Randy to open the till or count the money, or even a goodbye, Paul is already out the door. Barely a sound follows him, just the now empty store, playing its low background music under soft lighting.

When the man does blink out of his stupor, and counts the amount given to him for his motley collection of odds and ends, it's enough to make even his mouth go dry.

He doesn't ask, though. Never does. He simply straightens out the notes, and sets the stained paper in the drawer.

-

"Oh, I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!"

The music echoed in the main hall, the voices rising and falling with it perhaps not the most in-tune, but the enthusiasm was all that was really necessary.

David watches Star try to keep her smile down at Paul as he strikes a pose, singing into an invisible microphone, swaying her own head side to side with the melody. He lets himself smile with her.

Marko and Dwayne occupy the couch on either side of her, critiquing the performance.

"Good hip movement."

"You know, if he permed his hair, he might actually kinda look like Whitney."

"I vote eight point seven."

"No way, this is freestyle, tens across the board."

"No, there's always room for improvement."

The tall blond shimmies his way over to her, and Star can't help but let out the suppressed giggle at his exaggerated lip-syncing. She protests a fair bit as she's pulled up, and brought to the 'dance floor', her eyes flitting over to David who only raises an eyebrow, before Paul is pulling her in, spinning them around in a dance that doesn't exist and is made purely of the need to move and feel the music.

"Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!"

The tune in his step matching the music in his head, and all around him. Harmony.

[sunmoon-starfactory]

Spice of Life - Ultimate Herb, Spice, and Wildflower Set

Spice of Life is a combination and optimization of the two previous sets of Herbs, Spice, and Everything Nice and The Spice Must Flow.

Optimizations/Prominent Changes Include:

● A number of textures have been reduced in size. ● All Herb/Spice harvest basket textures are now linked to the Inventory Tool - Large Harvest Basket File. *NOTE: A new version of this tool has been included in this set with a slightly different name. REMOVE any previous version. ● All Herb/Spice Jar are now linked to a new item SunMoon-HerbSpice-EmptyJar-TEXTUREMAIN. ● Trait Support for sims with the Gatherer Trait ● All Harvests now available in catalog. ● Tier display, wall rack and counter rack have been repositoried to the Winery Cask Shelf ● Harvesting plants now gives FT Nature enthusiasm IF FT is installed ● Sims with the gatherer trait have a 10% chance of an extra harvest when gathering a herb/spice. This is BCON-tuneable

This set allows sims to collect fresh herbs and spices and then turn them into dried ground versions. You can choose between 12 jars or 1 bulk sack. All spice/herb converters may be found in Appliances > Small. All Herb/Spice plants and trees may be found in Build > Gardening.

Herb/Spice/Wildflower Plants A total of 63 herb/spice plants are contained in this set. Herbs/Spice plants are non-seasonal so they can be grown year round. Herbs are harvestable every 24 hours, and Spices every 72 hours. These plants need no watering or other maintenance. Sims will gain Nature Enthusiam when harvesting if Freetime is installed.

A single harvest basket will be added to a sims personal inventory, or if on an OFB lot the harvests will go into the business owner’s inventory. These harvest baskets count as food points for the fridge, but can also be sold for profit or used in other crafting station sets.

*Note that animations will not be perfect when using plants in the raised planters or pots on raised surfaces since Sims will continue to bend over to harvest items off the ground.

Crafting Stations This set contains 2 crafting stations; The Spice Grinder and Herb Converter. Items must be directly in sims’ inventories to be used.

Spice Grinder: The Spice Grinder allows you to convert 18 types of fresh spices into either a bulk sack or 12 jars. This requires at least 12 fresh spices in your sim’s inventory.

Herb Rack: The Herb Rack allows you to convert 17 types of fresh herbs into either a bulk sack or 12 jars. This requires at least 12 fresh herbs in your sim’s inventory.

Product Summary Jar of Spices/Herbs - Used as food points, selling for profit, or as ingredients in other crafting stations. Bulk Sack of Herbs/Spices - Used as food points, sold for profit or as ingredient in other crafting stations. Can be separated into 12 Jars.

Previews: Please visit this link to view an image album of all plants, trees, harvestables, jars, sacks, converters, and bonus items. View Album. 

REPLACE ALL PREVIOUS FILES FOR SPICE MUST FLOW/HERBS,SPICE,& EVERYTHING NICE

Download - SFS Use Manual - Click for detailed instructions and other helpful information.