#AND the plaque thing he got made of all of them at the end of s1. god.

[electricabsolution]

dylan’s love for the office perks being recontexualized as being driven by his innate need to feel like he’s excelling because of his insecurities around being “a fuckup” or that he isn’t good enough. and the perks are concrete proof that he can actually do something well. im feeling ill

[reidswhre]

spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: it’s silly and fluff

a/n: this is the intro of episode 7 from season 3, i founded it so funny so i made this blurb.

“A popular theory among leading astrophysicists estimates that the hypermatter reactor would need about 10 to the 32nd joules of energy to destroy a planet the size of the Earth.” You didn’t exactly know what Reid was trying to explain to Morgan, but he looked cute.

Emily looked at you mockingly.

“Now, Lucas said it took 19 years to build the first Death Star, right?” Spencer looked at you.

“But if you look at The New Essential Chronology, there's a test bed prototype for a super laser that's been—” Morgan got up from his seat and headed toward Rossi’s new office.

“Where are you going?” Spencer asked Morgan, confused.

“Taking back the last five minutes of my life,” Morgan replied, and Reid made a face.

“I was listening to you.” You shrugged.

“I know you were, you always do.” He smiled at you.

“Don’t you want to know about this guy?” Morgan asked as he walked up the stairs.

“I do.” Emily quickly got up from her desk.

“I don’t! Are you kidding? No, no—This is dangerous.” You followed them.

You were starting to panic a little. Not for nothing, but this guy was pretty mysterious, and even though you might sound a bit like a people pleaser, you were dying to make a good impression on Rossi, and if he caught you snooping around his office, you two weren’t going to become friends anytime soon.

“I've got it all memorized. His books, his bio,” Spencer replied to Morgan.

“Yeah, books that sold over a million copies.”

“So?”

“That’s a million reasons not to come back, if you know what I’m saying.” Morgan explained to us.

I mean, of course, he was right. Why would a guy who had already ended his career years ago suddenly come back? He wasn’t going to do it out of kindness. But that wasn’t your problem.

“Huh!” Morgan exclaimed as he entered his office.

“Taupe walls. That’s a negative color.” Emily was analyzing it. “Cold. Distant. You know, emotionally, taupe is linked to loneliness and a desire to escape from the world.”

“I just figured the guy’s walls would be covered with plaques and commendations,” Morgan continued to Emily.

“Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded of past victories. It’s a new chapter for him.”

Spencer and you peeked into the office, you clinging to his arm.

“Whatever happened to the moratorium on intra-team profiling, guys?” Spencer asked the group.

“Come on, Reid. Team? I don’t think this guy knows the meaning of the word.”

“Probably not, but—We shouldn’t be here. What if he sees us?” You were quite scared.

“I don’t think he will, don’t worry.” Spencer took your hand, and you both entered the office.

“I found something. Looks like some type of religious art. Original maybe, definitely expensive.” Morgan showed us a painting in a frame.

You wrapped your arm around Spencer’s and leaned on his.

“It’s Renaissance art,” you replied to Morgan, looking at the painting in Spencer’s hand.

“If that’s original…” Spencer followed your lead.

“Is it?” Morgan asked.

“It’s kind of hard to tell, I mean, he’s into the classics,” you continued.

“What else?”

“Italian, strict Catholic upbringing, probably believes in redemption.” Spencer was pondering over the painting.

“I believe in a lot of things.” You heard a voice behind you, and it almost gave you a heart attack.

You lifted your head off Spencer’s arm, stepping away from him entirely. He gave you a puzzled look due to the distance.

“Catholic, yes. Italian American, 52 years old. Strict upbringing? Not so much.”

We shared awkward glances between us. This couldn’t be happening.

“Now the artwork? That’s 15th-century original, it costs more than my first house. And as for the wall color, it’s just a base coat, painters will come in and finish tomorrow.” He gave us an ironic smile.

You felt like you were about to die or something.

“Now, if you’re all finished, I think JJ and Hotch are ready for us,” he informed us. “Isn’t that how a team works?” This time he looked straight at Morgan.

You quickly ran out of there before the embarrassment swallowed you whole. Spencer followed right behind you.

“Hey! Wait for me.” You heard him behind you.

“Are you kidding me? I told you we shouldn’t have gone in! What a disgrace, I can’t believe it.” You turned to look at him. “What’s he going to think of me?”

“I don’t think he cares that much, really.” He took your hands in an attempt to calm you down.

“How could he not!? We snooped through his stuff! We profiled him! Oh, this is bad!”

Spencer laughed a little at you. “What are you laughing at!?” You frowned.

“I really don’t think it’s that deep, don’t worry.” He gave you a sincere look.

If you thought about it, it wasn’t that bad. He probably wouldn’t even mention it again, and it wasn’t like you did anything serious... at least you hoped so.

“You think so?” You looked back at him.

“Of course!” He smiled at you. “Come on, I’ll make you some coffee before we go to JJ and Hotch.” Spencer gave you a small kiss on the forehead, took your hand, and led you to the kitchen.

a/n: so this is how i was picturing Spencer and reader when they we’re watching the artwork.

so cute i’m dying!!

[skhv67]

prisoner/patient!nam-gyu x therapist!reader

word count: 2.170

trigger warnings: partially non-con, it gets a bit steamy but not smut really, blood, murder, reader is gender neutral but has a coochie, nam-gyu is a bit manipulative, English ain't my first language

"Ten minutes and 59 seconds."

The sharp piece of metal he had hidden under his bed was now on his hands slightly piercing through the pale skin of his hands while he was lost in his thoughts. Fixing his gaze on a blank spot on the wall, he let his mind wander freely over the possible things he could do after this evening. He could probably go to his plug to get himself a treat for all the time he had endured in this facility, or maybe go to the club to see some familiar faces.

"Six minutes and thirty seconds..."

The adrenaline started to spread through his limbs and the excitement made it hard for him to stay still but he tried his hardest to keep himself composed to not draw any attention while the day was so silent.

While he knew that he probably should be thinking about a strategy or going over the plan again to avoid mistakes, his excitement wouldn't let his mind focus. As he kept picturing what to do after everything was over, images of you plagued his mind suddenly. How could I forget that? A little smirk peeked through his lips as he tapped his foot on the floor in an awful attempt to contain the sudden rush of excitement he felt.

"Three minutes."

Nam-gyu stared at the self inflicted wound —though not intentionally— expressionless. He breathed in and out slowly to calm his nerves as he put the handmade blade up his sleeve, which covered his whole hand anyway. He didn't even have the time right now to reminiscence how hard and painfully long the process of getting a sharp object in a place specifically made to avoid this at all costs was.

He forced himself to go over the plan during the last minute he had before the disaster began. It was simple, he didn't have a big role during the riot, he left that to the ones that had orchestrated all of this, he'd just take the sweet part of the consequences, that being having an opportunity to escape or at least killing a person or two. Worst outcome would be extending his sentence and reinforcing his therapy which meant more time with you, and he couldn't complain about that. He imagined that at this time of the day you'd be listening to one of the plenty of weirdos this place has to offer, but with a pretty smile adoring your face while you carefully helped them with the most gentle and sweet tone he has ever heard. The little smile that has crept up his face leaving immediately as he felt a sting of jealousy at the thought of you helping these people, — at the thought of him just being like the rest in your eyes.

He had to shake his head to bring himself down to earth again, he kept getting distracted. He just had to wait for the signal after the recreational activities end and immobilize —or kill— the guards during the distraction. It'd be easy as the place was understaffed and some of the prisoners had smuggled in some guns... Besides about two guards were paid to turn a blind eye to what was going to happen.

The sound of the rusty door being opened brought him back to his senses and he got up immediately to follow the guard to the room where his lessons would begin in a few minutes. On the way he couldn't help glancing at the door with your name in a little plaque, your charge on the bottom of it. His jaw clenched when he heard your voice talking sweetly to an inmate through the silence of the hallway. Stop, stop, stop...

I'm special to them.

The lesson went painfully slow and he counted down the time for it to be over every five minutes, his mind wandering every time he tried to focus on the time. He was so eager to use the makeshift knife he kept caressing under his sleeve, to get out of here and finally sleep on a real bed, to get the pills he missed so much, to pay you a visit in the middle of the chaos...

"If nobody has any questions, the class is over."

As the guards guided them to the hall, some screams alerted them. A fight between a few inmates broke out, and a few men were trying to separate them. Nam-gyu looked around, nervous eyes trying to connect with anyone that could confirm to him that this was the signal they needed, but everybody was focused on the fight.

He quickly noticed that the fight was getting a little too big to handle for the few poor guards that were there. As one of them was about to call reinforcement, a dark red spot appeared on his chest, probably inflicted by a makeshift knife like the one in his hand.

As Nam-gyu saw this, he didn't waste time burying his own weapon on the neck of one of the guards that was escorting his group. The rest of the inmates followed his lead and shortly after, the mess of bodies and noise induced him in a euphoric state ha hadn't been in a while.

He helped for a bit to take out some guards for the sake of it until he was stopped by the hand of another inmate.

"We need hostages."

Nam-gyu stopped in his tracks, remembering that all of this was part of a bigger plan of some of the leaders of the prison to bargain about the denial of resources and some medical negligence, though he didn't doubt that a few people would use the riot to escape. Like him.

He left the scene as quick as possible, he knew for certain where he had to go first. He sped up his pace to your office and opened the door carefully. The silence of the room contrasted with the loud sound of the mess outside, but he was sure he could hear a faint breathing inside. He closed the door making sure to lock it behind him and looked around with his weapon visibly on his hand. He walked slowly to the desk where he heard the breathes become more rapid and anxious.

He called you by your name, without missing the title, as to show respect even in a situation like this. A little sob escaped your mouth and now he exhaled of relief as he peeked through the desk to look at you. He thought you looked strangely cute with your cheeks wet and sweat all over every bit of skin visible on your outfit. He couldn't think of any other person he'd swoon over looking like that.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Your trembling hand tried to reach the pocket of your cardigan, which didn't go unnoticed by him. With a frown he used his force to take you off the floor and bring you to your feet in front of him.

"What are you doing?"

No coherent response came out of your lips but begs and prayers.

"I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me."

He was undoubtedly getting annoyed by your reaction, not expecting you to be so apprehensive of him.

"Why would I?" Nam-gyu grabbed your wrist with a little too much force than he probably should. "You think I'm like those out there?"

He pointed outside with disdain and venom, if not jealousy, covered his words. You looked at his weapon, which was as covered in blood as his clothes and skin. Bringing up a hand to his face you took some blood off his cheek, which made his breath hitch. You showed him your fingers now covered in blood too.

"You think I killed someone?" he asked with feigned disbelief. "I had to get some people off my back on the way here, there was no other way. Nothing serious though."

She seemed still doubtful of his words but she chose to believe him for her own good.

"I came here as soon as I could to make sure you were okay." The strong hold on your wrist became a soft caress of your arm. He even dared to put his forehead against yours to soothe you.

"Thank you-" it came out as a whisper. "Nam-gyu."

His heart jumped at you addressing his name, feeling that the situation was finally under his control.

Choosing to ignore the mess outside for a while and give in to his impulses he pushed you gently against the desk, enough to force you to sit on it.

You gulped down nervously, trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. Being on his good side was obviously the best decision here but you didn't know how much you could handle. You weren't expecting Nam-gyu to come here in this moment out of all people, but you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't notice the way he stared at you during his check ups and how he requested your assistance more than any other inmate. You should've stopped this months ago, but who knows who would've come to this office with different intentions if it wasn't him. Maybe you'd be dead.

"I need you to get me out of here." He muttered caressing your thighs through the thin material of your clothes. You cursed your decision of coming with a skirt and some thighs, but how could have you guessed this was going to happen.

"I don't know how"

He laughed briefly and brought your body roughly to his, forcing your legs open. Seriousness covered his face, making your heart race again.

"You have five minutes to think about it" he hovered over and whispered in your ear. "I'm sure you won't make me regret helping you."

Holding back the urge to cry you started to think how on earth you could help a prisoner break out of this facility. While this place is understaffed and away from the city, you're sure help will come any time soon. Right?

Your train of thought came to a halt as you felt his lips on your neck. You had to stop the moan that threatened to leave your lips at the suddenness of the action to remind yourself of the pathetic situation you're in right now. Intense guilt spreadt through your heart when you found yourself enjoying the way his hands were caressing your inner thighs making little circles while he placed soft kisses down your neck.

