#but it feels like a piece of childhood i haven't yet lost

[safire-was-a-person]

I have a memory,

or maybe it was a dream

of an island like the last photography,

a patch of trees at the edge of a frost covered field.

Everything was tinted softly in blue

maybe because that colour's my favourite,

maybe because it reminds me of you.

Islands

Mindaugas Buivydas

edited by me

[estapa-edwards]

CHILDHOOD LOVERS - L. HUGHES

paring: Luke Hughes x fem! reader

word count: 1.6k

requested? yes -luke dating his childhood sweetheart and they are so in lvoe and perfect with each other, they keep it private to friends and family. luke goes out for the first time with the devils and a girl try’s to hood up with him but he declines because he is taken and the devils are suprised thinking it’s not like a serious relationship and then the next game jack and her suprised luke with her their and they realize how wrong they all were

warnings: use of y/n. established relationship

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Love stories often begin in the most unexpected places, but for Luke and Y/N, it all started on the frosty rinks of their childhood. Their love blossomed amidst the echoes of skates carving through ice and the exhilarating rush of the game they both adored. From innocent crushes to a deeply-rooted connection, their relationship had weathered the test of time, quietly flourishing away from the prying eyes of the world.

Luke and Y/N were inseparable since they were children. Growing up in the same neighborhood, their bond formed naturally, like two puzzle pieces destined to fit together. They shared secrets, dreams, and countless moments of laughter that solidified their bond as they navigated through the tumultuous journey of adolescence.

As they matured, their friendship evolved into something deeper. Luke found himself captivated by Y/N's infectious laughter, her unwavering support, and her gentle yet fiercely loyal nature. Y/N, in turn, cherished Luke's kindness, his passion for life, and the way his eyes sparkled with excitement every time he stepped onto the ice.

Their transition from friends to lovers was seamless, marked by stolen kisses beneath the stars and whispered promises of forever. Their love was a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of the world, and they guarded it fiercely, choosing to keep their relationship private, a sacred treasure shared only between them.

But life had a way of throwing unexpected challenges their way. Luke's passion for hockey led him to pursue a career in the NHL, a dream he had nurtured since he first laced up his skates. His talent caught the attention of the New Jersey Devils, and soon he found himself thrust into the whirlwind world of professional hockey.

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One chilly evening, after a particularly grueling practice, Luke returned home to find Y/N waiting for him in their cozy apartment. The sight of her instantly melted away the fatigue of the day, and he enveloped her in a warm embrace.

"Hey, you," Luke greeted, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N's forehead.

"Hey yourself," Y/N replied, her smile lighting up the room. "How was practice?"

Luke sighed, sinking into the couch beside her. "Tough, as usual. But seeing you makes it all worth it."

Y/N reached for Luke's hand, intertwining their fingers as she leaned against him. "I missed you today. It feels like we haven't had a moment to ourselves in ages."

"I know," Luke admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "But I promise, we'll make up for lost time. How about we order in some food and have a quiet night in?"

Y/N's eyes sparkled with excitement. "That sounds perfect."

As they settled in for the evening, sharing stories and laughter over a meal, the outside world faded into the background. In that moment, it was just the two of them, cocooned in their love and the comfort of each other's presence.

Weekends offered a brief respite from the hectic pace of Luke's schedule, and they made the most of every moment together. On one occasion, they decided to escape the city and retreat to a secluded cabin nestled in the mountains.

The crisp mountain air filled their lungs as they embarked on a leisurely hike, hand in hand. Surrounded by towering trees and breathtaking vistas, they reveled in the serenity of nature and the joy of being together.

"I could stay here forever," Y/N mused, her gaze sweeping across the panoramic landscape.

Luke smiled, pulling her close. "As long as I'm with you, anywhere feels like home."

However, their decision to keep their relationship private would soon be put to the test. During one of his first outings with his teammates, Luke found himself the object of unwanted attention from a persistent admirer. Despite the allure of temptation, Luke remained resolute, his heart belonging only to Y/N.

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It was a typical evening out with his teammates, filled with laughter, camaraderie, and the occasional fan encounter. As they settled into a booth at their favorite bar, Luke couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him.

"So, Luke, any plans for tonight?" one of his teammates, Jack, asked with a mischievous grin.

Luke shrugged, trying to mask his discomfort. "Not really. Probably just gonna head home after a few drinks."

His response earned him a chorus of teasing remarks from the others, but Luke ignored them, his thoughts drifting to Y/N.

Meanwhile, across the room, a group of women had taken notice of the handsome hockey player and were whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Before Luke could react, a bold figure approached their table, a flirtatious smile playing on her lips.

"Hey there, handsome," she purred, leaning in close to Luke. "Mind if I join you?"

Luke's pulse quickened as he exchanged uneasy glances with his teammates. Despite the temptation that tugged at his heartstrings, he knew where his loyalty lay—with Y/N.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm taken," Luke replied firmly, his voice leaving no room for misinterpretation.

The woman's smile faltered for a moment before she recovered, her eyes narrowing with determination. "Come on, don't be shy. I'm sure your girlfriend won't mind."

Luke's resolve hardened as he thought of Y/N, her image clear in his mind's eye. "I'm sorry, but I'm not interested. Please, respect my boundaries."

With a huff of frustration, the woman retreated, leaving Luke feeling both relieved and unsettled. His teammates exchanged surprised glances, clearly taken aback by his refusal.

"Wow, Luke, I didn't know you were in a serious relationship," Dawson remarked, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Luke nodded, his expression solemn. "Yeah, it's just not something I like to broadcast to the world."

His teammates fell into a contemplative silence, the gravity of Luke's words sinking in. They had always assumed that Luke was just another young athlete enjoying the perks of fame and fortune, but his commitment to Y/N painted a different picture entirely.

As they continued their evening, Luke couldn't shake the feeling of relief that washed over him. Despite the brief moment of temptation, he had remained true to Y/N, reaffirming his loyalty and devotion to their relationship.

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The stadium buzzed with excitement as the New Jersey Devils prepared to take the ice for their next game. Among the sea of jerseys and cheering fans, Luke felt a familiar sense of anticipation building within him. Little did he know, this game would be unlike any other.

As the players filed onto the ice, Luke's focus was entirely on the game ahead. He scanned the crowd briefly, searching for a familiar face, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the task at hand.

Meanwhile, in the stands, Y/N sat nervously, her heart pounding with excitement and anticipation. She had carefully hidden her surprise from Luke, knowing that seeing her wearing his jersey would catch him off guard. But she couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he spotted her in the crowd.

As the game progressed, the tension in the arena reached a fever pitch. The Devils fought valiantly against their opponents, their determination evident in every pass, every shot, and every save.

Then, midway through the second period, it happened. Luke's eyes swept over the crowd, and there, amidst the throng of cheering fans, he spotted her—Y/N, wearing his jersey with pride.

His heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight, disbelief and joy warring within him. He couldn't believe that she was here, supporting him in such a public and visible way.

"Is that... Y/N?" one of Luke's teammates exclaimed, his voice filled with astonishment.

The others turned to look, their eyes widening in surprise as they spotted Y/N in the stands, proudly displaying Luke's jersey. It was a sight they never expected to see, and for a moment, they were rendered speechless.

But Luke's reaction spoke volumes. A smile spread across his face, his eyes shining with love and gratitude as he locked gazes with Y/N. In that moment, everything else faded away—the crowd, the game, even the pressure of professional hockey.

All that mattered was the woman he loved, standing in the stands, supporting him with every fiber of her being.

Jack leaned back in his seat, a contented smile gracing his features as he watched his brother, Luke, reunite with Y/N after the game. The sight of them together filled him with a profound sense of happiness and warmth.

He had always known how much Y/N meant to Luke, but seeing them together, their love palpable in every glance and touch, was a powerful reminder of the strength of their bond.

As Luke wrapped his arms around Y/N, pulling her close in a tight embrace, Jack couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for his brother. Despite the challenges they had faced, Luke had remained steadfast in his love for Y/N, never wavering in his commitment to their relationship.

And now, as they stood together amidst the cheers of the crowd, Jack knew that this moment would be etched in their memories forever—a testament to the enduring power of love and the unbreakable bond between two souls.

With a smile of his own, Jack raised his glass in a silent toast to his brother and Y/N, wishing them a lifetime of happiness and love. As he watched them disappear into the crowd, hand in hand, Jack felt a sense of peace settle over him.

