#and i think i want to stick to that for as long as possible

[burningcheese-merchant]

Golden Cheese's impromptu expedition to Beast-Yeast ends in catastrophic failure: beaten, broken, and clamoring for freedom as Burning Spice dangles her over the edge of a cliff, ready to deal her the final blow. But before he does... he stops. As does the wind. As does the spice storm whipped up by their frenzy. Everything, everyone, completely frozen in place... all except for her, and for the strange woman in strange clothes that suddenly pops out from behind her assailant, armed with an obnoxiously whimsical attitude and a pair of gigantic golden scissors.

The stranger, with an eerie smile and a twinkle in her one remaining eye, remarks that she has been watching Golden Cheese's little adventure with great interest, and is really rather displeased that the great battle against her nemesis had to end in such a way. She offers Golden Cheese not only an escape from Burning Spice's clutches, but a chance to start their clash over on... more equal footing, or so she describes it. When Golden Cheese rightfully demands answers - how, why, who even are you, what the hell is even going on - the stranger insists that she is but a good Samaritan seeking to liberate both her and her oppressor from their current circumstances.

Not knowing what else to do, Golden Cheese accepts her offer, albeit begrudgingly - but the moment she puts her hand in the stranger's own, she's wrenched from Burning Spice's iron grip and sent flying through a glowing portal filled with bizarre images of melting clocks and whirring cog wheels. She falls, and falls, and falls, until she finally falls out of this mind-melting void and onto solid ground - quickly realizing that she is still in the Land of Spice, just in a different location.

Shocked, confused, and consumed by righteous indignation, she is found and rescued by none other than Burning Spice - but not the one she's come to know and despise. This Burning Spice not only looked different, but behaved differently as well: this one was jovial, good-natured, eager to come to her aid simply because he saw her in need of it.

Well... that, and... because he thinks she's pretty.

Now Golden Cheese is stuck in a distant, idyllic past; a time long before the Beasts fell from grace, where they were still loved by the world and hailed as forces for good. She's taken in by the Wild Spices, whom are likewise shockingly friendly and accommodating towards her, even despite her initial hostility. Her mission is thus to somehow find a way back to where and when she came from (that crazy woman won't just take her back herself, she refuses to) while grappling with the personal and cultural clash between her and the Wild Spices, her crushing sense of anxiety and loneliness born from being trapped in a time and place entirely unknown to her, and - perhaps worst of all - the so-called Herald of Change coming to see her and flirt with her constantly, for his mission now is to court her and win her heart.

Meanwhile, in Golden Cheese's time, Burning Spice - her Burning Spice - knows full well that she is missing. Where she went, and how she managed to escape him, he does not know - but he will. He will spend every waking moment tracking her, hunting her down, gathering whatever information he possibly can to discover her where(when?)abouts. He will have his Soul Jam back. He will have the fight he is rightfully owed. He will have her, one way or another. If she wants to play this game with him, then fine; let this be his greatest, most entertaining hunt yet. One that will inevitably end with him catching and devouring his delicious prey exactly the way he's always wanted to, as was always meant to be, for there is nowhere his little bird can hide where Burning Spice will not find her.

Here's the first chapter haha. Hope you all enjoy it. And I hope you stick with it, the story is far from over. Also the summary on AO3 is cooler than this one. I'm sorry this one is so cringe

Also, everyone please give a round of applause to my wonderful and wonderfully talented friend @pythoticusbingle for making both the cover art and all the illustrations in the fic! I couldn't have done this without them, I consider them my right hand in this endeavor and they're behind just as much of the story's potential success as me

[em1i2a3]

Banquet

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Bull Rider!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been in the circuit scene for as long as you can remember but when you move to Wabang and become the newbie, you’ve got a lot to prove especially to your top competitor, Rhett Abbott.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Enemies to Lovers (✨competition edition✨), Drug Use By Reader (Painkillers), Alcohol Use, Mentions of Bruising and Injuries, Mentions of Blood, Swearing, Violence? (Cause Bull Riding is BROOOTAL), There is a very brief moment of sexual harassment,

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rough Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving) Scratching, Spitting, Riding, Some Body Worship/Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Semi-Public Sex, Handjob, Breast Play.

Author’s Note: I gotta thank the Reddit page r/bullriding because holy crap I got to know so much about the world of Bull Riding and honestly the stories there and the videos were so cool to watch. I wanted to make this as accurate as possible so being able to get the insider info without having to go crazy over it was great! Anyways! Happy RAF my friends <3 I hope y’all enjoy this new instalment :D (sorry for the late-ish update, I got caught up watching Oasis content lol)

Word Count: 15,057

Bull riding was your whole life.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d roamed the edge of the arena, with boots caked in red dirt, and kettle corn dust sticking to your sun-chapped fingers. Summers in South Dakota were ruthless–long, dry, and blistering–but you didn’t care. You followed your father from town to town like a shadow, sitting on metal bleachers that burned your thighs through your jeans, watching the bulls kick up dust beneath riders twice your size. You were too young to understand the full weight of the danger, but even then, you felt it: the thrill, the rhythm, the unspoken poetry in those brutal eight seconds.

The circuits became your church, your home, and your obsession.

So when you were finally old enough to ride, you had told your father.

”I wanna get on,” Your jaw was set and your arms were crossed over your chest, with dust still streaked across your neck from tying down flanks that morning, “I know the risks…I’ve seen them all before, I ain’t stupid. I just want to try it out.” Your father had paused his gardening work, looking up at you through the afternoon sun. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he argue right away, but the silence said enough to you. You could see it in the way he looked at you, staring like he was trying to memorize the version of you before the bruises, before the fractures, before the eight-second freefalls and the way the dirt would cling to the inevitable blood that you would spill.

He tried to talk you out of it. Not because he didn’t think you were tough enough–but because he knew exactly how strong willed you’d have to be. He said circuit life was a man’s world, and that a girl like you wouldn’t get special treatment. He also made it clear that there was a huge possibility that they wouldn’t accept you unless you networked a little more.

“You ain’t gonna get no softness out there, Y/N.” He told you, shaking his head. But you didn’t want softness. You wanted the chance to feel the adrenaline in your veins when that gate opened, the thrill of the buck, the excitement of the ride. You didn’t care about privileges or treatment.

So for six months, you worked the scene like your life depended on it–because in a way, it did.

You shook every hand, remembered every name, stayed late after events to help load chutes or sweep stalls. You offered help before anyone had to ask, learned how each rider liked their gear handled, how they marked their bullsheets, how they taped their wrists. You weren’t just a familiar face who stood around and chatted–you became useful. Dependable.

You mucked out trailers in the rain, held gates open in the cold, said yes to every odd job, every chore, every coffee run or feed delivery. Not because you had to, but because you were already playing the long game. You made yourself unforgettable, not by talking loud, but by showing up.

Some of the guys tried teasing you, and thought you were a buckle bunny at first. But then you started helping out on ranches. Fixing busted fencing. Brushing down bulls after transport. Tightening cinches with quiet confidence and a grip strong enough to make them blink in shock.

They stopped calling you ‘sweetheart’ after that.

And one night around a bonfire after a county fair, one of them tossed you a beer and said, “You ever think about ridin’ for real?” And you had smiled, already half a step ahead.

”More than you know.”

By the time you finally got your father to agree–begrudging, tight-lipped, but no longer saying no–your name was already circulating. You had enough people in your corner to vouch for your grit, enough calluses to prove you weren’t just playing cowgirl. So when you showed up to the local circuit, people nodded. They weren’t surprised in the slightest.

Bull Riding School was the next step. Mandatory. Grueling. Brutal. You showed up with your mouth shut and your sleeves rolled, ready to work. The instructors were hard-asses. They didn’t go easy on you–not because they didn’t believe in you, but because they did.

And you made it real clear, real quick, that you weren’t there to flirt or flinch or back down.

You were there to ride.

You didn’t talk unless spoken to, didn’t boast or exaggerate. You studied backlogs of competitions late into the night while the others passed beers and shot the shit. You memorized flanks, muscle tics, buck patterns. You knew the names of the bulls before your instructors even called them out.

By the third week, the trainers started making comments.

“She’s got hands like glue,” One said, shaking his head as you dismounted cleanly from a particularly mean brindle. “Like she knows where he’s gonna twist before he even does.”

You weren’t flashy, but you were relentless. You moved like a shadow in the chute–still, quiet, composed. And the second the gate flung open, you came alive.

They called it uncanny. The way you moved with the bulls, not against them. The way you didn’t panic when they whipped left or snapped back hard–you just adjusted your core and made sure you loosened up before gripping tighter onto the ropes

While other people your age were buried in textbooks or prepping for scholarships, you were strapping on gear that weighed as much as a grown man and launching yourself onto a creature bred for violence. You broke bones, popped joints, hit the dirt so hard once you saw stars–but you always got back up. Even when it hurt…Especially when it hurt.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain.

You learned to bite your tongue until the pain passed.

And that was what made people respect you.

When you joined the circuit for real, you weren’t a novelty anymore.

You were competition.

You didn’t win every ride, but you damn sure made them earn their wins. You placed. Then placed again. And before long, you weren’t just holding your own–you were climbing the ranks. Fast. Too fast for some.

You could hear the murmurs after a ride: She’s got something to prove. She’s only here because she’s a girl and people are curious. Let her fall once good and she’ll quit.

But you didn’t.

You got back in the chute every single time.

And when you started stacking belt buckles like poker chips–hard-won, sweat-soaked, blood-dented buckles–those same people started getting real quiet.

The crowds knew your name. The girls in the stands screamed when you showed up because you were seen as somewhat of an inspiration. Parents pointed at you from the bleachers and whispered to their daughters. Even the old-timers nodded when you passed.

Then just as you were truly gaining momentum…Wabang came out of nowhere.

A place with quieter skies, meaner bulls, and a circuit that didn’t give a damn about what you’d earned back in South Dakota.

You didn’t plan to leave, but when your father called you out to the porch on one late September evening–face tight, jaw ticking–you knew something was wrong. His words were careful. Simple.

”Your grandmother’s real sick…I gotta go to Wabang to take care of her. You know how Uncle Darren doesn’t do much for her…” You had sat on one of the rocking chairs nursing a beer in one hand, and popping one of your painkillers into your mouth with the other, washing it down with the stale ale. He offered you an out, he said you could stay behind to keep riding, to keep chasing the gold. But you shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

”I’m sure I can chase the gold somewhere else…” You said firmly, “I’m not going to let you go alone.” So you packed up all your gear and left behind the only place that had ever felt like home. It gutted you to leave the circuit. To hug your riding buddies goodbye with red eyes and raw knuckles, to strip your name off the draw sheets and hand your spot to some scrawny new kid who’d never tasted blood on the back of a bull before. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the plan.

But sometimes, family called louder than ambition.

Still, your people didn’t let you go empty-handed. They made calls. Pulled strings. Sent emails and texts and a few firm recommendations that reached all the way across the plains to Wyoming’s Wabang Regional Circuit. The committee over there ran a tight ship, rougher than what you were used to. Leaner, grittier, less forgiving.

But they agreed to let you ride conditionally of course.

They didn’t care about your buckles. Your stats. Your glowing praise from South Dakota. As far as they were concerned, you were just another newbie trying to find footing on their dirt. Another out-of-town wildcard who needed to earn their keep.

It didn’t matter. You’d done it once. You could do it again.

What mattered was that you were back in the chute. Back in the dirt. Back where you belonged.

But Wabang wasn’t South Dakota.

The crowds were colder, the eyes on you sharper. Here, the circuit wasn’t just a family–it was a hierarchy. Tight-knit and territorial. Every rider knew every rider, and outsiders weren’t welcomed so much as tolerated.

You walked into the bullpen the first weekend with your duffel slung over your shoulder, the late sun slicing through the slats in the walls like firelight. Your boots were caked in three states’ worth of arena dirt, your jeans stiff from overuse, your plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. You didn’t smile much. Not when every eye in the pen dragged over you like they were looking at a misprint.

You heard the whispers–that’s her? The South Dakota rider? Heard she’s good, but–

But.

There was always a but when it came to you.

The arena owner–a wiry older man with creased skin and a nicotine rasp–had greeted you just outside the gates and gave you the rundown. Quick, clipped. Professional.

“Locker room’s through there,” He’d said, nodding toward the left hallway. “Ain’t separate for men and women. You got a problem with that?” You shook your head.

”No, sir.” And he huffed.

”Didn’t think so.” You followed him past the arena doors, down the concrete corridor where the walls were stained with age and old sponsorship stickers peeled at the corners. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and from down the hall, you could hear the sounds of boots stomping, a bull snorting in the pen, and someone laughing too loud.

The door to the locker room creaked when it opened.

And there he was.

Rhett Abbott.

He stood at the far end of the locker room like he’d been carved straight from the land that raised him–rugged, quiet, and hard-edged from the inside out. His long-sleeved blue plaid shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of his dark, dust-scuffed jeans. The shirt clung to his broad frame in all the right places, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the rough brush of stubble trailing along his jaw. His calloused hands worked slow, steady as he buckled his Kevlar vest into place across his chest–like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

Because Rhett Abbott didn’t rush for anyone.

He had a reputation even in South Dakota–your old circuit buddies had whispered his name like a warning and a dare. He wasn’t just a rider. He was the kind of man bulls remembered. The kind of man who didn’t blink when hooves cracked skulls and jaws snapped like rope. A cowboy with a haunted look in his eye and the kind of quiet that made everyone else shut the hell up when he entered a room.

And those eyes?

God, those eyes.

Clear and piercing blue, like glacial water that could cut right through you. They were striking even from a distance, but up close–when they landed on you, just then—it felt like standing on a fault line, like something was about to shift.

“Abbott,” The arena owner barked, voice gravel-thick. “This here’s Y/N. The South Dakota transfer.” Rhett didn’t say a word, nor did he offer a hand or a smile or even a blink. He just stared at you, expression unreadable, fingers flexing once against the buckle of his vest as he locked the strap into place. His gaze swept over you like he was measuring the threat–boots to chin, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’d already made his judgment and didn’t think much of what he saw.

You returned the stare without flinching.

”Nice to meet you,” You said evenly, offering the barest nod. There was tension in his silence. Heavy, taut, deliberate. The kind of tension that didn’t crack–it coiled.

His eyes stayed on yours.

Unmoving.

Daring.

And then, finally, his voice slid out low and rough as gravel. “We’ll see.”

“Well,” the owner grunted, already halfway through the door, “I gotta get back to my work. You can go on and get ready–the rest of the riders’ll be here in due time. Abbott’ll show you the draw sheet when you’re done gettin’ situated.”

You nodded politely. “Thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, more dust than grace in the gesture. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him with a hollow slam that left the locker room humming with silence again–thick, loaded silence.

Rhett hadn’t moved.

Still stood like a statue in denim and dust, arms crossed loosely over his chest now, mouth drawn in a line that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. Just waiting.

Watching.

You dropped your duffel onto the bench with a solid thud and crouched to unzip it, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers moved with practiced rhythm–pulling out your vest, the dark navy one from bull riding school, faded along the edges but sturdy as hell. A gift from your instructors. You slid it onto your lap like armor.

Gloves. Mouthguard. Wrist wraps.

And then–rattle.

The familiar click of plastic against plastic.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the subtle shift of the room. A sound like that didn’t go unnoticed.

Rhett’s head tilted. Just a little. You caught it out of the corner of your eye. His brow lifted, and his lips tugged–just slightly–into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but damn sure wasn’t neutral.

“Painkillers already?” He said, tone even, drawl low. “Ain’t even touched the dirt yet.”

You looked up at him slowly, popping the cap off the bottle like you were opening a soda, and held his gaze as you shook one into your palm. “Old injuries, been doing this for a long time.” He hummed, like that told him everything and nothing all at once.

“Or maybe,” He added, pushing off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who didn’t do anything unless he wanted to, “You’re just prepping for the fall.” You tossed the pill back and dry-swallowed it. Hard. Deliberate. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“You spend as much time worrying about your own rides,” You started, rising to your feet and fixing him with a look that dared him to push again, “Or are you already obsessed with mine?” His jaw flexed. His boots shifted.