"Four" he whispered over a wet spot on your neck, giving you chills.

Convincing yourself that your reactions were outside your control, you focused on planning the exit again.

Maybe in the trunk of my car?

His blood stained hand touched your skin under your cardigan and you whined, getting a little laugh out of him.

If the cops aren't outside yet I can get him in my car...

"Are all the guards inside?" you managed to say with the most stable tone he allowed you to have.

He groaned against your skin. "How would I know, doc?"

You gritted your teeth and kept thinking. He kept counting down out loud whenever he wasn't torturing you tracing every bit of your skin.

"Fifty seconds."

Your eyes widened when you felt his fingertips against the most sensitive part of your body. You weren't able to focus at the task in hand no matter how much you tried anymore to distance yourself from the situation. He traced circles through the piece of clothes between you two and you had to fight with every fiber of your soul to not push your crotch against his hand.

"Thirty..."

You started to try to struggle out of his hold but he held you firmly. You didn't think he had it in him. You could only hold his wrist to push his hand away.

"You don't want this, pretty thing?" he whispered, poorly masking the eagerness of his voice. "I'm sure you do. I know you do."

His movements became faster and so did your breathing. You couldn't even hear the noise outside anymore, only his breathing and your own heart.

"I'm sure that pretty pussy feels so much better without all this." He pinched the thighs against your crotch, making you yelp. "That's why you have to get me out of here, pretty. Time's up."

He moved his hand away and you had to hold back a whimper at the loss. You felt a wave of shame and guilt that you had to repress due to the urgency of the situation you were in. You also felt the embarrassingly wet spot in your panties that you're sure he couldn't have noticed through the thighs.

"We can only try to get you out in my car, but I don't know how safe that is, I don't know how many guards are outside or if they'll check my trunk-"

He stopped your babbling with a little peck on your lips and a little smile.

"Let's see."

[weirdsht]

hellooo^^!! i really like the totcf fanfic that you made and i thank you for it. Can i request something? i found a lot of fanfics about cale x f reader who are a married couple, but i never found a fanfic about their wedding. so can you make one? like from cale proposing to her, the preparation for their wedding day, or the reaction of cale's family and when he was on their wedding day. i really appreciate it if you are willing to make it, and sorry if i ask too much. stay healthy^^

Eternity Has Started Before We Even Knew - Cale/Fem!Reader

a/n: i don't know much about weddings but i tried my best huhu

tags: female reader, wedding preparations, proposals, fluff, suggestive ending

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

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It's been roughly a month since Cale proposed to you. Now, it has also been roughly a month since the stressful wedding preparation started. Despite the stress, you still managed to find some fun in doing it.

Especially when the people around you ask how your now fiance proposed to you.

“Did the young master really turn the Henituse garden into a fairy-esc wonderland and set up a dream-like dinner by the pond Miss [Name]? I never pegged him to be such a romantic!”

“Right? I was surprised too, especially since they said he planned it for months and I never noticed a thing. Cale, while he was never outwardly sweet, has always taken into consideration what my likes and tastes are. I think that consideration and love he has for me shined through his proposal.”

As you and the boutique owner chatted about the proposal and wedding preparations, you found yourself reminiscing about your beloved’s sweet preparation a month ago.

You could still feel the light breeze in your hair as the kids dragged you towards the garden. Still see the light, warm lights that made it seem as though fairies were emitting them. Could still savour how Cale stood in the middle of it all, holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers while wearing an extravagant outfit he usually would throw a tantrum about.

You could still hear how everyone congratulated you once you got back inside the manor. Could still feel the hug from Deruth and Violan as they welcomed you to the family. Could still see Basen and Lily’s shining eyes as they rejoiced once Cale told them that you said yes.

Of course, while wedding preparations can bring joy and excitement, they can also cause distress. Your betrothed being such an important figure did not help in the slightest.

“Sweetheart, my dear you know you have to go. His Highness cannot ward them off alone.”

“He's a grown man, he can handle himself. Plus you told me that you’ve been having problems with one of the vendors…”

You cupped Cale’s cheeks and looked into his eyes. While you understand that he wants to help you prepare for the wedding, you also know that the kingdom needs him right now.

“Ron and I can handle the wedding matters for now. You’ve been trying to juggle our wedding and the kingdom for a week now and it’s time for you to solely on one of them.”

“You’re right, that’s why I’m foregoing the kingdom so I can focus on you instead.”

“Baby…“

Cale Henituse grumbled in annoyance before kissing you and muttering that his going to cause havoc so no one would call him for a while. As if on cue, Raon enters the room telling him that Alberu is calling him and it seems to be urgent.

“If he doesn’t give me at least 5 golden plaques and a new villa as our wedding gift I’m going to blackmail him for at least 3 months and tell everyone to not give him dead mana.”

The new upgraded status of going from Cale’s girlfriend to fiance has its own perks… much to Cale’s dismay.

“Miss [Name] it’s good to see you again. Are you and your boyfriend still going strong?”

Cage greets from beside Marquis Stan. They were in your home to visit Cale after so long and it just so happened that you were near the entrance so you greeted them.

“Cale? Oh! His my ex now!”

“[Name], for the last time, saying that I’m your ex is not a good way to say that we’re engaged”

You heard your lover’s dismayed sigh before you could feel his arms warp themselves around your waist, exactly where they belonged. In front of you Cage and Taylor can be seen laughing with the former pulling out alcohol from her sleeves to celebrate the occasion.

Wedding planning has its own ups and downs. Sometimes, some things are really just bound to go wrong while planning. There are times when you would feel frustrated because nothing seems to be going your way. Still, whenever you remember that the end of this is you and Cale getting married… everything doesn’t seem as frustrating anymore.

And oh was it worth the excessive planning and stress.

Because now you are walking down the aisle, surrounded by people you love. Walking towards the man you would spend eternity with, the man who is both your best friend and the love of your life.

The ceremony was elegant and emotional. You and Cale spared no effort in making everything to be the way you envisioned it. It was like the wedding of the century, it could rival royal weddings. Still, despite the extravagance, it was still intimate as the only people invited were the people the both of you love and trust.

Every single soul witnessing this union are people who has seen how everything developed between you two. People who witnessed how you and Cale slowly fell for the other. People who lost sleep because of frustration because both of you were so dense. People who may or may not have cried tears of joy when you got together. People who supported one of you when the other one was injured or unconscious. People who fought tooth and nail with other people because they kept accusing Cale of cheating simply because he used to have a trash reputation.

They were there for everything, and now they could see how Cale ever-so-slightly stumble on his words when reciting his vows. While his face looks composed, his eyes look so emotional. Looking at you as if you had hung the moon and stars. 

You were his world, and everyone could see that in his eyes.

Everyone could also see how their commander’s hands trembled when he was slipping your wedding ring. It’s such a sight to see their Cale, famous for being calm, composed and unwavering, act like a newborn deer.

And of course, everyone could see that lone tear of happiness that slid down the redhead’s cheeks as he kissed you. No one will ever mention it though, for the sake of their emotionally constipated young master.

The reception had a more humorous vibe compared to the ceremony. Everyone let loose and embarrassing stories were thrown during the speeches.

“Cale, my lovely sworn brother, I love you, I really do, but I didn’t enjoy the times you barged into my room in the middle of the night to share your fears of having a chronic heart condition when it was just you being in love with [Name].”

Alberu shared during his speech and it made everyone laugh. 

“You think that’s bad? Try living with him nya!”

Someone heckled from the crowd and it insinuated another round of laughter.

The rest of the night was fun. Everyone forgot their duties for a while and was solely focused on having a good time. Some people danced, others took this time to catch up with friends they hadn’t talked to much, and there were even people who started an eating contest. 

It was the wedding night of your dreams.

But that doesn’t seem to be the case for Cale.

“Cale Henituse! We haven’t even said goodbye to our guests yet!”

You scolded your now-husband as he kissed you while trying to pull you away from the party.

“Don’t care, I haven’t had you to myself for a whole week. Plus it’s our wedding night and honeymoon, they’d understand.”

Cale argued as he brought you to the teleportation circle that was prepared beforehand to take you to your honeymoon destination. Being the starved man he is, Cale Henituse kept kissing you in between talks. His impatience shows as he tries to hastily unzip your dress while activating the circle at the same time.

“But- hmn- Cale-!”

You tried to pull away, but it’s been a week since you properly kissed your beloved so you eventually melted into the kiss. Cale took this as a chance to tear the magic scroll that would activate the teleportation circle.

“Now how about spending a wonderful first night as Mrs. Henituse? Hmm?”

[al-the-remix]

BuckTommy Positivity Week Day 1/3 : what they love most about each other/meeting the friends and family

Slowly making my way through the @bucktommypositivityweek prompts! I'm not normally a big fan of shovel talks, but I thought Tommy deserved his own moment where his friends show up for him and have his back (and so does his boyfriend).

The bar was pretty much exactly like Buck expected it to be: plastered with an assorted collection of knick-knacks, military plaques, and wall art that Buck will just call inspired–fighting each other for wallspace all the way up to the low T-bar ceiling. The main source of light came from the ionized glow of the neon beer signs and the stained glass fixtures over the billiards tables that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 70s. Buck was pretty sure he’d spotted at least three fire code violations just walking through the doors–but that wasn’t what tonight was about. 

A small section tucked between the fleet of pool tables and the dart boards had been reserved for their party, and from his spot at the bar Buck had a clear view of where Tommy was leaning against his pool cue, his posture the most relaxed it’s been since they’d hit Grand Junction as he laughed with the group of men gathered around him. 

Buck couldn’t help but smile. The longer they’d driven, the more tense Tommy had become, and Buck had begun to worry that maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. Now he felt like he could finally breathe; they’d booked it up the 15 and onto the 70 on the way here, and Buck was looking forward to taking their time on the way home, finding the scenic routes and exploring the one road towns and tacky tourist traps they stumbled across. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a week off work that hadn’t been the result of a near-fatal injury. 

“You know you’re the only person he’s ever brought to one of these,” came a voice to his right, one that Buck had only recently become familiar with. 

With great pain, Buck drew his attention away from Tommy to the person settling in at the bar beside him. Dave. He was the only one of the guys here that had been with Tommy since Fort Irwin. He had a wife and two daughters and a boxer named Jones–all information Buck had learned, not from the man himself, but during their three day drive from L.A. to Colorado Springs–which Tommy had used to give Buck a rundown on pretty much everything he knew about his old battalion mates from their rank down to their dental records.

“I’m happy to be here,” Buck said, meaning it. He hadn’t been expecting an invitation, taken completely off guard when Tommy had asked him so casually, as they got ready to head out for work one morning. He’d presented it like it would just be a good excuse for a fun road trip and not what Buck was starting to piece together in his head was actually a monumental gesture. Either way, he’d agreed immediately.

Dave was watching him like he was trying his best to punch through Buck’s skull and peer directly into his brain. Buck had a feeling Dave hadn’t really made up his mind about Buck–yet–and if there was one thing he was going to change by the end of the night it was that.

“Tom said you’re also a firefighter.”

Buck twisted in his chair so they were facing each other. “Yeah, actually I’m at Tommy’s old station, transferred in not long after he left. Kind of funny how things work out, eh?”

“I’ve heard stories,” Dave said in a tone that implied not all of them were good. 

“It’s not like that anymore,” Buck assured. Gerard’s second reign of the 118 had been over for a while now and Buck had been informed by Hen and Chimney that although it had been unbearable, with more eyes on him, Gerard had not been nearly as bad as the first time around. 

“I’ve heard that too.” The corner of Dave’s mouth ticked up. That was the most charitable he’d been thus far. “Tommy has a lot of good things to say about the new crew there, especially you.”

Buck wasn’t above preening a little at that. He knew all about bragging about his partner to anyone that would listen. He was practically a pro at it at this point. If anything he and Tommy had a little competition going on at this point. 

Dave’s eyes flicked over Buck’s shoulder and back. “Listen, I don’t want to overstep here because Tommy will be fuckin’ pissed at me, and I’ll never hear the end of it–but, you seem like a nice guy, and I just want to make sure you know what a big deal this is. These shindigs used to host a few more bodies before Tommy came out. Just don’t hurt him.”

He could hear Tommy’s laugh, the full-bodied, knee-slapping one he only did when you really got him cracking up or he was about three pints in, or both, floating over the din of the bar. Buck could pick that laugh out of any crowd. He could follow it home.