For in that moment, he knew that no matter what life threw their way, Luke and Y/N would always have each other, their love a beacon of hope and strength in a world filled with uncertainty. And for Jack, there was no greater joy than seeing his brother truly happy, surrounded by the love of the woman who meant everything to him.

sorry this is so short

[6ronze]

DEJA VU

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ — l&ds characters : sylus. zayne. rafayel. fem!reader format : short stories/HCs warnings : fluff. angst. sfw. unelaborated suggestive scenes in sylus’s part long story short : when they fall in love with you, but you never existed in the first place notes : inspired by zayne’s alternate universe where he fell in love w mc in his dreams but written my way + i haven't written in a whilleeee

ZAYNE

Zayne knew lack of sleep could cause hallucinations and make someone have their eyes playing tricks on them. What Zayne didn’t know was that he could fall victim to those conditions.

He was disciplined despite his busy schedule as a cardiac surgeon. Zayne made sure he took sufficient naps to make up for the sleep he lost the night before and went straight to bed after finishing his work. He’s maintained this same routine for years yet somehow, he still ends up hallucinating about the same woman he’s seen since childhood.

He was 11 years old when he started seeing this woman around. Zayne as a child thought she was kind, someone he felt awfully fond of. When he wanted to ask his parents if she was a family friend, they merely cocked their heads to the side in confusion asking ‘Who?’. The older he got, the more he was convinced she was just an imaginary friend that children naturally have. But was she really imaginary when he kept showing up in his slumber, his dreams, and even in his conscious mind?

Zayne is 27 years old now. And he’s more convinced than ever that her appearance in his head when he hasn’t even seen her, nor anyone looking remotely similar to her in Linkon City, was connected to his evol.

He’s long accepted that hypothesis of his for the past years was true. Since it was only proven right with the small snowmen he made during every winter. How fond he was of creating ice figures of the plushies he saw when walking past claw machines at festivals.

Zayne often stared at his creations and caressed the snow with the pads of his fingers. He always looked at them with care, feeling the inexplainable need to preserve it—to preserve her. Even if they were just fleeting memories.

RAFAYEL

An artist in Linkon City, Rayafel. His works were as known as his name. Most people were curious about the rarely seen artist, questions about him arising. The journalists that were lucky enough to get to chat with him for a few minutes finally asked —who or what was his muse?

Muse. An inspiration, a devotion—the true cause of his masterpieces that were both stunning, and heart-wrenching.

“My muse.. is a ‘who’. And before you start bombarding me with questions about the specifics—’ *Rafayel answered, taking his time before parting his lips to offer an answer. His eyes flickered over to face the journalist ahead of him, Rafayel’s lips pursed to straight line that wasn’t often seen from the expressive and blunt man.*

“Let’s just say she’s out of your camera’s reach,” The purpled haired man continued, his brows subtly furrowing as he stared into the eyes of the stunned journalist. Rafayel’s answer made room for assumptions, the implication of his muse being out of reach sparking media attention and theories.

In Rafayel’s mind after that interview were only filled with thoughts on how to bring her to life in this world. He had to be careful with his words—the execution. Rafayel wanted a piece of his muse to be shared, a mark, a small hint to others of who truly occupied in his mind when he made his art pieces.

Rafayel started seeing her in a nightmare. It was the same nightmare that reoccured even in the most comfortable nights like a reminder. The thing is—he didn’t know a reminder for what exactly. He’s never seen her, never met her, nor does he heard her name anywhere in Linkon City despite his efforts to search for her. She didn’t exist. Yet that never stopped him from feeling so familiar, so intimate with her, like she meant the world to him once—no, it felt like she still does.

SYLUS

Sylus has been the leader of Onychinus in N109 zone for as long as he can remember in this world. He’s had his fair share of blood and immoralities that came with the job but at least it made sense. At least, it was rational. For survival, animal instinct of a human, pleasure—he could find the cause for it even if it was twisted. But this. This wasn't something he could make sense out of no matter how much he twisted his mind to find the root for it.

He has a girlfriend. Someone he’s decided to pursue after years of merely picking and dropping gems of women he found attractive in the clubs he frequented. This woman matched him—he thought. This would work—he hoped. He just needed something. Anything. To get the woman he kept seeing in his mind off his thoughts.

One would have thought the mysterious girl sylus that plagues his mind was someone he knew. A past relationship, an acquaintance, maybe even a fling. Yet it was neither of those. He doesn’t know her. He’s never seen her in his life. He shouldn’t be thinking about her—fuck, how does he even how she looks like? No matter how much time he spent pondering, recalling, digging information about someone who looked like her, he found nothing. The only conclusion he came to make was that she doesn’t exist.

And maybe someone else might have thought she would appear in his mind in his dreams—but no. It was the darker moments. The near death experiences, the life-risking gambles he took with every decision he made. It was the moments where his eyes would flicker, and his vision would slowly swim into a haze, would she appear. He didn’t like it. Never liked how the sight of her during those moments actually soothed him in ways nothing else could. Her lips that he stared into almost coaxing him to go with her to other side where they could finally meet.

Sylus couldn’t lie—he was truly tempted to accept.

The brows of the white haired man furrowed deeply in the dead of the night of his quarters, glass of wine in hand. He stared out the view out the large windows ahead of him, his free hand lifting to run through his in a rough tug.

His frown never seemed to leave him. Not even after spending a sweet night with his current beloved. He could still see it. The distinct features of that gorgeous woman in the back of his mind.

Sylus gripped his glass tighter, internally scolding himself for thinking about another when his woman was right behind him, comfortably sleeping in his bed, under his covers. He grunted, laying his head back against the headrest of the armchair.

He was frustrated, curious, and all of the above. Feeling his jaw clench at the thoughts that swarmed his mind, he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and got from his seat. He walked around his bed to the nightstand, placing his glass down.

His crimson eyes landed on his lover that slept in his bed, her bare body covered by the blanket. Sylus felt his frown begin to relax, a soft breath leaving his lips. He took a step closer to the bed, reaching out a hand to brush the hair from her face. His neutral expression turned to one of longing the more his fingers lingered on her skin.

He wanted to find her so badly. Sylus wanted to face her and demand she answer his questions. Although he knows that won’t be possible.

[delopsia]

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never each other. 

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

A horn blares. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

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

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

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

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

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

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

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

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

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

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

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

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

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

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

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

"You alright there?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he's...

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

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

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

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

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

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

It's both of them. 

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

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

Flower petals burst into the air. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

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

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

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

"Hey!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Rhett. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defiant, his head shakes. 

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

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

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

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

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

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

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

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

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

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

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

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

Time itself might have stopped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are y—"

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

You wake to an empty bed. 

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

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

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

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

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

...and the marker is once again missing.

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

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

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

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

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

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No dice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know that cowboy. 

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

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

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

"Are you in line?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your marker. 

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

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

His eyes dart away. 

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

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

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

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

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

You could have been the perfect story, too.

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

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

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

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

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

It will never match Rhett's. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cruel is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, he hasn't moved at all.

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

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

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

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips buck forward. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all a blur. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, that's...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jesus, Rhett."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

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

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

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he's sinking back in and—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you've got an idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're close. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They've always been his favorite. 

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

His head shakes. "Never." 

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

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

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler. 

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open. 

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses. 

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm. 

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh. 

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture. 

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it. 

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all. 

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened. 

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort. 

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed. 

[meeinthesea]

fragmented harmony— sunday

outline— sunday has always hated you. your existence was an eyesore for him — a constant reminder of everything that he believed was different —wrong. yet he can't shake you from his mind. it was only a matter of fact before you would hit the same fate as the charmony dove that once landed in his garden ages ago. so he does what he has to.

contains— yandere (?) sunday x reader, kinda ooc sunday, childhood friends, sunday is going through a lot, somewhat follows canon. heavy themes, mentions of blood and death.

wc— 2.1k

a/n— this prompt was suggested by my friend, and i had so much fun jotting down ideas for this! i hope y'all like it too, as much as i loved writing it. banner made by me, yay! i like this so so much he's so divine, oof..... so pretty. i'd worship him if i could.

it's been hours since sunday came back from the confession booth. usually, this part of his day is nothing of importance to him, the sinful confessions mixing and twisting in his mind before disappearing altogether.

this is normal to him. so he doesn't know why he feels so much on edge.

why does that particular question stick with him?

