#also in your love by tyler childers...... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deadboyfriendd · 1 month ago

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I Hope This Letter Finds You Well.

Summary: It is already so hot that it burns. The sheriff had faced many things. He had killed men with his bare hands, he had been covered in so much blood that he couldn't decipher theirs from his own. He had known starvation, heatstroke, and tragedy. Though, he had never known this.

A culmination of letters shared between family and new friends turns into a stand-off at the tarmac of Tucson, Arizona.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Sheriff/Wyatt Earp!Steve Harrington x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, death of a spouse, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, feminine rage embodied (I couldn't give her a gun this time because, if I did, everyone would be dead), eventual discussion of The Civil War and the politics that came from it.

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.5k

Author's Note: This is it. Bisbee is here and it feels like I'm breathing life back into my cowboys through my sheriff. This is so, so special to me and @dr-aculaaa, and I cannot wait to tell you all their stories.

Find the series masterlist here!

“When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.” Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

Nellie,

I believe that the face of death is a woman, and that she is beautiful.

I believe that she may have loved my betrothed, at least as long as there was breath in his lungs and a thrum in his chest. I believe that William looked into her dark eyes and followed her into that unknown place, and I know, there, he might finally find something to still his mind.

I believe that she kissed him good and hard, Nellie, in a way that I could not have done– that she danced her spindly dance clear across the desert, through the plains of the midlands, and splashed in the bayou of Louisiana until she found him.

I believe that death is a friend to our family, that her sinewy arms loom over our men in an embrace that we can not provide, and I believe that she is warm. Much warmer than you or I have been created to be. I believe she walks alongside us, whispers into the ear of our husbands, and laughs as they dance their troublesome dances.

I believe she is kind, much kinder than us, for why else would our men leave the safety of us for her? I cannot fathom it, Nellie.

I no longer believe that death is cold and harsh, for I know that no man could be as cruel as she.

We were always cut from the same cloth, in life, and now in death.

Signed, your cousin.

He could have said that he never wanted any trouble, and he could have said he didn’t go around picking fights, yet both seemed to find him with speed and vigor. He sought them out, begged for the metallic heat to seep from behind his teeth and drip down his lips like ambrosia. The boy could not read nor write, yet also harbored a taste for mindless violence– his gangly teenage frame a harbinger of death.

The monsoon was fast approaching, dark clouds filling the sky in an apocalyptic haze, though the Lord knew this land needed it. The rain came down in heavy sheets, droplets weighing deep against the flesh and warm in strides. The powder dust beneath it stirred and settled in waves, and he prayed for no wind, for the wall of dust that would overtake them in the future just might suffocate him. He cried out in thirst, having mistaken this anguish for freedom. All he could do was turn his mouth towards the sky and hope it would wash away the rawness in his throat.

This heaviness did not go away with time nor age. The boy-now-man sifted through the powder silt of the remnants of his life the same way he sifted through these crises as a child, though with more sure steps and a heavier hand for subtlety. He no longer craved ambrose violence gilded in the candied sheen of shed blood, though it did not stop searching for him.

He was out with lanterns, in search of himself.

There used to be nothing here but a broad expanse of mirage, the heat rising from the sand and warping the distance into a false lake like a sick joke. He remembered the settlement. The miners came first, then the saloons, and dance halls. The cattle drovers and thieves would follow suit to reap their fortunes, but the plume of the mines came first.

Still there is hope, an old miner had said to him, for I know of two Bibles in town.

Though men of God and men of war both have strange affinities, it would seem.

War, much like God, was here long before man. It crouched its ugly pose and waited for his arrival. The ultimate trade awaits the ultimate practitioner.

Today, the oak planks, rotted from years in the sun, groan in the same anguish beneath his boots and he ignores it as much as the God he prayed to ignored his own cries. The bright orange of globe mallow presses its way between the planks, soft resilience even in this heat. When he reaches down to touch it, it crumbles between hardened finger pads.

This township felt like a tunnel, a vignette blurring the Gaussian edges of its structures that settled like graves. His boots sunk a lowly sulk through the banks of the roads where wagon wheels had pushed them from their packing. He still felt the nothingness here, vast openness in which he awaited a tomahawk crowning, sinking into the same sand on his knees, candy-coated in that gilded red gloss.

Through the nothingness there was a stirring, his eyes fixated on the microburst brewing along the mountain's edge in the distance.

Thunder fades to wheels along tracks.

You’d watched the land turn from green to brown and back again. You’d watch the sun wick the water from the soil and feel it warm your skin. There’s a certain disdain that fills your chest like liquid when you picture Nellie on this trail. There was no train west to take. There was no railway.

Did Nellie still look like her mother? Had her mouth begun to crease with a perpetual smile? Was her hair still long and did she still let it fall in ringlets down her back? Surely, she had not sounded the same in her letters, though, this sullen stranger had still signed the letters with the same swooping motions.

As the trees became sparse and turned into gangly, reaching boojums, you realized just how far from home you had been. You had never left the great state of Louisiana but, had run those riverbeds and marshes ragged with bare feet, had run heels hard against the hollow tomb of that old paddle boat. Could you be as wild as the West? Would it love you in the same way the marshes had? Wrap you in its mossy embrace and let you sink beneath stagnant water in wait?

But for what?

The sharecropping had been a logical by-product of everything your father had fought for in the war, rock salt and nails and hand over first for years under the lead of General Benjamin F. Butler, though no one could foresee the way the plantation had hemorrhaged money after he took on nearly ten hired men, or the way the land had would have dwindled to nothing had you not taken that ghastly, ugly burden against your back, one heavy enough to spur you west. One heavy enough that even the sting of the sunburn did nothing to quell the ache that you still felt in your chest against it.

You watched the life drain from this land, music and the lush green of the coming summer turning to sweltering, daguerreotype daydreams. You pressed your palm against the glass and sighed.

It was already warm enough to burn.

When you pressed your face against the glass, you could feel the rumble of the hardened earth beneath the sodden tracks. The dried parchment of letters scraped against themselves where they pooled in the makeshift reservoir of your dresses ruched into your lap– just high enough so that your ankles could feel any movement within the waning stagnation of air in the train car.

You tore the one on top open with your thumb– the last one to remain unopened. Its straight edge was too sharp and angled perfectly as you pulled at it, the edge of your thumb already pooling cherry beads of blood where it rippled.

“Shit.” you cursed.

Gilded eyes peered towards you, slicing through the silence of this welling heat like ice. Had it been dark, they would have glowed. Ladies in Parisian hats tailing the woeful gazes of their well-tailored merchant husbands turning towards the spectacle that was you. Young. Unmarried. Unaccompanied and profane in your lack of grace aboard the train to the lawless lands. Maybe, by God’s hand, you had been cut from the same cloth as this lawless place– the rumble of the tracks a song to the listlessness that stirred in your chest like silt in distant waters.

You dismissed the judgment, the venom of it all sliding off of you like that same water against a duck’s back, turning your attention back towards the product of your own disdain: Nellie’s letter, signed, sealed, and delivered to your last known location.

Cousin,

Your father has sent word about your arrival in Tucson, and I will meet you at the train depot in due time. I do hope that, in time, the heat of this land may dry your tears in the same way it has mine.

I fear that you may not recognize me upon your arrival to Tucson, my face has grown harder and my body less soft. You will become this way, too. I am tough. I am afraid this place has weathered me like old leather.

I have asked the sheriff to accompany me to the train depot in Tucson, and he has happily obliged. I didn’t think you would mind much, either.

