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januaryembrs · 3 months ago

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WHO'S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME? | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [10]

description: the one with Cat Adams + the one where she tells him.

length: 13k

warnings: literally just watch 11x11, mention of vomit, blood, alcoholism. mention of pregnant wives??

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‘who’s afraid of little old me?

you should be,’

She remembered when she was little when she would wake up so early even the birds hadn’t uttered a morning chirp, her stomach grumbling because she usually hated the fancy stuff they had for dinner and ended up leaving it on her plate. She remembered thinking her mother would be no use, that Elizabeth would tell her to go straight back to bed, even if she whined and cried that she wanted breakfast, remembered thinking Louise, the au pair that usually took the morning shift, wouldn’t be in for another hour or so, and she certainly wasn’t tall enough to reach the cabinets yet.

Which left her with Emily.

Nineteen year old Emily, who was already in and out of the house with college, her hair a box dyed black, singed from all the crimping and hair spray. Emily, who liked to take her to the park even if she pretended she was too old, who played Barbies with her and helped her cut all their hair off probably because she figured that was better than her constant urge to do whacky things with her own locks. Emily, who had never wanted a little sister really until Elizabeth had brought home the carrier and suddenly she had never loved ten chubby fingers and toes so much.

She remembered waking Emily up, usually by pulling herself up onto her sister’s Mötley Crüe themed bedding and prodding at the girl’s shoulder until she stirred, how Emily would lead her down the long, ornate hallway into the kitchen, when the only sound in the house would be their bare feet padding along the cold tiles. How Emily would yank two bowls out of the cupboard, tipping a generous dose of coco pops in each of them, back when they were full of sugar and real chocolate, not the healthy crap they sold nowadays.

It would just be the two of them at the breakfast table, crunching on their spoons, five year old Bugsy no doubt dribbling the brown milk down her chin and pyjama top, but she was happy. Because she had her big sister.

She stared down at the dregs of cocoa that whirled into the white milk as the cereal sat there longer, because she was only picking at it really, and it had nothing to do with the fact she was almost certain they had changed the recipe since she was little.

“I was thinking,” She said after a moment or so, while Spencer pottered around the kitchen, fixing them both a pot of coffee that she usually was usually bouncing over to grab at this point in the morning. Except today she felt sluggish, lost in that maze of thoughts that only Spencer could really unpick, and the second she’d started speaking his head whipped over the counter to where she idly stirred her breakfast, “About what you said when Gideon… We could probably afford to start looking at buying a house soon, what with the mortgage rates dropping,”

She looked up at him hopefully, hoping he couldn’t sense the hesitation on her breath because he usually knew what she was thinking before she said anything, and for once she wished he didn’t have that crazy ability to read her mind, only to see him with a small if not saddened smile.

When Gideon had passed, Spencer had gotten in his head that they needed to leave the apartment, that if the Jason Gideon could have been caught unaware, then they weren’t safe either. Of course he hadn’t meant it, at least not entirely, but Gideon passing had spun the logic half of his brain that spouted the statistics that they were no more in danger now than they were before he’d gone, but still it was something he’d been thinking about. A house meant more space; more space meant they could stop tripping over each other's laundry, meant they could get the bigger shower they’d always talked about, maybe even a tub. A house meant the garden he knew he always wanted Niko and Sergio to have now they were grey around the whiskers and couldn’t run so fast.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Spencer said, picking up their mugs of steaming hot goodness and carefully stepping towards her, gently sliding the drink over to her as the liquid sloshed and threatened to dip over the edge, “Is there any place you want to look?”

He left his own mug in favour of circling his arms around her shoulders and pulling her in for a soft hug, her head falling beneath his chin where she sat on the barstool.

Kissing her hairline gently, she heard him inhale her shampoo scent, and she plonked her spoon back in the bowl to wrap her arms around his waist, squeezing herself into every crevice that they weren’t already touching.

“I don’t care,” She said, tilting her head to look up at him with love sick eyes, only to see him already besottedly gazing at her, and she guessed by the way his lips draw up at the corners that he didn’t realise he was still smiling, “Anywhere with you is good enough for me,”

He looked down at her in that way he usually did, expression soft and sweet and entranced, but she saw the traces of worry in his gaze, “You feeling okay? Today is going to be… hard,”

Bugsy’s expression faltered slightly, and she turned away to push her face into his stomach so he wouldn’t see the doubt lingering in her eyes. She nodded anyway, even though she knew he would catch her in the lie.

After Scratch, Hotch had ordered her to take three months off for a psych evaluation, had granted Spencer at least a month of holiday to watch over her because he knew Reid’s head would be all over the place with worry if he’d returned to work without her. It was like asking Garcia to leave her computers and fluffy pens at home; it just wouldn’t work.

By the time she was cleared to come back, despite the recurring nightmares of that day still eating away at her sleep, Hotch had set her up to work solely from the office, strictly no field work.

He liked to think it was for her own safety, for her own good since he saw the way she pounded coffee like it was juice while Spencer lingered around her with a worried stare. But if he had to be honest with himself, Hotch couldn’t get away from the things Scratch had made him see just as much as she couldn’t. He couldn’t escape seeing her throat slit like she was a lamb for slaughter, the life leaving her eyes as she faded away. And it was the thought of her carotid artery spraying over his boots that made him want to lock her up in bubble wrap and never let her go.

But that was feasible in their job, not really. So desk duty it was.

“You don’t have to go with us into the field, you can always stay with Hotch and Garcia,” He offered, stroking her hair behind her ear and tempting her to look back up at him with gentle fingertips under her chin, and when she saw the unease in the muddy hues, she squeezed him tighter, knowing the past five months had been just as hard on him.

“No, I want to,” She protested gently, her hands weaselling under his shirt and onto the warm, soft skin of his back, pawing at him like a cat trying to settle. “If you’re being made this woman’s number one target, I want to be there on stand by,”

And he couldn’t really argue. Because no matter what frame of mind he was in, even if it had been him captured and tortured, he would never let her go out as bait and not be there breathing down her neck.

He sighed, the urge to protest stuck in his throat and all he could think to do was bring his lips to hers gently in a soft kiss, because his resistance to her being put in the line of danger would only be futile.

She hummed into the kiss, his hands skirting over her back and she swore she would be content if the rest of her life was spent in Spencer’s arms, in the warm mornings at their kitchen table just the two of them, and the idea of that last part spun her stomach into turmoil all over again.

What if he freaked out? No, scratch that, he was definitely going to freak out. Spencer hated change, hated having things dropped on him, and Diana was already getting worse with the symptoms of Alzheimers she had begun presenting. He had more than enough on his plate as it was, and she knew she was the only thing that could keep his head from exploding with the worry, even if she was sometimes the cause of it. He’s always been a worrier, and part of her despised herself for the fact that he had shot out of bed every single night she’d been in the midst of a night terror, when the room spun and Peter Lewis seemed so real and so close and she woke up screaming. Because she’d brought him enough stress and trouble, and now she had an extra helping of it dished up and ready.

It wasn’t one of those things she could keep to herself, not even if she so desperately wanted to sit on it and mull it over for a few months. She needed to tell him soon.

Spencer looked down at her eyes, the way they’d glazed over slightly, and he wished he could crawl into the space where her thoughts bounced between one another if it meant he could figure out what had gotten her so twisted up the past few weeks. She hadn’t been herself entirely since Scratch, but she had been getting better. She’d started getting more sleep, seemed less jumpy when they were in the quiet of their apartment, and part of him thought maybe that was why she wanted to look at houses. A fresh start. And yet overnight, she’d had this guilty look in her eye like she was suddenly a million miles away, and he hated it. Bugsy had never been distant, which seemed odd to think considering she was burying her hands and face into him like she had no intention of letting him leave. But there was something in the depths of her brilliantly big mind that seemed to hold her tongue for her.

He kissed her again, hoping it was all in his head, hoping she wouldn’t keep things from him because it was them and they always told each other everything. Even if it was gross and weird and inappropriate, everything.

And he thought maybe it was because he was going on a date with another woman, using himself as live bait to flirt and charm and seduce an assassin in order to take her into custody without fuss. Yeah, that was probably it. He couldn’t say he would be all too pleased if it had been the other way around and he would be watching her ravish another man even if it was just for the job.

That was definitely it. There couldn’t be anything else.

“You know I love you,” He said as a statement, yet she nodded as though it was a question, and he kissed her again because he’d regretted not doing it a hundred times a day the second he’d seen her in that closet, regretted not seeing the fact she was more than likely uncomfortable with her boyfriend of two years wining and dining a murderer. “Whatever I say when I’m there with her, you know I love you, more than I could ever love anything else,”

He seemed so sincere, his eyes turning into that soft puppy like frown, and it only served to drive the knife in deeper as she nodded, her hands wrapping into his hair and pulling him down to kiss her again, this time just a little harder like his lips could wipe away the pit in her stomach. Because it was Spencer, and she was lying by omission, and god did she need him to know how much she loved him before things went wrong and they changed and-

“We have a little time right?” She said, his hands taking the hint as they pulled her to her feet gently, cereal long forgotten in a chocolate slush, and his hands reached down to cup her ass in the way he was more than used to doing now. Didn’t stop him from blushing however.

“Y-yeah we have time,” He said, and she barely let him finish his sentence before she’d claimed his mouth again, not that he was complaining. She looped her fingers through his belt buckle, stepping backwards with his guidance towards their bedroom, and he hummed through a moan when he felt her run the other hand through his already messy bedhead, tugging on the ends of his curls gently.

“Good,” She responded, with a drop of that natural Bugsy cheekiness he was used to, and the sound of it made him smile. Maybe it was just the job after all, “I think I need a demonstration on just how much you don’t mean whatever you need to say to her,”

He smirked, because she was more like herself than she had been in days, and god was she pretty when she smiled at him before they had sex, like she knew what was coming, like she knew what she did to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear his heart thumping in her ears just as clearly as he could.

“I think you’ll need multiple demonstrations,” He said, his fingers looping in between her buttons on her trousers and popping them apart softly because they’d done this before, rushed it so they weren’t late for work, and ended up ripping good jeans, “Gather multiple sets of data before you draw a conclusion,”

He kissed down her neck and her small laugh became a moan, “I think it’s pretty much the only way, Doctor Reid,”

He laughed, and she felt it against her pulse, the sound of it making her shiver as he shoved the door open with little remorse for the way it slammed into the wall. And she made a promise to herself that once they’d caught their UnSub, she would tell him, even if it meant all of this would change.

–

He arrived at the restaurant five minutes early, his suit steamed and neat, a single red rose in his hand. His skin was already crawling at the idea of flirting with another woman, but Spencer knew none of it was real, knew he was just doing his job. Still it didn’t diminish the desire to glance where Bugsy and Rossi were sat in a booth, because he’d seen her in that red dress a thousand times before, and yet it still made his jaw drop the second he saw her in it.

The brief had been black tie, something to fit in with the five star restaurant, and god had she delivered. He ought to have protested, told her that she was too distracting and maybe insisted she stayed in the office if she looked so striking, but then again she could have worn a bin bag for all he cared, he would still be fighting the urge to look over at her.

He chose the seat with Bugsy at his back as to eliminate his urge to stare at her, because Dave could keep her safe, the rest of his team could watch her, he had to trust that.

He lay the rose on the other side of the table, fiddling with the other parts of the cutlery to make sure everything looked perfect, even though in his mind he was thinking of all the things Bugsy would have been saying if she was his date tonight. She probably would have made a comment on his suit (she already had before they’d even stepped out the hotel, just as he’d given her arse a quick squeeze with cheeks even more crimson than her dress because she looked divine), probably would have offered to go to the in-and-out down the street instead because she never cared about splashing out on dates, just being with him was enough.

Adjusting his jacket a little, he waited, trying to keep his head far away from his girlfriend, although that was much easier said than done. He couldn’t remember what his brain was like before it was filled with thoughts of her.

The ring sat in his sock drawer, buried in one of his older pairs that he hoped she wouldn’t go after since he’d made the mistake of putting it in with his boxers and almost got caught within a day when she went to steal some ready for bed and he’d chided himself for the sloppy work. He knew he wanted to ask her, thought he might even bring her to a fancy place like this, maybe prepare a small speech that attempted to tell her how much she meant to him even though he knew there wasn’t enough words for such a thing. Would he hide it in the cake? No that would be cheesy, she found cheesy overdone. Would she even like it done in public? No, she would hate that, he would wait until they got home, maybe even try that thing she’d wanted to do in bed for a few weeks, and then when they were done-

“Spencer?” A woman appeared at the table, a woman who by all accounts was objectively pretty, yet he felt that small kick of victory when he recognised her from the FBI database.

Cat Adams. Assassin. Mastermind. UnSub.

“Cat?” He said with practised naivety, and this time he forced all thoughts of his loving girlfriend from his head like they were about to be tainted by the woman standing in front of him, “Hi,”

“Hi,” She replied, her grin too bright and sparkly for anyone to ever guess she was a killer though he supposed that was the point,

“Hello, it’s nice to finally-” He cut himself off when she leaned up to hug him, her face drawing closer to his suddenly and she looked like she was gearing up for a peck on the lips. Forward. Much more forward than he’d given her credit for, and his stomach flipped in discomfort as he leaned away, “Oh s-sorry, I have kind of a germ thing,” He excused, which wasn’t a total lie.

Also my girlfriend is sat ten feet away and I can already hear her clenching a fork ready to ball your eyes out like a melon, he wanted to say, though he kept his snark to himself.

“Oh, sorry,” Cat said, holding her hands up in surrender, and looking up at him with what he knew to be false innocence. But he played along, because the sooner they caught her, the sooner he could be done with the entire thing.

“I’m kinda weird with hugs,” He explained, his face boyish as he gestured her to take a seat, because at least then he could put some distance between them, “Please, sit down,”

She smiled dizzily, slipping her jacket off to reveal a blue dress that accentuated her pixie short hair, her collar bones that could cut glass, her small, sleek figure, and she adjusted her straps as an excuse to divert his attention to her breasts.

“That’s like the oldest trick in the book, get some new material, bitch,” Bugsy mumbled under her breath, drowning her venom in sparkling apple juice disguised as champagne from where they sat in a dark corner booth and Rossi chuckled, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t worry about boy genius having a wandering eye, kid. Reid is more devout than my mother on Easter Sunday,” He said, picking at the starter they’d ordered as a way to seem busy. She hummed, diverting her attention into her chicken salad, making sure she wasn’t looking at the happy couple for too long as they talked awkwardly, “Do you think you could take her?”

“I know I could take her,” Bugsy responded in a clipped tone, and Rossi sniggered, and they heard Tara and Derek do the same down their earpieces.

“It was a joke,” Cat said, to something they hadn’t quite caught, though by the looks of it they were still just making small talk, “A bad joke,”

“No, no, it was funny,” Spencer said reassuringly, and he chuckled, though Bugsy knew off the bat it was fake because she loved making him laugh and it sounded nothing like that. They fell into an awkward silence and she could hear Spencer scrambling for things to talk about because if she walked away their lead to the other assassin went right with her.

“Can we start over? Hi, I’m Cat,” The woman said, fixing her skirt with a shy smile. She certainly didn’t seem like a killer, Bugsy thought, where she glanced at her in her peripheral. She certainly was pretty, spritely even. A little too eager to kiss a guy she just met.

“Hi, I’m Spencer,” He replied, in that nervous tone he usually got when she flustered him.

“Is it true you have three PHDs?” Cat asked with, well, cat-like eyes flicking between sly and seductive, and Bugsy could see how any man who wasn’t as smart as her boyfriend would fall for the act.

“Yes, that’s true. I do have three PHDs,”

“What’s your favourite book you read last year?” She pressed and Bugsy sipped her juice to stop herself from answering for him.

“I’ve honestly never read a book I haven’t loved,” He said, deflecting the subject, while his girlfriend smirked into her almost empty plate.

Demons by Fydor Dostoevsky, she corrected to herself because she knew he’d gone back to it more than a handful of times.

“Tell me about your wife,” Cat went in for the kill, her timid smile morphing into something wicked as she watched Spencer squirm.

And the second she’d said it something had reared its ugly head inside him. Because try as hard as he might, all he could think about was Bugsy’s face and that damn ring.

“If you don’t mind, I’d er…” He cleared his throat, wondering why it was so difficult to get through a single conversation when they’d ran through the plan a million times. He knew she would ask, and yet all he could do was get defensive thinking about Cat damn Adams setting her hands on the woman he wanted desperately to marry, “I’d rather not talk about her,”

“Might as well get it out in the open right? I mean, it’s why we’re here,” She said smugly, like that innocent bounce in her step had wiped right away, revealing the murderess underneath, “How long have you been married?”

“Four years,” He lied, though he thought back to JJ’s wedding that same amount of time ago and how beautiful she looked in her dress and her cast and how he’d wished it was theirs.

“When is she due to give birth?” Cat’s eyes narrowed at the man, pushing her hair behind her ear in a playful manner.

Bugsy stopped, licking her lips and hoping Rossi wasn’t watching her as she finished off the last of her sparkling juice, raising a hand to a passing waiter to order a second round.

“You having another one, Grandpa?” She said innocently, despite the stink eye he gave her and nodding to the non-alcoholic beer he’d ordered.

“Watch yourself,” He said as the waiter retreated, and she snickered into her meal, “Grandpa will knock you on your ass,”

“You would never, Hotch would hate that kind of paperwork,” She said setting her cutlery on the side of her plate to signal she was done, “HR would have a field day,”

“I wanna hear you say it,” The line crackled in their ear as Bugsy’s drink arrived at the table, and she couldn’t help but think the woman’s seductive voice could easily pass for a call girl. She chanced a quick look over at their table, her heart rate spiking when she saw the woman all but eye fucking Spencer with a bit of her lip, like the thrill of the chase was half the fun for her, and Bugsy felt the disgust settle in her stomach.

“To have her killed,” Spence replied, and she looked away then, the bitterness settling on her bottom lip in a sneer. She didn’t think for one second that Spencer would think the woman was alluring, it didn’t make him flirting any easier to watch.

The UnSub smiled wryly, looking down at his arm, “Let me see your ring,”

Spencer froze, holding his hand out hesitantly, the feeling of the gold band entirely alien on his finger even though he was trying to get used to it for the sake of the case. Cat’s hand shot out like a snake striking, holding his ring in between her perfectly manicured fingers, her eyes roving over the jewel.

“You know what that is?” She said with contempt, shaking her head, “A noose, only it doesn't kill you all at once it kills you slowly, day by day,”

And he couldn’t have disagreed more, in fact the only thing that was killing him was the fact he had been dumb enough to wait so long to propose to the woman he loved more than life itself.

Spencer Reid, dumb and in love.

“You ever feel that way?” She said, ripping him out of his thoughts, and he nodded wordlessly, sighing for effect.

“I feel that way all the time” Except his every day was spent wondering just how he ever got so lucky, how he managed to fall in love with the same woman who gave him apple cake when he couldn’t remember the last real meal he’d had because he was three months deep in an opioid addiction and having her look at him like he hung the damn cosmos.

“Take it off,” She ordered, and Spencer tried flashing her a surprised if not charmed smile, though his hackles were slightly raised, “As a sign of your commitment. To me,”

He bit his cheek, knowing better than to argue back if he was playing the part of the down beaten husband, and began twisting the gold ring off his wedding finger, handing it over to her expectant palm.

“If she sticks to the pattern, she’ll take him to a secondary location and then kill him.” JJ observed, sipping on her mocktail in her own fancy, ruffled dress, shooting Tara and Derek a look where they played the part of a sweet couple on a date.

“I’d like to see the bitch try,” Bugsy said through a wide fake smile, her face showing no symptoms of anger except the flash of teeth.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, we’re not letting it get that far,” Rossi added, and the two of them clinked their drinks together in a ringing chink, “Hotch, do you two have a visual?”

Penelope confirmed with a few taps of her keyboard, and Hotch nodded as Spencer confirmed with a small flick of his eyes he could hear the feed, ”Alright, all agents stand by. Dr Reid will give the green light, don’t move until we have it,”

“Twenty four carats?” Cat asked, twisting the ring in between her fingers with a smug grin like she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Spencer replied, looking down at the band and back up the soulless dark hues of the black widow woman.

“Twenty four k times… four years. Means this ring should be dinged and nicked, but,” She huffed, reaching into her purse under the table, and Bugsy damn near spat out her juice when she heard a gun load through the mic, “This sucker is brand new. You’re not married.”

“What was that, was that what I think it was?” Penelope’s stressed tone rushed through the ear piece, and the sound of it plus the smell of the chicken she’d just eaten made Bugsy’s stomach turn again.

Except this time she felt it coming up into her throat, the same way she’d found herself feeling queasy for a few days. Spencer had thought she had a stomach bug, had tried to get her to stay home with some mint tea, but this was more than the last few times. It was like her anxiety clenched her gut in a tight grip and twisted painfully, and she lurched forward, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Kid?” Rossi said, his brows frowning at the expression on her face, and she immediately began untucking her napkin from her chest.

She needed to make it to the bathroom now, hoped on everything that the sudden movement didn’t distract where Cat held a gun to Spencer’s midriff beneath the table.

“What is she doing?” Morgan hissed into the mic, while Hotch and Penelope began barking protests.

“Oh, good lord, Bug, stay down, you don’t know what that psycho is going to do!” Penelope squealed, watching Bugsy rush out of the booth seat, a hand firmly over her lips, and Aaron brought a hand to his head, a splitting headache forming at the sight of the youngest agent rushing for the bathroom.

“Prentiss, what are you doing, you could blow your cover,” He snapped, though there was no anger there, and she could only switch her mic off for what was about to happen, knowing the team had much bigger things to worry about.

Bursting the doors open, she dived for the nearest stall and fell to her knees, head in the bowl before she could hock up her guts over the floor, and then came a horrid retching sound.