“how do i cherish what i love without losing myself?”

maybe it was because he was too stunned to say anything that the person on the other side of the booth had to be escorted back without any answer. but how could he give guidance on something he didn't have the answer to?

he blinks rapidly as the familiar walls of his room become clearer. he walks to the mirror and stands idly. naked without a layer to hide anything. his amber eyes trace each and every feature reflected on the polished surface.

sunday shakes his head, arms clenching on the sides of the frame. he won't allow himself to stray any further from the destiny — his truth. not when he is this close to achieving the paradise he's always dreamed of.

he is still here. all in one piece.

it's still him, right?

he hasn't lost himself, right?

the longer he stares into the mirror, the faster his mind spirals as it makes way for something he has never anticipated. the image transforms into something — someone that makes his heart clench.

you stand there, eyes twinkling with mirth, arms crossed behind your back as you whisper what he thinks is his name. so softly that he barely hears it.

but it vanishes all too soon.

the happy image is replaced by something so grotesque that he feels bile climbing up his throat. all he can see is pure — bright red as blood trickles down the sides of the mirror, and your once unscathed body now lies in a pile of your own blood. your eyes are pale, devoid of anything as they stare back at him. lifeless — soulless.

and then his eyes snap open.

the haunting imagery from before is gone.

all that remains is his sweaty, heaving body and bloodshot eyes staring back at him.

he staggers towards the window, a much-needed break for his palpitating heart. his weary eyes take in the tranquil scenery of the sleeping city.

maybe he's already lost himself.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

the next time sunday sees you waltzing towards him, he feels the familiar annoyance bubbling up in his chest. you look so free, happily chirping as you come closer to him, the ever carefree air drifts from you.

“what is it now?” he huffs and closes his arms around his chest. turning away from you.

“aww c'mon i haven't even said anything,” you twirl around him, your hair hitting his eyes before you come face to face with him, “how have you been?”

for a moment, all he does is stare at your blissful expression, and for a moment, he feels himself slipping back into the past — something warm and airy, bright spots dancing in his mind. it's vague, the lines are incomplete, and it is impossible to interpret anything.

something that he abandoned a long time ago.

“fine…” he grunts a reply and pays no attention to how unusually warm his cheeks are beginning to feel.

“just fine?” he hears you hum and brush past him — the brief contact has his mind reeling for a split-second — to analyze the soda bottles stacked on a glass rack, “and here i thought you would be excited about the charmony festival.”

“i do not have time for your musings,” he declares, and prepares to leave.

he hears you yelling at him but continues walking before a hand grips onto his gloved one, and he is pulled towards you. back to you.

“would you come with me to watch robin practice?”

every cell in his brain is screaming at him to decline your offer. he has no time for whatever shenanigans you were inviting him in.

though, how can he?

not when your eyes look so sincere, when your hand feels so light against him. a sweet taste pools in his mouth, and he has no choice but to sigh as he watches you jump up and down, laughing in delight.

he joins in with small chuckles, hidden behind his palm.

in his eyes, you were the very embodiment of the harmony that even the xipe falls short in front of you.

and that's why your ultimate fate lies in his hands.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

red. red. red.

it's all he sees as he staggers through the hallway. it's eerily silent in the dewlight pavilion, save for his heavy pants.

the meeting from before replays like a broken record in his mind.

robin.

robin is all sunday can think of.

no matter the number of investigations he has going on, he just can't get to the truth of it. how can she just vanish into thin air?

he remembers visiting the reverie hotel. comatose is how she was. he feels himself gag, as the picture of her pale body floating in the dream pool appears once again.

a spiritual death.

that's what sunday has concluded.

there's no traces left of her soul in the dreamscape.

it was as if she just vanished from the face of penacony, leaving behind a hollow shell of a body.

how could he ever let that happen to her?

it's a mess. the hallways, the statues, everything seem to blend in with one another, the faintest of red bleeding in through the corners. however, uplifting the bright colours may be, they do nothing to soothe the banging ache in his chest.

she's gone. robin's gone.

and soon you will be too.

sunday falls to the ground, rough carpet grazing against his skin. he holds his face in his hands.

he feels the need to shout, scream, anything, yet no sound comes out of him.

what was he supposed to do now?

through the mirage of madness, a solace whispers to him. the bells ring of his arrival. a striking white dove fly in front of him. silk brushes against his face as sunday looks towards the sound.

with each pounding of his heart, purple seeps into its white feathers. it was his master.

“my child,” the crow advances towards him, and sunday can make out the tremor behind gopher's voice, “the time has come.”

its presence is a warning about what is coming, a reminder that he’s running out of time.

he clenches his hands, lips trembling. he has no choice but to nod his head.

the crow is gone. robin is gone.

the sweet dream is falling apart. right before his very eyes.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

sunday dashes through the halls of the dewlight pavilion. the bright lights overhead are like thousands of needles piercing through his already pounding head. the shadows seem to chase him with every step he took.

“where is—” he coughs a little, all shaken up.

his head hits the front desk, wood splintering with the force. the organized items fall due to shock, cluttering around his feet.

“sire,” one of the assistants rushes towards him, “are you okay?” he holds onto him, pulling him towards a chair.

the receptionist looks at him confused, “who is where, sir?”

he takes a few heavy breaths before muttering your name. the assistant immediately focuses on the device and, without any questions, tells him your location.

everyone in the vicinity stares at his departing figure, curious as to what has caused such a sudden change on the oak's family head.

the trip to the winery is a short one. sunday is pleased to find the most of it empty at this time, since it will be easier for him.

the sweet and tangy smell lingers in the air, almost palatable. several clusters of gold dances around him as he makes his way deeper into the winery.

he follows the stony path and immediately spots your silhouette sitting on one of the silver railings. you look awfully calm, despite your best friend being missing and possibly considered dead.

he knows you've already sensed him as you jump a little but continue to look at the purple tinted sky.

“it was you, wasn't it?” sunday starts, but he doesn't know what else he can say to intimidate you.

“wha—” your voice is timid as you jump from the railing and stand directly in front of him, “where is this coming from?” you cross your arms around you, sinking into your coat.

“how much longer are you willing to go?” his own comes out rather sternly than he wanted, but he’s not complaining when he sees a sudden shift in your demeanour.

“what are you talking about?” you are trembling now, eyes getting all watery.

“enough!” you gulp, and he sees your hands shaking uncontrollably.

“sunday what are you—”

before you can say anything, sunday puts up his hand, and his eyes narrow down onto your face.

you feel yourself frozen in place — time as if someone has put a spell on you, thrones encasing you, trapping you forever.

slowly and surely, you feel the presence of what you assume is the harmony or rather the order — the absolute. it's all rainbows and the flashing lights in the beginning.

but the vivid imagery loses all colour. lines, and shapes form in your vision, a distinct eye stares back at you, “i had no choice. you left me with no choice.”

even before you can open your mouth, a ringing noise pierces your ear, and you black out, losing awareness of everyone and everything.

your body falls to the ground with a loud thump. unmovable — unresponsive. just like the world. there's nothing around the two of you. the fireflies have departed, and the pleasant aroma has become astringent.

and with that he’s breached the harmony.

he couldn’t bear killing you? how can he?

this was the only choice.

sunday kneels beside you and takes your limp body in his hold. “i did this for us.”

through the harmony, he will obtain the order.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

what follows after is a blur to sunday.

but he’s certain of one thing, and that the dream will soon take shape into reality.

sunday has no problem accessing your hotel room. all he needed was to flash a charming smile at the receptionist. the request doesn't take long, and soon, he is thanking the person with a key card dangling in his hand.

your door is locked, just like he expected. but it's not a concern to him. he presses the key card against the sensor, and immediately, the door beeps on cue. as soon as he slides in, he's greeted with your comatose body floating in the dream pool.

he locks the door behind him and takes out a pocket knife, striding towards the pool.

“you don’t need to be afraid,”

he cradles your face in his hand and traces the blade against your jaw, “i'll make this quick, okay, darling?”

the blade presses into your cheeks, drawing a blob of blood. pure red catches his eyes. it's familiar. he observes how the drop trails down your face and catches it, wet tongue sweeping over your skin.

“you are weak, always have been.”

sunday can't contain himself as the metallic and pungent taste coats his tongue.

“but you shall be free now.”

one slice is all he needs.

blood starts sputtering from your chest, turning the once clear teal water into a mess of red and brown. he jumps out of the pool, leaving your body to collapse once again. he wipes the blade with his handkerchief while watching your form disappear under the bloody water.

through harmony, order is obtained.

sunday nonchalantly walks out of your room and trudges down the staircase, back to the receptionist. he calmly reports your death, or rather your murder.

no one suspects a thing.

no one has the right to do so anyway.

no one looks for you.

no one questions for you.

you had no family — anyone besides the two siblings.

and in sunday's favour, the news of your death is quickly buried as a chess piece of the “death” game that has caused chaos upon penacony.

but you don’t have to worry.

“relax it’s me,” you can hear his voice — a familiar softness, just like how it was in days gone by — but he’s nowhere to be seen.

someone caresses your cheek, and you open your eyes, but it's all black.

where are you?

“i am right here, my love.” you feel a soft kiss against your mouth.

it feels so good. this feeling, everything is at present. there is no past, no future.

no hatred, no regret.

only love exists. compassion flows in every nook and canny.

the gentle waves lull you towards him.

he's all you can feel, hear.

“you are safe here,” his breath is faint, a soft murmur, “rest now.”

