a loud, striking laugh echoed through the corridor.
you let out a long sigh before you even turned around.
of course.
there was only one person in the entire college who laughed like he owned the bloody place.
james cook.
the halls were already packed, students squeezing past one another with coffees in hand, bags bumping against lockers as conversations overlapped into one loud, constant buzz.
the smell of cheap deodorant mixed with damp coats drifted through the building.
you adjusted the strap of your backpack and kept walking hoping he wouldn't notice you.
maybe, just maybe, if you pretended not to hear him…
yeah. fat chance.
it was almost embarrassing how predictable you were.
the shy girl who always fell for the loud ones.
the ones who walked into a room like they belonged there.
the ones who could talk to absolutely anyone without thinking twice.
and james cook happened to be the loudest of them all.
everyone knew cook.
teachers knew him because they were constantly threatening him with detention.
students knew him because every weekend seemed to end with a story that somehow involved him, a bottle of vodka, and something catching fire.
he was the kind of person who couldn’t walk down a corridor without somebody calling his name.
and somehow…
you’d become part of his routine.
not because he fancied you.
god, no.
to cook, you were just… there.
someone he’d wind up because your reactions entertained him.
someone he could copy homework from.
someone he’d sit next to when he got bored.
someone he’d steal pens from and never give back.
someone he treated exactly the same as freddie or jj.
one of his people.
one of the lads.
and for once…
you wished he’d look at you like a girl instead. a girl he wanted to have around not only because it was convenient but also because he wanted you.
“OI mate! look who’s ere!”
before you could speed up, two fingers hooked through the loop at the top of your backpack.
one sharp tug.
you stumbled backwards, barely catching yourself before you walked straight into a row of lockers.
cook burst into laughter.
not just a chuckle.
a proper, head-thrown-back laugh that echoed through the hallway and earned him a few annoyed looks from nearby teachers.
“fuck off...what do you want, cook?” you muttered, straightening your backpack.
he flashed you that familiar crooked grin.
“hey, hey. no need to get all defensive now!”
he tilted his head, looking almost offended.
“bit hostile, ain’t ya glasses?”
“just say what you want already!”
instead of answering, he fell into step beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as if he’d been walking with you all along.
“right…”
he scratched the back of his neck.
“you know mr byers is bein’ a proper pain on my arse ’cause of all the homework i never handed in.”
you glanced at him.
“not surprised."
he sighed dramatically.
“he’s makin’ me do this stupid essay on reproduction.”
another sigh.
“reckons it’ll prove i’m academically redeemable or some bollocks.”
you couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“so write it.”
cook looked at you as though you’d suggested climbing everest.
“you know i can’t.”
“i know you won’t.”
“nah.” he pointed a finger at you. “different thing entirely.”
he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with the confidence of someone who thought everything they said was hilarious.
“i’m a brilliant fuck.”
he shrugged.
“just can’t write an essay about bloody dicks and cunts.”
you rolled your eyes.
“twenty quid.”
his grin disappeared instantly.
“what?”
“you heard me."
“fuck off! you’re robbin’ me!
“twenty.”
he groaned loudly enough for half the corridor to hear before dragging a hand down his face.
“bloody hell.”
you folded your arms, waiting.
he looked at you for a long second, clearly trying to think of another way out.
“c’mon…” he said, flashing that impossible grin again. “there’s gotta be room for negotiation.”
you raised an eyebrow.
“forget it. i won’t negotiate with you.”
he clicked his tongue.
“cold...but i guess i deserve it don't i?"
he laughed quietly to himself before nudging your shoulder as the two of you continued down the corridor.
another grin spread across his face.
“…reckon i’ll wear you down eventually.”
“in your dreams.”
he bumped your shoulder again.
“worth a shot, glasses."
“pay me, and you’ve got your essay.”
cook let out an exaggerated sigh, digging through the pockets of his leather jacket with far more drama than the situation called for.
“right…” he muttered, pulling out a crumpled ten-pound note. “slight problem.”
you crossed your arms. "what now?"
“i’ve only got ten quid on me.”
“then come back when you’ve got twenty.”
“or…” his grin returned almost instantly, “you could swing by mine later an’ i’ll give you the rest.”
you stopped walking.
“absolutely not.”
he blinked innocently.
“what?”
“you seriously think i was born yesterday?”
that earned another one of those loud laughs that always seemed to bounce off the corridor walls.
students passing by glanced over, already used to whatever chaos james cook happened to be causing that day.
he shook his head, still chuckling.