Dave was watching him with a curious expression, and maybe Buck hadn’t totally won him over yet, but he had a feeling they were at least moving in the right direction.

 “I won’t. And I–I won't let him know you gave me the shovel talk if you rat me out either, because he doesn't know this yet and I want him to hear it from me first, but Tommy's one of the most amazing people I've ever met. He's one of the first people I've been with in a long time that makes me feel like I can be myself, unconditionally, and I just hope I make him feel the same way, because I love him.”

“I think it’s safe to say he does.” The corner of Dave’s mouth twitched up in the amused beginning of a smile. “But you should probably let him know that instead of me, just saying.”

Buck rolled his eyes as Dave clapped him cordially on the shoulder. It looked like he wasn’t off the hot seat yet. 

He held out his glass and was pleased when Dave clinked them together. It was progress. 

///

It was 1 am when they finally made it back to their motel, the latest Buck had been out in a good long while. He’d taken the keys from Tommy before they’d even left for the evening and now he was swooping around the cab of the truck to catch his boyfriend as he nearly tumbled out of the passenger side door. 

“Easy there,” Buck said as he tried his best to steady Tommy on his own two feet, a task more difficult than it sounded. 

“I think I lost my keys,” Tommy moaned as Buck grabbed his jacket and locked up. 

“No, see I’ve got them right here.” He jangled them in Tommy’s face and watched him grin before slipping them into his own pocket. “Don’t worry I’ll give them back to you later, here let me help you out.”

He slipped his arm around Tommy’s waist, pulling him a little tighter against his side than was probably necessary.

Tommy’s clutched at his shoulder, melting against him. “You’re so nice to me.” 

“What else would I be?” Buck chuckled as he steered Tommy towards their room. He was just glad that Tommy was a placid, happy drunk–if a little handsy. “Come on big guy, let’s get you to bed.”

It was a struggle to get the door unlocked and Tommy through it with two-hundred odd pounds of boyfriend hanging off him, trying to worm his fingers under Buck’s shirt and breathing hot and damp against the juncture of his neck.  

When they finally stumbled inside Tommy starfished onto the bed, the poor old motel mattress groaning in protest beneath his weight. 

At least he looked like he wasn’t about to try and get up any time soon. 

The soft hum of the window AC unit filled the room, a pleasant contrast to the guitar riffs of the hair bands the bar had played all night. Buck filled up two cups of water, leaving one on his bedside table before settling down on the mattress beside Tommy and nudging him until he sat up. 

“Here, drink this,” he said and helped Tommy tilt the glass up to his mouth without spilling it all over himself. 

Tommy was pawing at him as soon as Evan’s hands were free. “Evan, Evan–” he said, reaching out to grip Buck’s face with both hands, pulling him closer. The special smile Buck was beginning to learn was just for him, creasing his face. “You wanna hear a secret?”

“Of course, anything,” Buck said, letting himself be manhandled and feeling real goopy and affectionate about it. 

“I love you,” Tommy said, with a lot of eye contact and the sort of drunken earnesty that made Buck’s heart just about trip out of his chest. Then Tommy frowned, his gaze going unfocused. “I’m going to be really sad if we break up.”

Buck allowed himself a chuckle at the sudden, unwarranted disappointment in Tommy’s expression. “Me too, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.” 

“Really?” Tommy asked, perking up.

“Really. I love you too, and I’m going to remind you of that tomorrow when you forget all of this in the morning.”

“I won’t forget,” Tommy insisted. 

“Okay, whatever you say, boss.”

Buck went to the bathroom to hit the head and brush his teeth and by the time he returned Tommy had managed to wrestle out of his shoes and his pants, still spread out across the covers in his shirt and socks like a massive toddler. Buck shook his head, ditching his own shirt. Tommy reached out, making grabby hands at him as Buck kicked off his jeans and crawled under the sheets beside him. He was instantly wrapped in an only slightly sticky bear hug. 

He pressed a kiss to the cowlick at the top of Tommy’s head. “You’ve got some pretty great friends.”

With more awareness than Buck expected in his current state, Tommy said: “I hope Dave didn’t bother you too much tonight, I could tell he was giving you the third degree for a bit there.” 

“Dave and I are cool,” Buck assured. “I’m glad you have guys from back then who’ve still got your back.”

Tommy went quiet for a bit after that and Buck was just figuring out how he was going to wiggle out from beneath his boyfriend without waking him to turn off the lights when Tommy muttered, “I’m glad you came with me. I was tired of coming to these by myself.”

“Any time you want, I’ve got your back too you know,” Buck whispered, holding Tommy tight in the cradle of his arms. 

“I know,” Tommy said, and Buck fell asleep to the thump of Tommy’s heartbeat pressed against his own. 

[chelseasdagger]

Teacher

Frank Castle x Inexperienced F!Reader

Summary: Frank's a part of your friend group and invites you to hang out one day, unaware of your massive crush on him. During the visit, you let it slip that you're very inexperienced, and he offers to teach you everything you've missed out on.

Warnings: age gap (reader is in her early 20s), mentions of sex, drinking, and smoking

Author's Note: Oh my god! It's finally here, my first fic series! I've had this idea for months now and I've finally got the courage to write it out and post it. I wanna say a huge thank you to @chellestrash and @suitsofwo3 for their continuous support on this series! Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated :) Leave a comment or shoot me an ask!! I'd love to hear what you think!

Word Count: 5k

​​To say you had feelings for Frank Castle would be a gross understatement. It was truly nothing short of a schoolgirl crush, an all consuming infatuation that made you want him even more. Being anywhere near him made you feel like you were back in grade school with an uncontrollable flutter of butterflies in your stomach, and you knew you had to at least try and attempt to cease their movements.

But knowing and acting are two very different things, and you weren’t even sure if you wanted to stop them. Not when every smile he flashes your way makes them beat their tiny wings so fast that you feel weak in the knees. You knew logically it couldn’t end well, not with him being in your friend group, but you had a feeling you could keep up the friendly facade and not let it slip that your feelings for him are much more intense. 

After all, he’s confident, handsome, and much older than you. How hard could it be?

“How hard could it be,” you repeat, whispering to yourself in the car. Your eyes are trained on the road in front of you as you listen while your GPS navigates you through the city. Frank had invited you over to his place after the last get-together the group had, where you admitted to the fact that you hadn’t seen his, apparently, favorite movie from the ‘80s. It was almost too perfect of a setup and you curse the universe for planning it all. Of all the movies you haven’t seen, you had to confess to this one?

In your defense, it was nearly impossible to decline his offer when his charm flared up like it had that night. Boisterous laughter, crinkles by his eyes when he grinned, and a, “Come on, you’ve gotta see it!” that was so warm and welcoming it had you agreeing before you thought about the implications of that damn nod you gave him.

Thinking back on that night, you nearly miss your turn onto the road that leads to his apartment. You catch it just in time though and as the automated voice informs you that he lives on the left, the anxiety sets in. You begin to focus on your breathing and you find an open parking spot right next to his black van, exactly where he said there would be. Mentally thanking him for eliminating some of the pressure of finding where to park, you pull into the spot and look towards the door with the metal numbers of his address bolted on the plaque beside it.

Once the car is parked and the ignition is off, you close your eyes and inhale enough air until your chest puffs out. “It’s just Frank,” you reassure yourself, attempting to slow down your heart rate. It does little use as his face flashes in your mind when you speak his name, so you decide not to delay the meeting any longer.

With a dry mouth and fidgeting hands you make your way to his apartment, giving yourself one last full breath before raising your hand to knock on his door. Your knuckles sound out against the wood, and there’s only a second of silence before you hear a muffled, “Coming!”

The brief moment to plaster a relaxed smile on your face passes all too quickly and you’re suddenly met with Frank’s warm grin. Failing to ignore the way he’s leaning against the doorframe, you can’t help your eyes immediately glancing at his bicep as it stretches the fabric of his sleeve. You quickly force your gaze back to his face and give yourself a mental shake.

“Hey, kid, glad you could make it,” he greets you kindly. You’d be lying if you said the nickname he reserved for you wasn’t bittersweet. It made you feel special that it only left his lips in reference to you, but logically you knew it was because you were the youngest in the group. The truly bitter part was hearing it and feeling your heart sink that little bit lower; you wondered if he ever saw you as more, if you’d ever be able to satisfy your steadfast crush.

But those spiral sessions are best had at home, so you push away the thoughts and focus on spending time with him. All you’ve ever wanted was time alone with him and you’re not sure when you’ll get the chance again after today.

“Yeah, of course,” your genuine smile takes over, ”I had to see what all the fuss was about.” He chuckles at your joke before stepping aside, gesturing for you to come in. Squeezing past his body, you step into the living room of his home. It’s bigger than you expected, housing a sectional couch and wooden coffee table in the center. There’s also a large television mounted to the wall that’s clearly the main focus of the room. One sweatshirt and a lone blanket are draped on the back of the couch, making up the only clutter in the space. You don’t realize Frank is watching you take it all in until he gently clears his throat.

“Is it as glorious as you expected?” His voice sounds out from behind you and you turn to face him. There’s a smirk on his face and you find yourself chuckling to avoid shrinking into yourself.

“Just… different than I pictured is all,” you gesture vaguely to the open space of the room. There’s a scoff before he walks past you and towards the light grey couch.

“‘Clean’, you mean?” There’s a huff surrounding the question as he plops down onto the couch.

“Well…” you trail off, tilting your head to the side. A smile slowly takes over his face as you tease him.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says as he pats the cushion of the couch. You follow his instruction, opting to keep one seat between the two of you. There’s a pause for a moment and you let your eyes wander to his thighs. His legs are slightly spread on the couch and it’s hard to ignore the way the fabric of his denim jeans are struggling to make room for the muscles of his thighs.

“So you really haven’t seen the greatest film of all time?” He begins again, disbelief clear in his tone. His voice makes your line of sight shoot back up to his face and it’s now your turn to wear a smile.

“You sure are creating a lot of hype for this movie. I hope it doesn’t disappoint,” you laugh softly. His eyes grow wide as a look of shock takes over his face.

“‘Disappoint’? You kiddin’ me? I’m pretty sure this movie paved the way for cinema.” He gets up excitedly, walking towards one of the thin bookshelves that frame the television. His fingers scan the titles quickly, trailing down the rows until he finds one. He pulls the case out from where it was sandwiched between the others before turning around to show it off with a wave of his hand.

“Made sure to rewind it for you yesterday.” You try to ignore the way your brain jumps to conclusions at those few words. The thoughts are loud, however, and you hear them despite your wishes. He really thought this ahead? Was he actually looking forward to seeing you?

Frank pulls the tape from out of its case and kneels down in front of the television. There’s a large, grey VCR lying on the ground and he gently pushes the tape past the small hinge, a tiny whirring sound escaping as it accepts the tape.

“God, I’m really showing my age here, aren’t I?” He nods towards the old technology on the wooden floor.

“I mean, I’ve seen my parents use them before,” you answer honestly.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, bringing his palm to cover his face before dragging it down his cheeks. The giggle that escapes you is involuntary, he looks so cute each time you tease him. You love these moments and how effortless it is to joke around with him, unlike when your usually constant bashfulness is present. 

Once the tape is in, the static on the screen crackles to life and there’s a few seconds before the black fades into a dusty orange sky. As the opening scene begins to play, you feel like you recognize the actors’ names as they appear over the footage. Nothing immediately comes to mind though, so you ignore the nagging feeling of trying to place them and focus on the film.

That proves to be more difficult than you intended. Admittedly, all you can think about is his scent lingering in the space around you. It’s almost as if the couch is bathed in his smell and it feels as though you’re drowning in it in the best way. You halfway register the dialogue sounding out and decide to at least entertain the idea of paying attention. There’s a shot of the inside of an airport, and you watch as the word Diehard comes across the center of the screen. Chuckles erupt from you and Frank’s immediately turning to face you with a confused pout.

“You think Diehard is the greatest movie of all time?” Your words are unintentionally soaked in disbelief and you swear you can see his defensive guard come up.

“You tryna’ tell me it’s not?! Cause it’s clearly up there!”

“I don’t know, Frank,” you start. Each time the film is brought up around you, you hear that it’s either the best or it’s overrated. You just didn’t expect him to be this much of a fan.

“That’s right! You don’t know!” He seems proud of his argument and even laughs towards the end of his sentence. You shake your head as your smile begins to hurt your cheeks due to how long you’ve been wearing it for. He reaches for the old remote, its buttons faded with its age, and the screen halts to a stop as he presses pause.