[milkbobatyun]

perfect, but not for me

pairing: dr ratio x reader

genre: angst

summary: they saw the two of you as perfect. you both were, but the aeons did not make you for each other

word count: 1k

a/n: inspired by the hozier song 'too sweet', i highly recommend you listen to it while reading this! the only reason why i haven't posted in ages is cus it's exam season for me right now, and i've got pretty important ones that will determine my future so im putting that as priority for now!

in the eyes of the scholars at the intelligentsia guild, you and veritas ratio were the perfect couple. your love story was one out of a romance storybook, childhood love, who were polar opposites, the epitome of sunshine and grumpy. they didn’t see how the honeymoon period was waning, how you were struggling to keep up the happy façade.

you saw the world through rose-tinted glasses, your head always lost in the clouds. you were a dreamer, enjoying life to its fullest. yet, veritas ratio was different. he saw the world in its black and white, ugly, organic form. he stepped through life with a logical mind, silently analysing every glance and gesture, as though looking at an equation only his practised eyes could see.

you loved staying up late at night, relishing in the faint glow of warmth from your lamp, illuminating your desk as your mind wandered, drawing ideas from the world around you. some days, you stayed up till the dark, bejewelled night gave way to milky dawns, some nights you slept early. your life was a combination of sporadic bursts of energy.

veritas valued order and routine over everything else. you could recite his schedule off the top of your head: an hour-long bath after work, evenings spent huddled at his desk, grading papers, a helping hand at dinner before he curls up in a nearby chair, nose buried in his book. all this was executed with clockwork precision. once the clock hit 9, veritas would turn to bed, his alarm forever set up for an early awakening.

you loved to douse your coffee in sugar and milk, while veritas could feel the tooth-ache just from watching you spoon the white powder into your milky coffee. he often joked that normal people had coffee with a splash of milk, while you had milk with a splash of coffee.

unlike you, he drank his coffee black, with no add-ins and a straight face. yours scrunched up with displeasure as you imagined the bitter liquid running down your throat.

despite your differences, you still had similarities. the two of you were stupidly devoted to your work. 

you savoured any moment you had to sketch, a notebook and pencil never leaving your hands. new ideas flowed from your fingertips. your mind was a never-ending fountain of imagination. there was never a day when the other scholars saw you without a pencil stuck behind your ear or glued to the paper you always carried.

on the other hand, veritas was practically married to mathematics. he held a strong passion for teaching the arithmetic subject, nose always buried in a book, his mind busy gnawing away at a new maths problem.

even with your similarities, there were times in your relationship when you struggled living with and loving such a logical man.

when the nights were sleepy, the quiet seemed to hang, like a thick blanket over the two of you, only broken by the swish of pages turning. you doodled a new design for his plaster head absentmindedly in your notebook. your hands itched to show him, but you could guess his answer: a small, polite smile and nod. he would mutter some surface level praise, before turning back to his book.

before, his quiet praise and small, rare smile made your breath hitch and your face flame. now, it left you feeling desolate and hopeless, like an artist staring at their piece, trying to work out what went wrong.

“why don’t you ever clean up?” veritas’ voice broke through the quiet ambience of the house, his gaze fixated on the papers, piled haphazardly upon your desk, sketches and prototypes littering the floor. his brows were furrowed with distaste, hands pinching at his nose bridge in exasperation.

“i do,” you protested, though guilt and shame was evident on your face. “it’s just…i get inspiration.” you meekly finished.

veritas’ sigh of disappointment made your stomach drop and your heart clench. “no wonder you never get anything done.” veritas’ voice was clipped, “chaos doesn’t ever breed results.”

lately, the air in the house felt stifling, choking the life out of your lives. around the reviered dr ratio, you felt like you were walking on eggshells. everything he said pushed a button in you, and everything you did seemed to piss him off.

he supressed the urge to snap at you every time another prototype found its way into his slipper, while you swallowed back every sharp retort on your tongue. he didn’t understand you. inspiration wasn’t orderly, it was messy, bursts of energy—unpredictable and fleeting.

every word he spoke, no matter how well-meaning, felt like an attack. veritas really had a way with words. it wasn’t what he said, but the disappointment and annoyance that subtly laced his words, their sharpness striking deep into every weakness. you tried to understand his logic, but it was like trying to touch the clouds. you could see it, but no matter how far you tried to stretch, it slipped through your fingers, dancing just out of reach before dissolving into a mystery you would never be able to unravel.

it truly amazed the both of you how long it took for you to realise that this wasn’t going to work. you were simply too different from each other. holding onto this relationship was like trying to jam two pieces of a puzzle together, even when they didn’t fit. the more you tried to make the fit, the more the edges frayed, the corners becoming worn down. the picture blurred, its picturesque scene warped into an unrecognisable smear of colour.

you were as wonderful as an angel sent from heaven, soaring with your head in the clouds, and he was as perfect as a greek statue, steadfast and steady. perfection in your own ways but so different from each other. soft features were not enough to bend marble, no matter how tightly you held on. love, as powerful as it was, could only go so far.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[stxrr-strxckk]

Something I noticed about I Saw the TV Glow that I haven't seen anybody mention yet

I saw this movie in theaters back in early may when it was released (Twice!), and it's been lingering in my head ever since then. Something I noticed on my second watch through: When Owen (and the audience) first see the Pink Opaque, we see Tara and Isabel in this sort of 90s nostalgia light, and I always thought they looked quite similar to Maddy and Owen. For example: Here is Owen and Isabel next to each other for reference.

While it's not entirely the same (Owen has softer features and is warmer toned, Isabel is more sharp and cool toned), they do look like they'd at least be related, cousins at least?

Same with Maddy and Tara, though not as much. (They looked more similar after Maddy's haircut, but I'm too lazy to change the photo)

But then, at the end when Owen is rewatching Pink Opaque? It's completely different. That nostalgic effect is gone and all of a sudden Tara is nowhere to be seen (Since Maddy left the world they were trapped in), and Isabel is completely different. Instead of being the confident, strong, WOC we see her as originally, she's just the same boring white protagonist of every little girl's show we grew up on.

And of course Owen is panicking, realizing that he lost his chance: He buried Isabel; she's dead underground, without her heart and instead of being who he truly is where he truly belongs, he's just... Owen. Stuck in suburbia, living the hell of being a queer kid growing up in the suburbs. Except now, he's an adult living a lie, knowing what he could have had is gone and he's stuck.

And another thing: I think the choice of the fun zone being where Owen works is deliberate. Sure, they could have kept him at the theater, but the theater shutting down is not only accurate (sad but true- please support your local movie theaters!) but shows how everyone is moving on from that experience of going to see a movie (and also from the joy of childhood and into adulthood while Owen is still stuck that awkward teenager!) in person- choosing streaming instead.

And we also notice this change in the Pink Opaque when Owen is watching it streaming. This is a reflection of how media felt more special growing up when it was in a physical form. Cds, vinyl, Dvds, casettes, film reels, even game cartridges, we've always had some physical object that bonds us to the worlds of creativity in which artists express themselves. And whether you've noticed or not, it's a special sort of feeling that just... Dies with streaming. Its like you own a piece of the media. Like saying: "This is mine, it's my personal piece of media that belongs to me and only me." and that's always made it feel special. Sure, there may be multiple copies, but this one belongs just to you. Not to mention the ritual of actually putting in cds, dvds, casettes into a player, or playing vinyl on a record player. There's this action you have to take to consume this media that's familiar and sort of gets you to anticipate what you're about to watch (much like Owen and Maddy's ritual of Maddy taping the show then leaving them around school for Owen to find) whereas now, you're just on a streaming service that lots of people own, and you're just mindlessly scrolling through hundreds of options.

Another thing: What do we see when Owen cuts his chest open in the final few minutes? TV static. Like when a tape finishes and you don't take it out of the player. His tape is over, Isabel is dead, and all that's left is the static of his fake life as he slowly rots in this husk. Now with streaming, you don't get that static. His connection with the Pink Opaque stems from his friendship with Maddy, the nostalgia of his favorite childhood show, and of course: his own queerness.

It's no secret this movie is about growing up queer and feeling like something is wrong. Like some part of you missing, the part that makes you normal. I've seen many reviews on IMDB that clearly missed the point, so I really want to spell it out here: THIS IS A MOVIE ABOUT QUEER PEOPLE FOR QUEER PEOPLE. And I've never seen a movie so perfectly encapsulate that feeling more than this one.

From my experience as a queer POC growing up with little to no representation I know this feeling all too well of seeing someone and realizing: "Wow, that's me." And projecting who I wanted to be onto that person. Even though they're not queer, they're not a poc, they're just a character. We try so hard to make them into who we want to be that the image of this character becomes so distorted you barely recognize them. Then, later revisiting that media to realize that a: you've become them, your true self, or b, in Owen's case: that you've buried that person alive and barely recognize yourself now.