Spencer’s eyes widened at the table, hearing his team yelling out orders at the one person he couldn’t keep track of, and it took everything in him not to turn in his seat to investigate for himself what happened for her to flee the safety of the table, or go after her even. Because even if he wanted to, even if he needed nothing more than to make sure she was okay, he couldn’t move an inch. Not with the gun being pointed at all of his important organs by the experienced killer with a smile.

“Do you know why I’m so good at my job?” Cat asked in a sweet tone, her eyes cold and calculating as she cocked the gun beneath the seat.

“Because you kill without compunction or remorse,” Spencer bit, the flirty look in his expression long gone the second he’d heard the rest of his team calling for his girlfriend. He needed to keep his head, Bugsy was safe so long as she was far away from the woman pointing the gun at him. Having the weapon aiming for him he could deal with.

“That only gets a girl so far in life,” Cat agreed with a nod, her jaw setting in a hard clench, “No, it’s because I think through every possible outcome and then I plan accordingly,”

And Bugsy’s stomach seized hearing her voice so cold and viscous, and she would give anything to hear her partner flirting with that bitch of a woman if it meant she knew he was safe. She emptied her stomach again right as she heard their UnSub speak once more.

“You see, I didn’t walk into your trap. You walked into mine,”

And with that Bugsy gave another hurl.

–

“Spencer, why did you take time off from the FBI?” Cat insisted, her voice nails on a chalkboard, and he felt the apathy on his face flick into slight annoyance.

Bugsy. Because Bugsy had been ill, because she hadn’t been sleeping, because she hadn’t been herself for a few months, because his mom had gotten worse, because they needed him.

Spencer would take the bullet before he ever told her about Bugsy, because he knew for a woman who loved male attention, telling her about the girl he loved most in the world would only draw a big target on her back, and he would never dare to put her at risk. Never again.

Not a single hair on her head, he’d promised. Not even a scratch.

“You can ask me as many times as you want but I’m still not going to tell you,” He snipped, making sure to keep his face expressionless if he really wanted to sell the deal that she was a nobody to him.

Her mouth tightened in frustration, “Then you’re cheating, and I don’t like cheaters,”

“You don’t get everything you want just because you’re pointing a gun at me under the table.” He stated blankly, his team waiting on bated breath to see if they needed to send in their back up since JJ’s cover had already been blown. “You’re not the first killer to point a gun at me, you’re not even the first woman to point a gun at me. Sorry.”

Cat’s smile shifted into something akin to a snarl, and she leaned forward on her elbows, and Spencer matched her challenge with cool ease. “You’re really gonna take this all the way, aren’t you?”

And Spencer smiled wryly, because her composure was collapsing beneath her, “Yeah,”

“So am I,”

“Dave, go,” Hotch ordered, and Rossi drew his gun beneath a napkin, shuffling to his feet, “Prentiss, where the hell are you?”

And she knew she was wasting time, but her stomach had picked the worst time to flip. Perhaps it was the anxiety, or the pressure of a gun being pointed at her love, or maybe it was bad chicken. Either way her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her legs weak where she’d crouched on the floor, and she chided herself for not being able to pull it together when Spencer needed her.

And as if her nerves weren’t rattled enough, she heard Spencer’s mic mute out, and she knew then that the time for sticking her head in the bowl and screaming at herself to get up was over. Spencer was in trouble. Two of their agents' cover was blown. With Tara and Derek sitting the opposite end of the restaurant, he was alone if Cat Adams decided to pull that trigger.

Spitting the rancid taste from her mouth into the toilet, she reached up for the flush, wiping her mouth with a handful of toilet paper.

“Hotch,” She tuned in, and she heard the sighs of relief as he and Penelope seemed to both ease slightly at hearing her voice, “I’m back, how’s Rossi?”

“His cover’s blown, he’s heading out to find JJ,” Hotch responded, his heart rate in his throat the second he’d heard her sound through. He knew it would be unfair if he pulled her from field work for another three months, but the second she’d disappeared from their screens, he’d already began thinking of the excuse he could give if it meant he knew she was kept out of harm’s way, “Where are you, are you hurt?”

“No, no, just,” She cleared her throat, leaving the stall and heading for the sinks, “Bad chicken I guess,”

Taking a handful of cold water up to her mouth, she swilled the liquid around to try freshen herself up, sputtering it back into the sink and running the back of her hand over her lips.

“Do you need to get out of there?” Hotch asked, the concern thick in his tone, almost as clear as it was on his brow as he leaned in to Penelope’s monitor, “Lewis and Morgan have got eyes-”

“No, I’m not leaving him out there,” She protested, leaning over the sink with an exhausted huff, “I can’t head back to the table, she’ll know I was with Rossi,”

And as if she had spoken a plea to the universe, one of the waitresses waltzed through the bathroom door carrying glass cleaner and a bunch of fresh toilet paper under her arm, smiling sweetly at Bugsy who seemed like any other patron of their restaurant.

Her eyes snapped over the girl’s body, figuring she was about the same size, perhaps a tiny bit bigger than herself, she almost audibly heard the click of the idea and before she knew it she had reached out to grab the girl’s attention.

She just hoped it worked, because otherwise the scolding she was going to receive from Hotch wouldn’t be worth it in the slightest.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna penalise you by adding ten minutes because I actually did learn something important.” Cat said with a smirk, her finger flicking over the clock on his phone as she prolonged the countdown, and Spencer squirmed where she shuffled closer to him, close enough that their knees were touching and he could feel where the toe of her heels were teasingly stroking up his calf, like threatening him and his team for information was getting her off. He felt filthy, like he’d need a dozen showers before he fell into his girlfriend’s arms, and part of him considered skipping the whole dinner and speech, asking her the second he saw her again if she would be his wife.

Because this, having another woman so close, was making him sick.

“Oh really? What’s that?” He snapped, his patience wearing thin as his lips pressed in a straight line.

“Your back up, I flushed them out,” She replied with a smirk, looking around the room with an arrogance Spencer wished he could wipe right off of her face, “It’s just me and you now,”

“Hi, how are we all doing this wonderful evening?” A chirpy voice came from the end of the table, slamming two menus down between them hard enough that their attention snapped to her immediately. Spencer felt his eyes morph into horror, though he fought hard to hide it, as he saw a familiar face, the same one that had been running through his mind since, well, forever. Her red dress was gone, replaced with a maroon shirt and a black pencil skirt, her hair tied back in a neat bun and she had a pen pushed behind her ear for good measure as she smiled at them tightly.

Bugsy had really done it this time.

“My name is Emily and I’ll be your waitress. Can I get you started with some drinks?”

–

“Prentiss, what in god’s name have you done?” Hotch barked, as she waltzed behind the bar, ignoring the looks from the barman that clearly had never seen her working there before.

“I’m making sure Spencer has back up if she decides to get trigger happy,” She bit back, snagging a pitcher of water from the fridge and two crystalline glasses, placing them on an upturned tray.

“And what happens if she gets trigger happy towards the waitress that won’t leave them alone?” Morgan snipped, shooting her a look where their table faced the long, walnut coloured bar that wrapped around the back of the establishment.

“Well then, I guess we pray there’s a doctor in the house that isn't Spencer,” She huffed, plastering a fake smile on her lips, and carefully shuffling the tray onto her palm, “You’re going to have to take me out yourselves if you think I’m leaving him there alone,”

And they huffed, Hotch running a hand through his hair. Because they knew she wasn’t kidding. God help the man who tried to stop Bugsy when she had her mind to something.

And with that resounding silence, she listened to Spencer’s mic, hoping to catch a foot in to the conversation.

“You should have seen right through me the moment you walked in, but you didn’t,” He said, and she didn’t need to take a glance at Cat’s face to know she was getting more than riled up. Why was she here? What happened to staying with Rossi where it was safe? It was her first day back in the field, what was she doing? He didn’t think he’d ever been so angry, though he knew if he scratched the surface of the feeling he’d find it was fear. And unfortunately for the woman sat opposite him, he’d stopped pulling his punches because of it. “You couldn’t. Because you can’t get to the man you really want to hurt, so you need to hurt every man who reminds you of him,”

Cat’s face flashed with what he could have sworn was hurt, before her eyes steeled back over and she shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t hit straight home, “That’s kind of boiler plate psychology, isn’t it? I’m just another girl with daddy issues,”

“You’d be surprised how many killers do what they do because of their parents,” He snapped back, because he couldn’t dare take his eyes from their UnSub, no matter how desperately his gut told him to check on Bugsy. “If it’s so boilerplate, let's test that theory. How hard did you look for him?”

Her mouth screwed up in bitterness, “Very hard,”

“And how disappointed were you when you realised you will never find him?” Spencer drove the knife in deeper, watching Cat’s resolve fade under his hateful stare, “You needed some other outlet for your rage and for a while this worked, but it also tripped you up,”

And Bugsy stopped, because Spencer always had a way of saying the exact right thing that made her brain tick into genius, like everything about him made her the best version of herself even if he didn’t mean to. That was what tripped her up. Her father.

“Hotch, it’s her dad,” She murmured, flashing a couple of customers an easy smile as she took the plates off their table, because Cat would catch on way too fast if she seemed to be the only person not be doing a job, “That’s what she wants, that’s her endgame,”

And there was only a single second between them, before Hotch caught up to that wonderfully big brain of hers, “Serial killers with an endgame will do anything to get to them, even if it means taking themselves down with it,”

“Why would I make you sit here for thirty minutes?” Cat’s voice crawled down her ear piece as she burst through the kitchen doors, dumping the plates at the pot wash and looking to where JJ and Rossi were talking with the manager.

“Because you’re stalling,” Spencer said, though he didn’t have that usual tone that told her he was sure of himself, and she knew from the direction it was going that something was missing. They’d missed something, otherwise they’d have Cat in cuffs by now.

“Then you don’t know me at all,” She hissed back, and Bugsy shook her nerves out through her fingers, peeking at where they were sat through the thin glass pane on the door, “Do you think I would show up here without an escape plan. Or is that just what another girl with daddy issues would do? Maybe if you hadn’t fallen victim to your own gender bias, and yes all men have gender bias, even you Dr Reid, you would have recognized that your entire strategy was based on one faulty detail. Can you see it?”

Spencer paused, his frown shifting on his face, “You’re not here alone,”

“And my partner? Less paranoid than you think,” She said, and by the sounds of it the smirk was back on her face, and Bugsy fought the sneer twitching at her lips.

“You planted a bomb in the building,” Came Spencer's response, the grave realisation setting all three agents into motion. JJ’s head whirled to where their youngest stood by the door, her eyes widening at her partner’s words.

And for a second she wanted to beg Bugsy to take cover outside, to get out while she still could, because it had been a miracle the last time a building had exploded around her and she’d only broken a few bones. JJ didn’t think she could stand to grieve her for good, not the girl who had already gone through so much for them. All because they had missed it.

But she knew better, knew Bugsy would fight tooth and nail to stay if Spencer was still in the building. Knew that that argument would only be futile, a waste of time, because the Prentiss girl was not leaving.

“We’ll go check it out, you stay put,” JJ ordered, drawing her gun to her side as Rossi did the same and Bugsy nodded, “Don’t do anything stupid, don’t draw attention to yourself, Spencer knows what he’s doing,”

And Bugsy paused before she answered, choosing to give them a slow nod because she already had a good idea of what her next move would be, and it absolutely did not involve staying put.

Like hell she would stay put while he was there.

With that, JJ and Rossi turned on their heel to head for the stairs leading underneath the building, and Bugsy picked the tray back up, right as Lewis burst through the revolving doors, a serious look on her primped face.

“We need to evacuate,” Tara said, and Bugsy nodded, flicking a look behind her to where the rest of the kitchen seemed to be waiting on their order, because the second JJ had flashed the FBI badge, they had frozen.

“You get the customers out safely, I’m going to buy us some time,” Bugsy said, and Tara watched her slip through into the restaurant, the tray pressed against her stomach.

This was stupid. Stupider than she’d ever been, but her thoughts struggled to make sense whenever Spencer was in trouble. And it was like she saw the splash of his brains against the table, the same way she’d seen it in Lewis’s house all on the ceiling, like she could see now just what his organs would look like when Adams shot him however many time in the abdomen.

She couldn’t think like that. They would be okay, they would figure it out together, they always did. They always managed to put their heads together when they were in trouble.

Being in danger together seemed like a much better bet than having to watch the love of her life killed in the middle of this damn restaurant because she hadn’t done anything. She wanted to do everything with him for the rest of her sorry life, and if that meant sitting at the nozzle end of a pistol with him, then so be it.

She just hoped he would forgive her quickly.

“All we want to do is-” She heard Spencer begin, the other waiters filtering out of the kitchen with shaken looks on their faces, as they carefully slipped their patrons the bill that had already paid off, asking them to leave calmly and quietly.

“Minimise collateral damage, I get it, I’m not mad,” Cat snapped back, rolling her eyes, “It’ll give me the cover I need to slip out. I just need to know it’s clear, so do me a favour and tell your boss that nobody leaves until its safe for me to do so,”

Spencer chewed his tongue. He couldn’t let her leave, not when they had her so close, not when they were pursuing Penelope, not when they were so close to catching the woman responsible for so many kills.

Spencer hated losing, he hated knowing that she was about to get away because he had been too wrapped up in his overwhelming thoughts to figure out her plan, too busy fretting over the two women who meant the most to him to think ten steps ahead like he usually did.

He’d been sloppy, even though he knew he should cut himself some slack. His fiancee, girlfriend, had been tortured, his mother facing a different kind of terror in her mind altogether. He hadn’t been thinking about work, he’d been thinking of the house they were going to buy with the picket fence and the porch swing and the mortgage, and the damn ring-

“Well?” Cat’s goading voice ripped him out of his reverie, and he huffed in defeat, “Spencer?”

“You can leave,” He murmured, the agitation scratching at his skin because he was struggling to think of a final card to play. He was usually so good at games, usually won every single one of them. But his head couldn’t settle when Bugsy wasn’t near, when he couldn’t make sure she was safe.

Cat shuffled out of the side of the booth, her eyes flicking across the restaurant for her contact, and Spencer had barely opened his mouth in protest before he watched the UnSub walk straight into a waitress, a false smile slipping on her face as to not raise alarm.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was-” And yet his breath hitched when he spotted the hair he’d ran his fingers through just that morning yanked into a bun, the lips he could kiss for an entire lifetime curled in disdain, the body he worshipped refusing to move out of the way for the woman in a hurry.

And it seemed Cat only realised that the woman who had brought them water wasn’t a waitress at all, despite her plain face that had faded into the background, despite the fact Spencer hadn’t given her a second glance; Only when she heard a gun cocking behind the serving tray at her stomach did the fake smile drop from Cat Adams face.

Because she hadn’t flushed out Spencer’s back up. Not while Bugsy was still alive and breathing.

“Sit back down,” Bugsy growled, keeping her tone low but with enough bite that Cat’s eyes narrowed to hide the surprise.

“Well, well, seems I hadn’t planned for everything, I thought a pretty face like you would know better than to pull a gun on a woman with her finger on the big red button,” Cat said wryly, though Bugsy caught her eyeing up her chest as if to be checking for a bullet vest, “Move out the way, sweetheart. You don’t want this to get ugly,”

Spencer’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth, though he kept his breathing even. What was she doing?

He didn’t care that he had no more power over her than anyone else on the team, he wanted to drag her out of the room himself if it meant she would stop throwing herself in the way of danger.

“Unfortunately, sweetheart, that’s not happening.” Bugsy snapped back, her expression melting into something rogue, something teasing as she leaned towards Cat with a challenge in her eyes. “You’re going to sit back down, and I’m going to show you exactly why you should have accounted for a pretty face like me,”

“You’re stalling,” Cat snickered, trying to push past the waitress, who wasn’t a waitress at all but an FBI agent, only for her hand to shoot out and grab her wrist, tossing the tray on the table.

Spencer felt his heart lurch into his throat as he saw both of them pull their guns to waist height, a blink and you’d miss it kind of movement, and it was like he’d seen the game set and matched then and there.

Bugsy wasn’t backing down. And neither was Cat.

“I make it a habit of knowing what kind of women are going on dates with my boyfriend,” Bugsy’s hand tightened around her wrist, watching the surprise flicker in the woman’s eyes, and she scoffed, “What? You really thought all that flirting and nervous glances were real?”

And the woman said nothing, her ego clearly a little hurt, though Bugsy was just sticking to the profile, and the profile said she revelled in male attention.

“Cat got your tongue?” Bugsy snipped through a grin, even if her chest was pounding at the feeling of the gun pointing at her abdomen, “Well, lucky for you I have a present for you. On the condition you sit back down and play my game,”

“You think I’m going to fall for that shit?” Cat seethed. It was one thing to outsmart a man, that was fair game, that was easy pickings for a woman like her. But a woman, a woman who seemed to love playing with her food as much as she did. That was different, “What is it, a reduced sentence? The good TV in my two by four cell? You can keep dreaming, I don’t want your worthless promises,”

“I’d hardly call your daddy dearest worthless,” Bugsy mused, and she watched Cat’s expression falter, “A dead beat drunk maybe, but worthless? A little harsh considering you waited so long to meet him,”

Cat paused, eyes flicking over the woman’s face for any signs of a lie, “You have my father?”

And Bugsy smirked, “Do I look like I’m bluffing?” But her face was set in stone, and Cat hated to admit she seemed too confident to be lying, “Why don’t you make this a little easier for everyone and sit back down. I’m not done with you yet,”

The murderess scowled, her shoulders straightening as she ripped her wrist out of Bugsy’s grip and retreated back to the booth.

And it was only then that Bugsy looked at Spencer, his eyes wide in a horrid mix of terror and rage, and it was a sight she swore she never wanted directed at her again. But she couldn’t leave him, he had to understand that. Because if all the bets were off, if all the cards were dealt, she knew he would need to be dragged screaming from the building before he left her to deal with a hostile UnSub alone.

And Spencer knew that too, of course he knew that. Yet it didn’t diminish the sickening worry bubbling up in his chest as the women sat down at the table, and their game had a playing field.

“So, I take it this is the darling wife you wanted killed,” Cat sneered, and Spencer didn’t dare take his eyes off the woman with the gun, even if Bugsy did have one pointed right back at her, “I don’t blame you, I’d want to be rid of her too,”

And they both knew it was a dig, a stab in the interest of getting them both riled up. But it wouldn’t go far. Because despite the anger Spencer felt dwindling in his chest, he always worked better with her. Like a puzzle piece in the tangle of his mind had clicked into place, and suddenly they were a team again, and she seemed more like herself than she had in months, an ease about the way she leaned back in the plush seat despite the fact her finger was resting on the trigger.

“Have you ever played Cat’s cradle?” Bugsy asked her, knocking her knee against his as if she’d heard his thoughts. They were together in this. Together. Even if the building went up in flames and bullets and the plan went to shit. Just the two of them, the way they’d always been.

And he felt himself ease back too, something akin to security shifting over him. They always were safer together.

Cat’s eyebrows raised as Bugsy dodged her comment, “What, do you want to braid my hair like sixth graders, too? What about it?”

Bugsy shrugged, reaching over with her free hand to the glass of water she’d set down for the two of them, “The way I see it, Cat, you have got those little paws caught in yarn and are scrambling to get out of it,” She chuckled, taking a quick sip, “Now, if we were to let you go, you’d end up walking out of here scot free, and who knows, might even blow up the whole building anyway. But, if we help you out of this little tangle you’ve got us all in, then maybe we cut a deal that doesn’t involve all of us going out in a ball of flames and champagne. Sounds good right?”

The woman’s lips pursed tightly, her head tilting in annoyance, “Alright. Get on with it, no one likes a show off. How did you find my father?”

Bugsy smirked, “Well that was pretty easy once you have access to the files we have. We traced your birth record to a Daniel Adams, who did in fact leave the country in 1987 but returned in 2012. Based on confidential records in rehabs and sober living houses, which in turn pointed us to flophouses and soup kitchens.”

The brunette’s eye twitched, like the girl had just spat in her face, which was what it felt like, and she felt the taste of her own medicine was just as sour as she’d always presumed.

“He couldn’t put twenty four hours together sober, sweetheart,” Bugsy summarised, shrugging her shoulders as if it was no big deal to her, just another bum on the street, “You can probably imagine our surprise to find that he lives here in DC,”

“Where?” Cat hissed, and Bugsy snickered, shaking her head and taking another sip of her water.

“I’m an agent, not a miracle worker. It wasn’t that simple,” She replied, boredly tracing her finger over the restaurants emblem they had printed on the napkin, “I found him on the street, showed him your picture and said I’d like to ask him some questions about his darling daughter,”

Cat’s lip pulled down in annoyance, her matt red lipstick smudging with her pout, “And?”

And perhaps Bugsy was being cruel. Perhaps she was playing into the profile that indicated Cat needed someone to match her wit and zeal if she was going to listen. Men, she could squash like bugs. Bugsy, ironically, not so much.

Perhaps she was thinking about how she’d reached into Spencer's pants to retrieve his gun, and wanted some of what she was saying to hurt.

“He didn’t even know he had a daughter,” Bugsy said simply, with a small shrug of her shoulders, and she watched the woman’s onyx brown eyes glisten with unshed tears as the realisation crashed on her, "Didn't really seem to care,"

“He-he didn’t remember me?” Cat asked, the tease that had been there half an hour ago wiped clear from her tone, and Bugsy shook her head.

“Nope,” She said, popping the last syllable, “Alcoholism really rocks your brain. Sorry, honey,”

Adams scoffed, shaking her head with venom, “You’re not sorry. Sorry is what people say when they don’t understand,”

And Bugsy’s brows raised, a bitter empathy flicking in her gaze. Quick, but not so quick that Cat didn’t catch it, and she shuffled in her seat.

“Oh,” Their UnSub paused, the trodden down look on her face rekindling with interest, “But you understand, don’t you? What, does your father like a good beer or ten, princess?”