Then he walked forward.

Not quick. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the space between you until you had to tilt your chin slightly to hold your ground.

“I watch for threats,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keeps me sharp.”

”Oh…So I’m a threat to you?” That grin finally came–slow, crooked, lopsided and infuriatingly handsome, but he didn’t answer. You scoffed and shook your head, reaching down to pick up your wrist straps.

”Don’t worry, Abbott,” You said coolly, wrapping one hand with slow, steady precision. “I’m not here to take your spot. You can still sign belt buckles after the event if you want.”

“That so?” He muttered, circling around to the opposite bench but never taking his eyes off you. “Funny. You talk a lot for someone who ain’t made the draw yet.”

“You talk a lot for someone who’s clearly rattled.” His eyes narrowed at you, brimming with interest–with curiosity that was sharpened by the bite of his ego. He sat down on the bench opposite you, watching as you slipped on your vest and tightened the buckles with efficient, practiced pulls.

“You ride clean,” He said suddenly.

You glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone.

Still guarded, still competitive–but honest.

“You got clips out there,” He continued. “I’ve seen ‘em. Brindle out in Sioux Falls. Big bastard. You held like your boots were nailed to his sides.”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Didn’t think you did your homework.”

“I don’t.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But new blood gets attention. Especially when it’s making noise before it even gets a number on the board.” The words should’ve felt like a compliment. But from Rhett Abbott, they sounded like a warning. You stood slowly, mouthguard in hand.

“Well,” You started, stepping past him, close enough that you brushed against him, “Hope you’ve been watching real close, Abbott.”

”Why’s that?” You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips.

”Cause maybe it gave you some pointers on how to get your spot back after I embarrass you tonight by dethroning you.” Rhett let out a low, surprised laugh–rough and full of gravel, like it hadn’t been used in a while. The sound bounced off the concrete walls and wrapped itself around your spine, warm and taunting. He leaned back slightly on the bench, his eyes cutting toward you with that same infuriating smirk, like he was already carving out space for your loss in his mind.

“That massive ego ain’t gonna get you anywhere here,” He drawled, shaking his head. “But good luck tryin’, sweetheart. You’ll need it.” You turned fully toward him, sliding your mouthguard into your back pocket, your brow lifting in mock thought.

“That the same line you feed every rookie before they kick your ass in the rankings? Or just the ones you’re scared of?” His gaze didn’t waver. Not even a little.

“Oh, I ain’t scared,” He said, slow and low, voice syrup-thick. “Just curious how many seconds you’ll last before you’re face-first in the dirt wonderin’ what the hell you got yourself into.”

“I’ll last more than eight,” You said flatly. “And I won’t be the one wonderin’.”

That made something in his jaw tick again–interest, challenge, something a little darker. He stood up then, rising to his full height, the bench creaking behind him, the air tightening between your bodies like it was caught in a vise.

He stepped forward. Just enough.

Not touching.

But near enough that you could smell the saddle soap on his vest, the sweat in the cotton of his shirt, the faintest trace of tobacco on his breath. His eyes flicked down to your chestplate, then back to your face.

”You may ride good,” He started, “But this place? It’ll chew you up if you walk in thinkin’ you’re the queen of the goddamn circuit.” You stared up at him, unflinching.

“I guess I’ll give it something to chew on then.” The silence between you burned after that. It wasn’t flirtation. It was something hotter. Something rawer. The buzz of two predators circling, tension strung tight between challenge and curiosity. Respect wasn’t given, not in Wabang–and not by Rhett Abbott. You’d have to rip it out of him like a tooth.

But God, it was gonna be fun trying.

He looked at you a second longer–searching, maybe–and then exhaled through his nose, slow and begrudging.

“Draw sheet’s taped outside the office door,” He muttered, stepping around you. “You’re sixth.” You turned just as he opened the door, watching the set of his shoulders, the confident, ground-eating stride, the twitch in his jaw like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

He stopped in the doorway just before leaving, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Oh,” He added casually. “Your bull? Leviathan. Mean son of a bitch. Most riders can’t last five.”

You grinned.

“Guess I’ll make it six.”

And then he was gone.

——————————

The air was crisp and dry, and the spotlights above the Wabang Regional Arena cut through the dark like white fire–searing over dirt churned from the night’s earlier rides. The stands were packed, voices rising in waves of excitement and tension, spilling beer and adrenaline as the announcer hyped the next event into the echoing mic.

“Next up…Randy Ellis ridin’ Deadbolt!”

The name crackled over the speakers as Randy adjusted his vest and hoisted himself over the chute. The crowd whooped, the clang of metal gates and the low growl of a restless bull filling the air. You didn’t watch. You were already headed toward your own chute–toward the pen holding Leviathan.

Your boots hit the dirt heavy. Intentional. You kept your shoulders squared, your expression unreadable, and your black Cattleman’s hat low over your brow. Your vest was secured, your wrists were wrapped, and your gloves were tight. All that was left was the ride.

As you approached your chute, the men flanking the rails turned at the sound of your steps. One of them–a lanky guy with wind-chapped cheeks and a whistle tucked into the front pocket of his flannel–cocked his head at you.

“You’re Y/N?”

You climbed up the railings like you’d done a hundred times before. Balanced, steady, sure. “Yep,” You replied, tossing a glance toward the snorting mass of muscle in the pen. “Is this Leviathan?”

The bull was massive.

Easily upwards of 2,500 pounds, built like a damn freight train, with dark brindle hide that shimmered with sweat under the lights. His eyes rolled white in his skull, and his hooves stomped restlessly against the planks, muscles twitching with every taut, coiled breath. His horns curved like a devil’s crown, one chipped from a previous fight. You could feel his energy from here–bubbling, hateful, wild.

One of the gate guys blinked. “Yeah,” He said, slowly. “But…You’re new. Ain’t no way they gave you a bull ranked an eight.” He glanced at the others, then back at you, brows knotting. “That’s just cruel.”

You shrugged, brushing sweat from your brow with the back of your glove. “I’m experienced,” you said evenly, eyes locked on Leviathan. “I can handle him.”

The guy let out a short, disbelieving whistle, shaking his head. “You got brass ones, I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t reply. Just climbed over the railing with practiced ease, slipping your mouthguard from your back pocket and biting it down between your teeth. The noise of the crowd faded as soon as you lowered yourself onto the bull’s back.

Leviathan snapped against the metal of the chute, sides heaving, rope already pulled taut beneath him. But your movements were quick–clean. You swung your leg over, settled low, tucked your knees in close, and adjusted the rope across your gloved hand. You shifted gently, loosening your core, feeling the way he moved beneath you like a living earthquake.

“You’re signin’ your own death wish, little lady,” one of the handlers muttered behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Just sucked in a breath and spoke around your mouthguard.

“Then I better make it worth it.”

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat. Focused. Centered.

This wasn’t South Dakota. This wasn’t some hometown draw with familiar bulls and family watching from the bleachers. This was Wabang.

And Wabang didn’t want you to win. They wanted you to bleed.

“Chute five, y’all. Leviathan with the newbie–Y/N L/N!”

The roar from the crowd was uncertain–half eager, half waiting for a crash.

You leaned forward, tightened your grip, and with your free hand, gave the nod.

The gate flung open.

And hell broke loose.

Leviathan launched like a bullet from a gun, his back legs kicking skyward as his front hooves jackknifed into the dirt. The momentum cracked through your spine like a whip, but you held tight, low and steady, moving with him–not against. You could barely hear the crowd through the static in your ears, the pounding of blood, the scream of instinct, the echo of your name in the chaos.

One second.

Two.

He twisted hard right, then back left. You shifted your weight, rolled your hips.

Three.

He jerked his head down and tried to slam his ass into the chute gate. You didn’t bite your tongue–you gritted it.

Four.

Your shoulder popped. You didn’t care.

Five.

His back legs buckled mid-air, an old trick to jolt riders. Your thighs held firm.

Six.

You could hear him grunting, feel the breath rip through his nostrils.

Seven.

He spun in a tight circle, then kicked forward with all his fury–

Eight.

The buzzer sounded.

And you didn’t fall.

You launched yourself off clean, hitting the dirt and rolling, boots scrambling as you came to your feet, mouthguard clenched between your teeth and chest heaving.

The crowd exploded.

The noise hit you like a wave–some cheering, some shocked. Some standing with beers half-raised, jaws open like they didn’t quite believe what they’d seen.

You stood there in the center of the ring for just a second, sweat dripping down your back, dust sticking to your cheeks, pain flaring in your ribs where you knew something pulled. But you smiled through your damn mouth guard anyway.

Up in the catwalks, framed by metal rails and sharp arena light, Rhett Abbott looked like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. Eyes burning cold, fingers tight around the neck of his beer, unmoving except for the way his jaw ticked. Like something was eating him alive from the inside out.

And if you didn’t know better, you’d have called it jealousy.

But you tore your gaze away before he could see you linger.

Instead, you gave a short, theatrical bow toward the crowd—sweat-slick and battered and glowing like you’d been baptized in dirt. You waved once, sharp and dismissive, then turned and headed for the exit, boots dragging a wake of red dust behind you.

You spat into the gravel as soon as you cleared the tunnel, blood-tinged saliva hitting the ground with a soft pat.

Your body ached like hell. Your ribs throbbed. But your heart was singing.

You slipped your mouth guard into your vest pocket and muttered under your breath with a grin curling against your cheek.

“Must be havin’ a lucky night–”

“Lucky,” Rhett grumbled, suddenly there, voice rough and tight.

You froze mid-step, turning your head slowly. He was leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for you. Shoulders drawn, expression sharp, his hat pulled low over his brow—but not low enough to hide the scowl in his eyes.

He looked at you like you were a splinter lodged in his palm.

Unwanted. But too deep to pull out.

“Well damn,” you said, cocking your head as you took him in. “Abbott. You come all this way just to ride my belt, or you here to choke out a ‘congrats’?”

His lip curled faintly. “Didn’t realize there was anything worth congratulatin’. You stayed on. Big deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eight seconds on Leviathan’s back says otherwise.”

He stepped forward. Slow, deliberate. The kind of step that said he wasn’t gonna shoot back–not yet–but if he did, it’d hurt.

“You think one ride makes you a name around here?”

“No,” You shot back, crossing your arms over your chest, “But it sure as hell makes you look over your shoulder.”

That hit.

His eyes flicked, just once, like a muscle had twitched without permission. He bit back whatever smart-ass line was about to come out, jaw flexing hard enough to crack stone.

“You’re cocky as hell, you know that?”

You smirked, “You’re actin’ like a man who’s got something to lose Abbott.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’re you down here, all worked up about my ride?” He took another step forward. Close enough now that you could see the sweat at his temples. The way his chest rose and fell like he’d run to catch you. Close enough to smell the dust and heat still clinging to him like a second skin.

“You had one good ride. Don’t let those South Dakota buckles weigh your head down.” Your smirked.

”Face it, Abbott–you hate that I proved you wrong.” His nostrils flared.

“You’re not gonna last,” He said.

“I already did.”

“Yeah, just tonight you did.”

“That’s all it takes, right?” You stepped into his space now, voice like velvet over broken glass. “One night. One ride. And suddenly the golden boy’s out here growlin’ in the dark, tryin’ to convince himself he’s still top dog.”

“You’re not competition,” He snapped.

“Then why are you so pressed, sweetheart?”

That shut him up for just a second.

Then he laughed. A bitter, breathless sound, like it scraped its way out of his chest against his will. He turned his face slightly like he couldn’t stand to look at you straight on, shaking his head with a crooked, vicious smile.

“You got fire,” He admitted. “But fire burns out fast when you don’t know how to control it.”

“Maybe,” You said, stepping even closer–your boots nearly toe to toe with his. “Or maybe it burns hotter when someone keeps throwin’ fuel on it.”

Your eyes locked. No blinking. No breathing. Just heat. Hot enough to taste.

And then–

A voice echoed from the arena tunnel behind you both: “Abbott, you’re up in two!” He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. But something in his gaze shifted–tightened. Like he’d remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be, and the fact that you weren’t supposed to be under his skin.

You tilted your head slowly. “You should get ready.”

“I am ready.”

“Right.” You let your voice drag, taunting. “Don’t trip over that pride on your way in.”

He stepped back with a sharp inhale, that wild smirk tugging again at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your little moment, South Dakota. Next ride, you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”

You grinned. “If it’s dirt from your spot in the rankings, I’ll savor it.”

He turned with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath as he stalked back toward the chutes.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to.

Because if Rhett Abbott hated you now? That meant you were exactly where you needed to be.

The concession stand was tucked under a flickering floodlight, the cooler humming behind a bored teenager chewing a hard piece of gum, her lips smacking loudly. You ordered a Coke, voice scratchy from dust and exertion, and twisted the cap off with your teeth as you walked away, the soda cold enough to sting your throat. You needed the caffeine more than the sugar. Your whole body was buzzing, but not in a good way–not anymore. The adrenaline was gone, and pain was blooming in its absence.

You didn’t go back to the locker room for your pills, not yet at least, you needed to wait a bit longer before your next dose, so you would just have to grin and bear it. The bleachers groaned as you climbed them, weaving past shouting fans and wide-eyed kids still holding bags of cotton candy. You kept your head down, your hat low, until you found an open spot on the edge of the aluminum seating–close enough to the arena for a decent view, far enough from the cluster of families not to be bothered.

You sat slowly.

Carefully.

And still your tailbone felt like you slammed it into the cold metal, a sharp crack of pain erupting through you as your jaw clenched. You winced hard, hissing through your teeth as you took a quick sip of soda to mask it. The bruises would set in tomorrow. Your ribs were already throbbing with every inhale. You shifted your weight to your hip, keeping one hand wrapped around your Coke and the other braced behind you on the bench.

It was worth it.

Every goddamn second of it.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena again, sharp and loud as the next name rang out like a gunshot.

“Rhett Abbott ridin’ Ironjaw! Let’s see what the local legend’s got tonight, folks!”

You tipped your head just enough to get a clear view of the chutes—and there he was.

Rhett stood in the narrow alley behind the pen, vest snug over his broad chest, his shoulders flexing as he adjusted the rope across Ironjaw’s flank. The bull was pissed already, hooves scraping against the dirt floor, muscles rippling beneath slick hide. Rhett didn’t flinch.

You narrowed your eyes.

Every movement he made was precise, economical. Like he knew the bull before he even got on it. The way he patted Ironjaw’s side with a flat, firm palm, the way he crouched to check his wrap, the way his jaw clenched as he rolled his wrist and tested the slack—calm. Controlled. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You hated that it was impressive.

Because it was.

But that didn’t mean he was better than you.

Not yet.

He climbed onto the railing with that same unbothered grace, like he’d been born in a chute. Then he eased onto Ironjaw’s back, slow and steady, settling into the saddle as if it were a goddamn rocking chair.

Your Coke bottle creaked in your hand as your grip tightened.

You wanted to see how he moved when the gate opened. You wanted to see if he could ride clean like you had–or if he just talked like he could.

The chute boss gave him a nod. Rhett shifted, gloved hand gripping the rope, legs tightening around the bull’s broad back. The noise in the crowd swelled–chants, shouts, someone whistling from the far end of the stands.

Then–

The gate flew open.

Ironjaw launched into the arena like a shot.

The crowd screamed.

And you sat there, still as stone, watching every goddamn second.

He moved like he wasn’t separate from the bull. Not fighting the chaos–riding it. Every buck met with counterweight. Every twist matched with a subtle shift of his hips, a sharp adjustment in his core.

You realized it before anyone else did.

Right there in the middle of Ironjaw’s third spin, Rhett’s center of gravity shifted just a fraction too far forward–just enough to throw his balance off when the bull twisted the other way. He tried to correct it, tightening his core like a seasoned pro, but it was too late. His grip held, but his seat was gone.

And then–

Wham.

Ironjaw bucked hard, and Rhett’s body was flung sideways, spine bowing mid-air like a cracked whip before he slammed shoulder-first into the dirt. The arena let out a collective, resounding:

“OHHHH–“ A mix of awe and sympathy. The kind of sound people made when someone landed just wrong.