It's really such a unique experience that I've never been able to put into words before. These scenes gave me such a visceral feeling and I almost cried in the theater. The scene of Owen in Isabel's dress is just the cherry on top. I myself am lucky enough to not need to transition and growing up I didn't feel as much dysphoria as my other trans friends, but this reminds me of a good friend of mine who used to dress in heels, makeup, skirts, and dresses to try and lessen the dysphoria she felt growing up in the wrong body.

I also love how the movie shows being queer in school.

Like how Maddy asks Owen if he likes girls or boys, and he replies with: "I think I like TV shows."

Avoiding the question because you either don't know the answer, or are so afraid you're gonna get bullied even more for being who you are.

Growing up, there weren't many queer kids in my school. So when we found each other, we stuck together. But for most of school, we were alone. No groups, not many friends, no space at the lunch table for us.

And seeing Owen, I just felt this connection to him almost immediately. Alone, not part of any group, until he finally finds Maddy. They don't have anything in common except the show, which is really the only reason they're friends, but it keeps them together, They're bonded.

For me, I see this as finding another queer kid in a mostly straight school. You may not have much in common, but that identity means you two will stick together, no matter what.

TLDR: I love isttvg, it makes me cry, everyone is gay and fuck imdb.

[doberbutts]

Been playing In Stars and Time recently and Mirabelle made Me cry on like six separate occasions because Black girls are never allowed to be characters like Mira. She's cutesy and bubbly and supported by her friends and she is canonically God's Favorite and normally I hate characters like that. But she is also Black. She looks like... Me, My friends. Her mentor, in-game, is another older Black woman. She has a community. And she's so multifaceted, she has a complicated relationship with her sexuality and talks about it, it's a level of care and detail and *attention* paid to a Black girl- who isn't even the player character! A Black girl who is just, in Your party, and the story cares so much about her. It made Me feel important, too. Like I could be important even if I wasn't butch, wasn't a protector, let Myself wear pink and be femme sometimes, which isn't something I feel very often.

Not sure why I'm telling You this. Felt related to a recent reblog. Recommending the game, maybe. Have a good day, man. Thank You for listening.

Thank you for the recommendation!

I felt very similarly while playing Spiritfarer. Playing as a young black girl filled with love and light as she pieces together her own memories and grapples with the serious discussion of grief and death- I was recommended the game because I like supernatural fantasy and went "oh! She's black!" once I started it up. I haven't beaten it yet because I can't get past the one character who reminds me a lot of my late grandfather, and it's his time to go, and I don't want to say goodbye just yet. The character who reminded me of my late grandmother had just left and I did have to put the game down and have a good cry.

I suppose that's the point. To help heal the player who is likely struggling with a loss in their own family. I lost my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandmother- each pillars of their respective sides of the family- less than 9 months from each other and losing them in-game made things a little too real. Nevermind that I lost them close to 9 years ago. Now with my uncle's sudden death 2 years ago, well after I took a break from the game, I am a little leery on going back to it if not just because if someone reminds me of him I think I will cry again.

But there is something cathartic about seeing "myself" as a young black girl, hugging the souls of my loved ones goodbye, hanging onto the precious memories from my childhood as my reminder of them. Even if it makes me teary to type this out. I was that little black girl when they knew me- affectionate, bright, energetic, full of life.

Anyway. If you are in a headspace where you are safe to experience this, I think you should give Spiritfarer a try. I'm glad I did.

[oneatlatime]

Hiii!!! I’ve been binging through your blog for the past few weeks and I noticed how you talk about how Kataang(Katara x Aang) is portrayed in the show. Honestly yeah, I will admit I didn’t like it at first but now I just don’t really care for it. But I’d be interested hearing an in-depth opinion on the ship(unless you already did and I just never noticed or forgot 😭).

Another question, do you think you’re going to read the comics that came out the series? If you’re asking my opinion I’d say they’re a uuuh 7-8 out of 10 IG?

I do have thoughts on Kataang which I haven't shared yet. Part of me thinks I should wait to answer your ask until I've finished the series; it's obvious to me that these two are being set up to be the big finale couple, which means if I talk about them now I'm probably missing the pieces I need to have a full, well-rounded opinion. But you know what? I feel like talking about them now. So here goes.

Short answer: It peeves me that Aang comes from a culture that seemingly doesn't even have parents, yet he still manages to date his mother.

Long answer: they're both way too young. I'm a huge fan of letting the kids be kids for as long as possible. Especially with these kids, who have been prevented from being kids by the war. As Katara points out in the opening scene of the very first episode, she's been the mother since her own died (or at least she feels like she has had to be the mother). Call me crazy, but I'd rather Katara spend a few years after the war doing dumb childish stuff to recapture that lost childhood than jump straight into a relationship. Isn't the safety and space to do dumb childish stuff one of the things those who are trying to end the war are fighting for? Shouldn't she get to enjoy that? And Aang is just way too young no matter what way you look at it. He's 12 right? I think that would make him a grade 6 student. Back in my day (yells at cloud) Grade 6 students collected yugioh cards and feuded over who had the snazzier lunch box. I could picture a 12 year old having a crush on a slightly older girl that goes to the same school, but it would be short lived and unactionable. I guess Katara would be around 14? So, a grade 8 student. A grade 8 girl would not date a grade 6 boy. It would just never happen.

They've both got bigger fish to fry. Aang is the last Air Nomad AND the current Avatar. When he fully takes on both of those positions, what time will he have for a girlfriend? Katara is the only Southern Waterbender. Whether or not she wants the responsibility, it will be her duty to single-handedly reconstruct a huge portion of her nation's culture from the ground up once she returns south. Does she have the time to ping pong around the globe mothering her boyfriend as he rides giant animals or does Avatar stuff? Say she wants to: what will her family and the rest of her tribe think of the only person who can access such a huge part of their culture riding off into the sunset?

Their current relationship dynamic is still too mother/son. This is more obvious in season 1 than in season 2 (maybe that's growth?) but you can't depict a male/female pair as pieta and then expect me to ship. I think this could change somewhat, but I've already been disappointed in that. I thought that once Katara had mastered waterbending and therefore felt she had something other than mothering to contribute to the group, she would back off with the mothering. And she did, a little, but not enough for my tastes. Maybe as Aang fully steps into the Avatar role and the last Air Nomad role (sidenote: no idea what the latter would look like) he'll move on to a more equal relationship with Katara.

I think Katara is meant for better things than rebirthing a nation. Bending seems to be at least somewhat genetic. So if Aang wants Airbending in any form to survive after his death, he's going to need a billion kids. While I could definitely see Katara wanting children, I don't see her as the barefoot pregnant type.

I'm not convinced that Aang has a clear picture of Katara. She has flaws, which is good! Does Aang see them?

I get the feeling that, while they are helping each others' skills grow as they travel the globe, they are also preventing each others' personalities from growing. As long as Aang is around, Katara has someone to mother. As long as Katara is around, Aang has someone who prevents him from feeling the full weight of his responsibilities. Again, this is worse in season 1, but how often did Katara deny that Aang was to blame for something that was at least somewhat his fault? Aang will never become a fully rounded person until he can look at his flaws and mistakes dead on and say "my bad" without a Katara in the background going "no you're perfect!" Katara deserves to find out what kind of person she is outside of a nurturing role. Quick thought experiment: what if you pair Katara with someone who needs no nurturing, or better yet, nurtures her? And what if you pair Aang with someone as bluntly truthful as Toph? Katara and Aang might find both of those situations uncomfortable at first, but I think it would contribute to their growth.

Aang having a crush on an oblivious Katara would be a great single season arc. I think it would fit both of their characters well, and I think Aang growing past latching on to the first person he saw after the iceberg would be a good way to show that he's rooting himself in his time-displaced present, and fully committing to ending the war. And don't get me wrong, I love Aang and Katara both as a fighting team and as friends.

These kids are all fighting a war, and all kids. I don't mind the supporting characters having romances, because it's not like Sokka or Suki can end the war, no matter how hard they try/might want to. But I'm a big believer in doing one thing at a time, and I think if you're the only person in the whole world who can end a war, then ending the war should take precedence over dating. I'm aware that that's an unrealistic expectation and out of step with the show's theme of balance. In the real world, birth rates skyrocket during war time because people live for the moment and grab happiness (read boinking) wherever they see it. But both these kids are pre-boinking age so I'm going to be a cranky old fart about it.

Being the wife of the Avatar is a position that will often come with being relegated to second place, especially with the amount of work that undoing a century of war will take. Although she works well in a team, Katara is a naturally dominant personality. Katara did enough of putting herself in second place before the series started. I think Katara could very easily fall into the pattern of subjugating her own needs and desires and putting her husband's first, but I don't want that to happen. And one way to prevent that from happening is to prevent her from dating the single most politically important person in the universe. (To be clear, Aang would never deliberately squish a wife like that, I just think the workload of being Avatar and last air nomad would cause that to happen)

A lot of my objections to this pairing are very adult objections. I don't know what I would have thought about this pairing when I was the age of the show's target audience. It undoubtedly would have bothered me less, although I probably would have been put off by how twee it is. As an adult, all I can see are babies playing house.

