#;; 'i swear to you on every single god living and dead that they will die screaming' dany???????

[kaerinio]

also . . . thinking about this moment:

Dany poured the oil over the woman's head herself. "I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur," she said, "for the lessons you have taught me." "You will not hear me scream," Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing. "I will," Dany said, "but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life."

[pupwashing]

The Cuck Curse

leon kennedy x fem!reader x zombie!carlos oliveira

tags: dubcon, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, cucking

wc: 1.7k

a/n: part one of my planned October mini series.. whats scarier than getting cucked by various creatures? comments, rbs, and general feedback is appreciated!

Leon’s not one to believe in superstitions, but he is one to whine when things don’t go his way.

Throwing around the word ‘curse’ makes him seem like a baby, and Leon Kennedy is no baby.

Leon Kennedy is a stud, and that fact makes him feel entitled to things he has no business being entitled to, like women.

Leon and women don’t mix well, despite the fact that he’s cute enough to eat. He’s heard those words since birth, from his peers at the playground and the grandmothers at grocery stores.

So naturally, he’s got an ego around his appearance. That same ego makes him unappealing to the vast dating pool.

Leon swore he wouldn’t die a virgin, and he meant every word of that swear, so when Raccoon City descended into zombie-fueled chaos, his only thought was surviving long enough so he’d get to have sex with somebody, anybody.

That’s where you come in.

You’re a rookie police officer, just like Leon. You’re also having a shitty first day. You two have enough in common that you’re traveling together, and he’s convinced that once you find a safe enough spot, you’ll let him hit.

He’s seen the way you look at him. You think he’s attractive, and he’s a stranger to you, so you don’t know about his arrogance or his general asshole-ery. It’s like he’s finally found favor from God.

But to fuck, you two have to find somewhere safe to camp out, and this police station has fallen into complete and utter ruin.

Many of the rooms were either filled with corpses of the dead or just too torn up to safety stay in, and Leon was starting to get irritated. There’s always something getting in the way of him getting laid, and it’s currently the zombie apocalypse.

Exploring the station, you two finally come upon the S.T.A.R.S. office. It isn’t filled with the undead, thankfully, so it’s suitable to serve as a place of rest. You both have been running around the station all night, and it’s surprisingly hard to outrun a hoard of hungry zombies.

As you focus on boarding up the office, Leon is shamelessly checking you out.

Women in uniform are one of Leon’s many weaknesses, and he’s already pent up because he skipped out on jacking off last night. He’s coming to regret that decision now.

“You’re pretty strong.” Leon comments, pressing his front to your back as you finish boarding up the door.

He was going to add ‘for a girl’ to the comment, but he decided to hold his tongue. He figured giving you a backhand compliment wouldn’t make you want to have sex with him.

“Thank you, you’re uh, you’re pretty strong too.” You replied, shivering from his close proximity.

Leon wasn’t exactly doing much of the heavy lifting at all.

In fact, he was barely doing any lifting. Too distracted by his own goal of having sex, he’s been leaving you to fend for your own against the zombies. He hasn’t fired a single bullet all night, and it’s making you wonder why he even has a gun in the first place.

“You know,” He began, his plushy pink lips brushing against your ear.

“I think we deserve to unwind a little. We’ve been running for our lives all night, and we seem to be holed up in here pretty safely. What do you say?”

His voice was husky with a hint of a whine to it, as if he’d cry if you denied him what he so desperately wanted.

Leon is cute, and you haven’t gotten laid in a couple days. You’re pretty sure that your ex-fuck buddy became part of the undead, so you don’t have anyone waiting up for you either.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” You murmured as you turned to face him. His eyes darkened, a smirk on his lips. Finally, Leon Kennedy would get to fuck as he so rightfully deserved.

Leon gripped your hips tightly as he leaned in, letting his lips connect with yours. He knew you guys weren’t exactly in the safest place to try and take it slow, but sucking face with a girl that wants to fuck him is important in his eyes.

You could tell he seldomly kissed anyone, because it was incredibly sloppy. He didn’t know what to do with his tongue, his teeth clashed against yours, and he was drooling in your mouth.

You pushed his chest with a polite smile. “Maybe we should skip the kissing, yeah? Don’t want to run out of time.” You suggested, and Leon nodded along.

He lowered his head to your neck, licking and nipping at your skin. At least he knows how to do hickeys correctly.

You tilted your head back to give him more access, moaning softly at the feeling. His lips sucked greedy marks onto the sensitive flesh of your neck, and it seemed like he wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.

The two of you were so into the steamy scene that you didn’t realize the heavy footsteps of something approaching the office. The creature’s heavy breaths could be heard outside the door, but neither of you realized until it was too late.

The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office was ripped open, those boards you took time to place doing nothing to stop the raw strength of a rogue zombie.

Leon pulls away from you, shock etched on his features. This zombie isn’t like the others. It’s someone who’s been freshly turned, and whoever was turned must’ve been huge.

The zombie stared at you and Leon, but did it did not charge, instead, it approached slowly.

You were shocked, frozen with fear. It was obvious regular bullets wouldn’t take this thing down, but you were wondering if you would even need them. It wasn’t hostile, but that raised more questions than answers. If it didn’t want brains, what was it after?

The zombie stopped in front of you, looking down at your form as if it were sizing you up.

You stared back at it, noticing a patch on the tactical vest it wore. It has writing on it, so you tried reading it.

“C. Oliveira?” You mused aloud, which got the attention of the zombie. It groaned, reaching to grab you. It’s hands were clammy and cold, and it made you yelp.

“Let go of me!” You demanded, and Leon stepped into action. He tried to rush the zombie, but it flung him into the wall, which knocked the wind out of him. He could only watch what the zombie planned on doing to you.

You were frightened by its immense strength. If it could knock Leon into a wall, what else could it do? Your mind raced with frantic questions of the capability of the monster, as well as it planned on doing.

The question of its intentions was swiftly answered when it ripped your uniform to shreds, exposing your underwear.

“Hey! What was that for?” You exclaimed, but the zombie didn’t answer. It pinned you to the wall, keeping you firmly in place as its hand when down its pants.

Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. This zombie was horny and had found its target to relieve itself with. You.

You weren’t a fan of being a fuckdoll for an undead hunk, but you also weren’t a fan of having broken bones, so you didn’t move.

You gulped when you saw the zombie take out its dick. Its somehow all in tact, and it’s grossly huge.

Before you could even blink, the zombie pulled your panties to the side, slamming into you seconds after. Your eyes rolled to the back of their sockets when it did so.

You had no time to adjust before the zombie began to thrust, its hips snapping like there was no tomorrow. You couldn’t help but moan. As ruthless as it was, it felt good.

Leon was watching all of this, and he was pissed. He was about to get laid, just for this zombie to barge in and take his fuck?

Leon knew about cucking, and cucking is for losers who are unattractive and can’t fuck, so they watch other people do it for them. That’s not who Leon is.

Leon Kennedy is not a cuck.

It’s painful to listen to you moan as the zombie fucks into you, its dick stretching your gummy walls and bullying your cervix. He’s surprised that you can take dick so well, and it fills him with a terrible jealousy.

It pisses him off, how he has to listen to the squelch of your pussy, or the deep grunts from the zombie as it brutally splits you open.

You thought it would hurt, having some brute of a zombie ram its way deep into your guts, but the feeling of pleasure trumps the feeling of any type of pain.

The zombie’s grunts and huffs quicken as its thrusts do the same. It’s heavy balls slap against your clit, making your knees even weaker. You’re closing in on an orgasm, and so is the zombie.

More hard thrusts make you cum with a cry, causing you to cream around the zombie’s cock and slick to drip down your thighs.

The zombie groans lowly as it cums deep inside of you, pumping its thick and sticky seed into you. Once its dick is flaccid again, the zombie pulls out, letting you collapse onto the floor as it exits the office.

Leon can’t believe his eyes, seeing you sweaty and naked on the ground, a pool of cum dripping out of you that isn’t his own. It makes his blood boil.

Seeing the zombie leave, Leon steps up, finding some paper towels to clean you up with. You looked a mess, and the only reason he cared was because it wasn’t of his doing. If you looked like this after he fucked you, he would’ve been proud.

After you were clean and calm, Leon decided it would be best if the two of you tried to escape the station instead of camping out.

It was obvious seeing you get fucked in front of him by a damned zombie was pissing him off.

You both decided to never talk about that incident ever, to anyone. It was embarrassing for the two of you, and it would be awkward to explain that you got fucked by a zombie so hard you came.

At least something like this would never happen again, right?

[cheesecakeislazy]

JEFF THE KILLER HEADCANONS BECAUSE FUCK YOU! (Jk I love you and hope your life is great)

1. Him and BeN are besties for life, ride or die, would suck the poison out of each others dicks (not gay though)

2. Jeff has eye drops on him 24/7 so he doesn’t go fucking blind

3. Jeff has anger issues, one moment he’s chill as fuck and then EJ told him something that pisses him off- and now there’s a stab wound in Toby, a hole in the wall, and an angry Slenderman.

4. Jeff is totally straight. He totally thinks boobs are awesome. And totally only boobs. (He’s bisexual and swears on god he’s straight.)

5. He wakes up at 2 pm because he hates being awake in the mornings

6. He’s a metal head. He blasts music from his room so loud you can hear it across the mansion (slender mansion AU)

7. His deep gravely ass voice is perfect for metal songs

8. He likes to paint his nails black, and black only any other color is fucking gay

9. His vocabulary is 90% cuss words

10. He rarely showers. Ironically the gamer showers more often than him. Jeff prefers to be a stinky son of a bitch (take that fangirls)

11. He makes up for it with his dental hygiene (kinda) he brushes them twice a day and they look perfect (mostly)

12. He has extra sharp canines

13. He named his knife “Knifu” aka his knife waifu

14. The knife has been used so much that it constantly reeks of bleach and blood; it has permanent blood stains on it

15. Jeff bites his nails pretty often

16. Jeff isn’t good with throwing knives- he also isn’t that good at stabbing…

17. Jeff literally just stabs and stabs until he thinks his victim is dead, he doesn’t know any major artery’s (did I spell that right?)

18. Jeff is dyslexic

19. Jeff is horrible at math but refuses to admit it

20. Jeff wears eyeliner but refuses to admit it

21. He secretly loves the color pink but refuses to admit it (see a pattern here yet?)

22. Jeff is super sensitive to light due to the fact he doesn’t have any eyelids

23. He wears black gloves because he has burn marks on his hands and hates it when people look at them (fingerless gloves as his fingers aren’t burnt)

24. Jeff really wants tattoos and piercings but can’t get any due to his skin being extremely sensitive and fragile

25. Jeff hates the sun, it hurts his eyes and skin

26. Jeff likes going to playgrounds at night because 1. Fucking swings are awesome and 2. Creepy

27. Fucker is 5’11 and constantly calls BeN a midget

28. Jeff had a small crush on Toby for a while and lowkey has a small crush on BeN but…

29. Jeff is highkey downbad for EJ (it’s one-sided)

30. If Jeff ever tried to cook, he would burn everything

31. Jeff is fucking terrified of fire

32. Sometimes Ben likes to scare Jeff shitless by lighting a small fire inside Bens hands infront of Jeff

33. Sometimes Jeff throws Ben inside a kiddy pool and watches him panic about drowning (he is fully above the water)

34. Despite the fact Jeff and Ben both fuck with each other and their fears, they do it in tame ways to ensure the other doesn’t actually have a panic attack of any kind

35. Jeff lives in sweatpants, jeans are for losers and shorts are gay

36. T-shirts and hoodies, Jeff literally does not own a single sweater, long sleeve, or tank top.

37. His favorite T-shirt says “Fuck me in my ass (but not in a gay way)���

38. His second favorite says “Emo metal loving slut”

39. Both and almost all of his t-shirts are black with either white or red/pink writing

40. It is Jeff’s goal to have every photo taken of him (with permission) to have him flipping off the camera

41. Jeff watches South Park but thinks Family guy is stupid

42. He tries really hard to get on Liu/Sully’s good side but his anger issues usually get in the way

43. Jeff and Nina are actually really good friends that lowkey view each other as family

44. Jeff and Nina love to piss each other off constantly (Ben will prank whoever he is asked to)

45. Jeff has tried to kill Jane quite a few times, and Jane is constantly trying to kill him

46. Jeff personally isn’t into weed but he doesn’t judge BeN for being a stoner lowkey

47. Jeff is a virgin but he wouldn’t be nervous at all about having sex

48. Jeff is a kinky bastard

49. Jeff likes a good bowl of strawberry ice cream

50. Jeff likes banana smoothies

51. Jeff owns a few Nirvana T-shirts

[ganondoodle]

so, doing this as an extra post bc i dont want to spam op nor invite more disaster into their post (sorry)

(i get annoyed, i get frustrated, but i rarely get pissed off, so if this sounds aggressive to you, it is; i have had enough of arguing with people -even if most of that arguing has happened on twitter-)

someone had replied (and later apparently deleted) something along the lines of "well zelda wanted to restore hyrule at the end of botw and what is so bad about ganondorf always being the bad guy in the way that he is?"

so first off, while i know hyrule and KINGDOM of hyrule is often used as an equally interchangeable word to refer to the world there, i dont think she meant the kingdom or its or its monarchy when she said that (does she? i dont have the end in my head rn and pretty sure its a lil different than english anyway) and much more the LAND of hyrule, its still in shambles even if people have found ways to live with it- that is an interpretation of me mostly, you can think what you want in that regard idc

secondly .... im not gonna get into that rant bc you cannot be seriosuly asking what is bad about how ganondorf is presented, treated in the games (espeically in totk) and his role and "writing" (oh geez i dont know maybe all the racism and stereotypes?? also, frankly boring ass writing, if your villain can be replaced by a cloud of toxic goo incapable of speech and nothing would change except saving money for voice actors that dont fit the role that is not a great look- hes never gotten much but totk is a new low)

then theres this reply

astro-shark3113 replied: "You're kidding right? If she cared about reinstating the monarchy then why is the castle still in disrepair after five years? Why does she become a teacher and live in a cottage with her boyfriend instead of taking on duties as princess? She clearly wants to help people and be a leader but she can do that without wanting to be a Queen. Please be real"

i am not kidding and i AM being real, i think you need to look at the game without your rose tinted glasses for a second; the castle is still in ruin? what the hell do you expect, theres no soldiers and very few servants left, repairing anything is quite impossible in that time and frankly not a priority (not proof of her not caring lol) also there is a plan for it at the very least given the camps with the hyrule crest all over it in the ruins of castle town- we dont SEE her as a teacher, or living a "normal" life, that happens in between the game, its flavor text, what HAPPENS in the game is her being taught a lessson on who she needs to be and what hyrule needs to be (pretty in your face too, she gets sent to paradise past of the "first" king that is some supposedly godly thing from the HEAVENS and watches him and his queen die at the hands of the eviiil guy, the last scene in the game mimics perfectly the scene where everyone that god king got under his rule swears undying loyalty to her ffs); she does live in that house, but what other option is there, set up camp in the collapsing throne room all alone?? nigh everyone from that time is long dead and the only one she actually knows is link who happens to have a house (bc impa doesnt care i guess idk), with her ""boyfriend"" is also interesting, a "boyfriend" that apparently is locked in the basement, lives in the woods or straight up dematerlializes when theres no big bad in need of stabbing bc why the hell does no one fucking know him in hateno??? not even the kids that come to the house EVERY SINGLE DAY?? and taking on duties as a princess, she very much does? just bc she doesnt get physically carried around in a castle doesnt mean she isnt doing royal stuff (also, again, that happens BETWEEN the games, not actually in totk), she still sees herself as the princess, everyone calls her that, she herself calls herself that (if the memorial stones are anything to go by) and everyone listens to the most overtly stupid and nonsensical stuff that zelda puppet says (even her friends follow that order without even asking back???) after over 100 years of there not being a kingdom as such its pretty weird how everyone immediately, even the ones not alive for the calamity event, snaps into blindly following her orders

"she can still lead without being a queen", did we play the same game?? totk? TEARS of the KINGDOM?? (its zeldas tears, she IS the kingdom) that game?? the game couldnt be more directly telling you that its whole point is that royal family holy and good and how much everyone has to sacrifice to uphold the holy kingdom bc its the only thing that keeps evil man from overtaking it!! including turnign herself into a farmable, glorified stone pedestal for the entirety of the actual game and then that sacrifice not meanign shit bc she just gets deus ex machina'd back (i didnt need her to stay a dragon, though it would have been the better choice if she still didnt get an active part in the game i would kill for her to have been a capable companion instead of the stupid ghost sages, and you dont even get to actually do anything for it, it just happens), not even the nuclear pebble is lost, how great! she and everyone else that is a leader of their people has a nuclear pebble now!! they will not let a bad evil man be a threat ever again!! like the point to bring her back in that utterly unsatisfying way is that otherwise the royal line wouldnt exist anymore, its a blessing of her ancient ancestors!! woohooo!!

and the thing is, i LIKE botw zelda, i liked her character, that she wasnt the typically maiden princessy type, her struggle (even if i find the way she unlocked her powers lame), i do NOT like totk zelda, after the intro of the game she is a princessy maiden standing prettily at the side of the god king that rules the only thing keeping evil at bay, the level of how much totk disrespects her makes me mad on her behalf but i have ranted about that alone enough as well

and with this i am DONE talking about this game, i have ranted so much about it, made my points carefully clear over and over, said that i dont have the nerves left to be nice anymore about it given how much shit alone on twitter i had to live through just bc i dared mildly critisizing the damn game, if you comment some snarky "be real" thing again im just gonna go straight to blockign people bc i am done with this

[imaginesbymonika]

Crush

Part 2 out of ???

Part 1 is here

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Plot: There is nothing quite like realizing you're in love with your best friend when it's too late right?

Warnings: mentions of blood, angst, someone being shot

"It was one hell of a clear shot! Right between-.", Derek makes a brief hand gesture:" His eyes." Spencer flinches slightly, but his friend is too pleased with himself to notice. "I hit him, and he went down instan-.", he pauses, and hilts his head. His proud smile slowly fades:" You were in the room with him, how come you don't know anything about it?"

The younger man blinks:" Oh, yeah.", he states, an exhausted smile emerging on his lips:" Sorry, of course. You hit him and he- and he just- just dropped. Like a fly." Derek watches him closely, before sitting down next to him on the chairs outside the hospital room:" Are you okay?" 

He hates lying to his coworkers, more than anything really. They are his friends, after all, his family. But sometimes, he just couldn't help himself. Being genuine with people can be exhausting. However, the amount of shame that always washes over him afterward wasn't worth any kind of lie. "I'm okay.", Spencer answers:" Just, you know, a bit tired." 

Spencer hadn't realized that the Unsub was dead until the other FBI agents were flooding the building. There was this deafening ringing in his ears, and he believes that maybe that was the reason he didn't hear any other shots being fired. Or maybe the way he couldn't tear his gaze off Y/N's unconscious body, which was slowly bleeding out in front of him had anything to do with it. Blood was leaking through a gaping hole in her left shoulder and this bright red puddle formed itself around her body. And while it got bigger and bigger, Spencer wondered if blood had always looked that shiny. 

"God.", Hotch declared, as he stepped into the room. His hand flew up to cover his nose, there was something about the smell of fresh blood that got to him. His eyes landed on Spencer, who was as pale as the wall behind him before they moved over to the person he was gazing at. "Shit! We- We need an ambulance! Someone has been shot!" More and more people were entering the small space. "Spencer, are you okay?", Hotch kneeled down, and for the first time Spencer turned his head. 

'Someone'. It made Spencer want to throw every single piece of furniture against the nearest wall. Y/N wasn't just some random victim. She was his best friend. The one person in the world, that somehow managed to read him when no one else was able to. He felt the bitterness boiling in his veins, and the need to snap at Hotch. But before he could have reacted the door to the room was being pushed open again and a medical team came in.

Spencer listened to how those men spoke about Y/N like she was on the verge of death, as they lifted her up on the stretcher. He sensed how someone behind him cut the rope in half and he immediately stood up:" Spencer, wait-." But he didn't care. He pushed past the other agents, trying to maintain his eyes on Y/N. "Spencer!", he heard Derek call out again:" Spence, wait!" 