“I’ll be right back,” Frank explains with a grunt as he pushes himself off of the couch. You turn and watch him walk to the kitchen, your eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and how they almost brush the open doorframe as he passes through it. Not wanting to let your thoughts continue any more down the path they’re already on, you force your attention back to the television and wait for him to return.

“Here you are,” his deep voice sounds out a moment later and you look up at him. He’s sitting down onto the couch cushion with the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the necks of two beer bottles. He stretches his arm towards you, offering one of the drinks and you’re distracted by the veins running up the inside of his forearm.

“What? S’there somethin’ wrong?” he asks confusedly, his own gaze glancing between your clasped hands and the bottles. You snap out of your trance and stare at the beers again, racking your brain for any excuse to use to decline the drink.

“No, thank you, I’m all good,” your voice comes out stiff. Real smooth, you curse yourself as you see Frank’s expression change. His eyebrows pull together as he tries to understand your sudden and strange behavior.

“So what’s your deal, huh?” he begins, setting the bottles down and leaning back into the couch. His entire body is turned towards you and it’s clear that you’re the new subject of the conversation. You swallow thickly, your nerves already acting up.

“Never seen you drink, never seen you smoke… Hell, I haven’t seen you do much of anything,” he continues, listing his examples off on each finger. “Why is that? You some goody two shoes or something?” he finishes with a raspy chuckle. He reaches for his beer, popping the lid off with the opener from the coffee table and taking a long sip as his eyes meet yours over the glass in his hand.

You wish you could come up with something, anything, to get you out of this situation before you’re forced to confess to him. You open your mouth, expecting your tongue to string the words together for you, but there’s nothing but silence in the room. Quickly, you begin grasping for an explanation, only to be left stuttering over your words. Frank’s eyebrows raise and there’s an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he puts his drink down again.

“Uh oh,” he laughs quietly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He squints at you, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicker all around your face. “There’s somethin’ else there,” he whispers mostly to himself, “gotta tell me now, sweetheart.”

If none of this was enough to make your face grow warm, it certainly is now that you’ve heard the pet name leave his mouth. You feel as if you’re curling inward on yourself and you hate that the ground won’t show you mercy by opening up and swallowing you whole. Fidgeting with your fingers, you wonder if there’s any lie you can try and deliver confidently this time. But who are you kidding? You were never good at it, and it’s best to just rip off the bandaid.

With one last glance up at him, you see he’s not going to budge until he gets an answer, so you give him what he’s looking for. “Yeah, that’s… ‘my deal’,” you phrase his words in air quotes. “I haven’t really done, well, anything, and I don’t really know where to start,” you admit, still not looking him in the eyes. Frank nods as he lets your voice fill the air and you notice him making another curious face.

“When you say ‘anything’, what exactly do you mean?” he asks in a softer tone this time, no hint of teasing in his words. It’s then that you finally meet his brown eyes and see the kindness in their warm color. You bring in a deep breath and prepare yourself for the worst possible reaction to your following words.

“Um—,” you cut yourself off with a sigh, letting out all the air in your lungs and attempting to stall the embarrassment a moment longer. “Okay, like drinking, smoking, drugs…” you continue the list and watch him nod after each addition. “Never had sex, never—,”

“Bullshit,” his rumbly voice interrupts you, shaking his head in disbelief. The pout that forms on your lips is involuntary; you feared he wouldn’t have believed it, but you suppose it’s better than him teasing you. From the corner of your eyes you watch his lips part and his jaw go slack as he realizes what you said was the truth.

“Christ, you… you’re serious?” he questions as he looks at you in shock. You only nod silently, not sure how to continue from here. There’s a long pause where Frank is still as stone, remaining silent but seemingly trying to process the new information he’s discovered. The air feels so thick you worry that if you open your mouth to speak you’ll only choke.

The sound of a rumbly chuckle fills the air and you look up to see his wide smile. He’s dragging his palm down his mouth and rubbing his jaw as he shifts his hips forward and leans back into the cushions once more. You feel anger bubbling up and it quickly replaces the mortification that had been consuming you for the past few minutes.

“Screw you! I knew you wouldn’t have taken it seriously.” You cross your arms over your chest as you turn away from him. You felt stupid for sharing this with him, and now he has the audacity to laugh? Over something this personal?

“No, no, sweetheart, hey—,“ the pet name again does nothing to dull the burning under the skin of your cheeks. “I wasn’t teasing it’s just…,” he sighs heavily and shrugs his shoulders, “it’s a surprise, y’know?” 

As much as you want to stay upset with him, you’re not sure your resolve can last that long. You attempt to maintain your defensive position and don’t dare soften the angry glare you’re shooting at him.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he starts, but you don’t budge. “C’mon, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting it, s’all. Kinda hard to believe, honestly.” Your head perks up at the last sentence and you shoot him a look of pure disbelief.

“Yeah, well… you’re obviously the only one who thinks that,” you mumble, the self-deprecating words falling past your lips before you even register them. Frank sighs deeply and you notice the way his eyes are flickering all around your face, presumably trying to gauge how upset you are.

“It’s not like I want this,” you huff, deflating into the couch, “but now it’s like even if I want to try stuff, I don’t know what I’m doing.” You begin picking at your fingers as the insecurity grows with his silence. “It’s like everybody did the crash course in high school and they have experience. I don't even know where to start…” As you trail off, the silence becomes deafening and you find yourself missing his laughter because at least that was something.

“Aaaaand I said too much. Sorry, it’s just something that’s frustrated me for years and… yeah,” you decide it’s better to end the conversation than wait on a reply that won’t come.

“You didn’t say too much,” he finally speaks up, and the weight on your chest begins to dissipate. “Was lettin’ you get it all out,” he explains. He holds his chin between his thumb and index finger, grazing his jaw lightly and tilting his head as he thinks over your confession. You find yourself subconsciously holding your breath as you prepare for the worst possible response he could give you.

“Said you didn’t know where to start, right? Why don’t we start with something small, hmm? How about that beer?” Frank nods his head once in the direction of the abandoned bottle he had grabbed for you. You eye it hesitantly and think over the worst that could happen. Coming up with virtually nothing, you nod back to him, deciding it would be one small victory to deal with today. 

As you wrap your fingers around the bottle, you raise your hand and turn to Frank. He mimics you, lifting his own in the air before clearing his throat.

“To…” he trails off, trying to come up with something as a cheer. His eyes drift off to somewhere else in the room, his lips parted as his eyebrows pull together. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at his very serious thinking face. Not wanting him to hurt himself from racking his brain much longer, you speak up.

“To trying new things,” you say confidently, and the second the words leave your mouth you’re already regretting them. You physically wince at your word choice and now it’s Frank’s turn to stifle a laugh. “Yeah, that was pretty lame,” you admit to him. “Sounded better in my head.”

“Think it sounded perfect,” he replies before tilting his bottle towards you. You follow his lead as he brings the drink to his lips and you don’t think twice before tilting your own head back. The second the flavor hits your tongue you can feel your face scrunching up involuntarily. You bring the bottle away immediately and your lips purse at the taste in your mouth. Frank’s laughter rumbles out deep from his chest and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows it down with no reaction. 

“Attagirl, one thing down. That wasn't too hard now was it?” he speaks once he’s brought the glass bottle away from his mouth. Thankfully, the nasty beer is enough to distract you from reacting to his praise.

“You didn’t tell me it tasted like piss!” you exclaim, wiping your mouth off with the back of your hand.

“This is actually one of the good ones,” you watch as he takes another swig. “But you’re right, it’s not all that great,” he admits before licking his lips and looking at you.

Any residual awkwardness you felt only moments before has all but vanished and you feel comfort just being here with him. You smile softly to yourself as you brush your thumb along the curved glass of the neck of the bottle.

“Thank you for this,” you speak up, “it feels nice to get something crossed off the list.”

“Any time, kid,” his voice is raspy and you try to dissuade your stomach from doing flips at his tone.

The smile on your face grows wider in the silence, feeling a small amount of pride bubbling in your chest knowing that you tried something new. It doesn’t seem like such a big feat once you’ve climbed over the hill, but there’s always been that fear that keeps you paralyzed and unable to even attempt to move forward. You truly meant your words, you’re thankful that he gave you that little push.

“Y’know, I could help… with the list, I mean.” You’re almost certain you’ve never felt your heart beat quite this hard before. Frank waits until your eyes have locked with his before he speaks slowly, carefully chooses his words as he continues. “O-Only if you want, obviously. Just… said you wish you knew how to do it the first time, right? So it wouldn’t be such a big deal?” You hesitantly nod, still not wanting to assume what he’s proposing until he explicitly says it.

“Yeah, so I figured we could have you practice? Make sure you know what you’re doing before you get out there,” he ends his sentence with a shrug, as if it’s the most nonchalant offer.

“What?” you desperately try to ignore the way your words shake slightly. “Like you’d teach me?” You can’t even help the incredulous tone your words are soaked in. You can hardly even fathom the idea of Frank Castle being the one to show you the ropes, much less actually acting those things out with him.

“Yeah? If that’s alright?” He smiles gently and you feel your body beginning to relax some. “Just… I saw how much it meant to you and I wanna help,” he explains further, and you swear you’ve never seen sincerity like the way it’s shining in his warm, brown eyes.

You swallow thickly as you think over his proposition. It feels like this is some sort of dream; you’re waiting for your alarm to ring out as your vision slowly fades, waking up in your bedroom alone. But no amount of pinching your skin will rip you from this moment. It feels too good to be true, but it’s happening regardless. He’s waiting on an answer and it’s honestly the best offer you could think of being handed to you on a silver platter.

“And hey, you absolutely don’t have to say—”

“Yes,” you finally decide. You can’t even believe you said it.

“You sure?” he asks again, his eyes flickering between your own. You think it’s sweet how he tries to make sure you’re certain of your decision. You smile widely as you nod at him, the butterflies returning to your stomach once again.

“Also, we don’t, like, have to have sex… just so you know. I know that’s a lot, but I can help with the stuff leading up to it?” You grin and nod again and Frank laughs lightly at your response. “Just wanna make sure you’re comfortable with it.”

“I am! I’m just excited, sorry,” you fidget with the hem of your shirt in an attempt to channel all the newfound energy elsewhere. Frank’s chuckle grows louder and you wonder if you imagined the soft “cute” that was muttered under his breath.

“So…” he speaks up and you turn to face him completely. “How would you feel about crossin’ something else off the list?” You nod immediately as all the nervousness from before switches to excitement while it courses through you.

“Okay…” he laughs softly at your quick reaction. “Let’s see,” he pauses for a moment as he thinks before his eyes light up with an idea. “You ever been kissed?” You feel the familiar shyness creeping up again, but you choose to push it back down. Instead, you just softly shake your head and watch as he nods in understanding.

“You want to try it?” he asks, his lips curling into a smirk. You hum an agreement and watch as he moves a bit closer to you on the couch. Once again you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this to be some sort of joke. But Frank only waits for you to take the initiative to close the space between the two of you.

Now that you’re facing each other on the couch, you can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage as you wait for him to make the first move. He smiles reassuringly before raising his hand and cradling the side of your neck. His thumb brushes your cheek as his long fingers curl around the back, holding you gently in place.

“You sure you want this?” he confirms. Again, you nod eagerly.

“I gotta hear you say it, sweetheart. That’s my rule,” he explains.

“Oh…” you whisper as you glance between his eyes and his lips, “yes.” You feel your heart swelling at the fact that he wants to make sure you truly want what he’s offering. His eyes are fixed on your mouth, muttering one last, “Okay,” before leaning forward.

The second his lips touch yours, you’re surprised at how soft they are. He’s gentle with his movements and softly sucks your lower lip between his own. It only takes a moment for you to kiss him back, careful to only mimic his actions and still let him lead. The kiss is warm and sweet and you feel the blood rushing through your cheeks and tingling down your neck. His thumb catches your bottom lip and pulls it down slowly, breaking the kiss. Frank breathes gently as he licks his lips, his eyes flickering between yours.

“How was that?” he asks, his breath fanning over your mouth as he speaks.

“It was good. I-I liked it,” you smile sheepishly, subconsciously pulling your bottom lip between your teeth to savor the feeling.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head as the question leaves his mouth, his eyes squinting as he glances from your eyes to your mouth. You once again nod before you even think to do it.

“Alright, now I wanna give you a real one.”