Bugsy snickered emptily, “Ofcourse I understand,” She said, leaning over the table to hold the woman’s glare, because like hell would she back down just because Cat was treading on home ground, “I haven’t spoken to my father in five years. He picked the hot wife and holidays to Aruba over his little girl and he thought a new pony or two would make up for all the times he forgot Christmas. I can’t even remember the last time he sent me a birthday card on time, and yeah he was a bit of a mean bastard once he'd had a whiskey,” She shook her head with contempt, and she felt Spencer knock his knee against hers gently, but she only watched the viper woman with careful eyes. And to her shock, Cat seemed like she understood her, like she had some kind of respect for her telling the truth. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m very good at making sure old guys like that get what’s coming to them. Or is that just what another girl with daddy issues would do?”

Cat’s face seemed to shrivel in frustration when she heard her words repeated back to her, “Is that really why you came here today? To help me?” And Bugsy tilted her head, knowing their UnSub was running out of time, that her window of opportunity was closing with the patrons of the restaurant getting antsy to leave. “Do you know how many men have told me they want to help me?”

Letting her expression smooth into empathy, she leaned forward, her tone dropping into a hushed murmur, “That may well be true, sweetheart, but from where I’m sitting, I’m not a man,”

And Cat paused, something like regret drifting over her face, before she spoke again, “Do you want to know how that worked out for them?”

And with that, JJ and Rossi watched the C4 charge’s switch to green, indicating their line was live and ready to blow.

“Hotch, she just armed the bomb,”

Bugsy’s expression dropped an inch, the sight of it making Cat’s lips curl into a cheshire smile.

“You’re not the only one with a loyal partner, honey,”

But the Prentiss woman was quick on her heels, watching Morgan and Tara rise from their place at another booth, heading towards a woman sitting at the bar on her phone, and she forced her lips together to stop herself from looking too smug to cause suspicion.

“It seems so,” Bugsy agreed with a nod, handing her gun off to Spencer beneath the table.

If he was confused, he didn’t show it, probably because he trusted that big brain of hers with everything in him, even if he was mad enough he could feel the annoyance oozing from his hot cheekbones. Yet to the rest of the restaurant, Cat Adams, included she hadn’t moved an inch.

“But, there is one thing I can guarantee about this partner of yours,” She said, leaning over to pour herself another glass of water casually.

Cat hummed in content, “Oh, right? What’s that?”

And Bugsy smirked, barely raising the glass to her lips as Morgan pounced on the Bomber, ripping the phone out of her hands and causing the patrons around her to yelp, “She’s sure as shit not as clever as me and my husband,”

Cat’s head whirlled around to see her partner’s face slamming into the hard wood of the bar, Tara yanking the cuffs from her belt, and she barely had time to flick back to the two agents facing her before a pitcher of ice cold water was thrown in her eyes, her thick mascara running down her cheeks and blurring her vision. Spencer dove over the table and grabbed her gun from her grasp as Bugsy ripped her out of the booth with rough hands.

She threw her to the ground in the few seconds she was disorientated, her hands tightening around her wrists as make shift cuffs, and she saw Spencer hurrying to grab the real things from his pockets.

“That was a cheap shot, you’re a cheater, you said you’d play fair,” Cat barked, her cheeks pressing against the rough carpet as the agents cuffed her, ignoring her protests and shoves.

“Honey, this is me playing fair,” Bugsy snapped with a cruel smirk, “You threatened my friends, you stuck your hand in my boyfriend’s pants, and pointed a gun at him. Believe me I could have done so much worse,”

And with that Cat Adams was hauled off the ground by the two of them, as they led her out to the police van waiting outside the restaurant.

–

The doors pulled open, empty, and Cat’s face dropped, because her only silver lining on the entire outcome had been that she’d be able to meet the dead beat dad that ran out on her.

That agent’s face had been so genuine as she’d said it. It had seemed so real, and yet…

“You lied to me,” She said as Bugsy set her down on the bench, Spencer pulling another set of handcuffs from his belt and the two of them looked up at her, her lashes lining with disappointment.

“If it helps, we really did try to look for him.” Spencer said, his tone blunt because she had a crazed look in her eye he didn’t like one bit the second she stared at his girlfriend.

And even though she was the one in chains, heading for prison for a twenty year sentence at the minimum, she laughed. Cackled.

“It doesn't matter anyway, I still won,” She said, that venomous gaze turning to Spencer because she had learned atleast two thing in the time she’d been sat with the two agents that ruined her life.

One. Spencer’s mother had Alzheimers, that he hadn’t been lying about. That she was sure was too real to be a story he’d pulled out his ass.

Two. The girl wasn’t phased by insults or bites or cruel words directed towards her. Yet when it was at Spencer…

“How do you figure that one?” Bugsy said, her brow furrowing as she shook her head at the woman.

“In ten years, Mommy dearest won’t remember anyone’s name,” Bugsy’s head shot up at that, her lips curling into a snarl, and she forced her fingertips into her palm to stop herself from throwing a slap at the woman’s face, “But I’ll remember yours,”

Bugsy daren’t react, no matter if her chest boiled in anger at the woman’s callous words. Spencer had to give that information up, give a small bit of his soft underbelly to get the woman to trust him enough not to shoot.

And she couldn’t exactly blame him when he rose to his feet, darting out of the van with a clenched jaw, because the day had been an entire shit show, and she knew by the growl of annoyance he let out that their was a big conversation looming over her head, one she could only see ending in a fight.

It was just the two of them in the van, Cat entirely bound to her seat, and her painted lips had pulled into a grin the second he’d stormed off, her sleek eyes snapping to Bugsy who looked ready to slit her throat.

“Oh, come on Princess, it was tit for tat,” Cat shrugged as if she didn’t seem destroyed, “You took my dad from me, I guess I had to do the same for that hubby of yours,”

Bugsy looked down at her, swallowing her rage with a purse of her lips, feeling her breath rattle with unfiltered animosity.

“You’d make a shit profiler, for what it’s worth. What you profiled about him was all off,” She snarled, stepping away from the woman and looking down at her as if she was shit on the bottom of her shoe, “At least he’s going to make a better father than the bum who would rather sleep on concrete than know you,”

And with that she slammed the doors closed behind her, darting off on Spencer’s heel.

+1. The one where she tells him.

She saw his stress lines, the way the day’s events had weighed heavy on him. He sat on the sofa, his shoes thrown by the door after a tense drive home, and she'd found a space on the coffee table in front of him.

He was quiet, he had never been quiet with her, not in the years since they’d kissed that first time in her room. He wasn’t one for the silent treatment, she knew that much. Yet he was just that. Silent.

“Are you mad at me?” She asked, her voice that of a child as her brows scrunched together in worry. She felt the words bubbling in her throat, the thing she’d needed to tell him for a week gnawing at her tongue, crawling it’s way out, only she worried that after what she had done, he might just be ten times more annoyed at her throwing herself in the line of danger.

He stayed quiet for a moment, and she thought this might turn into their first real fight in the two and bit years they’d been together. Her skin went cold at the words that loomed over them, and she knew by the way he sighed alone he was pissed.

“You can’t do that,” He said, his voice a restrained bite, and he shook his head for good measure, “You can’t put yourself in the way of danger again, I can’t do that again, not after Scratch.”

Her throat closed up with tears, and she glanced at him, her fingers itching to take his warm hands in her own, her body begging to preen into him, have him kiss her and tell her he wasn’t mad, that he still loved her, that everything was okay. But he wouldn’t. Not because he didn’t feel any of that, of course he still loved her, but the wet that lined his lashes told her all she needed to know. That seeing what Scratch had done to her had scared him enough that even the idea of her coming close to a hostile UnSub with a loaded gun, that straying from the plan that was designed to keep everyone safe, had tipped him into a grey area that had him both wanting to hold her close and never let her go whilst yelling at her in that broken cadence to show her just how hurt he was.

“I’m sorry, I just-” She choked, her eyes becoming watery and pathetic and she hated crying during arguments, not wanting to look weak but that was exactly how she felt. Weak. Like she had no backbone to lean on because she knew she shouldn’t have intervened, but the snake-like woman undressing her boyfriend with her eyes while cocking a weapon at him had pushed her over the edge.

“Oh, you’re sorry, that makes it much better,” Spencer shook his head, furrowing his brows and it was only when he leaned forward that the salty hot tears dribbled down his cheek. “You- you can’t just do that, Bugsy, you know that right?”

She nodded, the words building in her trachea like word vomit, like she wanted to scream the confession at him that she should have given him the second she’d found out. “I know, I’m sorry,” She said again, her words entirely warbled with guilt because she’d never seen him so distraught, and she thought back to the horror that had spread on his face when she’d sat down.

“You can’t do that to me, sweetheart, do you understand?” His tone had shifted, something a little softer and he grabbed her hands tightly when her shoulders hunched together, and she leaned forward to try to hide her cries in her lap, sitting silently like a scolded child, “What were you thinking? You just got back into the field today, you could have been hurt, you could have gotten someone else hurt-”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” She sniffled, her expression truly guilty, because everything he was saying was exactly true, she could have gotten him shot. “I didn’t think, I wasn’t thinking, I just was worried that…” She trailed off, her heart rate spiking when the words almost slipped from her tongue. She couldn’t tell him, not like this.

“What?” Spencer pressed, because he didn’t like the look of whatever had just passed over her face, and she shook her head in denial, “Bug, tell me,”

“No, I can’t,” Her breath clogged in her chest, coming out in a shaky rattle, and it was then that he leaned forward even more, trying to dip his head down to catch her eye, "Not like this,"

“Please tell me,” He begged, his eyes still stinging where another wave of tears threatened to burst at the seam when she shook her head again, her chin pressing down into her chest because he hated this. He hated arguing with her. “I’m sorry I yelled, I didn’t mean to, honey, I just got- worried.”

“I know,” She said quietly through another sniffle, rubbing her cheek on her shoulder to dry it, “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t think it through I just,” She took a deep breath, because she knew she needed to tell him, knew there was no more running from it.

He lifted a palm to her cheek, his thumb skirting under her eyelashes, and he forced himself together because he could never stand to see her cry, not when it was partially his fault, “What?”

“I just can’t do this without you,” She murmured, her heart in her throat, and it only made it difficult to swallow. She chanced a look at Spencer, his eyes wet and red and worried as she continued, “I can’t be the one to tell this kid their dad died because I didn’t do anything,”

“What..” He started, his brows immediately falling into a frown as he looked at her. She swore she could hear every single contraction of her heart muscles in her ears, the blood rushing through her veins making it sound like waves crashing on a shore right in her eardrum.

“It’s still fixable,” She jumped in, before he could say anything, like she needed to justify immediately what she’d said, or even just talk to fill the silence because she hated not knowing what he was thinking, “It’s only five weeks along, I still have time to… fix it-”

“Five weeks- you-you’re pregnant?” Spencer’s eyes were wide, with horror or shock she had no idea, nor did she want to find out judging by the way he had turned pale, reading between the lines, “W-What- fix it? Is that what you want to do?”

She stopped, because he seemed to be keeping a lid on his emotions, trying his hardest to sound calm and somehow that made it all the more worse. Because she would rather him get angry, or get frustrated and tell her this was too soon, or tell her there was no way he was ready to be a father, because at least then the pressure of it wasn’t on her back to decide for both of them.

But he would never, and she didn’t know why she’d ever second guessed him. He wasn’t yelling, or turning away, or leaving her the second things got tough, because it was Spencer. And Spencer would never. Spencer gave her the choice of what she wanted to do.

She stopped, her lungs suddenly feeling just that bit tighter, as she shrugged pitifully, and she thought this was perhaps not the most ideal way to tell someone you’re pregnant, “I-I don’t know, I think…” She stopped, because what did she think? She’d been so wrapped up in worrying about what Spencer would think, worrying about his mom and her nightmares and Cat God Damn Adams that she hadn’t even let herself entertain the thought of a little them.

But if she said she didn’t like the idea of a little boy with Spencer’s hair and glasses and smile, if she said she couldn’t see the photo album his mom had handed her full of pictures of their kids butt naked and watering the flower beds, she would be a liar.

“I think… it would take a lot of work, I mean it’s a baby for christ sakes, Bugsy, of course it’ll take work,” He nodded slowly as she chided herself, but she felt his hands tighten on hers, and the tiny gesture gave her the encouragement she needed. She took another breath, that boy with brown curls and her eyes in a jedi costume flashing through her head, “But.. I think having a mini you is everything I could have ever wished for,”

His lip quivered for a minute, and she worried she’d said the wrong thing. And then…

He smiled, wider than she’d ever seen him, like she could count every single one of his teeth, and she copied him despite the way a frog leapt into her throat, and she saw his eyes line with a fresh set of tears.

“Really, we’re really doing this?” Spencer asked, quietly, like someone could hear them, or perhaps he couldn’t believe himself even as he said it. He thought his chest was about to explode, thought his heart could never love someone so much as he loved her, thought it would never beat the same way again as it had before he’d been told he was going to have a baby with the woman he’d been in love with for nearly nine years. She nodded, her shy smile turning into something happy, maybe even excited as he pulled her in for an achingly sweet kiss, his hands cupping her cheeks as he kissed her lips over and over and over again, ignoring the salt that trapped in her skin, and he realised then he had started crying just as much as she had. Two wailing saps sitting in their living room, happier than they’d ever dreamed they were allowed to be. “I love you, I love you, I love you more than anything, I was so stupid, I’m so sorry I shouted-”

She chuckled, shaking her head, and drawing him back in for a long, silencing kiss, “I was stupid, very stupid.” Bugsy said, the weight lifting off her chest like a dumbbell had been moved, and she could breath again. Because Spencer kissed her like he wanted to merge their bodies into one, like he didn’t care for breath anymore as long as he had her lips on his, and she couldn’t help think if that was what he thought of her too, “No more being stupid from either of us. Kid’s got to have at least one smart parent,“

He smiled, enough joy in his eyes to make her think she was handing him the universe. And yet that was exactly how he felt. Like everything he dreamt of as a kid, when he was in his room wishing his dad had stayed because sometimes looking after his mom was tough on a twelve year old, or when he’d held Henry for the first time and thought maybe he wouldn’t be terrible at it by the time it was his turn.

He looked at Bugsy, the idea of their kid growing inside her, about the size of a petit pois pea at five weeks, and Spencer damn near felt like he’d won the lottery.

And all thoughts of Cat Adams were gone from both of their minds, the viper woman she wished she had gotten a good right hook to when she’d had the chance entirely unimportant now.

Because they were going to be a family, more so than they already were. And Bugsy felt as though she couldn’t love Spencer any more than she already did, but she could love his baby more than she’d ever thought possible.

taglists:

@littlemadamred @stainedpomegranatelips @mcntsee @release-your-sweets @smileykiddie08 @caramelised-onions @the-tpd-bau @stephthepeach @sunflowersndpeaches @sammy-4103 @starmansirius @yeonalie @delusionallooney @sadbae-33 @mdanon027 @swag13r @frickin-bats @bilesxbilinskixlahey @mindfullycriminal @mrsbellastyles @imagines--galore @bluejaysaysstuff @imaginexred @flow33didontsmoke @spicyspirit @mywellspringoflife @lovelyygirl8 @pleasantwitchgarden @rosylnsworld @jamieolivia27 @halcyonwithletters @waywardhunter95 @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist @theoraekenslover @niktwazny303 @alyeskathewave @yondiii @cultish-corner @lllucere @escapismurmom @stillhere197 @hiireadstuff @queermaxwooo @telengraph @ivyflowers13 @estrela-rogers @busy-buzzing

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #matthew gray gubler x reader #i love bugsy & spence #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #matthew grey gubler x reader

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lowkeyremi · 6 months ago

Text

"Dada fart!" Your daughter, Miu, who happens to be a three year old that thinks anything with farts or butts is funny, giggles while pinching her little nose with her index finger and thumb.

"Rintaro that smells atrocious! Go to the bathroom!!" Within a few seconds Mui parrrots, "Dada troshus!"

There's a cat-like grin gracing his sharp face. Leave it to him to be devious and handsome at the same time.

"What are you guys talking about? I don't smell anything." It physically pains you how childish he is. Both you and Mui smell that rancid smell, he can't seriously be saying he doesn't smell anything.

"Rintaro. Don't pretend like you don't smell that." It takes extreme patience for you not to curse right now. Mui doesn't need to be taught language like that, especially not while she's only lived three little years on this earth.

"Dada smell like a stunk!" You really do wish you could find this whole thing funny like Mui does, but it smells absolutely awful.

"You mean a skunk?" She nods rapidly.

Rintaro being ever the childish man he is, runs right past you and sprays something on your clothes.

Fart. Spray. He was pranking you, and now he just sprayed you with fucking fart spray.

"RINTARO YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SH- SHIITAKE." If you thought the smell was bad from afar it's even worse up close. You curse whoever has made that horrible stuff, hoping they get a first class ticket to hell.

"Mama fart!" Since Mui hadn't noticed the fart spray she just thinks you "farted" along with her father.

"No- I mean- Dada has a spray that smells like farts." A mischievous sparkle glistens in her eyes, just like it does when Rintaro has a bad idea.

"If little kids use it though, it might burn." You make up completely on the spot. Hey if it works it works.

"I no wanna get burnded." The way she pronounces burned is absolutely adorable.

"Sorry babe." Rintaro's right behind you. He's sincere but that crooked smile on his face pisses you off. Before he can even grasp what happens you snatch the spray from his hand and start spraying like crazy.

"HOLY SHIT- that ugh- DAMN THAT SMELLS LIKE A BAG OF ASS!" His eyes widen, as do yours, once he realizes what he just said in front of his daughter.

"Bag of ass????" Sweet little Mui repeats.

"That's a no no word, Honey." She too widens her eyes. Rintaro instantly groans knowing what that means.

"Dada give Mui three paper moneys for bad words." The man in question sighs as he pulls out his wallet.

#i have no idea where i was going with this lmaooo #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #rintaro suna #suna rintarou #suna x reader #suna rintaro x reader #rintaro suna x reader #suna rintaro haikyuu #suna rintarō #suna rintaro fluff #suna fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu suna

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iliketangerines · 5 months ago

Note

hii it's the anon whom requested the cat!hybrid reader from last time :p

since it was hybrid reader, maybe hybrid Shang Tsung as well? specifically, he's half snake now after a failed potion (or spell, whichever works) and he just breeds his gf reader? maybe also with a little bit of obsessed shang tsung bc I have some thoughts after reading that obsessed shang tsung fic..

take ur time with this, prolly ain't gonna be my last time requesting (and sorry if I'm requesting Shang Tsung a lot it's just that he's lacking fanfics 😞 I have some very inappropriate thoughts abt him that I need to share)

wrapped around him

a/n: writing this, i feel like my writing style has changed since i've come back

pairing: snake hybrid!shang tsung x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), pussy eating, breeding kink, not proofread

Shang Tsung observed the snake tail slithering behind him, a beautiful shade of yellow mottled with some darker parts, and he tilted his head at his newfound appendage

he had drank a botched potion, thinking that it would work, and he was in agonizing pain as he felt his bones rearrange and his flesh meld and stretch

but then the ache had finally faded away, and Shang Tsung could properly admire his newfound addition

it was beautiful, elegant, almost terrifying, and the sorcerer wondered what other changed to his body that the potion had made

he slithered over to the mirror nearby, which had taken an embarrassingly long time with how he had to retrain his muscles to slither rather than walk

but it was worth it as he looked at his body, looking at how his face had changed

his arms had remained unchanged, but on his face…two new slits were now on his face, one on each side of his face that extended from the edge of his mouth to the edge of his face

his eyes were no longer pupils but slitted, like a snakes, and Shang Tsung opened his mouth, finding his fangs much longer than he remembered

but, Shang Tsung opened his mouth even more, and well, his mouth horrifyingly opened even larger, almost like his jaw had come off its hinge

he could see in the periphery how longer fangs popped out from the top of his mouth and sprayed a clear liquid, and then Shang Tsung closed his mouth to a normal amount to observe his tongue

it was forked, but he found he could smell much more if he stuck his tongue out into the air

an odd change, but not an unwelcome one…yet

Shang Tsung crossed his arms, drumming his fingers against his arm as he thought of the cons and pros of the entire situation

he wouldn’t be able to go out in public like this and gather his materials, but he felt stronger, faster, energetic

he supposed he would have to go back to his old ways of finding his materials in the forest, but then again, working with Sindel meant having to appear in court

he would have to transform back soon: he was due for a meeting with the Empress sometime next month

slithering back to the potions table, he’s struck with the thought of you, somewhere upstairs sleeping on the bed or sitting at the table and reading

how would you take his new transformation?

and suddenly Shang Tsung felt nervous

he valued your opinion, one of the few that he did, and he was devoted to you as you were devoted to him

he supposed you would have to his transformed state at some point, and if you would accept his changed body, he was sure

struggling to slither up the stairs, Shang Tsung found you absent from the living room, and so he figured you were still laying in bed, perhaps reading an ancient scroll

he made his way to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, and there you were, sitting on the bed with a cup of something and a scroll he had found for you to translate

you look up at the door with a glare before you realize it’s Shang Tsung, a smile coming over your face as you ask him if he was done for the day

he blinks and not quite, before swinging the door open to show his predicament

your eyes widen in surprise before you start laughing, full on slamming your fist in the sheets and nearly spilling your drink in your other hand

Shang Tsung scowls at your amusement, but it was a bit amusing considering how he was supposed to be a talented sorcerer and still managed to muck up a potion

eventually, your laughs die down into giggle, and you finally step out of the bed, revealing the soft expanse of your legs

you walk over to him, peeking over his shoulder to observe the rest of his tail, and you touch his torso where the skin and the scales blend together, sending a shiver up Shang Tsung’s spine

your observations are slow and deliberate as you walk up and down the length of his tail to observe the length and the pattern and the color

after a while, you stand in front of Shang Tsung, and you tell him the look suits him

the sorcerer chuckles and says for you not to get used to it because he would have to change back soon enough to meet with the court

you pout at him playfully before shrugging your shoulders and crawling back into bed and beckoning him to lay underneath the warm sheets and sun with you

he obliges and curls up around you, his tail wrapping around the two of you as you translated the ancient scroll in your hand and sipped on your morning drink

he would be rid of his tail soon enough, so he might as well enjoy it

well, that’s what Shang Tsung thought except no matter how many times he brewed the potion, it bubbled and fell flat or bubbled over and caused a mess in the labs

even worse, he couldn’t focus on his work, the scent in the air pervading his sense and something raging building up inside of his body

it was hot and heady and something he had ignored for the better part of two weeks, but he really couldn’t manage this building feeling in his body

he slithered out of the lab and up the stairs, hissing in anger, something else that he couldn’t control about his body

he hated this feeling of the loss of control, where he couldn’t even control his damn body