The sheriff is a nice man, as I am sure you have come to find, however, this land has hardened him in the same way it has hardened Edward and I. In the same way, it took Wilhelm as payment for some grander, more horrendous scheme. I do not ask you to excuse his shortcomings– or mine– but I do ask that you try to understand us.

Though it is better now than it has ever been, this place is still not like Louisiana. This land is lawless. This land is tough. This land does not make promises or send prayers. It exists as it is, rough and unbinding– blistering for all it is worth.

We are the law, here.

If we lose our morality, we lose everything.

I will see you soon. I love you.

Nellie.

It was an unspoken truth that there was something broken much deeper within them that they had shared some form of solidarity within. Somehow, in some way, Nellie and Steve had shared something they never wanted you to see, but, even now, something was different about her in more recent letters that you couldn’t quite differentiate.

Perhaps it was the way she told you she loved you. She hadn’t written those three words since writing of Wilhelm’s death. Maybe she said it then in search of the love she had lost, had looked for shreds of it to mend herself back together. Maybe Edward had done that for her, and maybe now she had some left to give. You hoped that much for her.

Edward was an entity unknown to you– a phantom in his own respects. He reaped his own form of morosity in the way he loved Nellie. He did so in a way that was devouring, in a way that encompassed her in every respect. You had been well past the persuasion of beautiful faces, for a face much like his was the face that launched a thousand ships. Another puppet wielded by The Devil, he was. That holy shape becomes a devil, best.

It was an unholy thing, to resurrect the dead. And, you supposed, Edward had done just that. Nellie’s letters came to an abrupt halt after the announcement of the Death of Wilhelm. Your family, the only remaining kinship to her lineage, had not received a letter from her in over a year.

You’d thought of all of the ways she could have died, but the most plausible cause was a broken heart. Even now, as rolling hills turned to planes and back again, as you watched the horrors that this land reaped, you could not see any of them taking your cousin. No, she was a force to be reckoned with. Not even this land could break her will. No, if she were to die here, now, it would have been by her hand.

And then, by some unforsaken force beyond even your father’s control, Nellie breathed once more. Her letters were flowery, her writing curling into crashing waves of stories told. You watched as this solemn stranger breathed life back into Nellie, something as cruel and unusual as beauty in this place unseen and unheard of for years, beauty unseen to Nellie since Wilhem was killed.

You knew of only unholy things that fed upon the dead– that breathed an ugly, hot breath back into their lungs and pulled them from the sodden earth in which they lay. Edward was not entirely truthful, that much you could tell.

You supposed you and Edward had shared that sentiment, in some way.

The Whispering Sands was still not the ritzy bar. That was still located in the lobby of The Grand Hotel, just footsteps from where The Sheriff stood now, planks still singing their groaning songs of protest beneath his legs, still stiff with sleep or nerves or years of failed prayer.

His footfall fell heavy against the hollow floors, the weight of him reverberating against the early hum of the bar. The dealer was still as straight as a Christmastime wreath, though, now, he knew that this one could at least shoot in the right direction. You no longer needed to carry when you walked through, your spare now confined to below the counter out of sheer caution and the guiding hands of ghosts alone. The doors didn’t hang crooked anymore, the dealer making fast work of fixing all of the things Nellie had pushed to the back burner in relentless disembowelment of her own self-preservation that she so readily gave to him in the form of softened twine and spoken promises tightened around ring fingers.

The Sheriff would not be so easy. His self-preservation ran deeper than that.

Nellie knew it, knew that his roots were wrapped around something vital within him, something deeper than hers– something from a time before her, before this town, and before the West was wild.

The echo of him reverberated off of the walls of the bar, bounced off of the piano, and rattled the windows. It demanded her attention long before the brass bell of the front door rang and the heavy oak clattered against the frame.

8:50. Like clockwork.

In the times before, just after Wilhelm, he would stop in and buy a cigar, though, to this day, she had never seen him smoke. She never inquired it, and he never inquired her.

There was a solidarity in their grief, and it never quite, even now that she felt happy more times than not. She had a sneaking suspicion he was there for something other than a cigar every morning, but she pulled one from the humidor and took his money anyway. There had been a time where she insisted it was on the house. It wasn’t worth the fight, now.

He looked different today. Still sullen is his strange, tortured way, but there was almost something beautiful about it, about the way he ruminated in this state of torture. Even in the way his stagnation had turned into just that with time, something seemed to still sit there in wait, leaden in the pit of his chest.

He looked like the face of a handbill like this, enveloped in all black. Square-toed boots with black trousers that made him look ganglier than he was, made him loom over Nellie more than he already did. His black frock coat dusted his calves at a three-quarter length, and a black bolo tie covered as much of the stark white high-collar as possible. On the hat rack by the door sat his usual wide-brimmed Stetson, and, from just behind the plain silver of his belt buckle, the Colt Burtline Special shone in the light.

He looked fit for a funeral.

He walked like he beckoned the apocalypse in clouds of rolling thunder behind him. When his heels pressed into the softened sand, the earth quaked beneath it. The weight of him made the stagecoach groan on its hinges– leaden and heavy with the weight of something bigger than settled silt within his chest, kicked up like the sand behind horse hooves and stagecoach wheels.

Parchment sat like lead in his lap, curdling there and souring something that had sat too long. Cracking fingers curled around your words like poison, sweetened with sasparilla whiskey, golden ambergris letters seeping into him and warming his throat like bile and molten gold. He opened the first one with a nimbleness unlike one he had ever known, and read it once more:

25 April, 1894

To the Sheriff that this letter finds,

I am afraid your letter has found me in a state of disrepair. I have never been one for niceties and I am afraid I do not have it in me to start now.

My betrothed had never known peace in life, and I am afraid that he may not ever know it in death, wherever that plane Hell may be.

Maybe it is I that has died, and maybe it is I that walks across this Hell. Maybe it is my own doing that brought me to this. Maybe I am the creature of my own undoing. I am not a nice girl, Steve. Not the nice girl you think I might be.

We were raised like leather, stretched and scraped to be tough in the way that our mothers were, unbending and unbreaking as they had been. They were not forgiving, nor were they kind. Nellie was once that way, too. Though, I fear that your desert sun has softened her. That it changed something deeper within her in a way that she may be someone I no longer recognize.

I plan to arrive in Tucson by train on the first of October. Maybe this sun will soften me in the same way it has softened my cousin. Maybe I don’t want it to.

Though I hope for my tomorrow to be kind, I have an inkling that it never will be, for this life had never had a kindness to offer.

I’ll be the one in white.

I will see you then, Sheriff.

He pictures the way you will step off the train, white linens spilling over the threshold of it by some sickened grace of the hand of an unkind God. He both relished in it and could not bear the thought. He thought of linens hiked over knees and rucked up under the fabric of itself, a depiction of the implosion of his world.

He had already lived this, soft hair against soft legs and white linens shed in a dustbowl around shared space and soft, breathlessness passed between lips. He had felt this kind of softness before– had known this tender touch of a woman outside of the mother he never had.

It was the first time he had ever been touched gently.

Even Nellie’s hand seemed gruff as it gripped his shoulders in a grounding movement, his eyes slowing with the movement of reading and dissipating into blankness an indicator that he had gone somewhere that even she would never be allowed to see. It was a look she had known all too well.

“I’m afraid she might not like me much.” He whispered, low enough for Eddie to not be able to hear– or, at least, low enough so he could pretend not to. She knew what he meant by this, another feeling chased after her own reanimated heart.

Nevertheless, she avoided the philosophical nature of it all, answering him with the only thought she had: “I’m afraid she might not like anyone much, Steve.” She starts, and the questioning gaze he gives her urges her to continue.