As for the comics, I hadn't made any concrete plans to read them. I don't know where I'd get access to them. I'm not sure how canonical they are. I guess I should probably decide whether or not I want to read them after I've finished the whole series. I've been told that my girl Jin appears in one of them, so I definitely have some interest. I have also had the Avatar Kyoshi novels strenuously recommended to me. But so much of Avatar's charm, to me, is in the medium. And while comics are closer to animation than books are, they're still static. Avatar does movement so well.

[the-music-maniac]

Zoro has rapidly become my favourite character in One Piece and so I felt the need to write this after seeing one too many people misinterpret him as this alpha male type of dude purely because he's muscular and likes fighting. Don't do my boi like that, I actually think Zoro is a very good example of non toxic masculinity, and I will fight people over it. I've seen someone call Zoro a red flag. I will find you.

I've seen this happen quite often when it comes to characters with certain body types and defining traits, especially in shows with large followings like one piece, where people just tend to equate muscular + likes to fight + likes to drink to a certain archetype of personality without looking at the nuance? In reality, Zoro is a very likeable guy in my opinion (once you get over how terrifying he can be as an opponent).

Disclaimer: I haven't finished the entire show so feel free to write any rebuttals if you think I got anything wrong! Fandom debates can be quite fun.

I also mention Sanzo/Zosan very briefly so feel free to skip over that part if you're not into that ship.

The biggest thing I think people tend to forget is that Zoro is kind. And this one I don't understand how anyone can forget, because it's like an integral part of his character. Sure, his goal of becoming the greatest swordsman is not a path that's without bloodshed. He's not kind in an all encompassing, indiscriminate way, he's kind in a practical way, especially in the world he lives in with the type of life he leads. He doesn't have qualms about killing when necessary. But the motivation behind those actions are never cruel. He wants to be the greatest swordsman, but he's not amassing that skill because he wants power. He's doing it for love of that weapons style and for the childhood dream both Kuina and him had. Does he like fighting? Yeah, but I'm pretty certain it's purely for the competition of skill. And Zoro shows his kindness with how willing he is to help those who need it, in that he usually doesn't use his strength to take what he wants/hurt others but to protect. Even when he was a bounty hunter and earned his moniker of Demon of the East, he was just trying to survive. I'm not sure how people forget that he's a kind person when our initial introduction to Zoro was him agreeing to get tied to a post for a month without food or water to save a little girl and her mother. He's kind in the little ways as well, in that mundane everyday living type of manner, not just in the big, heroic "risk your life" type of way, which I think is important to acknowledge. He didn't have to tell that girl that her food was good. And Zoro is pretty damn good with children - we see that with Chopper, and we see that with that filler episode with Zoro babysitting and - I think there are some more examples but I can't recall them right now. That's a very big green flag in my opinion. The little gestures can matter as much as the big ones. As far as I'm concerned, those traits couldn't be further from the "alpha male" stereotype.

I've also seen people characterize Zoro as just a cool, quiet, man-of-few-words type of guy, and sure, I can see how he would give that impression if all you saw of him was random edits of when he gets serious but honestly, the man is pretty fucking sassy. He's also just - SUCH a 19 year old with all the antics he gets up to with the rest of the crew, and I'm aware he gets much more serious after the timeskip (I haven't gotten to that point yet in terms of watching but I don't care about spoilers so I know the reason behind it), but like. I don't think he lost his snark from some clips I've seen. Zoro is funny, and I think people ignore that too often for the cool guy type of characterization. Not that he isn't cool - Zoro has his moments but that's not all he is. The man gets lost running in a straight line???? He once almost got frozen in wax and decided his priority was to ensure he died in a cool pose. That type of willingness to be silly is not something you find in a stereotypical alpha male type of personality. Like, who are you kidding, he's lame af, unashamed of it, and it's fabulous.

Another thing, granted this is not a common opinion by any means, but on one instance I've seen someone act as if Zoro's some lady killer or some shit and I actually had to pause and stare at my screen in disbelief. Could I see women being attracted to Zoro? Yeah sure, I mean the one example I can think of right now is Hiyori (another example may or may not be me. But then again you knew that didn't you, considering this post is just one giant love letter to Zoro). But does Zoro purposely try to attract women? Uh no? I don't even think the man is straight. He's either aromantic/asexual (very ace of him to not give a shit about romance but leap up in two seconds upon hearing the word "sword") or just gay, cause he exhibits very little interest in romance, or very little indication that he finds women attractive. And I pinpointed attraction to women specifically just cause people tend to assume Zoro is heterosexual and have the audacity to get mad at you if you try to imply otherwise. Which to me is clearly heteronormativity speaking because where. Where is he straight, I don't see it. And sure is there a possibility he may be heterosexual and just unwilling to act on attraction because he has a different goal in life? Yeah sure, but you can't act like that's the only valid interpretation for him. But regardless, no matter what sexuality you headcanon him as, he's still very very far from "manly man with ladies swooning left and right into his muscular arms" type character. I mean if someone swooned into him I'm pretty sure he would catch them on principle without registering any romantic connotations whatsoever. (Note that these opinions do not stop me from being a Sanzo/Zosan shipper, but that's more because I find the concept entertaining. An argument could also be made that Zoro does pay the most attention to Sanji, even if it's to fight him). So yeah, another strike against the whole alpha male type of characterization. Zoro doesn't really give a shit about romance and even if he DID, I am convinced he still wouldn't treat a potential romantic partner as anything but an equal, doesn't matter if that s/o is a man, woman or non binary. And this segways into my next point.

Because Zoro has some very refreshing attitudes about gender, both his own and of other people. This doesn't just tie in with the sexuality/romantic partner thing, it ties into the willingness to be authentic/silly thing, and the "likes to compare skills through fighting" thing. I very much think that Zoro just doesn't really register gender roles much, or he does and he just doesn't care about it. And I'm aware this partially stems from a position of privilege he has as a guy - he doesn't need to care about gender roles and how people view him because he's a man. He wouldn't be short changed for anything if he doesn't notice. While the same luxury is not extended to individuals like Kuina and Tashigi, who were in a field of practice that looks down on them purely for being women. Having said that, Zoro literally just doesn't give a shit who he's dealing with, man, woman or any other gender. If you challenge him, he'll fight you. And the level of effort he gives that fight is usually dependent on ability and the situation. If you annoy him, he'll annoy you back. He has no qualms about snarking and yelling at Nami the same as he would with a male member of the crew. People in the past that have pointed out to him the difference in the way the rest of the world perceives men and women - like with Kuina and Tashigi for example - is met with confusion. And again, this is partially because Zoro has the privilege of not noticing, but honestly even if he did notice, I don't think his personal actions would change. And I find that refreshing. I love Sanji as a character, don't get me wrong, but his whole refuses to fight women schtick is something that annoys me (even if I do headcanon that it partially comes from a place of trauma). And moreover, Zoro gives me the impression of a person that doesn't give a shit if his own masculinity is "compromised", going by the stereotypical definition of the phrase. He does shit cause he feels like it, not cause it's the "manly" thing to do. Yeah, he happens to like drinking, working out - things that are considered traditionally masculine, but I get the sense that if he did have hobbies that were not traditionally masculine, he would just go ahead and do them regardless of what people think of him. His antics pre-timeskip wasn't exactly the epitome of manliness, it was silly and goofy and he has no qualms about it cause it was authentically him. And he wouldn't feel threatened if he were to do anything not in keeping with a "manly" image, even if he wouldn't do any of that of his own volition. Like the babysitting filler episode? The man was in a crop top that said "mama" on the front. I fully believe that if he lost a bet to Nami and had to wear a dress or some other traditionally feminine piece of clothing, or if for some convoluted reason Luffy ordered him to put on a disguise like that for some mission or whatever, Zoro wouldn't give a shit as long as it was comfortable and didn't obstruct his ability to fight. If someone made fun of him for it, he would probably bite back depending on how insulting the person is trying to be, cause not caring about wearing non masculine clothing doesn't mean he would be okay with someone looking down on him, but he wouldn't automatically equate the two to each other without that interference, and that association wouldn't be permanent. Would he choose to wear a dress on his own? Probably not. He does still have clothing preferences and they tend to be simple, practical and comfortable, and with certain clothing pieces, in keeping with his culture. Would he fly into an insecure rage about not being a girl? I don't think so. And that's so far in attitude from the whole alpha male thing that it's not even funny. The whole concept of an identity centered around being an alpha male reeks of insecurity, and Zoro is very secure in who he is as a person.