You winced instinctively at the sound of impact, the grit of your teeth matched by the fizz of your Coke bottle between your lips. Your ribs ached in solidarity. But even through the sympathy, a smug little grin curled at the corner of your mouth. Because there it was. The moment. The crack in the golden boy’s armor.

Rhett groaned as he rolled onto his knees, planted one gloved hand in the dirt, and pushed himself up, slow and stiff. The bull had already been wrangled and was halfway down the pen when he stood upright, brushing red dust off his vest like it personally offended him.

His jaw was clenched, hard. His chest rose and fell like he was chewing on the failure, trying to swallow it whole.

You took another long sip of Coke, watching from the bleachers as he yanked off his glove and slapped it against his thigh hard enough to make a few spectators flinch. His hat was tilted low, covering his face, but not low enough to hide the embarrassment in his posture.

The announcer tried to save him a little–

“Tough break for Abbott tonight, folks. That bull’s meaner than sin and twice as smart! Four seconds! Let’s hear it for the local legend anyway!” A few people clapped, loyal to his name.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there like a queen on her throne, bruised but proud, your Coke bottle sweating against your thigh.

Four seconds.

You’d doubled it.

And that’s all that mattered.

He walked back toward the tunnel, muttering something to one of the gate guys, and you didn’t miss the twitch in his jaw when he glanced up toward the stands.

He saw you.

Saw you smirking.

Saw the satisfaction radiating off you like perfume.

And it hit him–

You’d won.

Not the event. Not the night.

But the first real punch of this fight?

That belonged to you.

The tension between you two had been all bark and no bite until now–but now? Now it was personal. Now he had a reason to glare at you across the chutes. Now he’d ride harder. Sharper. Meaner. Because you were the threat.

Not the bulls.

You.

You rose slowly from the bench, your back aching like hell, but the adrenaline and spite kept you upright. The crowd buzzed as you made your way down the steps again, slipping through the crush of spectators still high on beer and dust.

By the time you reached the rear corridor, Rhett was stalking toward the locker rooms with his helmet swinging at his side and a scowl cut deep into his face. You didn’t slow down–you matched his pace stride for stride, the echo of your boots following his.

“You alright?” You asked, feigning innocence. “Looked like Ironjaw gave you a little love tap there.”

He didn’t stop walking, nor did he look at you. But he did answer. Through gritted teeth.

“Don’t push it.”

You grinned. “Just asking. You know…’Cause you looked real good for those four seconds.” That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. He turned to face you, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tense as a bowstring.

“You think this is a game?”

You blinked slowly. “I think it’s a competition. Or were you expecting I’d kiss your bruises after?”

“You got lucky,” He muttered. “That’s all.” You tilted your head at him.

”Maybe you oughta start prayin’ for some of it for yourself.” For a second, neither of you moved. The hallway pulsed with tension–the low hum of the floodlights, the smell of blood and sweat and dirt hanging between you. His chest was still rising and falling fast, vest creaking with each breath. He was pissed, and not at the bull. At you.

And you loved it.

“You got no idea what you’re messin’ with,” He growled. You stepped in closer, close enough to see the flecks of arena dirt clinging to his stubble, to smell the blood on his breath where he must’ve bitten his cheek on impact. You smirked up at him, lips curling slow and sharp, a predator in worn denim.

“You’re gettin’ so frustrated, Abbott,” You teased,, voice honey-slick and dangerous. “You scared a girl’s gonna swipe up all your titles?” That flicker behind his eyes–it flared. Blue fire, all storm surge and pride, rising too fast to catch. His mouth opened like he had something smart to throw back, something smug to spit–but all that came out was a low, bitter scoff, hot and cracked like dry wood snapping under a boot.

“I can’t wait,” He hissed, stepping close enough for his shadow to cut across your boots, “to see you get whipped from a fuckin’ bull. Face-first in the dirt. ’Cause now?” His voice dropped. Rough. Mean. Real. “You’re just askin’ for it.”

You held his stare without blinking, pulse thumping in your ears. His breath was ragged. His teeth clenched.

You smiled–slow, and lethal. Like you already knew something he didn’t.

“That’s wishful thinkin’.” You stepped past him, letting your shoulder brush his with deliberate weight, soft enough to sting.

“See you next week, Abbott.”And you didn’t look back. Not when your boots echoed down the corridor. Not when he stood there, fuming, jaw ticking, watching you go like you were a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Not when the silence behind you vibrated with swallowed curses and bruised pride.

——————————

The next few weeks turned into a battleground.

Not just in the chutes, but everywhere.

You and Rhett were at each other’s throats like it was a second job. He was the constant thorn in your side, and you were the splinter under his nail he couldn’t dig out. Tension followed you like smoke–thick, choking, and just a spark away from catching fire.

In the arena, the rivalry was brutal. You both took every draw like it was personal. Every gate swing, every eight seconds, every dismount had teeth. He’d ride clean, and you’d ride cleaner. You’d land high scores, and he’d storm out with a jaw like cracked stone and ride harder the next week. The scoreboard became a battlefield of inches, bruises, and grit. Your names started climbing neck-and-neck.

And outside the arena? The war didn’t stop.

The more social you got with the rest of the circuit crew, the more you ended up circling the same watering holes, the same post-ride hangouts, the same campfire gatherings that Rhett haunted like a shadow. You didn’t mean to wedge yourself into his world–but it happened all the same.

It was hard to make friends outside the rodeo. So you took what you could get.

After weekend rides, the crew always ended up at The Handsome Gambler–a half-dive, half-cowboy shrine of a bar tucked off a dirt road that hadn’t seen a real renovation since the early 2000s. The beer was always cold, the jukebox barely worked, and the pool table leaned a little to the left–but it was home for a lot of them.

And, eventually, it became home for you too.

You’d walk in, bruised and sweat-slick, toss your gloves on the bar and sink into the booth with a hiss of pain, a Coke or whiskey sour clutched in one hand while the guys grilled you about your South Dakota days.

“How many buckles we talkin’?” One of the younger riders asked, eyes wide and eager like you were a damn legend in the flesh.

You smirked, biting into the rim of your glass. “Twenty-two. All clean. No DQs.”

That got a few low whistles. A head shake. Someone muttered “Christ…” under their breath. One of the older circuit boys tapped his knuckles on the table like he was impressed.

And Rhett?

Rhett would be posted up at the bar, standing off to the side like a damn ghost with blue eyes and a bottle of Shiner in his hand. Most nights, he kept close to his older brother, Perry–who, unlike Rhett, was friendly as hell and had no problem throwing you a smile.

“Hell of a ride today,” Perry had told you once, clinking his beer bottle against your Coke as you limped past him with your vest slung over your shoulder. “Leviathan again, right?”

You nodded. “Round two.”

He gave a low laugh. “Bet that pissed Rhett off real good.” And it had. You knew it did. You felt it.

The longer the weeks stretched, the more it became a game of watching Rhett try to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

He’d stare across the bar whenever you laughed too loud, especially if it was at something another rider said. He’d roll his eyes when your name got brought up in ride recaps. You caught him jawing to his buddy Dusty once–something low and sharp, just after you sank an eight-second ride that had the whole stands buzzing.

You’d walk past him at the bar and his gaze would slice through you like a knife through warm hide. Every once in a while, he’d mutter something just loud enough for you to catch:

“Don’t get too comfy, South Dakota.”

To which you’d fire back over your shoulder, without missing a beat:

“Keep practicing fallin’, Wabang.”

The crew lived for it.

They took bets on your tension–whether it’d end in a fistfight or a hookup first.

You weren’t sure yourself at this point, and you didn’t know which one you wanted. Sometimes you guys got so close it seemed like you were going to either kiss or throw hands. But the longer you stayed in Wabang, the more something in the air crackled between you two. Not just hatred. Not just competition. It was something hotter. Heavier. Like whatever fire you lit under Rhett’s skin had started burning in reverse–turning inside out and sparking something neither of you were quite ready to name.

————————

The locker room door slammed shut behind you.

You weren’t limping–but you weren’t walking straight either. Your shoulder had taken a pretty bad hit, or maybe it was your ribs. It was hard to tell considering your entire side felt like it had been steamrolled by a freight train. It had been a while since you’d been thrown off a bulls back, but this certainly was a grim reminder of how bad it was to be thrown face first into a pile of dirt.

Slowly, you made your way to the sink and spat into the white porcelain, pink-stained foam swirled down the drain and you grimaced. Of course it wasn’t the first time you coughed up blood after a bad throw, and it wouldn’t be your last. It was a normal occurrence.

But when the door creaked again behind you, you didn’t have to look to know who it was, and his voice was confirmation of your assumptions.

”…You alright?” You didn’t answer right away, you just wiped the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your flannel, licking the blood that stained your lips. You saw him step closer to you in the mirror, a look of concern on his face.

”I’m all good,” You said flatly, “Just a bit of blood, it’s a normal occurrence.” His brows ticked up, the faintest flicker of disbelief crossing his face.

“Really?” You met his gaze through the mirror, eyes tired but unyielding, and gave a short, sharp nod.

“Yeah. Really.” Rhett didn’t say anything for a beat, just studied your reflection like he was still trying to figure you out. Like every answer you gave him only led to more damn questions. But he didn’t press.

You turned away, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, your hand grazing your ribs as you moved toward your duffel bag. The locker room echoed faintly with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant clang of boots from the arena tunnel. You crouched just enough to unzip your bag, wincing as you reached inside and pulled out the orange-capped bottle.

You shook a single pill into your palm, popped it into your mouth, and dry-swallowed it like you’d done a hundred times before. No grimace. No hesitation. Just another part of the routine.

Then, without looking up, you held the bottle toward Rhett.

“Want one?” You asked casually. “It’s just a stronger version of Tylenol, nothing serious or addicting or anything…” He let out a soft breath–half huff, half chuckle–as he shook his head.

“I’ve got stronger. Thanks for the offer though.” You nodded once and tossed the bottle back into your bag, zipping it shut with a slow pull. Your fingers lingered on the worn canvas for a second, the tension between you and Rhett thick in the silence.

“You still goin’ out with the crew tonight?” He asked suddenly.

You glanced up, a brow arched, like it was a stupid question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Rhett shrugged, all feigned nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him–there was something quieter behind them. Something unreadable.

“Thought I’d ask, that’s all.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, watching him. He’d leaned back against the lockers now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders still dusted with dirt, the bruise forming high on his cheekbone blooming like a storm cloud. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had drifted down to the scuffed tile beneath his boots, like he didn’t want you to catch him thinking too hard about something.

You tilted your head, voice quieter this time. “You plannin’ on bein’ there?”

He hesitated–just for a breath. Then: “Yeah. Think so.”

You gave a small nod, pulling your flannel tighter around your ribs. “Good. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink.” You smirked faintly. “Y’know…As a consolation prize.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing slightly. “I don’t need a damn consolation prize.”

You stepped closer, lips quirking. “No? Then maybe I’ll let you buy me one. Since you didn’t eat dirt tonight.”He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you brushed past him on your way to the door. Didn’t say a word as your shoulder bumped lightly against his chest. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice followed you. Low. Rough. Barely above a whisper.

“…Don’t ride hurt tomorrow.”

You paused, and turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“I always ride hurt,” You reply softly. “That’s the job.”

Then you opened the door, and left him there, still watching.

—————————

The Handsome Gambler smelled like stale beer, sweat, and a little too much aftershave. The jukebox was hiccuping through a George Strait song it had played three times already, and the floorboards creaked every time a boot shifted the wrong way. You walked in bruised but upright, your body already stiffening with the ache that was sure to bloom worse by morning. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only a dull throb along your ribs and a hot sting behind your shoulder blade. It hurt to breathe deep, but you didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

You were still wearing the same flannel you’d had on since the draw sheet dropped hours ago. It clung damp to your back, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a dark stain of dust and old blood smudged near the seam on your right arm. Your collar was crooked, your hair an absolute mess beneath your black Cattleman’s hat, but none of it mattered. You walked like you were untouched. Untouchable. A shadow of dirt and fire threading through the crowd.

A few of the boys waved you over from the far booth–beer bottles raised, one of them already gesturing for shots like this was a victory lap. You nodded back, lazy and half-cocked, but didn’t join them just yet. Instead, you made your way to the bar.

Rhett was propped against the far end of the counter. Long frame stretched just enough to make the stool creak, one boot hooked under the rail while the other was planted steady on the ground. His shirt clung to him in places from the ride, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he always wore them, showing off those rough forearms like he didn’t even know the effect they had. Or maybe he did.

He didn’t look at you completely, but you knew he had seen you walk in. You felt it. The weight of his gaze crawling up your side like a whisper–slow and deliberate, but not indulgent. Just…Watchful. As if he were cataloguing bruises. Measuring pain. Waiting to see if you’d limp or stride.

You didn’t limp.

You stepped right up to the counter, two seats down from him, and flagged the bartender with two fingers.

“Whiskey and Coke please,” You ordered, voice scratchy from dust and too many half-swallowed yells. “Tall.”

You needed the burn. Something to dull the coming storm in your bones. Something to keep your spine straight while the ache made camp beneath your ribs. You let your hand rest on the edge of the bar, the other pressed lightly to your side where the bruises were blooming ugly and deep.

That’s when you felt it.

A hand. Sliding low along the waistband of your jeans. Fingers curling in too close.

“–Saw you at the circuit,” A voice said behind you. Older. Greasy. Familiar with bad decisions and cheaper whiskey. “You ride like an absolute professional.” You stiffened. His palm skimmed just enough to raise your hackles. “I wonder,” He continued, voice warm with sleaze, “If that skill gets transferred to the bedroom.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. You shifted your weight slightly, not enough to cause a scene but enough to plant your heel where it needed to be in case you wanted to drive it through his instep.

“Were you ever taught about keepin’ your hands to yourself?” You asked, voice flat. Cold.

He laughed. A low, ugly sound, like gravel caught in the back of his throat. You could smell him now–cheap tobacco, sour sweat, something sharp like tequila gone warm.

“C’mon now, sugar,” He drawled. “Don’t get all uptight on me…I’m just trying to make conversation.” You turned then, slow and dangerous, the heat in your eyes enough to make a lesser man wither. Your lips parted to deliver something sharp enough to cut bone–

But another voice cut through first. Low. Lethal.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

It was Rhett, still seated. Still holding his beer. But his gaze was hard enough to freeze fire. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Pretty sure there’ll be blood on the floor, and it’s most definitely not gonna be hers. Or mine.” The guy paused, shifting his weight just slightly. You felt the air change–less sure now. Less cocky. But still stupid. He looked over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Rhett.

“What’re you, her belt bunny? She’s a grown woman. She can speak for herself.” Rhett’s lips curled around the mouth of his bottle, slow and deliberate. He took a sip–unbothered. Then he stood. One smooth movement. Tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need yelling or fists. Just presence.

Rhett’s boots scraped against the floor as he rose, slow and deliberate. He didn’t move fast, didn’t need to–just stepped off the stool like he had all the time in the world, beer bottle still in hand, eyes pinned to the man like a loaded gun with the safety off.

You clocked the change in his posture instantly–shoulders tight, jaw locked, fire flickering just behind those glacial blue eyes.

He was coming toward you.

But before he could get more than two steps in, you held out a hand, palm open.

“Rhett,” You said sharply. Calm. Even. “Take it easy. Sit back down.”

He froze. One foot still half-lifted like he’d been about to lunge. His jaw clenched visibly, his nostrils flaring as he stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen–or if he even could.

You didn’t give him the chance to argue, you just turned slowly back to the man.

He was still standing too close, that dumb, sleazy grin barely faltering under the weight of what he thought was bravado. Your drink still hadn’t come yet, and you could feel the ache in your side starting to curl deeper under your ribs. But this? This you had energy for.

Your hand shot out.

Not to slap him. Not to shove.

You grabbed his wrist.

And squeezed.

Hard.