“A real one?” you pout and stare at him confusedly.

He only smirks before leaning forward again, pressing his lips to yours harder. This time, his palm guides your jaw to tilt your head back as he deepens the kiss. The stubble lining his jaw scratches at your cheeks, and the prickling has you melting under his touch. You try your best to keep up, but his scent feels like it’s truly suffocating you now; you can hardly kiss him back with how overwhelmed you are. The next thing you register is the wet heat of his tongue brushing along your bottom lip, slowly tracing the shape before he pushes it inside your mouth. His tongue glides against your own and there's a small moan that escapes from your throat.

All too soon his lips leave yours and you open your eyes at the loss of contact. Frank’s own eyes are still shut and you watch as he clenches his jaw, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently, worried you messed up somehow.

“Yeah… just, that was the sweetest god damn thing I’ve heard.” His voice is so deep it sends a shiver down your spine. Out of all the times you’ve dreamt of having your first kiss, you never thought it would’ve been that good. And to think, an impulse decision to watch a movie with him led you to this plan to gain experience. You find yourself already missing the feeling of his tongue, of the scratch that his stubble gave when he deepened the kiss.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he knocks your knee softly with his own, attempting to grab your attention. “You’re being too quiet.”

“I just, well, I wanna do it again,” you admit, looking away nervously. In one sudden motion Frank tugs you into his lap and you yelp as you wrap your arms around his neck. He laughs softly as he stares up at you but doesn’t waste a second before kissing you even quicker than before. There’s only a few chances you can take to catch your breath because he hardly breaks the kiss. You never thought someone as attractive as him would want to kiss you this much, but confidence rushes through your body as his affection continues.

Frank’s mouth begins to wander, his lips finding new space that had otherwise been untouched. The corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw—he never stops kissing you until he gets to your throat. From there, his lips part and he begins sucking on your neck. A shaky gasp leaves you as his teeth make purchase on your skin, softly biting before brushing his tongue over the mark.

“Done two new things,” he mutters, his lips moving around the words but never leaving your body. “How’s it feel?”

“I really like this,” you say breathlessly as you feel his teeth gently graze the sensitive skin of your neck. He hums into your throat, the vibration setting your skin alight before you finish your thought, “You can keep the beer though.”

Frank’s chuckle gets caught in his throat, resulting in the cutest snort you’ve ever heard. He presses soft kisses along your collarbone and looks up at you with sweet, brown eyes.

“Sure, kid, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

[delopsia]

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. 

[youthereader]

Andy bends you over his desk.

pairing: andy barber (defending jacob) x assistant fem!reader

summary: 1.9k words. andy reprimands you for wearing an inappropriate skirt at work.

rating: e; smut, barebacking, semi-public sex, some praise kink, boss-employee relationship, spanking

a/n: not the usual here but this idea got the best of me.

You consider your working relationship with Andy to be a friendly one. You talk about the weather, some sports, a restaurant opening in town. It’s light and fun and it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had, being his assistant.

Because of this, you care a lot about him on a deeper level, too, and it probably crosses into unprofessionalism, but it doesn’t hurt anyone since nobody knows you’re harboring a huge crush on him. And it makes sense! He’s so handsome, and so smart without being condescending, something you’re not used to. Your Hinge dates are downright depressing at times because you keep comparing everyone of them to your boss. You think to yourself, why can’t they be more like Andy?

It's only natural to daydream about him taking you out instead of those disappointing guys, and it’s harmless fun. There was the one time he caught you looking at him when you sat by his side in a meeting, your pen poised to take notes, and he winked at you. It made you feel all warm and giggly, your cheeks flushing as you pressed your lips together to smother your mirth.

You start buying new clothes, justifying them as work purchases, knowing you’re picking things you hope Andy will appreciate. The most daring is a short leather skirt with a slit that comes up mid-thigh, and you specifically choose to wear it on a day you know Andy plans to dedicate to being in the office, his paperwork having got away from him. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to grab his attention, and then you’ll open your app at the end of the day to find someone more realistic, more tangible, and then ride the high of confidence into the weekend. It’s a win-win situation.

You rise from your desk as he walks in, greeting him with coffee, and his eyes drop immediately to your legs when he picks up his Styrofoam cup. He blinks twice, his response delayed.

“Good morning.”

He glances at his watch, muttering a curse word before he departs. It’s not what you hoped for, but it’s not nothing, either. You get back to your computer and answer the phone. Andy doesn’t leave for a couple hours and when he reappears, he’s on his cell phone, distracted, barely looking at you.

Maybe he’s not a leg guy? Maybe he just doesn’t think you’re cute?

You try not to feel let down by this, plodding along, until he comes back a bit before noon, your eyes meeting as he passes through.

“Any messages?”

“Yes,” you reply, retrieving your notepad. “I told them you’d call them back. Also, your dentist keeps playing phone tag-”

He lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “Uh, yeah. Please call Dr. Fisher back and apologize to her. I’m sure she’ll have a lot to say when I finally see her.”

“Plaque not top of your priorities?” you tease, sinking back into your chair, swivelling in it to face your monitor once more.

You catch his eyes following your movements, and you’re suddenly far more aware of your skin. You pick up the phone receiver.

“Just call her back, please,” he says, not matching your tone.

He sounds almost impatient with you, which has never happened before. You nod, going quiet. You do as you’re told, and the receptionist sighs on the other end of the line, rescheduling for you yet again.

“There’s a cancellation fee.”

“Yes, he is aware,” you reply. “And he sends his apologies.”

“Tell him it’s not good enough.”

You won’t do any such thing; he’d fire you for sticking your nose in his business like that. Frankly, it’s not up to anyone to pass judgement on Andy, knowing what he’d been through in the past few years. If his working life took over everything for him to cope with all the rest, that makes a lot of sense to you.

“Uh-huh.”

When you hang up, you sigh, glancing at the calendar. He doesn’t have many spaces for anything other than meetings. You hope he has some time for himself, even if it’s just a couple hours a day. You remind yourself it’s outside of your control, and more importantly, not relevant to you.

The phone rings and you glance at the digital display, seeing it’s Andy. You pick up.

“Yes?”

“I need to speak to you before you go to lunch.”

“Sure,” you reply, and you hang up, stomach suddenly full of knots.

With how he snapped at you earlier, you mind goes straight to the worst possible outcome – dismissal. It seems a little extreme, but he’s never been so… mean to you. But maybe you’re being paranoid, or maybe… maybe you’re being sensitive, and he didn’t snap at all. Still, he wasn’t warm as he usually was when he saw you. You thought he liked having you as his assistant.

You walk over to his door, wiping your sweaty hands on your skirt before opening it and slipping inside. Your head turned to shut it, you hear him say:

“Please lock that.”

You oblige, and then glance over to his desk, seeing him resting on the edge of it, arms crossed. His jaw tenses, his eyes falling to your skirt.

“What did you need, sir?” you ask, placing your hands behind your back.

“We’ve got an issue,” he says.

You swallow. “Oh? What’s happened?”

Sometimes a client is pricklier than others. Or something high profile comes through the firm and you have to be aware of press sniffing around. You don’t expect what comes out of Andy’s mouth next.

“It’s your skirt.”

“Oh, God,” you say, and you flush. “Yeah… it’s a little much. I’m sorry—”

He puts up a hand, but you keep going.

“I can go home and change, now, on my break. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, that won’t do.”

Your heart sinks. He’s going to fire you over your outfit? That has to be discrimination. You gape.

“Andy…”

He pushes off his desk and you freeze. Andy strides right up to you and takes hold of your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes boring into yours.

“You think you can wear something like that and there not be any consequences? I can practically see up your skirt.”

You can’t speak. Your heart hammers, her whole face and neck burning with shame.

He moves forward, hips on yours and you stumble backwards, his other hand grabbing your hip to steady you. Underneath the fear and humiliation, you know he’s getting you wet by touching you like this, as if he’s entitled to do so.

His thigh fits between your knees and he searches your face, eyes narrowing.

“Well? What have you got to say for yourself? You got my attention. Is that what you wanted?”

“I…” You gape some more, useless. “I-I did want that. I wanted you to look at me. But it’s not appropriate, I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s really not.”

He kisses you, hard, open-mouthed and hungry. You gasp, his tongue pressing into your mouth to tangle with yours. Your hands grip his shirt sleeves and you close your eyes, kissing him back, riding the wave. He still holds your face, but by your jaw, his lips moving down to kiss your neck, his short beard grazing your skin.

“Andy…”

You moan his name and he chuckles, pressing his hard-on against your thigh. He’s huge. You’d bet your life on that. His hands rove your body, squeezing your tits, your hips, your ass… you whimper as he sucks at your skin, grinding against you.

“Come here.”

You obey, tugged along to the desk. He pushes you in front of him, bending you at the waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, and you look over your shoulder at him, watching as he stares at your ass in the leather skirt.

He pushes it up, hand coming down with a sharp slap to your right ass cheek. Of course, you couldn’t just wear any underwear with this skirt – your thong is all that covers you there, and he grabs it, tugging it tight.

“Fuck…”

“Andy,” you say, and he looks at you, chest giving a heave.

“Can’t wander around in that tiny black skirt and then act surprised when I want to fuck you-”

You bite your lip, canting your hips at his words, your ass lifting. He spanks you again, and you hope no-one hears that, the two slaps, or your bitten off moans.

He glances down. “Spread your legs. Fuck… you’re so wet.”

He undoes his belt, then his fly, taking out his cock. He tugs on himself as you anticipate the stretch of him. You nod, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy.”

He takes hold of you by the neck, angling you for a filthy kiss, his other hand petting your behind, before slipping down between your cheeks to glide through your wetness. You moan into his mouth, his fingers spreading your arousal around, teasing your clit for a steady minute, and you’re whimpering for him.

“Did you wear this just for me?” he whispers, and you nod. He rocks his cock up against you. “Does that mean this is all mine now?”

He means your cunt. He plays with your clit, dips his fingers into you, riling you up. These are the consequences he was talking about.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s all yours.”

He fills you and you both gasp. He holds your shoulder, letting you fall forward onto his desk, rocking back and forth in shallow thrusts. The stretch makes you tremble, slick with want. Your nails scratch at the heavy wood when he picks up speed, hips hitting your ass, your thong stretched to the side.

You don’t know how much you can take, your feet lifting out of your shoes so you stand on tiptoes as he drives into you. All you can feel is how he stretches you to perfection, your mouth drooling from pleasure.

“Oh, fuck…”

Your thong snaps as his hands take hold of your hips, and he utterly wrecks you, skin slapping together as the world slips away. How are you meant to walk after this? Hang on – how are you meant to look Andy in the eye after this?

“Andy, Andy, Andy…”

You’re so close, you just need that little something, and you tense up, trying to muffle your moans in your arms… then you feel him find your clit again and rub, and you think you might burst into tears.

Your orgasm slams into you and your vision whitens, clenching around him as he fucks you through it.

“Good girl, that’s what I wanted,” he pants. “That’s what I wanted to feel.”

You feel something wet down your thighs and you realize you’ve squirted a little at the same time Andy does, and he huffs, close to the edge.

“Jesus, where have you been hiding?”

“Nowhere, I was at my desk,” you slur, and he laughs, breathless.

“You’re like a dream,” he praises, and then goes still, emptying into you. “So… fucking… cute.”

He sighs, hands coming up to pull you back, your next kisses more tender but still messy, the room reeking of sex now. You think of the carpets, the possible stains.

He keeps kissing you, stroking your cheek with his sweaty hand.

“After we clean up, do you wanna get some lunch together?” he whispers, and you nod, smiling lazily.

“I think we’re way past that, sir.”

His eyes sparkle with an unexpected fondness, before he kisses you again.

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you liked it. ❤️

[foundfam2754]

S17e5 live reactions!