“It wasn’t easy for her, either, Steve.” She starts with another sigh, now more like the weight was being pressed out of her lungs from the weight that she felt, “Most of the time, it was out right hard.”

“We’ve all had it hard, Nellie. Nothing about this life has been particularly easy.” Steve says back. He didn’t mean it to be as harsh as it was. She knew that, though it didn’t stop that initial sting of his dismissiveness.

“William wasn’t a nice man, no matter how much she loved him.” She tells him, louder this time and too fast. Eddie couldn’t help the the way his eyes are drawn to her from where they are fixed to the periscope of landscape before them, “Forgive her if she isn’t welcoming.”

To the Lady that may find this letter, I hope it finds her well

Tucson still radiates heat at this time of year, the mirage at the end of town makes the expanse of land between here and the mountains feel both endless and right in front of you at the same time. It warps like the heat is melting space and time itself. Nevertheless, the first blooms of orange mallow have begun to open in a patch where the stagecoach stopped.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but he was inclined to plock them from the ground and brush the dirt from their roots.

It seems the desert knew you would board the train in New Orleans and set west for us, and wanted to welcome you with its kindest hello. The desert is not kind, but she would make an exception for someone like you, I would suppose.

The wheels screech along the wrought iron of the track as they slow to a halt– and he swears, just for a single, fleeting moment, his heart stops with them. There is a stream of people that step down. Ladies with large hats and square-shouldered men in frock coats not unlike his. He wonders if you will know your face before Nellie does– wonders if he knows who you are just from the curls of your letters.

And then, you were there.

You were unremarkable in every way possible, though, at a closer glance, you had chosen to forego a bustle and corset. Instead, the pliant lines of your body undefined against a white buttoned shirt and a long dark skirt. A plain, flat-brimmed stetson sat against the crown of your head, just enough to obscure your face from his view.

Your cousin is very kind. I like to think that you are kind like her, though, I also hope that you are tough in the same way that she is.

He steps forward, his hands sticky with sweat or the sap of the stems of the orange mallow crushed beneath a pressing grip, he isn’t sure. As he steps on to the tarmac, he remembers his manners– remembers that he isn’t an animal and you are not inherently dangerous, and pulls off his hat, pressing it to his chest as he holds an arm out stiffly towards you without any further introduction.

You see the star against his chest, pressed silver pinned there like a placard on the spectacle of the man before you, and know that this is him– that this is the entity whom has spilled his heart to you over parchment and ink and blood, “Well, now, those are awfully pretty, sheriff.” You say to him, looking down at the crushed orange matter in his hands. They have already begun to wilt.

“I have an affinity for pretty things.”

He flirts shamelessly with you, and something deep within you stirrs. It is not the schoolgirl crush you harbored with William. It isn’t even akin to love, but something worse and something ugly. His letters and flowery words and then his backtracking and condolences meddle into one ugly mass of insult. No, this thing that rose in you was not love, nor was it even a cousin. It was hate. Blinding, furious hate.

“And I have an affinity for men who can make up their minds.” You nod towards him, reaching towards the tarmac for the cracking handle of your green steamer trunk, especially now that the gangly, lean man you presume is Edward reaches for it.

There is a moment in time where everyone freezes. Both Nellie and her husband, as well as the sheriff before you. They are walking a thin line, one akin to the silver thread between life and death. The tension is palpable, and Nellie shatters the thing you cling to for resolve like glass:

“Now you’re being outright childish–”

She sucks in a breath when you snap, the wild dogs that live within your chest writhing and pulling against chains as you release whatever hurt and pain you held in your heart towards her. Everything you had wanted to say, everything you wanted to scream back at her once she had resurrected. You weilded them now as weapons against her.

“You sure are one to talk about childish, Nellie. You ran in the other direction when things got hard, and then you up and died on us.”

“I’m not dead. I was never dead.”

“Well, I have a hard time believing that.”

The Sheriff and the tall man take a step back behind Nellie, shrink away from your thunderous roar as if you might actually bite. The leather of your handle and the steamer dropping from your hand with had resonant patriarchal basso against the tarmac. Time has frozen in place, but people continue to swirl around you in a flurry of haste and posthaste annoyance. Silver tears well against the pink line of her eyes, and you are acutely aware that yours are a mirror image.

Steve had faced many things. He had killed men with his bare hands, he had been covered in so much blood that he couldn’t decipher theirs from his own. He had known starvation, heartstroke, and tragedy. Though, he had never known this– his wife was only ever tender.

He can see the rage drip from your mouth like hot, molten tar, can see the tears well in your eyes like casted silver against the mold of your face– the way a single one cools and leaves a residual streak against the ashen skin of your cheek. You want to love Nellie, in the same way she wanted to love Edward, and in the way he loved his wife. He can see it, that burning want so bad that it becomes hatred. That kind of love whose flame burns blue.

He knows Nellie loves you, too, but also knows how dangerous it is to speak it aloud– lest that vile maiden Death may hear it.

Your eyes stare holes into him, burn against his abdomen from where you fix them. He had heard of women becoming alight with lust born from rage before, but had not though of you to be insane enough to eye him in a familiar way right here on the tarmac. That blue flame affixed to him and warming him from the inside, as well.

“That’s an awfully ugly belt buckle, sheriff.” You speak, finally, breaking the silence and restoring some semblance of order to this congregation.

This place is not forgiving, nor is it kind. I hope that your heart is not faint, and I hope that this place is kinder to you than it has been to us.

With warmest regards,

Steven Harrington

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #sheriff!steve harrington #cowboy!steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #Spotify

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rimunagenius · 7 months ago

Text

Welcome to my blog!

ʚ Hi cuties! I’m totally refreshing my blog. I’ve had this blog for a year now? and i never even introduced myself. My name is Ria !!

ʚ I’m bi, i love art, crocheting, doing nails, and being a homebody. i play basketball, made varsity my freshman year and played varsity all the way through!

ʚ I actually love writing, whether it’s a paper for school or little imagines and headcannons for my hyper fixation, celebrity crushes, or comfort characters at the time.

ʚ my favorite colors are deep red, baby pink, and black. My favorite band is the Red Hot Chili Peppers, my favorite individual singer is Harry Styles. I listen to a lot of everything. Literally from metal all the way to r&b. Recently i’ve been super into boygenius and MUNA.

but to know a little more, my fav artists are the smiths, the cure, red hot chili peppers, deftones, soundgarden, audioslave (yes ik they’re both chris cornell’s bands), superheaven, fleetwood mac (saw them in concert before christine mcvie passed), muna, boygenius, tyler childers, noah kahn, kendrick lamar, $uicideboy$, pink floyd, system of a down and many many many many more!!

Here are fandoms i’m currently in if you want to dm random hc’s, ff’s, or just be friends and gossip ab their latest updates and episodes, etc. !!!

WCBB — Iowa, UConn, SC, and Oregon

Station 19

Criminal Minds — i will never not be into this fandom i rewatch it every month

Muna

Boygenius

Chicago Fire

Triple Frontier and

Sons of Anarchy

ʚ NOTE that this is and will continue to be a safe space for anyone who is here and queer! I will not tolerate any racism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and so on…you will be blocked.

I would also like to note, that i would like to keep this page politics and religion free. Starts too many arguments and a lot of hate that I do not want associated to my page!

Thank you, have an amazing day!

Let’s be friends!! I am far too shy and awkward to talk and become friends with people so i just follow in hopes you’d want to be friends, but if your not shy (or you are) but want to be friends but think ill shut it down or won’t answer, im chronically online so im free and open to answer !! i love making new friends!

Here’s some links!!