“calm down, smarty pants.”
he held his hands up in surrender.
“i ain't tryna shag ya.”
“good to know,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
“thought you’d appreciate the clarification.”
“give me the ten quid already.”
he stared at the note for a second before reluctantly holding it out.
“i’ll text ya when it’s done,” you said, slipping the ten-pound note into your wallet before zipping it shut.
cook’s face lit up immediately.
“knew i could count on ya.”
he grinned.
“you’re so annoying.”
“that’s what makes me charming.”
“no, that’s what makes you exhausting.”
he laughed again, rocking back on his heels.
“thanks, babe.”
he flashed you a smile so smug it was almost offensive.
“you’re an angel.”
he paused just long enough to add,
“…a cruel one.”
you rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.
“piss off, cook.”
“see ya later, sweetheart.”
before you could answer, he’d already wandered off backwards through the crowd, somehow carrying on two completely different conversations at once.
someone called his name from the other end of the corridor and he immediately threw an arm around freddie’s shoulders, disappearing into the sea of students like he’d never been standing beside you at all.
you watched him for a second longer than you should have.
then forced yourself to look away.
—
by the time you got home, your head was pounding.
the bus ride had felt twice as long as usual, every bump in the road sending another dull ache behind your eyes.
you dropped your backpack by your bedroom door, kicked your shoes off somewhere in the general direction of the wardrobe, and collapsed face-first onto your bed with a groan.
you should’ve said no.
that would’ve been the smart thing to do.
cook never planned ahead.
he never did his homework.
he barely scraped through half his classes.
every teacher in the building had already accepted that james cook was probably going to leave every assignment until the last possible minute.
so why were you the one fixing it?
you stared at the ceiling.
because he asked.
because he’d flashed that stupid grin.
because somewhere along the line you’d become completely incapable of saying no to him.
“pathetic,” you muttered to yourself.
with another sigh, you pushed yourself upright and shuffled over to your desk.
your laptop whirred to life.
a blank document appeared on the screen.
reproduction.
honestly.
it was such a ridiculous topic.
if cook cared this little about his grades, why should you care any more than he did?
your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
you could’ve written complete nonsense.
he probably wouldn’t even notice.
…except you knew he would hand it in exactly as you gave it to him.
and somehow, the idea of mr byers realizing you had written absolute rubbish annoyed you more than the fact you were doing cook’s homework in the first place.
another groan escaped your lips.
“i actually hate that idiot.”
you cracked your knuckles, opened three different research tabs, and started typing anyway.
—
11:57 pm
it’s done.
you hit send before you could change your mind.
your room was quiet except for the soft hum of your laptop cooling down on your desk. the only light came from the bedside lamp you’d forgotten to switch off, casting a warm glow across the pile of textbooks you’d abandoned hours ago.
your phone buzzed almost immediately.
cook
you’re up late.
breaking the rules just because of me? ;)
you couldn’t help smiling.
idiot.
you
shut up before i decide to throw this essay in the trash.
the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
disappeared.
cook
geez.
can’t even take a joke, glasses..
what u doin’?
you glanced at the time in the corner of your screen.
nearly midnight.
you
getting ready for bed.
some of us still care about school.
another few seconds.
cook
hmm.
can i see what you’re wearing? ;)
you stared at the message.
“…he’s actually unbelievable.”
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
he probably sent things like that without thinking.
that was cook.
everything that crossed his mind came straight out of his mouth—or, in this case, straight into your phone.
he’d probably laugh if you called him an idiot.
probably say he was “only askin’.”
probably tease you for blushing.
which, annoyingly…
you were.
you looked down at yourself.
an oversized hoodie.
old pyjama shorts.
thick socks because your room was freezing.
hardly the sort of thing anyone would want to see.
a tiny, embarrassing part of you wished you’d been wearing something prettier.
something that didn’t make you feel invisible.
something that might’ve made him stop for half a second and look at you differently.
you hated that thought the second it crossed your mind.
he was just winding you up.
he always was.
and yet…
your heart was still beating a little faster as you looked back at the screen, waiting for whatever ridiculous message he’d send next.
you
just wearing something boring
the typing bubble barely had time to disappear.
cook
why am i not surprised?
you frowned at the screen.
you
sorry i’m not like the girls you shag.
there was a longer pause this time.
long enough that you wondered if you’d pushed it too far.
then your phone buzzed.
cook
nah
i like that you’re not like them
makes this more interesting.
your eyebrows knitted together.
you
makes what more interesting? i’m not a challenge, cook.
the typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
cook
never said you were.
doesn’t mean i can’t try an’ figure you out.
you stared at the screen a little longer than necessary.
you
there’s nothing to figure out.
another pause.
cook
bollocks.
everyone’s got somethin’.
you frowned.
you
and what exactly do you think mine is?
the typing indicator flickered on.
off.
on again.
for someone who always had something to say, he seemed to be thinking surprisingly hard.
cook
reckon you spend too much time in your own head.
always look like you’re thinkin’ about ten different things while everyone else is just there.
pretty sure u have some mad desires u never tell anyone about, dontcha?
your stomach tightened.
that wasn’t the answer you’d expected.
you’d been waiting for another joke.
instead, he’d actually noticed something.
you
you don’t know me that well.
cook
don’t i?
you chewed the inside of your cheek.
you
no.
another few seconds passed.
cook
alright then.
tell me somethin’ i don’t know.
you looked around your room.
the lamp on your bedside table cast long shadows across the walls, and rain had started tapping softly against the window. your essay books were still spread across the desk exactly where you’d left them after finishing his assignment.
your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
there were a hundred things you could say.
instead, you typed the safest one.
you
i like things quiet.
his reply came almost instantly.
cook
yeah, i clocked that.
you hate parties.
you always disappear before everyone’s properly pissed.
despite yourself, you smiled.
you
and yet you still keep inviting me.
cook
course i do.
one day you’ll say yes.
you
don’t hold your breath.
cook
where’s the fun in that?
you rolled your eyes, smiling at your phone.
idiot.
for a moment, neither of you sent anything.
then, just as you were about to lock your phone, another message popped up.
cook
cheers for the essay, by the way.
seriously.
you blinked.
there it was.
buried underneath all the winding up and stupid jokes.
a genuine thank you.
you smiled to yourself before typing back.
you
don’t make me regret it.
cook
can’t promise that, love.
...
also, since you're not gonna send me what you look like getting ready for sleep, here's me.
he the to send a pic of his shirtless torso, capturing the huge cross tattoo in his abs and his black boxers briefs.
you freeze.
no boy had ever sent you a picture like that before.
what the hell were you even supposed to answer to that?
the phone screen glowed in the dim light of your bedroom, a stark rectangle of intimacy in the dark.
the image was there, seared into your retinas. the planes of his stomach, the hard cut of his hips disappearing into the waistband of black cotton.
and the cross, a massive, intricate thing of black ink, centered over his abs, the vertical bar following the line of his sternum down, the horizontal crossing just below his ribs.
your breath hitched, a tiny, trapped sound in your throat. the phone felt suddenly heavy, radioactive, in your hand. you set it down on the comforter as if it might burn you, but your eyes dragged back to it. *fuck, no boy had ever…* the thought fragmented, useless.
a slow, deep tremor started in your thighs, a quivering that traveled up through your core, settling low in your belly as a dense, liquid warmth. It pooled there, heavy and unfamiliar.
what were you supposed to say? ‘nice abs’? ‘cool tattoo’? every possible response withered in your mind, exposed as laughably inadequate, childishly naive next to the sheer, silent audacity of what he’d done.
your fingers trembled as you picked the phone up again. the glow lit your face. you typed a single word.
you
wow.
you deleted it. too revealing.
you tried again.
you
sick tat
deleted. stupid. obvious.
the silence from his end was expectant, a tangible pressure. he was waiting. he'd thrown a lit match into the dry tinder of your quiet night and was waiting to see what would catch.
forgetting words, forgetting how to be clever or cool, you did the only thing your body seemed to understand.
you lifted the phone, angled it down. you weren’t wearing anything special: just an old, soft sleep shirt, the hem riding up. you didn’t show skin, not like he had. you focused on your own bare legs, the quiver visible in the muscle of your thigh, the tense clutch of your knees together. you took the picture. the light was poor, the image grainy, intimate.
you hit send.
a second later, the three dots appeared. he was typing. the warmth in your stomach coiled tight. you waited, the tremble in your legs becoming a full, helpless shudder.
the three dots pulsed. a lifetime in a heartbeat.
them, his message appeared.
cook
that's too little princess. i want more.