You didn’t say anything at first–just watched his smirk start to falter as the pressure settled in. You flexed your fingers, tightening until you felt bone shift slightly under your grip. His eyes widened.

“Y’know how much grip strength you need to stay on a 2,500-pound bull?” You murmured, voice soft as molasses and sharp as a thorn. “Now imagine I use that same strength…on your wrist. Hmm? Sound good to you?”

His face paled. His arm twitched beneath your hold.

“Okay okay,” He blurted, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m sorry–shit, I’m sorry.”

You held him there for a second longer, just long enough for it to sink in, then let go with a little shove that sent him rocking back on his heels.

You smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You should be.” Then you jerked your chin toward the other end of the bar.

“Now go back to your friends, creep.”

He opened his mouth like he might say something else–but thought better of it. Instead, he muttered a sullen, “Jeez,” and slunk away with his pride limping behind him, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance.

The bartender slid your whiskey and Coke toward you just as the moment ended. You grabbed it almost immediately, and took a long sip without flinching, exhaling slowly as the burn spread through your chest.

“Put her drinks on my tab.”

Your hand paused halfway to your mouth, the glass cool against your fingers.

You glance sideways.

Rhett was still leaning against the counter, one elbow hooked over the edge, a bottle of Shiner raised to his lips. He took a slow sip, then licked the foam from the corner of his mouth with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t look nearly as good as it does.

“You don’t need to do that, Abbott,” You said, turning toward him just enough for your shoulder to brush the bar.

He shrugged, bottle tapping lightly against the wood. “Decided to take you up on the offer of buying you a drink… Problem?”

You swallowed hard and the whiskey burned less than the look in his eyes.

“No problem at all…” You murmured, straightening your spine and taking another slow sip of your own drink to keep your hands busy.

There’s a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just thick.

Then–

“Mind if I sit beside you?”

Your eyebrows lift–surprised, amused, maybe even a little curious.

You glance at the empty stool next to you, then back at him.

“Go right ahead.”

Rhett slides off his stool and takes the seat beside you. His denim brushes your thigh when he settles. He’s warm. Smells like leather, dust, and the faintest hint of beer. His vest creaks faintly when he leans back, legs spread just enough to take up too much room without even trying. You tilt your head toward him, lips quirking.

“You tryin’ to coddle up to me now? Just ‘cause you witnessed me eat shit in front of a crowd?” He gave you a look. Steady. That sharp-edged Rhett Abbott stare that always comes with a side of condescension and a slow drag of those glacial eyes across your face.

“No,” He said simply. “I’m welcoming you to the club.”

You blink. “The club?”

“The Wabang Club,” He muttered, tapping the neck of his bottle on the bar once. “First time you got thrown here.”

He pauses, just long enough to make you look at him.

“No more raging ego now.”

You scoff. “That so?”

“That’s so,” He replied, turning his head slightly toward you. His knee shifts beneath the bar, bumping yours–intentional, but barely.

You hum into your next sip. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still competitive.”

“No,” He agreed, smirking faintly, “but I’d say we’re on the same level now.”

“Uh huh,” You said, tongue clicking against your teeth as you lean in just slightly. “You still think I’m gunnin’ for your title, Abbott?”

He turns, and for the first time all night, he really looks at you.

“Think?” He pressed lowly, voice like a lazy threat. “I know you are.”

The whiskey hits your bloodstream with a heat that has nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way his voice drips across the syllables. You glance at his hands–battered and rough, thumb idly brushing the condensation on his bottle. He smells like sweat, grit, and something you can’t name but want more of. You wonder if his hands would feel like rope burn or salvation on your skin.

You lean just a touch closer, eyes still on his mouth.

“Maybe I just like givin’ you a hard time.”

His lips twitch. “You do that real well.”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Think you can handle more of it?”

His jaw ticked. His gaze dropped once–quick and dirty–to your lips, then back up again. The smirk turns into something darker.

“You keep flirtin’ like that,” He muttered,, “And we’re gonna stop pretendin’ we hate each other.”

You tilt your head, a smile playing at your mouth. “What if I like to pretend?”

He leaned in–closer now, voice brushing your skin.

“Then maybe it’s time you found out how much better the real thing feels.”

The words hit low. Between your ribs. Between your thighs.

The music fades behind you, the bar buzzing soft with other conversations, the rest of the world dropping out until it’s just you and Rhett. You finish your whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down slowly. You glanced over at him again, glass empty in your hand, breath tight in your chest–and you didn’t know what the hell washed over you. Maybe it was the whiskey, warm and heady in your veins. Maybe it was the throb of your bruises making everything feel sharper, more real. Or maybe it was the way Rhett was looking at you now–jaw tight, lips parted just slightly, blue eyes dragging over your face like he was trying to memorize it. Whatever the reason, you said it before you could second-guess yourself:

“…Is your truck parked out back?” Rhett’s eyebrows ticked up, just a little. His grip around the neck of his bottle tightened.

“…Yeah,” He replied slowly, voice rough around the edges. “It’s out back.” You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Then, licking your bottom lip slowly, you lifted your chin.

“Is it parked somewhere…Hidden?” That made him let out a soft huff of a laugh. Quiet and dark.

“You want me to show you?” You nodded once. He watched you for a beat, jaw flexing. Then he set his bottle down and flagged the bartender, slipping some cash across the wood.

“Keep the change.”

You didn’t say a word as he turned and walked toward the back exit, and you followed a step behind–both of you moving like you’d been building to this for weeks.

Because maybe you had.

The back door creaked as Rhett pushed it open, the night spilling in around your boots–cooler air, the scent of grass, the faint hum of cicadas vibrating somewhere out in the dark.

He led you across the gravel lot without looking back.

And there it was.

His truck.

Parked beneath a clutch of trees, mostly swallowed by shadows–perfectly isolated. Like he’d known all damn day you’d end up back there with him. The windows were fogged just from the day’s heat. The bed was empty. The cab was dark.

Rhett stopped beside it, boots scuffing against gravel, and turned to you.

He tipped his hat back slightly, the faintest curl playing at his mouth.

“So,” He said slowly, “Did you ask me all those questions just to see my truck?” You smirked, stepping into his space with your chin tilted up, your voice dripping with challenge and need. “Or…” He murmured, eyes dragging down your body, “Did you wanna test the shocks?” You glanced at the truck. Then back at him.

And smiled.

“I think we can give the shocks a run for their money.” You paused, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, your voice dropping to something sultry and honest “…I’ve always wanted to sleep with a fellow bull rider.” That did it. His jaw twitched. He didn’t lunge Didn’t rush.

He just grabbed the edge of your flannel, pulled you in slow and rough, like what was going to happen had already been decided. Like he’d been thinking about this since the day you walked into the Wabang locker room with your vest slung over your shoulder and that fuck-you smirk on your face. He tipped your hat back with a curl of his fingers, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide which he wanted to get drunk on first. Then he reached up and did the same to his own–tipping the brim of his hat back just enough to reveal more of that stubborn brow, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dust-smudged trail of stubble that shadowed his jaw. And then his hand was on your cheek.

Big. Calloused. Warm.

It didn’t fit the rest of him–the rough words, the sharp jabs, the bruised pride that bled through every look he’d ever given you in the ring. But his hand…It cupped your face like he gave a damn. Like you weren’t just some rival he couldn’t shake, but something worth holding onto.

Then he kissed you.

Not hard. Not fast. But deep.

Gentle, at first. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before he ruined it. Like he was trying to taste the part of you that hadn’t yet been touched by blood and bruises. You breathed in sharply through your nose, spine stiffening–not because it was bad. Because it was too good. Because Rhett Abbott wasn’t supposed to kiss like this. Wasn’t supposed to melt against you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

But then You slid your hand up the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, dragging him closer like you were starving and he was the only thing on the menu. And just like that, the kiss changed.

Heat surged between you in a crackling burst, the slow burn of it combusting into something greedy. His other hand fisted the side of your flannel, dragging your body hard against his as your back slammed gently against the cool metal of the truck’s passenger door. The jolt of it made you gasp into his mouth, and he took advantage of it–slipping his tongue between your lips with a groan low in his throat, all heat and rough intent.

You barely registered your hat falling off. Didn’t care. All you could feel was the hard line of his thigh between your legs, the pressure of his hips pinning you in place, the maddening scrape of his stubble as he kissed you like he wanted to wear your mouth for the rest of the goddamn night.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, bunching the fabric at his chest, trying to haul him even closer. But he was already there–pressed flush to you, his body molded to yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

He kissed you like he hated you.

Like you were the thorn in his side and the only thing that made him feel alive.

His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip before he nipped at it with his teeth–soft, then sharp, like he wanted to leave a mark. And you responded with a muffled curse, your fingers diving into the back of his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You don’t fight fair.”

You grinned, even as you gasped. “Neither do you.”

“Good,” He growled, pressing harder into you. “Then we’re even.”

His hand slid down, past your ribs–over bruises he’d noticed but hadn’t commented on–until it landed on your waist. And then lower. Gripping your ass through your jeans and dragging you up slightly, grinding you against the seam of his thigh like he wanted you squirming. Like he wanted you begging.

You arched into him, your lips parting on a breathless moan as the friction sparked lightning between your legs. Your head fell back against the truck door with a thud, and he didn’t waste a second–ducking down to kiss along your throat, biting the skin just hard enough to make your breath stutter.

“You think this is what everyone was bettin’ on?” You rasped, your voice gritty with lust. “That we’d end up fuckin’ in the parking lot instead of throwin’ punches?”

He laughed against your collarbone–rough and amused, like gravel sliding down a slope.

“Pretty sure nobody bet we’d make it past a punch.” His mouth trailed down to your shoulder, kissing the curve there through your shirt like he was already trying to undo you. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you again.

“Then stop talkin’ and show me what you’ve been thinkin’.”

“Gladly,” Rhett growled, voice rough with promise as he fished his keys from his pocket and popped the lock. The soft mechanical click barely registered over the pulse thrumming in your ears.

He opened the passenger door and held it like a gentleman might–if that gentleman had just kissed you like he planned to wreck you and every thought you’d ever had. You climbed up into the cab without hesitation, grateful as hell to find that the front seat was a bench. No console, no separation. Just space to spread your legs.

The second you slid in, Rhett slammed the door shut behind you, the echo like a warning shot. The keys hit the dashboard with a sharp clatter as he settled in beside you, his body heat already wrapping around you like smoke.

You didn’t wait. Your fingers found the buttons of your flannel and worked them open, fast and reckless, each pop of fabric louder than the breath you were sucking through your teeth. Beside you, Rhett was shrugging out of his plaid in one fluid motion, the sleeves peeling off his forearms, the collar catching in his hair.

“You on birth control?” He asked, his voice low and firm as he whipped the shirt into the backseat.

You nodded, hands already sliding your shirt off your shoulders. “’Course I am.”

His mouth quirked in a smirk, eyes sharp even in the darkness. “Most recent STD test?”

“Clean,” You said without missing a beat,“You?” Rhett grunted, reaching down to yank his undershirt over his head in one quick pull. The fabric stretched tight across his chest before it gave, revealing smooth muscle, scarred skin, and a line of dust still clinging to the hollow beneath his collarbone. You caught the bull rider tattoo on his chest, and smirked at it–talk about dedication.

“Clean as a whistle, sweetheart,” He said, voice a rumble. You shoved your flannel off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor, revealing your black bra beneath. The cotton clung to your ribs, sweat-darkened and stretched over the bruises that marbled your skin like art.

Rhett’s gaze dragged down your body like a hand.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, breath catching. “You look so fucking good.” He surged forward, one hand bracing the back of your neck while the other slid around your waist, fingers splaying over bruises he didn’t shy away from. His mouth crashed into yours again, hotter this time–less curious, more carnal. His lips dragged over yours in a filthy rhythm, all teeth and hunger and grit. Your moan was muffled by the way he took your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

His chest pressed against yours, bare skin meeting sweat-slicked heat. You could feel every inch of him–hard lines, warm flesh, the swell of his thighs spreading wider as he settled between your legs. His calloused fingers ran up your sides, ghosting along the edge of your bra, fingertips brushing your ribs so gently it made your core ache. You dragged your nails down his back just hard enough to leave a mark, and he hissed, teeth gnashing as he locked into your mouth.

He tasted like Shiner, dust, and danger.

Your hands gripped the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips were pressing flush against the heat between your thighs. He groaned–low and broken–his forehead pressing to yours.

“You want this?” He asked, voice barely more than a growl, his hands cradling your thighs now. “’Cause if I start, I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you’re beggin’ me to.” You nodded, breathless, and drunk off his voice and the whiskey you had.

“Then start, Rhett.” He didn’t wait any longer. He shoved your bra up with both hands, fingers hooking beneath the band and dragging it until your breasts spilled into the open air. His mouth followed immediately–hot and reverent. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his thumb toyed with the other, switching sides as you arched against him. The ache between your legs was molten now, and the need for him pooled low and fast in your stomach. Rhett groaned against your breast as he lightly bit down on your nipple, just enough to make you arch with a gasp, your back pressing into the cracked leather seat. His tongue soothed over the sting with a slow, deliberate swirl before he shifted and gave your other breast the same treatment–bite, suck, soothe. A rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hips.

“You got the prettiest fuckin’breasts I’ve ever seen,” He muttered against your skin, voice reverent and ragged. “Swear to God.” His hands framed your ribs, fingers splayed like he couldn’t hold enough of you at once. You reached for his belt, your hands shaking with urgency, and he lifted his head just enough to watch you work. Your fingers brushed over the buckle, then popped it free. You heard the clink of metal before you undid the button of his jeans and slid the zipper down with aching slowness. Rhett’s breath hitched–his hips twitching forward like your touch knocked the air out of him.

“Shit,” He hissed, dragging his mouth from your chest with a groan. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna finish in my fuckin’ jeans.” He shoved them off in one fluid, frustrated motion, yanking them down his thighs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, veins prominent and glistening with pre-cum. You only had a second to admire him before he was leaning forward again, mouth at your ear.

“Your turn,” he rasped, hands already moving to the waistband of your jeans. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” You obeyed without hesitation. He stripped them down fast—jeans and underwear dragged in one heated motion down your thighs, past your knees, all the way to your boots.

“Christ,” he muttered when he saw you, spreading your thighs with both hands, his thumbs brushing over the crease where your legs met your core. “You’re already soaked.”

You bit your lip, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve been soaked since you kissed me.” That made him groan low, head tipping forward until his breath hit your inner thigh.

“Lean back against the door,” he said, voice low and commanding now. “I wanna taste you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You shifted, twisting just enough to brace your shoulder against the cool metal, your legs falling open even wider. The truck’s cab was tight, warm, filled with the scent of sweat and sex and desire, but all you could think about was him–between your thighs, breathing like a man about to lose his goddamn mind.

Rhett didn’t hesitate.

He buried his face between your legs like he’d been starving for it. His tongue licked a hot stripe up your slit before his mouth closed over your clit, sucking it into the heat of it with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. Your hand shot into his hair—fingers twisting in the thick, sweat-damp curls at the base of his skull.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, your head thudding softly against the window. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you to the seat like he wasn’t gonna let you squirm away no matter how hard you tried.

He worked at your core like he was memorizing it. His tongue circled your clit, flicked it, flattened against it. He moaned against you like he was drunk on the taste, the sound low and wrecked, sending sparks racing up your spine.

“You taste so goddamn good,” He breathed between licks, voice muffled by your heat, “Could do this forever.” Then he slid his fingers to where his mouth was, sliding one thick digit into you, slow and deep, curling just right. Your hips bucked. You sobbed out his name. And Rhett? He just chuckled against your clit, cocky and wrecked all at once.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked for me,” he groaned, pushing in a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue. “Goddamn…You’re squeezin’ me so tight already, darlin’. You this desperate for my cock too?” You cried out, back arching. The truck creaked beneath you, the windows fogging more with every pant, every moan, every slick, filthy sound echoing in the tiny cab.

Rhett’s tongue never stopped. He alternated between slow, broad strokes and sharp, focused flicks, always listening to your body, adjusting when your grip in his hair tightened, when your thighs trembled. His fingers pumped harder, faster, curling with every thrust, pressing deep into that perfect spot until you were gasping, moaning, begging.