However, the brown-haired man only shook his head and grabbed one of the men by the shoulder. "She is going to be okay, isn't she." The paramedic stared at him, "You guys are going to make sure that she doesn't fucking die, right?", his voice was so rackety, that it captured the attention of nearly everyone at the scene:" What the fuck are you looking at?!", he hissed and Derek who is standing a few meters behind him sighed.

His friend looked like a humiliated animal, that attempted its best to bare its teeth. But even if he managed to fool most of the people at the scene, he couldn't fool him. "You are going to make sure, that she lives or else- I swear to God, I am going to find you and kill you!"

"She lost a lot of blood, we-." "I don't care, you will stop it. That is your job, I-." Derek ultimately pulled him back:" Spencer. She-." He wanted to say something witty, something to defuse all of this strange and aggressive tension but the instant he looked into his eyes he saw that Spencer was truly terrified. What an… awful view.

[sapphire-weapon]

So, I reached the very endgame of FFXVI and looked at the shitton of sidequests that popped up before heading off to the final confrontation and went “fuck it.” I had done every single sidequest in the game leading up to this point, but I was reaching the end of the final night of the days I had taken off of work to play this game and I just needed to beat it and be done with it. I made a manual save at that point and just went into the final boss, intending to go back to the sidequests later.

After I beat the game, I didn’t honestly think I’d actually go back to those sidequests. What was the point, knowing how the game ended and what it meant?

ENDING SPOILERS BENEATH THIS CUT

And then I poked my head into the fandom and kept seeing people insist that Clive lived in the end (and also probably so did Joshua). And, at first, I was like “how much fucking copium are you guys huffing over here?? We literally physically see Joshua die, and he even says that the power of the Phoenix can mend flesh, but it can’t bring the dead back to life. So, all that happened was that Clive healed his corpse to make him look more dignified, but that is it. And we literally see Clive fucking turn into stone and Jill feels his aether disappear. They fucking died, we saw them die, you are so high on copium it’s making you look stupid.”

But then I kept digging into it.

And digging into it.

For Joshua -

Ultima says that Clive’s will is so strong that it actually harbors the power of creation, especially considering the way that Joshua is etched onto his heart. And, during the ending, Clive has Ultima’s power, which also literally is creation. We might not see Joshua get up and move around again, but his survival is hinted at/confirmed during the post-credits scene when he’s listed as the author of the book.

Okay, I can buy that. I guess. It still sounds copium as fuck to me, but I can see how people got there.

Clive’s was a little bit more abstract, and I kept seeing people refer to a conversation he had with Jill that I swear to god I never saw, because apparently Jill is the confirmation that he lived. So, in an effort to understand what the fuck people were talking about, I booted the game back up and went back and did the sidequests that I’d ignored last night.

And I saw the conversation.

And fandom is right. 

This motherfucker goddamn lived ARE YOU KIDDING ME

THIS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN IN MISSABLE OPTIONAL CONTENT HOLY FUCK

It’s subtle, and it’s spelled out purely in symbolism, but it is there.

Jill says: “I realized that, no matter how terrible the night, dawn will always come. You [will] always come for me. And you have. Again and again.”

A few lines later, Clive says: “I’ll stop at nothing to see that you [get the life you want].”

In the ending, Jill watches Metia go out -- Metia, which she prayed on to bring Clive back to her -- and she takes that to mean that Clive is dead. But when she runs out of the infirmary and drops to her knees, the sun rises. Immediately. And Torgal howls -- and howling is how wolves try to signal their location to lost members of the pack to guide them home. And then Jill smiles at the sight of the sun.

Metia goes out because Jill doesn’t have to wish on it anymore -- not because Clive is dead, but because they’ll never have to be separated again. It also probably goes out because there’s no more magic left in the world. And, in fact, that’s probably why he doesn’t die -- the ability to channel aether in the form of magic disappears from the world before the curse can actually fully take him.

Because I rewatched the ending, and --

We don’t actually see him turn to stone. We see his hand turn to stone, but it doesn’t appear to be creeping up the rest of his arm or anything. And then he just... closes his eyes and drops his head against the sand.

That motherfucker is alive.

And because he’s alive, it ties back to Joshua because of the sidequest with the fuckin heartstones binding them together through the will of their father. If one endures, so too must the other. They both have to carry out Elwin’s legacy; it can’t just be Clive (or, it can’t just be Joshua, if you’re of the opinion that Clive resurrected him with Ultima’s power but then died himself).

Because it wasn’t just Cid’s dream and Cid’s legacy -- it was Elwin’s, too. The game makes it a point to repeat that over and over again, and it also keeps hammering home the idea that Clive and Joshua need to continue on living in order to see Elwin’s dream realized.

And Elwin’s dream is shown to have been realized in the post-credits scene. For that to have happened, both Clive and Joshua had to have lived.

Does this absolve XVI of all of its other writing problems? Absolutely not.

Is it complete and utter bullshit that this is so obtuse and missable and a vast majority of people are never going to find it? Yes.

Does it make things marginally better, though.......? Yeah, it actually does.

This is the payoff for Clive allowing himself to be loved. Jill’s love for him literally saved his life. Cid gave him something to die for, but Jill gave him something to live for. He made it a point to hold on long enough to look at the moon, because he promised her he would -- and doing that is what kept him going long enough that the magic disappeared before his body could fully turn to stone. And that whole idea of death and rebirth is thematically tied into the whole Phoenix thing and all that other bullshit.

I’m going to need to take some time to process all of this, but.

It does make me feel at least a little better.

[whatareyoudoingwithamaserati]

yessss, two friends showed me jennifers body a couple years ago! the movie deserves every single bit of hype it gets, i had so much fun, it was delicious!

(if you have more recs? 👀👀 I love literary/audio horror but ive been too... idk, scared? because i don't know what i like when it comes to visuals?)

LET’S GOOOOO!!! I put off watching Jennifer’s Body for so long because I was worried it would not live up to the hype but MAN was it worth it. They have been plaguing my thoughts ever since. I am especially a massive fan of the costume design because they NAILED that shit!!

Admittedly I’m more into horror movies than novels (it is . So hard to read these days) and podcasts have never caught my fancy, but it would feel wrong to not recommend sign here by Claudia Lux and the ever infamous American psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I actually haven’t finished American psycho because it is a dense read but my god it’s a beautiful masterpiece of a book and I did not expect it to be as hilarious as it is

Movie wise I tend to jump all over the place and watch whatever catches my fancy so this is. Not a very cohesive rec list and not full of very many older homoerotic movies but. I plan to watch more when I can

First and foremost I am an absolute die hard fan of house of 1000 corpses. I cannot put into words how much I love it in all of its weirdness. It was made by rob zombie of living dead girl fame and you can TELL in the best of ways. It’s got fun colour grading, excessive swearing, weird ass characters, and such a fun setting. I’d say it’s on the medium-heavy side of gore with a couple of body horror scenes and a good bit of blood and mutilation. The seocnd movie is good, third eh, but you don’t actually need to watch those two. They take the camp of the first movie and turn it into a more gritty realistic energy that is almost meanspirited in nature

I’m a HUGE cabin fever fan and I will recommend it at every chance I get, BUT! There is a caveat and that is that it is not only significantly gory but also that it is weird, campy, kitschy, and a real big fan of slurs, LOL. I think we hit several n-words, an r-word or two, and some use of faggot. Some of the later scenes are downright WEIRD but despite it all it is one of my favourite horrors with some really haunting scenes

Hellraiser in general is a wonderful franchise, I love Clive Barker’s choice to base the cenobites around a mix of BDSM and gay culture and how he characterizes pinhead, even if the later movies fuck it up a little. The 2022 standalone is a huge favourite in particular, I love the imagery and the cenobite redesigns that lean heavier into body horror as well as the cinematography. Jamie Clayton’s pinhead is fucking INCREDIBLE to boot

If you like erotic horror, X is definitely a good one to watch - the plot centres around sex workers determined to make an erotic film and make it big, with some immaculate commentary on desirability, beauty, and aging. Good bit of tits and ass in that one, as well as medium level gore. It also has two sequels, Pearl and MaXXXine, which are set in the past and future respectively. Pearl was secretly shot at the same time as X in the same location and focuses on the lust for fame, the need to make it big, and a youthful mania of sorts coming from Pearl. MaXXXine I haven’t actually seen yet so I cannot say much about it, but I hope to get to it soon!

The fear street trilogy is also a remarkably well done series that seamlessly covers one long tangled mystery throughout three different timelines, using the same handful of actors for each one! The use of setting and cinematography is so fuckint cool, the eventual mystery reveal is absolutely wild, and there’s even a canon queer relationship! The gore isn’t too bad, I’d say light but there are some moments that push it to a medium at best

Ready or Not is a movie I enjoy for a variety or reasons (I think the iconic shot of Grace in a ripped and bloody wedding dress is pretty big on the internet), from the setting to the storytelling to Samara Weaving’s fucking banshee screams, with medium-light gore (though the bits that do show up are impactful as all hell. Cabin in the Woods is fun as a deconstruction of the horror genre (and a story that theoretically makes every single horror movie made canon, wow), though it’s also just really fucking funny. Another medium gore!

Candyman 2021 is a brilliant take on an old legacy of movies (again, no previous ones need watching) with a wonderful exploration of gentrification, black trauma, and what makes the candyman the candyman. I know I keep talking about cinematography but holy fuck, the multimedia use in this film in particular. Immaculate. I feel practically obligated to recommend Deathgasm, which is an indie horror with some pretty wicked gore, if not just because the main characters are all metalheads, and as one myself, it’s SO COOL to see us as protags in a horror movie

Last but not least, Prey 2022. Holy fuck, Prey is an utter masterpiece. It’s the latest addition to the predator franchise, another one of those ones you don’t Need to have watched in order to watch prey, but havint seen them gives the watching experience a good bit more depth, with iconic lines being given a new spin. It’s technically a prequel to the first ever predator movie, focusing on one of the first few appearances of a predator on earth (ehhh debatable considering the canon of aliens vs predator but I’m ignoring that for the sake of conciseness), giving it more a more basic appearance and weapons, while also letting it kick absolute ASS. The plot is incredible, the cinematography is incredible, the CGI animals are so much better than ever expected, and it’s also the first ever feature length film to ever have an official Comanche dub!!! Holy fuck!!

As a bonus, though I haven’t seen it, Doctor Sleep also seems like a really well done movie! It’s based off of the Stephen King book set after the shining, reprising and revisiting a lot of iconic moments to tell a new story with fucking incredible visuals that put their own spin on the shining

[turningvioletviolet]

Okay so I just finished the Nerdy Prudes Must Die digital ticket, and I have to say, the most interesting part of watching it is that this crowd...didn't really seem to have watched Nightmare Time?

There were a lot of NMT callbacks and references in the show, and when I saw it live (closing weekend, not opening like the digital ticket), people cheers so fucking loudly at all of them that it actually started to annoy me because at times you couldn't hear what the actors were saying/singing over the cheers.

Some of the most notable examples of this include (massive spoilers ahead, obviously):

"You kind of look like that homeless guy from downtown".

The digital ticket crowd laughed at the joke, sure, but the closing weekend audience fucking lost it.

That's because it's a three layered joke: first there's Richie's simple dig at Pete looking homeless, second there's the inside joke that Joey actually plays both Pete and the homeless guy, but third there's the fact that the homeless guy is canonically Pete's older brother time traveled to the past...they just don't know it.

The digital ticket audience laughed an appropriate level for a group that recognized the first, maybe the second layer of the joke. But it was the closing weekend crowd that absolutely lost it.

(And it wasn't just a matter of the cheers not being audible - later on, when the "I have been waiting for my hot chocolate for what feels like five fucking years" joke came on, the digital audience screamed exactly as loud as they did when I saw the show live closing weekend. So the issue isn't how much audience noise the mics picked up, it's how many audience members understood the reference)

The Lords in Black

First of all, even before the Lords in Black appeared onstage, when the teens were starting the ritual, the audience in closing weekend was already losing it, whereas the digital ticket audience was dead silent. When the Lords in Black actually appeared, both audiences screamed and cheered, but I swear the closing weekend audience cheered for FAR longer, well into the actual singing. There's a much more telling fact, though.

When I saw the show live, people would cheer like crazy for just about every bit of spoken dialogue, be it Nibbly's "I wanna lick it" or Blinky's "We've been watching you Gracey".

I think the line that got the loudest applause was Tinky's "Oh boy, a Spankoffski! I'm gonna have the whole set in my toy box!" Like, people were freaking the fuck. out. at that line.

But in the digital ticket...that didn't really seem to happen. They reacted like it was just generally creepy dialogue, not like any of it actually meant anything to them.

Until Wiggly spoke, of course, and spoke of "friendy wends" and his "Christmas list". Then the audience lost it. Which suggests to me that they had seen Black Friday, but not Nightmare Time, and certainly not Time Bastard.

Hatchetfield Action News with Dan and Donna

On the first announcement, I swear to god people were cheering so loudly that you'd have though it was Joey and Lauren actually onstage and not a voiceover. I actually had no idea what the first half of that announcement actually said until I watched the digital ticket because the cheers were THAT. LOUD.

The second announcement was almost as bad, but not quite. But then Dan and Donna actually came onstage in the middle of a song, and there went my ability to discern a single lyric for a hot minute, lmao.

The Black Book

As soon as the teens picked up an object wrapped in cloth, I heard gasps and turned around and you could tell that people already knew what it was going to be. And as the object got unwrapped, those gasps erupted into ecstatic cheers.

Watching the digital ticket, having seen that, felt almost uncomfortable because of how dead silent the audience was. They weren't seeing the Black Book oh my GOD, they were waiting to find out what the mayor just had them dig up. Hell, when Pete asked, "a book?", there were a few chuckles from the crowd. Nobody was fucking chuckling on closing weekend, let me tell you.

And more

Mostly just little things, honestly. When Soloman Lauter first mentioned The Church of the Starry Children, and the crowd burst into cheers. When Grace was telling the story of what happened to the Waylans, and the audience made a possible connection to the whole "Axe Men" thing.

So yeah.

I wanna reiterate that, despite being one of the people freaking out, it honestly was kinda annoying, especially once the Black Book came out and things got lore-heavy.

Like, I kinda wanted everyone in the audience to shut up for two seconds so I could just watch the plot, lol. But at the same time, it was very energizing and validating, hearing so many people externally losing their minds the same way I was losing mind internally.

I'll also say that for the more dramatic scenes, like when they were digging up the black book or reciting the incantation, it does come off as more tense when the audience is dead silent, compared to an audience losing their marbles.

Anyway, to say the least, it'll be interesting to see what type of audience the YT release has (they did have cameras on either end of the aisle through the show I attending, so I'm guessing that they'll use some of that footage, but I wouldn't be surprised if they compile multiple shows' worth of footage to make the cleanest possible YT release).

[rychlostthespacewizard]

Wizard rant:

Why dont you fix this with magic? Why dont you fix that with magic? Oh come on, I cast spells not miracles! When you all have to memorize arrays of nonsense and repeat it every single moment just to have a chance to cast a spell, you will understand how hard it is to do this. And you know what? I am not a miracle worker, I am a wizard. I am not a god, I am a elf. This potions you ask me to make need I-N-G-R-E-D-I-E-N-T-S and I'm neck deep in debt with the apothecary near the Golden Oar because of this, maybe if you didn't run into battle like a band of babbling baffoons bickering 'bout who's the best, I wouldn't have to make so many potions!

And stop screaming while i'm concentrating on spells, this is already hard to not mess up, I have to keep repeating the incantations mentaly so you all don't get killed by the Goristro, and you all are screaming like a bunch of ghosts cursed with testicular torsion! And stop laughing you sorcerous scoundrel, you have to stop casting fireball at everything that moves, you're going to burn the whole forest down and then the druids will come after us again, and I don't want to be turned into a toad or eaten by a bear!

You are always so quick to throw magic and the thousands of rules at the wall thinking it's just "I cast heat metal" and "I flick my wand and you die" my equations aren't like your swords that you wave around and people drop dead, I had to take 12 hour classes for 70 years! Thats more than half of you can live!

I swear to the gods, if you all don't stop asking me to fix everything with magic, I'm going to turn you all into pigs and sell you to the butcher!

This party is not good for my health, I need a vacation. I'm going to the Feywild, and you all can go to the Nine Hells for all I care!

[marvelwitchergilmore]

I Can Feel You

Summary; Beau Arlen x Fe!OC (or reader if you wish) -> Agent Sandy Fletcher is brought to Montana to help on a case.

Warning: Swearing, Violence (crimial minds level - not a tie in), mentions of tortue, fluff (kinda) towards the end, angst.There is also an SPN reference if you can spot it.

They had plastered her as a rookie. Made it out that she didn’t know much but she knew just over the normal amount to pass every test in the field. 

By the gods were they wrong. 

Agent Sandy Fletcher arrived in Montana in the early hours of Thursday morning. She was picked up by Deputy Poppernak who kept her both entertained and up-to-date on the case at hand. 

She had been given her orders by her Chief. He wanted her away from town for a while. And, even though he wished that he didn’t have to, he needed to. Sandy needed out of Oregon. At least for a while. 

“Tell me, is your Sheriff as talkative as you?”

Popp blushed a little. “Sorry. I’m talking too much.”

Sandy smiled. “Oh, no. It’s nice. The people I’m usually with don’t speak more than two words a day.”

Popp went on to explain a few things about Sheriff Beau Arlen and his deputy Hoyt. “I’ve heard good things so far.” Sandy assured Popp. 

By the time she arrived at her home for the following however-many weeks, Sandy managed to grab a few hours of sleep before heading into the station at 8am. 

And they got straight onto the case. 

A double act. Childhood friends turned into a serial killer duo. They’d kidnap the helpless and weak, keep them alive for a few days but in the meanwhile make them wish they were dead until finally…they’d grant the victim one final wish. 

To let them die. 

It was better than going through the pain again and again and again. 

But it was two weeks after Sandy had joined the team and was with Beau, Denise, Cassie and Jenny that she was taken from them. 

The duo had been watching Denise’s house the entire evening, waiting for someone to come outside alone and be distracted long enough to be taken out. 

It just so happened to be Sandy. 

She had offered to take out the trash since Denise had cooked, Cassie and Jenny were handling the pots and Beau was clearing the dining room. 

But after 5 minutes, Beau popped his head outside from the backdoor to shout Sandy back inside. 

“She still not back yet?” Beau had smiled as he entered and Jenny took the stacked plates from his hands. 

“Wonder if she got lost?”

Beau chuckled and popped his head around the door. “Hey, Sandy! You get lost?”

But then nothing. 

Not a single thing. 

“Sandy?”

Beau looked back inside, the other three growing a little more concerned. “Sandy?”

Beau walked outside and around the corner cautiously. 

On the floor was the trash bag open, pouring its contents onto the grass whilst the lid was thrown across the lawn. 

“Hoyt!”

Jenny shot outside of the door and came to his side. “Where is she?”

Three sets of footprints. Sandy’s and two others. 

They’d got to her. 

Storming inside the station, Beau gave out his instructions to his officers, giving Hoyt things to follow up on and asking Cassie to keep Denise by her side at all times. 

“We don’t know how long they’d been watching us but I’m gonna guess the whole night.”

“Beau?”

“I need every officer reporting back to either myself or Hoyt. You go out in pairs. You do not-”

“Beau?”

“Separate from your partner-”

“Beau!” Poppernack shouted, finally catching his boss’ attention. “Look.”

Popp picked up the remote on his desk and cast the live tape from his inbox to the Tv screen. 

Sandy. 

She was out cold. A single lightbulb was somewhere, lighting her up just enough for them to all see the damage that had been done. 

She had blood dripping from her nose, cuts across her cheeks and collar bone. She had bruises around her eye but they’d hit her so it wouldn’t swell up. 

They wanted the station to know it was her. 

Everyone watched in silence, waiting for something to happen.

“It’s live, too. They’re streaming it but I can’t get a location.”

“Keep trying.” Beau was holding back every emotion he could so he simply sounded deflated. His eyes never once left the screen, even as he walked the few steps towards a desk to sit against it. 

Popp nodded and continued to try and find her. 

For a few moments, nothing happened and then a groan. 

Slowly, Sandy was coming around. Her head felt heavy and her neck was sore. How long had she been out?

Squinting her eyes due to the light, she finally managed to find some strength again and then she saw him. 

Sandy closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, it’s you.”

“You’re still alive I see?”

“I’m guessing you were expecting a different ending.”

The guy behind the camera stood up. “Perhaps.”