"princess."
the endearment was a brand, a claim, wrapped in a demand that left no room for misinterpretation. he’d seen the silent admission in the grainy photo, and he’d found it wanting.
the liquid warmth in your belly turned to a slow, hot churn. a coy reply would be an insult to him, and to the raw truth now humming in your veins. he’d shown you his skin, his symbol. he wanted yours.
your fingers moved before your mind could fully censor them. you didn’t plan the composition. you flipped the camera, your own face filling the screen, eyes wide, dark in the low light, lips parted on an unsteady breath. you saw the flush high on your cheeks, the reflection of the screen like twin stars in your pupils. you held the gaze for a second, letting him see the dazed, overwhelmed surrender there. then, you slowly tilted the phone down.
the hem of your sleep shirt was soft, worn thin. you hooked a finger under it, lifting. not high. Just enough to reveal the plane of your lower stomach, the delicate indent of your navel, the faint trail of down that led beneath the waistband of your panties.
you sent it.
no text. just the photo.
the response was immediate. not a message. an image.
it was him again, but closer. his hand was in the frame now, resting low on his stomach, fingers splayed just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. his thumb was hooked inside the elastic, pulling it down a fraction, revealing the sharp V-cut of his hips, the dark trail of hair leading down.
then, your phone vibrated with an incoming call.
the sound was brutally loud in the silent room. his name flashed on the screen.
the warm feeling wasn’t just a feeling anymore; it was a deep, aching throb, a hollow need that clenched tight and then released in a slow, hot pulse. you could feel the dampness seeping through your cotton panties, a shocking, undeniable physical truth.
you stared at the ringing phone. the choice wasn’t in your head. It was in the tremble of your finger as it swiped across the screen, lifting the device to your ear.
you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. you just breathed, a shaky, audible exhalation into the receiver.
his voice came through, low, rough, and impossibly close. It wasn’t a greeting. it was a statement, a dark caress that coiled right into the heart of the warmth inside you.
“hear that?” he murmured, his tone a gravelly whisper. “that quiet? That’s the sound of you thinking you’re still in charge. now stop thinking. tell me what do you feel when you look at the picture I sent. tell me exactly.”
Pairing: Cult Leader! Nick Fowler x Chief! Female Reader
Fic Summary: You found salvation in a cult that recognized your talents, in the kitchen, with a knife, and in silence. Brought in by love, kept by purpose, you now serve the congregation from a space considered holy: the kitchen. You don’t know where the meat comes from. You haven’t asked. But the blessings are whispered each time you cook, and Nick Fowler watches you like a man starving.
Chapter Summary: A sacrifice is made. A congregation rejoices. And deep beneath the hymnals and heat, something in you begins to stir.
Word Count: 1.3k
Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI, Religious Overtones // Cult Activity, Cannibalism, Human Sacrifice, Blood and Ritual Violence, Grief and Psychological Manipulation, Smut.
Chapter Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Death, Blood , Religious Imagery, Implied Cannibalism, Willing Sacrifice, Ritual Dismemberment (Implied) Cult Indoctrination, Loss of Autonomy, Delusional Mindset
A/N: Ok! Starting something new after @artficlly AU spinny wheel… This wont be for everyone! Thank you @navybrat817 for workshopping this idea and @buckybarnesfic for listening to be flip flop on ideas..
The warehouse smelled of iron and incense. Concrete under your feet, steel above your head. The air held weight, smoke, breath and something holy. Pale blue shrouded your shoulders, pooling like a river around your feet. The cold from the stone floor bled upward into your soles, anchoring you in place. A thousand flickering candles cast long shadows against the walls, turning the warehouse into a trembling cathedral of heat and silence. You stood among the congregation, but already you were set apart. Already his.
You thought you'd be afraid. You had expected to tremble.
But instead, euphoria sang through your veins like static under the skin. A low, humming joy. Not giddy. Divine. Your breath felt heavier with every inhale, thick with devotion. The air around you vibrated, full of unseen hands urging you forward. It felt like standing on the edge of something sacred, toes curled over the cliff of surrender. Time folded in on itself. You could feel every heartbeat, every drop of sweat, every breath as if it were your first and your last.
Nick Fowler stood on a raised platform made from stacked wood pallets, its centre topped with a thick butcher’s block, the grain darkened by old stains. He was bare-chested beneath a butcher’s apron, hands stained with old blood and new promise. In one of them, he gripped a butcher’s knife; long and gleaming, its edge catching candlelight with every subtle motion. He gestured with it as he preached, slow arcs of the blade carving invisible symbols in the air.
His skin gleamed faintly with sweat, the dim candlelight dancing across the planes of muscle and conviction. His voice bounced off the metal walls in rich, rolling cadence. His sermon didn’t shout. It commanded. Velvet and razors. There was no fire-and-brimstone, no flailing. Just certainty. Steady. Unshakable. True.