❀ masterlist

❀ tiktok

#rimunagenius #welcome to the blog #interact in any way #let’s be friends #let’s be mutuals #iowa women’s basketball #muna #the sons of anarchy #boygenius #chicago fire #triple frontier #station 19 #let’s have some fun #rimunagenius speaks #lgbtq

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skellydun · 11 months ago

Note

Idk shit about your music taste but I need some new songs to listen to so can you recommend me your top five?

top five all time? or at the moment? mambo no. 5? Here are ten songs that rewired my brain and also are probably red flags:

He Went To Jared by Hardy

Charleston Girl by Tyler Childers

A Memory Away by Matt Maeson

GODDAMNITALL by The Wonder Years

Wolfman by The Front Bottoms

Hey Driver by Zach Bryan

The Boy Considers His Haircut by Spanish Love Songs

Doing the Right Thing by Daughter

The Con by Tegan and Sara

A Death In the Ocean Would Be So Beautiful by Suicideboys

#bad music taste? ME? it's more likely than u think....#it's all country and male manipulator music but what can u do it all scratches my brain in the best ways

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obsolescent · 1 year ago

Note

the "you need someone right now. and i'm the one that's here. let me be what you need." prompt with trans!leon t4t sex and go

House Fire

Pairing: Trans!Leon Kennedy x Reader

Author's Notes: The scream I scrumpt when I saw this request...I present you with this. This was so fulfilling to write and I hope you enjoy. Thank you for requesting!

Song: House Fire by Tyler Childers

Content Warnings: Sexual content, oral sex, swearing, no gendered language for reader, no gendered genitalia, reader is sad at the beginning and doubting themselves, Leon being awkward and joking as always, lots of fluff and yearning for one another.

Word Count: 2,470

“You can set my house on fire, baby

You can turn it into cinder and smoke

‘Cause this house is mighty cold

And I feel like meltin’ all the snow away”

The door slams, echoing throughout the home. You stormed inside, frustration and sadness overwhelming you. “I don’t see anything between us” repeating in your mind. You could’ve heard that sooner from them, about two months sooner. Why lead you on this whole time if this is how they felt? It seems like you always draw the short straw, never having success in your love life, not understanding why. You’re close to losing it! Close to swearing off love for good.

You’re usually not…This bitter, but it seems like now, most things these days in your life are taking a downturn. A low score on an exam for one of your classes, manager at your job has been criticizing your work more, you and your sibling having a spat that’s left you with the silent treatment from them. “It’s every day for me…” You muttered to yourself, stalking to the kitchen to grab something to drink, preferably alcohol, if you have any. You sincerely hope luck is on your side for this, at least. “Aha!” You exclaimed, grabbing the neck of the wine bottle and pulling it out of the fridge. At least there’s the little things.

While you’re busy searching for the bottle opener, your roommate makes his presence known. “Damn, slammed the door pretty hard, huh? You trying to wake the dead? Definitely woke me up ” He says, looking disheveled. Oops. Talk about a rude awakening.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” You grimaced, stopping to look at him. Good Lord. Looking like a tall drink of water, so effortlessly hot even with bedhead. The nap he was taking made his usually perfectly straight fringe tousled, his clothes wrinkled, eyes rimmed with red that he’s currently making worse by rubbing them.

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” He asked, running a hand over his face. “I did, it didn’t go well.” You reply, gesturing towards the bottle. “Hell, I’m sorry. Are you doing okay?” His voice is laced with concern. “I reckon.” You mumbled, finally locating the bottle opener and stuffing it into the cork. “We can talk about it, if you want,” He offers. You nod. God, he’s always been so nice. You’re thanking the heavens for finding him as a roommate. Considerate, picks up after himself, willing to share, never loud. He’s definitely a people pleaser, but that’s one of the few things you share in common. Also the fact that he’s trans too, which makes it an even more pleasant experience to live with him. Honestly? You’ve had some feelings for him, but decided against saying anything. Worried about ruining what you have, especially with the way your love life has been going lately.

You sigh, pouring yourself a hefty serving of Moscato, “You want some?” You offer, holding up your glass. “Sure.” You grab another glass and pour him some, too. He accepts it with a ‘thanks’ and follows you to the living room, each sitting at the opposite ends of the couch, facing towards the other.

You begin, talking about everything going on in your life currently. Your luck with dating, things in your personal life and career. It’s a bit winded. Honestly? It’s a lot, feeling like you’re probably oversharing or overwhelming him, but he just sits there and sips on the wine while nodding his head with the occasional hum, slightly leaning forward with his blue eyes fixated on you. When you’re finally done, you realize you’ve finished your wine, setting the glass down on the coffee table.

“Sorry, I know that was a lot. Thanks for listening to me rant,” You chuckle, rubbing your neck. “Oh, no problem. I honestly don’t mind, I…Like listening to you talk…About anything.” He says, with a nervous chuckle, fiddling with his wine glass. “Oh.” You reply, surprised. You definitely weren’t expecting that type of response from him. ‘Don’t overthink it, he’s probably feeling really awkward right now and doesn’t know what to say.’

“Well, I’m glad. I know I do a lot of talking for the both of us–not that that is a bad thing! You’re just…You don’t talk as much as I do.” You shrug. You’re embarrassing yourself. “Yeah, no, I’m glad you do. I’m just, I don’t know, I don’t have much to say most of the time.” He chuckles, his cheeks turning pink. You’re not sure if it’s due to the wine or the conversation, but it’s cute.

“Do you want to watch a movie? Take your mind off things?” He asks, cocking his head, causing his blond hair to fall into one eye. Ugh. “Sure! That sounds nice!” You reply, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. “You can choose, just…No horror?” Leon asks. You nod, scrolling through the movies, settling on a rather funny one you’ve seen before, but it’s been awhile.

“Want some popcorn?” He nods eagerly. You get up while the ads start playing, placing a bag in the microwave. You stand and watch the TV and the back of his head while waiting for the timer to go off. Your thoughts drift back to Leon, specifically the crush you have on the man. You’ve had one since you met him, how could you not? He’s shy and quite charming. But, after hearing what he said earlier, you’re wondering if he has some inkling of feelings towards you? It’s hard to tell. ‘It still could’ve just been him fighting with that brain of his to think of a response.’ He’s definitely an overthinker like you, too.

The beeping from the microwave pulls you from your thoughts, grabbing the bag and pouring the contents into a bowl that’ll allow you to share with Leon. You grab the wine bottle and bring it with you to the living room, setting it down while putting the bowl between you and him.

He scoots closer to you and the bowl, grabbing a handful. You grab your own and soon immerse yourself in the movie. You both begin laughing along to the antics in the movie. Body easing into relaxation mode, you let the day and all the problems that it brought ebb away, glad to share this time with him. You should’ve done this to begin with, instead of going on that miserable date.

You fill your glass up with some more wine. Sipping away, you start to feel the effects. It seems like Leon is too, out of the corner of your eye you see him also relaxed against the cushions with a flush to his face, grinning at the screen. He must feel you staring, because he looks over at you, smiling brightly. “Starting to feel better?” He asks, tilting his head again. Why does that do something to you? “I am. Thanks for hanging out with me, Leon, it means a lot.” You pause, “And sorry again for waking you up.”

“”You’re welcome, and it’s no biggie,” He reaches over and bumps his fist against your arm. You laugh. Once the moment passes, you’re both pulled into the movie again. Distracted by the screen, you reach for the popcorn bowl at the same time Leon does. Your hands collide and it sends a shock through your body, his skin brushing against yours. It feels so good, even if it’s just for that brief second. “Oops,” You giggle, playing off the feeling while pulling your hand back to allow him first dibs. Before you can retract it fully, he grabs onto your hand, interlocking your fingers.