“What is it with villain's being so vague in their answers?” Sandy questioned. “You never just get straight to the point. You have to make a whole song and dance about it and even then you don’t get to your point!”

A loud smack came across her cheek. Her hair covered her face but opened up the back of her neck for the camera to see yet another cut and taser markings. 

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect gentleman?” Sandy looked back up to him. 

Sharply, he yanked at her hair and placed another hand under his chin harshly. 

“I wouldn’t speak to me like that if I were you, Alexandra.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sandy gritted. “You’re not my mother.”

“It’s your name, though? Isn’t it? Alexandra Fletcher. Special Agent. Only child- well, that’s not exactly true. Is it?”

Sandy laughed. “What? You been looking through my family’s medical records again? Wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor to get them legally so you stole them? That it? Oh, your parents must be so proud.”

He sharply gripped at her throat again. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Didn’t know this was your angle. Always thought this was Ernie’s method.” Sandy continued. 

“What’s she doing? She’s going to get herself killed!” That was the main comment coming from the officers until Beau shushed them all. 

“Where is Ernie by the way? I thought you two were attached by the…” Sandy looked down a little. “You know? Everything.”

He placed more pressure on her throat but before she felt herself begin to pass out, Ernie walked inside. 

“Let her go. I want to have some fun with this one. She’s special.”

“Thanks.” Sandy steadied her breathing. “Last person who called me that was my 5th grade teacher.”

“Humor? Is that your distraction?”

“More of my entertainment than anything.” Sandy shrugged. “The Sesame Street writers have really gone down the drain since they replaced some of the acts.”

Ernie threw back his head in a laugh as he picked out his tools. “Ha! Let me guess? We’re Bert and Ernie?”

“Congratulations, you have fucking ears. You mom must have been so proud when you finally listened to her.”

“Oh, she was. She asked me to kill her neighbor for her. The dog kept shitting in our garden.” He explained before lowering his top half to be eye-level with her. “Just one thing? Why Bert and Ernie?”

“Well…I’ve read your files. And you both seem to have this…ooh, what’s the word?” It hit her. “Codependency. Well, one of you does.” Sandy whispered before gesturing over to Bert. 

Ernie smiled. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

Ernie’s face changed, no surprise to Sandy and he swiped his knife across her as he distracted her by punching her gut. 

“Your folks ever tell you it’s not nice to beat on girls?”

“Pops encouraged it, actually. Said women needed to know their place in society. Thinking. Having an opinion. It wasn’t right.”

“Do you believe that?”

Ernie shrugged. “Not really. I have met some extraordinary women along the way.”

“Who you’ve killed along the way?”

“Most.”

“What about him?” Sandy nodded over to Bert. 

“Oh, he'd be too afraid of them to try.”

“Seems pretty confident to me.” Sandy argued. “I mean, he had me shaking in my boots before you came in here.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Beau and some more of the officers continued to watch in silence whilst Jenny stood over Popp’s shoulder, trying to find a location on Sandy. 

Beau’s eyes stayed glued to the screen in front of him looking for any sign or hint for where she might be. 

She couldn’t be that far. She’d only been gone 3 hours - although it felt longer. 

And clearly, they’d had tied for a while. 

“Where are you, Sandy?”

“Do you have anything you’d like to say? Perhaps to that Sheriff of yours?” Ernie now asked as he circled her before finally leaning down behind her. “I saw how he was looking at you at dinner.”

Sandy rolled her eyes, “Oh, brother.”

“Now, I might not be the best expert but even I know when a guy is into you.”

“Why? Did you catch yourself in the mirror when checking Bert out?”

Ernie gave a harsh, fake smile. “Funny,”

“Oh, no. Please. Do continue.” Sandy’s voice was laced in sarcasm as she watched Ernie walk away. 

“You laugh, but I guess…part of you hopes I’m right.”

Sandy didn’t say anything but simply shot him a look of slight confusion for him to continue. 

“Because I also saw how you looked at him?”

“And how did I look at him?”

Ernie turned around and lent against his weapons table as another blade sat comfortably in his hands. “Like you’d do anything for him.”

Sandy thought about it for a moment. “Hhm, maybe. But he is my colleague so…maybe not anything.”

“Please, you were planning your wedding invitations.”

“Actually, it was our joint grave stone.” Sandy corrected. “Much like you with your very own partner in crime. I mean, there is a lovely plot of land for you out in the field. I mean, watching the stars from the little pond by that old willow tree? It would be very peaceful.”

“Sounds like you’ve found your own resting place.”

Sandy smiled, “Maybe.”

She could only hope that Beau or someone caught onto what she was saying. 

And he did.

Beau gave the order and after a final few minutes, they’d found the spot. 

For any main road, it would take just over an hour. 

“Okay, I need squad cars, Popp take Alpha,” Beau then pointed to a few more officers and gave them their orders. 

“Stream this to my phone.” Beau told Popp and the moment they got into Beau’s car, Jenny turned up the volume. 

“Is she okay?”

“I think.”

“You think? What do you mean-”

“Beau, she’s okay.” Jenny assured him. “She’s just sitting there watching them.”

“Okay.”

“She’ll be okay, Beau.” Jenny reassured him. “She’s tougher than we think.”

Beau couldn’t talk. He just nodded and pressed his foot on the gas. 

By the time they arrived, Beau and the others all switched off their headlights and sirens as they got closer to the barn. 

Once the SWAT and officers were surrounding the building, SWAT kicked down the door and they all entered. 

If Beau wasn’t so determined, the sight he was met with, he would have frozen. 

SWAT took care of the serial duo whilst Jenny searched the rest of the barn for evidence to further the conviction. 

Beau searched around the place before finally reaching Sandy, holstering his gun and leaning down. 

“Beau Arlen,” Sandy smiled in a weak laugh. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Beau smiled as he quickly untied her and let her rest her weight against his arms as he helped her stand. 

“Could say the same for you, Sweetheart.”

Sandy smiled weakly as he took her in his arms and helped her walk outside to the medics. 

“Are you sure you can walk?”

“Beau, I have been through this a million times. I’m fine.”

As much as Beau would have once upon a time pushed her comment aside, he couldn’t. “What?”

“I’ll explain later, can we just..hurry?”

By the time Beau helped her out and got her to the medics, she was being rushed into hospital. 

“They haven’t cut too deep. I should only need a couple of stitches.”

“Try 30.” The paramedic said in response. “Maybe more.”

Beau gave Sandy ‘that’ look but she just rolled her eyes. “What?”

“How can you be so calm about this? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Beau, I told you I’m fine.”

And she said the same when he finally was alone with her in her medical room once her nurse had finished the final stitches. 

“You keep saying you’re fine-”

“Are you okay? Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Sandy.”

“Beau.” She copied his tone. 

Then he gave her that look again. 

And she folded. 

“Okay. So maybe the reason I was sent here wasn’t just to help out.” Sandy explained. “There had been a few incidences, back in Oregon. I worked a couple of cases in the Organised Crime Unit and - long story short - they found me. Tied me up in their grandmother’s basement and said if I didn’t join them I’d be…swimming with the fishes, if you will.”

“But this isn’t on-”

“My record? I know. It’s for highly classified officials to know, only.” Sandy nodded. “It was both for my protection, should any of the family somehow make their way into the databases and for any future employers I may have. Being tortured by a crime boss isn’t exactly something that would sell when trying to get a job in law enforcement.”

“When did it happen?”

“A few years back.”

“And have you-”

“Received counseling? Yeah. Just over 18 months and now we talk every couple of months.”

Beau nodded and hung his head. “Beau? Look at me?”

Beau looked up. 

“I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m okay.” Sandy assured him in a soft voice. She reached out and took his hand. “Can you feel me? I can feel you.”

Beau squeezed her hand lightly. “I can feel you.”

Beau then pulled her into a tight hug which she gave back just as tight. He almost lost her tonight and yet she had been acting like nothing had happened. 

But, just as Beau’s arms began to relax around her, Sandy’s arms tightened. 

“Not yet.”

It was only two words, but Beau knew. Beau knew she was falling. That she was about to collapse beneath the weight of everything that had just happened. 

Eventually, Sandy let go and moved back to wipe her eyes. “When these pain meds wear off, I might need your help. I love Denise but she scares me.”

Beau nodded. “Oh, me too.”

Sandy smiled. “Thank you for finding me.”

“Thank you for telling me where you were.”

[bedlamsbard]

Number 7 for the chose violence ask game?

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

This is an immediate and unhesitating Star Wars answer: Ahsoka.

so these days a lot of my annoyance is about the canon, but go back in time to 2015 when the Rebels S1 finale came out. at this point Ahsoka had not appeared in (real time) Star Wars canon since the first TCW series finale (this show has had three for various reasons), which aired in March 2013, which is actually not that long. (She showed up briefly in Yoda's vision when Lost Missions aired in 2014, the second TCW series finale.) From a 2023 perspective, two years is not that long, but it was 2015, okay. TFA had not yet come out. Rebels S1 had just aired. The decanonization of Legends wasn't even a year old yet; the amount of new (Disney) canon Star Wars was in the single digits. This was years before Disney+ or TCW S7 (the third TCW series finale) and live action Star Wars television was an oft-shotdown rumor (Star Wars Underworld, we remember you kindly).

Back in 2014 when they first announced Rebels, there was a lot of bitterness about it -- did they cancel TCW for this, why aren't any of these characters Ahsoka, could Sabine maybe be Ahsoka? (They first introduced her helmeted.) You can probably find some of this on my Tumblr if you go back far enough because I was also very wary at the time. All through when Rebels S1 was airing there was a lot of conversation about when or if Ahsoka was going to show up in a way you really wouldn't get today, because these days we're used to cameos and crossovers. When Fulcrum made their debut with the masked voice in Out of Darkness, people reverse-engineered that voice and did digital...stuff...to try and figure out if it was Ashley Eckstein voicing the character, because back then people immediately did assume that Fulcrum was Ahsoka. And then Fire Across the Galaxy came out, and Ahsoka actually did appear, and then the animated side of Star Wars fandom lost its fucking mind.

so you have to understand that a lot of TCW fans did not go over to Rebels when it first aired. many did, I was one of them, but a lot didn't because they were very angry about TCW being cancelled, about Ahsoka not being a main character, about Rebels' art style -- gods, that one had (and still has!) people furious. and then Ahsoka appeared in Rebels with her new design and people just LOST IT.

(not my edit)

people were FURIOUS she didn't like her TCW vision version -- like, you think the reaction to her live action appearance was bad? please, we were all dead inside by that point and inured to Star Wars' nonsense. I have seen some shit in the Star Wars fandom and the reaction to Ahsoka's Rebels redesign is way up at the top of the list. The shape of her lekku and montrals. The tiger striping on her lekku. The shape of her face. The way her facial markings changed. Her skin color. The one that always sticks in my head are the people who argued that because she was wearing a different headband Filoni and Co. had stripped her of her cultural identity as a Togruta. The list goes on. I swear to gods however bad you think it was from what I'm saying it was worse. No, worse than that.

That's just the aesthetic elements. What also happened as soon as she had appeared was people going "well, Ahsoka's here, so Kanan is obviously going to die," and this went on for ALL of the hiatus summer between S1 and S2, and ALL of S2. As many SW fen who follow me know, Kanan is my favorite, so I was logging on every day to find people discussing how Kanan was extraneous and marked for death because why would you have Kanan when you could have AHSOKA. I got very bitter about it. (Not helped by canon completely fumbling Kanan every time Ahsoka was onscreen, I am still EXTREMELY angry about the hot mess that was The Future of the Force.)

Two years later canon quite literally did swap Kanan out for Ahsoka, and I've never really gotten over it, but when World Between Worlds aired that was the first thing that I thought of. It was just...extremely bad.

And then in general people get extremely weird about Ahsoka in the way that people always get about their faves (depth? flaws? we've never heard of them), in a way that's just been getting much worse over the years since Rebels S4 (which I hate) and TCW S7 (which I hate) and the live action appearance (which I hate) and the upcoming show (which I refuse to acknowledge). Even as a fic writer, it got to the point where I'd really hesitate to put Ahsoka into a story or a chapter because I knew that if I did, I'd get a large number of comments (large being relative here) that ONLY talked about Ahsoka and not about anything else going on in that chapter. And then when I didn't put her into a chapter (you can see this in the last few chapters of Crown that I posted earlier this year), I'd get people going BUT WHERE'S AHSOKA? As a cast of thousands writer it was a combination guaranteed to drive me crazy, even if I hadn't been, at that point, pretty neutral about the character. And I started as a fan, you know? I didn't come into TCW until S4 was airing, so the show had to sell me on her, but it worked, and I was a fan. It just...went wrong in every possible way.

(The Marvel equivalent for me is Peggy Carter, and I am doing a lot of work on my end to not end up as bitter about Peggy as I am about Ahsoka, because I know it's a danger for related but not identical reasons, and I'd really rather not have that response to two characters. And mostly I have been successful, because I'm pretty careful about where I go in the fandom and I'm not picking up rabid Peggy fans the way my Rebels fic picked up rabid Ahsoka fans, since it's a much larger fandom and people who are very aggressive about Peggy are not reading a clearly labeled SteveNat fic. It's helped by the fact that these are very different canons and very different fandoms, and that I came in well after Endgame, because I know if I'd come in before I'd be way less clear-headed about it; there's a reason I avoid all the Captain Carter stuff, which makes me rabid for various reasons.) (That said I know I'm blocked by at least one Peggy fan.)

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: February 21, 2024

Lyrics:

Lately my thoughts eating me alive

Laid in the bed, thinking maybe the hate will finally go away if I'm not alive

Wish I didn't listen, just like they would understand me one time

I had a breakdown and tatted my entire body except one line

Everything's just fine

Yeah, Slim bring the beat in

Sipping again, there I go slipping again, I'm acting different again

I see my family's reflection every time I look in the cup, and I sip it again

After the sins, tell me, after all the sins, will I be mentioned again?

Why do I care, if in the end it's just me and God, like I'm Christian again?

Before my dad left to serve

He made sure I took on every quality I didn't want

I was supposed to die at birth

Gave me a chance and I fucked it up, give me another one

I've been running from secrets I hid as a kid, and I never confronted them

I just called Ma

Said I forgive her for not being there when I needed one

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back just let me go, yeah

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back, don't let me go

Who am I when the music stops

And the character that I've been playing is really just broken and fucking lost?

I swear, I've been telling you over and over again in all these songs

But they don't hear nothing I'm writing 'cause they're too busy tryna write me off

And they go on and on and on

It's funny 'cause if we just sat and talked

You'd see that it's just hard for me to be vulnerable 'cause I blocked it off

I got trust issues, growing up no one there to hear what I thought

My heart was broken like my ribs as a kid when me and my father fought

Yeah, I'm medicating with something that I cannot pronounce, but it's what the doctor gave me

Rehab patient, with a pen and some paper the psychiatrist keeps evaluating

How can I live with the fact that my hand wasn't on her stomach when we lost the baby?

I don't got no one to turn to 'cause everyone's dead in my life that was tryna raise me

Searching for someone to tell me who I really am, I don't know when I look in the mirror

Constantly dreading the day that the audience might not be screaming for me anymore

The feeling of dying alone and not leaving anything behind is my biggest fear

Kiss the person that I love as if I'm never coming back after I leave out the door

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back, just let me go, yeah

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back, don't let me go

Songwriter:

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back, just let me go, yeah

I'm coming back, just let me go

I'm coming back, don't let me go

Brandon Allen / Colson Baker / Steve Basil

SongFacts:

There hasn't been a new musical contribution from mgk for quite some time. He released the single “Pressure” in May 2023, but now his fans can rejoice because his new single “Don’t Let Me Go” is finally out! In the single, the rapper reflects on his life and remembers defining moments, with particular emphasis on his emotional and mental state. The sensitive ballad is accompanied by a more than fitting music video directed by Sam Cahill. Cahill has already been involved in several mgk projects, including the film “Machine Gun Kelly’s Life in Pink,” which was released in 2022.

Homepage:

mgk (Machine Gun Kelly)

[dorotheado]

i'll do anything you say if you say it with your hands // i knew you'd come back to me // this love came back to me // i'm insane but i'm your baby // can't decide if it's a choice getting swept away // for you i would fall from grace just to touch your face // you and i got lost in it and we pretended it could last forever // we were crazy to think that this would work // losing grips on sinking ships you showed up just in time // we say that we'll just screw it up in these trying times, we're not trying // i don't know what to call this situation but i know i can't call you mine // no rules in breakable heaven // this slope is treacherous and i like it // back then we didnt know we were built to fall apart we broke the status quo and we broke each other's hearts // you give me just enough attention to keep my hopes too high // good girls, hopeful they'll be, long they will wait // lantern burning, flickered in my mind for only you, but you were still gone // this is falling in love in the cruelest way // we learn to live with the pain mosaic broken hearts // i know i make the same mistakes every time, bridges burn, i never learn // they're born from just one single glance but they die and they die and they die a million little times // carnations you had thought were roses, that's us // religions in your lips even if its a false god // i just sit here and wait, grieving for the living we're on the road to ruin, we play dumb but we know exactly what we're doing // we break down a little, but when you get me alone it's so simple // every day is like a battle, but every night with us is like a dream // i know how to act like I'm fine // said im fine but it wasn't true i don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you // back when i was living for the hope of it all // if i'm dead to you why are you at the wake // til we were dead and gone and buried check the pulse and come back swearing its the same after three months in the grave // if the story's over, why am i still writing pages?

[threestarsinline]

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, I JUST HAVE NO WORDS FOR THIS MASTERPIECE. I'M NOT RELIGIOUS BUT THIS SHOULD BE IN AN ALTAR, IT'S A FREAKING MASTERPIECE, I'M JUST GOING TO MAKE AN ALTAR MYSELF AND PRAY TO IT EVERY DAY AND EVERY NIGHT, THIS IS INCREDIBLE, I AM DEAD ON THE FLOOR AND I AM NOT GETTING UP EVER AGAIN (More fangirling and love for this fic under the cut)

I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST READ THIS JUST LIKE THAT, FOR FREE, LIKE, I WOULD GIVE AN ORGAN TO READ THIS I SWEAR, IT'S THE BEST RHETT FIC I HAVE EVER READ, I AM NOT KIDDING, NEW FAV RHETT FIC UNLOCKED. I REALLY CAN'T BELIEVE THAT I CAN READ THIS, SERIOUSLY, I WOULD GIVE YOU MY SOUL IN THANKS BECAUSE OMG, I WOULD PAY A MILLION DOLLARS TO READ THIS, THIS SHOULD BE EXPOSED IN A GALLERY AS ONE OF THE GREATEST WORKS OF ALL TIME, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MANY EMOTIONS THIS PULLED OUT OF ME, IT GAVE ME SUCH A VISCERAL REACTION IN THE BEST OF WAYS, I WAS SCREAMING, CRYING, DYING AND THEN COMING BACK TO LIFE.

IT WAS JUST EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED, IT HURT SO MUCH BUT THE COMFORT AT THE END WAS EVERYTHING, IT TRULY MADE EVERYTHING WORTH IT. YOUR WRITING IS JUST AMAZING, I HAVE NO WORDS, I MAY BE REPEATING MYSELF BUT THIS FIC JUST CHANGED MY LIFE I SWEAR, NOTHING HAS EVER FELT AS CATHARTIC AS READING THIS, I AM GOING TO FOREVER THINK ABOUT THIS.

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING THINGS FOR WORK BUT READING THIS MASTERPIECE WAS MORE IMPORTANT, IT WAS A NEED, I JUST CANNOT THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR WRITING THIS AND SHARING IT WITH US, I HAVE A PERMANENT SMILE ON MY FACE AND I DON'T KNOW IF IT'S EVER GOING TO GO AWAY, I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT IT TO.

I AM LITERALLY LIVING MY CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS DREAMS THROUGH THIS FIC, IT WAS A TROPE THAT I ALREADY LOVED BUT THIS FIC JUST CEMENTED IT AND RAISED IT FOR ME. I MAY NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND BUT AT LEAST I HAVE THIS FIC, AND I SERIOUSLY WOULDN'T WANT IT ANY OTHER WAY.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS FIC IS JUST WONDERFUL, I MEAN, THE LONGING, THE YEARNING, THE PINING, THAY ARE MY FAVORITE AND I EAT THEM UP EVERY SINGLE TIME AND YOU JUST PORTRAYED ALL OF THOSE FEELINGS SO WELL I WANT TO DIE.