And this is also why I think Zoro would act differently in a romance than how "alpha males" would act, even if it's with a woman (I still don't think Zoro is straight btw, but just for conjecture). For one he respects people based on ability and if not that, determination and heart, so right off the bat he's not gonna treat his partner as lesser than him by virtue of being a woman. And I've noticed that a lot of heterosexual couples (not all, mind you, but a lot) seem to care more about dating a gender role than dating an actual person. By that, I mean individuals who pride themselves on being a model of masculinity however they define it - usually look for a partner to compliment them in that regard. I find this counterproductive, because your partner is not meant to be a tool/accessory to maintain your image, and also because being the perfect man or woman is too narrow of a definition, and it doesn't exactly leave you a lot of room to live comfortably as a human - with all your fallible moments that don't fit comfortably in little boxes. It's impractical and illogical. If you value maintaining the status quo and assigning responsibilities and roles based on arbitrary rules assigned by society instead of ability, if you care about that more than you care about helping your partner and maintaining a functional life, I don't think y'all are gonna last long. That's just my two cents. But for the reasons listed before, Zoro barely even registers gender roles, and he's a pretty "get shit done" type of person. He's not gonna give a shit. He'll do what he's able to do for the relationship, and he wouldn't feel insecure when his partner does the same, even if it doesn't fit into traditional roles. And considering Zoro's love of sparring/fighting I don't think he would get with a partner that isn't able to give him a run for his money anyways. Another thing that sets him apart from the alpha male stereotype, those guys are terrified of anyone challenging them for their position of "authority", however dubious that position is (and however stupid it is to care about notions of dominance for a relationship. Have y'all seen those interview videos with guys who actually believe that? "I can't date a girl that bench presses more than me cause that means she becomes the dominant figure in the relationship" excuse me what.)

This post is getting overly long so I'm going to end it there. Thanks for reading!

[cosmicmagicgirl]

A NEW DAWN.

Summary: After the traumatic events of Marineford, the world is facing a new generation of pirates and the quest for One Piece continues. The Straw Hat Pirates finally enter the mysterious New World, only to be met with an urgent call to the island of Punk Hazard. A desperate plea for help reveals an imminent attack by a samurai, plunging them into a race against time to face the impending danger. Amidst the chaos, an unexpected alliance arises with the Surgeon of Death, Law. United in a common purpose, Luffy and his crew face unimaginable challenges, including a confrontation with the cruel scientist Caesar Clown and Joker's henchmen.

With bravery and determination, they manage to save the children and inhabitants of the island, preparing to move forward with new friends aboard the Thousand Sunny. However, as they prepare to depart, an emotional reunion awaits them on the shores of Punk Hazard, unearthing memories. Pain and loss will be brought to the surface, and it will be painful to have to talk about guilt and mourning. Our journey is one of self-discovery and redemption, facing not only physical battles, but also the complexities of the heart. This is a story permeated by bittersweet loves and bonds that transcend blood.

Contents: Fluff and Angst / Eventual Romance / Blood and Violence / One Piece Spoilers / My First One Piece Fic / Drama & Romance / Childhood Memories / References to Depression / Psychological Torture /  Implied/Referenced Torture / Lost Love / Roronoa Zoro is Bad At Feelings / Roronoa Zoro in Love / Monkey D. Luffy is a Ray of Sunshine / Doctor Trafalgar D. Water Law / Protective Portgas D. Ace  / Brother-Sister Relationships / Wano Arc (One Piece) / Dressrosa Arc / Punk Hazard Arc / Whole Cake Island Arc Spoilers / Roronoa Zoro Being an Idiot / Nami & Vinsmoke Sanji Friendship / Marine Corps / Espionage / Female Friendship / Strong Original Female Character / NSFW.

Author’s notes:

Dear readers,

In another burst of writing, I embarked on a new journey by starting another fanfic, even though I'm already involved in several others. One Piece has been a safe haven for me over the years, an endless source of inspiration and comfort. Now, the time has come to finally express all my affection for the characters who have made this journey so special.

Sharing this story with you is a way for me to connect even more with this incredible work and with all those who, like me, have found in One Piece a refuge and a source of inspiration. I haven't decided yet if I'll make this fanfic a "y/n" fic, but even if I give a name to the protagonist, I hope you'll continue to follow and enjoy every chapter of this adventure.

Thank you for all the support and affection along the way. Without you, none of this would be possible.

With love,

L.

[sludgekludge]

It honestly kind of frustrates me they tried to do the whole childhood friends aspect with Stolas and Blitz when 1. Blitz was BOUGHT for Stolas for a day, and 2, Blitz already HAD a childhood best friend— Fizzarolli. Why not use The Circus episode to expand on what happened with Fizz and Blitz, instead? That would have been perfect for it since it already shows young Blitz and Fizz!

But no, we get a childhood friends to lovers yaoi slop episode that makes no sense and basically sands down the toxic relationship we thought they would have.

I was half expecting something to come up with that— a dramatic revelation where Blitz reveals he and Stolas were never friends, shattering Stolas’ delusion of them being in love. Hell, using the conversion from Ozzie’s could have helped this, too— with Blitz only going along with it to get the book.

They had SO many ideas they could use, paths they could take yet they make sure to swan dive into the ones that don’t make sense or try to actively retcon things we saw in the first season. It’s why after the Circus I completely lost interest in Helluva, only watching the rest of the season to see if it’d get better. I’m only watching the next episode, Sinsmas, and then plan on dropping the show entirely. Still so gobsmacked what a shitshow it’s become.

it is completely and utterly insane that they retconned in the 'childhood friends' thing so hard, it still baffles me. i recall watching the circus for the first time while binging the whole series and just being so convinced it was gonna end up being a dream or fantasy at the end because it was such a hard pivot from what ep 1 conceived the stolitz relationship to be. it's such a nonsense decision that i'm still baffled, honestly. that, and they want us to view it as like, cute and wholesome? stolas' first friend? girl blitz's dad sold him to you and then you never spoke again? the fact viv apparently claims this was the plan all along is so funny. it's so obviously the most forced fanfiction-trope retcon of all time. i can't fathom it. it's nonsense.

that aside, i agree, though - if fizz was going to be in the show as much as he is, then i have no idea why they didn't use him to fill the childhood friend hole, especially given that it comes before all the abrupt fizz development. why not set that up now? establish the childhood friend with the same lived experiences that blitz actually chose (and continued to) hang out with? but no welcome to our episode titled 'the circus', it's largely about stolas and not about our main character who grew up in the fucking circus-

i'm probably on stuck on this gravy train till it tumbles over a cliff and explodes, finally freeing me from these fuckass shows, (says this even though i still haven't watched ghostfuckers lmfao oops) but i've seen a lot of people drop it now that s2 is almost over and i'm not at all shocked. i do wonder how much the show in its current state alienates fans who were drawn in by the initial premise or the original setup of the stolas dynamic. episode 1 feels like a completely different piece of media at this point. it's going to be fascinating to compare the first few eps to the last when this thing is finally done and dusted.

[sunriseverse]

get to know me 🌻

tagged by @killerandhealerqueen (thank you sass!)

do you make your bed?

i mean, i guess if you count "smoothing out my duvet" as making my bed, yeah.

what's your favourite number?

thirteen and eight :)

what is your job?

eternal suffering (working on my second uni degree).

If you could go back to school would you?

[laughs like a hyena] bold of you to assume i've ever left school. unfortunately i think i'm doomed to academic pursuits for the rest of my life. that said if i could i would go back and force myself to realise i cannot do applied maths, that would have saved me time.

can you parallel park?

yes :) i actually like driving, i find it calming.

a job you had that would surprise people?

i actually was an after-school tutor for elementary students for a year! it was terrible, because i get overstimulated very easily by children, who are loud and insistent, but they were all very sweet. i didn't get paid nearly as much as i would have liked, though.

do you think aliens are real?

i am an alien agnostic, by which i mean i haven't seen proof, but if i were to, yeah.

can you drive a manual car?

not at the moment but i could probably figure it out if i had to.

what's your guilty pleasure?

generally i feel no guilt for my pleasures but uh. i remembered i actively read the sci novel on purpose, so. yeah, that. (would not recommend)

tattoos?

not yet! i want a couple, though, when i have more time and money.

favourite colour?

black and purple! and gold. and...........green and blue. i actually like a lot of colours haha.

favourite type of music?

i have been known to like mandopop u_u but i also like darkwave, goth, and anything that makes a compelling amv.

do you like puzzles?

i do! people used to gift me thousand piece plus puzzles when i was younger, and while they've mostly been lost in moves, i do think of them fondly.

any phobias?

lack of autonomy, which i think is a reasonable phobia. aside from that, no.

favourite childhood sport?

swimming! i was actually a decent competitive swimmer for years, and placed a number of times in regional meets (i didn't go any further because i hated having to be in meets due to the unique horrors of being wet and cold and half-nude around large crowds of people. and also life-related bullshit stressed me out so much i had to quit).

do you talk to yourself?

yes :) not as much as i used to because i live with people i'm not close to at the moment and i tend to stim a lot if i'm speaking to myself and i'd rather not have that conversation.

what movie(s) do you adore?

pacific rim (2013), the old guard (2020), the diptych finale of dijia aoteman/ultraman taiga (1997????) which isn't a film but was formative to my childhood.

coffee or tea?

tea!!!!! tea my beloved.............i will drink a lot of different types but i am a black tea lover at heart.

first thing you wanted to be growing up?

fashion designer, actually!

tagging: @krownest @lesbianlanval @jaybirdsdelight @malewifefirestar @tatchling @impishglee and anyone else who wants to play!