“Please, Rhett. Don’t stop–fuck, don’t stop–” He doubled down. His mouth sucked your clit like he owned it. His fingers fucked you deep and good, until all you could do was scream for him, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm slammed through you like a lightning strike.

You came with your hands tangled in his hair and his name breaking on your tongue, your body quaking with release. And Rhett? He groaned like it was his orgasm too–lips never leaving you, licking through every wave, every twitch, every sobbed breath until you were panting and shaking and damn near boneless in the seat.

Rhett was still crouched between your thighs, his breath hot and ragged, his chin wet with the aftermath of your orgasm. He looked like a man possessed–wide-eyed, jaw flexing, pink tongue flicking out to swipe the taste of you from his bottom lip. You could barely speak, your chest rising and falling like you were still trying to find gravity again.

He ran his hand down the outside of your thigh, fingers trembling slightly from the restraint it took to not climb on top of you right then and there. His voice came low, rough, utterly wrecked.

“How was that?”

You let out a breathless, trembling laugh–more of a sound than a word, your hand rising to brush sweaty hair from your face.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “I haven’t been to church in a while…But I think I saw God when you were down there.” He smirked, leaning in again, one hand braced on the seat beside your hip. You sat up slowly, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reached for his face with both hands. You dragged him up toward you until your mouths met again, and this time, you kissed him like you needed to taste what he’d done to you. Like the only way to ground yourself was to lick yourself off his tongue.

You moaned into him–low and breathy–as your hand drifted between your bodies, fingers trailing down his bare stomach until they curled around the hot, thick length of him. He gasped, startled, his hips twitching forward into your palm.

“Fuck–” He hissed, the word nearly broken in your mouth.

You stroked him slow at first. Deliberate. Your thumb ran over the bead of pre-cum slicking his tip, spreading it down his shaft as you pumped him lazily. The veins throbbed under your palm. He was thick. Hot. Heavy in your hand. And he was falling apart fast.

He groaned into your mouth, pulling back just slightly to pant, his forehead pressed to yours. One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw as his other hand braced against the door behind you.

“You’re filthy,” He breathed, voice catching as you twisted your wrist. “You gonna spit in my mouth next, sweetheart?”

You smirked, your breath mingling with his.

“You want that?”

He nodded once. Short. Desperate.

“Yeah.”

“Ask for it, then.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “Spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

You leaned back slightly, cradling his jaw in your free hand, and parted your lips slowly. A thin string of spit slid from your mouth to his, catching the light as it dropped onto his tongue. His eyes didn’t close–he watched you do it. And when your saliva hit his tongue, he let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Then he surged forward, pulling you into another kiss–wet, dirty, deep. He licked into you like he couldn’t stand for a single drop to go to waste. His tongue slid against yours, his hands gripping your thighs again as if he didn’t trust himself not to pin you down and fuck you right there.

You pulled away, panting. Your lips were slick, his face flushed. He looked completely undone.

So you slid down.

Not far. Just enough to shift your weight to your knees on the truck bench, tilting your body until your mouth hovered just above his flushed, leaking cock. You held his eyes the whole way down.

His breath caught.

“Wait–what’re you–”

But you already had him in your hand again, your tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe along the underside of his shaft. He groaned–loud and rough–one hand flying to your hair, the other bracing against the seatback behind him.

“Fuck,” he moaned as you took him in–slow, steady, inch by inch until your lips wrapped around his tip and your tongue swirled against the head. You sucked gently, letting your saliva mix with his pre-cum as you worked him deeper into your throat.

He lost it.

“Jesus Christ, you’re–fuck– unreal,” he gasped, his head falling back against the headrest. His hips twitched up into your mouth, and you hummed around him in approval, the vibration making him curse again.

You bobbed your head slowly, hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, stroking what you couldn’t take. His thighs trembled beneath you, and his grip on your hair tightened with every ragged breath he took.

“Gonna–shit–gonna cum if you keep that up,” he panted, his voice strangled.

And just when his voice cracked–“I’m close, Y/N, I’m–”

You stopped.

You pulled off him with a pop of suction, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with sin.

He looked like you’d just punched him in the chest.

“What the fuck?” He gasped, blinking at you with genuine disbelief, his cock twitching in your hand. You let out a soft, slow laugh as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand and climbed up into his lap like you’d planned it that way from the start.

“You look real upset, Abbott,” You murmured, dragging your hands up his bare chest as you straddled him. His cock pressed hot and hard against your inner thigh, wet from your mouth, throbbing with need.

He didn’t say anything–just grabbed your waist in both hands like he needed to steady himself, like he couldn’t believe the way you moved on top of him. His palms dragged over your ribs, thumbs grazing your bruises before settling low on your hips, kneading the flesh with enough pressure to make you gasp.

“You gonna tap out already?” You teased, voice all sugar and sin. “Or you still got a little fight left in you?”

He let out a low growl, jaw tight, his eyes dragging over your face like you were a goddamn vision.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered. You grinned, leaning in just close enough to brush your lips over his–barely a kiss, more like a dare.

“I can’t miss out on the possibility of showin’ you my riding skills now, can I?” That earned you a wicked smile, crooked and sharp, slow as sin. His grip on your hips tightened as he tilted his head back to look up at you, blue eyes flicking over your face, your bare chest, the way your thighs bracketed him like he already belonged between them.

“Gonna be more than eight seconds, sweetheart,” He rasped, breath fanning against your collarbone. “Think you can handle it?” You hummed, your hand sliding between your bodies, curling around his cock again as you guided the tip to your slick heat. You dragged him through your folds, letting him feel just how soaked you were for him before pausing at your entrance.

“I think I can manage just fine,” You whispered, voice syrup-thick. “Might even beat my personal record.”

And then you sank down on him–slow, tight, inch by inch. Rhett’s head thumped back against the headrest with a guttural moan, hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind. You took him deep, your walls fluttering around him as you bottomed out, a ragged breath escaping your lips as your head fell forward.

“Fuck, you’re big,” You gasped, thighs trembling. “Feels like you’re fuckin’ splitting me open.”

His hands slid up your waist, over your ribs, one of them curling around the side of your neck–just firm enough to make your breath catch.

“You feel like heaven,” He muttered against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt–God–you were made for me.” You rolled your hips slow at first, just enough to get a rhythm. Your breasts bounced with every motion, sweat already gathering at the small of your back, the sound of skin against skin echoing filthy in the cab. The windows fogged up even more, the air thick with heat and tension and the wet slap of your bodies coming together.

Rhett let out a harsh exhale, eyes locked on where you were joined.

“Look at you ridin’ me,” He growled, his thumb brushing your jaw, his other hand dragging down to slap your ass, hard. “Just like you were born to fuckin’ do it.”

You rode him harder, faster, grinding your hips down with each bounce, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. The truck creaked with every thrust, the shocks protesting under the rhythm of your bodies.

“You like watchin’ me take it, huh?” You panted, voice ragged. “Like the view from down there, Abbott?” His grin split wide.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” He rasped. “You look so good like this. Full of me. Drippin’ down your thighs. Fuckin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break me.”

His hips bucked up to meet your thrusts, and suddenly he wasn’t letting you lead anymore–he was matching your rhythm, slamming into you from below, his hands gripping your ass tight enough to bruise.

The shift sent you crying out, your hand flying to his chest, nails scraping across his pecs.

“God, Rhett–”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He panted, one hand rising to grip the back of your neck again, rougher now, possessive. “You gonna cum like this? Ridin’ my cock in my truck? Is that what you needed all along?” You nodded, gasping, your whole body starting to unravel. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles as he kept fucking up into you, faster, deeper.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.” You did. You came with a broken sob, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed over you like a bull out the gate. Your walls clamped around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm stuttered, his groan splitting the air as he chased his own release.

And then he was cumming too–deep inside you, with a loud, helpless curse, his cock twitching against your walls, coating them in his warmth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-take it all, Y/N, take all of it–Jesus–” You both collapsed into each other, slick and shaking and gasping for air. His arms wrapped around you tight, his lips dragging lazily over your neck as you slumped against his chest. The cab was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the creak of the seat as you shifted, and the faint hum of cicadas outside. After a long moment, Rhett let out a soft, stunned laugh.

“Well,” He said, voice hoarse, “That’s one way to settle a rivalry.”

You smirked against his collarbone, your body still trembling.

“Should’ve done that from the beginning. Could’ve saved us the trouble.” He lets out a small laugh and kisses your shoulder.

“It wouldn’t have been the same without the intense build up.” He comments, and you sigh and reply.

”I can’t help but…Agree with you there.”

[three-semicolons]

Prompt: During a fight with a magical entity, members of the bat family are all forced to hear Dick’s inner thoughts. Luckily, the magic is set to naturally fade in a few weeks, but unluckily, there is no way to expedite the process. They figure that telling Dick would only serve to make him uncomfortable, so it is decided cumulatively to keep quiet about it.

A lot is revealed, but now those afflicted with the curse must decide whether it’s worth it to confess the whole situation to Dick or to leave the revelations unaddressed.

Below are possible avenues this could be taken, from fluffy to angsty:

1.) Everyone kind of doubts that Dick loves them as much as he says. There’s so much self-loathing in the bat family that, even though Dick hugs and comforts and serves in any way he can, there’s always this underlying notion that it’s all a performance.

But then Dick tells Tim “good job” on a patrol night, and his inner thoughts continue with an I’m so proud of you. Look at how much you’ve grown.

Jason decides to actually come to dinner one night and Dick gives him a polite hug, but inside he’s gushing I can’t believe you’re here, I’m so happy to see you, I missed you, I love you.

Bruce gives Dick an apology for something he did and Dick accepts it in a way that Bruce would normally interpret as more placating than anything, but then he hears I could never hate you, you’re everything to me, I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done.

Stephanie feels insecure about her place as a vigilante, and Dick tells her she’s doing just fine. But as he walks away to continue his route, she hears You’re just like me, all fire and passion and determination. I can’t believe how well you’ve made a name for yourself — better, younger, and with less support than I ever had.

Etc etc.

2.) Number 1 but angsty. Essentially, Dick’s real reaction to the jabs his siblings make.

Damian makes some throw-away comment about Dick being trailer trash or of impure blood and Dick responds with his normal chastising grin and a “Dami, come on now!”. But Damian is flooded with memories of cold juvie hallways and the longing for a crowded bonfire and raucous laughter while inside an empty, desolate manor and an I miss you please come back I love you please-

Jason spits a comment about Dick being a perfect golden boy with Batman wrapped around his finger and Dick playfully sticks out his tongue, but inner-Dick retorts with a grim I wish he felt that way. Maybe then he would have adopted me.

Tim is ranting about his most recent relationship woes to Dick and makes an off-hand comment about how he wouldn’t understand because he’ll take any ass he can get and implies he’s kind of a man-whore, but chokes halfway through when he’s suddenly flooded with rain and a painful grip on his wrists and a pleading no please stop please I’m poison don’t touch me. It disappears almost instantly, and the only affirmation he gets that anything happened at all is the worried look Dick flashes at him — like Tim was the one they should be concerned about.

3.) Dick’s inner monologue is filled with a series of statements that are increasingly worrying. They begin as what could be excused as weird intrusive thoughts or just Dick being Dick, but a combination of recurring themes and escalating severity causes the family to eventually realize that something is very wrong. Use your favorite Dick trauma of choice.

Add more if you want! You could also do something shippy if you want a character who thinks their crush on Dick is unrequited but it turns out Dick feels the same way, or even a silly game night fic where Dick keeps losing at Poker because he’s narrating his cards, and over time he becomes convinced that everyone is cheating. Which, you know, they kind of are.

Go nuts with it.

[princesevsnape]

Reckless

Requested by anon

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary: John gets angry at you after a mission where you were “reckless”.

Word count: 2k

A/N: I haven’t watched Thunderbolts yet so I haven’t gone in to any specifics. I will watch it when it’s released on Disney plus. If you send in more requests please avoid spoilers if possible.

You replayed the moment in your head over and over again. John had never once raised his voice at you. He had never gotten angry with you. But after today’s mission he had.

You laid in bed after getting back to the tower sobbing your eyes out as you recall the way things went.

John had told you to get out. You had been surrounded by too many men. He hadn’t wanted anything to happen to you, he told you to get back to the jet so you could get the hell out of there. And you had. That was until you realised John wasn’t right behind you.

You knew John would be ok he would be able to get himself out of there but something made you go back.

You were sat on the jet on the way back to the tower. John was just staring at you.

“How the hell could you have been so reckless?” He yelled.

“I’m sorry but I wasn’t going to leave you behind”

“I told you to get back to the jet and you ignored me!”

“As I said I wasn’t going to leave you behind.”

“Well that wasn’t your decision to make. I had to save your ass. You could have been shot or worse killed! Did you even think about that?”

“No I didn’t John. I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was trying to make sure you got out.” You said starting to get angry yourself.

“I can handle myself! I don’t need you trying to save me, when it just puts you in danger! Next time I will not be taking you on a mission with me. You’re too reckless!” He yelled.

That was the last thing he had said to you. And now you just couldn’t get it out of your head.

A knock on your door snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Come in.” You said, praying that it wasn’t John.

You were so happy when you saw it was Yelena.

“Y/N are you ok?” Yelena asked concenrned when she saw the tears streaming down your face.

“I’m fine.” You lied wiping away the tears.

“I can see you’ve been crying. You are not fine. Neither is John he is being miserable and grumpy and snapping at everyone. What happened?” She asked.

“We were completely surrounded on our way out during the mission. He told me to go to the jet. I was worried he wouldn’t get out and went back for him. Then he yelled at me on our way back here.” You said crying even more.

“Oh sweetie.” Yelena said sitting on your bed and hugging you.

“I thought something was wrong. He’s been so happy since you joined the team. You and him are so close and he hasn’t been this miserable in a long time. He has such a soft spot for you. So when I saw him so miserable and angry, I knew something must have happened. You did the right thing though. We are a team we stick together. He’ll come around.” Yelena added.

“I don’t think he will. He was so angry. Said I was reckless and that I could have gotten myself shot or even killed. And he got mad about having to save my ass as he put it” You said.

“Supporting your team mate does not make you reckless. He will come around. If not I’ll set my father on him.” Yelena said making you chuckle.

“Fancy coming down for something to eat?” She asked.

“Sure why not.” You said wiping away the rest of your tears.

You and Yelena made your way down to get something to eat. The rest of the team were already in the common area. John included. He met your gaze and then quickly looked away.

You wanted so badly to clear the air with him. Or at least explain why you had gone back for him. But you thought better of it knowing it would probably end up with him yelling at you and getting even angrier with you. So you decided it was best to leave it. If he wanted to fix things he would have to come to you.

“What do you want to eat?” Yelena asked.

“I don’t know. Now that I think of it I don’t think I want to eat anything. I might as well just go back to my room.” You said.

“No no no. You are staying here and eating something. I’m not having you mope in bed again.” Yelena said.

This caught John’s attention. It hurt him to think he’d upset you so much you had been moping. It hurt him to know he caused that. But you had just been so damn reckless.

John got up to leave.

“Walker where are you going?” Yelena asked.

“To the gym. Need some time alone.” He said.

“No chance you are not going anywhere. Neither of you.” Yelena said looking between the two of you.

“We are going to order some pizza and we are all going to watch a film together. We need to spend more time together. Y/N and Walker you two can sit next to each other.” Yelena added.

You groaned but knew that when it came to Yelena you had no choice.

So there you were sat eating pizza and watching some crappy film that you were paying absolutely zero attention to. Sat next to the man who currently hated you. Well maybe not hated you but was mad enough it felt like he hated you.

You really did not know what caused him to act the way he did. Yelena was right John did have a soft spot for you. Whenever he needed someone to talk to he went to you. Whenever he wanted someone to spar with he went to you. His whole demeanour had changed from what Yelena said since you had joined the team. So why after all this time did he snap at you like that.

You shook the thoughts from your head and reached for your drink.