Shang Tsung perks up as his tongue flicks out, tasting you in the air, and he moves as silently as he can toward the door and cracks it open

you’re not doing anything in particular, just catching up on some light reading for you, some books on translations and ancient languages

and yet, you look so enticing, the sun glinting off your hair and shining on all the right parts of your skin and god you smell so tasty right now on his tongue-

you look up from your book, seemingly able to sense his staring, and you close it, placing a bookmark in gently and placing it on the bedside table

he opens the door fully and makes his way over to you, tongue flicking out over and over again because he can’t get enough of your smell

you question if everything was okay, but he can’t seem to hear you over the buzzing in his head and how beautiful you look right now and how you would taste on his heightened senses

Shang Tsung leans down, breathing in your scent from your neck, and his tongue darts out to lick the soft skin

he moans, licking at the slight sheen of sweat you have on your skin, and you tangle your hand in his hair as you laugh and ask if he’s just feeling a little needy

the sorcerer pulls back, and you realize something’s a little off, his pupils are so wide right now and staring right at you and his grip on your shoulders are tightening

he collides his body into yours before you can even think, and he’s tearing off your clothes and ripping off his and his mouth is on yours, nearly devouring you whole

it consumes him, this sudden lust for you, and he needs you, needs to taste you, to fuck you and secure a future

never had he ever thought of something like this, perhaps he had wondered about having a family when young, but almost never again as an adult

right now, his entire body was obsessed with breeding you, seeing you round with his children and to secure his heirs and his future

he presses hurried kisses into your neck, panting like a wild animal, and he can’t stop moaning into your skin as he trails further and further down

it’s an addicting taste, but he wants a slice of your sweetest part

his tail has somehow found time to wrap around your waist, squeezing you tight, and his hands spread your thighs for him, showing off just how soaked you were for him

he can see your slick dripping onto the sheets and dives down, not wanting to waste another drop, tongue lapping furiously at your pussy

it buries in deep, prodding at the deepest parts of you, and you can’t help but let out a cry as he fucks you on his tongue, especially as it bumps against that one spot

Shang Tsung can hear your cries, your whimpers of pleasure, and by the gods, he wants more, needs to hear you crying out his name, that you belong to him

somehow, his hands spread your legs even further, and he shoves his face into your pussy, nose firmly grinding against your sensitive clit

it makes pleasure move up your spine and coil in your head, filling it with a haze, and you whine out his name, moving your hips on his face as you chase your release

you can feel it coming, with the way the pleasure builds higher and higher, and SHang Tsung knows too with the way your hips buck and legs twitch

he wants it too, and his fingers dig bruises into your soft skin as he doubles his efforts, barely breathing as he thrusts his tongue ever further into you

humming against your clit, Shang Tsung is looking for your release, and you let out a cry, pussy clenching down on his tongue and head thrown back as you cum on his face

Shang Tsung’s closes his eyes and moans at the taste of you flooding his tongue, and he laps at you, trying to get every single drop, determined to not let it go to waste

your hips are still grinding on his nose, and you hands are gripping onto the sheets desperately as you ride out the last vestiges of your orgasm

finally, you open your eyes and find Shang Tsung’s face hovering over you, staring at you with those slitted eyes of his and grinding his cock into your wet cunt

his cock, cocks?

Shang Tsung all but purrs as he leans in close to your ear and whispers in his smug voice that his body can now accommodate for two

and with that, he pushes in slowly, and you whine loudly, hands flying up from the sheets to grab onto his shoulders and dig your nails into his muscle

but he doesn’t seem to mind, watching how your chest rises and falls rapidly and how your face scrunches up in both pleasure and pain

his mouth presses against yours, catching every little sound you make for him, and one of his hands go down to rub at your clit

it helps you relax, and Shang Tsung pushes a little further, letting out a breathy groan into your mouth as he finally bottoms out

you’ve never felt so full, so fucked-out and stretched, but it’s pleasureable, the way the sting burns around the edges and mixes with the pleasure

you beg him, please, please move, you need him to fuck you

Shang Tsung gladly does so, moving his hips slowly at first and then quickening his pace until it’s the wet squelch of your pussy in the air

he has to breed you, needs it carnally, has to fuck his cum into you, and it’s all Shang Tsung can think about as his instincts kick in

it’s almost feral how he fucks into you, hand rubbing fast little circles onto your clit as he fucks you on his cocks, and you let out a cry as you cum, still sensitive from your previous one

but he doesn’t slow down, or mock you, or tease you, rather he just continues with his animalistic grunts, teeth gleaming in the sun’s beams and eyes so black you’re not sure if there’s even an iris

all too quickly, another orgasm rises up in you, and Shang Tsung pushes you over the edge over and over again, filling your senses with him and only him

the pleasure and pain stings together, and you start to cry, tears falling down your cheeks

Shang Tsung licks them up, smiling at how you’re crying, and it only spurs him on for his tail to raise up your waist so his cocks hits a different angle inside of you

it makes you see stars and moan out his name as you clench down on him and squirt, the liquid coating his torso and his skin and dripping down onto the sheets

but it’s what Shang Tsung needs as he finally groans deep and cums inside of you, thrusts sloppy and slowing as he fucks his seed into you

his hips never stop, only moving much slow than before as he watches for any singular spilled drop from your pussy

and then finally, he buries himself deep to keep you plugged with his seed, and he loosens his grip on your waist to wrap his entire tail around the two of you as he drifts off to sleep

he has a protective grip on you, head buried into your hair, and you can’t find yourself holding onto consciousness much longer either as you fall asleep as well

Shang Tsung finds the cure a few days later, and then a few months later in the forsaken island as he accrues his powers, he finds that you’re pregnant

he almost hopes that they’re half-snake

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delopsia · 7 months ago

Text

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.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #oneshot #afab reader #hanahaki disease #soulmate au #friends to lovers

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loveinhawkins · 2 years ago

Text

Part 1

The walk passes slowly, as if the length of the tracks has more than doubled since the last time he was here. It seems longer than a couple of years ago, when Steve had strolled alongside him, talking about Farrah Fawcett spray.

Dustin kind of feels like he’s following a breadcrumb trail that he can’t see—like his body already knows where to go before his mind does.

He finds that the junkyard isn’t all that different; the only discernible difference is that the bus they once took refuge in is no longer there. It means that there’s more empty space, his eyes darting around until he lands on Steve, who’s sat with his back pressed up against the wheel of a rusty, broken down car—clearly not bothering to take shelter from the rain.

The relief at the sight of Steve is short-lived; as he nears the car, Dustin starts to get a sinking feeling, like when he reads a detective story and the mystery is solved too soon—there’s too many pages left.

So he doesn’t rush over, moves slow and steady, one step at a time. And he starts to notice…

Steve is dressed in a threadbare T-shirt, and his sweatpants look old and worn, a few inches too short around the ankles. As Dustin gets within touching distance, he realises that Steve must be wearing what he’d gone to sleep in last night.

“Steve?” Dustin says hesitantly.

Steve doesn’t respond, but his eyebrows furrow in a vague way, as if he’s heard Dustin, albeit distantly. His hair is damp from the mist and rain, his sneakers mud-stained. He doesn’t have socks on.

Dustin wonders how long he’s been out here.

“Hey,” he tries, crouches down in front of him. Slow and steady, he repeats inside his head. Like he’d been with Eddie in the boathouse.

He’s never seen Steve like this, but he knows that people can get stuck in places, like El in the lab and Will in The Upside Down—stuck in their head long after they’d physically left.

Dustin doesn’t know where Steve is stuck, exactly. Just knows he needs to bring him back.

He clears his throat.

Steve’s eyes land on Dustin’s face—obliquely, but it’s enough to spur Dustin on.

“Remember the last time we were here?”

A pause. There’s a flicker of Steve in the slightest of wry smiles tugging at his mouth. “Your poor cat, dude.”

His voice is brittle, like each word is an effort.

Dustin smiles back. He thinks for a moment, then mimes swinging a bat, relieved when Steve’s eyes actually follow the movement.

“You were awesome.”

And it surprises him—not the sincerity, that’s a given, but the fact that he’s not said such a thing out loud for a while. Well, he reasons, at least not to Steve himself.

Pre-Vecna Eddie would roll his eyes any time the conversation circled back round to Dustin raving about Steve—but in the RV, as Steve swung them onto the open road, Eddie had turned to Dustin with the widest of grins. He furtively nodded towards Steve in the driver’s seat, then said with a breathless laugh, “You were right, man. Incredible.”

Steve makes a small sound that’s more of a gasp than a laugh. Shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m—” He swallows. “Don’t think I’m that guy anymore.”

What do you mean? Dustin thinks. I’m looking right at him.

But he doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t say it, because now he can see why each word Steve speaks seems to come at a cost. His chest is rising and falling erratically, his breathing quick and shallow.

And he’s shaking.

His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles turning white—like he’s focused so much on trying to keep still that it’s making him tremble anyway.

Slowly, slowly, Dustin moves the tiniest bit closer. His hand barely touches Steve’s before he draws back sharply, hitting his head against the body of the car.

“Sorry,” Dustin says quietly, raising his hands just a little, hopefully just enough for him to register as not being a threat.

He remembers Eddie in the boathouse again, when he’d sank down to the floor, the fight gone clean out of him—the danger of him hurting Steve having passed, but Dustin still being afraid that Eddie would accidentally cut himself with the glass bottle, his hands were shaking so much.

“No, I’m—” Steve sighs, tips his head up with a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s…” He looks at Dustin, finally meets his gaze properly. “I—I think.” Another sharp breath. “Dustin, I—I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“What? No, there’s—”

But Steve continues like he hasn’t even heard him. “No, no, there’s—like, something’s gone wrong, dude, really wrong. I-inside me. I’m fucked in the head.”

He grits his teeth.

And as Dustin scrambles for a response, Steve covers his face with his hands. His breathing shudders.

It takes a few seconds for Dustin to realise that Steve is crying—crying and trying to hide it, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes so fiercely that it must hurt, like he can somehow will away the tears.

“Steve,” Dustin says, and for a long moment feels completely useless. He’s never seen… he doesn’t know how the hell to approach this.

He’s used to Steve’s spiky brand of kindness, used to the eye rolls, the exasperated, “Dude, how many times, not on the inside,” when Dustin wipes his feet in his car, all the while insisting that he drive Dustin home whenever it rains.

But he doesn’t know what Steve needs from him.

Then Steve’s breathing starts to hitch, more than just the uneven rhythm of sobs; his hands fall away, and Dustin catches a flare of panic in his eyes.

It’s familiar. Makes him think of Will, how his eyes go wide sometimes, how Joyce will murmur, “Breathe with me, hon, it’ll pass. You’re okay.”

This time, when Dustin reaches for Steve’s hand, he doesn’t flinch. Instead Steve clings on, almost like it’s a reflex—like he’s at the edge of a cliff, and Dustin is pulling him back.

“Just breathe with me,” Dustin says. He over-exaggerates his breathing, takes Steve’s hand and places it over his chest so it can be felt.

“C-can’t,” Steve says.

This, at least, Dustin can work with.

“Okay, I know right now it feels like you can’t, but you totally can. Come on, would I lie to you?”

Steve shakes his head, manages a faint smile even as he wheezes—and Dustin is glad to know that even through Steve’s fear, their trust in one another remains a mutually understood thing.

“Look at my track record,” Dustin adds, “I’m always right.”

Steve catches his breath enough to chuckle, just for a split second. “Smart… ass.”

Dustin tsks. “Delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But what he means is I’m gonna sit with you for as long as you need.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, realises too late that he’d forgotten to check his watch when he’d started walking. He hopes Eddie is only mildly freaking out.

Steve moves his hand away, uses it to push back his hair, sticking to his forehead from a combination of rain and sweat. But it’s only when Dustin fails to suppress an involuntary shiver that Steve startles, snaps back into action. Wipes roughly at his face, then nods to himself as if to say Enough now.

“We should go.”

And he stands with only a little jerkiness, takes barely a second to lean against the car before he’s setting off. He looks behind his shoulder expectantly, and Dustin follows.

He doesn’t know how to feel. Relieved, maybe, that Steve feels secure enough to lead the way. Concerned—because the sudden return to ‘normality’ is happening too soon; he can feel it.

As they get off the railroad tracks, begin to approach the edge of the woods, Dustin hears Eddie before he sees him—the clatter and rustle of him repeatedly dropping the flashlight, his muffled curses.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice, has drifted back into silence, blinking down at the forest floor.

Eddie comes into view, and when he sees them, he just. Stops.

“You can’t keep track of time for shit,” he tells Dustin, and his voice shakes a bit in the middle.

Steve’s head raises at that. He blinks slowly. “Eddie?”

“The one and only,” Eddie says as he steps forward, comes to a halt right in front of Steve.

And Dustin doesn’t even take a crack at how incredibly uncool that reply was, because Eddie’s eyes are flickering across Steve’s face, his clothes, like he’s putting a few more puzzle pieces together, ones that Dustin can’t see.

Eddie’s hand lightly touches Steve’s shoulder, no doubt feeling that the thin T-shirt is practically soaked through by now.

“Oh, you’re freezing,” Eddie says softly. “C’mon.”

And Eddie leads the way back to the roadside. He doesn’t touch Steve again, but his hand hovers occasionally, like he can sense that Steve might need someone to lean on.

But Steve never does.

They don’t talk, not until they reach Eddie’s van. And Steve’s car.

“The… the keys,” Steve says. It sounds flat, but only in the sense that he might not have the energy to sound panicked, even when he is.

“Right here,” Eddie says quickly. He takes them out of his jeans pocket. “Safe and sound.”

He offers them, palm open. But Steve doesn’t move. Dustin sees his jaw work a few times.

Then Steve stretches out his hand—he doesn’t take the keys, just leaves it hanging in the air. He’s shaking again.

“Eddie, I don’t think I can-” He cuts himself off, exhales. Drops his hand back down to his side. “Don’t think I can drive.”

He’s talking out the side of his mouth. It almost sounds like he’s embarrassed over Dustin potentially hearing.

Like Dustin would ever think of him differently.

Dustin kind of wants to yell at him, kind of doesn’t. Wants to hug him.

Above all, wants to make Steve understand that he doesn’t ever have to drive people around again. It doesn’t matter, none of it does, because Dustin will love him regardless.

“Okay,” Eddie says. He gestures to Steve’s car. “You trust me with—?”

“Yeah,” Steve says before Eddie has finished speaking, as if he’s answering another question.

“Okay,” Eddie repeats. “How about… you two watch over my van? And I’ll drive the car to yours.”

“How’re you gonna get back here?” Dustin asks.

Eddie shrugs. “Walk?” Then he laughs slightly. “Nah, just kidding. I’ll hitch a ride.”

“Eddie,” Steve says warningly, and honestly Dustin gets it: the town might’ve largely cooled off, sure, but that doesn’t mean most people would tolerate giving Eddie a lift anywhere.

But Eddie just tuts, ushering them over to the van and flinging the door open. Steve seems to follow on automatic pilot, heads inside and sits with his back pressed against the interior, posture like it was in the junkyard. Rigid.

Eddie watches Steve’s movements, and Dustin catches him biting his lip. But he stops as soon as Steve looks his way, gives a gentle kind of smile.

“I’ll be fine, there and back,” Eddie says. “Honestly, Harrington, haven’t you heard? I’m very charming.”

And Eddie steps away, Steve’s keys in hand—but not before giving Dustin a look that he knows means that instead of watching over the van, his instructions are to watch over Steve.

#okay this’ll most likely be 3 parts now. um i think #steve and dustin #dustin henderson fic #steddie with dustin’s pov #steve harrington #dustin henderson #eddie and dustin #eddie munson #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #steve x eddie #henderfam

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theeoriginals · 11 months ago

Note

klaus or elijah (your choice) x former flame!reader 👀

all i want | elijah mikaelson

+ Ohhh I loved your cat and mouse one! Could you please make a calm housewife/mom of the friend group type of girl and Elijah falling for her in a kind of best friend to lovers situation? Idk I just think it would fit cause elijah’s very family oriented and I see him falling for a dear old time friend too? Idk so uhm yeah. Feel free to refuse ofc!

elijah mikaelson x vampire!reader (no y/n)

author's notes; combining these requests :) hope that's ok!!

warnings; vague references to past violence but nothing insane. exes to friends to lovers, just plotless fluff, with an extra side of fluff. yes elijah is extremely charming, yes he can't make eye contact with a pretty girl. duality of man.

It’s an unspoken thing, what lingers between them still. Unspoken in the sense that they don’t talk about it, but everyone else does.

It always shocks people to learn that the oldest vampires on Earth are ridiculous, catty gossips. Elijah doesn’t know why it’s such a surprise. Living as long as they all have, you’ve got to keep things interesting, otherwise immortality becomes mind-numbing. He supposes that it just doesn’t measure up to their reputation for being ruthless animals, which isn’t unfounded. It’s just not the only thing they could be classified as.

Ruthless monsters that defend each other to the death at the end of the day, no matter how many times they’ve stabbed each other in the backs, certainly. Childish gossips that like to start rumors and rewrite history when they get a little bored, definitely. The two identifiers can coexist, and very much do.

And this thing, this unspoken thing that is unspoken for a multitude of reasons but none more so than the simple fact that even as long as they’ve known each other it’s still fragile, and something could break it with ease, is only unspoken to Elijah.

His brothers and sisters, however, like to do nothing but talk about it.

“Well, she’s almost here,” Rebekah rolls her eyes, but it’s just for the fact that her older brother is going to be a lovesick idiot the entire time the girl is here, and it really takes away from Rebekah’s own quality time with her. “No wonder Elijah’s been bumbling around like a fool all day.”

Klaus chuckles, and the two of them dutifully ignore the glare their brother sends them. “Do you think she sent him a letter to announce her arrival? Elijah always loves things like that,”

Rebekah’s blue eyes light up. “Oh, yes! I wonder if she sprayed it with her perfume– us ladies used to do that with a suitor back in the day,” She fans a hand towards her face, closing her eyes at the small breeze it creates. “They don’t text or call, of course, it takes all of the personality out of it. And god knows Elijah’s all personality,”

Klaus laughs again, and the two finally glance across the room to where Elijah’s leaning against a wall, glaring at them with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I hate you both,” He says, earning another round of laughter from them. “And stop going through my things, Rebekah. Those letters are none of your business.”

The blonde girl pushes her lips out in a pout. “But I get so bored, Elijah. You can’t be mad at me for entertaining myself,”

“I fear he just hates fun, dear sister,” Klaus says, feigning a wistful tone. “He doesn’t approve of my methods of entertainment either.”

“That’s because your methods of entertainment always end in a bloodbath,” Elijah says accusingly, earning a shrug from the hybrid. “You’re both immature. A thousand years old, still acting like children.”

Their faces twist in offense in unison, and Elijah distantly thinks that even though they’re not even fully related, let alone the same age even in their vampiric years, they were twins put on this Earth to terrorize him and ensure that he never knew peace.

Before they can begin their outcries of dramatized offense, and Elijah can continue to lightheartedly mock them, a voice comes from the hall, echoing fondly.

“Must you two always tease your brother?” The smile is obvious in her voice as she walks into the room, and the three of them snap their gazes towards the woman in surprise. “He’s a delicate soul, you know. His poor heart can’t handle too many jokes,”

Elijah recovers quickly, rolling his eyes, though he can’t (and won’t) stop the smile from growing on his face as she meets Rebekah for a hug. “Oh, wonderful. That’s just what they need. Encouragement.”

She chuckles at his poorly-feigned exasperation, and the sound settles in his ears like a morning dove’s song. She releases Rebekah from the hug and leans down to where Klaus is stretched out in a chair with his feet kicked up on the table, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of the compound, she sighs wistfully. “I can’t believe this place looks the same as when you bought it,” She shakes her head in slight disbelief.

Klaus shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “When we first returned, there was some… cleaning up to do, but it’s maintained its shape wonderfully.”

If she catches onto his double entendre, she doesn’t say anything, just nods in understanding. That’s something Elijah has always liked about her– she lets things go unsaid. She’s always had the ability to connect with him and his siblings in a way that most others can’t, and even when Elijah is at his worst, she’s been that olive branch that he can grab onto to bring him back to himself. Always so understanding and level. It’s a wonder that she still associates with any of them, given their penchant for chaos.

Finally, she turns her attention onto him, and in its entirety he feels breathless. Even after decades of knowing one another, it’s never gotten easier to hide his ardor for her. He knows she can still read him as easily as she could thirty years ago, too.

“Elijah,” She says his name better than he’s ever heard it, with a tilt to her head and a fondness in her voice that makes him feel more alive than anything else he’s found in his centuries on this planet.

She crosses the room to where he’s at, because he froze in his spot as soon as he heard her voice, and wraps her arms around him like she’s never been more relieved to see him.

It’s another thing he’s always liked about her. She’s never stopped loving him. He knows that. Lives with it everyday.

Regrets a lot of things, too.

He says her name back as gently as he can, like she’ll break in his arms. He wonders if she thinks of all the times she has broken in his arms, and then he tells himself there’s no way she’s forgotten it, because he hasn’t. And that is something that is theirs and theirs alone.

She pulls away and he misses her touch the moment she goes because it feels rarer and rarer with each day that passes. Every time she leaves, he fears it’s the last time he’ll see her.

He doesn’t want to ruin her visit with these thoughts. Even though he knows she’d offer him endless comfort, he doesn’t want her to worry about him for a second.

She turns to face them, clapping her hands together with a smile. “Well, then. What’s first on the agenda?”