Spoilers…obviously

- yeah Elias don’t murder anyone if you wanna be an informant

- lol he has a whole receiving parade

- oh my fucking god Elias is messing w our papa pasta :(

- oh I just realised it has been ages since he’s actually spoken to him not in his mind - you got this bud ❤️

- car sex is just not it man

- OH DEBBY RYAN LOOKALIKE AND DAMIAN I see

- the girl reminds me of cat adams - revenge murder and maybe the most brutal bc of so much hurt in the past - in fact this whole thing gives me dirty dozen vibes

- “you’ve been taking to to yourself” “I’ve been talking to myself for years” idk why that made me laugh hard

- AM I ONLY THE ONE WHO SEES THE SPENCER REID PLAQUE COMING UP A LOT??? Pls let mgg come back oh my god

- hehe garvez is standing together 🥰

- protective luke 🥹

- “no!” “Everyone’s a comedian” HAHAHA

-“hands-off asshole” yeah give me more protective lukey pleaseeeee; also gives vibes of ‘don’t touch my girls stuff asshole’ which I LOVE

- “what’s up with you two…cause there’s a vibe” OH MY FUCKING GOD PENELOPE EVEN SICARIUS SEES IT. OPEN YOUR EYES AND LET HIM LOVE YOU

- couples who bully sicarius about his hygiene together stay together 🥺 🤝

- I kinda love how they’re filming this - they’re profiling together in the bull pen and workshopping - Elias has a weird chemistry w them

- lol pen with the handkerchief

- DONT TOUCH HER

- this is too easy; I’m so suspicious: I feel like he’s gonna do the same with Bailey - say something code-wordy to hint to him

- also why does it feel like Elias is being too helpful? like I think maybe he’s so invested bc 1) he gets to mess with Dave by being part of his team 2) Damian is a loose end and has some evidence to tie him to sicarius offficially

- I TOLD U HE WAS GONNA CODE WORD IT. I KNEW THE TIPPY TAP MEANT SOMETHING

- I love smart strategic confident Em and she and Dave plotting to fuck Elias over together

- is he finally gonna shower??

- “dave” like they’re besties

- LOVE THIS SHOT

- EW THEY HAD VOIT SAY OUR PRECIOUS PHRASE - but okay no that was so impactful

- oh my god he’s fucking with them so hard oh my god

- JJ SAID FUCK!!

- OH MY GODDDDDDD they’re talking about jealous Luke they’re talking about Penelope and Tyler they’re SAYING IT OUTRIGHT I CANT TALK I CANT TYPE I AM SCREAMING I LITERALLY GOT OFF MY COUCH AND JUMPED ACROSS MY APT

- ew tynelope is so gross greencia is so much better

- Luke you didn’t say nooo?! we all know it drives you crazy agent alvez

- so chaotic Elias is so funny man; kudos to Zach Gilford

- PAPA PASTA PROTECTING HIS FAMILY. You mess with Pen, Rossi brings the heat

- isn’t “locking you in a shipping container” a confession?? why are they not more interested in that?

- oh my god Brian’s gaslighting her - falling into the conspiracy thing again - everyone’s vulnerable and only hearing what they want too

- haha lukey doing yoga

- oh my god how do they do anything without Penelope

- hey kiddos - voit is leaving?? Pls pay attention to him

- is Rossi gonna let him run??

- oh my god they’re profiling each other

- OH MY GOD DAMIAN. I KNEW ELIAS WAS GONNA CODE WORD IT.

- “Teresa is in trouble”!??

- TYLER I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU KEEP MORE SECRETS

- oh my god the sicarius smile

- aw tebecca!

- EM :(( be vulnerable babe we’re here for you

OH MY GOD THIS EP WAS SO GOOD

[rose-pearls]

Long Live

Summary: Harry finds a couple of pictures in Remus's house that attract his attention. Based off Long live from Taylor Swift.

I said remember this moment In the back of my mind The time we stood with our shaking hands The crowds in stands went wild

The pictures littered across the room attracted Harry’s attention as he walks through Remus’s house. A picture that looked from a quidditch match attract his attention, the red and gold crowd was clearly celebrating, and he could see the quidditch team from far away. The next picture makes him laugh at the sight of it.

We were the kings and the queens And they read off our names The night you danced like you knew Our lives would never be the same

The Marauders are all together in a picture that looked to be taken at Hogwarts graduation, Sirius with his arm around his father’s shoulder while trying to mess up his hair. Remus and Peter look at the two laughing and a smiling McGonagall can be seen in the background, looking a bit emotional. The picture next to it is from Remus and you dancing at what he supposes is a ball, you both look younger but with bright smiles on your faces as Remus makes you twirl on the dance floor.

You held your head like a hero On a history book page It was the end of a decade But the start of an age

Harry can’t help but smile at the next picture, it was of his father on his broom with a wide grin. He had the quidditch cup in his hand and seemed to be in disbelief as he looks at the camera, Harry supposes he is talking to Remus. He remembers the plaque with his father’s name on it and can’t help but smile at the thought of the impact his father had.

Long live the walls we crashed through How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you I was screaming long live all the magic we made And bring on all the pretenders One day, we will be remembered I said remember this feeling I pass the pictures around Of all the years that we stood there On the side-lines wishing for right now The next couple of pictures are filled with smiling faces and the Marauders doing stupid things. A picture shows what he supposes is James and Sirius running through the halls while laughing, the map held tightly in their hands. Remus is smiling like a lovesick fool as Sirius would say in the next picture, while holding onto your waist at Hogsmeade. He then sees a picture of his mother and father that had to be taken before they got together as he sees his father pouting at the camera with rose petals in his hair and a furious Lily Evans behind him.  Will you take a moment Promise me this That you'll stand by me forever But if God forbid fate should step in And force us into a goodbye If you have children some day When they point to the pictures Please tell them my name

The last couple of pictures are the most recent one, his dad and Sirius looking emotional at his parents wedding while fixing each other bow ties. Lily Potter is smiling at the camera in the next picture while holding a picture in front of her stomach, he can’t help but feel emotional at the sight of it. His father is grinning at him in the next picture, a baby Harry in his arms and both of them covered in carrots. The last picture is of all of them smiling widely at the camera, Sirius on James’s back while Remus looks at them fondly and holding his wife’s hand. Peter is nowhere to be seen and Harry has to swallow the anger at the thought of his actions. 

“That was the last picture we had together, it was on the 30th of October.”, he turns around to see his aunt smiling at him sadly. 

“They looked happy.”, he whispers, feeling emotional at the sight of all of these memories.

“They were, probably the reason why Remus couldn’t look at these pictures for the past years.”, Harry understands why, seeing your smiling friends looking back at you while you mourn them. He wouldn’t know what he would do if the same thing happened to Ron and Hermione.

“There are more pictures if you ever want to see them.”, he hears her say after a few minutes of watching him looking at his smiling father. Harry turns around surprised to see her smiling softly.

“I-I wouldn’t want to impose or to bring back memories that Moony doesn’t want to see.”, he selfishly wants to immediately say yes but he knows that maybe his uncle wouldn’t want to see them again.

“You wouldn’t be imposing Harry, you have the right to see them.”, Remus says as he enters the room with a tired smile and Harry can’t help but smile shily.

“There is a box full of pictures if you want.”, Remus says after a few seconds of silence and that wakes Harry up from his thought.

“I would love that.”, he says, and Remus smiles widens at his words. He kisses you lovingly before leading Harry upstairs.

They spent the rest of the afternoon and weekend upstairs going through the pictures while Remus tells the stories with glassy eyes but a wide grin. He tells him the quidditch matches and how his father couldn’t stop talking about Lily but more importantly how he couldn’t have made it without Sirius and his father.

The stories of how they became Animagus makes Harry laugh and he asks Remus how he met you, which makes Remus blush.

“We had Charms together and I was always too shy to talk to her until one day James took me by the shoulders and gave me an hour-long speech about how amazing I was and how I deserved love.”, Harry laughs at Remus expression, and waits to hear the rest of the story.

“He told me that either I went to tell her myself or he would launch into another hour of explanation as to why I was amazing. Fair to say I quickly went to admit my feelings and luckily, she felt the same and I never had to hear James’s speech.”, he says with a smile, but his eyes are filled with sadness as he looks at a picture of the two of them.

“Now I would give anything to hear him rant about how amazing I am again.”, he says softly, and Harry gets closer to him to comfort him, Remus smiles and brings him into a side hug.

“He would be so proud of you.”, Harry can’t help but feel emotional at his uncle’s words.

The rest of the afternoon is still spent talking about the pictures before they hear you calling them down for dinner. Harry gets ready to put everything back in the box and give it back when Remus stops him.

“Why don’t you keep it?”, Harry looks at him surprised for a moment before nodding slowly, unsure if Remus really wanted him to have all of them. 

Remus smiles at him reassuringly before going downstairs to join you. Harry spends the night looking at the pictures and tries not to feel emotional at a picture of Remus holding him as a baby, a proud smile on his face. Singing, long live all the mountains we moved I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you And long, long live that look on your face And bring on all the pretenders One day, we will be remembered

[roobylavender]

hmm this may interest you, do you have thoughts on this subject matter character-wise or in a meta sense?:

https://www.tumblr.com/thecruellestmonth/740875315694501888/batman-turning-points-3-batman-under-the-red

personally i'm not a fan of bruce's disavowal of fatherhood much for the same reasons that i'm not a fan of his installing the good soldier plaque. these to me are both writing choices driven more by writers' desire to explore theoretical concepts than they are driven by a character study of bruce himself. the concept of robin as an occupation inherently equivalent to child abuse is interesting. the concept of wondering what right a father has to children he has adopted towards that end is interesting. that being said, exploring the former concept didn't necessarily demand eliminating robin altogether. exploring the latter concept didn't necessarily demand bruce completely disavowing himself of any accountability. and ultimately both writing choices ignore that a core aspect of bruce's relationships with the robins was wanting to be a good parent, or at the least a good guardian. certainly something more than a mere ally or friend. he took responsibility for these children because he wanted to help guide them towards a certain path in life where they would no longer be ruled by their trauma the way he was and is by his. allowing them to become robin to that end was obv more than questionable, but all too many writers forget and even go so far as to ignore that bruce knew that. he was well aware of his status as an enabler and he eventually hated himself for it deeply. he felt perpetually guilty and reluctant to ask dick for any support once the latter became an adult bc he didn't want to sanction and (in his mind) effectively require dick to do something that would endanger his life on his own orders. he could realistically never stop dick from pursuing vigilantism, but he could at least refuse to ask dick for that commitment any longer so that dick had complete freedom to make his own choices as to the matter. regardless, bruce had to live with the guilt of having enabled the existence of robin to begin with, and he intended to live with that guilt. it was his closest friend and his primary means of survival

if anything, that to me is precisely why his disavowal of fatherhood doesn't make sense. bruce is a poor communicator and he has a tendency to take upon all burdens at the expense of his loved ones feeling like he no longer values them or their support, but that doesn't negate the fact that he's quite hyperaware of his flaws. he's a far more relentless critic of himself than he is of others, and that stems as much from self-righteousness as it does guilt. he's supposed to be better. he's supposed to set an example. he's supposed to do the right thing. he's supposed to save the whole city even if he's only one person. and so on and so forth. bruce is possessive of highly unrealistic expectations for himself bc he's a ridiculously emotional person trying to tell himself to act like a robot. he repeatedly sets himself up for failure and then when he inevitably fails he kicks himself down like a dog. he is essentially a walking man-child simply because he cares too much and that often leads him to make stupid, emotionally driven choices: like taking random children into his home and teaching them how to channel their emotions through fighting crime, because if it worked for him it might work for them too, esp when they've got the added benefit of his supervision and well-intended (albeit awkward) companionship

all of bruce's circumstances and internalizations and traumas point to him taking what i would term excessive ownership of his crimes. he's a self-made pity puddle because he thinks everything is his fault. dick barely having a life outside of vigilantism is his fault. dick nearly falling to his death is his fault. jason failing to properly process his parental trauma is his fault. jason getting blown up by the joker is his fault. i simply cannot imagine a world where bruce isolates himself from caring or from taking the blame because doing the latter has been his modus operandi for so long. it makes more sense for bruce to disavow fatherhood in the specific context of not wanting to take the place that john and mary or willis and catherine will always occupy; it makes less sense for bruce to disavow fatherhood in the specific context of raising and loving dick and jason as if they were his own. it's very much a you don't have to call me dad but when i call you "chum" i mean "son" situation. he's never one to burden others intentionally (although we obv know this rarely plays out the way he wants it to), rather he intentionally burdens himself. that's precisely what knightfall as an arc is stellar at depicting, regardless of the fact that it coincides with the existence of the good soldier plaque. bruce in the aftermath of jason's death has to blame himself excessively because it's the only way he knows how to cope. i've never understood depictions of his grief with an emphasis on jason's share of the blame bc not only is it classist towards jason, it's also inconsistent with bruce's own character and tendency to believe that every bad thing that happens is his fault. it's why i'm not really a fan of gotham knights #43-45. a death in the family makes it clear that bruce blames himself for not allowing jason to have the space and time to process his trauma properly before throwing him into the suit. allowing him to have hope never even comes into the picture

and i'm not sure if anyone has ever considered this, but the disavowal of fatherhood really confuses me when you remember tim exists. why is bruce's disavowal with regards to jason even necessary when the crux of tim's entry into the mythos is precisely the fact that he isn't someone over whom bruce can similarly exercise responsibility and ownership.. it's far more interesting to explore the tightrope bruce walks with that partnership because he's easily in a place to deny responsibility and yet obv he ultimately can't because despite whatever reluctance he expressed initially, he eventually gave in. the tone of the grant/brefoygle run also helps with depicting that dilemma. we're not primarily privy to the bruce of old anymore, who while quiet and awkward nonetheless expressed a capacity for caretaking. there are remnants of that of course (esp after tim's mother dies). but the bruce of the 90s is more imperious and domineering because he's been hardened by trauma. he delivers grand speeches about vigilantism and justice. he sends tim across the pond because he needs proper training. the fact that they're neighbors and get burgers together sometimes doesn't detract from the physical divide present there because tim is ultimately someone else's son and possessive of a life entirely divorced of what he does in the mask. he can walk away without preamble in a way that dick (at least until adulthood) and jason never could. plenty of writers recognized that and personally i believe it's what made the 90s robin run interesting to read, but i also believe writers retroactively projected the necessity of an emotionally distant bruce to that narrative onto the bruce of old. it was progressively rewritten to be a constant rather than a development in the wake of a highly transgressive event. and unfortunately that's tainted every interaction and/or recollection that he has with/of jason afterward

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 57

The chapter opens with Laios about to die...again. But the whole thing is just the setup to a flashback showing us how Marcille joined the party.