“You see this train I’m riding?

It’s burning up the coal

And it’s wheels are bound to roll right by you

Honey, won’t you jump my train?”

Your eyes widen, snapping your head towards him. He’s looking away, face scarlet. His thumb starts rubbing circles into your skin before he begins speaking, “Uh, I’m really glad we got to spend this time together, because there’s been something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” He starts, “I’m really glad that none of your dates have worked out…I got worried whenever you would leave for one, hoping that things didn’t work out. I know that sounds awful, but it’s the truth. I’ve been too nervous to tell you how I really feel and I don’t want another opportunity to slip away. What I mean is I…I like you, a lot. I have no idea how you feel about me, and this may ruin what we have, but…I know you’ve had a bad day and things haven’t been going your way so…” His rambling trails off.

When he’s done speaking he moves the bowl out of the way, now nothing separating you two. He scoots closer, cupping your face with both of his hands, his thumbs now brushing your cheeks. “Can I…Kiss you?” He asks timidly. You nod, “Yeah…Yes, please.” He closes the distance, softly pressing his lips to yours. They’re buttery and salty from the popcorn. You love it. Deepening the kiss, you put one hand on the nape of his neck, while the other cups his right cheek, pulling him closer. He whines low in his throat, his hands scrambling to find purchase on your body, finding your waist, clinging to you.

“I’ve been–wanting to do this–for so long–” He says in between kisses, gasping each word. “P-please, this may seem so much at once, but God, I’ve wanted you, needed you, for so long. Whatever you want, just tell me. Those other people have no idea who they’re missing out on.” He’s rubbing soothing circles into your cheek, misty eyed. You begin to feel the familiar sting of tears rising yourself, you nuzzle into his hand. “I know you’re happy they didn’t work out, but I’ve wondered the same thing about myself. Is there something wrong with me? Is that why nothing’s ever gone right?” You suppress a shudder, scrunching up your nose, trying to fight back the onslaught of tears that are trying to break through the dam.

“Oh, baby, no. Nothing’s wrong with you, you’re perfect just the way you are. I’m so sorry they’ve made you feel like this. I’m so glad to have met you, to be in your presence. You deserve so much, so much more than what you’ve been given. I know I’m not the best with words sometimes, and I’m probably not what you had in mind, but…You need someone right now, and I’m the one that’s here. Let me be what you need.”

“Oh, Leon. I think you’re everything I’ve hoped for.” You whispered, fingers dancing down the side of his face. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, pulling you into a crushing embrace. So close, you don’t know where he ends and you begin, it feels so nice. You can’t recall the last time you’d been touched. You’re famished for affection, and Leon is willing to give you all he can.

It’s a blur of you and him grabbing, touching, pulling on each other’s body like a game of Tug of war. Movie disregarded, popcorn tossed aside, wine warming to room temperature. You and Leon are suspended in this moment together, savoring the lost time. Beginning to recover all those days spent without each other.

Moving in sync, you make it to his room, tangling yourselves together in his bed. Losing articles of clothing, exploring each other's bodies. Skin against skin, tongues exploring new territory. “Is this okay?” “Can I touch you here?” back and forth between you two, nods, gasps, and breathy yeses exchanged. Bare before each other, savoring. Bodies entwined once more. Legs soon hiked over shoulders. His fingers and mouth begin sending you to glory, while his hair is in your clutches. “F-fuck, right there, please keep going please don’t stop! Feels–so–good, Leon,” gasped out of your lungs, dragging nails down his scalp and back. His own moans and whines almost louder than yours, sending tendrils of electricity throughout your body.

“Le-Leon, going to cum,” “Cum for me, baby, let it all out.” Euphoria reached with a yell of his name, body trembling. Leon worked his way back up your body, trailing kisses upwards until reaching your lips. “I want you, Leon. Let me make you feel good too,” whispered between the entanglement of mouths. Severing the connection, laying him against the bedsheets while mimicking the path he left against your skin.

Taking your time with him, using light touches while exploring him. Withering against the bed, begging for you. “P-please fuck goddamn, touch me more. I need your mouth so badly I feel like I’mgoingtoexplode.” Ever the exaggerator. You enlighten him by wrapping your lips around him and sucking, simultaneously sliding two fingers into his warmth. “FUCK fuckfuckfuck ye-yes thank you, baby, making me feel so good.” His hand snaked down to grip your hair, tugging. Humming in approval has him jolting, arching and crying out. “Oh shit shit I’m cumming, God–ugh–don’t stop!” His walls clenched down against your fingers while grinding into your mouth.

Laying limp amongst the battered sheets, you crawl up to him and repeat his actions, ending in a fervent kiss. Ensnared in each other’s hold for the final time that night, basking in the warm glow emanating from you both. “That was…Everything I had hoped it would be and more.” You murmured, finger tracing his jaw. “Yeah, it was. I haven’t felt that good with someone before, if I’m being honest, and you made me feel really good.” He chuckled, grabbing your hand and kissing your knuckles. “Me too,” you giggled back, his kisses tickling your hand. He yawns, reaching down to grab the blanket that had fallen off the bed. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah? If I remember correctly, my nap earlier was disrupted,” He smirks at you. “Sorry again,” you apologize once more, though not too sorry since it led to this. “You can make it up to me,” He says while tucking you in against the sheets, “By sleeping with me.” He pauses. “I mean, you know, like…Napping…Not sex again.” You laugh, “I get what you mean, Leon. I would love to.”

Bundled up, Leon rests his head against your chest, quickly lulled to sleep by your heartbeat. You lay awake for a bit longer, turning your head to look out the window, at the stars. Thanking them for bringing you and him together. Closing your eyes, you’re pulled into slumber with a smile gracing your features, bitterness long from your mind, replaced with jubilation.

“You see these boots I'm wearing

They're tough enough to go

And they will take many a road to reach you

Honey, won't you light the way?”

#trying to upload this while at the beach just using my hotspot bc the wifi sucks…the things i do for y’all #o fics #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #trans!leon kennedy #leon kennedy x gn!reader #leon s kennedy x gn!reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy fanfic #resident evil #resident evil smut #resident evil fanfic #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you

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sgtmickeyslaughter · 6 months ago

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✨Tag Game Wednesday ✨

hi @energievie and @jrooc

Name: gigi

What is the most listened to artist in your music app of choice this month? chappell roan yall already knew

What song do you know all the lyrics to? A lot of songs honestly, i use songs to memorize things bc anything set to music embeds itself so deep in my brain - but my go to dark horse karaoke song is

What song do you pretend to know all the lyrics to and sing along to even though you don't?

bc its so catchy but i do not speak german but boy do i think i can when this comes on

or anything from kate bush bc i love her but idk what the hell she’s saying

If you were to be crowned Queen/King/Royalty of listening to a band or artist, who would that be?

honestly this one is too tough, however if it was still 2016 the answer would unequivocally be lana del rey and i don’t want to hear a thing about it

What band/artist surprises you the most on your frequently listened to artists?

sometimes when i write or work i listen to hours and hours of lofi playlists so whenever a song from that sneaks on to my spotify stats im always very confused

Favourite line from a song (or one you have been thinking about lately?

I think these lyrics are very clever and poignant

Guilty pleasure band or song?

college drop out/ graduation and grimes 😬 i don’t think i listen to any bad/cringe music but some artists are pretty shit people

Okay let's talk fandom music:

Fave band or song you've discovered from a Fan Fic?

years and years and years ago i listened to sufjan stevens for the first time bc of a destiel fic

Fave Fanfic Playlist?