──────

Something that comes with living as long as Elijah has is learning that some things about yourself you’ll just never be able to change. Such things like being a vampire in itself, having a firm hand when it comes to doing business with people. He’s been told he’s somewhat of a snake, and he’s well aware of his silver tongued ways, and it’s something he knows he can’t change, and hasn’t ever wanted to.

One thing that has yet to fall under that category of acceptance is his jealousy.

In his defense, he’s never jealous when he thinks he should be. He’s never been jealous of his siblings, spare for a few embarrassing months spent around the doppelgängers, but Elijah has never had to envy someone for something they had because if he wanted it that bad, he could just take it.

But this. This he knows is jealousy, pure and unbridled, and nauseating, if he’s feeling that correctly.

This is the jealousy that he’s seen destroy entire regimes. This is the jealousy that has driven his family to madness at times.

And of course, she’s at the center of it all. Of course she is. There would be no other way he could feel this so strongly if she was not involved in it somehow.

She’s the source of a lot of jealousy, he knows. He’s jealous of the carefree relationships his siblings get to have with her because they don’t have to be burdened with the feelings of the past that are most definitely still there. They don’t have to worry if they looked at her lips for too long, or if they held her a little too gentle to be considered entirely friendly. They don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing, stepping past that line they so carefully drew in the sand for everyone’s sake.

These are the consequences of his actions, he knows. It doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, though. It might make it worse.

Watching his siblings drink freely as the band played on was nothing unfamiliar. Patrons had long since joined in on the fun, and he’s sure there’s a crowd outside looking in on the celebration of unknown origins.

At the center of it all, she is there, standing on a table with a crowd of adoring admirers surrounding her as she swayed and moved to the music. He would swear there’s a light shining on her, just for her, projecting her shadow above everyone like some sort of angel. He thinks she has every right to be worshiped.

And the reason he’s so maddeningly, bitingly jealous is because he is the reason that he’s not the one dancing with her. He can’t be the one to dance with her, and he can’t be the one that makes her laugh like she is because he’s the one that said they shouldn’t be together. He is the one who broke her heart, and he doesn’t deserve an ounce of the kindness she still shows.

So all he can do is sip his drink at the bar and watch as she pulls his sister, sweet, dangerous, devastatingly insecure Rebekah, up onto the table with her and shares her spotlight with her. Making his sister light up like she does with no one else. Earning another round of cheers from Klaus and Kol as they watch on, demanding another round of drinks for everyone in an odd show of generosity.

She brings out the best in his siblings. In him.

It makes him burn bright inside. Boiling, hot to the touch. He knows then and there that there’s a reason he’s seen something as trivial as jealousy take down the most powerful of men. Love is such a dangerous thing to get involved in in the first place, but finding someone, finding the woman who makes you feel like you could conquer the world is something else entirely. It bypasses dangerous and heads straight into fatal.

Because she makes you feel like you could conquer the whole world, but the second you lose her, it all means nothing. You’ll tear it all down if it means she won’t be there, too.

And the worst part of it all is the only reason he feels like this is because he is the one that ruined it. Blamed his family, blamed his parents, blamed everything else but his own fears for the reason they couldn’t be together. The distance, the timing. Whatever he could grasp, he pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to her on a silver platter, served with a distant coldness he’d long since perfect, and never wanted to use on her in the first place.

He had so much time under his belt, but he was such a child. So helpless it bordered on criminal, all because he fell in love and he didn’t know what to do with it.

It’s embarrassing more than anything else.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off of her since she started dancing. Hadn’t stopped listening since he heard her first laugh. Didn’t want to miss a single second, just in case.

For the first time all night, he blinked and turned his head away from her and threw the rest of his drink back like it was water.

He could allow himself a bit more wallowing. Just a bit.

──────

“Well, Rebekah’s safe in bed. I even got her in pajamas, believe it or not,” Her voice carries even in its whisper, and he looks up from his lap as she enters the small living space, hands clasped in front of her as she takes a seat in the chair beside him. “Original vampire or not, I doubt she’ll feel very good in the morning.”

Elijah hummed, thinking of his dear sister and how even if she’d healed a thousand times over, she’d still find a way to complain. He adored it.

“What about you?”

He raises a brow, lips twisting confusedly. “What about me?”

She gestures towards his slightly slumped form on the couch pointedly. He follows her direction, looking at his rumpled suit, and the white button up he’d undone the top four buttons off, at least. He feels momentarily embarrassed at his state of disarray but he simply huffs out a laugh, lifting his gaze to meet hers again.

“I’m a mess,” He shrugs, earning a quiet laugh out of her. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with our drinking tonight.”

“I can’t disagree, unfortunately,”

He hides the way his grin threatens to split his face behind his face, rubbing along his scruffy jawline as he looks at her. The longer he lingers, the more she avoids his gaze.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Elijah,” She intones, such a familiar adoration in her voice that it nearly makes him sick. He doesn’t deserve it. “You’ve been so quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”

“You,”

Her eyes widen in shock at his quick, candid answer, and he has to hide his own surprise at how quick the word had shot out of his mouth.

“Me? What about me?”

“Everything,” He sighs, shifting his long legs so he could turn towards her and give her his full attention. “I’ve missed you.”

“Oh,” She breathes out, looking slightly bashful. “Well, I always miss you. I wouldn’t ever leave if I didn’t–”

She stops herself, covering her mouth with her hand as a sheepish look crosses her face. He knows she wants him to move past her slip up, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“If you didn’t, what?” He leans forward, looking at her imploringly. “Why do you stay away so long?”

She takes a moment to collect herself, picking at the skin around her nails half-heartedly, like it’s not really bothering her, she just doesn’t want to be so open right now. He’d feel worse about pushing her if he didn’t feel like his heart was leaping out of his throat.

“Well, I didn’t think you wanted me around that much,” She says quietly, gesturing towards him.

He rears back like she’s slapped him.

“How could you ever think such a thing?” He whispers her name, a distant veil of horror laced in his tone. Fear, really.

“You said,” She says, face furrowing in confusion. “All those years ago– you said that there was no reason for me to stay here with you in New Orleans. So, I– I left. And I travel all the time until I come back here for as long as you’ll let me.”

Elijah feels something gripping his chest and it feels remarkably like his heart is breaking.

His voice breaks on her name and he leans forward again, reaching into her space to grab her hands in his. Allowing himself this piece of her that he simply doesn’t deserve.

“I never,” He stops, breathing out harshly. “I never wanted you to leave. I just–”

He stops again, squeezes her hands, and then steels himself because this is the least he owes her.

“You deserved more than to be stuck here with my family,” He starts slowly. “I never– I never wanted you to leave. Every time you walk out of those doors, I want to chase you down and make you stay. You have to believe me when I say that I only ever wanted you to be happy, and you wouldn’t have found that stuck here in the mess we had made back then.”

There’s a poignant silence that settles as she processes his words, and he holds the ragged breath that builds in his chest when she begins to drag her thumbs along the backs of his hands, smoothing at the skin there. Ever so gentle.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be here with you and your family,” She says, shaking her head like she’s scolding him, even though her tone is anything but. “Being here makes me happier than any place I’ve traveled to. And I’m– I’m truly grateful that you had my best interest in mind, Elijah, but you have to understand,”

She trails off and an incredulous laugh leaves her lips as she smiles at him. “I’ve loved you my entire life. And my heart used to break every day knowing that I’d only have a short time with you. When I turned, I was so– I was so happy because I suddenly had the rest of time to be with you. And you… you broke my heart, Elijah. You truly did,”

She presses her thumbs into his skin firmly, just a pressure point to punctuate her words. “But I have never stopped loving you. And every time I walked out of those doors and left you behind, my heart broke again. You wouldn’t have ever had to make me stay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Elijah’s breath stalls in his chest, and lets it out slowly, shakily. There’s a distant string of hope he lets himself pull on, just this once. Because she let him.

He meets her gaze and smiles softly, just for her. “Will you stay, then? I’m– I’m asking you, truly. Will you stay?”

She nods before he even finishes speaking and laughs quietly, the sound just for him. “Of course I will, Elijah. I’ll stay as long as you want me to,”

“Forever,”

“Forever, then. I’ll stay forever.”

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steviewashere · 5 months ago

Note

hmmm i think for a prompt i will sayyy steve/eddie for not actually unrequited with steve scared of defining their relationship bexause he doesn’t want to be rejected but their friendship is super affectionate and closer than his previous friendships <3

Okay, finally getting around to doing some of the prompts in my inbox. But I gotta admit, I may not have gone the way that this was supposed to. It's still good, but I'm unsure. Thank you for the prompt!! <3

Tags: Getting Together, Love Confessions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Yearning, Domestic, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Friends to Lovers, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Insecure Steve Harrington, First Kiss, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Hand Holding, Back of Hand Kisses (My Love)

💕—————💕 He brushes away a stray hair from Eddie’s face and wonders, not for the first time, when they got so close on the couch.

Steve knows that he’s doomed. There’s something in his relationship with Eddie that’s new, unspoken, treacherous. And he suspects that it started with the gentle touches. The way his fingers move over the frizz on Eddie’s curls and how he can map all the scars on their torsos. He’s aware of all the noises Eddie makes in his sleep and how their legs lock into each other under his comforter. He knows where Eddie is, based solely on the echoing steps his feet make. If they move soft, he’s in his socks, moving through the hallways to avoid waking Steve up.

There a lot of things he knows about Eddie, in fact.

Coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. All laundry dried, except for his jeans; and he’s allergic to the Tide, but not Gain. He brushes his teeth with Arm & Hammer, flosses twice a day, and uses spearmint mouthwash only at night. Every Tuesday between 7pm-9pm, he allots time in his schedule just for campaign planning; he needs to be reminded to eat dinner on those days, so Steve always makes something and sits with him until he’s done. Sometimes they hold each other’s hands, a reminder, Steve supposes. Eddie enjoys pepperoni and olives on his pizza, and will gladly take Steve’s olives. He takes his eggs scrambled with cheese, but colby jack, not the Kraft American slices. Bees are his mortal enemy and just one sting would upend him in the hospital. His skin burns easy in the summer, so he applies double the sunscreen, and Steve has done this all before. He has freckles on his back, over his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, on his face. Steve likes to try and count them, but loses track the moment Eddie giggles or smiles.

When he comes over to watch a movie, he always slouches on the right cushion and lets Steve wrap around his left side. He prefers sci-fi over action, but action over romance, but romance over sad dramas. His favorite animals are cats and will adamantly refuse to watch or listen to anything involving that said animal dying. If silences stretch for too long, Eddie taps his fingers over the shapes of his rings, though never slides them off his fingers. He tapes his rings because they’re too big to fit naturally—they were hand-me-downs from his grandpa on his mom’s side, a last gift given before he passed. His mom smelt like Love’s Baby Soft, so when he’s having a particularly bad day, he sprays his pillows with an old bottle he kept. (It’s almost empty and Steve already bought a new one for when it runs out, he just has to have the gall to give it to him.)

Eddie runs cold. Eddie wears three layers all the time—at least. Eddie speaks softly when it’s just the two of them. Eddie always looks at him. Eddie listens to him. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

That’s all Steve’s brain is.

And he knows that it’s too much for them to just be friends. But that’s all they are.

He doesn’t want that to be the case, but when he gets the chance to open his mouth and finally say something, it’s like the words die half-way out of his chest. Because Eddie’s like him, in some ways, trying to find the right person, not finding that person, going out and trying again. He hooks-up with girls on the weekdays and goes out to seedy bars on the weekends. His collarbones are sometimes riddled with hickeys; when Steve chances a glance at him, when he’s shirtless and getting ready to share the bed, before he gets in the pool, when he’s a little too warm, when he wants Steve to apply the sunscreen, when he wants fingers tracing the edges of his scars—when he wants to talk about something that went wrong with the girl.

Like tonight.

Eddie’s on his couch. Hair in his face. Shirt off.

He leans too far into Steve’s side, even if it means nothing. He laughs and places a palm on the center of Steve’s back. He shoves his cheek against the side of Steve’s face and whispers hot and harsh on his ear, wet and warm and soothing, all too close—and Steve can smell him. Musk and sweat and Love’s Baby Soft and citrus and Irish Spring and a little like marijuana. He laughs again and stumbles into Steve’s side and places his head on the nook of his shoulder. He calls Steve sweetheart and squeezes his hand.

He always does, though. All of this. He always is this. Too much and too affectionate and too sweet and too ‘Steve’s type.’

Steve can’t take his eyes off of Eddie. Wondering, not for the first time, when he’ll just say what he needs to.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Steve wants to say, “I think you’re kind. I think you’d look good underneath me on my bed. I think I like when you wear my clothes whenever you stay over. I think I’d make you breakfast forever if it meant you’d sit at my table. I think I love you, Eddie. Eddie, god, I think I love you.”

They’re just friends, though. Nothing less.

Nothing more.

And Steve’s afraid of the nuance of this friendship he has. Is it better to never say a thing? Or should he rip the bandaid off and eventually plaster it over his broken heart the moment Eddie rejects him?

Because, as is, all Eddie talks about is girls. Girls with tattoos. Girls with nerd interests. Girls with wild makeup. Girls.

And Steve, noticeably, is not a girl.

He’s none of what Eddie is seeking. Nothing of what he wants. What he desires.

“I don’t know,” Eddie sighs, “she just isn’t the one.”

Steve grunts. “That makes no sense,” he softly exclaims, elbowing Eddie. Washing in the hiss and smirk that Eddie gives him. He’d bathe in whatever Eddie handed to him, if only to have him here, like this, all the time. “It just…You say she’s perfect under you. You say she’s funny and sweet and beautiful. You say all these nice things about this girl, but she isn’t the one? None of that makes sense to me, Eds.”

Eddie’s gaze on him shifts then, something more distant and pained. His fingers splayed over Steve’s thighs, they flex and flatten and tickle. He twists his mouth. And swallows hard, enough to flex the muscles of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he murmurs. Then, he leans in further. Further, somehow, always further.

And something in Steve wilts. Because, “This isn’t fair.”

“What?” Eddie mutters, brows furrowing. “What’s not fair, Stevie?” He blinks and Steve’s immediately in a daze. His eyelashes are long and dark and creating soft shadow under his eyes. His cheeks are flushed with rosacea pink blush. And has an overwhelming amount of sweet, sugary softness in his stare—enough that Steve’s stomach stirs nauseously.

“This,” Steve whispers. He wrenches his hand away from where it, on an automatic shift, went to trace Eddie’s scars—especially the one closest to him, a wide and silvery one over his left ribs. The one that’s smooth under Steve’s touch.

Nervously, Eddie chuckles. His hand instinctively tightens over Steve’s leg. “Sweetheart, I don’t—“

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Steve exclaims, finally jumping apart. He stands shakily from his couch and faces where he sat, towering over Eddie’s stupidly big, soft eyes and his gentle scowl and the flush of his pale skin. His shadow draws his attention towards the highlights over Eddie, the light yellow on his irises and the glint of scars and that shiny silver of his decade old rings. “This thing you’re doing. The—The—Flirting!”

“Flirting?” Eddie innocently asks. He blinks again, owlishly this time.

“Yes, Eddie! Flirting! You do it all the time…You—You always call me sweetheart and you’re always touching me and…” But he takes in Eddie’s face again. How pretty he is. How stupidly endearing every aspect of him is. And he—

God, Steve can’t do this. He can’t ruin this.

“…Never mind,” he mutters, “don’t worry about it.” And he sits back down. A noticeable gap between them.

“Steve?”

He shakes his head. But otherwise remains silent.

“Steve,” Eddie calls again, softly. So small that it could’ve been lost inside the couch cushions. “Do you not like when I do those things?”

“I like them,” Steve can at least admit. “I don’t mind.”

But Eddie doesn’t touch him again. He looks away, Steve can sense it, even with his own eyes facing forward. His t-shirt is put back on, Steve can see every movement Eddie makes and knows exactly what part of his body he’s using and what exactly he’s doing.

And then they’re just silent.

Maybe he’s already ruined it. He always knew that everything would fall through the moment he admitted anything. The moment he made some sort of realization. And it’s not like the crush was unprecedented. It was slow. Small things, at first. Other things, when time gave way to them. He catalogued everything. And he knew, the moment he learned to touch Eddie where it mattered most—over his scalp and the scars and down the slope of his nose—he was already falling in love.

Of course he’s in love with one of his best friends.

He’s always in love with a best friend. Always somebody that becomes unattainable. First, it was Tommy and then Tommy started dating Carol. Then, it was Nancy and they were great, but then she wanted Jonathan. After, it was Robin and he’s fine with not having Robin in that way, thank god not in that way. He should’ve seen it coming when Eddie stuck around.

He should’ve known. Why didn’t he know?

But if he spoke, Eddie would find a reason to not love him back. That was the scary part. Tommy—he couldn’t see it. Nancy—she never loved him, not really. Robin—well, that one goes left unsaid. What would Eddie find? Would he realize how clingy Steve is? Would he become embarrassed by Steve’s romance movie type of love: drive-in dates and sweet kisses on the lips and slow embraces that lasted forever? Would he come to terms with having nothing in common, despite having everything to talk about as friends? Would he get bored? Would he just…fizzle out?

Steve can imagine it all. Becoming boring. Becoming uninteresting. Becoming unlovable.

Not being desirable.

That’s all he wants. To be desired the way he desires. All too much. All at once. Like flames engulfing the world. He wants and he wants and he wants.

But if he spoke, he’d have to continue wanting—though from an arm’s length. Because Eddie would leave, probably. Turn him down. Realize the truth about Steve Harrington.

The boy everybody wants, but nobody loves.

He’d still want Eddie, though, even if he realized.

“I didn’t know—“

“Eddie,” Steve murmurs, “you don’t have to…Don’t do this with me. Just ignore it. Please, Eds, just ignore it.”

Gentle fingers on the back of his hand. Pushing the skin upward, towards his knuckles. “And if I didn’t want to ignore it?” Eddie asks. So soft. So small.

Steve blinks, his eyes wet and his throat burning. “Don’t—“ He takes a shuttering breath as Eddie’s palm wraps around his whole hand. “Eddie, please,” he pleads, “don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”

Eddie’s hand flexes, squeezing. “Steve,” he murmurs, “look at me?”

Hesitantly, and oh so slowly, Steve makes his head move. He catches Eddie’s eyes, the first thing he always notices when they’re together, and melts. They’re like voids, pulling Steve in. A warm void, though. A hot bath. He raises their joined hands to his lips. They’re a little dry, soft and warm over Steve’s skin.

“I want to mean it,” Eddie quietly confesses.

“But,” Steve mutters, “but what about all those girls?”

“They’re not the one,” Eddie says, “they’re not you.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Eddie gazes at him now. The way love interests do in all the movies Steve’s ever loved. With a softness like that of cat backs, the ones Eddie likes. With warmth like that of Eddie’s dried laundry. With sweetness like that of Eddie’s morning coffee. His lips are pressed into the back of Steve’s hand again.

“They’re not you,” Eddie reiterates. “They aren’t sweet to me, they aren’t gentle or funny in those silent ways you are. And they aren’t handsome with your good hair. Or warm against me. I’m with them and all I can think about is coming back to you, talking to you, holding you, laying next to you. All I think about is you.”

Steve raises his free hand to the right side of Eddie’s face. Cups his cheek, runs his thumb over his cheekbone, tangles his fingers in the hair above his ear. “You’re all I think about, too,” Steve admits. “Even when I’m hanging out with you, I’m still thinking about you.” He smiles back at the received soft one Eddie has. His dimples have never looked this good. And his mouth is plenty kissable. His face is warm and pink under Steve’s hand.

So he leans in, slowly, enough for everything to be taken back. For him to wake up from this possible dream. And when there’s nothing left to do but lean forward that extra millimeter, Steve kisses him.

Eddie tastes like pepperonis and olives and spearmint. He’s focused completely, kissing back with enough force to make Steve nearly fall backwards. His lips move as if devouring. Steve hopes he tastes just as good.

“I love you,” Eddie confesses first. “I’ve loved you for…a fucking long time.”

Steve, the hopelessly hopeful romantic that he is, melts. “I love you, too,” he breathes.

“Boyfriends?” Eddie asks, smirking, but not teasing.

He nods. “Yeah, Eds. Wanna be your boyfriend.” Something more. God, they're something more.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #unrequited love #not actually unrequited #angst and hurt/comfort #getting together

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teaandspite · 28 days ago

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The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 3)

[Part 1] [Part 2]

This is the last of the list, at least at present. I'm not quite sure when I started saving these, but it's been somewhere around 6 years!

"I think we should thank this book for finding us a new source of renewable energy: Jane Austen's corpse spinning in its grave."

"DNF @ 30% and I'm embarrassed to have made it that far."

"was written solely because the author received a thesaurus for her birthday."

"This book was so horrible that my friends and I started a Terrible Book Club where we passed around a copy in which we wrote snarky comments in the margins."

"If I wanted to hear endlessly repetitive justifications of bad decisions, I would go reread my journals from 2003"

"I can’t believe I’m expected to care about these two people who have the collective personality of a chair"

'This is one of those books that makes me feel that, even though I had heterosexual parents and a heterosexual family and grew up in a heterosexual world, I will never understand heterosexuals.'

"isn't so much a cliche storm as it is a cliche monsoon, a tsunami of platitudes, a tornado of concepts that have been Done Before."

"someone PLEASE give [author] a bag of commas (or at least give them to his editor)"

"I am reading this For Science."

"This book could be the perfect door stop, but the cat sprayed it."

"This book is fine for people who enjoy chewing sawdust."

"[Title] was my first husband's favorite book, and he used to quote from it all the time. When we got divorced (it wasn't amicable), my lawyer asked how I'd feel about using that fact in court."

"If the main character were an instrument, she'd be a cowbell."

"There's a metaphor that has been beaten to death and will never bother anyone again."

"The characters [...] were flatter than frogs hit by all eighteen wheels of a semi. Even the dogs were underdeveloped."