He didn’t need theatrics. He was the altar and the god. The knife and the prayer.
His hand extended toward you, fingers blood-slick and beckoning, as if offering you not salvation, but truth wrapped in flesh.
“We are gifted tonight,” he intoned, “one who has felt their sin, and wishes to be delivered.”
Your breath caught as his gaze pinned you in place, ice-blue eyes like a blade laid flat against your skin.
“Come.”
The word was simple. Irrefutable.
Your feet moved on instinct, the soft rustle of your robes swallowed by the sound of scraping chairs as the congregation rose as one. A collective inhale echoed like a wave, but it never reached you. You didn’t hear them. Not truly. The others blurred into silence, their presence melting away until only one thing remained: the echo of his voice and the drumming of your heart.
The air between you and the altar felt charged, thick with purpose, with ritual. You walked through it like water, each step pulling you closer to something final. Something eternal.
He watched you approach with something too tender to be hunger. Blue eyes locked to yours, impossibly calm. A gaze that knew you, undressed you, sanctified you. You felt it then, that fluttering inside you, small wings of something more than fear. More than worship. Something ancient. A calling.
Your breath hitched as you reached the butcher’s block. The congregation had vanished entirely from your senses now. There was only him. Only Nick.
He pushed back your hood with reverent fingers, exposing your throat to the dim amber light. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, as though memorizing the shape of your jaw.
You shivered.
Then came the cloth—warm and damp—pressed gently to your neck, wiping in slow circles. He cleaned the place where the blade would kiss you. It smelled faintly of clove oil and ash, a scent that sent a strange comfort curling into your spine. The cloth dropped away, and the rough pad of his thumb replaced it, tracing your pulse with maddening care. His hand tilted your chin upward, firm but gentle.
He leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear like a secret only you were allowed to hear.
“Pain cleanses,” he murmured.
You swallowed, and felt yourself smile.
“Sacrifice nourishes.” The words coming like the psalm it was.
You stood taller. Your chest expanded. You didn’t tremble. You were firm in your task,
“Be ready, lamb,” he whispered, wrapping himself around you like shadow and promise. “I will find you in the fields.”
He guided you down to your knees, and you obeyed, silk pooling beneath you. The crowd shifted, murmuring with breathless anticipation.
You closed your eyes.
And pictured it.
The fields he had promised. Endless rows of wheat kissed golden by morning sun. Wind brushing tall stalks into song. A place beyond sin. A place where you could be new. You felt the soil beneath your feet, rich and cool. The air carried no weight, no guilt. Your fingers grazed the swaying grain as you walked toward the light, slow and unburdened. You were no longer just flesh, you were ritual. Washed clean by blood and grace, you no longer imagined freedom. You lived it, in those final moments between heartbeat and surrender. You were being cleansed, not taken, not ended, but exalted. One of the willing. A vessel now for the salvation of this church—your church. Your family.
Through your sacrifice, they would be fed. Through your offering, they would be saved in divinity. This was your chance to purify not only yourself, but those who had embraced you in your darkest moment. Your death was not an end, it was a rising. A baptism in red.
The blade whispered across your throat.
A kiss. A promise. A gift.
The warmth came quickly—hot and spreading—trickling over your collarbones, blooming across your chest in dark, crimson trails. Your breath caught in your throat, then vanished altogether. The first gurgle bubbled up, wet and desperate, as the air refused to come.
Nick held you firmly against him as your body faltered, arms cradling you with reverence. His mouth brushed your temple as he began to hush you, low and steady, like a lullaby meant for a frightened child.
"Shhh… there now," he murmured, voice honey-thick and close. "Let it happen. Let it go."
One hand stroked through your hair, slow and tender. Blood smeared between his fingers as he combed it back from your brow. You felt it all, the sticky warmth sliding across your chest, the sickly chill blooming in your fingertips, the way your heart kept trying to pump even though there was nothing left to give.
The world tilted.
The world darkened.
You were still upright, but the sky had folded inward. Your vessel surrendered. Nick caught you, held you tighter.
"You'll feed us all, my lamb," he whispered again.
The cold settled in your limbs, numb and heavy. Your final thought wasn’t fear. It was the fields, those golden, waving fields, and the warmth of his breath in your hair. You were going home. To brothers and sister who had taken this journey before you.
Nick raised your limp form to the waiting faithful.
"She is the body," he declared. "We devour—and she is freed."