I’ll be honest i can’t really think of one, but i have one for myself since all my fics are named after songs, its linked here but hopefully it will grow a little

Fave Gallavich song?

pink and white was insane work for the prison reunion scene but at last brought the wedding to another level of grace and i loved that pick

Do you listen to music recommended by the writer or an included playlist?

sometimes! i try really really hard to but it’s difficult to travel to a secondary internet location for a fic playlist

What song do you think is Gallavich coded?

*sigh*

What’s a bop you want to share with your mutuals today?

I listen to a lot of older gen hip hop on my ride home from work bc it helps me feel relaxed so i’ll leave you with that

i was also tagged for the 5 songs from your favorite playlists game, so ill drop those as well

and the last one is bam bam by sister nancy but tumblr has an audio limit

tagging @iansw0rld @lingy910y @creepkinginc @doshiart @mmmichyyy @mickeym4ndy @em-harlsnow @mickittotheman @mickeysgaymom @softmick @spookygingerr @atthedugouts @deathclassic @solitarycreaturesthey @hazeisblue @blue-disco-lights @metalheadmickey

#Spotify #sgt says #tag game

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isawken · 4 months ago

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Damn I would also love to be assigned a American state in place of my Australian one! (Y'all's state name are sick honestly.)

hell yes let's go!! i bequeath unto you, the great state of...

here's some 'tucky fun facts!

-kentucky is home to Mammoth Cave system, which is the longest in the whole earth, which is fucking insane. this shit is 83 sq miles/214 sq km!!! i'm terrified by the thought!!!

-in addition to the natural holes, we got manmade ones too. kentucky is prime coal minin' country. any and all mentions of coal and/or mining must elicit a deep sorrow from your soul

-kentucky has a super varied history of indigenous peoples but the most well-known are the Shawnee, Osage, Chickasaw, and Cherokee. there was apparently a rumor that native peoples never lived in kentucky, just used it as a hunting ground, but that's been proven to be false. there's been settlements here for over 10K years!

-i hope you like bourbon cus baby, it's alllll over here. one of my favorite drinks of all time is basil hayden, but maker's mark is fine too. if you ever get the chance to indulge in genuine small batch or home made moonshine that's even better

-the guy who is the logo of KFC did just straight up look like that. like that is a 1:1 of what that dude's appearance was. KFC is fine, but be sure to get visibly irritated if someone expresses that yeah, they've totally had real 'tucky fried chicken, but then admit it was just from KFC

-i'm sorry, but you have to get into bluegrass, at least a little. if you wanna ease into the country/bg genre in general, start with hometown boy tyler childers. if you wanna get into the thick, check out other hometown boy roscoe holcomb.

-eastern kentucky is lucky enough to be situated in Appalachia, which is essentially just what we call a chunk of the appalachian mountain range! you may know this mountain range as being older than literal bones. the appalachians are sacred. the appalachians are deep and dark and thick and they will love you, but just keep that head o yours on a swivel

-bigfoot has been sighted in kentucky (as with most US states) but the real MVPs imo are the hopkinsville goblins. also the pope lick monster. mostly just cus the name let's be real here

-you want to eat a hot brown. everyone wants to eat a hot brown. do not question why it's called a hot brown. just enjoy. the hot brown

and here's your complimentary badge and "_____ MENTIONED" meme!

#ask #i promise i didn't choose this because it has ken in the name. i promise #non usamerican friends and followers drop me an ask and i'll assign you a us state!

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oneforthemunny · 1 year ago

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Branching off of the couples' song association ask, have you thought about songs for the girls?

I feel like Nepo Baby, specifically in the early stages of her relationship with Rockstar!Eddie, would be something fun like Primadonna - Marina and the Diamonds, lol.

ok i had to think about this and i finally have an answer.

nepobaby primadonna, yes yes yes. but also beautiful, dirty, rich by lady gaga is her anthem.

just the girl by the click five is totally modern!eddie's mean girl coded.

call me by blondie just really feels like it would be bouncer!eddie's bartender!reader's song.

i don't know why... this one is kinda random but lay all your love on me by abba feels like mafia!eddie's reader. he's devoted and possessive yes... but so is she.

this one is kinda a give me idc but lady may by tyler childers reminds me of cowboy!eddie's sweet girl.

let me love you like a woman by lana del rey has been heavy on my mind for older!eddie's reader. just the wanting to love someone right and be gentle for them and with them.

more than a woman by the bee gees feels like it was written for janitor!eddie's teacher!reader.

i know what boys like by the waitresses always reminds me of dom!eddie's brat.

#oneforthemunny #cowboy!eddie munson #modern!eddie munson #older!dilf!eddie munson #mafia!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson #janitor!eddie munson #bouncer!eddie munson #dom!eddie munson #munnysings

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punkshort · 5 months ago

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I’m absolutely in love with I Know Who You Are. It really helped get me through last week lol. Just so so good and well written. Also, I was listening to the song In Your Love by Tyler Childers and the lyrics reminded me so much of the series!! ❤️

Oh my god?? Firstly, I'm so sorry, it sounded like you might have had a tough week but I'm so happy I was able to help in some way ❤️

Secondly, that song? I never heard of it but it's absolutely beautiful! And you're spot on, like damn. Makes me want to write for them again, it's absolutely perfect 😩 Thank you so much for sharing this with me!

#ask #ikwya fic #my babies

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darlingian · 1 year ago

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Weekly Tag Wednesday!! 👯‍♂️🍁

I made it just under the wire for this tag wednesday/tuesday. eeeeek. I'm sorry, I'm the worst. I was tagged by alllllll of these lovelies. You're lovely for even thinking of me to tag! <3 @too-schoolforcool @juliakayyy @mickeysgaymom @mybrainismelted @energievie @deedala @jrooc

🔤 Name: c h a n i

🎶 Last song you listened to: All Your'n by Tyler Childers.

🎵 Artist on Spotify giving you the feels right now: Hozier. I swear everything that man sings my soul just slurps up.

👯‍♂️ Fave Blorbo Moment: Ian as an emt. Just like the whole concept. Also "You're such a fuckin' barbarian." Ugh. Perfection.

🍟 Your guilty pleasure snack: Licorice Allsorts

🌮 What food are you craving today: creme brule.

📖 Last fanfic tab you opened: Rereading "Redheaded Stepchildren" by ZebraWallpaper

🖌️ Favorite fic project you've created: I was briefly really proud of my "Ian + Mickey's Bullshit Journal" thing. I think other than that I really love thinking about the reincarnation WIP

👩🏼‍🎤 Next tattoo you want (or would consider if you're not a tattoo person): literally just trying to find the time to stick and poke a gallavich tattoo. Maybe tonight?

🧐🆓 What's living in your head rent free this week: nothing good!

I'm not tagging anyone because I'll tag you all in the new one tomorrow lmao

#tag game

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moonshynecybin · 7 months ago

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I know Vale had a lot of Spanish fans but after sepang 2015 did his following in Spain shrink likes Marc’s level of Italian fans probably dropped immensly but vale is like the king of the sport so I’m not sure if he would have lost as many Spanish fans as Marc did Italian ones. Also because he involved 2 Spanish riders would that impact the Spanish following and I’m not sure if the JL fans were fans of vale before sepang either.