"It's the OJ Simpson trial! But with an extraterrestrial! This will never get dated!"

"about as exciting as an uncooked Brussel sprout"

[Author is] "Someone you'd sit behind in a 100 level philosophy class and maybe secretly want to choke a little."

"I read this book while locked in a psych ward against my will. I would have rather stared at the wall for five days instead of reading this."

"[...] a metaphor so blunt I am surprised it did not injure me"

"It takes a certain and rare kind of writer to make a story about civil war, genocide, and a refugee crisis boring and unreadable."

"Use this book to stuff an old mattress."

"I cannot honestly say that [book] is the worst novel ever written, but I grant [author] the benefit of this doubt solely because I have not read every novel ever written. (In private, however, I maintain my suspicions.)"

"disintegrated in my hands, which felt like a blessing."

#the diss list #goodreads #book review #bargepole #literary criticism #tumblarians #roasting #library

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modernsuperhero · 7 months ago

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Btw ages ago I came up with a Scarian au where Scar is of course the mayor of a lovely city. He's quite wealthy too - before his venture into politics he designed the very successful Scarland theme park, which rejuvenated the city's economy and boosted his own pockets too. He's very active in the community and generally beloved by the people.

He is also secretly HotGuy, the city's vigilante superhero, using his wealth from Scarland and his connections as mayor to try to untangle the mess of corruption and organized crime throughout the city! And also like, saving cats from atop trees and things if he happens to come across those too. The city however has recently become host to a deathly parasite, the lethally beautiful Mother Spore. Because she's an independent villain, HotGuy has no way to anticipate her attacks and just has to drop everything when she starts to try to take over another city block or something.

However, HotGuy is not the only person running around the city with a mask and a dream! There's one character who's known just as much for his menace as for his heroism: Poultry Man! Poultry Man may not be a villain, but far be it from him to veer away from pranks or minor shoplifting. HotGuy has chased him down after catching him egging buildings or nicking treats he didn't pay for, but he's also shown up to help HotGuy pull survivors out of the water when there was a terrible bridge collapse, or help break up fights that start to get too violent.

And then, of course, there's the final masked figure in HotGuy's career: his sidekick, CuteGuy! He simply appeared one day, kitted out in military grade weapons and body armor spray-painted pink and white, complete with frills and bows and bullets, asking how he can help. HotGuy is skilled at combat and firing his bow, but CuteGuy is on another level. For some reason, he follows HotGuy's every command to a T, never taking the lead despite obviously having extensive experience. Despite his compliance, he refuses to discuss his past or identity.

Somehow, though, none of these three characters are ever in the same place. If Mother Spore is ravaging a street, Poultry Man doesn't make a peep, and CuteGuy never comes to HotGuy's aid. Poultry Man always gets away with his pilfered knickknacks before CuteGuy arrives, and so on and so forth. And you see, Scar is no fool. He knows all three's secret identities - or rather, identity.

[More under cut]

It is none other than one of Scar's long-time friends and neighbor: Grian.

Grian has known Scar since his dreams for Scarland were nothing more than doodles in his teenage sketchbook. He adores knitting, baking, and taking his cats (however unwillingly) on walks outside. Scar moved into the mayoral home when he was elected, but he still owns his old house right next door to Grian's. Grian is a cheery architect who proudly boasts about being Scar's friend.

And Scar has no doubt in his mind he is also secretly terrorizing the innocent people around him, and that he has both attempted to kill, protect, and annoy Scar as HotGuy on countless occasions.

...Okay, he doesn't know WHY Grian is doing that, or... how, but it HAS to be him! He swears all of their voices are the same, and even with the different masks on they all look exactly like him! And, he's never seen any two of them in one place! Scar is sure Grian's innocent civilian facade is nothing more than that.

It also explains some things: Mother Spore's flirtatious remarks whenever they fight, Poultry Man's annoying cackling when he leads Scar on another chase across town, and CuteGuy's insistence on keeping him alive and following him like a shadow.

Grian and Scar used to be close. But as Scar's life got more complicated, he had less and less time to spend with his friends.

As baffling as it is, Scar is certain that while he was gone Grian became a supervillain of epic proportions, and he's probably only just begun toying with HotGuy and the rest of the city for his own amusement.

...

The truth is Scar is completely wrong!

Grian, Mother Spore, Poultry Man, and CuteGuy are, legitimately, four different people (or entities, looking at Mother Spore) who have never met.

Or, well, that depends on your definition of "met". :)

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ellesthots · 4 months ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XVIII. “indebted”

parts: previous / next

plot: employed as the resident Gazette journalist, your first night at City Hall leaves you panicked and reeling from a last-minute confession from Bruce.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bribery, panic attack, mental institution

words: 3.3k

Mar had taken you to Nordstrom to peruse the sale rack for appropriate journalist attire. You'd settled on a black long-sleeve mini dress; you'd wanted to go midi, but she had insisted you be more risqué. "You don't have to hide your femininity to be professional." Now you were wearing it with matching pointed toe heels—with less heel than your old ones. The press lanyard dangled around your neck nearly obscured by hair that had taken you all evening to curl; the rain was hellish, weighing down your roots and frizzing out the lengths. Paparazzi waited and for a moment you stalled to wonder why they were here; that was until they started shouting "BRUCE WAYNE?!" and racing past you. You stopped in your tracks, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums. Fuck. He's here already. The hectic, giddy flashes blurred your vision and created floating black specks as you made your way up the stairway. It felt... weird being at the beginning of it all. Like a bad omen. You walked to the appetizers to see if Rai was working it, but it was some random catering company with bland, pompous snacks. Caviar, Oyster and a billion other things you couldn't name.

As much as you wanted to wipe him from your mind, it was impossible to not know when Bruce Wayne entered the building. Everyone inside gasped under their breath and turned like he was a shark in the water, like cat to mouse, predator to prey. It would have taken you too much brainpower—you wanted to spend precisely none on him—to figure out who was hunting who. You grabbed some champagne and tried not to bump into any of the frail, callous rich people. As you surveyed the room (making sure to glide your eyes right past him) you noticed a few upgrades; the foyer housed fresh paint, a new rug, and an ice sculpture. You squinted your eyes to no avail trying to figure out what it was supposed to resemble.

On your gaze's loop you locked eyes with the man of the hour. Your cheeks stung with angry, embarrassed heat and you spun to grab an oyster. Anything to look busy. Anything at all. Excited voices became a passing buzz in your ear as you hyperfocused on the food in your hand. Slimy.

"You may enter now." A man in black pants and a crisp linen shirt opened the door to something vaguely resembling a conference room that vaguely resembled a dystopian art gallery. It didn't quite fit right in your mind, which sent the visceral reminder of loneliness down your gut. You made your way quickly toward the room, foregoing thoughts of where he might or might not be. A mantra pinged between your ears: I will not talk to him. I will ignore him.

Oh how bitterly inferior you were to the actions of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Tower. Only now it was dancing with some... grapefruit? Mandarin? You held back a laugh at the thought of him shuddering whilst spraying cologne.

You were already laughing. He didn't want to see you here. When he walked in he thought it couldn't be you—you hated it here—but when you turned it was immediate. Panic lurched in his chest; you weren't supposed to be here. The word 'destruction' banged around his skull. The badge around your neck alluded to him not being able to avoid you for very long, so much to his chagrin he thought he'd brave the storm and break the ice. "Didn't expect to see you here." Dancing around it. Would you do the same?

You wanted to test his limits, see how he would react if you refused to be on your best behavior, so you resorted to fronting a rude persona. "I'd say the same but..." You gave him a once-over. The Dior stitched into his breast pocket nearly rolled your eyes to the back of their sockets, but you were in public, and he was Bruce Wayne—every room orbited around him. This wasn't the place to make a bad first impression, so you slapped a grin on your face that showed your teeth. "When it strikes midnight is your Dior gonna fall off? Fairy godmother on speed dial?" You lowered your voice a bit so no one would think twice about your conversation. You hid a wince; fuck. That first part had sounded weird. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, huffing out exasperation. You know. You know. You know. He thought about telling you he didn't like this, to reassure you he did not enjoy the facade, but: he didn't owe you anything and you owed nothing to him. Mutually assured destruction, he thought, even though it didn't help him in the slightest. He didn't need to reveal truths to you, you were more or less even.

"Nice to see you again." He sensed your nerves and tried to soothe them, (were they because you planned to make a surprise announcement this evening?) but it wasn't coming off well. He stared at you with a tight-lipped grin to meet your squinted stare. So the schtick applies to me, too. He turned around to head toward the strange conference room and you stopped yourself from trying to 'trip' again, only holding back so Dr. Vry didn't steal the badge and send you home with no income. He scooted a few people over and took a seat at the front of the huge table. A few of the paparazzi tried to sneak inside but the man in the linen reached for something on his belt and they took off outside. Does this dude have a gun? Is this because of Prince Bruce?

"Welcome everyone." A man with spectacles and a gray suit stood to the direct left of Bruce, and he clapped his hands at the end of everything he said. It might have been frustrating if Bruce wasn't dominating that bandwidth. "Tonight marks the first City Hall meeting of 2024 after our summer interlude." He leaned in while saying it which got some chuckles from the other rich people. You took a quick note. First meeting since summer break.

"And this year we have a new member of the City Hall Board! Mr. Wayne, would you?" The man bowed to Bruce and he rose from his seat with a quick, polite wave. You shook your head and got your pen ready, knowing Dr. Vry would be salivating over whatever he was about to say now and later. You were able to get a good look at him from this perspective; his hair was maybe a bit lighter, much like at graduation, though his suit had become more tailored since then. "Good evening everyone, it's a pleasure to be here in this new capacity. I look a bit less green." He mimed looking down at his suit, and everyone started howling with laughter. Holy shit. You thought about passing out in a puddle of your own vomit. Is he the same human being? He continued, nodding off the rest of the laughs. "I look forward to meeting all of you and getting to know you better as time goes on. I'm excited to collaborate and invest in Gotham City. Thank you."

Everyone clapped like he'd just won an Oscar. He studiosly notated while the other members took turns introducing themselves. You scribbled down as many names and positions as possible with a plan to commit them to memory before next week's meeting. Someone named Fox, a woman named Laurie, a man named Larry...

At the end of the brutally long introduction the man nearest to Bruce, the head honcho, introduced himself. Miguel Convoy - interim mayor. Interim mayor? Mr. Convoy heaved a deep sigh (too deep) and performed condolences for Bella Reál's recent admission to Arkham Asylum. "Miss Reál, as you are well aware, began showing some symptoms of serious mental decline mid-July. The new mayor's elections are coming up this November, and on such short notice we only have a few candidates announced to be running. These include Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange, and Lincoln March. In the following weeks they will make appearances at these meetings, so make sure to give them a warm welcome."

Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange. Lincoln March. - mayoral election, November.

The rest of the meeting was wholly uneventful, with a bunch of meaningless small talk among the bourgeoisie. You made sure to write down everything, however, as Bruce was writing a novel of notes in a small journal. I can't know less than him. He'd never let me hear the end of it. When the meeting adjourned and people began filing out, you set a reminder on your phone to research the candidates for interview prep.

You waited for Bruce to walk past to catch a glimpse of what he'd written, but when he passed... christ. Your teeth ground against your heavy steps as you rushed to reach him. Heat flushed your cheeks and you grabbed his forearm to get his attention. He snapped around and restrained a startle response when he noticed it was you. "So you didn't write anything?" You couldn't stop the gall soaking your tone. "Just scribbles?" Maybe being rude to him wasn't a front, maybe it came naturally with how insufferable the man was.

He hid a laugh—well, he thought he did, but it must have appeared somewhere because you reacted to it immediately. You wrestled with what to say next bogged down by already saying too much. In the meantime he blinked at you, his stare unwavering from your shifting eyes. You had a conviction he'd done that—only written scribbles and wavy lines—to fuck with you, but with little evidence besides a hunch you decided to let it go. If he wanted to get some little jabs in, fine. You did know life-ruining information about him, after all.

He was disappointed you didn't follow the glint in your eye. During the meeting he'd anticipated a showdown, maybe even you snatching his notebook and ripping out a few pages. In his defense he had taken some notes, but quickly devolved to scribbling when he'd caught you glancing in his periphery. He thought it might get under your skin a little, just like you did with your eyes plastered to him. He always felt like your eyes were glued to him, even when you were thousands of miles away; it was a permanent side-effect of being found out. Was it so wrong to want you to share his dread?

"Have you heard of any of these candidates?" You were thumbing through your notes, which looked...impeccable to Bruce. He shook his head. "Too short notice."

"I'm sure you're soo busy." You flipped the spiral shut and held it at your side. He flashed back to when his notebook fell in front of Alfred, his face slipping, and your brows knit together. "It's not just a jab, c'mon." You paused as he looked just behind your shoulder, eyes beginning to glaze. Huh. Weird. You cleared your throat. "With all your, Dior stuff?" God, it took so much effort to act like his activities were of any importance to greater society. It didn't help that you'd had to avoid dozens of behind the scenes clips and photos from his latest shoot on every corner of the internet the past week. Still, your heart felt a bit bruised at the prospect of hurting his feelings for some damn reason. "Hello? Bruce?"

That startled him back. He'd forgotten you used his first name after the nearly three-month reprieve. "They were only announced this afternoon."

You stood there, your skin withering from the dryness of his conversation. Men. The very second your shoulders shifted to move toward the exit he vocalized. "What made you come back here?"

You stared blankly at him. You were a bit offended at how blunt he was being, and decided to be blunt back. "Money."

He was confused. "I thought—" he stopped himself, but you weren't letting him off. "What?"

"Nothing."

You stepped toward him. "It's something."

He wanted to step back, but refused the urge. "It doesn't matter."

"Then why aren't you telling me?"

How obvious was it that he had paid for your mom's medical bills? You saw him thinking and jumped on it. "What? Why do you think I don't need money?"

God, it was maddening not knowing how much you knew; where was the line between speculation and trying to catch him in a lie? You flustered him. "I don't think about money." Ooh, that was not the way to go. You wore your feelings on your sleeve, and his chest cinched when he noticed you scowl.

You refused to let up, feeling your limbs light up with tingles. "What were you going to say?"

He felt scolded, but you weren't scolding; Alfred scolded, sometimes, in an attempt to fulfill a parental role. The problem was he did have things he was going to say and you were picking up on it. The problem was that no one ever called him out in broad daylight. You didn't appease. He winced. "I thought paying your parent's debt would—”

"I knew it!" Bitterness and appreciation dueled in your chest. Your heart raced as the reality of it set in and Mar entered your mind with bright, pulsing letters: S T A L K E R. "How did you, what," He didn't know your family, he didn't know your last name, even. You felt naked.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mr. Convoy (what a rich name) stole Bruce's attention. The edges of your vision swirled and you stepped back to abate the wooziness. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. It was only a handful of seconds before Bruce apologized and asked to excuse himself, which you barely heard over the ringing in your ears. He shot a quick look at you before walking down the hallway towards the restroom. Begrudgingly you followed him this time, feeling forcibly tied to his ankles, and the second he was out of earshot he turned toward you, eyes darting across your face. "You left your phone in Alfred's study. It was open. I only looked at what I needed to." His hands were gripped tightly together, the folds of his fingers beginning to turn white.

You paused so long he nearly spoke again, but you shoved shaky, frustrated words from behind your teeth. "But you didn't need to." You felt shockingly affected; you'd suspected it was Bruce, but had apparently successfully deluded yourself into believing it was God himself, or an accident, or Alfred had accidentally seen some texts and it captured his old, kind heart. Bruce wasn't kind, meaning this wasn't kind. Your fingers went cold and the tips began to tingle—fuck, you felt like you owed him something again, him saying it reopening the guilt you'd tried desperately to disappear.

Bruce felt trapped. Your eyes had glazed over a minute ago; he felt like you were miles away. You were right. He didn't need to. "I thought it would help." He scrambled for anything else to say but came up short. You leaving to Pluto was exceptionally distressing and rendered him nearly incapacitated.

"I didn't ask for any favors,"

"I'm sorry." He stood there feeling foolish. Naked. Uniquely stuck.

A thought sunk down to your gut and nestled into the feeling of guilt. "Was it a bribe?"

His eyes flashed and he shook his head vigorously. "No." He saw you glance over your shoulder towards the paparazzi trying to lean inside for a photo and moved his back to them. You shifted uncomfortably. This vulnerability felt exploitive; you felt small. Standing by the Burj Khalifa made you feel deeply insignificant. That fear came back again, tenfold. He noticed the shift, and he hated it. You were lost in your own head, spiraling again about how alone you were in the world, how much more alone you were going to be so soon, especially if she got the placebo, what Walter would do once she left, what you would do once Walter left, if you'd ever see them again, if this was the only shot you got, and if so, what the hell were you doing here in a city that hated you, in a city you hated; your life was being wasted with so little of hers left, there wasn't enough time, they could get in a car crash this minute, last minute, your phone could ring any moment, Bruce could be planning your demise—

You only noticed you were having a panic attack when Bruce gently grabbed your wrist. You only realized you'd been shaking when you felt his steadiness. You stared at his hand for a brief, still moment before ripping it away. You sniffed back a tear threatening to burst containment and turned wide, only making it a step before your shoulder slammed into a man's walking to the restroom. The collision caused the tear to slide down your cheek and you collapsed to your knees. A high-pitched sob slipped out and you bolted to the bathroom, into a stall, and pushed your back against the metal door right as the weeping started.

The man glared at the WOMEN'S bathroom sign as if he was thinking about following you. He intercepted. "How are you? I'm Bruce Wayne." Another plastered smile and Ken handshake. The man's eyes lit up and he rushed to take Bruce's hand, shaking it about ten times before Bruce slipped his hand back into his pant pocket. He pretended to laugh at the man's jokes, made small talk about the upcoming election, the usual suspects. Bruce knew what waiting might be twisted as, but the man's initial step toward you left him on edge. A few people stared at him as they exited, then leaned in to whisper something to their partners. He rubbed his head and mentioned a small headache coming on, saying he needed to be on his way. He leaned his head back against the rough white wall and shut his eyes after the man finished lingering, crossing his hands around his chest with a leg up for balance. Your reaction had been an oversight. Maybe you were right, again. What's the value of a dollar?

You popped out of the bathroom quicker than he'd anticipated and he startled when you flung the door wide. A small wash of humor at having unsettled him rapidly devolved to sourness. He'd been leafing through various solutions to your bribery claim, but everything felt hollow like the slick tear troughs under your eyes. He grasped for anything to ease the tension, for once even if it wasn't fully thought through. "Let me at least give you a ride."

You stared at him with your nose huffed up. Unshed tears pleaded to be freed. This dress was a silk blend, and you could hear just how heavy the rain was. You nodded curtly, afraid to say no, but thanking yourself for remembering to move your taser to your clutch. You'd get him to drop you off at a fake location, throwing him off your scent for where you actually lived. He nodded back. "I'll meet you around back."

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ticklishshenanigansau · 1 month ago

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Happy Tickletober! This year, Mod Secret has been working hard to write a comprehensive story using our list of prompts and we used a wheel to randomly assign the three of us which prompts to draw accompanying chapter art. We hope you enjoy! =3

LaughterLand - Chapter 1: Hypnosis

(story by Mod Secret, art by Mod Yosh)

"Tra la la, beware the man who speaks in hands," the River Person quietly muttered to the two skeletons from beneath their robes.

"The man who speaks in hands?" the taller skeleton began to fret. "Why is there a need to be wary? Does he not use his hands for just purposes?"

Sans sighed heavily, facing his brother with his head still cradled in his right hand leaning off the side of the riverboat.

"Bro, they’re talking about our Dad … and unfortunately there's no way to ‘beware’ of him, ‘cuz that's where we're going." He rolled his eyes before gazing back into the water.

"Oh!" Papyrus laughed. "There's no need for us to ‘beware’ of him anyways, friend." He enthusiastically tapped the River Person's shoulder with his gloved hand, making the boat driver slightly jump. "He merely wants to see us for the further pursuit of scientific discovery!"

"More like he wants to use his only family as semi-living guinea pigs." Sans couldn't help but scoff. He was getting rather tired of his practically estranged father only calling upon him and his younger brother for this kind of thing.

"Aw, cheer up Sans," Papyrus sat down next to him on the river boat, optimistic smile still beaming. "I'm sure it's not going to be as bad as the last time when he—"

"Practically switched my insides with a Snowdrake?" Sans abruptly cut him off. "Or the time he made you think you were a fish-monster who could actually breathe water? Or the time he tried to spray down our bones with a ‘heat resistance gel’? I'm just saying it's a good thing we booked it BEFORE he got out the flame thrower!"

"Alright, alright. I understand." Papyrus gently held up his hands to calm his brother down. "So his ideas of ‘quality-time’ are a little … unconventional … at best?" Papyrus's tone of voice made Sans start to question whether he was trying to convince him or himself. Papyrus shook his head decisively. "But at least he still wants to see us, and we do excellent work in helping him to better Monster-Kind."

Sans sighed deeply, pinching the space above his nasal cavity. "Pap, the only reason G wants to see us, is because he practically blew up half of his lab assistants, and the other half were smart enough to bail before he did the same to them … or worse. And it's not like we can say no, because he'll pull the whole ‘After everything I've done for you’ crap." He did his best imitation of his creator. "‘After feeding you, clothing you, and giving you the gift of life itself’." Papyrus couldn't help but snicker at Sans' nearly perfect recreation of Gaster's tone and movements.

"Call me crazy Pap, but somehow I always feel way worse coming out of the old man's place than I do going in. So this isn't exactly how I wanna spend a perfectly good Saturday when there's a bottle of ketchup back home with my name on it."

Papyrus shrugged, still trying to remain in good spirits. "You never know Sans, this time could be fun."

Sans rolled his eyes yet again, head shaking dismissively. "Yeah … we'll see."

"Welcome to Hotland," the River Person quietly spoke up after pulling their strange-looking riverboat up to the shallow port. Papyrus excitedly hopped off, and Sans begrudgingly lumbered onto the sand before flipping the River Person a coin.