I LOVE SOULMATE AUS AND THE ANGST FROM HANAHAKI DISEASE WITH A HAPPY ENDING AND OMG, DID YOU DELIVER QUEEN, IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I'VE READ A FIC WITH THAT AU AND I JUST LOVE IT, IT'S JUST SO INCREDIBLE. THIS WAS DELICIOUSLY WRITTEN, JUST THE ANGST, ALL THE FEELINGS, IT'S JUST SERIOUSLY INCREDIBLE, I LOVED EVERY SINGLE PART OF IT.

AND THE WORLD BUILDING AND YOUR WRITING STYLE OMG THEY ARE JUST AMAZING!!! I COULD LITERALLY FEEL THE STORM COMING, THE WIND ON MY FACE, THE RAIN FALLING, EVERYTHING!! OMG JUST- *CHEF'S KISS*, I HAVE NEVER READ SOMETHING LIKE THIS I SWEAR, YOU DESERVE ALL THE AWARDS, EVERYTHING IN THIS LIFE, I LOVE THIS FIC.

ALL EVENTS IN MY LIFE WILL NOW BE DESCRIBED AS PRE-READING THIS FIC AND AFTER IT. JUST THANK YOU, A MILLION TIMES THANK YOU. I'M SORRY IF THIS IS TOO MUCH, I JUST HAVE TOO MANY EMOTIONS, I AM NOT OKAY BUT IN THE BEST OF WAYS, I AM ONLY SAD THAT I WON'T EVER GET TO EXPERIENCE READING THIS AGAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME, BUT I AM GLAD THAT I WILL HAVE THE PLEASURE OF READING IT AGAIN A HUNDRED TIMES OVER FOR THE REST OF TIME, IT WAS JUST SUCH A DELIGHTFUL READ.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, YOU ARE AMAZING, I COULD KEEP RAMBLING SAYING HOW INCREDIBLE THIS IS AND HOW AMAZING YOU ARE, BUT YOU DESERVE A BREAK OF THIS RANT. JUST, THANK YOU AGAIN, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, AND THANK YOU, THIS REALLY IS ONE OF THE BEST FICS THAT I HAVE EVER READ ON THIS SITE, NOT ONLY COUNTING RHETT FICS, BUT ALL OF THEM, EVERYONE SHOULD GO READ THIS RIGHT FUCKING NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW

Okay, and now that I have calmed down (more of less), after that initial rant of finishing the fic (that I have read over several times, corrected spelling errors from my emotional distressed state after reading the fic and divided into paragraphs to make it more readable and not an incoherent mess of me screaming how much I love this fic in capital letters), here are a few more collected thoughts after I literally spent an hour staring into space, trying to process the masterpiece that I had just read (it's been 6 hours since I read the fic now and it has not left my brain since, and I don't think that it's going to anytime soon. My day was supposed to be productive, I had a lot of things to do, but this fic got in the way of that, and don't get me wrong, I love it, the best way to spend my day, really, I have no regrets). Anyway, here we goooo:

As I said, I will forever think about this fic. It's just so well written, I could feel every emotion and everything was just described so so so well, from the coughing of the flowers to the storm, just every single thing, the details were amazing. And OMG the kiss scene.

The kiss scene. What can I say about it? It was incredible. Amazing. Showstopping. Spectacular. Never been done before, completely unique jsshsjsj. Everything that I needed and more. When she got out of the truck and went inside I was like: RHETT HONEY YOU BETTER GET OUT TOO, WALK UP THOSE STEPS AND KISS HER RIGHT ABOUT FUCKING NOW JDHSJSKS

And omg THANK GOD (aka you) that he did. That first kiss was PERFECTION I swear. I could just feel everything from that moment, the hidden and unspoken feelings, the need, the love, EVERYTHING!! And I loved all of it. Plus, the smut was SUPERB, I just couldn't stop reading.

Also, I listened to the two songs that you mentioned (both the one that inspired the title and the one that inspired the kiss scene) and let me tell you, I am OBSESSED now. I added them to my playlist and I'm going to listen to them on repeat, I love them. That way, whenever they pop up I will be reminded of this awesome fic and reminisce on everything that it made me feel, almost as if reading the fic all over again.

Also, the ending, HELLO??????? It was just so so wonderful and so fulfilling, I was literally in teaaaaars 😭😭 They totally deserved that happy ending, thank you for giving it to them 🥹🥹 And the final addition of the flowers growing by the house was just the perfect little finishing touch wrapping this incredible story in a perfect bow.

I think that with that I have commented on everything that I wanted (though I'm sure that I'm missing a few things), but just let me say that I really am missing the words to really be able to convey everything that this story made me feel. It is now one of my favorite fics EVER and will forever be glad that I stumbled upon it. Also, roses and spiderworts are my favorite flowers now hsjsjsksk. So, to sum up, just, thank you for writing this fic and sharing it with us. Really, thank you, thank you, thank you ❤️❤️❤️

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 17,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader, Hanahaki disease, soulmates AU, childhood friends to lovers, alcohol, food mentions, vomiting, first kisses, thunderstorms, (temporarily) unrequited feelings, almost kiss, unprotected sex, eventual happy endings 🌹. Vaguely based on the Gary Allan song of the same name. Brief Summary: It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, and yet, your tattoos don't match. You're not made for each other.

It's hard to tell if the feelings started with the stuffiness in your lungs or if it's something that has always been there. 

An indescribable sort of longing that has flown beneath your radar for the better half of a decade. The kind of thing that has let you assume a false sense of comfort under the title of childhood friend. 

Best friend, if Rhett has a few drinks buzzing through his system. Two shining plaques with your name written across them in bold letters.

But neither of them are what you and your dumb heart crave. The pride of being called his significant other is a feeling you will never know, so long as your tattoos are around to remind you that they don't match. So, so close in nature, and yet, they're not the same. 

It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, so perfect he could fit into your life like a puzzle piece, and yet fate has destined him and you to fall in love with strangers. Not each other. 

Never each other. 

That tickling rises in the back of your throat. Snowballing larger and larger until you can no longer—

A horn blares. 

Your head jerks back toward the street just in time to see the passenger door of an old GMC squeal open. Rhett. Leaned all the way across his bench seat, hair in his face and all. 

"Y' comin' or not?" He chirps, already beginning to impatiently pat on the cloth seat, beckoning you in like he would a stray cat.

In this cold little town, your heart burns a little warmer.

How he got here so fast, you'll never know, but you've never been more thankful for it. Water splashes beneath your feet, darting toward his truck and away from the crowd of people raging on behind you. Up into your designated place in his passenger seat, slamming the door closed before you've even gotten settled, effectively shutting off the thumping music and flashing neon lights.

"How did you know where I was?" Because last you recall, you never told him about where you were headed tonight. 

Rhett just hums, the noise lost to the rumble of his truck engine. "Recognized the floor in the picture y' sent." 

Of course, that would be one of his many odd talents. 

"Being able to identify a bar just from the floor tile might mean you have a bit of a drinking problem, Cowboy," your eyes roll, shifting to rest against the door. 

"Listen," the streetlight catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a memory, "that checkered pattern is cute 'til your head stars spinnin'." 

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

The silence that falls into the truck is a comfortable one. It's the kind of quiet that lets you hear the impatient drum of his fingers, dancing to the soft drone of his radio set to an old country station. Backdropped by the sound of water spraying beneath his tires, washing away weeks upon weeks of built-up dirt from the ranch. 

His whole truck could use a good wash, but it won't see a bucket of soap and water until he scores another date with some no-name from the rodeo grounds. Or alternatively, you show up in the middle of the night and scrub it from top to bottom.

Your phone lights up with a text asking about where you went. Sent from some guy you cared so little about that you haven't even bothered to save his number in your contacts. But as you move to unlock the screen, it opens up to a different set of messages. 

You: Nothing quite like being stuck at a bar, waiting on your designated driver to decide she wants to leave. 10:47 PM

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

You: I told a guy I didn't want to dance, and he 'accidentally' spilled his drink on me 🙄  10:51 PM

You: But my ride doesn't want to leave for another hour or two. 10:52 PM

You never noticed the message that was sent right after yours. 

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

Maybe not every man in this world has gone to shit. 

Rhett's hand bumps into your chest, some kind of gray fabric balled up in his hand, "here."

You've seen this old shirt before; it's the first thing he ever bought online, hadn't realized until it arrived that it was a few sizes too big for him. Not particularly ideal for a cowboy who can get caught on equipment, but perfect for your impromptu sleepovers.

"You still have this old thing?" You're already beginning to tug your damp T-shirt over your head. Potential onlookers be damned, you're ready to be free of the overwhelming whiskey bitterness reeking from it.

The back of his knuckles graze up your naked side, guided by the thin path of a decade-old scar. A branding from younger, brighter days; the ones when Cecelia would let you spend weekends on the ranch. Waking up at dawn to help Rhett with his ranch chores because the quicker things got done, the sooner you got to run down and play in the creekbed. 

"Still can't believe that piece of glass marred ya like that," Rhett mutters after a long moment. You can't see into his thick skull, but you've got a feeling that he's got a similar memory flickering through his mind. 

"To be fair, I did fall on it," slipping your arms through the clean shirt, you pull it over your head, and once again, that old scar is out of sight. 

That half-hearted chuckle sends a warmth rushing through your veins. The exact one that shouldn't be there. But he hasn't the slightest clue of the wildfire sitting next to him, back to tapping along on his steering wheel as he drives through the main stretch of town. Past feedstores, tourist shops, dinners, the grocery store, and every other little niche boutique hidden between. 

"Thank you." You hardly recognize that it's you speaking. Hadn't realized it was your voice until the sound of it met your ears.

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

But Rhett just reaches over to shake your shoulder. "Y' don't gotta thank me for shit like that," for a fleeting second, he's got just enough time to look away from the road and offer you a lazy smile. "'s what friends do, ain't it?"

Your chest feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Meek, you nod, attention suddenly on the floorboard and nothing else—nothing else to say. 

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

He doesn't make mention of it, but you've got the feeling that your SOS text must have interrupted another one of his dates. A pile of rose petals rests at your feet, scattered as if they've been swept off the seat in a hurry to make space. Caked in mud and the rainwater that tracked in from your shoes. Storebought, that much you know for sure.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

The next time you see him, it's planned. 

You have, for some reason, allowed yourself to become roped into the craze of Wabang's beloved Sugarbeet festival. Right smack dab in the middle of some old ranching land that the county bought some years back. It would have been a pleasant idea if the festival was hosted in spring or autumn and not in the blistering heat of summer. Not an ounce of shade to be found, nothing but cheap tents to protect you from the beating sun. 

It's the kind of misery that makes the outdoors feel like a goddamn oven, and heading out to start your car is its own kind of devil. The air jammed in your AC blasts your face with the boiling winds of hell itself. So damn intense that if Rhett's truck weren't crawling down your driveway, you would have canceled and called it a day.

And you're so glad that you didn't, because good lord. 

The last thing you expected was for Rhett to hop out in that unbuttoned flannel, broad chest on display for all to see. The sleeve falls just far enough from his shoulder that you can see the scar hiding below his left collarbone. 

"Quite the festival outfit you've got," you chirp, dragging your eyes away from his bull tattoo and over to a nearby tree, feigning interest. The back of your throat is starting to tickle, lungs tight as you fend off the urge to cough. Not here, not here, not here.

He laughs, "What, y' don't think I look good like this?"

You do, but he doesn't need to know that. Not in the slightest. 

"Its...certainly a choice," faking a grimace, you turn your attention back to your car, slowly but surely growing cooler the longer it runs. A pleasure that Rhett and his broken air conditioning unit haven't known since last summer. 

You don't mind the idea of it staying broken if he keeps showing up at your house looking like this. Even if that does mean that you become his ride on the hotter days, fearing an onset of heat stroke. 

The passenger door is silent as he opens it. No longer squealing due to whatever he and Royal did to it last weekend. Being friends with a family of DIY ranchers has its perks. 

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

As if last time wasn't enough of a lesson, Rhett's got his knees pinned up against your glovebox, the seat too far forward for him and his big body to fit. Though this time, he isn't hurriedly pawing at the seat levers like he'll die if he doesn't get any more space. Instead, he's resigned to a frown. More annoyed with himself than anything.

"You alright there?" 

Rhett's sigh is so heavy that his shoulders visibly deflate. "Yeah," reaching off to the side, pushing the seat back as far as it can go. "Humbled, but 'm alright."

It's toward the end of your drive that you notice the flower petals sitting on your dashboard. Roses, you think. It must be what you get for leaving your windows rolled down all morning, vulnerable to adventurous squirrels and other varmints that enjoy trespassing into property they don't own. 

They're certainly not from you, and you would have asked Rhett if your destination hadn't come up so quickly. Fighting for a parking space in the withered grass is a bigger task than folks let on. Even with folks on the ground, pointing you to the perfect spot, someone will always try to steal it out from under you. 

For a festival in such a small town, there is a hell of a lot going on inside of it. Food trucks, concession stands full of sweet treats, craft booths, and cheap knick-knacks bought offline to resell under the guise of being handmade locally. Apple bobbing, the duck pond, and ring toss. There's a precariously placed dragon roller coaster and a horse carousel that Rhett tries convincing you to get on. 

Worse. There are so many people. Faces you recognize and those you've never seen before. Waiting in lines and shoving themselves between you and Rhett because the small gap between your shoulders looked like a good opening to get somewhere quicker. 

"'s a lil crazy out here, don't ya think?" Rhett's asking through a laugh, once again stepping over to you. Two kids dart between you, their hands occupied with bags of fake goldfish. 

Only took a decade for them to learn not to hand out live fish. You can still remember the three you and Rhett got when you were small. One didn't survive the drive back to his house, and the other two managed to stick around long enough to see New Year's. 

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

"I think it's always been crazy," tilting your head to cough into your elbow, dislodging that goddamn tickling sensation—you look away before you can see what it is. 

There's a girl off to the side, staring in your direction. Or rather, Rhett's direction. Long, wavy hair and a delicate sundress, the kind of woman who looks like she's walked right off the beach cover of a magazine. Her warm gaze has long since settled on Rhett; it's a look you've seen a million and one times at the rodeo. The one that gets him a little weak in the knees.

You look away as quickly as they flickered over there. If you don't make eye contact, maybe she won't come over to introduce herself. 

"We weren't that bad, though," but then, pausing to look at you, concern lacing his narrowed gaze, "...right?" 

Rose-tinted memories flicker through your mind. Rhett falling and breaking his wrist after taking you out on a green horse. Trespassing onto the Tillerson property to play with Luke and Billy, only to get hauled home in the back of a police cruiser, 'cause their momma didn't care much for you two. Getting busted, sneaking out your bedroom window to go spend the night with Rhett. All those times, you had to run through back alleys together because you'd been caught out after Wabang's curfew. 

"I like to think we were relatively well-behaved," concluding after a moment. Though your families may have a vastly different opinion on that. 

Laughter rumbles from you at the same time it does from Rhett, shoulders bumping together. Sends a little shock of warmth rippling through your bones, twisting around your heart like briars.

Maybe the conversation would have lasted longer if you didn't get distracted. Rhett lays eyes on a truck dedicated to a locally crafted beer, and the small frame of a self-serve station from the local candy shop catches your attention. It only makes sense that you would step aside and regroup in a few minutes. You're in desperate need of a breather before that girl works up the nerve to approach him and turns you into a third wheel. 

There's more to this little station than what initially met the eye. It's shelves full of caramel apples, peanut brittle, fudges of every flavor you can imagine, covered pretzels, cookies, and hard candies galore. And here you thought that it would have been wiped clean by the folks who came early in the morning before the sun could reach mind-numbing temperatures. Even your favorite candy is here, the last box left on the shelf.

The price is a little steep, but the flavor of them on your tongue is enough to distract from the pained cries of your wallet. If Rhett knew these were here, then he absolutely would have skipped out on beer in favor of convincing you to split them together—the candy mooch. 

But you must have taken too long to make your decision because you don't see Rhett. Not by the crudely decorated truck, and he said he would be waiting next to the old wooden bench under the oak tree, but it's entirely empty. Not a cowboy in sight. That stuffiness arises in your throat again. 

Maybe he's...

"Hey!" A herd of kids are darting around you. Like a bunch of cats scrambling from the bang of a tractor. One slams into the side of your leg as she rushes past. It doesn't affect her in the slightest, but your feet stumble. Knocked off kilter. Your open container of candy threatens to spill onto the dirt. 

 But then another kid is bursting through the crowd, and this one... 

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

She doesn't need to say a damn thing. Her wide eyes tell all you need to know. 

The crowd is too tall for her to see over it, but as she tugs you along behind her, you've got the feeling that she knows exactly where she's going. Navigating the festival based on terrain alone, over thinly spread gravel, and down a broad dirt path. Her hand clings to your wrist so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. 

You don't know who she's bringing you to or what could have happened. But it has to be something. Perry could have fallen into another one of his rages. Rhett very well may be doing something dumber than getting a DUI on the back of a horse. Or, or—

It's both of them. 

Perry's clawing at Trevor like a goddamn cat. His teeth bared like an animal. Crazed. Feral. Someone's got him by the collar. But it's not doing anything. He barks something incoherent. Jabbing a pointed finger at Trevor. Amy's shoulders jolt. Squeezing your wrist impossibly tighter. 

Plaid shirts scuffle behind them. Cowboy boots and Prada sneakers kick up plumes of dirt. Two brick walls slamming into one another. Caught in a spiral until someone makes the first pull backward. Luke's fist connects with Rhett's jaw. 

Flower petals burst into the air. 

All of a sudden, Luke is jumping backward, his palms raised to the sky. A rare white flag. One that you didn't even know was in the Tillerson arsenal. "I'm sorry, man," is all he can say. Pale as a damn ghost. 

Almost pale as the baby pink petals fluttering onto the dirt floor. 

"Is that..." Amy's the one to break the silence, looking your way as if you hold all the answers. In a sense, maybe you do. "I thought it was a myth?"

Air catches in your windpipe. Feels like you're about to choke. "I did, too." 

What the fight was over, you're not sure. It couldn't have been something serious; they've dropped the issue far too quickly for it to be something worth fighting over. There and gone within the blink of an eye. The Tillerson brothers are dispersing into the crowd without another foul word, Rhett's wordlessly pawing at the fresh red mark on his jaw, and Perry's barking something you don't care to hear. 

Amy's long nails are biting into your skin, threatening to tear through and draw blood, but you can't ask her to loosen up or let go. The sting is half the reason you haven't unraveled like a loose ball of yarn. It isn't enough to stop your lower belly from twisting and turning, a bitterness rising in the back of your raw throat.

"Sorry," Rhett's voice comes so suddenly that you jolt. 

"I leave you alone for five minutes." Your tone comes out blander than you intended, doesn't match the roll of your eyes, deliberately avoiding the sight of flowers lying in the dirt.

He must catch onto it because his frown deepens. But he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Only offering a wave and a forced smile when Amy ultimately ventures off with Perry for another one of his ice cream apologies. Those seem to be happening more and more lately. 

Hypothetically, someone should say something. Explain what the fight was about, how he got across the festival so damn fast. Was the beer any good? Want to share this candy before your jaw starts to ache like a bitch? The words are flickering through your head a million miles a minute, but not a syllable makes it to your tongue. 

"It's over someone at the bar," Rhett's admission comes in the tune of a guilty child confessing to breaking a vase. Meek. Like he'll fall apart if pushed any harder. "If that's what y' were wanderin'." 

Falling back into the character of annoying best friend is easy. All you've got to do is throw your weight into his side, not strong enough to deliver a playful shove. "So there really is another person stuck with that god awful tattoo," letting your mouth rise into a smile, almost thrilled to be pulling this off so well.

"Hey!" He's pushing you back, laughing, though he's careful not to knock you off your feet this time."'Least mine ain't a shoe."

Defiant, you raise your left arm, the tattoo on your wrist just as dark and bold as it was the day you were born. "It's a lucky horseshoe, thank you very much." 

And just for a little bit, you can deceive yourself into thinking you can still breathe.

You never do put the passenger seat back into its place. It's so far back that you catch yourself thinking it's not there at all; more than once, you clamber into the vehicle and think someone has robbed you of it. A part of you wishes it would happen. That some ridiculous bandit would break in and take that seat. 