Blood soaked your robes as your head lolled, staining blue silk in crimson arcs. You had slipped from consciousness, but not into silence. His voice still reached you, soft and low, threaded with reverence as if whispered through the veil between worlds.
And the light was there, calling. Warm and golden. You could feel it, wheat brushing against your fingertips, the sun on your cheeks, grass beneath your bare feet. The fields he had promised. The fields you had seen.
All around you, the world thundered.
You could hear the congregation cheering, their voices crashing through your fading awareness in waves, answering your devoted butcher in rapture. High and giddy, consumed by ecstasy.
Fingers reached out toward your robes as if touching bloodied silk might bless them too. Someone screamed your name. Someone else began to sing.
"Freed. Freed. Freed. Freed."
Their hymn followed you, echoing as the darkness finally took you.
A little drabble set into A Pinch of Salt universe. Check out the rest of that fic on AO3 at xxHope_Paige_Turner_99xx.
*~*~*~*~*
“This is utterly wonderful.”
“Hmm…it has been far too long.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Although I do not think Ben had this in mind when he gave you these tickets…” Kate sighed as the oiled hands tackled a particular knot in her shoulder.
Sophie shrugged, which jostled the masseuse’s hands currently wringing out all the tension in her back. A stray curl had slipped out of her headwrap.
“He never specified who the tickets were for, neither did the brand. How was I to know?” Kate knew Sophie had no worries. Benedict utterly adored her, to the point Kate might have been jealous if she did not have her own hunky chef to come home to. “Anyway—we deserve it.”
“That we do.” Kate gave Sophie a comforting smile.
Goodness knows Sophie deserved this after six months of legal rigmarole. Even with Araminta’s restraining order celebrating its one-month anniversary, Sophie sill looked exhausted. Meanwhile, Kate currently ran a newly Michelin starred restaurant that always heaved with customers.
Sometimes, after particularly stressful dinner service, Kate found herself panging for the days when she and Sophie would dance around each other in their little food-van, singing songs as they prepped ingredients and wraps.
Nowadays, with her job and Sophie setting up her new food van, the girls rarely saw each other—no more than once a week. And if Anthony’s subtle comments about rings and futures came to fruition, then that number would decrease. The thought always made Kate shiver.
“You know what?”
“Hmm?” Sophie gave another luxurious moan.
“We should make this a tradition.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Kate stated sitting up slightly. “On this day—or hereabouts—every year we should spend the day here. No matter what.”
Sophie snorted.
“February 26th—what a momentous date. What would we be celebrating?”
But Sophie gave her the same bright smile as that five-year-old who Kate had chosen to pair up with on the first day of school.
“Why did you choose me?” the girl asked,
“We’re sisters—look,” she held out her arm, a couple tints darker than Sophie’s own.
Mary had done the same when Kate and her little sister Edwina first met. Kate had asked her whether they were truly sisters because Kate hadn’t come out of Mary’s tummy like Edwina had.
“Ofcourse you are sisters, look.” Mary had lain her daughters’ hands on top of one another. “You will always be sister’s if you keep each other in your heart.”
Even when Sophie had disappeared for nine years, she had stayed in Kate’s heart.
person a, a horrible cook, is preparing a romantic meal for person b. what does person b do when they have to taste it? what does person b tell person a?
Welcome to the twenty-third day of AAC. Here, we will have the next post for our annual writing challenge, so buckle up and start writing! (Remember that the completed speed writes of around 1,250 words are due by 2:30 p.m. EST on December 25th! [Also we’d recommend giving your work a title to make it really jump out to those who are reading them via the links provided])
“T’would Be An Honor” AU
For all the years they had been together, Character A was repeatedly kicked out of the kitchen when Character B made their signature cookie whose recipe was one of the best kept secrets in the realm of baking (at least in their apartment). After a serious accident left Character B without the use of their hands, they decide that it’s finally time for Character A to learn their recipe and share the secret. Cue either Character B getting frustrated with Character A’s smugness, bonding cooking time, a disaster in the kitchen, a touching scene about trust, etc.
Compiled List of Fics From the Previous AU…
“Becoming Shuu” by akinohikari {終わりのセラフ | Owari no Seraph | Seraph of the End} [PG]
“Dear Journal” by birdbunsjayfish {Batman & Nightwing} [PG]
Levi isn't very comfortable at parties, he doesn't know how to talk to people and they just say stupid shit and he gets irritated. But then Eren whips out a bag of snicker doodle cookies. He came prepared.
This is beyond perfection. It’s like Scooby Snacks for social situations when your bae being broody. : )