“That’s mine.” John said.

“Sorry.” You apologised and reached for your own drink. You must have been so caught up in your thoughts that you forgot which drink was yours.

“Since you are already reaching for the drink can you pass me mine?” John asked.

You nodded and handed him his drink. As he took the drink from your hands his fingers unintentionally brushed against yours. You sucked in a sharp breath and just stared at him.

“I know I’m good looking but do you have to stare at me like that?” John asked cockily.

“Shut up Walker.” You said and punched him lightly.

John just laughed.

“You’re going to have to try harder if you want to hurt me sweetheart. Although we know you wouldn’t be able to you’d probably break your hand or something.” He chuckled.

“If I want to hurt you I’ll just get Bucky to do it.” You said smirking at him.

“I’d happily beat him up if you want me to doll.” Bucky said winking at you.

“I’ll join in.” Alexei said laughing.

“Now you’re all ganging up on me?” John asked.

“That’s what you get for upsetting her.” Yelena said.

“Let me guess you’ll join in too?” John asked Yelena.

“You hurt Y/N, you hurt me. You know she’s like a sister to me. We have known each other for a long time. Been friends since we were young. So yes that’s why I will happily join in on the beating.” Yelena said smiling at him.

“Well before you actually do beat me up, I’m out of here.” John said before leaving to go back to his room.

“Oh so we aren’t beating him up?” Alexei asked.

“Sorry no. It was only a joke. I better go check on him.” You said.

“Good luck.” Yelena shouted after you.

When you reached John’s room you knocked. He did not answer. You groaned and just barged into his room.

“Jesus Christ woman. If someone doesn’t answer you leave them alone.” John said.

It took you a few more seconds to notice why he hadn’t answered. He was stood there in just his boxers. You looked him up and down. Staring at his muscles. You couldn’t help but bite your lip at the sight of him.

“Earth to Y/N. Did you hear a word I just said?” John asked.

“Sorry.” You said looking up at his face.

“What do you want? I was about to go to bed.” He asked.

“I think we need to talk.” You said.

“Right now?” John asked.

“Yes right now.”

“Fine let me put some clothes back on.” John said groaning and going to grab some clothes.

“You don’t have to put clothes on.” You said.

John turned to look at you. Eyebrow raised, a smirk on his face. You cringed at what you had said.

“Oh yeah?” John asked.

“I did not just say that.” You said.

“Oh but you did sweetheart.” John said.

“Shut up.” You said rolling your eyes at him.

“What did you want to talk about anyway?” He asked.

“We need to talk about what happened. You really upset me.” You said.

“Well you shouldn’t have been so reckless.”

“You know what screw you Walker. I wanted to try clear the air but clearly you’re just going to be a dick about it. I’m done being your friend. Just stay away from me from now on.” You said and went to walk away.

Before you could leave John grabbed your arm.

“Don’t go look I’m sorry ok. Just let me explain. Please.” He said.

“Fine.” You said.

John still holding your arm pulled you towards the bed so you could sit down together.

“I’m sorry ok. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. It’s just if anything happened to you I would never forgive myself.” He admitted.

“Well it wouldn’t have been down to you. Things happen. People get hurt.”

“Yes but if you did get hurt I’d go out of my mind. I’ve lost too many people that I care about I can’t lose you too.”

“That didn’t give you the right to shout at me. And call me reckless. If you hadn’t of gotten out of there and I had left you I would have never forgiven myself.” You admitted.

“I would have been fine.” He said.

“And what if you hadn’t huh? What then? We are a team. And as Yelena told me we have to stick together. I did the right thing but you got mad at me.”

“Yes I did get mad at you because if you got hurt. Or worse if you died I wouldn’t be able to cope. I love you. The closer we’ve gotten the more I’ve fallen for you. I love you and if you died or got hurt I would be a mess. So that’s why I shouted at you. Of course I regret it, but you need to realise the severity of the consequences your actions could have caused. That’s why I got angry.” John admitted.

“John I.” You started to say but stopped yourself. You were trying to take in what he had just said.

“I know you don’t feel the same way. I don’t expect you to. I just had to tell you how I feel.”

“John I do feel the same way. That’s why I had to come back and help you. I wasn’t going to leave you behind. I know what I did was stupid, but if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t forgive myself for leaving. I love you too. And I couldn’t cope if I lost you.” You admitted.

“If you really love me then kiss me sweetheart.” John said smiling.

You didn’t hesitate to crash your lips onto his. He lifted you up and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him.

He held tightly onto your hips as one of your hands rested on his shoulder, the other placed on his chest.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He said smiling as he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m guessing probably as long as I have.” You said before kissing him again.

“I love you John.” You said.

“I love you too sweetheart.” He replied.

[circi-chirps]

i keep thinking abt kris's sprites. like, when we/the player are controlling them, they look flat and empty-like. but when kris rips out the soul and walks around (albeit noticably tired/exhausted), you can see that they DO have personality. even when they're trying to wack us/the soul with a hockey stick in the closet (ESPECIALLY the blushing). I'll never understand the ppl who say kris and their gender/pronouns are up to interpretation or reflect the player that's literally the OPPOSITE of what's trying to be expressed. especially in the snowgrave/weird route, just from the spoilers ive seen. and that's exactly why I won't do that route bc its almost spelled out to you that kris doesnt want to say those things to their friends. to the point of biting their hand to muffle their words so we dont make them insult ralsei. and then!!! when you tell ralsei that he doesnt have to smile all the time and kris initiates the hug?? and!! the animation of kris hugging ralsei isnt stiff and tense vs kris and ralsei in the acid pool swan ride??? oml these characters have such a grip on me, and the idea of controlling kris and possibly making them do things they dont want to do (even tho im only doing the pacifist route) makes me feel so bad!!! i just want them and their friends to be happy!!!! ouuuugggh i 1) cant believe I waited this long to play chapters 2-4 and 2) am now devastated that i have to wait until the next chapter bc his hyperfixation has a hold on me on par with my last hyperfixation. i am. unwell. /pos

[gotwcird]

"i can't wait until we get to fill her both," robin groaned, back arching, feeling hot pleasure wound deep in his belly. somehow hardened even more at the fantasy of them fucking her both, of feeling his husband through the press between her holes. alas, he knew he wasn't long for this, could feel his orgasm threaten him with each time she bottomed out on top of him. was almost proud of himself too, having held back for so long. still, he worked his hips alongside anton's to meet his thrusts, to help him work will on his cock. needed to draw this out as much as possible and most importantly, watch their baby cum on him first. determined to have her enjoy the feeling of his cum inside her to accompany the high of her orgasm.

will's head lolled back, almost entirely leaning her weight into anton as the waves of pleasure became too much for her to handle. robin and anton worked together to ground her and hit her up high, keeping her in a stasis that had her rolling her eyes back, filthy sounds coming out of her mouth to emphasize it. became all unhinged and untethered. a completely new experience that made her suddenly realize why people seemed to love sex so much. why they were clamouring on each other all the time, rutting to find their peaks. knew then too that she wanted to keep doing this. anton's praise, his touch, the way he pinched her nipples only making her feel that bit more insane, shaking in his hold. "please," she cried, felt saliva drip down the corner of her mouth because of how long she had it open.

robin grinned found a proper, hard rhythm to stick to, rutting into her hard and fast. "are you close, baby? i think she's close, my love." he looked from will to anton, breathless but still grinning. reached one of his hands down to start tweaking at her clit. laughed even, because he could feel it, the way her walls spasmed and clenched, how her body shook in his husband's hold.

his thrusts became harder, rough and taking. that, paired with the way he rubbed at her clit, will was a goner. didn't even have to the capacity to warn them, just lurched forward and shook, garbled, nonsensical sounds coming out of her mouth as she came, hard.

Just listening to Robin's reactions had Anton's cock twitching and hardening, hips shifting against him to chase some pleasure. He had always loved the way his husband sounded especially when he got vocal, every moan and expletive only egged him on. And now getting to hear the same from Will? It fed something dark and hungry within him as if he needed to squeeze out every last noise until the two of them were whimpering and still.

He let his body go taut as Will's arm wrapped around him to grab a hold of his nape. Felt her nails dig into his skin as she tried desperately to anchor herself onto something. "She's all yours tonight, my love. Enjoy her," Anton smirked, locking his eyes with Robin as he wrapped an arm around Will's abdomen. Secured her in place to his chest as he continued to hoist her up and down on Robin. He was working up a sweat to keep her going while not trying to bust into his husband prematurely. Which was growing increasingly difficult because as Robin fucked into Will, Anton felt the drag of his hips pull his cock in and out of his pretty little hole. Left him hissing as he did so and pressing his hands deeper into Will. Used his hold on her to thrust into Robin, matching his movements as he rutted into their baby. Every sensation only added to the cacophony of pleasure.

"That's it, Will. Look at what you do to Robin. He likes your pussy so much," Anton praised, hummed low into her ear as he nipped at her lobe. Let his hand roam across her form, squeezing at the the swell of her breasts. He chuckled softly when Robin begged him to touch her. More than happy to oblige, Anton brushed his rough fingers against her tender nipples, giving them a rough pinch and rolling them between his digits. "You're a vision, Will." Pressed a gentle kiss against her neck before he met Robin's gaze. "As are you, my love. Fucking spectacular."

[tommysparkles]

2, 7 and 14 for the cuddling prompts! (Or whichever if u don't want 2 do all 3 in 1)

on it! 2. on the couch/loveseat, 7. for comfort, 14. in public

"Noooooo," Buck groans as he loses yet another hand of poker. "This was more fun when I had math superpowers."

Tommy laughs next to him as Buck collapses against him as they sit on the little outdoor couch on Bobby and Athena's new patio. They're all celebrating Bobby's long recovery from the lab explosion and subsequent illness, Buck and Tommy getting back together, and Chris coming home.

And Buck's learning, he's still terrible at poker.

"You could go stick your finger in a light socket," Chimney cracks.

Buck pretends to think about it, and Tommy bumps him with his shoulder. "No."

Buck pouts at him. "You never let me have any fun."

Tommy waggles his eyebrows like the dork he is. "Not true and you know it."

Buck grins as everyone goes back to the game with a groan. Tommy sets his cards down and Buck cuddles into him.

"You have no poker face, sweetheart," Tommy says quietly. "Also, I know all your tells."

Buck frowns at that. "You can't possibly know all of them."

"Hmm," Tommy says. Eddie tells him it's his turn and he checks before turning back to Buck. "You stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth when you have a good hand, like you're excited. You get these little furrows between your brows right here-" Tommy taps a spot between his eyebrows. "-when you've got a bad one."

Buck sighs. "Stupid face."

Tommy huffs another laugh, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him in closer. "Never. I love that face."

"Oh," Buck says. "Okay then."

Tommy kisses the top of his head and Buck rests right there, watching his family, curled up next to his boyfriend, feeling immensely good about how everything's turned out.

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

Looking at the concept art of the submarine for Veilguard and seriously thinking about it, I'm really, really glad that the developers went for the Lighthouse, the Crossroads, and the eluvians, instead, because of the freedom it provides.

In the previous games, it's always been understood that travelling takes time. You always sort of have to try and not to think about that part too hard. In Origins, for the ideal outcome, you have to leave Redcliffe at the mercy of a child possessed by a powerful demon (who, I might add, has already once flooded the town with a horde of undead), for who knows how many days, so you can recruit the mages to attempt to solve the issue. Not to even mention that when you arrive to the mage tower, you also most likely end up finding out that they have their own problems there, which you have to deal with first. Who knows how long that takes. Then you travel all the way back to Redcliffe and still somehow save the situation with no further casualties. My point is: Either you have a headcanon for how that's even possible, or you don't think about it, or try not to think about it, or you choose a different solution, but the fact is that that's just insane. Realistically, it must take many days - precious time that Redcliffe does not have. And yet! It works out.

Then there's that whole thing with travelling to the Frostback Mountains to find the holy grail long-lost ashes of the Thedas' most revered prophet that may or may not be just a legend, with completely unpredictable, uncertain outcome. All that just to heal one nobleman, while the blight is consuming the land. That's going to take time, too.

We travel to a lot of places in Origins, and it's safe to assume that it's all done on foot, as there's no indication otherwise, so everything is very time-consuming. If you want to think about it realistically, it makes no sense to travel to distant places on a whim, because even the most essential trips take a lot of time as it is. But, of course, as the player, you can do whatever you want without repercussions. And I think that's fine because it's a video game, and it's supposed to be fun, and you're supposed to be able to suspend disbelief a little for the sake of the story and experience. So, I personally don't think that anything I've described above is really that much of an issue. Sure, we'll go all the way back to the Korcari Wilds to kill your mom, Morrigan. No problem. And, you know, at least the Hero of Ferelden sticks to... well... Ferelden.

I feel like the Inquisitor is the biggest offender when it comes to this. Inquisition still doesn't have any special means of travel for the vast majority of the game. Either they go on foot or on their mount. It still must take a lot of time to travel long distances. Going from Haven to Val Royeaux, from Skyhold to Crestwood or Storm Coast, and back, all the time, is going to take a lot of time. We're talking about travelling not only within but also between two different countries. Yet the Inquisitor often does it just to have a small chat with an NPC, to do somebody a favour, to spend time with a companion, just to have a romantic moment, or for other personal matters. Meanwhile, the main villain is on the loose, trying to figure out how to destroy the world. If you care about such things, you have to create headcanons around it - perhaps that date with our love interest in that remote location happened while we were there on a mission. Otherwise, you have the Inquisitor travelling from Ferelden to Orlais and back whenever they feel like it. Why wouldn't we take Cole all the way from Skyhold to a restaurant in Val Royeaux just to sit there and chat for a bit? It's not like we have anything important to do! That would take an absolutely obscene amount of time, no matter how fast your mount is.

I know I'm rambling, but I'll quickly sum it up: The protagonists and their companions before Veilguard didn't have any special means of transport. They were mostly on foot. They had mounts, at best. Travelling must have taken days or weeks, and they did it a lot, and they did it to get things done, and they also often did it for personal reasons and downtime, some very frivolous things even, while the world seemed to be near its end. Because it's a video game, you can do it all pretty willy-nilly. The player is not punished for it in any way. Only Origins sometimes gives you a random enemy encounter while travelling between maps. However, you can't fail any of the games or any of the quests by simply taking too long to do them and travelling around too much. In the traditional RPG fashion, the events of the game do not move forward unless you do specific quests, no matter how many times you've travelled from one corner of the map to the other and back.

What about that fantasy submarine, though?

While I must say that travelling deep underwater in Veilguard would be very interesting, and depending on the technology/magic employed, it could also go reasonably fast, its reach would still be limited. Pretty much everything we do in the game (besides Sea of Blood), we do on land, and you can only go to so many places through deep underwater travel. It simply wouldn't and couldn't be as fast and convenient as the eluvians. The whole game would have to be built around the submarine and still it feels like it wouldn't be enough if they wanted to make varied enough maps. Also, if some aren't happy with Veilguard now because it expands the magic lore and thus feels "too modern" (e.g. Bellara's magitechnobabble) or whatever, a magic steampunk submarine would hardly help.

The eluvians are, in my opinion, an absolutely brilliant way to do fast travel that requires very little suspension of disbelief in comparison with the previous games. And the best thing is that they were already well established in the previous games, especially in Inquisition. We were able to try them out. We know that thanks to the eluvian network, it's possible to travel all over Thedas in mere minutes. There is also more than one Crossroads-like network. The one Morrigan uses to hide in is something different from what we find in Trespasser, and what we find in Trespasser is different from the Lighthouse adjacent Crossroads, or... at the very least it must be a different part of it.

Because there's no established number of eluvians or a map of where they all are, they could be anywhere. Merrill might repair one in DAII. In Inquisition, we see them all over the place. We even see some in various nobles' homes. There is even a note you can find somewhere in the Exalted Plains and possibly another (I believe) in Emerald Graves that said that nobles even took the mirrors along with them when moving out of their homes, travelling with them. So, the eluvian network is vast and makes everything conveniently connected. I also imagine that Solas had some eluvians strategically placed for his own convenience. He had centuries for it. At the very least.