It would be doing your dignity a favor; you're acting as if he's dead. 

You passed his truck on the way over here, parked outside the Handsome Gambler. If you weren't worried about wrecking, you would have tried to get a glimpse through the open door to spot him with his shiny new soulmate. 

A good friend would stop in and say hello; if she makes Rhett happy, then you should be happy. It should be on the forefront of your mind; you're three stores down from the bar, but your feeble heart jerks in your chest with a familiar sourness. Hand trembling, struggling to hang onto this little bag of chips. 

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

And if this cashier doesn't hurry up, you might also become a horrible customer. Your stomach is twisting like you're about to puke, something bitter rising in the back of your throat. Damn near dropping the receipt when she hands it to you, shoving it into the bag, and darting out the open door. 

You hardly make it to the edge of the sidewalk. Keeling over with a wretched noise. 

But the only thing that comes up is the shit that's been lodged in your chest all afternoon, stubbornly sitting in your chest with the weight of a damn elephant. Refusing to move, restricting your airway until you crack, and confess your feelings to a man who was never meant for you. 

"Hey!" 

Bleary, your eyes peel open. Really hope they're not talking to you. 

"I have your sidekick!" Sherrif Joy's voice cuts across the night air like a knife. Swift and straight to the point.

Turning your head might be the thing that puts you on the ground, vision spinning like your eyes have gone loose in your skull. Funny. You can almost deceive yourself into thinking that's Rhett she's towing along.

Maybe because it is him. Boots dragging against the sidewalk, shoulders so loose that they sway in the wind, eyes hardly open, simply led along by the hand Joy has on his bicep. You've got just enough time to paw at your mouth with your sleeve before she's close enough to notice that something may be off.

"I know he's not your responsibility," the glint in her eye suggests she's getting more amusement out of this than she should be. Probably because this wouldn't be the first, second, or third time that she's sought you out. "But he wouldn't shut his mouth when he saw you."

Rhett's grin is too bright for his flushed face. "Hi." 

You don't need to look at your phone to know that it's too damn early for this, and yet, you can't seem to muster up the slightest bit of irritation as you ask. "How are you already drunk at eleven at night?" 

"I—" Hiccup. "Been here all evenin'." Shreds of red rose petals cling to his lips, flaking off with the movement of his mouth and fluttering to the ground like rain.

Oh, Rhett. 

"If you don't want him, I can bring him to the station," Joy always says this, the same damn line over and over, as if she doesn't know what you will ultimately say, "it's no big deal for me." 

Looping your hand through the handle of your grocery bag, you reach out to take Rhett by the wrist. He comes to you easily, long arms reaching out to wrap around you, clinging like an oversized piece of velcro. 

"I'll take him," feigning annoyance is impossible when he's smiling at you like that. Drunk but completely and utterly happy to be with you. 

If only he looked at you this way when he's sober.

Getting him to the car might be the hardest part of this excursion; it takes you and Joy to get him into your passenger seat without banging his head on the roof like last time. But this isn't your first Drunk Rhett Rodeo; Lord knows it ain't Joy's either. It might even break your previous record of five and a half minutes. Not that you were counting.

"Where we goin'?" He chirps the moment you've clambered into the driver's seat. 

"Home." It's the only response you've got. Not entirely sure if he's got the capacity to follow long sentences. 

But his head cocks to the side like a goddamn puppy. "My home, or...home home?" 

Ice forms in your wrist. Suddenly caught before you can turn the key in the ignition. Is he...? It's gotta be. What else would he be referring to? 

"Home home?" More of a question than anything, but he's not sober enough to notice the difference. That grin simply grows a little bigger. His boots kicking against your floorboard, happy as a clam in high water. 

It doesn't fade, either. Even as you get the car going, and he fusses about leaving his truck behind, he doesn't lose the excitement that bloomed the moment he laid eyes on you. Content to sit here and let you drive, looking out the window and commenting on whatever he sees. The crazy lady on Second Street has added more flamingos to her lawn hoard, and someone's mailbox has been knocked over. What does that sign say over there? 

"So what's your soulmate like?" You ask, reaching to turn down the radio. "You haven't said anything about her." 

Rhett's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug so subtle that you nearly miss it. "They're alright," pause. Then, a weary laugh. "I jus' wish they'd like me back."

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

He doesn't seem to notice the petals clinging to the lower strands of his hair and into his flannel, hanging off the edge of his pocket and accumulating in his lap. They're identical to the ones sitting on your dash, dry and shriveled from the sun, bouncing as your front tire hits a pothole. 

Now that you give it some thought, you suppose that's why he's drunk. 

"My throat hurts," he grumbles out of the blue, rattling you from the sanctuary of your thoughts. 

You hum, not entirely there. "Getting sick?" 

Quiet, he reaches into his flannel pocket, producing a small assortment of something green. Rose stems, their thorns stained with crimson. There's no way that he's...

Your tire smacks the edge of a curb. The steering wheel yanking out of your hands.

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

"You've been coughing those up?" Voice strained by your heart, sitting high in your esophagus. You're so damn lucky that was a concrete curb and not another car. 

And yet, you dare to peer at him through your peripheral. Those stems still resting in his big palm, as if he doesn't have the strength to put them away again. You reckon he's not sober enough to have noticed your mistake. He would have commented on it by now, making fun of it as if he's any better of a driver. 

"Fuckin' hurts," it comes out softly, a confession that his own ears are afraid of. 

And it's the kind of statement that echoes throughout your car for the rest of the drive. Rattling between the pauses between songs and bubbling to the surface at every lull of the music. Clouded over by too many wonderings of how long he's been quietly dealing with the roses growing in his lungs. A condition so extreme that the stems are beginning to come up, too. 

You would ask why he's never told you about this, but...

Rhett's head cracks against the window with a heavy thunk as you pull into the driveway. So sharp and sudden that you fear he's broken the glass. But the only wound to come out of it is the red spot on his forehead, the color already rising to the surface by the time you put the car in park.

"Did that hurt?" It's impossible to ward off the lightness in your tone; a smidgen amused. 

"Nuh-uh," but he's rubbing at it like it does. 

You shouldn't have believed him, either, because by the time you get him through the door, it's already begun to swell. Miniscule at first, but if you give it some time, it'll grow into a proper bump. One that he'll grimace at in the morning but will lie through his teeth when you ask if it's hurting him. 

If he were sober, he would be nipping at your palm for daring to venture near his face; you can hear it now, the prematurely yelped "'m alright!" before you've even opened your mouth. But he's not sober. Has to put his hand on your waist to stabilize himself, not entirely aware of how you're curling your hands around his cheeks, holding him still. 

You don't think this one will rise too horribly, but you've been wrong before. Like how you insisted the cut on your side was just a scratch and wound up needing more stitches than you knew how to count. 

"Will you let me put ice on it?" You find yourself asking, your fingers drifting up to smooth over the bump. 

Defiant, his head shakes. 

"What if I order a pizza? Will you let me then?" Trying again. But even at the prospect of his favorite drunk snack, he's not interested. 

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

"A promise to never speak of this again?" Nada.

Huffing, you let go of his face, throwing your hands in the air instead. "Is there anything I can bribe you with?"

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

You've got a bad feeling about whatever this could be, but God, it's too late for you to care. "What is it?"

Even if he would have let you go on for the next century, you would have never guessed that he wanted this. 

Here in the soft sanctuary of your cozy little unmade bed, nestled beneath the myriad of sheets and blankets that you swore you'd throw into the washer three mornings ago. There might be a few crumbs left over from your snack last night, too distracted by the video on your phone to notice the mess until it was too late. 

The state of it all would bother you under normal circumstances, but you reckon you're getting contact drunk. Head spinning at the sight of this cowboy, snug as a bug in your bed, his cheek squished against the spare pillow. His arm has wound up draped over your side, over the sheets, and you can't remember when your hand drifted to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his scruffy, unshaven jaw.

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

He's so unnervingly close that you reckon he can hear the hammer of your heart rattling against your chest like a caged animal. Furious. Determined to burst through and spill its contents for him to see. The devil on your shoulder suggests that you should let it happen; chances are, he won't remember any of this come morning. But the soft, whiney voice of the angel reminds you. 

Rhett's got a soulmate. And it isn't you. 

"What made you ask for this, anyhow?" The sound of your voice comes as a surprise; one of those thoughts that have journeyed to your mouth, rather than staying up in your head. 

Those sleepy blues peel open; maybe the slightest bit cross-eyed perfectly matches that crooked little grin. "'s like a sleepover."

There's a word you haven't thought of for a while. Probably hasn't surfaced in your vocabulary since your early teenage years, arising in arguments about how unfair it was that hitting puberty meant no more sleepovers. It was okay before, so why did it become a problem when your ages started ending in 'teen'? 

Hesitant, your attention drifts to the tattoo on your wrist—that not-so-lucky horseshoe. A symbol that only became a problem in your second year of high school when your heart decided that it wanted your best friend over a soul mate. "Like the ones we're banned from?"

"Uhuh," his foot juts out to kick your ankle, "'cause we're too damn old." 

You're kicking him back before you can think twice about it. Old habits be damned; you're not letting him get a shot in without getting one yourself. But he's already fighting back, socket feet smacking against yours. Tangling. Fighting to get one punch in over the other. His leg bangs against your knee. Your hands lightly shove against his chest. 

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

And you're lying on your back. Caged beneath the broad frame of a man proven to handle animals over a thousand pounds heavier than you. His hands planted on either side of your head, knees straddling your hips. Long hair strays into his face, slipping out from behind his ears, but it's not enough to block your eyes from locking.

You're itching to reach up and tuck it back into place. To drift your palms across the roughness of his cheeks and trail a thumb over those thin lips. They're bitten to all hell, but try as you might, you can't imagine they're anything other than soft. 

Time itself might have stopped. 

God. You can't breathe. Don't know if it's from the infestation building in your lungs or the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his tongue. 

Or maybe...maybe it's because he's gradually growing closer. Minimizing the gap between your bodies, inch by debilitating inch. An image plucked right out of your own imagination, replayed a hundred and one times. 

But this version of Rhett doesn't belong to you. 

The one in your head didn't reek of whiskey and beer. 

"Rhett..." You're whispering as if anything louder will shatter you like glass. But he's still...he's still leaning in, and, and— "Rhett. You're drunk."

He freezes. Stiff as a board. Eyes so wide that his irises look tiny. 

"Shit," jerking away as if he's been burned, "sorry." 

This time, when his back hits the bed, your belly doesn't fill with butterflies. It fills with something much, much worse. 

It's the silence that eats at you the most. He's right next to you, and yet, not a word can leave your mouth. What if you hadn't stopped him? Did he confuse you for the pretty thing at the bar, wandering around with the same marking as him? Your heart lurches in your chest, tummy twisting sourly. God, why are you even entertaining this sort of thing? 

He's your friend. Friends don't think of each other like this, especially when one of them has a soulmate waiting on them. 

A funny feeling swells in the back of your throat, stomach gurgling so loudly that it's got Rhett tilting his head to look at you. 

"Are y—"

You're getting up before he can finish talking. Darting for the bathroom for the umpteenth time today. 

You wake to an empty bed. 

Sunlight trickles through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the freshly made sheets that Rhett once occupied, tucked in the best he could get it. He's been gone long enough for them to feel cool to the touch, but you can't hear him moseying around your house, either.

Your bare feet drift across the chilly, wooden floor, still frozen with midnight's temperature drop. Where Rhett would typically bump the thermostat up a couple of degrees, today, it sits the same as you left it. 

"Rhett?" Voice a smidgen too fragile for the hammering of your heart. 

All you receive is an echo, variants of your own tune. His boots are missing from where they once sat by the front door, and when you creep far enough to peer through the kitchen window into the backyard, you don't find him there, either. The ice pack has been resting in the freezer long enough to begin hardening again. 

And your phone left sitting on the counter overnight, contains a notification from everything and everyone, except for one man. Still the same text messages from three days ago, no matter how many times you refresh the page. But the magnetic whiteboard on the side of your refrigerator has a new smiley face on it. 

...and the marker is once again missing.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. 09:47 PM

It's not until after you've got a morning drink in hand that you recognize the tire tracks in your front yard. The grass flattened in the corner of your driveway in a fashion that only Perry Abbott can pull off. No matter how many times he's driven here, he's always overshot the turn and ventured into the lawn.

Your phone is still quiet when you cruise through town a little after nine. Rhett's truck is missing from its place in front of the bar, the space now occupied by a vehicle that the Abbotts can't afford. 

 On its own, your heart lurches in your chest. The tail end of a blue pickup is poking out from a streetside parking spot just down the main drag, and that's got to be him. You know this town like the back of your hand. There aren't many trucks that look like Rhett's. If you catch him now, maybe you can smooth things over regarding last night. Before the dust begins to settle and erode away at your psyche—

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

This time, you don't make it to the bathroom before that damned sickness overtakes you. Spewing onto the side of the road at the only red light in town, right in front of the old cafe with its outdoor seating. 

A hangover would be more dignifying. At least then, a little old lady wouldn't be tilting her head at you, her kind, wrinkled eyes soft as she offers you a smile. You understand that look more than you'd like to admit. 

It's the same expression you carried when those petals burst from Rhett's mouth. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Yesterday.

Odd. Usually he responds fairly quickly, at least when it comes to him hijacking one of your belongings, but maybe he's busy. Summer has never been kind to the Abbotts, between blistering heat and cattle who love to take down the southern fences to get at the neighbor's grasses. Judging by the forecaster rambling on the news, things aren't about to get easier, either. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Two days ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. 07:33 PM

No dice. 

How are you meant to leave reminders in the kitchen when a rogue cowboy has pocketed your only marker? It's barely been three days, and you've already started to forget things. Today was laundry day, but now you're standing here, swaddled in Rhett's oversized shirt because it's the only clean thing you have left. Maybe there is a benefit to not returning his clothes. You were meant to go get a spice for this new recipe but didn't remember until you were halfway into working on it. Come to find out, that recipe really, really relied on it. 

You can try to blame your lack of an appetite on your cold, unseasoned dinner all you want, but it only goes so far. Heart lurching in your chest, as the screen lights up with a text.

Autumn: Still coming with us Friday night? 👀 07:51 PM

 You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. One week ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. Five days ago.

You: I'm going to call a bounty hunter if you continue this hostage situation. Three days ago. 

You're getting sick of feeling your heart twist every time you look at this damn screen. But that stupid son of a bitch still hasn't—

"Excuse me," a lady whispers, squeezing past you, "I'm sorry." 

The entrance of Odessa's probably isn't the best place for you to be checking your phone, now that you think about it. 

That's alright; you're already sliding the device into your back pocket, reaching to catch the door before it can close behind her. You've wasted enough time for your friends to have already secured a spot at the Handsome Gambler. It's a wonder nobody hasn't given you a ring to make sure you weren't nabbed off the street. 

Stepping outside does nothing to ward off the drone of multiple shop televisions. All of them moan about how another wicked storm is due to ravage Wabang and every town around it. Same channel. Same woman talking. Same obnoxious blue background. It's a tale you've heard so many times that you can nearly quote it word for word. 

There's a serious storm rolling in tonight. Tornadoes and hail are possible. Here's what to do in a tornado. Do not do these five things in a tornado. Download the news app to stay connected. Tune back in soon to find out if the forecast has miraculously gotten better or worse! 

Looking overhead, you can already see the dark accumulation in the distance, a humid breeze tickling your neck as it drifts past. It feels just like the night you and Rhett rode out into the west pasture to watch the storm roll in. 

Sitting in the grass, watching those dark gray clouds roll closer and closer whilst the horses relaxed behind you, their attentions focused solely on the greenery below. You can still hear the tune blaring from the speaker of his phone. He'd really thought he was clever, playing that Gary Allen song about how every storm runs out of rain. It wasn't so cute when the south pasture flooded. 

A laugh cuts across the evening air. Sharp and pitchy enough to have your head tilting in the direction of it. Right behind you, on the corner of the block. 

Maria Olivares. That's a face you haven't seen in a long while. Wasn't she off to medical school, a couple hours away from here? Who in the world could she possibly be...

You know that cowboy. 

Puzzle pieces click into place. The darkened mark gracing her inner wrist. Too small for you to make out. How she giggles and batts her eyes up at Rhett, as he talks about something in that wonderfully deep voice of his. 

Of course, Rhett's soulmate would be Maria. How could it not be? No wonder why he was so crazy about her in high school; they've got the same damn marking on their bodies. 

As if to spite you, a muscle spasms in the juncture of your wrist. Sourness bubbles in the back of your mouth, but for once, you're able to swallow it down. Not here. Not when either of them can turn their heads and realize that you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like some kind of creep. Even coming from a childhood best friend, that would be weird. 

"Are you in line?" 

You jerk backward. Wide eyes landing on the wirey frame of some middle-aged man standing in front of you. He motions, with the brim of his hat, toward the door. The Handsome Gambler. Your destination.

"Distracted," you blurt, scurrying to grab the handle before he can, "sorry."

"There you are!" A glass of beer rises from the opposite end of the bar. Autumn. "I was fixin' to come looking for you!"

You have to wait until you're within earshot before you can respond to her, squeezing past the group of cowboys crowded at the corner, watching a PBR ride on someone's cellphone. "I was eavesdropping," You supply, can't keep a damn thing to yourself these days, "Maria Olivares must be Rhett's shiny new soulmate."

Autumn's jaw slackens, eyes so big they might comically burst out of her skull, "are you kidding?" 

One of her friends, you forget her name, gives you a gentle nudge with her arm. You suppose Autumn has already filled her in about your situation. "How did you find out?" Her tone is gentle, nearly washed over by the music blaring from the stereo. 

"Saw them laughing together in the street." There's more to that statement, context, and a reason behind why you've come to that conclusion, but Autumn is taking a brightly colored drink from the bartender, passing it your way.

The Handsome Gambler and mixed drinks do not go hand in hand; there's always too much or too little of something. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see the door opening, two familiar frames entering the bar, the happy new couples themselves. 

Tonight, you don't give a damn what these things taste like. So long as it makes you forget the sour twist in your chest, lungs tightening as if all the air has been sucked from them. Without second thought, you bring the glass to your lips.

It doesn't leave until it's halfway empty, and that's only because the need for oxygen has grown superior. 

The lady behind the bar lifts a freshly cleaned shot glass. You've got a feeling that she's overheard your ramblings. "Need something stronger?"

She doesn't need to say another word. "Absolutely." 

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

You're feeling delusional enough to ask for a third, but Autumn's nudging you a glass of water instead. It doesn't have the same bite, but it's equally unpleasant against the back of your throat, still raw and sore. 

Next to you, Autumn and her two friends are already delving into a new conversation. Something about the oddities going on around town and how some old man says he walked into a cave and saw a mastodon. You suppose there must be some inside group dedicated to continuing the claim because it's a rumor you've heard every year. 

A smile fights its way onto your face. You and Rhett used to gear up and go mastodon hunting up on the old trails behind the Abbott property. Royal loved to ask what y'all planned to do with it once you caught it, but you and Rhett never thought that far ahead. 

Your gaze follows the bartender, ready to ask for something sweet, but she's on the other end, gathering a dozen beers for a party that just walked in. Someone leans onto the bar. His head blocking part of your view. But then he looks over, and—

Rhett's eyes widen at the sight of you. By the feel of it on your face, the expression is mutual.

At least, it is for a second. That sourness jumps into your throat. Lower gut churning with a fervor unlike ever before. 

"I'm heading out back," you blurt, hand rising to cover your mouth, "you don't wanna follow." 

The girls frown, but they're certainly not making the risk to stop you. Autumn's already reaching for your drink, accepting your nod as a sign that she can finish off what you've got left. A voice jumps across the blare of the music. Almost sounds like the call of your name. But you don't have the luxury of stopping and looking. 

Your feet are barely falling into line. Rushing to push through the men gathered by the back exit. Past the blasting jukebox. There's that tightness in your lungs again. A thick sensation rising higher. Higher. Higher in your throat. There's the door. There's the door. Your hands are reaching out. Grappling at the handle. 

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

Vivid purple petals burst past your lips like goddamn confetti. Stems and all. Ripping past your already battered windpipe and sticking to your tongue, little bits of purple carrying in the wind. 

Those three-petalled flowers were pretty until they started growing in your lungs. You can't stand the sight of them, but you've got no choice but to cough more of them up. As if any amount of effort will make them disappear. 