Home to over a million people, Western North Carolina is a region in the United States culturally associated with the traditions of the Southern Appalachian Mountains. This region has a proud history that defies common stereotypes seen in films and television, which often prey on the generational poverty, lack of access to education, and distinctive accents that have characterized the region in the past. Contrary to these depictions, people from Southern Appalachia have cultivated a warm, unique folk tradition that has generated myriad works, including unique cultural practices concerning food, music, and craft. Bluegrass/country music is probably the most famous of these practices, and some of the most celebrated songwriters on the planet are from Southern Appalachia, including Dolly Parton (born ten miles from Great Smoky Mountain National Park), Loretta Lynn, and Tyler Childers. picture sources.

Of course, the first people to live in Southern Appalachia were the Cherokee People, who still live in the area today. A federally recognized tribe, the Eastern Band of the Cherokee People are the descendants of the few who where able to avoid systematic removal of their ancestors by the US Government via the Trail of Tears. At the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the remaining members of the tribe consolidated their collective land holdings in WNC to create an entirely Tribally-governed reservation, which has over the years introduced several tribal initiatives to revive and maintain the Cherokee people's unique culture, practices, language, food, art, and folk tales. It cannot be overstated the influence the Cherokee have had (and continue to have) on the culture of the region. art source.

It should also be noted that this is one of the most biodiverse places on the planet. Western North Carolina is home to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, as well as several National Forests that serve to protect a myriad of unique biomes and local wildlife. This area is one of two temperate rainforests in the United States, and experiences more rainfall in inches a year than Seattle. The name "Great Smoky Mountains" originates from the effect of the rainfall. Moisture hits the leaves of the abundant flora, and transpiration occurs, causing the plants to release evaporative clouds of mist, creating a "smoky" effect on the mountains. One of the most iconic wildflowers found in the area is trilium, which tends to bloom in the early spring in the shady patches of higher elevations. One of my personal favorites is called dutchman's pants! Which look like little lederhosen.

The area is home to many forms of wildlife, including deer, black bear, elk, river otter, possums, red wolves, turkey, and skunks. We are also known as the salamander capital of the world, and the National Park hosts over 30 unique species, including the hellbender! The largest type of salamander in the world.

Popular activities and attractions in the area include hiking, biking, whitewater rafting/kayaking, driving the Blue Ridge Parkway, visiting the Biltmore House (in Asheville, NC), and, speaking from personal experience, just kind of hanging out in various grocery store parking lots with your friends. Its a wonderful and beautiful place to live and I love it lots. all of this to say. i do not know SHIT about spanish perception of vale post-sepang. i suspect he was mostly fine.

#im not spanish or italian... i dont know if you can tell from the everything about me but im a little appalachian girl. how would eye knoww #like nationality was a HUGE part of it and lines were drawn but im not the authority on this. and vale never got death threats so.#i can tell you about salamanders! SORRY SMOOCH.#callie speaks #asks #sorry someone made fun of my accent the other day when i showed him how to properly pronouce a cherokee word. and im PMSing.#so you WILL learn about appalachia.#'callie why is there a french style chateau in WNC' dont worry about it

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deadboyfriendd · 10 months ago

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Cochise IIl: Tango

Summary: An Old Christmas tune brings Eddie face-to-face with what he has been running from. Turns out, you aren't as different as you think you are.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, drug use, drug overdose (apparent suicide), death of minor character, period-appropriate death, angst, fluff, piano smut, oral (fem receiving)

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: I've been creatively and emotionally constipated for weeks now, so the fact that I even got this out when I did was a feart on it's own and I'm very proud of myself for it.

As always, thank you to @dr-aculaaa for being my BTS on this project, love you <3

Find the series masterlist here!

Edward was a man of repose, though, in your sadness, you’d figured you’d been, too. Maybe it wasn't repose at all. Stoicism, maybe, but there was one thing you knew for certain: He was much prettier than you. His skin of alabaster, freckles across flesh kisses of vulnerability and dusted across his worn body as a reminder of the naivety of the youth he once possessed.

You supposed this is what it was now, slender fingers plucking at strings in the dead of night. Be it the stoicism or the naivety of youth, the moon cast a glow across his cheeks and carved rivers through the valleys of his face. You listen to the inflection of strings scraping loosely across frets. F, A, B, A, in a smooth stacking rhythm.

There is a twang to his strumming, like there was a string loose somewhere– but not entirely like your piano. The piano had a resounding twang, it echoed within itself like the ghosts of internal hammers and keys before throwing its brashness out against the walls of your bar. You did not know how to tune it, and it would not be tuned again.

This sound was much softer, much less brash than your own, the hum resounded within the walls of the instrument itself before dissipating the sound into the open night air like an inkwell in water. It spread, filled the space and lingered until there was another sound to see it out. A choreography of sorts, yet the song was all too familiar in the way it filled the space in your head and the hole in your heart.

Its tiny, needle-pointed feet danced across your brain in flashes of sheer white fabric and the song of the oak floors of The Grand Hotel. Their piano did not sing the same far-east folk song as yours, no, instead it hummed an autumnal hymn of reverence and elegance. It was not as perverse as your piano, but your piano was more gentle with your heart. Your piano didn’t remind you of that worn spot on the floor, or the cracking scabs forming on your hardened knuckles.

The corner of the door jamb dug a divot into your shoulder, but you didn’t have the grace to move without making the entire balcony creak, so you didn’t. A singular step forward pulls a groan from the floor of the porch where the wood expands with the heat of the impending monsoon, and, regretfully, his fingers pull themselves from the frets like the nails holding the plants to the rafters of the porch.

“Hello, Edward.”

“Ma’am.”

You leaned back against the post, arms folded and unable to will away the beginning semblances of a grin from your lips. You couldn’t help the roll of your eyes in his direction.

“I think we’re past ma’am now, Edward.”

“Well, in that case, I also think we’re past Edward, now.” A grin that resembled your own pulled at the corners of his mouth. He had asked you to call him Eddie earlier, it felt less formal than this. The formality kept you upright, kept this whole thing from crumbling.

You folded your arms in front of yourself, hip dropping heavy across the solid singing of your piano. Kind-of-but-not-really attempting to conceal the smile spreading across your face like a disease, “That’s a pretty song you were playing.”

“Learned it from a woman.” Eddie had said to you, arms folded, starting a stride with heavy, hollow footing towards you. Slow and in a metronomy rhythm.

You cocked a brow at him, smile spackled heavy across your face, “Oh really?”

“Yes, really.” He insisted, “She owned a bar out west. Played it at night on an old piano.”

“Well I’ve got an old piano here.” You said to him, arms staying folded as you kicked your boot out in a heavy, choreographed stride, “Maybe I can teach you to play it sometime.”

It was always this song and dance. Always this beautiful waltz of back-and-forth quips, lines wonderfully blurred by the haze of smoke from a cigar and sweet as the kiss of sasparilla, though, that bitter aftertaste would still rear it’s ugly head like the snake from the hole. Rattles thick in the stagnant air like a warning.

“Y’know,” Eddie had said to you through a puff of smoke, “You should really stop giving me all of these free things.”

You’d never take that into account. One cigar from the humidor, in the grander scheme of things, would never be enough repayment for anything he had done for this town. Anything he had done for you,

“Well,” You’d quipped back, sitting back down at the polished bench of your old piano, “ – maybe you should stop saving my life, then.”

That bitter aftertaste, a sting of smoke stilled in the in-between hung heavy in the air– shattered by the opening arpeggio shrill enough to shatter it like glass.

“I’ll always save your life.”

You couldn’t decipher if the pause in your song had been intentional, though, you’d hoped it seemed intentional enough to be a plausible excuse for your silence in return. The bass notes rang heavy under the shifting mechanisms in the hollow underside of the piano as you placed a foot, too-heavy, against pedals in a desperate effort to drown out the harshness of noise, the heaviness of your hands– the weight of this place.