The reason why the eluvians are in all the convenient places in Veilguard, of course, is that it's a video game. That's the boring explanation. But when you try to think about more realistic reasons, it actually isn't all that hard. Because of the reasons I've already stated. Because the ancient elves used the eluvians to travel all over when their empire was at its peak, and we see and find many of the mirrors still intact in the games, even before Veilguard. They're massive, beautiful mirrors, and some people simply have them in their homes. Solas also surely worked on his network before and also after he woke up from his slumber. We know that because the remaining evanuris want nothing more than to invade and abuse Solas' Crossroads that he used so long to pester them before he finally locked them away. In the years before Veilguard, various people (factions) may also have learned of Solas' plans, the existence of the eluvians, and might have acquired one for themselves. They had a whole decade to do so. Or, in case of Weisshaupt, it is directly stated that they were given the mirror by the Dalish.

Considering that through Solas' carefully established personal network of eluvians, which he cultivated during the centuries lasting fight against the evanuris, travelling is supposed to take mere minutes, it feels so much less jarring when you see Rook and the companions travel all over the north as part of their operations but also when they want to have a little quality time between missions.

It helps that the game also makes it clear that sometimes Rook and some of the companions have to sit things out. Like when Harding goes to the Lords of Fortune to find a dragon hunter. Or when Davrin is tasked with getting more intel after Weisshaupt. Sometimes Rook has to wait for their specialists or allies to do their own thing, because nobody has any idea what the next step needs to be, and they need to figure that out first. There are various such moments in the game that make it easily possible not only for Rook and the companions to have a little bit of downtime here and there, just like the Inquisitor did, for example, but also for them to quickly go wherever the hell they want, be it for work or rest. The rest isn't really hard to headcanon around in comparison with what we experience in the previous games.

So, as much as I would love to see what underwater horrors Thedas might have to offer, I don't think the submarine would work nearly as well as the eluvian network does. Is anyone even arguing in favour of the submarine? I don't know. I haven't seen it myself. I'm not trying to push against anybody's opinion here or anything like that. Honestly, it got a little out of hand, but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate what they did with the eluvian network in Veilguard. It's an excellent example of implementing fast travel in a way that is based on the already well established lore, setting, and the in-game reality, and allows for incredible flexibility and support in handling the events in the game. As far as I'm concerned, it's perfect.

[jccatstudios]

Now that the six of crows comic is done or so I'm aware, as I do belive you mentioned that you didn't see it possible in the future to continue due to time issues which is understandable, the question is what can we look forward to in the future?

(p.s. Loved the comic it was the thing I looked forward to each week)

Shoot, now that's a question that's been on my mind for a while.

To start, I still have a few very kind asks I haven't made sketches for yet. Second, I'll be posting the last of the book order updates here. I'm excited to see how Ch 4 prints in color!

After all of that is the tricky part. I'm still mulling it over, and the answer I'm coming to is one I don't necessarily like, but it feels right. Except for a few posts at the start, the majority of this account is SoC focused. That's what the majority of you are here for, and I support that!

Instead of making this account about my personal art or whatever I'm doing, I think it would be better to dedicate it to this comic. For future SoC fans who find my work, I'd like it to be as easily navigable as it is now, which means keeping the same pinned and not cluttering the archive. If I make new art of the characters or want to share small updates of my future projects, I'll share them here, but that's it.

I might make a side blog or a new account here for my personal work. I'm not sure yet. Right now, I post my personal art on my website, and on insta and bluesky as @ jcscottart

Thanks for sticking around this long. I hope this comic keeps circulating through the fandom even after I take a step back. Always makes me happy to hear that people enjoy the comic updates :)

[corrie-zodori]

Hi /comes in swinging with a baseball bat This is a long post but bare with me, if you like spamtenna and deltarune theories strap in for this one. My running theory is this: I think that Mike sabotaged Tenna and Spamton's relationship.

I got thinking, where does the animosity between Spamton and Tenna come from? In the snowgrave route of chapter 2, Spamton implies with the line "Are you gonna f*ck me over at the good part, what are you a game show host?" He thinks Tenna was going to screw him over. And we know that because Spamton ran off after that phone call, Tenna thinks that Spamton ripped him off and abandoned him. And because Spamton ran off, they never got to talk or clear the air. Ever. (That's ALSO Why Spamton only comes out of your pocket because he thinks Tenna CARES suddenly.)

Why would he think that specifically? In Spamton's shop, when you bring up friends... Why does Spamton go from "Mike..." to talking about Tenna? "Don't trust anything you see on TV, that man's a criminal". He was thinking about Mike specifically, there, so why would he suddenly switch aggressively to warning Kris about Tenna? Because, by remembering Mike, He's flashing back to that last phonecall he took right before he ran out of the room. The one that Tenna referred to in the sword route. AKA, Likely, the last time he talked to Tenna, and POSSIBLY the last time he talked to Mike. And what did Tenna wanna do? He wanted Spamton to sign a contract. Spamton would have been so easy to manipulate here, for Mike, ESPECIALLY since Mike had already had his trust (assuming Mike was the person he was in contact with all along. Someone we've seen him get defensive of, in the spamtons sweepstakes. Mike was the one who helped him gain all of his fame, after all!) And Spamton was already used to people using him /gestures to his old 'friends'. It would NOT have been hard to convince him.

All Mike would have to have said was something like: "He'll make you sign that contract and you'll lose everything. He'll own you. He'll screw you over and use you. You'd just be his puppet." Anything along these lines. AND/OR, also, bringing up the prophecy. Telling spamton that Tenna is doomed, and its not worth sticking around. Because CLEARLY Spamton knows Tenna was meant to die (as, if youre wearing the dealmakers in tenna's fight and check him, it says "the tragic businessman who dies at the now of the story". There's no way Spamton should have known that unless spamton knew the prophecy, or some parts of it.) So why would Mike do that? To avoid being found or exposed, of course. He didn't want Spamton to run his mouth and reveal him. He knew spamton knew too much. He was afraid that Spamton would out him to Tenna. Tenna clearly doesnt know who the real Mike is, but Spamton supposedly does. To quote this from the sweepstakes: "You leave him out of this, you dont know who or WHAT Mike is." (And he's right. We don't.) WHY Mike wants to remain hidden, it's uncertain at this point. Possibly because he's the one pulling the strings. We already knew that he found Spamton, not the other way around, via phonecall. He only wants to be found by specific people, under specific conditions; to manipulate them, for what goal, is still possibly unknown. My conclusion: Mike is shady and manipulative and I do not trust whatever strings he's pulling. And I believe that the misunderstanding between spamton and tenna came from Mike intentionally manipulating Spamton to drive them further apart. And it breaks my heart. If Mike IS a stand-in for gaster, or if it's JUST him, I don't know for sure. We're still missing pieces.

I'm curious to hear y'alls thoughts because I am very not normal about them or the implications of literally any of this. It's possible I could be missing some key information here.

[jeremiahhawkinsfanfics]

JAYCE TALK TO XIMENA ABOUT HIS FEELINGS FOR VIKTOR ❤️🥹🤗

Extract from Loving is Caring Chapter 8

Read the fic on AO3 😊

Czech words:

Lásko: love, darling

Parťák: Partners (as friends or colleagues)

Jayce just learned these words with Viktor 😉

“Mama… Can I talk to you about something?”

Ximena’s eyes lit with a quiet warmth, and a relieved smile spread across her face. It felt like she had been waiting all day for this. She set her knitting down on the coffee table and patted the cushion beside her.

“Of course, Mijo,” she said softly. “Come here. What’s troubling you?”

That knowing light in her eyes tugged a faint smile from Jayce’s lips. She always had this way of making him feel seen - like there was nothing he could say that would ever shock her or drive her away.

He let himself fall on the couch with a heavy sigh. Words were entangled in his mind, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to find their way to his tongue. He stayed silent for a while, staring at the fire in the chimney, as if the words he was seeking would magically appear in the dance of the flames.

Ximena didn’t press him – she knew her son all too well for that.

After a moment of silence, Jayce decided that maybe it would be easier to start with the bigger picture. Maybe it would drag the words out.

“It’s… It’s about Viktor” he sighed, still looking away.

Ximena nodded, her expression shifting slightly, getting ready to listen. She still remained silent, only giving her son a small nod to encourage him.

“Do you think it’s possible… that I could be… Would it be weird if I…”

A heavy sigh passed Jayce’s lips and he rubbed his face, vainly trying to clear his thoughts. There was no way to make it sound right – his mind was too twisted to make words match his feelings. He buried his face in his hands with resignation.

Ximena reached out, her hand settling gently on his shoulder. Her touch was warm, steady - the kind of warmth that drew the cold right out of you, a silent balm against all the noise.

“What happened with Viktor?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know” Jayce admitted. “That’s the thing. I can’t say what happened - only that things suddenly feel… different.”

“Different?” she echoed. “How so?”

“I always thought of Viktor as a friend – my best friend. I know it’s quite a… fast and strong friendship. But there is no one I ever shared that much with! It has always been very clear to me… at least until now.”

Her fingers traced slow circles on his shoulder, grounding him in the rhythm.

“Why is it not clear anymore? Did something happen between you two?”

“I started to see him… differently.” Jayce confessed, like it was a crime that had been burdening him for too long. “I think I might like him, but not just as a friend. I want to be with him all the time, but not only like we already are. I want to share everything with him, even the most meaningless moments. Every single little thing about it just stick with me: how he takes his coffee, the way he holds a pen, the exact position he sleeps in. Don't get me wrong, Viktor is the best friend I could every hope for, and I am so happy of what we have. But for the past weeks, I've been... wanting more. I want to hold his hand. I want him to sleep in my arms. I want to kiss him. And that just… that doesn’t sound like something a friend should feel.”

He paused, overwhelmed with all these contradictory feelings – all these cables and wires going everywhere in his mind and heart, making no sense.

Ximena’s face didn’t change. Her smile stayed soft, her eyes clear.

“How is that different from love, Jayce?”

Jayce blinked, thrown by the simplicity of the question.

“Well, first off… Viktor’s not a girl. I’ve never liked men before, that’s not me. Or at least… I thought it wasn’t. If I was into men, I’d know it, right? Wouldn’t there be signs?”

He shook his head, frustration creeping in again.

“And he’s my friend. Love and friendship, I know how they feel: they’re supposed to be different. When I liked girls, I always knew. I felt awkward, tongue-tied. I knew it was love because I felt dumb around them.”

He hesitated.

“But with Viktor, I don’t feel dumb. At least, not until recently, and that’s mostly because I’m exhausted from pretending I’m not falling apart. When I’m with him… I feel like home.”

The words came out like truth finally finding its shape - like hammered iron finding its final form.

That was it. Home. With Viktor, Jayce always felt so safe, so seen, so understood. He could just be himself, with the quiet certitude he wouldn’t be judged for it.

Ximena let out a quiet laugh, her gaze drifting toward a photograph on the wall - an old, sepia-toned image. There she was, years younger, her long hair carefully braided, holding the hand of her husband under the porch of their new house. Both of them had their other hand lovingly placed on her belly, round and swollen by pregnancy.

Ximena’s eyes shined with the soft and tender sparkle of nostalgia.

“Ah Mijo, if only you knew how much you sound like your father.” She smiled fondly. “The day he told me he loved me, he said that wherever we’d go, he would always feel home with me.”

Jayce turned to her, his eyes wide with surprise. All these feelings… could they actually make more sense than he thought they were?

He looked at the old picture – the perfect image of love and happiness, something Jayce always wished he could one day build with a significant other. “With a lásko...”

“You always told me it was love at first sight” he remembered quietly. “That you knew in a second what you felt for each other, and that each day spent together just made it stronger.”

Ximena’s eyes closed, as if to taste better the sweetness of the memories coming to her mind.

“Yes, it’s true. I wouldn’t say we knew we were destined to each other, but our hearts sparkled the very first day we met. I still remember his silly face.” She chuckled. “A piltovian, barely speaking a word of Ixtali… He had an appointment with a local iron provider, and gods know how he ended up on the other side of the city.”

“Yeah…” Jayce smiled. He always loved that story. “And you spent the day showing him around, teaching him few words.”

“Ha ha, yes! And he spent the whole week telling me about his precious metal, and his forge, and those tools to make worker’s lives easier…”

“The collapsable pocket wrench” Jayce chimed in.

His mother turned to him with a radiant smile, and her eyes shining with pride.

“You inherited his passion.” She said, raising her hand to cup her beloved son’s cheek.

Jayce basked in her touch like in sunlight after a way too long winter.

“Yeah well… except that mine’s for science and magic.”

“No surprise there” Ximena laughed fondly. “After all, you grew up in Piltover, where science is everything. But you carry the blood of Ixtal, where magic runs through the roots”

Jayce’s eyes returned to the photo. His voice was softer now.

“I’ve always loved your story” he admitted. “I was hopping something like that would happen to me too. I never thought love could look… different.”

Ximena placed both hands on his shoulders — the way she always did when she was about to say something important.

“Each story is unique, Mijo. Love follows no rule, no manual, and no science. Just because you find it in an unexpected way doesn’t make it any less real.”

Jayce stayed silent for a moment, letting her words sink in him. He found in her words rare wisdom, a truth he needed to hear.

“And… you don’t think it’s weird? For me to love a man?” he dared to ask, searching for the answer in his mother’s eyes.

She smiled, unwavering.

“Of course not, Mijo. What matters is that they’re good to you. That they love you back. That’s all that matters.”

Suddenly, things clicked back in Jayce’s mind.

There it was: the breakthrough he had been chasing for the past two weeks.

His feelings were not a mess. They were simply different from what he knew, but no less normal and valid.

It was okay to fall in love with a friend. It was okay to fall in love with a man.

It was okay to love Viktor, both like parťák and lásko. There was no choice to make, no blueprint to correct, no equation to solve.

Truth was clear, right in front of him. It had been the whole time. Just now he allowed himself to see it clearly.

“You’re right… I think I love him” he finally confessed with a quiet smile.

As these words fell from his lips, a heavy weight lifted from his shoulder. They still sounded odd, unfamiliar, but they rang true, honest. Like discovering a new part of himself - one he was finally ready to embrace.

“At least you’ll stop thinking I have a secret girlfriend,” he chuckled quietly.

“Oh, Mijo, I stopped thinking that months ago,” Ximena replied, her eyes twinkling.

“What? But…”

“The moment I saw you and Viktor in the same room, I knew,” she said simply. “He was the special someone I suspected you had. I could read it in your eyes as clearly as I see you now.”

Jayce blinked, stunned.

“W–What? But… I didn’t even think of him that way back then!”

Ximena’s hand found his, grounding him with her quiet strength.

“Then maybe you’ve loved him longer than you realize. The way you make each other happy… it's just obvious. And you already had such beautiful stars in your eyes when you looked at him.”

Maybe she was right… Maybe it had started long ago, growing slowly without him to really notice. But it wasn’t answering the whole question – not yet.

“So… what should I do now?”

“What do you want to do, Mijo?”

Jayce frowned. What he wanted was much clearer now. As per what he should do…

“I don’t know… I mean, I know what I’d like to do, but… what if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he already likes someone? Should I… what, court him? I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’ve never tried to… seduce a man before. I mean, I’m a man — I should know what men like — but I have no clue what a man who likes men expects! And it’s not just any man — it’s Viktor! He’s so secretive about his love life. We’ve barely talked about it. I only know he’s been in love once, with someone… kind.”

Ximena hummed, smiling with that same knowing light.

“Well, I think you’re by far the best expert of Viktor in all Piltover. So if you want to court him, I'm certain you'll find a way. And if he loves kind people, well… I know no kinder man than you, Mijo.”

Jayce laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You almost make me feel like I have a chance”

“Who knows.” Ximena shrugged, that spark still in her smile. “You should talk to him. It’s not like you would be able to hide it from him anyway. I know you, you are too honest with your emotions to keep them locked inside.”

“That’s true…” he admitted. “You’re right. I should talk to him.”

His mother smiled at him, her hands on his shoulders.