 A bundle of them have caught in the back of your mouth, stubbornly thwarting your ability to breathe. Light as a feather, your head spins, feet stumbling as you scurry to one of the chairs, sitting against the wall. The plastic groans under your weight, so brittle that it ought to give away at any moment.

Lightning flickers as another wave of flowers rain to the floor, and it's a wonder you can get these out at all. 

The back door opens with a screech. Music pours through the gap, an incoherent tune so loud that you can hardly hear the thunder rolling through town. Someone in boots stumbles out, keeling over.

A bloodstained rose tumbles to the ground, pink and red petals dancing behind it, landing amongst your mess of purple. 

When you lift your head, you know what you're going to see. But that doesn't make the look in Rhett's eyes any easier to bear. Some kind of hellish cross between horror and bewilderment that manages to look akin to a wounded puppy. 

Not a word leaves his mouth. Doesn't get the opportunity to, for that matter, another plume of petals forcing their way past his lips before he can do anything about it. Just the sight of them has that tickle building in the back of your throat, but for the time being, your tank is empty. 

Thunder booms as Rhett falls into the chair opposite you. His hand dips into his flannel pocket, producing...

your marker. 

"'m sorry," he mutters, sentence broken by a cough, "Didn't realize I stuck it behind my ear 'til you texted me."

"Which time?" You can't help the bitterness seeping into your tone, plucking the little writing utensil from his outstretched hand. 

His eyes dart away. 

The tension in the silence doesn't come from the storm. Wind howling around the corner of the building, rustling through the trees. Lightning flickers, illuminating the world around you for the briefest of moments, and just like that, rain begins to fall. Coming down in a thick sheet, so strong that even under the awning, it manages to reach you, mist tickling your skin and dampening your clothes.

Idle, your fingers twist the marker back and forth; it's still warm from where it rested in his pocket, snug against his chest. A part of you wonders if he always runs this hot or if your hands are just cold from the Wyoming air.

"So you and Maria, huh?" Even with the roar of the storm, your voice is too loud; a megaphone in the library would be more tolerable. 

"Nah, I just ran into her 'bout a half hour ago." Rhett's head shakes, eyes on the floor. "We were both goin' to the same place, 'n that was about it."

"Damn, and here I thought she was your soulmate." You hate that a selfish part of you floods with relief. So overcome with it that you can feel the way your shoulders drop. "It would have made for the perfect story."

You could have been the perfect story, too.

"I don't know why I liked her in high school," he's continuing, running a hand through his hair, fingers visibly catching on a tangle, "'s like talkin' to a fuckin' wall."

Of all the things you've imagined him saying, that wasn't even close to making it on the list. Though, you can't say he's entirely wrong; ever since that time you got paired with Maria for a history presentation, you haven't been able to see what's so interesting about her, either. Nothing but one-word answers and giggling with her friends while you worked on the assignment by your lonesome. 

It may be petty, but you're still bitter. 

"I'm sorry, I..." Rhett's talking again, caving to the silence that you've unintentionally put between you two. His hands fall into his lap, clasping together. Then, break apart just as quickly, one of them reaching up to rub at his forehead. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you the other night."

"It's alright—" your tongue pauses before the rest of your sentence can follow. I wanted you to. But you're looking down at your tattoo, and it's still the same horseshoe. It doesn't match Rhett's. 

It will never match Rhett's. 

Finding your voice is damn near impossible, but you do it anyway. "You've done stranger things while under the influence." 

"Like gettin' a DUI on the back of a horse?" He says it so bluntly that you can't help but sputter. 

It's easy. Dissolving into laughter. Peering at each other through smiling eyes. Yeah, getting a DUI on horseback is much, much worse than trying to steal a kiss. You've still got the voicemail from when Joy called you in the dead of night, asking you to come get Rhett and his horse. 

White flashes. Lighting up the world for the briefest moment. An ear-splitting crackle erupts from above. So loud that the town lights flicker in unison like a bunch of candles nearly blown out by the squealing wind. 

"'s gettin' pretty bad out here." The sound of Rhett's voice is nearly lost to the ringing in your ear. 

"Tell me about it," you lean forward, peering over at the miniature river that runs down into the alleyway, carrying with it a parade of purple, pink, and red flower petals. "The road'll be flooded by the time Autumn decides she's ready to leave."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "You didn't drive?" 

"Couldn't." Shocker, you know. "I had a hot date with a shot of whisky."

"Two from what I saw," so he was watching you do that, huh?

You wink. "I would have made it three if I knew you were watching."

Something crackles in the distance. Maybe a tree struck by lightning, bits of bark falling like rain. A little too close for comfort, whatever it was.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat once more. Forces another cough out of you. The purple petals catch in the wind before they can hit the ground, soaring off like tiny planes. Rhett's eyes follow them until they're out of sight. 

All of a sudden, he rises to his feet, spurs chiming with the motion. Must have forgotten to take those off again. "Need a ride?" Offering his hand. 

You take it before you even realize what he's asking. 

A part of you is beginning to suspect that Autumn can see into the future because she's hardly phased when she turns her head to see you meander back into the bar, hand in hand with Rhett. Her white teeth flash you with a smile, perhaps a little too interested in whatever Billy Tillerson is babbling into her other ear. With their hands intertwined, you can hardly tell that they've got timers imprinted on their wrists, bearing identical numbers.

Autumn doesn't need to ask when you hand her the twenty from your pocket; in the time you've known each other, you've proven to be a creature of habit. Instead, she offers you a wink, not a word said. 

Rhett's already by the door, working his beat-up wallet back into his jeans before he can set it down and forget that it's there. "Y' ready to get wet?" He chirps once you're within earshot. 

You're not, but there's no stopping the rain now that it's coming down. "Ready as I'll ever be." 

The door creeks open. A gust of wind rushes in through the gap. Slams you with the force of a freight train. Damn near strong enough to knock you on your ass. But Rhett's grabbing hold of your wrist and him hauling you forward is the only thing keeping your feet from being swept out from under you. 

Freezing rain splatters against your skin like a million tiny bullets. So sharp you think they might pierce through and come out the other side. A sheet of white blinds you. Forced to lower your head and prey Rhett's hauling you the right direction. The sidewalk is already flooded. Splashing up to lick your ankles. Soaking through your shoes. 

You're moving. You know you're moving. But you might as well be on some hellish treadmill because it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

All of a sudden, Rhett's pulling you to the right. Toward the curb. Reaching for the handle. Yanking so hard you can hear it over the rain. 

It opens. You're inside within the very same second. Clambering into the cloth passenger seat, pulling your legs in, just as Rhett slams the door shut. Through the blurry dash, he's only identifiable as a big blue splotch, travelling around the front of his truck. His door rips open just as quickly, the vehicle rocking as he all but throws himself inside.

"'s fuckin' cold!" He sputters, blindly jabbing the key at the ignition. Miss. Miss again. Another miss. He tilts his head. It slides home. 

It's been a minute since the last time you heard this old truck roar to life. Even longer since you've last felt your skin go this numb. Shivering like a leaf, nerves so ruthlessly beaten by the elements that they're shot. There's a texture to this seat. You know there is, but you can't feel it. 

A weary hand darts out. Wavering back and forth. Narrowly misses the little heat dial.

"Ain't got heat, remember?" Rhett almost sounds guilty, though you can't say for sure. It's hard to get a read of his face when he's focused on putting the truck into gear, looking straight ahead as he pulls onto the road. Though you're not entirely sure why, he's still got that old—

...no. His spare shirt is still sitting in your clothes hamper, next in line for a wash. Even if you had miraculously known to carry it with you tonight, there's no way it would have done you any good. Not with how soaked your clothes are, dripping like you've just gone for an impromptu swim in the coldest river you could find. 

Your arms rise to wrap around yourself, clinging to what little body heat you've got left. A jacket. Why didn't you think to carry a jacket? Lightning flickers. Crackling so loudly that you can feel it travel through the ground; almost sounds as if it's laughing at you. 

Even in the safe confines of this truck, the win threatens to wriggle in and get ahold of you. Screaming around the truck. Whipping past light posts. Rattling them so hard that they sway back and forth. Something is telling you that a power outage is in your near-to-distant future. With how you can look out the back window and see it ravaging the main part of town, there's no way it's not going to take out a power line. One little mess up is all it takes to plunge this little town into darkness. 

There's already a tree down. Its long branches obstructing part of the road, forcing Rhett onto the other side to squeeze past. 

"'m I over far enough?" He sounds like he's got a handle on it, head tilting back and forth, drawing the truck closer and closer to the edge of the road. 

Your eyes squint. Struggling to see through the window. "I think so."

It's an obstacle easily overcome, but as you begin to pick up speed once more, a new problem arises. Those poor little windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the rain. Coming down in sheet after sheet, splattering against the glass quicker than it can be swept off. Driving in the ocean would have better visibility.

"Can't fuckin..." Rhett's talking to himself. You hope he's talking to himself because you can't hear him over the chatter of your teeth. Trembling like some kind of exaggerated cartoon character.

The truck gently veers to the right, off into some kind of gravel space on the side of the road, grinding to a halt.

"The— the wipers can't go any faster?" Tongue limp in your mouth. Impossible to move.

Rhett's head shakes. "No, they don't..." 

His eyes lock onto yours. Even that might be enough to eat away some of the ice forming in your bones. His jaw softens. Eyelashes fluttering with an incoming thought.

Slow, his arm rises from his side, extending your direction. "C'mere."

Your breath catches. Is that...no, you....you shouldn't—

"Promise I won't kiss ya," his fingers tap your shoulder, "'m jus' gonna warm ya up."

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

You're scooting across the bench seat before thunder even has the chance to arise. Slipping beneath his outstretched arm, helpless to do anything but fall into his big chest, equally soaked as you are, but he's warm. A big furnace, wrapping around and squeezing you into him. 

He shifts the slightest bit, leaning against the door, opening himself up for you to properly squirm into his side. With such little space in this truck, it's a squeeze, but you fit nonetheless, cheek resting atop that old bucking bull tattoo, the scruff of his jaw tickling your forehead. 

Another rumble rolls through, wind slamming into the side of the vehicle, rocking it back and forth like some kind of giant cradle. Rhett's legs shift, properly rising up onto the seat, knees knocking into yours as they settle. There's no way that you can feel his body, not with those thick jeans in the way, but a part of you swears that you can. So certain of it that you think the ice in your bones is beginning to thaw.

A big, warm hand runs up and down the expanse of your arm as if to create a little friction there. "Can y' still feel your hands?" He murmurs, voice rumbling against the top of your head, and you think that's the tip of his nose bumping into you.

You're wiggling your fingers, can see them moving in the darkness, but hardly any sensation comes of it. Feels as if you're operating a separate object and not a part of your own body. "I don't know." 

He reaches down, both hands wrapping around yours, and immediately, it's as if you've been set ablaze. Fire burning in your frozen joints, sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature. Rhett's thumb swipes against yours, a rough glide, his skin weathered by a lifetime of labor on the ranch. 

They're so much bigger, too, dwarfing yours in comparison, long and thick with muscle and built-up callouses. He must be noticing it as well because he's sliding his index finger down next to yours, and even in the dark, you can tell that he's at least twice the size. So big that you can hold just the four of his fingers, and not even need the rest of his hand.

You don't know why you're doing this or why he's letting you. 

Careful, your gaze crawls upward, roaming over the wet fabric of his flannel, up his damp neck, and the dripping curls resting at his nape. And he's...

he's already looking at you. Half-lidded eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lip twitching upward for the briefest moment. A tickle rises in the back of your throat. Nothing comes of it. Lightning lights up the world like a light switch flicked, but you don't hear the thunder that follows. 

His nose bumps into yours. Breath fanning out against your skin. 

This...you shouldn't...but...

Those blue eyes drop down to your lips. Then back up to you. His eyelashes flutter. You think yours might, too. He's so close. Can feel the stubble on his chin brush against you, a fleeting thing that you can somehow still feel, even after the contact breaks. A breath trickles out of your chest. The slightest little movement that brushes your bottom lip against his. And he's not moving away, he's—

An ear-splitting boom tears past the truck. Rattling it back and forth. Sends you and Rhett jumping. Your head bangs against the seat cushion. His elbow hits the horn. 

"The hell..." he grumbles, with a shake of his head. "Was that s'pposed to be thunder?" 

"Is that what it was?" Parroting him, looking toward the window as if that could possibly give you an answer. 

The rain has slowed into a slow trickle that is easily swept away by the windshield wipers, unveiling the world around you once more. You recognize where you're at now, just two or three miles down from your house.  So damn close, and yet...

"Let's get you home," Rhett's sitting up, and you've got no choice but to do so as well. The scoot to the passenger side is almost shameful, the cold, soaked seat squishing beneath you like a sponge. 

A thick collection of petals swell in the back of your throat as Rhett's foot finds the gas pedal once more. Were you about to kiss him? What the hell were you thinking? That isn't how this works. You're not soulmates.

Somehow, the air has grown even colder without him wrapped around you, his very presence haunting you like a ghost. Lingering in the back of your mind so strongly that you can almost deceive yourself into believing that you're still snuggled into his side. But no matter how hard you focus, you can't force it to manifest into reality. 

Cruel is what it is.

Even as the rain picks up once more, it's not enough to pull you over again, swept away from the windshield as quickly as it lands. There's another tree down, but it has barely made its way into the road, such a simple obstacle that only takes a second or two to get past. And just like that, your porch light is emerging in the distance. A golden glow that grows larger by the second, like a tiny sun rising to greet you.

The gravel driveway crackles beneath the tires; it's usually a pleasant sound, but today, all it does is cause your stomach to sink. Such a sour feeling that it rises, flower petals tickling the back of your throat until you cough. Little bits of purple scatter across your lap. Rhett's foot jumps to the brake pedal, a soft squeal emitting from beneath the vehicle as it comes to a stop. 

You've never been so disappointed to see your front door. 

"Thank you," barely a whisper as it leaves your mouth. Anything louder might break you.

He nods, eyes darting from your lap and up to your face. "Yeah." 

The only sound in the truck is that of the frozen rain pitter-pattering on the metal roof. Nothing more. Nothing less. With a forced, tight-lipped smile, you reach for the door handle. It opens with a groan, creating just enough space for you to slip out, the oversaturated ground squelching beneath you. He doesn't say anything as you shut the door, so neither do you. 

Resigned to silence, you trudge through the rain. Wind rips past, determined to lift you up off the ground and whisk you into the sky. But you don't lift off the ground. You don't even slip. Your feet find the front steps of your porch, hand fishing into your pocket and producing a set of drenched keys.

The confines of your home are so much warmer than it was outside, and yet, as you toe off your muddy shoes, you can't help but compare it to Rhett. Your heater may be strong, but it doesn't wrap around you the way his arms did. Big. Secure. The kind of thing you thought only existed in your daydreams. 

Strange, you don't hear his truck pulling out of the driveway. You know he hasn't; that old GMC runs far too loudly for it to slip by unnoticed. Curious, you hook your finger into the blinds, pulling them down.

No, he hasn't moved at all.

...what's he doing out there? Even from here, you can tell that the storm is picking back up again, rustling through the trees, swaying them back and forth. 

Nothing has fallen or otherwise obstructed the driveway, and something couldn't have gone wrong. Not that quickly. Unless he's suddenly developed the ability to hear your heart hammering against your chest, wordlessly begging him not to leave your driveway, there's no reason for him to still be parked. 

The cab light flicks on. Then off again. All of a sudden, he's rounding the back of his truck. You're opening the door, socked feet stepping out onto the cold, wet porch. His spurs chime, boots thumping up one stair. Two. Three. Four. No, no, something must have happened. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack, looks half scared to death. 

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

"I forgot somethin'." One more step, and he's leaning down, and, and...

It's the simplest of things, merely pressing against each other for a long moment, but heaven itself cannot compare to the feeling of Rhett's lips against yours. His nose crushed uncomfortably against your cheek, big hands cradling your cheeks like you'll break if he doesn't. 

Just as quickly, he draws away, soft blue eyes meeting with yours. Lightning flashes, but even the following slam of thunder cannot stop you from grabbing a fistful of his flannel and yanking him in once more. Lips crashing together, feet stumbling with the force of it. One of his arms is wrapping around your waist and your hands are sliding up into his hair. Bold. As if this is familiar, something you've done every day of your lives. 

The press of his mouth and the stubble of his chin are so much more than your imagination ever could have crafted. Warm and scratching against you so deliciously that your head goes quiet. Soul mate markings be damned. This is where you're meant to be. Right here. Twisting your fingers through his unruly curls, gasping against him. Drowning as he kisses you again, and again, and again. 

Your head is spinning. Stumbling blindly as he leans into you, forcing you backward. Your heel catches on the doorway. "Rhett—" But you don't fall. You can't. Not with that strong arm around you. "Cowboy!" 

"You're the only one that's ever called me that." He breaks away, kicking at the door with his foot. There's no doubt a mud stain on the white frame now, but you've hardly got it in you to care. 

"What?" Your nose bumps into his cheek. A little too close.

"Cowboy." He mutters, lips brushing against yours. So, so close. 

A breath hitches in your throat. "Should I stop?"

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

Muffled thunder rumbles outside, and you're pretty sure the power has gone out, but you can't open your eyes to check. Helpless to do anything but tug on his hair, drinking in his deep grumble like you're starved. You should be embarrassed. Shouldn't be this desperate over a first kiss. 

But Rhett's got it just as bad. Pushing you backward until you're bumping into the wall. His big, calloused hand is venturing beneath your soaked shirt. God, and you're letting him. Back arching as his fingertips trail up your spine, chest pressing into his. Gasping against his lips like you're trying to put on a show. 

More. You want more. Reaching down to toy with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time, shaking fingers struggling to push them through the holes. Too eager to feel the expense of his chest beneath your palms. 

"You're gonna have t' stop me," Rhett's speaking against your lips, batting your hands away. Makes no effort to finish your handiwork as he yanks the flannel off his shoulders, the final three buttons snapping off and scattering across the hardwood floor.

Before you can stop it, your hand drops to his belt, pulling him closer. Earns you an affectionate chuckle that echoes throughout the house. Those hips of his press forward, obnoxiously large buckle digging into your belly, not an inch of space left between your bodies. 

"Why would I stop you?" It's too early for you to be reaching down to grab at the hem of your shirt, but you don't care. You want this damn thing off. The soaked fabric stubbornly clings to your frame, heavy as you drag it over your head. It hits the floor with a wet thunk, a mess for the future version of you to handle. 

Those deep blue eyes might eat you alive. "Good point." 

It's hard to tell who makes the next move. All you know is that you're leaning in to kiss him, noses crashing together, and his hands are appearing on your ass, squeezing until you get the hint to jump. It all happens so fast. The thunk of your back against the wall. His hips slotting between your thighs. 

"Y' feel what you're doin' to me?" He grunts, and he doesn't need to specify for you to know what he's talking about—heavy bulge straining against his jeans, pressing perfectly against your core, igniting a familiar heat there. 

"Uhuh," is all you're capable of. Greedy hands sliding across his chest and up his shoulders, feeling over all the little freckles and marks that have haunted your imagination. Fuck, and he just lets you. Too busy leaning in to steal a kiss off you. One. Two. Three. Before he shifts to the juncture of your jaw, stubble tickling as he kisses down your neck.  

Your hips buck forward. 

"Fuck," Rhett's voice tickles your ear, "shoulda let me kiss you earlier, sweetheart."

A shiver ripples down your spine. That's new. 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Finding your words is a task in of itself. Hard to do much of anything when his lips find the soft spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly. 

"You were drunk," voice strained, wound too tight in your throat. 

"Felt pretty sober in the moment," He hums, tongue poking out to wet your skin. Fuck, you wonder what that would feel like in other places, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter around his hips, works a groan right out of him. 

Thunder booms outside, but it's not enough to stop your lips from crashing once more. Teeth clattering, hopelessly grinding down into him, and even these layers of clothing can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches. 

It's all a blur. 

One moment, you're up against the wall. The next, you're on the ground again, socks sliding against the floor as you stumble down the hall. Hands tangled in his hair. Gasping against his lips. Moving blindly, too focused on each other to spare even a second. You don't know you're in the bedroom until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, falling backward with a yelp. 

Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this. There's no reason for you to be letting Rhett Abbott climb into bed with you and slot his big, warm body between your legs. He's your friend. You've known him since you could walk. And these tattoos. They don't match. You're not soulmates. 