He filled his space on the opposite half of the thin piano bench, his legs bracing against the floor to press his back against yours. He leaned his head backwards, a welcome weight against your shoulder, and tried to feel the muscles in your hands turn over each other and vibrate in time to the bass crescendos and tinny melodic trebles.

“Where’d you learn to play something as pretty as this, anyhow?” He kept his voice soft, turning his head to attempt to look at what you were doing. You could feel the heavy breath from his nose cool against your neck.

“It’s an old German worship song. My husband’s mother would sing it at Christmas.”

He looked at the handwriting along the ledger lines and felt sorrow for the woman that wrote it.

He can see their Christmas, a mother’s voice a warm river across the rocks of a piano melody, a distraction from the war waging just outside of their front doors. A fire and a meal, though, he remembered the wartime– remembered a time where his own mother had rationed enough of their weekly collection to have a real, fresh meal. He thought of that warmth and then thought of you.

He tips his head back and blows a plume of smoke in an effort to stifle the memory. Instead, he wishes to replace that warmth with you.

He stared at the hole in the floor, the discolored groove where you had scrubbed your knuckles bloody and raw. He thought about the him-shaped divot he had scrubbed into the frozen planes of Montana.

He thought of her, the eldest daughter of two Roman Catholic missionaries following the fur trade to an unholy promised land.

He thought about God, and just how cruel He could be.

Did Eddie sit where your husband once sat? Did he lean against the expanse of your back and feel the vibration of the keys travel through the wiry expanses of your arms and settle back against him, just as Eddie had?

Would he leave a him-shaped hole in you the same way your husband had? Would you wear down the wood the same way he wore down himself?

“I was married, too.” he admitted to you, voice shattering the turning of sheet music and the resonant patriarchal basso that echoed out against these glass windows.

“What was her name?”

“Christine.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

You sound like his mother, he thinks, authoritative but not coddling in the way you question him. He wonders if you feel a discomfort in this statement. He hopes you feel a solidarity in your grieving enough to overlook it. You do not ask him how she died, though, if you were to, he would tell you:

Christine dies at the hand of laudanum, too beautiful to not have a devastating fault. The red-haired daughter of southwest Arksansas– far across that deep blue water she lived, and it was across that water where he had loved and left her. He thought of her skin, like ivory though cold as porcelain even long before her death. Her body, as it was laid to rest, had remained the same even in death as it had during her life. No amount of insurmountable beauty could cover the sullenness under her eyes or the frailness of her wrists. The red halo of hair surrounding her head could not guarantee a peaceful end. No amount of love was enough to save her from herself.

He thinks of her eyes, long before the hollowness had clouded them over like a storm. He remembered a time where there was a soft glow there, a gas lamp that only he could ignite. He wondered if your eyes held that same glow.

He thinks of a time where she stood outside of her father’s river home, barefoot in the mess of cattails and thick grass to encase him in a loving embrace. He had insisted that she put some shoes on. He wondered if you did the same, letting your feet burn in the sun-warm sand. He wondered if your husband insisted that you do the same.

Their marriage had died long before she had. The kiss of opium tincture still bitter against his own lips as he pressed them to hers for a last time.

Your hands were not as tender as hers, yet the tenderness was not what he craved. He thought about this now, as you held his arm in a grounding grip. Tight enough to know that you were still there but not enough to hurt. He wondered if you needed that, too.

This kiss was all-encompassing, starving in nature, though awkward on the deliverance.

He knew you would forgive him if he was being too forward, but he figured you were a little past apologies now. Your back is laid across his lap, twisting and contorting to meet his own lips from your side of the piano bench. He uses this leverage to pull you forward, more over him than against him.

There are hot tears that run down his cheeks, though, he’d figured you were past those now, too.

His embrace around your back is not hungry– it is desperate, as if he is clinging to anything to keep him tethered to this plane.

The piano bench scrapes loud against the knotted wooden floors of the bar as he pushes your back against the keys. They sounded with an off-key crash and lingered for moments too long. You do not feel the way the keys and beveled finish of the piano press into your back, in the same way he does not feel the knotted pine dig into his knees when he kneels at your feet.

“Please,” He whines, tears no longer streaming down his ruddy face, though the sticky tracks remain, “Please jus’ let me taste.”

It is not possible for you to deny him when crystalline tears budding up against a pink lashline– when a heavy hand drags itself against your leg in anticipation– no– pleading.

You lean further back, balancing on the slippery edge of the piano bench, and you swear you can hear a soft, “Thank you.” whispered against your thigh between soft, wet kisses.

His grip is bruising. In the same way you had tethered him to this earth, he binds you to him. One hand lies on the pool where the outer fat of your thigh presses flat against the wood, the other a vice, at your knee in order to keep your legs open.

The edges of teeth graze against tender skin, affixing themselves along garter belts as hungry hands find purchase on your hips beneath chemise underdresses. Hot, humid breath dampens your skin as it escapes from his teeth– clamped along the garter now sliding down your leg and off your foot. A strong hand pushes back upwards, feeling along the silken hair there.

Edward was a man of repose. In your sadness, you’d figured you’d been, too. Though, you wouldn’t have guessed it by the way he pressed a hot, flat tongue against your core and traveled upwards slowly in an experimental taste.

“Like fuckin’ sugar,” He wines into you, his hair a splayed mess against your thighs, his tongue finding purchase against your core.

Thick fingers prod within you, the slow in and out a tether to focus on as you shook. He wanted you to shake. He wanted you to tremble and shiver all of the worries that had plagued you to the bone.

Eddie could not be your husband, but he could make you forget– even if it was just for the night.

He reaches upwards from beneath your dresses, a hand intertwining itself with yours and feeling across the ridges of your cut and calloused knuckles.

You could not be Christine, but you could be here– even if it was never in your bed.

At the precipice of your climax, you cry out, and he likes to think that it is for him. He squeezes your hand, emerging from beneath your clothes with hair askew and a dewey sheen across reddened cheeks. When he kisses you, it is softer and you taste yourself on his lips. He does not think of the bitter taste of opium residual on the lips of Christine. Instead, he only thinks of you.

He does not waste time when he hikes your skirtings above your waist, hands like a vice against the fat of your hips. He is quick when he unclasps his belt and unbuttons his trousers, and smooth when he slides himself into you.

You are quieter than other women, soft staccato breaths escaping with whispers of moans punctuate his thrusts– slowly and then with more rigor.

He keeps a furrowed brow as a bead of sweat drips down his nose and onto the bare skin on your chest where his lips now find purchase, staccatos of his own dotting your skin like galaxies in the vastness.

He sees the way the soft glow of the lamp light heats your skin, the pink ruddiness that graces your cheeks or the glitter that flashes over your eyelids when the light catches the oil there. He sees the way your soft lashes kiss the apples of your cheeks or the soft folds of your neck as your head lolls to the side in satisfaction. He sees the way your hair curls with sweat around your ears in soft coils or the way his saliva has settled in a gloss along your lips.

And by the stars above you, he swears that he could love you.

A thumb is heavy against you, in circles and figure eights as it wills you towards the edge that you closely teeter upon.

“It’s okay,” He whispers to you, by soft pianissimo whispers, “You can have this. I want you to have this.”

A barely-there sigh escapes your lips, deeper-winded than the rest and you allow your body to fall slack as he continues to pump in a rhythm, finishing quickly and lowering your underskirts as he sinks to his knees.

Tonight, you would hold his head against your stomach as hot tears would once again roll down his face. Tonight, you would card fingers through the tangles in his hair as he lays his upper body limp and racks with soft sobs across your lap.

Tonight, you think you will unmake the left side of the bed.

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