“I’m proud of you, Mijo. And I know your father would be very proud too.”

Jayce’s throat tightened. His gaze fell on their family portrait on the wall, as his father’s voice echoed from the depth of his memories.

“I’m proud of you, son”.

Ximena pulled him into a tight hug, and he melted into her warmth. Oh he needed that... He needed that so much more than he realized.

“Thank you, Mama.” he whispered.

Thank you for reading 😊

Read more on AO3 😉

[fisheito]

Okay if hypothetically every clan member plus eidem and familiars had some sort of deep buried unbelievably obscure fetish/kink what do u think they'd be. Like this is shit they're taking to the grave. No amount of loving or bonding would ever coax that shit out of them. Not like choking or sounding i mean weird ass shit like being turned on by rocking chairs or some shit. Make it as OOC as possible as long as it's funny

u march into my abode? and demand of me ,, THOUGHTS??

*leans dramatically /woefully/ exasperated.ly against the table* you see, this was why the open mic kinkster night was so appealing to me. OTHERS would come to ME with THEIR ideas, because, when it comes to the Subject *gestures to fetishes* i can't seem to conjure much. the imagination dies here

though the idea of something that cannot be coaxed out of the clan members, not even with the magic of eiden's horny acceptance, is intriguing. is such a thing possible? i like to think that eiden will be up for ANYTHING given the right circumstances.

to play this little game of Imagination, i shall enlist the help of a random word generator. 1 noun+1 verb+1 adjective. let's see what the fates give us:

Eiden: hat/survive/homely - man wants to narrowly escape death after a hit-and-run from something that looks like the ugliest hat in existence. a fashion crime. a practicality crime. really, that thing barely counts as a hat it's so offensive to the eyes. - fear boner? adrenaline boner? - the point is, maybe sometimes you wanna get plowed by a giant ugly hat.

Aster: inflation/tax/efficient - fjoeifrjdgsgorsd gi did not make that up - aster gets off on the thought of money. we know this. but that doesn't suit the prompt of "something they wouldn't dare tell anyone" - or does it? maybe we can argue that aster is SO dedicated to maintaining his Little Angel persona--. that he would never ADMIT that he gets excited at the prospect of succinct bookkeeping and capital gains - he's still pretty open about it, though. - hmmmmm . how about... aster secretly wants to . inflate nobles... with an obscene amount of taxpayer money... (like, physically inflate) until they explode and the blood and guts and cash rain down on him? - once again. not really something you'd take to the grave. but it's all i got

Morvay: setting/impress/mere - i'm struggling again - morvay wants... to...... act like a demure debutant at a fancy dinner.... - and impress the attending guests with his knowledge of fine cutlery - then they all gangbang him on top of the place settings - dude that's not even farfetched. morvay would do that shit openly. on a tuesday night. - seriously, how am i supposed to come up with kinks that are *embarrassing* and *must be kept secret*?? what's the difference between that and this and those? - uhhhhhhhhh. morvay's... forbidden fantasy is... um. you know what, keep the entire setup , but take out the gangbang - yeah. morvay admitting to getting off on zero dicks involved? and NO torture? just everyone peacefully retiring to their own rooms after a pleasant albeit boring meal? sure. why not.

Yakumo: ear/insert/evasive - this word generator is making fun of me - yakumo wants eiden's dick in his ear - that seems pretty straightforward - but. YAKUMO has to get it in - AND! he's blindfolded - so yakumo gets off on the thought of echolocating the position of eiden's dick so he can successfully hang his ear shell on it - because eiden just sticking it in? too easy. too generous. - yakumo needs to work for it. he's sticking his ear against so many things , but eiden has to play the game a bit too (by keeping his dick not completely stationary) - after accidentally plopping onto a hipbone/forearm/knee/foot/etc. he FINALLY hits bullseye and circles eiden's dick - world's worst ring toss game. or is it more pin-the-tail-on-the-donk? - he cums on the spot when he feels that hot throb against his ear hole

Edmond: finding/stress/grubby - eddie is easy because there is a LOT he won't admit to - therefore, the most MUNDANE fantasy could still be something he'd take to his grave - so! simply enough! edmond wants to be discovered absolutely CHOWING DOWN on a 40-layer cake that he's shovelling into his face by the fistful, because stress eating (work is tough) - then, poundtown. while his hands are still disgusting and messy from the frosting of it all - if you wanna play up the "never never NEVER gonna tell anyone EVER" aspect. then just swap out the "grubby hands" for "actual grubs" - edmond wants to get fucked in a tub full of live grubs. - very squishy. very texture. - he gets off on the Disgustingness of it. the risk of grubs getting into places they shouldn't - mr vice captain isn't so squeaky clean after all......

Olivine: goal/glance/direful - i am narrowing my eyes and once again thinking that ...with enough prodding, olivine would admit to smth like this - because fantasies and reality are separate and this lad has not struggled to keep them apart (even if he really really really doesn't want to) - at an important ceremony where one of his parents is getting recognised for their religious/community contributions - where he's forced to be the super wonderful emcee or stage manager or whatnot . to escort his parent on and off the stage - while the parent is making their speech about the importance of piety/responsibility/purity whatever, they make eye contact with olivine - who's getting boinked in the rafters or backstage or whatever - and like. somehow. the parents know. so they have to now struggle to maintain composure while sorta staring down their son who is getting creampied just metres away - suspend the disbelief here, because olivine is NOT getting sexed up silently. the whole auditorium would know - you know what? give him a gag. make it even more obvious - there! getting off to thoughts of deeply disappointed and horrified parental stares! that's certainly something!

Quincy: grocery/compete/rare - ok this is a tricky one because quincy is, once again, one of those dudes i can imagine not being afraid to share ANYTHING - drops the most obscure kinks without any fanfare. he's cool with whatever - maybe this is a case of quincy withholding info because altho he's horny for it, doesn't ACTUALLY want to fulfill it. because it'll take too much energy - he will take several fantasies to his deathbed simply because he is not going to trouble himself to actually do it. - so. maybe this one fantasy is of him at the market. he is shopping for Topper's fave snacks - but this ONE GUY keeps sniping his purchases! look at how sad and hungry topper is now!!!! - eventually there is this PRIZED and SUPER RARE meat jerky. quincy is determined to get it because he hasn't procured any of the other desirable snacks today - but there's only ONE left. and that GUY!!! IS ALSO EYEING IT!!!!!! - so quincy and That Guy race to the stall, dodging obstacles, lifting entire people out of the way, generally expending energy in feats of physical strength/stamina - then they fuck to see who gets the jerky (sex competition) - doesn't that sound exhausting? no wonder quincy's never brought it up.

Kuya: platform/concentrate/endurable - the obvious one is to have a poor little sub on a stage, trying to focus on Being Good and Obedient , enduring 50000 lashes to the back or whatever with a sexy sexy cat o nine tails (kuya's gonna rebrand it to some kitsune kitsch-brand whip) - but kuya would admit to that ANY day. so you know what? he's getting hit with the OOC beam - kuya, in his platform shoes (he likes to feel tall), trying to walk across a tightrope, while heavy kuyorb-painted spheres are suspended from his nipples - or he has a vibrator up his butt. nip weights or butt dildo. either one requires some enduring. maybe both. - HE'S the good boy performing on stage now!! - idk why but he's in a skimpy bikini. with exposed nips, of course. - his platforms can also be those chunky heels he loves so much - honestly, i'm scared of what will happen if you try to subject kuya to a physical task like this. he's not a brawler. he's a mage. this will not end well - maybe the humiliation of failure is what is so enticing to him... in this forbidden, absolute nonsense fantasy......

Garu/Karu: county/pack/rotten - garu wants to go out to the countryside again - but he remembers the visceral fear he felt when he saw Master packing his things.... WITHOUT HIM - HOW COULD HE? he wouldn't think to leave garu behind.... right? he's gonna come over to garu and pick him up and put him in the luggage too, right??? - garu is a stinky puppy and he wants to be stashed away in master's luggage along with a bunch of snacks - so all of Master's clothing becomes stinky with garu sweat and rotting food - then he wants Master to stick his dick through a hole in the luggage (a very conveniently dick-shaped-and-sized hole) - well. then you let your imagination do the rest (and once again i'm thinking that garu would NOT be shy about telling eiden this smelly, overwarm fantasy) - karu on the other paw will NOT tolerate being thrown around like stinky luggage - if he's gonna be stinky, he's gonna be FREE . and the stank will be on his own terms! - nah. if we were to use the same 3 words. but try to find something EMBARRASSING for karu... hmmmm - how about. karu gets put in one of those old timey stockades. the ones u see in the cowboy movies. that counts for the county part. - in FRONT of his wolf pack. because in this fantasy, the great and powerful Karu leads his own pack - but. he gets pelted with rotten fruit - maybe a wolf in the audience is out loud counting the number of fruit that hit karu in the face (second thing that counts as county) - WAIT! no. better yet. they count every time eiden thrusts inside karu - this is supposed to be a shameful? horny fantasy, after all. - very controlled thrusts. because the audience can't count that fast - unless the audience starts spiralling out of lust and they count like a kid tryna cheat at hide and seek 12348-10-99-infitnity (and other rapidfire numbers) - eiden has to keep up the pace - karu wants to be humiliated in front of his followers soooo bad and also not get to eat the nasty stinky food that is falling to the ground around him

Blade: employee/deny/elderly - i'm struggling again. is there really a kink that BLADE would not disclose? this seems impossible. blade will try anything once - blade will bring up hyper unrealistic and unattainable sex positions all the time!! why would he be ashamed? edroids don't know shame (and they shouldn't) - uhhhhhhhhhhh maybe..... maybe blade gets so interested in eiden's old stories of working customer service jobs - that he wants to roleplay a scenario that eiden's talked about before - like. eiden bags groceries. and blade is an elderly customer who needs help putting things away in a logical way. - blade no!!! the bread shouldn't go on the bottom!!!! - and the only hesitation blade feels about this fantasy is when the two are actually trying to recreate it LOL - because eiden is trying to convince him that this is not really sexy - imagining blade in the most cartoonish old lady outfit. wig and cane and super thick glasses. (he's till cute in it, somehow) - in reality it's eiden getting stressed out about packing the groceries properly because blade really IS doing it in a way that no Human who Eats would - also, blade can't really play a convincing Elderly Customer in Need when he is quite clearly lifting entire couches out of the way when his tomato falls onto the floor - eiden: those look heavy. why don't i carry them out for you? *points to the grocery bags in blade's hands* - blade: ok!!! *drops all the grocery bags and puts his hands in eiden's* - eiden: I meant--- nevermind. - they tried, ok.

Dante: version/shed/jumpy - daddy wants to take you to the shed - no, wait. i'm putting dante in one of those jumping playgrounds. the really dangerous ones. with trampolines and bouncy castles everywhere - the ones where kids do ill-advised backflips and knock into each other in midair - dante wants to be surrounded by the whimsy and playful spirit of youth - but there needs to be a shed. hm. - okay not a playground. it's just an outdoor event. and there are inflatable structures upon which children are bouncing - AND there's a maintenance shed nearby. because why not - dante wants eiden to play ... the younger version of himself. dante wants to mess around with Younger Gay Disaster Eiden in the shed behind the bouncy castle - this desire stems from dante's ill-informed idea that a younger eiden would be more naive, and less demanding, and more likely to listen to Dante because in this case Mr SunLord is the wise elder - (shhh. i know. if anything, dante would struggle even MORE to deal with a younger eiden. man's getting Eiden on easy mode right now! but he doesn't know that. so let him dream of being the revered senpai) - so ultimately, yes. daddy wants to take you to the shed (behind the bouncy castle)

Rei: tale/write/narrow - something HORRIFYING? for REI? a kink that mr NoShame would be afraid to admit? i feel like we'd have to go reversies. like rei admitting his kink is "being loved and attended to by someone who genuinely cares for your wellbeing" - how can we spin these words into something loving and disgusting - how about... rei... harbours a deep dark fantasy about........ writing love letters - he and eiden are frequently far apart and their only means of communication is letters. so they send regular parchment full of ooey gooey sentiments and mundane everyday happenings - little kissie marks as signatures and everything - and. and.... his beloved ... is at war - what war? i don't know. it could be a book signing for all we know. it could be the end-of-season sale at the underwear merchant. eiden is at retail war, forced to travel to different locales to fight as an underpaid employee - every time that eiden narrowly escapes death [getting mauled by a grandmother with nothing left to lose], he rushes home to see his precious rei - violent struggles with people you cannot technically push around? really puts life into perspective. - every time a big sale happens, eiden returns home, filled with a new appreciation for Living to see his Wife for One More Night - eiden ravishes rei in their bedroom decorated with all the love letters they've exchanged - rei's most repressed fantasy is mass-produced cheesy romance novel of a love lost at retail

[ironborealis]

We joke that Qui-Gon gave him the haircut to nerf his attractiveness and slut vibes.

Qui-Gon actually thought they were a potential boon to their arsenal in case they needed a distraction (not pimping his padawan out, but people will reveal a lot to a pretty face "just asking questions").

Yoda made Dooku get The Cut and Dooku vowed not to force it on his future padawans because it's representative of the stagnant, hide-bound parts of the Order that he dislikes. Qui-Gon never wore The Cut and agrees with Dooku that trying to force humility via bad haircuts is outdated.

His latest padawan is seemingly obsessed with pre-Rusaan Jedi Order LARPing, resulting in ill-advised haircut.

Obi-Wan, meanwhile, just hopes that if he looks like a traditional padawan, maybe he'll start feeling like a "real" padawan.

Anakin gets The Cut at first because he wants to be just like Obi-Wan -- then as he gets older and realizes that no other padawans wear it (and it's another thing that makes him stick out) he starts to resent Obi-Wan for "making" him get it. He never asks to change it, however, and Obi-Wan's oblivious to the root of his consternation -- Anakin's just being a typical teenager when he drags his feet before getting another trim.

Then it becomes a sort of spite thing where Anakin's wearing it perfectly in part to show Obi-Wan that he's just as good/better Jedi than him, and that he's ready for knighthood.

Anakin : Aren't beige robes impractical, Master? They take so much effort to keep clean, so close to the temptation of vanity -- better for me, I think, to wear robes in darker, less noticeable colors👼.

Obi-Wan : *thinks Anakin just doesn't want to do his laundry as often* ...okay. You should do that then.

Anakin : *miffed that Obi-Wan is not getting it* I should trim my hair, it's getting a little long and it takes so much time to make presentable that could be better spent else where...

Obi-Wan : *knows Anakin cut his hair a week ago, but surely Anakin isn't making a comment about his hair, right* ... I'm glad you've decided to invest in your personal grooming routine -- The Cut does take some effort to maintain and I remember having to ambush you into the refresher for a trim up when you got too scruffy.

/end

(The angst possibilities in Legends canon of Obi-Wan not committing to The Cut until after returning to the temple post-Melida/Daan.)

reeling from this revelation. tbh always suspected padawan braids were a somewhat dated tradition, but this just further cements the idea that qui-gon did that to obi-wan on purpose.

(anakin, of course, volunteered and probably cut his own damn hair off himself so he could look just like obi-wan)

[talysalankil]

so i'm cutting stuff out which means i'm basically entering the end game and i'm at 118k words. fantastic lmao.

[hyohaehyuk]

via earwolf (jacob anderson on TV, I Say w/ Ashley Ray. full podcast here) and Den of Geek SDCC interview

Jacob talked about him and Sam going to universal studios and spending 40 minutes in a sticker shop + the IWTV cast spilling the beans about Jam dates and Sam mentioning sticker play (whatever that means 🙃)

Sam: "It's a team effort" Rolin: "JACOB AND SAM GO BOWLING TOGETHER" Sam: "And ice cream and sticker play… Interviewer: Care to elaborate? 🤨 Sam: Make it up" 💀

[moe-broey]

I'm gonna bully Lif again

I'll admit, some of these answers don't cover all the bases, but. What are we thinking, here. What is The Truth behind The Twink Death? 🤨🎤

I will also be accepting write-in responses as usual 🫡