Rhett's hand rises, pinning yours to the mattress, fingers slotting together. Must know what you're thinking about. "Who gives a fuck 'bout soulmates," he whispers, leaning forward to bump his nose against yours, rubbing them back and forth. "A damn stranger ain't gonna make me as happy as you do."

And you don't...you don't know what to say. 

Maybe you don't need to say anything because he kisses you like he's heard everything your heart has to tell him. Stealing your breath away, plucking every little flower from your lungs, so dizzying that your legs have to curl around him to keep from floating away. As if you could possibly escape the big, warm arms that have settled on either side of your head. 

Slow, his weight settles on top of you. Bellies snug together. So close that you can hardly grind up into him, reduced to a needy squirm, whining high in your throat. 

"Shh," he coos. A big hand curling around your cheek, thumb stroking the thin skin there. "I'll take care of you."

He's already making good on his promise, pulling away to kiss down your neck once more. Hot tongue poking past his lips, running over a vein, leaves behind a glistening trail as he makes his way to your collar. One of his hands dips behind your back, pinching the clasp of your bra, opens it so easily that it almost surprises you.

The last thing you expect is for him to gasp when he pulls it away. Awestruck by the sight of you, bare, for his eyes only. "So fuckin' pretty," whispering, as he kisses down your chest. Too eager to run his tongue down the swell of your breast, so content that his closed eyes seem to smile. 

Oh, that's...

"Rhett..." Heat swells in your lower belly. The feeling of his tongue swirling around your nipple is...truly something... 

Just as quickly, he's darting to the other one, all too excited to feel the little bud harden beneath his touch. Sensitive. Only takes the slightest bit of suction to make you jolt. But he must have noticed something even more enticing because he's pulling away from that one as well, a big hand rising to toy with it as his head dips down lower. 

A delicate kiss presses to the scar on your left side. 

Then another. And another. And another. Loving on the old wound, as if he can possibly reverse the damage if he gives it enough attention. Maybe just one more kiss will do it. If not, then surely the next one can make it happen.

"It was nobody's fault," you say softly, reaching to run your fingers through his hair once more. Truly, it wasn't. Nobody could have anticipated that shard of glass. 

"I know," the rumble of his voice tickles, pausing to run his tongue up the expanse of the mark, "jus' wish it didn't hurt ya like it did."

Gradually, he draws himself away from your side. Kissing his way down your belly until he meets the thin, delicate band of your underwear. His eyes peer up at you with a silent question. Your answer comes in the form of lifted hips, allowing him to pull the material down your legs. Then, he reaches for his belt, pinching it open with mesmerizing ease.

One boot thunks against the floor. Then the other. You really hope he didn't track mud all over your hardwood.

"You and that obnoxious buckle," the comment slips off your tongue before you can stop it. Too busy watching him undress. It's unfair how well the fabric clings to his thighs, fitting him like a damn glove. 

He laughs, kicking his jeans off his feet. "What, don't think it looks good on me?" 

"If I answer that, your ego will go through the roof." Your eyes roll; the last thing you need to do is tell him that, yes, you do like it. Lord only knows he'll run himself through four more rodeo seasons, trying to score an even bigger buckle. 

"Already has," he winks, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his boxers.

You don't know what he's got to be so confident about until...

"Jesus, Rhett."

"What?" He grins. Absolutely fucking obnoxious. But you can't formulate a single word. "What?"

Your thighs cinch together, hiding yourself from view. There is absolutely no reason why that should be springing up from its confines, so heavy that it smacks against his hip, unable to stand up against his belly. So wet that even in the dark you can see him glistening.

"Naw, y' don't gotta be shy," Rhett's hand travels up your knee, slipping between your closed legs, callouses dragging deliciously against your sensitive skin, "'s just me." 

A little too easily, you fall apart once more, feeling a little too exposed as his hungry eyes rake down your body. Every imperfection and curve is on full display. An exhibit of the life you've lived. And Rhett just might be your biggest admirer, his warm frame slipping between your legs, big hands gliding up your sides, pressing lazy kisses as he settles on top of you. 

"Rhett..." you don't know why you're saying his name, thighs curling around his sharp hips. His cock head bumps into the meet of your thigh, sends you jumping before you can realize what's happened.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," uttering beneath his breath, a sentiment meant for your ears only. "I promise." He reaches between your bodies, gently guiding himself to—

Your head tilts back with a gasp. That's new. The delicate drag of Rhett's cock, gliding between your folds, the underside of him nudging at your clit. Hadn't realized you'd gotten this worked up until now, so wet that you can almost convince yourself that you don't need any lube at all. Not a hint of dryness to be found, sliding so, so easily against you.

But then you're gathering the courage to peer down between your legs, and even the darkness can't hide how big he is. Thicker than your daydreams have ever depicted, just a hair longer than any of the toys hiding beneath the bed.

"Bedside table," you blurt, heart fluttering in your chest. Walking is a privilege you'd like to keep. 

An unforeseen positive to letting your best friend between your legs is the fact that he knows exactly what you're trying to say. No need for questions as Rhett reaches off to the side, hand disappearing into the drawer. Comes back with the bottle, then delves back in, producing some tiny, round hunks of plastic.

You don't recognize them until he flicks one on—the tiny, fake candles from a few Halloweens ago.

"How romantic," there's a strangeness to this that you didn't expect; oddly casual, even with this newfound situation. 

"What?" He asks, innocent as can be, like you have a choice in the matter, already putting one flickering candle off to the side. Another, next to your hip, and he's still got four or five of them left to turn on. "Ain't in the mood for some mood lightin'?"

Lying to yourself is fruitless. The soft golden glow is a welcomed addition to this dark little bedroom. Highlights the room just enough for you to catch the way he drizzles the lube into his palm, reaching down to spread it over himself. That big hand almost tricks you into believing his cock is smaller than it really is, the flushed tip nudging at your cunt with every upward glide. 

They say monsters hide in the dark, and you know you caught sight of one between his legs. 

Two fingers press into you. No warning to be found, the thick digits easing in like they've done it a million and one times, crooking upward, dragging against your walls. There's the slightest hint of a stretch, a soft ache that—

You suck in a breath, a soft noise escaping past your lips. 

Rhett's cock twitches against you. "'s that it?" 

Weak, you nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Not with him gradually beginning to move, shallowly pumping those long digits into you, never pulling out far enough to make you feel empty. But it's so hard to stay quiet when he continuously rubs up into those little nerves, nudging them on every pass over. 

"Rhett..." hips writhing against the bed, not sure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

That must be all that he's planning to give you because all of a sudden, he's drawing away. Wet fingers glisten in the candlelight as he reaches for his cock once more, guiding it back between your folds. Not entirely the same as what you had before, but the drag of his cock head against your clit is so, so worth the exchange. 

His warm chest settles against yours once more, lips finding your cheek, scratchy jaw tickling the skin there. Sounds like he murmurs your name as he travels to the corner of your mouth, pressing another kiss there. Finally. Finally, he meets you for a proper kiss, almost immediately broken by the swivel of his hips, reformed just as quickly.

Your hands are on the move. One in his hair, the other on his naked shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips. Strong from a decade of bull riding and all that time spent on the ranch, chiseled and perfect in every way you can imagine. Fuck, it's like he was built just for you and this. Rutting between your legs like he's in heat, dragging against your needy clit until your hips twitch off the mattress, pressing into him. 

Swallowing down his groan is enough to put you up on cloud nine. 

A pressure appears at your entrance—the soft nudge of his tip. Your antics must have caused him to wander a little too far down. But you're pushing down onto him like it was your intent all along, and by God, he's not trying to stop you. 

Rhett stiffens. "You want me to...?" Muttering against your lips, unable to draw himself away any further. 

"Yeah," it's the easiest thing you've said all night.

It's all the encouragement he needs, mouth meeting yours once more. Slow, that pressure between your legs begins to grow, his blunt tip spreading you wide. There's a part of you already beginning to wonder if you should have asked for more lube, but his incessant lips are so damn distracting. Tangling with yours, drawing you into a captivating dance, spinning your head round and round, drawing your mind away from the burn. 

His head slips into you with a soft 'pop,' such an odd little feeling that has you gasping into his kiss, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. Now you can really feel him. The delicate drag of his length gradually filling you, centimeter by debilitating centimeter. You'll be waddling come morning. You can already feel it.

There's no way you won't be. Not with how your pussy aches with the overwhelming stretch of him.

"Y' want me to stop?" Rhett's low voice rumbles against your bottom lip; when did the kiss break? 

Thunder rumbles outside, your only reminder of the storm that looms just past the thin walls of your home. Even the memory of running with him in the rain feels like it was forever ago. There were flowers filling your lungs just a few hours prior, but as you draw in a breath, you can't feel a shred of evidence that they were ever there.

"Yeah," nodding, your nose bumping into his, "you're just...a lot." 

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

But it's too late. There's already a wild grin emerging onto his scruffy face, so pleased with your words that his eyes seem to sparkle. As if the sight of you struggling to take his cock wasn't enough of a boost to his ego. 

"'s that it?" Speaking through his smile, still has the audacity to sink even further into you. "Ya never had anything big as me?" 

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

All at once, his hips are flush with yours, not an inch of space left, your legs tightening around him as if there's a risk of him pulling back out. But that's not happening. Not with the way he's blindly nuzzling his nose into you, so lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can't hold his eyes open.

"Y' alright?" His eyelashes tickle your cheek as they flutter open.

"Uhuh" is the best that you've got at this given moment. It's so hard to speak when you're so full. Couldn't take another millimeter of him, even if he begged you to. "You can..." pausing for a breath, "you can move."

In perfect synchrony, your attentions flicker down to where your bodies meet. A sight lit by the golden glow of the artificial candles, illuminating the slow withdrawal of Rhett's cock, where you're stretched so wide that you don't think your smaller toys will ever satisfy you again. 

"Shit, look at that," there's no reason why Rhett, of all people, should be so mesmerized by this, but he is, and it makes you fucking dizzy. "'s fuckin' hot."

And then he's sinking back in and—

"Fuck," it's too early for you to be whimpering so high in your throat, but his blunt tip is dragging right against the sensitive nerves hidden within you, and it's so, so much. 

This close, it's hard to miss the way Rhett's breath hitches, "'s that the spot, baby?"

All you can do is nod. Nails biting into his shoulders as he draws back once more, rubbing past that little spot once more. Toys don't normally get this sort of reaction out of you, but there's just something about it being Rhett that's getting to you. Your childhood best friend. The man that your weary heart has yearned for since high school. Eye candy at every rodeo he's ever set foot in. 

His lips find yours, tangling lazily, humming all the while. A part of you wonders if he always demands this many kisses. If he makes a habit of smiling into them. The rest of you knows that he doesn't because otherwise, he'd know that the heavy thrust of his hips would send your teeth clattering together.

"Ow," he's jerking back as if he's not the main culprit behind it. 

His cock head drives right up into those nerves. Sends your back arching up off the bed, pussy spasming around him, and you don't know which of you cry out louder. 

"There, there, there," you're babbling like a fool, but he's already missing it again. Such a minuscule thing that every correction is an overshot. 

Rhett's brows furrow, focusing so damn hard, and yet, "I can't...shit, that ain't it either." 

But you've got an idea.

Without a word, you begin to lean up, foreheads bumping together as Rhett tries to follow along, his big blue eyes so wide that they glisten in the light. Slipping out of you entirely as he falls onto his haunches, looks like a big puppy when he's confused like this.

"On your back," your command is soft. It could easily be bent if he really wanted to, but he's already following through on it, twisting and falling back onto the bed without a fuss. 

Settling into his lap is a feeling you've imagined a million and one times, and yet, somehow, it's unlike anything your mind has ever come up with. Warmth radiating off him like he's a damn heater, broad chest making your hand look impossibly tiny, as you lean on him for balance. He's already one step ahead of you, carefully guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt; all you've got to do is sink down and—

A pair of gasps tear through the room. Louder than the storm raging outside.

"Y' look so fuckin' beautiful on top of me, baby," Rhett sputters, peering up at you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky. 

Already, you're beginning to move. Knees digging into the mattress, palms firm against his chest as you lift yourself up. The curve of his length alone is enough to make your thighs shudder.

"You're not so bad yourself," you're breathless already, hips swiveling, searching for that deceptive little angle. Maybe if you...lean a little further forward...

There it is. 

A tingle ripples up your spine, clamping down around Rhett's cock, and he must feel it because his head rolls to the side, lips parting with a groan that ought to make your head spin. Those big hands settle onto your thighs, gripping like he'll fall off the bed if he doesn't.

"Is that—oh fuck,"  his hips jerk up off the bed, leaking tip kissing those little nerves head on, "is that it?"

You can't answer. Palms shivering against his chest, already fighting to keep yourself upright. An ache blooming in your thighs with every rise and fall, head tilting back, a familiar heat beginning to bloom in your lower belly.

Rhett must be feeling it, too. There's no way he isn't. Head rolling from side to side, back arching off the bed, unable to keep himself still beneath you, a whiny mewl escaping his parted lips. And all it's doing is jostling his length inside of you, sporadically tapping against all those sensitive spots.

A calloused thumb appears on your clit. Not sure when he started reaching down, but it's damn near got you collapsing onto his chest, a tremble setting into your exhausted bones. 

"Fuck, Rhett!" You're squealing, poorly built rhythm already beginning to fall apart. 

Again, his hips snap upward, heavy balls smacking against your ass. "'m sorry, I'm not trying to buck my hips. I just..." he doesn't get to finish that because you're falling forward into his chest, face burying into his shoulder. It's too much. It's too much. 

Big hands settle on your hips. Gripping tight as his knees bend, feet digging into the mattress to pump into you properly. Lewd smacks of skin on skin echoing through the room, artificial candles bouncing with his every motion. 

"Anyone else ever fill your sweet pussy like this?" He rasps in some rumbling, guttural tone you've never heard before. "Hm?"

Your head shakes, but it takes a moment to realize that he can't see what you're doing. Not with you nuzzled up under his jaw. "N-no," whimpering right into his ear. 

Those hands are moving again, gliding up your back, big arms securing themselves around you like a hug, the only damn thing that keeps you from bouncing further up the bed. Your forearms settle on either side of his head, shivering as you try to lift yourself up, but you can only go so far, barely able to meet his eyes.

Lips clash, so loose that it hardly even counts as a kiss. Drinking down Rhett's feeble whine. Makes your head spin so much more than the alcohol ever did. Heat pools between your legs, pussy tightening like a vice around his pistoning cock, thick tip rubbing into those nerves over and over and over. 

You're close. 

"I love you," it slips out of him so quietly that you nearly believe it's a figment of your imagination. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

One of your hands delves into his hair, noses colliding. Think you might be whispering it back, but you can't hear what's coming out of your mouth. Overridden by the blood rushing to your head and the slap of his skin against yours, and, and, and...

Spots appear in your vision. Body going taut as you cum around him without the slightest warning. Crying out high in your throat, forehead knocking against Rhett's, an invisible flame racing across your skin. Every thrust pushes your head higher into the clouds, could damn near float up to the ceiling if his arms weren't tightening around you, his hips stalling. A melody of whimpers bubbles out of his throat, orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave. 

You think you can feel it. The spasm of his cock and the warmth of his cum painting you white, flooding your pussy so full that you think it's already beginning to pour out of you. His hips jerk up into you, punctuated by a sickening squelch and his own broken moan. 

And yet, somehow, you've got the strength to meet his swollen lips, lazy tongues poking out to twist together like a greeting. Wet and messy as can be, saliva running down your chin, drooling like dogs in the summer sun. Rhett twists beneath you, and you're vaguely aware that the world around you is spinning, falling into the mattress beside him. 

A tickle rises in the back of your throat, forcing a cough out of you. Two purple flowers dance out onto the bed, obnoxiously vibrant and dainty. They've always been small, nothing compared to the roses Rhett's been choking up, but they look even tinier in his sweaty palm.

"Spiderwort," he murmurs after a moment, running a fingertip over their petals. Bleary blues peer flicker up to you, half-lidded and turned upward by his dumb smile.

They've always been his favorite. 

"So there was no girl at the bar?" You ask, hand wandering onto his cheek, curling around it like he's the most delicate thing on this planet. 

His head shakes. "Never." 

There's still a storm lurking outside, rattling the house, lightning and thunder striking the ground with an unmatched fury, but you hardly notice it. Too distracted by the warmth of a cowboy, his legs tangling with yours, uncaring of the mess you've made together. Kissing just for the hell of it, wandering across cheeks and peppering over old scars, musing about the memories attached. 

When you fall asleep, you're not sure, but you wake snuggled into his naked chest, his big arm looped around you like a blanket. Sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains, the shrill tune of a bird singing her song, and for once, it's dreamy rather than irritating. 

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler. 

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open. 

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses. 

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm. 

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh. 

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture. 

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it. 

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all. 

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened. 

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort. 

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed. 

[sab3rto0thed]

there’s something about being twelve and swearing that you will kill yourself. not now, but eventually. before you turn sixteen. you will peak at fifteen and all of the life will drain out of you.

as it was, that prediction was not entirely untrue. at fifteen, you basically drop dead. off the grid. you learn to exist in only your bedroom. those four walls become your blackest nightmare. you fucking die over and over again, every night. you swallow pills or glass or grief.

there is no proper way to sum up eight years’ worth of grit into a single polished piece of poetry. i cannot clarify just how bad it was.

i was not going to graduate high school. i was not even going to live. each day was a tightrope walk, a contest of grasping at straws. on my best days, i would learn to live with myself by spilling out all of my secrets, waiting for someone to look at me with enough disgust that i could finally move the blade.

on my worst days, i would be hunched over in my room, the victim of a black out. it was those days that i did not think i was going to make it. i fought so hard, fingernails clawing on tile.

when you are twelve and your parents are emotionally vague at best, you love whoever loves you. and when everyone you love gives up on you, you learn to give up on yourself. your fucking elementary school honor roll goes out the window as soon as you hit middle school. your beautiful, pale white fucking forearms form scars like tattooed flower stems. you think yourself repulsive, but to some eighteen-year-olds, fifteen-year-old girls who hate themselves are a fetish.

i was never dishonest, at least. until i was sixteen, i never lied; and even then, i wavered, always telling half-truths. i would only lie to preserve faith. when the boy i wanted to be my best friend told me that his best friend did not do that to me, i nodded with some sway. girls are whores and we did make out eventually, which was building up for at least two years. like i said, a fetish. they do not want you to grow.

you wait for the world to end, thinking that every day is your last. sometimes things get better, but then they just get bad again. here you are, seventeen, doomed to continue this cycle of violence. it doesn’t matter how many people you cut out. you cannot eliminate disease. once it has touched you, it will always fester, its roots clinging to your liver. you cannot kill it without killing yourself, and god you do not want to kill yourself. you really, really do not. you have been fighting so long.

you are a walking void, doomed by the narrative, your fate to drag everyone around you down. you actually do not care about anyone anymore, and you have not cared about others who actually cared about your health in so long that when it happens, you splatter all over the floor. you do it multiple times, waiting for them to get tired of cleaning up your mess. they don’t. 

when you finally learn to talk about it, peeling the stitches from a single wound, your friends hold you close. there is nothing about the gesture that feels lopsided or wrong. for a moment, you are safe, collided between worlds. you do not want to die.

when people began to believe in me again, i was almost sure it was too late. i did not believe in myself. i was a sarcastic asshole on my good days, and on my bad days, i was tying that noose around my neck. no one needed a girl like me. i had burned out at fifteen, just as i predicted. i would be nothing and no one, not even enough to graduate high school. it was always going to be this way.

no, they said. we will not let you become a walking tragedy. stop with the blunts and the moving around and the weed and the alcohol. you do not need to get wine-drunk in the kitchen at two in the morning, go out and smoke a cigarette at five so you are constantly sedated. 

they did not pry, which i appreciated. i was not good at responding to prying, because when i had, i was gutted from the inside out, my body hung out to dry. instead, my english teacher read each word that i wrote with careful consideration despite the fact that i ditched his class more than i was there. when he called me endearing, i felt something inside of me begin to unfurl, a flower coming out of winter. when his wife told me to stay, just for a little longer, because i was in tears, the flower found the sun.

i still had bad days. my grief turned to anger, and sometimes my anger would turn inward, using the pincushion of my body. it had been used to doing this since i was twelve, and it was not keen on stopping it now. i had to guide the blade away. i told it that we couldn’t do this anymore. i told it that we were going to graduate, because we had promised.

on may twenty seventh, after a year of tears and losses and the hardest i had ever worked in school since i was eight, i graduated. i did not believe i was going to graduate. i thought they would apprehend me as soon as i stepped off of the stage with my diploma in my hand. i thought someone would scream. i thought the world would collapse, the principal would stall the ceremony. they would take my diploma from me, say you did not do enough, and have everyone watch as i murdered myself in the grass. there would be no more running up staircases. that would be it. neither my grandmother nor my mother graduated, and here i was, doomed by the fucking narrative.

my friends who did not make love conditional had been watching me the whole year with careful eyes and heavy hands. as soon as the ceremony was over, i fled from them. i fled from everyone. my heart was in my throat. i could not quite believe it. eighteen, a graduate. my bravado carried me through interactions and i did not break until my english teacher, the first person to believe in me in five years, told me that he and his wife were unbelievably proud of me. unbelievably proud.

i have never had someone be unbelievably proud of me. i put my cap that i had decorated with glitter down, placed my phone to the side of me, and in the back of my aunt’s fancy rental car, i broke. it had been a long fucking eight years, but here i was, still standing despite the scars and the breakdowns and the fact that my mother once threw up when she saw the beast she had created. i had made it. i was eighteen, my diploma in my hands. i had fucking done it. i had graduated high school. it was the purest act of defiance, the proudest thing i’ve ever done. it was more than just an education. it was a break in the narrative. it was spite. and on my worst days, it was a year-old promise to the people that were unwavering in their belief in me, despite the fact that i was a troubled child and i could not do anything that was untroubled. it was this: i will graduate.

so i did. it was as simple as that. i walked across that stage with my friends, my heart an ocean, and the world shifted on its axis, acommodating me. i had made it through high school. i did not have my driver’s license because i had wasted time trying to bleed to death, but now i had freedom on my fingertips. i was a high school graduate, the first person on my mother’s side of the family. i was a fucking high school graduate, eighteen-years-old. the proof was in pictures and emails and that fucking diploma.

a high school graduate. eighteen. me, and the world at my fingertips. and people that are unbelievably, unfailingly, unwaveringly proud of me.

it aches in a way that nothing has ever ached before. i would not change it for anything.