"Thanks," Sans muttered, although his inside voice finished off with, "...for nothing."

"Come again sometime. Tra la la." The River Person's boat grew cat legs and scampered off down the river in the direction of Waterfall, leaving Sans truly wishing that he had stayed on the boat.

The skeletons made their way down the route they were all too familiar with, down the path towards the huge metal laboratory in the distance. Sans couldn't help but air out his collar, sweat already starting to trickle down his neck.

"It's like this place just keeps getting hotter," he sighed.

"Well it is Hotland, Brother," Papyrus replied, his grin never faltering. "Why do you wear such a heavy sweater anyways?"

"I … just feel more protected," Sans answered honestly, though saying it out loud made him feel a bit more self-conscious.

"Protected?" Papyrus repeated, seemingly surprised by the answer. "But you have me for protection, Brother! I can protect you far more than that smelly old thing!"

Sans chuckled, Papyrus's confidence really was endearing. "I appreciate it, Bro," Sans replied. "But when it comes to HIM, I feel like I can use all the protection I can get.”

They arrived at the front door, somehow Sans was never able to get used to just how much bigger it was than the two of them, as always, it made him feel so much smaller.

Well, if the door was going to make him feel this insignificant, he wasn't going to treat it with a proper knock. He raised his fist and as gently as he could, and tapped on the door with his knuckles. Papyrus was standing right there, and even he didn't hear a thing.

"Oh well, nobody's home." Sans shrugged with a half-grin making an attempt to walk away. "Can't say we didn't try, right?"

"Sans!" Papyrus responded, hands on his hips and with a tone of annoyance.

It didn't matter anyways, the brothers heard the loud creaking noise of the gigantic door beginning to open. Sans gritted his teeth. "That never works," he grumbled to himself.

They turned to see the aged skeleton standing in the doorway, his stern orange and blue eyes looking them up and down.

"Greetings, boys," Gaster spoke in his usual low tone.

"Hey, G." Sans shoved his hands into his pockets, his voice also low and unamused, not even giving him the courtesy of a glance.

"Greetings, fatherly figure!" Papyrus, on the other hand, bounced with delight and friendliness, aggressively grabbing Gaster's hand to shake it. "How nice of you to invite us into your home once again!"

No matter how many times Gaster invited them over, Papyrus always managed to surprise him with his upbeat attitude and willingness to come back. As Papyrus released his hand after giving it a thorough shake, he and Sans made their way through the door and into the lab. Papyrus's greeting leaving the scientist quite dumbfounded for what to say next.

"Right … er … come on then … uh … son—uh! Sons, I mean?" he stammered.

"Alright, let's just get this over with." Sans’s cold tone almost immediately snapped Gaster back into his usual demeanor.

"Right!" Gaster shut the door and led the brothers downstairs to the True Lab. The place where all of the tools and past experiments were kept.

Papyrus excitedly hopped into Gaster's office chair to take it for a quick spin-around, while Sans wasted no time making his way to the coffee maker. Somehow he could already tell that this was going to be a long day.

"P-2, please do try to calm down." Gaster abruptly stopped Papyrus from spinning around in the chair, allowing the dizzy skeleton to stumble away. "I'm going to need steady attitudes for this line of testing."

"We talked about this, G," Sans replied, pouring a fresh cup of hot coffee into the styrofoam mug. "We both have names, remember?"

"Right, of course," Gaster acknowledged, turning his large blackboard towards the two of them.

"Oh, and S-1—er! I mean … Sans," he corrected himself. "No coffee for today please, this test must require zero stimulants of any kind."

"Oh great." Sans bitterly placed the untouched cup next to the coffee pot. "So what's involved for this one? The effects of sleep-deprivation?"

"Quite the opposite actually," Gaster replied, facing the scribblings on his blackboard. "For this test, I'll be putting you both into a deep trance."

"Say … what now?" Sans blinked, surely his scientific father didn't mean what he thought he meant.

Gaster moved to show off his notes and scribbled doodles on the subject of hypnosis on the blackboard. As usual, the blending of all of his ideas and hypotheses together on one cramped space made for some confusing visuals.

"I wish to know the true strength of the power of suggestion upon the monster's mind," Gaster explained. "How far can suggestion go, and just how deep a trance can one be put in before the impossible becomes reality?"

"Hypnosis … really?" Sans replied, both expression and tone deadpanned. "I give up a coffee break just so you can play with the metaphysical? This is weird even for you old man."

"Oh come now, Sans!" Papyrus approached his brother, still wearing a grin. "I think it'll be fun! Just think of the possibilities the two of our brains can come up with!" he suddenly gasped, eyes full of childlike wonder. "We could become convinced that we're flying! Or can shoot laserbeams out of our eyesockets! Or —"

"Bro!" Sans cut him off, not wanting Papyrus to get too excited as he figured whatever Gaster had in mind for them wasn't going to be nearly as adventurous as he had hoped. "You're wasting your time anyways, G. I can't be hypnotized," he said adamantly.

Gaster knew that this was going to be a tough sell, Sans wasn't one to be convinced to be put in vulnerable situations easily. But thankfully, Gaster did have the perfect idea for just how to convince him.

"Think of it this way … Sans," he paused momentarily to remember his name. "This will be the only time where the only thing that's required of you is to lay back and do nothing but sleep."

That did it. Gaster knew there was no way that Sans would miss an opportunity to be lazy. With a loud groan, Sans followed Gaster and his brother into the operating room. Gaster laid Sans and Papyrus next to each other on two large metal tables. Above them hung a large, oversized pendulum that began swinging back and forth once Gaster hit a button on the wall. The pendulum made a gentle ‘whoosh’ sound as it passed back and forth above them.

"What, are we in a giant grandfather clock?" Sans joked, albeit still in a sarcastic tone.

"This will give you something to focus on while I slip you both into a trance."

"Oooooh!" Papyrus's gaze followed the pendulum, seemingly enchanted by it. "Isn't it exciting, Sans?" He beamed. "We're about to unravel the deep mysteries of the metaphysical mindset!"

"Right…," Sans mumbled. "Let's just hope Dear Old Dad doesn't unravel our minds."

Gaster pulled out an old-fashioned handheld tape recorder and began an audio log.

"Subjects S-1 and P-2 are ready for testing," he recorded quietly. Both are resting comfortably on the operating tables, mere inches apart from one another. The pendulum has begun swinging, and I will now proceed with the restraints." Although it was difficult to catch all of what the old skeleton was muttering, Sans could have sworn that he had caught that last word.

"Whoa whoa whoa … ‘restraints’? You didn't say anything about…," Sans trailed off as he watched Gaster approach him without acknowledging what it was he had just said.

Gaster reached under the table to pull out what looked like two oversized belts. One that would cross along his upper torso, right where his elbow bent, and the other down lower across his knees. Sans despised whenever Gaster brought out these restraints, and did his best to avoid them at all cost. Gaster fastened his eldest son to the table before Sans even had a chance to protest.

"Hey!" Sans began before being strapped to the table and unable to break free. "G, I thought you were just hypnotizing us, what the hell is this for?"

"This is purely for your own safety, Sans," Gaster replied as he pulled out the straps for Papyrus. The younger skeleton never put up much of a fight, so Gaster was able to properly take his time in securing him. "Should your body obey the suggestions to move, or should anything go wrong during the experiment, you'll be safely secured to the table where you won't be able to fall off or injure yourself.

"Right … ‘safety’ … sure," Sans grumbled, not entirely convinced.

"Yes! Very thoughtful of you, sir!" Papyrus chimed in, although Sans could tell that being tied up wasn't exactly Papyrus's favorite thing to do either.

Gaster sat himself down behind a metal podium that contained buttons of different shapes and sizes, all of which had been used on the brothers before with different results. Gaster, once again, pulled out his tape recorder.

"Subjects have been restrained, now proceeding with the 'Nerve-Processing Scan'." Gaster leaned into a small microphone attached to the podium that amplified his low voice so that Sans and Papyrus could hear him clearly. "Boys, you're going to see a small flash of light, just tell me how it makes you feel."

Before either of them had a chance to question, there was a sudden brightness that filled the room nearly blinding the two of them. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but all at once, the brothers felt an overwhelming tingling sensation consuming their bones.

"What?! W-What the—?!" Sans began to grin in spite of himself. The tingles especially affected his cheeks and moved rapidly down his ribs. He felt an overwhelming urge to laugh, but he held it back as best as he could, not wanting Gaster to hear anything. But even with all his efforts, a small snicker still escaped his teeth.

Papyrus, however, wasn't as resilient. Within moments, the younger skeleton began giggling. Light snickers at first, but as the tingles spread downwards he began kicking his legs — as best he could through the restraints — and squirmed on the table.

"Nyeh-hee-hee-hee-hee!! It-It tihihickles!" Papyrus scrunched up his neck in an effort to distract from the sensations.

"Hmm, good," Gaster replied through the microphone before returning back to collecting his thoughts into the tape recorder. "Let the record show that S-1 and P-2 have still retained their sense of 'sensitivity' since the last experiment."

As the tingles began to wear off, Sans looked over at Gaster worriedly. He couldn't hear what the old man was mumbling into that old-fashioned box, but he knew that light show had to be for something.

"Pap, I've got a bad feeling about this," he whispered to Papyrus, who was still trying to shake the tingles off of his toes as he seemed not to hear him.

Gaster leaned back into the microphone, his soft and low voice lightly reverberating off of the walls.

"Alright boys, I want you both to take a deep breath and relax. Please focus your eyes on the pendulum and do not remove your gaze from it."

The brothers obeyed, Sans still muttering under his breath. "You're wasting your time old man, this is beyond pointless."

Gaster continued, "I'm going to start counting backwards from ten. And with every passing number I want you to notice a deep and pleasant drowsiness start to come over you."

"Deep and pleasant drowsiness, huh?" Sans silently scoffed. "You don't need to strap me to a table to get that outta me."

"Slowly building up from your feet…," Gaster continued. "Up through your legs and over your hips … over your spines and ribcages … spreading a deep drowsiness through your arms … up over your shoulders … across your faces … feeling your eyelids start to get heavier and heavier."

"From the way you're droning on you won't need this crap to put me to sleep," Sans quietly complained.

Although, despite the absurdity of it all, a part of him couldn't help but want to feel that 'pleasant drowsiness' that Gaster kept going on about. Despite his current situation, a nap with that kind of intensity did feel like it would be a welcomed change of pace. It had been a while since he had a peaceful rest without the constant interruption of nightmares.

"Ten.… Nine.… Eight…," Gaster slowly began. "Feeling your bodies start to drift off into sleepiness...."

Sans didn't want to believe it, and part of him surely thought that it was nothing but a trick of the mind, but he did start to feel it. A sensation, almost similar to that of a warm numbness, starting to take hold of his feet and slowly climbing up his legs and towards his waist. It was … strangely pleasant.

"Seven.… Six.… Five…," Gaster went on, his voice overtaking the room. "Slowly drifting off into a pleasant drowsiness, slipping deeper and deeper into sleep."

"This is … so … so … stupid…." But the more Sans tried to convince himself, the more he was starting to lose track of his words and drift off, doing exactly as Gaster was commanding him to do.

"Four.… Three.... Two…. You feel it start to take over your body, slipping deeper and deeper into relaxation," Gaster continued. "One…. Now your eyelids feel so unbelievably heavy, it's nearly impossible to keep them open now."

And it was. Sans couldn't keep from blinking, but every time he opened his eyes, it was harder and harder to keep them open. What was happening? He knew that if there was anywhere that he didn't feel 100% safe, it was here in his father's laboratory. And yet, it was like his body was trying too hard to convince his brain that this was the place to let it all go and sleep.

The pendulum wasn't helping much either. With every light little ‘whooshing’ sound that it made while going back and forth, it was almost forcing Sans to keep blinking, making it harder and harder for him to open his eyes back up. For a split second he glanced back over at Papyrus, but the younger skeleton was already long gone, Sans could tell by the drool starting to collect in the corner of his open mouth.

"And...."

*SNAP!*

"Sleep!"

Sans’s eyes shut all on their own. Within a singular moment … within a singular snap … he had completely surrendered full control of his body and his mind. His thoughts floated on warm fuzzy clouds of nothingness, and the deep numbness that had begun at his soles had now consumed his entire body. It was like he could feel nothing and everything all at once. But the most bizarre thing about it was that there wasn't a single drop of anxiousness, not one lingering fear, not one seed of doubt or concern. Everything was just open and free. Sans wasn't entirely sure what plane of existence he had landed on, but it was oddly relaxing.

"Take a deep breath in…." As Gaster continued, he heard the deep inhale and exhale come willingly from his sons as he spoke.

"And…."

*SNAP!*

"Sleep!"

Upon hearing the command, the brothers felt themselves drifting more and more into a trance-like sleep. The world around them began to fade away piece by piece as their minds floated through space.

"As you hear the word…," Gaster snapped very sharply into the microphone again, "Sleep … everytime you hear the word…," he snapped again, "Sleep. You feel yourselves drifting deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. Feeling 100% more relaxed and comfortable … sleep." He snapped. "Feeling nothing but the deepest relaxation imaginable. Totally still and silent … only able to hear and understand the words that I am speaking … and … sleep"

Snapping a final time, Gaster could tell that Sans and Papyrus had now fallen into a deep trance, only able to hear him, and totally susceptible to everything.

"Alright, let's begin," he spoke softly into the microphone. "I'm going to begin counting to ten, and as the numbers start to increase, you're going to start becoming fully aware of your bodies. Aware of your nerve endings … so hyper aware and fixated on all that you can feel that you won't be able to focus on anything else."

Gaster counted upwards, using his words to point out the sensitivity of their toes, their knees, their legs, hips, ribcages, underarms, necks, and everywhere in between. He was able to barely catch the brothers start to lightly twitch in their trance. The experiment was working.

"And now that you are fully alert and aware of your nerve endings and the capabilities they hold, I want to ask you a question … can you start to feel the soft caress of a little white feather gliding across your soles?"

Sans and Papyrus stiffened, it was so subtle that anyone who wasn't paying attention to them would have missed it entirely. But Gaster noticed immediately, and had no intention of letting it alone.

"Do you feel it start to dance back and forth? Gliding up towards your toes and back down to your heels?"

Sans’s toes began to curl, his face twitched like he was trying to hold back a grin. Papyrus's left foot gave a small but sudden jerk, his breathing starting to hitch and shudder.

"Does it bother you?" Gaster baited. "Is it … ticklish?"

Sans gasped sharply while Papyrus let out a little whine through his teeth. That was it, Gaster was getting through to them with the pure power of suggestion. He went on.

"Perhaps you now feel it stopping at the bottom of your toes…."

Papyrus let out a brief sigh, but Sans still seemed to be holding his breath. Gaster smiled, this was going way better than he had expected.

"No … I don't think it's stopping, it seems to be brushing and bristling along the inside of your toes."

"Nyeh-hee-hee-hee-hee!"

Papyrus finally started to lightly giggle. Sans gritted his teeth hard, his body movements turning to brief little twitches that seemed to get sharper and more panicked. Like he was trying so desperately hard to hold back. Gaster smiled, he knew it was only a matter of time before he got through to his eldest son.

"And now you can feel the feather start to slowly weave in between your toes … starting in between the spaces of your big and second toe, and oh-so-easily slipping and gliding down the rest of your toes as well."

"Eeeeeeeeeeheeheeheehee!!" Papyrus let out a shrill squeal of giggles, his toes curling in and out trying — and failing — to protect himself from the invisible feather.

"Hrrkkkk!!"

Sans's teeth pressed together so hard that it almost looked painful. Opening only to take in sharp gasps of air and try his best to steady his panicked breathing. His toes rapidly wiggled and curled inward, but no matter how hard he tried, it was more than obvious to Gaster that he was feeling the effects.

Gaster couldn't help but grin, he knew for certain that there was an undeniable way for him to finally get Sans to laugh.

"Breathing in … as best as you can through the laughter…," he continued. "You feel the feather moving faster and faster … effortlessly gliding in between your toes. And as you feel the sensation growing stronger … you find yourself falling 100 times more deeper into trance, and feeling yourself growing 100 times more sensitive everytime…."

"Grrrnnnnnnkkkkk...!" Sans groaned loudly, struggling harder than ever to resist Gaster's suggestion.

"I say…."

"Hnnnh...!!"

"The word…."

"Unnnghhh!!"

"...tickle."

Before Gaster had even finished pronouncing the word, the dam finally broke. Sans started laughing and convulsing his feet even harder. Just as Gaster had suggested, the sensitivity of his feet had more than doubled, and the imaginary feather's power had consumed him.

Gaster let out a small chuckle, satisfied with his progress … yet still wanting to see just how far he could push it.

"Feeling so deeply relaxed … and so very … very … ticklish."

"GAAH!! Hahahahahaha!!" Sans erupted in deep laughter, struggling harder than ever against the binds on his legs.

Papyrus wasn't far behind him, squealing and jerking his body around as if that would somehow distract him from the agonizing sensation on his toes.

"Feel the feather starting to glide up from the tops of your toes, all the way up towards your knees….” Gaster grinned through his words.

Gasping in panic, the brothers tried to kick and scrunch up their knees, almost unaware of the restraints holding them back and causing them even more panic.

"And as the feather swirls about your knees…," Gaster went on. "You start to feel 100% more … ticklish."

"AAH! Hahahaha! N-N-Nahahaha!! Hahaha!!"

Sans's head began to rock back and forth. He strained even harder trying to contain his laughter, seeming to struggle to get out the word "No."

Papyrus, on the other hand, seemed nearly paralyzed upon hearing the dreaded ‘T’ word. Gaster could see his legs sticking straight out as his body shook with near-silent giggling.

"Tell me…," Gaster mused. "Is this all feeling particularly … ticklish?" He dragged out the word, sounding out every letter and syllable. Making sure his test subjects heard him clearly.

Papyrus threw his head back, while Sans let out a small shriek. Both of them wracked with laughter and convulsions. While in the trance, they seemed to be completely unaware as to why their bodies weren't moving to protect themselves. Why they couldn't control or completely stop this unusual tickle attack.

Gaster observed his subjects laughing almost to tears, both fascinated and amused. He wasn't entirely sure what came over him, but something about watching the two of them being tickled just by words alone brought out a playful side to him. He grinned as he approached the microphone again.

"You now feel the feather fluttering up towards your rib cage…," he teased. "Getting all of the spaces in between, and feeling oh so very, very ticklish."

Both brothers let out two hysterical shrieks. Sans desperately pulled on the restraints holding down his arms. Panic filled his every movement as he succumbed to his frenzied laughter.

Papyrus's movements were not as dramatic — for a change. As he seemed to have given up on trying to force his body to move and just accepted the sensations, offering only spazzing twitches and jerks. His body rocked back and forth as he embraced the laughter, though it was difficult for Gaster to tell if he was actually starting to enjoy it or not.

Gaster found that he rather enjoyed the sound of his sons' laughter filling his laboratory. Usually his experiments were met with screams or protests from his boys. This noise brought out a subtle, yet joyful demeanor within him, despite the fact that he was drawing it out of them by force. Feeling cheeky, he decided to try just one more thing.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle…," he briefly teased.

Sans's head fell backwards as a silent squeal escaped his teeth, leaving Papyrus to fill the room with insane screams of laughter. Papyrus bucked and jerked, this time making a real effort to pull at his restraints. Gaster figured that this kind of increased sensitivity had finally been too much for him.

By the time Sans finally found the strength to inhale again, his sharp breathing had caused a loud snort to fall out of his nasal cavity. Gaster put a hand to his mouth in shock, he wasn't even aware that Sans was the type of monster who snorted. It was honestly adorable.

But after a few moments, both brothers really started gasping for air, Sans let out even more snorts as his inhales were getting faster. With a sigh, Gaster at last accepted that it was time to end the experiment. He raised his pinched fingers high into the air.

"And…," he paused, taking in the sound of his sons' laughter one more time.

"Stop."

He snapped his fingers, Sans and Papyrus's bodies at last began to relax and settle down. Both of them continued to take in deep inhalations until their breath was finally caught and they laid still on the metal tables breathing normally.

"Good," Gaster said to himself before approaching the microphone again. "Take one more deep breath…," he instructed, and the brothers obeyed. Once again Gaster raised his pinched fingers upwards, preparing to wake them from their trance.

"Now when I snap my fingers, you will wake and return to consciousness … fully awake … and fully aware of what you have just been through…."

Gaster snapped, preparing immediately to catch flack from Sans … but it was quiet. Sans and Papyrus's eyes remained closed. Gaster looked over at them with a confused expression. Perhaps they had not heard him?

"Awake!" he called, snapping his fingers again, but still there was no response.

He held his fingers to the microphone and snapped his fingers again. The sound echoed along the walls of the lab, there was no way anybody who was in the room could have missed it, and yet the brothers did not stir from their trance.

Gaster worriedly approached his test subjects. Putting a palm to both of their nasal cavities, he determined that the both of them were still breathing. He tried snapping his fingers exceptionally close to their ear canals, no response. He shook both of the metal tables, jerking their bodies from side to side, no response. Finally he unlocked the two of them from their upper restraints. Sitting them both up one by one he proceeded to shake them around and call their names. Even calling them by their test subject names just to gauge an angry response from Sans … nothing.

"Oh no…," Gaster breathed out. "Oh, what have I done?" He hurriedly ran to his medical tools on a separate table, speaking out loud as to try and make sense of what had just happened.

"I must have let them slip too deep into trance for too long," he reasoned. "I must find a way to wake them before this gets too out of hand."

Gaster knew that just about anything he said or did to his sons in this condition could leave their mental state quite vulnerable. He knew he had to be careful, but also knew that he just had to find a way to wake them up, and soon!

***

"Pap...?" Sans's eyes blinked several times, he rubbed his sockets wearily. "Papyrus?" he called again. His voice seemed to echo off into a far distance. He was in some sort of strange space where nothing seemed to exist … nothing but white.

Once his eyes adjusted to the strange lighting, he looked around, hopeful to find something or someone that was familiar.