Laios looks like such a different person here. He kind of looks like his dad, but with messier hair.

Marcille was indeed the newest member of the party prior to the start of the story. And based on Chilchuck's reaction to hearing about her, this was probably shortly after the hubby hunter woman left the party.

Of all the things I've learned about the party's history, I can't get over the fact that Shuro has been with them for several years at this point. If you had asked me before chapter 56 who I thought had joined the party and when, I would have guessed Shuro was the newest member and he'd probably been with the party for three months at best.

I would have guessed Shuro stopped at the island on his way somewhere else, Laios thought he looked cool and asked him to join the party, and Shuro would have gone along cause he can't say no. And then Shuro falls in love with Falin and keeps putting off whatever he was doing cause he wants to be with her.

Chilchuck's response implies he's had bad dealings with elves in the past. Namari is opposed just because of the old dwarf/elf animosity. I think Shuro didn't know what an elf was.

We never find out what that letter Marcille dropped was. The title image is Marcille reading a letter, so it was probably the same one and was a letter from Falin letting her know how she's doing.

In an alternate universe where Marcille is slightly more unhinged, this would have been the last thing Laios sees before he is strangled to death.

I love how beautifully detailed Marcille's hair is in this panel.

Her hair in this chapter is not the same as it was in the one flashback image in chapter 52. That one is missing the braid. We could probably argue that the image in chapter 52 was what Laios remembered while this is an objective look at the event. Laios wouldn't remember what Marcille's hair looked like.

Marcille met Laios three years after he and Falin went to the island. There's an inconsistency between this chapter and information from chapter 1 about how far back this flashback is, but I'm going to assume chapter 1 is correct unless more info comes up. I'll get to that later.

The main point here is that Laios and Falin have been on the island for five years at this point.

Everyone in the room is aware that adventuring is a dead-end unprofitable job.

I think Marcille might be lying. She has been to the one Falin took her to in chapter 17, but I'd bet she has zero experience otherwise.

I feel like the story needs to go back and explain a bit more about different types of dungeons. The title image in chapter 54 mentioned there are naturally-occurring dungeons but implies that every dungeon eventually grows in the same way that the island dungeon is. There were three dungeons in the map on the chapter 52 title image that had no details about them, so they're probably natural ones.

Does every dungeon need a dungeon lord or are they only in the man-made ones? Is a dungeon any area with a self-contained ecosystem that can sustain an abundance of mana and spirits?

Marcille truly has only one solution to every problem she encounters.

Laios and Falin got knocked over from the spell but Marcille did not. While part of it could be because Marcille expected the force and braced for it, this leads me to conclude part of the spell's incantation is actually a buff to protect the caster from knockback.

Marcille's primary field of study is dungeons and ancient magic so it makes sense that she happens to have every spell you might need to safely explore a dungeon.

That plaque has the same inscription as the one Chilchuck found in chapter 13.

Onto that inconsistency I mentioned earlier. In chapter 1, Marcille mentioned that her first death was to a slime two years ago. We get to see that death this chapter, but after the flashback, Laios said that was only one year ago.

By the way, here's some quick notes I put together of the timeline of some events.

508: Laios and Falin come to the Island (Falin left the academy three years prior to Marcille reuniting with her + Marcille's first death was two years ago)

510: Laios and Falin join the gold peelers (Chapter 6). After, Laios forms an adventuring party

511: Marcille comes to the Island and joins Laios's party

I seriously would love a prequel series that's just Laios's life before the story. Like, we get stories from his village, then academy, the army, the caravan, and then the years as an adventurer prior to chapter 1.

Laios might be a "failure" by many people's standards but his life story would be an amazing read in-universe.

Since her nightmare is everyone dying before she does, Marcille's dream is probably to extend peoples' lives indefinitely, like what Thistle has done to the people of the Golden Kingdom.

I'm still super iffy about that one moment in Marcille's nightmare where she held Thistle's spellbook. I have a sneaking suspicion that the Winged Lion is not a benevolent thing at all. And I decided to double-check something and the thing in Kabru's recollection of Utaya in chapter 38 has the same eye pattern as the spellbook.

However, the lion or the dungeon or whatever it is seems more interested in Laios for some reason.

The dullahan reveal is so sudden that it's kind of funny.

And we get no details about what a dullahan is outside of it being a spirit. It seems like it has a human intelligence though because Laios was able to negotiate with it.

Dullahans IRL are a type of fairy in Irish folklore who visit people who are about to die. If the dullahan here has similar behaviour, then its existence is a nasty trap for anyone who reaches this level. You decide to rest for the day, go into one of the houses, and then a dullahan waits outside to attack you when you leave the house.

And to make things worse, the dullahan's attack cuts flesh but passes through armor and clothing so you can't tank it.

The party always mistreats Laios but this was going a bit too far. They agreed to leave him behind immediately after he told them to. He wasn't even halfway through assuring them he'd survive before realizing they'd abandoned him.

I mean, yeah, they could resurrect him after, but still.

This is so cute. Marcille probably thinks Laios is a kid sometimes because of the whole age disparity thing. She's also super relieved that Laios is alive after everyone was forced to abandon him, and him surviving because he was able to convince a monster to spare him is pretty funny when you think about it.

Marcille is being really dodgy about her age. I mentioned in chapter 50 that her half-foot form looked younger but chalked it up to it being because of what half-foots look like. But now I'm convinced that she's actually far younger than she looks.

I also now get the feeling that Marcille is lying about her parents being court mages. She was born in this area and not the west. Laios had never talked to an elf before meeting Marcille, and Fionil seems to be the only other known elf on the Island. Marcille was also the only elf at the magic academy. So elves are rare in the area.

My guess is Marcille's mother probably used ancient magic as well and fled somewhere where the western elves have no influence. Maybe she was a court mage when she lived in the west, but now it's just a convenient cover-up since no one in the area could ever verify if it is true.

As for Marcille's father, I'm gonna guess that he was actually a Tallman. Marcille was born somewhere with almost no elves and she said her father died when she was young, but the circumstances imply he died of old age. If Marcille is actually a half-elf, maybe that would explain why she gets so touchy when people start applying elf stereotypes to her.

It's been so long since Marcille threw a fit.

back

[peaches2217]

The further along his courtship with Peasley progresses, the more and more Luigi is loved and celebrated within the Beanbean Kingdom. He’s already highly regarded, if not as highly as his brother — he’s still a hero at the end of the day, and even if he hasn’t made a career of it, he took direct part in eliminating a national threat. But in the beginning, he’s still, well, the other Mario brother, the one that tagged along and doesn’t have much more to his name outside of that single adventure.

But there’s something about him that starts catching people’s attention. The Beanish royal family is deeply beloved, but the Queen is noble to the point of stoicism while the Crown Prince is flashy and flamboyant and larger than life, making them feel almost unreachable. Then along comes a man who’s as closely affiliated with the royals as one can be, a war hero and the unspoken-but-understood future Prince Consort, and he’s… just some guy.

He stutters a lot, he has a hard time maintaining eye contact, he tends to look at his feet when he walks. He always gets the same order at Starbeans yet seems gratefully surprised each time he walks in and the baristas have it ready for him. He reads all of the plaques in parks and at museums and monuments with keen interest; he always stops to admire the flowers and oohs and ahhs at crops growing in farmers’ fields; when children who don’t yet understand his status seize him by the wrists and implore him to play, he does so joyfully. He’s not a people person, per say, but he’s still a people’s person — he doesn’t sit back and adopt a dignified facade and float high on his elevated social status and the luxuries it entails. He makes no attempt to hide his imperfections, and he’s genuinely invested in the Beanish people, their culture, and their everyday lives.

Being so down-to-earth makes him easily approachable, which has an unintended but fortuitous side-effect: he becomes a direct link between the once inaccessible royal family and the general populace. He listens to average people’s stories and recounts them to his lover, who in turn becomes more sensitive and attuned to the needs and wants and hopes of his people, a shift that soon rubs off on his mother as well and begins seeping into both written policy and the way they interact with those beneath them. Luigi is considered in short order to be one of the best political influences the kingdom has seen in years.

And he doesn’t even mean to have any influence! He just likes learning about people and the things that drive them because he’s so curious and compassionate! He’s got no political know-how and he can’t even pretend to think more highly of himself than those around him; he’s the least princely future prince out there, and that’s precisely why he’s so loved.

[geareduptom]

The Tale of the Friend

Long Long ago, there was the kingdom of Hope.

A small and heavenly place, where only birds could fly and race. Following fates design, with Hope as the artist drawing the lines.

Yet one little hope broke from their line and slipped into the hall of crimes. Where a small being sat covering his eyes, Crying tears that were not made with fate in mind.

'Why do you cry?' Said little hope, flying down to land on the cage's rope.

'Why would I not? I have been caged, " for a crime I can't quite place. The others whisper and mock me dear, I want to rest, but I can't in here." This little Hope looked around, seeing a plaque etched in the ground.

'Here lies a traitor, who dare did harm, our kin the sun, so be alarmed, do not fall for the monster's tears, He will lie to you I fear.'

'Did you not harm our brother Sun? How could you not remember them?' Hope asked politely and patiently sat, listening to the words of the cat.

'I did not harm him! I was asleep. I fear the guilty are still on their feet. I cannot prove it was not me, for it was a stone taken from me, used and bound with Terra's grain. They stabbed my brother and left me the remains, So now I sit and cannot sleep, Facing a crime that wasn't me.'

They spoke so softly and honest and true, That little hope didn't know what to do.

They trusted them, but they could have lied, So little hope took their time, before they flew inside the cage. To get a look at their face.

'If you are honest, I know a trick, Give me your eyes, for just a sec.'

The cat looked up and Hope looked down, Seeing into their heart with a frown, No crime he'd done and hope was sure, He rested his wings, landing on their door.

No crime you've done, Of that I'm sure, But I'm too small to open this door, Let me get Destra, She'll understand, After all she as well has been banned.'

So Hope flew home and got their mother, A large bird with glowing white feathers, She came and saw and released Eclipse, Gently cradling him in her claw's digits.

'Come now dear, We'll let you rest, Little hope, watch over our guest, you are safe, do not fret, We will let you go to bed.' Destra promised

Eclipse felt relief and gently took hold, of little Hope and cradled him as Destra rode, flying them back to her cove.

Thus Eclipse made a newfound friend. But there is more that seems to have happened, Sadly dear reader the book's pages are gone,

but maybe we'll see, Where everything had gone. Until then though, please do stay strong, For things will be clearer as we move on.

End? Storybook 3-

[youarebeingshaggedbyarareparrot]

Worse things happen at sea: Art in the Paris 2024 Olympic Opening Ceremony

So everyone has been sounding off about the Paris' Olympic Opening Ceremony. Mainly about the supposed 'insult to Christians everywhere' with the recreation of Di Vinci's 'The Last Supper'.