[harringtown]

sorrow is a season

a/n: ik I've been super sporadic these last few months, but book revisions and tight deadlines have had me v busy!!!! anyways I’ve spent so so long on this and wanted to pull off some wild plot stuff but then I got busy and I figured I couldn’t just let the 2k I had go to waste and so, here we are. apologies for the wait anon, its been TOO long, but I hope u enjoy!!!!

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: eddie munson is dead. or is he? (aka a kas/vampire Eddie au)

word count: 4k

warnings: blood/death/violence mention

-

In the end, he is alone, like he always knew he would be.

Even the bats, either bored of a limp plaything or drawn away, fly off. The lightning seems to follow them, leaving Eddie alone on the grass in a cold, gray version of a place he never liked all that much to begin with.

The only thing that ever made the trailer park worth it was you. Though, to be fair, the only thing that made a lot of things in this shitty town worth it was you.

You. You, smiling at him from the passenger seat as you sing along to the radio, and you, whispering to him under the stars at midnight, and you, looking at him like you never want to stop.

He would give anything to see you one last time. To make sure you’re alive. Because he can’t be sure—he doesn’t know if his sacrifice is amounting to anything, or if you’re dying, too, just out of sight. Panic clears some of the fog from his brain.

At first, he doesn’t realize he’s speaking, calling out the word, “Please,” until his raw throat protests. Even then, he doesn’t stop, forcing his voice louder, screaming into the twisted ether.

Please, don’t take me away.

He isn’t sure who he’s yelling to, exactly, because he’s never believed in God, and even if he did, God sure as shit can’t hear him down here.

“I don’t want to die,” he says. Tears have mixed with the blood on his face, and his vision blurs red.

What are you willing to give in order to live?

The voice asks, and Eddie isn’t entirely sure it isn’t just some figment of his dying brain.

He shakes his head, letting it thump back against the grass. Above him, the dark red sky doesn’t hold a single star.

What are you willing to give? The voice asks again.

Later, he’ll understand what he’s about to do. But not yet. Not yet.

“Anything,” Eddie croaks. “Anything.”

A tall, hulking silhouette moves through the shadows, but Eddie can’t see their face, or anything, really. All of his senses disappear, and he’s lost in an endless sea of darkness.

Eddie Munson dies. And then, he wakes up.  

-

Eddie Munson is dead.

Three months of telling yourself those words, and they still don’t sound real.

Two months since he was legally declared dead—there wasn’t a body, still isn’t, probably never will be, but in Hawkins, this is no longer a strange occurrence—and three months since you dragged Dustin away from his body, and it still doesn’t feel real.

You’re beginning to doubt it ever will. Maybe it will always be this way. You, looking out your front window every time you pass it and expecting to see his van idling at the curb. You, accidentally ordering his coffee alongside your own enough times that even the barista pities you.

You, still waiting for someone who isn’t coming back.

“But you’ll be there, right? 10 am?” Robin asks, her voice garbled through the phone.

Lounging on your bed, you push up, keeping the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“10 am, on the field. I know. I’m not going to miss my own graduation,” you say.

“Our graduation,” Robin says. “And thank the heavens, because I swear to God, I don’t think I’d have survived another week with Mrs. Burton. If I had to read another sexist, poorly written poem by a long dead man, I was going to spontaneously combust.”  

You laugh, but something about the words our graduation sticks to the back of your throat like phlegm. You and Robin’s. It was supposed to be three of you, though.

It’s as if Robin can hear your spiraling thoughts, because she says, gently, “If you want company, I can force Harrington to buy us beer and drive me over.”

You smile. “I’ll live. Besides, there’ll be plenty of beer at all the after parties I’m dragging you to tomorrow night.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Robin quips. “For once, I don’t mind hanging out with these people, considering I’ll never have to see most of them again.”

“One can dream,” you say.

“One can,” Robin says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow.”

You exchange goodbyes with Robin and walk the phone back to the receiver, untangling the twisted cord, and hang it up. Before going back to your bed, you bring two fingers to your lips, then press them to the red electric guitar hanging over your dresser, like you do every night.

It isn’t the guitar he used to draw the very bats that killed him. That guitar was lost with Eddie.

It, along with a few tee shirts, the rings he pulled off his fingers and jammed into your hands before you left him, and a few photos, are all that remain of Eddie Munson.

You’d made a thousand plans together, and even if 99% of them were impossible, the 1% that weren’t still clatter behind you everywhere you go.

I think it’s finally my year.

1986 should have been the beginning of the rest of his life; hopefully, a life alongside you. It should have made high school and the monsters you’d fought an old story.

This, an empty grave, shouldn’t be the end.

-

The lock on the window in your room has been whining as long as you’ve lived in the house. A few years back, your parents tried to get it replaced, but you’d refused. You couldn’t tell them why, but you weren’t about to get rid of a built-in alarm on that window.

The whining sound pulls you out of sleep and off the mattress in under two seconds. You pull out the sledgehammer you have hidden under the bed before your eyes find the silhouette slipping through the now-open window and into your room.

Of all the nights for someone to break in, it had to be one of the miraculous few you weren’t having a nightmare. At three in the morning, that alone feels worthy of at least a tap with the hammer.

The second the figure hits the middle of your room, you lunge.

The figure ducks the swing, and jerks to the side, face illuminated by moonlight streaming in the window.

A face that can’t possibly be standing in your bedroom.

Eddie Munson. Or his ghost. Or something—

“Jesus Christ, babe, where the hell did you get a sledgehammer? Were you going to hit me with that?” Eddie exclaims, except it can’t be Eddie, because Eddie died in your arms. Because you pried Dustin off Eddie’s body. Because you’ve seen his death in your dreams every night for months.

It can’t be. It isn’t. But someone, or something, is wearing his skin, masquerading as the boy you love, and it’s the last of many, many straws.

You swing the hammer, but faster than your eyes can track, Eddie’s hand moves—you blink, and he’s holding the metal edge in one fist.

The hammer’s head is too heavy to be caught without breaking a finger—but the speed with which he moved is more troubling.

“Who the hell are you?” You snap, wrenching the hammer out of his fist, swinging again. “Get the hell out of my house, now—“

“Hold on, hold on—“ Not-Eddie backs up, hands raised, and with each second that passes, your brain files away the subtle differences. The color of his eyes, that beautiful brown, almost has a red tint in the dark. “It’s me. I swear to God, it’s me.”

“Whatever this sick game is, I’m not playing.” You raise the sledgehammer parallel to the floor and point it at him, using it to push him back toward the window. “Out.”

“Okay, okay, just—just wait.” He jumps to the side just before hitting the window, skating along the wall and darting around you. You whip around, and Eddie is there in a blink, plucking the hammer out of your hands. He tosses it onto your bed and slides into place directly between you and your weapon.

“If I wasn’t me, how would I have known how to open the window?”

Your Eddie could pop the lock in seconds. It was why you always kept it locked, because the only person who might need to get in could.  

“Anybody—anything— can jimmy a lock,” you snap.

Maybe it’s your lack of a good night’s sleep in the recent past, or the darkness of the room, but you swear, he almost looks hurt.

“Harsh, but fair.” He takes a breath. “But it really is me.”

“Eddie Munson died three months ago,” you say. “I was there.”

“Yeah, I saw the gravestone. Bet my funeral had a hell of a turnout,” he says.

“Just stop. You’re not him. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not him.”

Eddie seems to chew on his words for a moment. “We met in gym class. You were a junior. I was a senior, the second time. You were hiding behind the long jump mats during the mile run, and I army-crawled my ass over to you so that ancient gym teacher didn’t bust us both. Naturally, he saw me, and the second he yelled, you shoved me out onto the track on my ass.” He grins. “I was pretty much done for, after that.”

You shake your head. “Twenty other people were on the track  that day—”

“Fine. Okay.” He huffs a breath. Folds his arms over his chest. “Right, okay, so a few weeks after we started hanging out, I took you to Lover’s Lake. We ate Cheetos and drank warm Coke on the dock, and you told me about that field trip, the one to the museum in middle school. You got lost, ended up in the art exhibit for two hours until a chaperone tracked you down. After that, you couldn’t get enough of all those old—what is it? Abstract paintings.”

Your heart beats like a kick drum, so loud you’re surprised it hasn’t woken the whole house.

Eddie’s gaze darts down—and you don’t remember much of the few anatomy lessons you had, but you’d swear he looks where your heart is.

“This isn’t possible,” you say softly.

Eddie’s lips pull thin. “You kissed me outside that gas station on main because you said you were tired of waiting for me to do it.” A smile softens his expression. “And the first time you told me you loved me, we were in this room, in that bed, but you had to whisper because your parents were downstairs.” He takes a step forward. “And I said it back. Didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t whisper either, but you weren’t even pissed. Y’know, I’d only said that to one other person before you, but I didn’t hesitate.“

“No. You can’t be here.” You swallow. Shake your head. Hope is banging its fists against your ribcage, desperate to break out of the prison you locked it in. Tears prick at the backs of your eyes, but you don’t dare let them fall.

Eddie shrugs. “But I am.”

He takes a step toward you, and when you don’t move away, he takes another. Only when there are no more steps to take does he stop, the rubber of his sneakers kissing the tips of your toes.

He doesn’t move any further, like he’s leaving the last inch up to you.

You hold his gaze. Reach a hand up and let it settle on his cheek.

“Eddie?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning into your hand. “It’s me.”

Just like that, the sob that’s been sitting at the base of your throat for months dislodges, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. He still feels like your Eddie, still smells like him beneath that overhanging scent of ash.

The moment he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, you know it’s Eddie. You’ve been in these arms so many times, you fit like puzzle pieces.

“Eddie,” you say again, voice muffled by his hair, and he just holds you tighter, so tight you can barely breathe but you don’t care.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here.”

And for the first time in months, you can breathe.

-

For ten minutes, everything is like it was. Eddie is all bravado and big smiles, like the last three months never happened, and you let the lie hang because you’ve missed him too badly to pull it back. But it’s more fog than curtain, and it evaporates fast.

Eddie pulls you onto the bed and into his arms, just holding you, and the way your bodies fold together may be the same, but nothing else is.

His skin is cooler, dryer. Covered in scars. His scent, one you can’t describe but know, isn’t totally different, but it’s not the same, either.

And his eyes. He clearly took efforts to keep them out of the light—asking you not to turn a lamp on, keeping his chin ducked—but up close, there’s no mistaking it.

The deep, dark brown is more like a deep red wine someone spilled on a carpet. It’s a beautiful, inhuman shade of red. And you may have seen enough weird shit to fill a museum over the last few years, it sets off every alarm bell inside you. Like an ancient voice is urging you to run while everything else tells you to stay.

Your first observation was right. He isn’t your Eddie. He’s something different. Evolved. And you’re not sure if it’s for better or worse. You’re also not sure if you give a shit.

There are so many questions to ask, but they’d all break the bubble you’re resting in, so you settle for the softest you can think of.

“Tell me what happened to you,” you say gently, keeping your forehead pressed to his chest so you don’t have to look him in the eye; that, and because you’re trying to find a heartbeat. You haven’t. “How you survived. I’m not an idiot, Eddie. And I can only pretend I haven’t noticed that your eyes are a different color or that you move faster than you should. That somehow, you’ve been in the Upside Down for three months, and you’re not a decayed corpse.”

Eddie’s hands, steady as they glide up and down your back, your arms, your sides, stall, and his fingers curl slightly into your hoodie.

“You were there,” he says. “You saw it all.”

“Clearly, not everything. You were dead when I left—”

“Almost dead.”

“What?” you stiffen.

“I wasn’t… I mean, I was mostly dead. Kissing Death, straight on the lips, tongue and all. And then…”

“And then?”

He inhales, and says, “And then, I made a deal with the devil. A deal I can’t take back.”

You lean back. You may not have all the pieces, but you have enough to get some understanding at the full picture.

The only devil in the Upside Down is Vecna. And if he brought Eddie back—whatever the definition of back is—he didn’t go it out of the goodness of his heart.

“Eddie, what did you do?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Look, I know you want answers, and I want to give them to you, but I…” He pauses. His hand comes up to your cheek, his cold fingers tracing a line down to your jaw. You shiver. “I’ve spent the last three months waiting for a single minute he wasn’t on my ass, watching me, and I don’t have a lot of time. So, I swear to God, I’ll answer all your questions, but right now, I just want to be here. With you.”

You frown. “You’re not staying.”

Eddie is silent for a long time before he says, “I can’t. Not yet.”

You shift back, sitting up so that only his outline is visible in your periphery. From this angle, blurry and out of focus, he still looks like the Eddie you lost. An Eddie whose biggest problem was whether he’d actually graduate this year.

Eddie sits up beside you, a hand on your arm. He exhales, dropping his chin onto your shoulder. It’s a familiar position, and without thinking, you tip your head against his, temple to temple.

“I’m still a puppet,” he says softly. “Just because he’s not holding my strings right now doesn’t mean he’s not coming back for them.”  

You scoff. “If you’re just… some puppet, how are you here now? I mean, am I even talking to the real you right now?”

Eddie stiffens.

“I’m me,” he says. “A lot of the time… I’m more him than me. But right now, right here, I’m me. I’m just Eddie.” He lifts his chin. You crane your head to meet his eyes.

“I spent months waiting for a chance. V—He’s been so weak after everything that went down, he’s been stuck down there. Healing. Even when I came topside to fee—” He stops abruptly. Changes course. “But now…” Eddie pauses. It’s like he’s battling two voices in his head, one telling him to speak, the other urging him silent. “Let’s just say, he’s on a business trip, and I’m supposed to be down there, keeping an eye on things. I only had a few hours.”

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper, like if you keep your voice low enough, the world won’t hear and jinx you.

“I know, angel,” he says. He drops his chin and presses a long kiss to the side of your head. When he pulls back, his expression has shifted, freezing over like Lovers Lake every December. His voice isn’t entirely his own as he says, “But there’s something I need to take care of before I can stay.”

“Something?” you ask. “Or someone?”

Eddie lets out a long sigh. He rolls onto his back, hands coming up behind his head, and the posture, his presence beside you, the tickle of his hair against your shoulder, is somehow familiar and foreign at once.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I want you to stay alive—” He lifts his brows, and you huff, pressing on. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. And you know that it wasn’t some… miracle that brought me back. It was—” He stops. “If he’s still around, I’m not really me. I’m just another one of his weapons.”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. No human should be able to hear it. But Eddie does.

“I’m gonna try,” he says.

“And if you can’t?”

Eddie shrugs. He pointedly averts his gaze as he says, “If I can’t, then I go out fighting. Maybe I can get a few decent shots in before he takes me out.”

“Eddie—”

Eddie twists, shifting so he’s half in front of you. He takes your face in his hands and forces your gaze. The angles of his face are sharper, his eyes are clearer. He isn’t the Eddie you lost, but he’s still your Eddie, under it all.

“I’m already on borrowed time, sweetheart. Might as well make it worth something.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s bullshit. We’ll just… we’ll get out of here. Tonight. We can get in my car and drive until we get to a city big enough to disappear in. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“You know, I’ve been running since I learned to walk.” His thumb traces a line up and down your jaw. “I never even thought about stopping. Never wanted to.” A sad smile ghosts his lips. “Then, one day, I met you. And I had a reason to stay. So, I’m gonna fight for it. And I’m gonna come back for you.”

Before, Eddie Munson could have won a contest for stubbornness. It appears dying or almost dying didn’t change that.

You take a breath. Close your eyes for a long moment. When you open them, you say, “You better. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. And I’ll make sure it takes this time.”

Eddie snorts a laugh and loops his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. For a long time, you stay that way, holding each other and pretending the seconds aren’t rolling by.

And then, much sooner than you’d like, Eddie peels himself out of your arms. He climbs off the bed, and you follow him back to the window. The latch whines in protest as he lifts the windowpane, like it too is dreading his departure.

He climbs out onto the roof and turns back to the window, his slender hands on the sill. His fingers look naked without their rings.

Your stomach clawing up your throat, you lift the thin chain out from under your shirt, the metal rings hanging from it clacking. You unlatch it and pull off a thick, black ring. Unlike the others, taken off him in the Upside Down, you’ve had this ring for ages. He gave it to you a long, long time ago.

You lift one of his hands, sliding it onto his middle finger. He curls his fingers around yours, squeezing hard.

“Come back to me,” you say.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says. “Promise.”

Eddie leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes, and the cool touch of his lips disappears. When you open your eyes, he’s gone. Like he was never there at all.

Maybe he wasn’t.

-

Three weeks pass. By the fourteenth day, you’re halfway convinced you hallucinated Eddie. By the twentieth, you’re sure of it.

Call it your brain trying to process the mountain of grief inside you. Or the end of the slow spiral into madness you started three years ago, when a Demogorgon nearly dragged you through a portal in a tree.

Fantasizing a conversation with your dead boyfriend isn’t exactly the weirdest thing that’s happened. It’s better than the alternative: that Eddie is gone, for real.

And then, on the twenty second night, the latch on your window whines open.

In seconds, you’re up and out of bed, standing in the middle of your room just the way you were a few weeks ago. Staring at a silhouette near the window just the way you were a few weeks ago.

The figure half-covered by shadows is limping, and something dark drips off their hands—what you can see of them is covered in a dark substance that has to be blood.

“I know, I know, I’m an asshole. I don’t write, I don’t call…” A familiar, if not a little rough and raw, voice says, and the massive knot that’s been coiling in your gut for weeks untangles itself in an instant.

“Eddie,” you breathe, as he steps into the moonlight.

“Told you I'd be back,” he says, flashing you a smile between heavy breaths. His canines are wickedly sharp, longer than they should be, and shining with blood. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re really here? I’m not hallucinating?”

A smile twitches across his red lips.

“You’re not hallucinating. I’m here,” he says.

“For good?”

“For good,” he says. His mouth curves up, and his smile appears here to stay.

Like him.

And you don’t care how he got here. What he had to become just to be standing here right now. You don’t care what it might take to keep him here, either.

All that matters is that he’s here. Period.

So, you cross the room in three steps, and pull him into your arms. Blood and all.

-

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