"Papyrus!" he called out, once again hearing the faint echo of his own voice. "Papyrus! Can you hear me?" Nothing but white … white sky, white ground, white space. This world was strange, he just knew he needed to find answers, just as fast as he needed to find his brother.

"S-Sans?"

Sans's soul jumped in his ribcage. He looked around frantically until he spotted Papyrus stumbling towards him from a few yards away.

"Bro!"

Sans sighed with relief, meeting his brother halfway. Papyrus quickly embraced his older brother by picking him up and hugging him tightly. Normally, Sans wasn't a big fan of being picked up, but he was grateful to have some form of normalcy return to him.

"Sans … uhm … where are we?" Papyrus asked after putting him down. "What is this place?"

"I … have no idea." Sans once again resumed looking around, his gaze met with nothing but white. "I don't even remember how we got here … do you?"

Papyrus shook his head.

"I … think I remember Gaster … and...." Papyrus thought hard. "Something about a … feather … maybe?"

"Crazy old man and his experiments," Sans groaned. "Did he send us to another dimension again?"

"Oh, nonsense brother!" Papyrus insisted. "After the mess that happened last time, I don't think he'd chance that again."

"Okay, so then where are we?" Sans put his hands in his pockets, grateful at least to have his brother here, but still feeling wary.

A small breeze started to flow into the space, making the brothers freeze from the sudden movement change. But what really began to set their fears in motion was when that breeze suddenly brought in the sound of high pitched giggling.

The brothers gasped, moving closer towards each other. The giggling was gone just as fast as it came, leaving the two of them feeling anxious.

"S-Sans?" Papyrus nervously broke the silence. "Did you hear that?"

"I … think so?" Sans wasn't quite sure what to think. When it came to taking part in Gaster's experiments, he knew that anything could happen.

The breeze suddenly brought in even more giggling, making the two skeletons jump.

"Sans … was that you making that sound?" Papyrus asked hopefully,

"Bro, do I sound like my voice can go that high?"

True, these giggles didn't sound like they came from any monster the two of them had encountered. These voices were high and squeaky, they were the sound of young children's giggling. The brothers jumped with surprise as the giggling became words.

"Oooh! Lookit what we have here!"

"Two skeletons! They sure do look strange!"

It was a young boy and a young girl's voice. Sans and Papyrus fearfully looked around, but again, there was nothing but white.

"Who's there?" Sans boldly called. "Who are you?"

"I bet they're really fun to play with!" answered the young boy.

"Are they going to be our new friends?" the young girl asked enthusiastically.

"One way to find out!" the boy replied.

"Friends?" Sans asked suspiciously.

"They sound friendly enough, I think." Papyrus whispered back to his brother.

But then the girl replied with a statement that sent a shiver down their spines....

"Hmm … I wonder if they're ticklish."

#Tickletober #Tickletober2024 #Undertale #LaughterLand Story #Sans #Papyrus #Gaster

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roosterforme · 2 years ago

Text

Two to Tango Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley lets you play cat and mouse with him all day long. But at night, it's a battle to find out who is really in control.

Warnings: Adult banter, swearing, smut, angst

Length: 4200 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check my masterlist for more Top Gun fun.

Part 1

Bradley watched you stroll into the locker room like you hadn't just kissed him. You were either totally unaffected by what you just did, or you didn't want him to know you were a little riled up too. He groaned as he pushed through the men's door.

As discreetly as he could, Bradley ducked into one of the shower stalls and started to peel his muddy clothes off. The locker room was already filled with steam from all of the other guys running the hot water, but Bradley wasn't able to focus on getting cleaned up just yet.

As he removed his compression shorts, he looked down at his erection and groaned. He'd been fine until that little smack to his cheek. You hit him just hard enough for it to sting, and then he thought about you doing that to him in bed.

"Oh, fuck," he grunted as he wrapped one large hand around his cock. He stumbled toward the faucet and turned on the water, letting the warm spray wash over him as he jerked off. He needed to be quiet; he was literally surrounded by the others in the stalls next to him. He bit his lip and stroked himself at a steady pace, picturing your smug face as you slapped him.

Apparently it had been too long since Bradley got laid. He was reacting to you like a teenager, which should have been embarrassing; he was old enough that you called him old man. But you were just the type of woman who always got him worked up. He liked them cute and bossy, and it didn't hurt that you had seemed completely disinterested in him before you kissed him.

And you were cute enough that he'd want you more if you ran hot and cold with him. And now he was thinking about you on the other side of the wall, in the ladies' locker room, running your hands all over your own body.

His hand felt good, but he had no doubt yours would feel better. Bradley tipped his head back and stifled a moan as he came all over his left hand. He felt a little dizzy as he let the steamy water wash over his body, and he started to clean himself up.

Would you kiss him again? Or pretend this never happened? He was already anxious to get you alone and find out.

----------------------------

Bright and early the next morning, Bradley walked with Coyote to the cafeteria, opting to bring his own teammate this time instead of sitting with the Air Force guys. He still wasn't sure if you had tricked him yesterday at breakfast, or if he had walked into that trap himself. Either way, you had been on his mind all evening while he was trying to fall asleep.

He knew you would be a distraction as soon as he saw you. He'd let himself jerk off to the thought of you, let himself think about fucking you, but now he needed to focus on the rest of this week. Bradley and his teammates had to beat your team.

"Morning, Tango," one of the Air Force aviators said, and Bradley looked up to see you strolling in wearing your flight suit with the sleeves tied around your waist. You were wearing a black tank top, and when Bradley made eye contact, you winked at him.

He almost moaned around his bite of oatmeal as you walked past with your chin held high. Coyote smirked. "You like her," he murmured softly. Leave it to Javy, always the quiet one, to call Bradley out on his shit.

"Doesn't matter. She doesn't like me, man," Bradley replied as he drank his entire cup of coffee.

Coyote snorted and shook his head. But actually, Bradley wasn't sure how you felt about him. The kiss and the slap were hot, but Bradley was convinced that you were just trying to throw him off.

Distraction, he thought to himself. He tossed his trash and walked to the classroom with Coyote. He found the spot at the back of the room labeled Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and slipped into the seat. Then his eyes settled on the name placard next to his, and of course it was yours. And of course he liked your first name.

A four hour lecture sitting next to you? He might not make it. He propped his elbows on the table in front of him and massaged his temples.

"What the hell is your problem?" Phoenix asked as she strolled past him and took her seat at a different table.

"Just trying to figure out why I'm being punished."

Phoenix rolled her eyes. "You're so dramatic. We'll be in the air after lunch. You usually enjoy these lectures."

"Mmm," he hummed, because now you were walking into the classroom. You found your spot and sat down gingerly next to him, chatting sweetly with Hangman of all people and ignoring Bradley completely.

"Morning, Tango," Bradley finally said, forcing you to acknowledge him next to you.

"Old man. I didn't notice you there, sweetheart," you said, clearly pretending you were surprised to see him. "Have you decided what you're going to call me today? Something to complement incompetent and inexperienced?"

"I tried to apologize for that," he reminded you. "Yesterday....outside the locker rooms."

You turned toward him and bit your lip. "Yes, you were very....sincere."

"And you were very handsy," he whispered as the flight instructor entered the room.

You pressed your lips together. "Yeah...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I don't know anything about you... if you have a wife or a girlfriend or something...shit, I shouldn't have kissed you without permission."

Bradley examined your face; you were actually sorry. But he wasn't sure if you were sorry for kissing him, or just for neglecting to confirm if he was single and consenting.

He wanted you to kiss him again. "I'm single. And consenting."

Your mouth opened and you gaped at him before biting your lip again. He watched you grin as you asked, "Exactly how much are you consenting to, old man?"

"Good morning!" Class was beginning, and absolutely everybody was now facing the front of the classroom except for Bradley. He peeled his gaze away from your profile and faced the front as well.

He opened his lecture booklet and scrawled one word in the corner of the first page. When he nudged it a little closer to you, he watched you lick your lips as you read Everything.

Then you took your pen and wrote one word in neat handwriting before pushing the booklet back toward him.

Perfect.

Bradley groaned softly and it felt like all of his blood rushed away from his brain and directly to his cock.

He was struggling to sit still, paying more attention to you twirling your pen out of the corner of his eye than the actual lecture. Those fingers had been touching him yesterday. Bradley had just given you permission to touch him again. The only problem was, he wasn't sure you and he would even be able to have time alone this week. The schedule was packed.

He saw you hold your pen up and deliberately drop it on the floor between your chairs. "Oops," you murmured.

Bradley watched your dip toward the floor, running your fingers down the length of his leg, touching him through his flight suit. He was straining against his compression shorts, dying to touch you.

Only three hours and fifty minutes of this lecture left.

------------------------------

"Tally! Tally! Bogey, six o'clock, Phoenix!" Hangman shouted. Bradley quickly doubled back to help his teammates. The Naval aviators had taken to the air first, participating in a timed drill. The mission was simple: shoot down the enemy aircrafts as fast as you can.

"Break right, Phoenix," Bradley told her, and he watched her navigate exactly as he had hoped she would. It gave Coyote a chance to eliminate the final opponent from the dog fighting scenario.

"Yes!" Phoenix cheered. "Nicely done, guys. Although I must say, I really miss Bob. He would have spotted them way sooner than we did."

Bradley smiled as he undid his mask and dropped altitude. He followed the other three Super Hornets down to the runway, and he was climbing out of his jet just in time to see you and your teammates walking across the tarmac.

"Good luck, Tango," he told you, trying his best not to convey the want he felt when he looked at you.

"I don't need luck, Rooster," you told him with a smirk, and Bradley watched you start up your ladder while he followed Phoenix to the tower.

The Air Force aviators would need to beat a time of thirty minutes and fifteen seconds if they wanted to earn more points than the Naval aviators. And when Bradley unzipped the top half of his flight suit and drank some water, he listened to the radio as your team took to the air. It was immediately obvious that although you were most likely the youngest member of your team, you were clearly the leader.

"Tango! Angels three, two bandits!"

Your voice was strong and commanding through the radio, and Bradley was intrigued. "Hit the firewall, Killer!"

"Tally two!"

Your team seemed to work together just as well as his team did, and now Bradley was a little nervous. He could literally see two hundred dollars and his pride slipping through his fingers. But you sounded like magic to his ears.

"Hit it hard! Final Bandit!"

And when your team ended with a winning time of twenty-nine minutes, Bradley wasn't even surprised. He had underestimated you just two days ago, and now he was going to keep paying for it.

----------------------------------

Bradley took his time on the way to the locker room. You were ahead of him in points, and the Air Force was leading the Navy. And as much as it pained him to admit it, he was dying for more of your attention. All you had to do was look at him, and he started getting hard. Every time you talked to him, he wanted to touch you again. You were so self assured, he couldn't get enough.

You were walking toward the showers, chatting with Coyote. Javy appeared apologetic when Bradley looked at him, but that didn't stop him from making you smile and laugh. Bradley waited for you to walk past, and you paused when Javy went into the men's locker room. When you gracefully stepped right up to him, you let your fingers rest just below Bradley's belly button. His whole body clenched as you stood on your tiptoes, brushing the tip of your nose against his. He was instantly leaning down, trying to get his lips on yours, but you had pulled away enough that he could see your grin.

"You're so slow, old man. Let's see if you can pick up the pace later. Three one six five."

Bradley moaned as your fingers drifted further south before you turned and stalked into your locker room. He loved being teased and toyed with; no woman had ever treated him like this before.

"Oh, shit," he whispered. 3165. That must be your room number. Fuck, he had to walk gingerly into the locker room and pray that nobody would notice his erection. And no jerking off today, no matter how badly he needed it. He'd wait for you.

So he got cleaned up, did his hair and put on one of his Hawaiian shirts. Then he and Phoenix ordered a pizza and ate it in her room. "Why do you look so nice?" she asked. She was wearing a sports bra and oversize sweatpants. "I'm exhausted and probably going to pass out as soon as we finish eating."

"No reason," he muttered, folding a slice of pizza and biting off half of it.

"Ohhhh," she said, when she finished chewing. "It's Tango. I knew the two of you would end up either fucking or fighting. It could have gone either way. But I must say, if you're sleeping with her, you'll definitely lose your bet."

Bradley frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Let's just say I'm not about to make a wager with Killer anytime soon," she said with a smirk.

Bradley snorted. "You're hooking up with that big guy? He's like two feet taller than you."

"He's big everywhere, Rooster," she told him, and Bradley grabbed another slice of pizza and left with a grimace.

Should he wait around a little longer? Or head to your room? Fuck it, he was already on his way up to the third floor. Might as well see if you're actually in your room. 3165. He raised his hand to knock when the door across the hallway abruptly opened.

"Don't knock!" you said, dashing out and grabbing his hands while you laughed.

"Huh?" he asked, surprised to see you coming out of a different room.

You were trying to contain your laughter as you pulled him across the hallway and into room 3164. "That's Killer's room. I was just fucking with you. Trying to see if you'd actually show up."

"Seriously?"

You were grinning as you pulled him into your room and closed the door. "You look so cute in your Hawaiian shirt, too. Killer would have snarled at you, showing up like you were his booty call."

Bradley was trying not to laugh, but he could feel his lips and mustache twitching with amusement. You were wearing your black tank top and some short shorts. "You know, something tells me you'd have laughed if Killer threatened to punch me."

You nodded as Bradley backed you up to the wall inside the tiny room. "I probably would have, old man."

Bradley scooped you up, holding you by the thighs and pinning you against the wall. You gasped as he pressed himself against you through your shorts, but you still had laughter on your lips.

"You know what's not funny?" he asked softly, your hands coming up to grab his shoulders.

You bit your lip and squeaked as he pressed you harder into the wall. "Tell me," you demanded, still grinning.

Bradley smirked at you as he lowered his voice until it was rough and raspy. Then he squeezed your thighs and said, "It's not funny how hard I'm going to fuck you."

You gasped and licked your lips. "Tell me more, sweetheart."

Bradley was the one smiling now; your pupils were blown wide as you focused on his words. "You're leading me in points, Tango. I gotta make it so I have an advantage tomorrow. If you can't walk straight or sit right, I think that might give me the upper hand."

"Oh," you gasped, and Bradley lowered his mouth to your neck. He listened to you whine as he teased and then soothed your soft skin with his mustache while he ground his hardening cock against you. "Okay, show me what you got, old man."

Bradley tipped your chin up with his nose and sucked on your neck. "You're not going to be calling me old man when you see what age and experience can get you."

You were whining a little bit as he tossed you onto your bed and watched you start to scramble out of your shorts.

"There's no rush, Tango," he whispered, watching you as he took his Hawaiian shirt off and draped it across the back of the chair. You were laying on your back on the narrow, twin-sized bed, your nipples straining against your tank top and your tiny underwear barely covering your pussy. He reached down and ran one long finger along your seam through the lace fabric. When you bucked up off the bed, he grinned and said, "I like to take my time."

You moaned and Bradley watched you turn your head to the side. Your cheeks were flushed now. "Please," you whispered, easing your tank top up your torso until your tits were on display for him.

"Damn," he muttered, stroking your nipples gently with his thumb and making you mewl. "You done being demanding then? You like to switch it up in the bedroom? Let me control you?"

"Fuck," you gasped as he moved his hand lower and dipped his fingers into your underwear. You just looked up at him where he stood and sucked in a deep breath. "You should be so lucky, Rooster. I'll be in charge of everything."

He slipped one finger down along your clit and watched you squirm. "You keep telling yourself that." Bradley eased his large body on top of yours at the same time his finger dipped inside you. He kissed your lips softly, before rubbing his mustache along your tits.

He worked his fingers, never giving you more pressure on your clit as you rocked your hips up against his hand. Your pussy was wet and silky, and his cock was throbbing now, but he was determined to make you wild for him.

He licked and sucked on one breast and then the other, switching each time you started to really whine. "Rooster!" you hissed, bucking hard as you took a second finger followed by a third. Bradley could feel how hard you were gripping him, and his hand was starting to cramp, but he kept going.

"You like that, Tango?" He gently took your nipple between his teeth and gave you some pressure there until you were practically screaming and pawing at the back of his head.

"Yes!" you screeched, your gasping voice breaking on the word. Bradley crooked his middle finger inside you and watched you shake your head back and forth against the pillow. You had your feet planted on the bed, absolutely riding his big hand for everything he was worth. "Fuck!"

"Yeah, I'll fuck you in a little while," he promised, keeping that same soft, steady rhythm with his thumb. "But first, let's get you off like this." He leaned in close to your ear and licked your neck as you came on his hand, legs shaking and babbling nonsense. "If you like my hand this much, you'll never survive my mouth and my cock."

"Oh God," you whispered, looking up at him like you were finally ready to let him take charge. He waited until your hips stilled before he withdrew his fingers and tasted you there.

He smiled. "You taste good," he whispered, and when you parted your lips for him, he slipped his three fingers into your mouth. You moaned and sucked on him, licking between his fingers and dragging your tongue across his palm.

Suddenly Bradley felt less in charge than he had a moment ago. You kept his fingers between your lips until he was groaning, then you said, "Where's this magical mouth you told me about?"

Bradley climbed on top of you, tipped your chin back and kissed you hard on the lips. He fucked your mouth with his tongue, pausing only to yank your tank top completely off your body. Your mouth tasted like your pussy, and he couldn't wait to get himself squared away down there for some more.

You brought your fingers up to tangle in his hair, and Bradley's kisses became more controlled, more languid. He would be damned if he rushed this instead of proving to you that the rest of him was just as impressive as his fingers.

Your hands felt too good on his neck and and behind his ears, and as he settled his full body weight down on you a bit more, you were thrusting up against him, wrapping your leg around his hip. "Don't rush it," he whispered against your lips and you moaned so loudly, his cock felt like it was going to break his zipper.

But you grabbed him roughly by his hair and pushed him further down your body. "I want your mouth on my pussy."

"Fuck," he groaned kissing and tasting your tits as you guided him down. Bradley licked your belly and pulled your tiny underwear down, pressing his lips all over your newly exposed skin.

He looked up your body as he took your underwear down your legs and dropped them to the floor. You met his eyes and bit your lip as he spread your legs wide. "Pretty," he murmured, pressing his lips to your clit. You were soaking wet and your fingers were still tugging at the roots of his hair as he licked the full length of your slit.

He forced a slow pace, refusing to give in to your tugging and whining. But when Bradley heard you moaning his call sign as he swirled his tongue over your clit, he had to slide one hand down to adjust himself. He sucked on your clit softly until it sounded like you were going to start crying, and then he had to unzip his jeans. His dick was painfully hard, but thankfully you were now moaning, "Fuck me, Rooster. Please!"

"Shit," he almost yelled, releasing you and standing. He took off his undershirt and dropped it to the floor before yanking his cock free from his jeans and underwear.

"You look good, old man," you whispered, still out of breath as you rolled onto your stomach on the narrow bed.

"I still don't know how old you think I am, Tango." As he toed off his shoes and socks and guided the denim fabric down his legs, Bradley groaned. "I don't have a condom."

You smiled up at him over your shoulder, reaching out to grab him by his dick and pull him closer to the bed. "If you're clean, you don't need one," you whispered, releasing him and getting on your hands and knees at the edge of the bed.

Bradley was practically panting at the sight of your ass and pussy, bare and ready for him. He grabbed you by your left hip and guided himself to your opening with his right hand, relishing the feel of you and the depraved sounds you made as he pushed and pushed until he bottomed out.

"Oh, God," he groaned. He should have masturbated earlier. What the hell was he thinking? This felt too good. Thankfully you were already pretty far gone, your face buried in the bedding as you got louder with each thrust. Your body looked like it was made for this as he watched his cock disappear into your pretty pussy over and over again, you ass bouncing with each thrust.

"Harder," you gasped, and with a devilish grin, Bradley slammed into you.

"You like that? I like it, too. Gonna love it when you can't sit in your cockpit tomorrow," he promised, fucking you hard until you were clamping around him. Your thighs were shaking as you met his body each time he bottomed out. "Fuck, fuck, where do you want me to cum?" he asked. But you were in the middle of your second orgasm now, and there was no way he was going to get a solid answer out of you. So Bradley pulled out, and within seconds, he was spurting his cum all over your ass and your back.

"Oh," he gasped, gripping himself and looking at the gorgeous mess he had just made. "Beautiful."

You were still scrambling around on the bedding as you more or less collapsed onto your stomach, and Bradley looked around for something to clean you up with. He spotted a travel sized pack of tissues next to your bag and started to wipe his cum off of your pretty skin.

"Did you make a mess on me, old man?" you asked softly, turning to look back at him with a smile.

"Sure did. Looks pretty though," he rasped as he finished cleaning you off.

You just laughed and tried to stand up to no avail. Bradley scooped you into his arms and got you both settled onto the bed with you halfway on top of him. "You can cum inside me tomorrow night if you want to."

Bradley grinned and kissed your forehead. "You want more of me, Tango? Enjoyed that, didn't you?"

You just laughed and said, "Okay, I'll admit it, you're a good lay."

Bradley narrowed his eyes at you. "Just a good lay? I thought we were kind of having fun here. You know, all the dirty talk. All the tension."

You looked at him like you weren't sure what to say, but you swallowed hard and whispered, "It's just sex."

Bradley felt like he'd been hit in the gut. "Right," he grunted. "Right." Shit, he needed to leave before you could tell he was annoyed.

You stretched out and yawned, and Bradley slipped out of your bed. He got dressed quickly, avoiding looking at you as he zipped his jeans. He threw his Hawaiian shirt on and headed for the door without buttoning it. "See you tomorrow night?" you asked, sitting up completely naked in bed.

Bradley glanced your way one time and then left without a word. As far as he could remember, he had never done the walk of shame. He'd sent girls packing in the middle of the night before, so he supposed this must have been how they felt. But it was barely nine o'clock now, and he had to sneak back to his own room and think about how cheap you'd made him feel.

----------------------------

Oof. Tango, he is clearly into you! Hope you guys enjoyed this part...more to come soon!

PART 3

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