(I'd like to go on the record that 1. you pose any group of folk in a line facing the viewer with a barrier at hip height and it's gonna look a little 'The Last Supper'-y, 2. clearly the hand wringers had forgotten that the artist was Di Vinci. The man would be pointing and laughing at them and be living it up on that bridge between Nicky Doll and DJ Butch, and 3. Da Vinci painted enough portraits of Bacchus, he would have known what's up.)

Anyway, a lot of art was incorporated and celebrated but there's one piece that did featured that had me performing a mental emergency stop and NO ONE ELSE is talking about it so I need to know I wasn't the only one to spot this.

So, opening ceremony, we're following our mysterious torch bearer as they race through the the Louvre to the strains of 'Danse macabre', (French composer Camille Saint-Saëns). The eyes of the paintings occupants follow their progress until we see frames with empty back drops, the paintings' subjects having come alive to watch the festivities from the windows. But the last empty frame... my people...

Our mystery guide stands in front of this for nearly 3 seconds, at the 1hr 42min 11sec mark in the BBC coverage. Now, I can't make out the plaque at the bottom of the frame, but I am prepared to place good money that this is Théodore Géricault's 'Le Radeau de la Méduse', or 'The Raft of the Medusa'.

Completed in 1819, this piece is considered the best work of its' French artist and an icon of the French Romanticism movement. It's chuffing huge, over 16ft by 23ft, and it is stunning.

It also depicts one of the worst events in French maritime history.

In June of 1816, the French frigate The Medusa left France for Senegal on the west coast of Africa. At her helm was a captain who had not sailed in 20 odd years and got the post through connections and political clout. And he fucked it up royally. The Medusa drifted 100 miles off course and ran aground off Mauritania. After 3 days of failing to shift the boat, the 400 or so people aboard has choices to make. They were 30 miles from land and there were 6 boats, room for 250 people. Some stayed aboard the stranded vessel but at least 146 men and one woman boarded a jerry-rigged raft. The plan was for it to be towed by some of the boats, but after only a few miles it was turned loose.

For 13 days, exposure, mutiny, disease, dehydration and starvation ravaged the survivors, whittling nearly 150 down to 15. It was in my fact checking for this that I learnt the lovely little term ‘a custom of the sea’. In layman’s terms, cannibalising your crew mates to survive. They were spotted by chance, no search effort had been made by the French. A further 5 died in the days following rescue. British naval officers helped the survivors to return to France because aid from the French government didn’t appear and the captain, who had made it to land fine, was more interested in recovering the gold on board the Medusa. He was court marshalled and should have been executed, but in the end served 3 years in prison. He was the inciting incident for a law to passed that ensured that promotions in the French military would thereafter be based on merit.

Now all this came hurtling into my head because I remember reading a book called 'Severed' by Frances Larson, all about the cultural and historical fascination with decapitation. There's a section in the chapter of severed heads in art about how Géricault went hard on the research for this painting; visited morgues and hospitals, brought home specimens to watch decay rate, y'know, stuff that absolutely wouldn't blow your safety deposit. But yeah, I'm there with dawning horror and ice in my blood as we look at a very French painting, of a French maritime tragedy, brought about by the hubris and arrogance and incompetence of the higher ups who had no right being there, where comrades and crew turn on each other in a horrific fight for survival, with the spooky dancing bones classical piece playing in the background...

And not 20 seconds later we are rejoining the action of the flotilla on the Seine, 'Fraternité' writ large over the boat with Cyprus, Columbia and Comoros waving excitedly and soggily at us.

Thomas Jolly, opening ceremony artistic director, I need to buy you a drink and we need to chat. I need to study you. I have been turning this over in my brain for a week, what are you trying to say?! Was I the only one to hear it?!

[rosethornewrites]

NR, E, & M reading since 8/13

Finished

Not Rated:

There was a boy, by caesteves

"And the boy, who never stopped smiling despite every reason he had to cry, saw himself forgetting the voices of his loved ones. Their faces, the happy moments. Perhaps he was supposed to live a life of broken memories."

(Or, after a strange night-hunt, Wei Wuxian wakes without his memories.)

A different road, by ARavenIsBlack (2 chapters)

What if Lan Wangji never went back to find Wen Yuan, or couldn't find him?

Grown up a beggar and thief, Wen Yuan struggles to survive after a long winter. Then, two people come by that seem much richer than any other that stop by their lonely village. But trying to steal from them backfires horribly and Wen Yuan is left desperate.

Explicit:

A Matter of Time, by mrcformoso (8 chapters)

When Lan Wangji went back in time to the first time he met Wei Wuxian, he thought it would be on their spar on the rooftops. He thought of how much he would have to change their interactions through the Cloud Recesses, how he would have to find a way to split Wei Wuxian from the Jiangs…

But when he came to his body, he found himself holding out a toy drum to a little child, a little A-Ying, in the streets of Yilling.

'Huh.' Lan Wangji thought as the little boy smiled up at him. 'This will be easier than I thought.'

Or: After Wei Wuxian’s death, something broke in Lan Wangji. He would do anything to get the love of his life back, safely in his arms. Even rewrite history.

A Matter of Choice, by mrcformoso (2nd in a series)

Things have been moving so fast and in so many different directions that Wei Ying never got a chance to sit down and settle, to think. It was only now, now that the war had ended, and they have returned home that Wei Ying felt the weight on his shoulders, the gravity of the situation.

Wei Ying’s mind was clashing, fighting and tripping over itself. Two vastly different childhoods wrestled in his soul, experiences and traumas he never thought of in years reared its ugly head. Not only that, but he knows what – or who – was behind it all. He knows the end goal. He knows the role he plays.

He has one year before his marriage. One year before he makes his choice.

Or: After the Sunshot Campaign, during the one year before his marriage to Lan Zhan, the barriers in Wei Ying’s mind fell and he must reconcile the aftereffects of regaining his memories, alongside the knowledge that his choice will decide the fate of the cultivation world.

Wei Laoshi, Poonslayer, by FeelsForBreakfast

Lan Wangji comes to two conclusions, almost simultaneously. The first, is that Nie Huaisang is messing with Wei Ying. The second, is that Wei Ying has never had sex in his life.

Or: Lan Wangji goes to Yunmeng, realizes that Wei Ying is a virgin, and takes decisive action.

Mature:

Back To The River (So Learn To Swim), by kalany (18 chapters)

Yu Ziyuan has been dead for over a hundred years, so it's a bit of a surprise when she dies.

One minute she's watching the youngest Lan daughter bow to her ancestors—it still baffles her that Wei Wuxian counts her as an ancestor, and that he's filial enough to have had a plaque made for her, but here they are—and the next she's choking on blood, her eyesight dimming. Wei Wuxian, she thinks furiously, what have you done now?

Then she wakes up.

Because her bladder is full.

Yu Ziyuan finds herself back in Lotus Pier, before any of her children have been born, and decides that things would go better if Jiang Yanli is the heir, not Jiang Cheng. One change leads to another, and another, and another.

And is Cangse Sanren flirting with her?

Things do not always go smoothly, but sometimes the family you find is the one you should have had all along.

lay down what's impeding you, by Karillith (2nd in a series)

"Just because I do not post them myself does not mean I cannot appreciate and acknowledge a thirst trap when it is in front of me."

Wei Wuxian's brain short-circuits for the millionth time in the last 24 hours. He's not sure what freaks him out more--that Lan Wangji agrees that it is, in fact, a thirst trap (a good one? please say it's a good one), or that he doesn't post them... but that he could have them.

Or,

5 times Lan Wangji makes thirsty comments at Wei Wuxian, and 1 time Wei Wuxian manages to do it back on purpose. Picks up where worst case scenario ends, but can be read as a standalone.

Unfinished

Not Rated:

Beiming: To Lament- 33 Reasons to Change the Past, by ravenhg (🔒)

It had been one week since Wei Wuxian’s life ended.

One week since his love, his life, his everything, had been ambushed by remnants of Jin Guangyao and Su She’s followers.

Wei Wuxian really should have known better.

“What will you do, gongzi?” Wen Ning asked quietly.

Wei Wuxian smiled, his eyes burning like coals.

_____________________

Or:

After the death of the most important person in their lives, Wei Wuxian and Lan Qiren choose to return to the past to prevent everything. This changes things.

In the End, by Sciatic_Nerd

What if, when Jiang Cheng felt he was forced to choose between protecting his beloved older sister or his loyal brother he remembered that Wei Wuxian always found the worst trouble and he never, ever remembered to guard his back.

Or, what if Jin Guangshan never managed to tear the Twin Heroes of Yunmeng apart.

Explicit:

The "Patriarch" Was Supposed to be Ironic (or, Wei Wuxian, Chief Cultivator), by groignequi

Wei Wuxian makes a wish he didn't intend; Lan Wangji creates a path forward.

___

The form flickers, letting curls of smoke form something like a smile, and responds, “What is it you want, patriarch?”

And Wei Wuxian, incautious at the wrong (the right) moment, says “A way to fix all of it.”

He hears the reply: “As you wish.”

He knows he’s made a mistake the second the form disperses, moving too fast and in too many directions to be called back and subdued.

___

Only a few hours later, in Koi Tower, a visiting handmaid finds her madam crying over rumors about her daughter’s marriage.

The Threads of Fate, by WaitForTheSnitch

“What would you do if you could have him back?” Nie Huaisang asked him, a bit too seriously as he leaned forward.

“There is no way for a dead cultivator to return,” Jiang Cheng scoffed, not even willing to entertain the thought.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Nie Huaisang shrugged, “Even if he came back, that wouldn’t do much to help, would it? Your sister is still gone. His reputation still damaged.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Jiang Wanyin growled, “What did you come here for, Nie Huaisang?”

“I asked you what you would do for your brother back,” Nie Huaisang started, “I would do anything to have mine back, Jiang Wanyin. And I’m here to offer you that same choice. Because our brothers’ deaths never should have happened. They happened because of schemes and plots. They happened because of lies and deception. Your brother was made to be a villain and was led to his death because he was too powerful. Mine was murdered because he stood in the way of Jin Guangshan.”

There's nothing Jiang Cheng wouldn't do to have his siblings back. And when Nie Huaisang comes to him with a proposal to save them by changing everything, he doesn't even hesitate to agree.

Only with Time, by adrian_kres

Thirteen years ago, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were arranged to be married as is tradition. Throughout their thirteen-year-long "courtship," things were not always as they seemed. Now, newly married, old secrets have ripped open wounds they thought were closed, and they must work together to rebuild a trust they never had and a love they always did but couldn't see.

Told from alternating points of view between LWJ and WWX with frequent flashbacks to memories of their "courtship".

The Second Hand Unwinds, by trulywicked (🔒)

Sent back in time without his husband after a night hunt gone wrong, Lan Wangji is determined to ensure that Wei Wuxian’s safety and in the process hopefully mitigate, if not prevent, the war.

Through marriage among other things.

Mature:

Army Dreamers, by Forever_Marie

Lan Wangji finds Wei Wuxian in the field with strangle marks and other horrible injuries after Lotus Pier falls.

He takes him back to Gusu.

(一日三秋) One day (seems like) three autumns, by SpicyRamen_10969

13 Years ago, Wei Ying disappeared.

13 years later, two teenage boys find a man collapsed and bleeding on the side of the road.

This is the story of how Wei Ying finds himself going from homeless to living with his childhood best friend, Lan Wangji, and finally getting the help and love he needs and deserves.

(Un)Hidden truth, by Sarah_R

After watching his husband; his son; nephew; brother and little radishes dying in front of him one by one because of a source of resentful energy; Wei WuXian dies too as he destroys it.

But instead of darkness; he finds himself back in the past when he had just gotten kicked out of the cloud recess and everything looks so peaceful he can’t stand it. No…no no no he really can’t go through this hell again. Not again. Not after everything was supposed to be over.

Not knowing that Lan WangJi has been thrown back in time as well; he tries; and fails at taking his own life by slitting his throat open in the middle of lotus pier and so; he decides to show everyone the future.

If he’s going to live this hell again; he’s going to change it and if these people are suddenly so determined to keep him alive; then he’s not going to let them die either.

It doesn’t matter if they end up hating him just as much as he hates himself.

(Or; another time travel fix-it which happens to be a watching the show fic as well! With our favorite baby boy and his husband; all their ducklings and their very much alive family and friends from the past.)