[cvbullshit]

Simulacra(1, 2, PD) Incorrect Quotes Part 2

These mainly take as if it was somewhat the Content AU(their nicknames, genders, and other) and mixed slightly with canon, depending on the quote. I may do art of them at some point, feel free to do art of them yourself though, if you want, just tag me since I'd want to see it. For context: -The first Simulacra(from Simulacra 1) is nicknamed Phoney. -The second Simulacra(from Simulacra 2) is nicknamed Ripple Man, obv. -The Pipe Dreams Simulacra is nicknamed Flappee. -The MC from the first game is labeled MC 1, MC from the second game being labeled as MC 2. -The MC from Pipe Dreams is labeled MC PD.

Flappee: I woke up and chose VIOLENCE. I WILL COMMIT ARSON AND BURN EVERYTHING TO THE GROUND!!! I AM ANGRY- Teddy: Awwww, you’re so adorable! Give me a hug~ Flappee: Wh-What? nO, yOURE SUPPOSED TO BE SCARED OF ME! TREMBLE BEFORE MY WRATH- MC PD, recording: This is so cute.

Flappee: I dare you to kiss the next person who walks into this room. Teddy: Screw that, I’m not kissing any of you. MC PD walks in Teddy: Fine, I’ll do it. Rules are rules you know.

the Squad cleaning up MC PD: Pick up the nearest piece of trash and throw it away. Flappee, to Teddy: Aight, which bin do you wanna go in—

Arya: Imagine if someone handed you a box full of all the things you lost throughout your life. Rippleman: It would be nice to have my sense of purpose back… Rex: Oh wow, my childhood innocence! Thank you for finding this. Mina: My will to live! I haven't seen this in years. MC 2: I knew I lost that potential somewhere. Maya: Mental stability, my old friend! Arya: Jesus, could you guys lighten up a little?

Mina: Who the fuck added me to a fucking group chat? Maya: >:O language Rippleman: Yeah watch your fucking language Rex: Okay, who taught Rippleman the fuck word?! Arya: 'The fuck word'. MC 2: Are you stupid? You guys use the f word all the time Rippleman: Oh my god they censored it Arya: Say fuck, MC 2. Rippleman: Do it, MC 2. Say fuck.

Arya: Who else is hiding in the laundry room trying to listen to MC 2 and Maya's convo? Mina: Me. I'm in the laundry basket. Rippleman: I'm in the washing machine. Rex: I'm in the closet. Mina: We accept you Rex. <3 Rex: No I'm literally in the closet. Mina: Love is love. <3

Arya: She was poetry, but he couldn't read. MC 2: His name was Jared he's 19. Mina: When his parents built a very strange machine. Rippleman, singing: Watch that scene, digging the dancing queen. Maya, singing: Eyyyy, Macarena! Rex: Horrible job everyone.

Murilo, to Rippleman: Why is MC 2 not talking? Rippleman: I'm playing the silent game with them. Murilo: Well, then you just lost. Rippleman: I lost two hours ago. I gave them ear plugs and told them to close their eyes. It was the only way I could think of to get them to shut up.

MC 2: Why's it called an oven when you of in the cold food and you of out hot eat the food? Murilo: …What???

MC 2: I don’t think we can mansplain, manipulate, or malewife our way out of it this time. Murilo: cracks knuckles Manslaughter it is!

MC PD: I think MC 2 is in trouble. MC 1: Alright. Struggling to give a fuck, if I’m honest.

Rippleman: Hey bro, what do you want to eat? Phoney: The souls of the innocent! Flappee: A bagel. Phoney: No! Flappee: Two bagels.

Flappee: It’s impossible to make a sentence without using the letter A. Phoney: Despite your thinking, it is quite possible, yet difficult, to form one without the specific letter. Here’s one more to further disprove your theory. Rippleman: Fuck you.

Rippleman: Now, Flappee, all of us are doing this because we care about you, okay? Phoney: Except for me. I just wanted to see the look on your face.

Rippleman: Where is everyone? Flappee: Phoney had a nervous collapse, MC 2 is looking after them, MC 1 is trying to kill MC PD, so I’m in charge. Rippleman: Oh my god! Flappee: I know, right?

MC 1: Man, they look like a real handful. How do you deal with them? Phoney, watching Flappee screaming, Rippleman trying to set a sleeping MC PD on fire, and MC 2 choking on air: I don't know either.

Taylor: When Phoney was born, the gods said, "They're too perfect for this world." Anna: Please. When they were born, the devil said, "Oh, competition."

Anna: Hey, check out my Spongebob umbrella! Anna opens their umbrella while indoors Taylor: Anna, that’s bad luck… Anna: Chill out, Taylor! Phoney, kicking down the door: WHO SUMMONED ME?!?! Anna and Taylor: screams

Anna: How do you do that? Taylor: I'm fearless. Phoney: I saw you run from bees yesterday. You flailed around and tripped over a chair. It was both hysterical and sad. Taylor: I'm mostly fearless.

Mina: What do rainbows mean to you? Arya: Gay rights. Rippleman: There's money. Murilo: The sign of God's promise to never destroy the whole Earth with a flood. Rex: It is an optical phenomenon that separates sunlight into its continuous spectrum when the sun shines on raindrops.

Murilo: Anyone d- Arya: Depressed? Rex: Drained? Mina: Dumb? Rippleman: Disliked? Murilo: -done with their work… what is wrong with you people…

[semuji]

A crossover I have been brainrotting about:

⚠️Grammar errors, kind of like a rant?, I want to talk about my thoughts and alternatives, not to stir things up between this two things so bear with me please.

I've just done watching the full gameplay of final fantasy 7 and Sephiroth is making me feel every aspect of emotions I didn't think I would feel about a fictional character. And along with that, I'm getting back on my Frieren addiction, so when I thought about it, Frieren and Sephiroth is kind of similar.

Appearance wise, they looked kind of the same. White grey hair and bright color eyes. Frieren got this emerald light eyes with a somewhat distant aspect in it and Sephiroth with his cat-like pupils in those cyan mako eyes. Clothing, Frieren wore a color of white with some gold and red sprinkled here and there. But Sephiroth is full black and grey, and I think that's a good contrast of the both of them.

Now personality wise, I found them quite interesting. Because to me, both of them had trouble sympathize with people, and somehow they also had trouble communicating with them.

For Frieren, it's due to her nature as an elf, she had lived a long life of at least thousands of years, and she still has a long journey ahead of her. Her perceptive of time is different from humans, and to an extent because of that, she is kind of stoic, aloof and not as ingenious as the people around her (aka Himmel as the presentation).

For Sephiroth, it's because of his childhood, the environment he was born of and grew up with. He's surrounded by people who doesn't care of *who* he become, but about *what* he become. He was raised to be a weapon, not to be a soldier or a human. That's why he appeared distant and mysterious, maybe a bit harsh or rude(?) to some people.

But for both of them, there are still those who care about them, but the difference is that Frieren still has those people, Fern, Eisen, Stark, friends who she had made along the way and the past memories which she clings onto dearly. That's when she learned about how to love, to understand, to appreciate and to have kindness, emotions and feelings. Eventhough it is a long and far process, we can still see the improvement. That's why the people around you are also a piece of you, because they effect you in many different ways.

Sephiroth on the other hand, has none. Yeah, maybe when he was friends with Genesis and Angeal, maybe some other time he is still has friends and companions, he would even offered his life for his friends when they are in danger, but we all know what happened. That left him with nothing. And that nothing has a part of what turned him into the mad Sephiroth we known from other's point of view (mainly Cloud?).

A great difference I found out between them is that Frieren, knows her past. She remembered everything and lives on with it in her head. It's not like those flashbacks in Frieren is useless you know? But Sephiroth, he only lives a lie his whole life, what was his existence means, what is his life even about, why was he born? He never got those answers his whole life, that's why when he found out about his orgin, he was mad. Mad and crazy, a total completely different to his old composed and yet still kind self.

Now, talking about other aspects, I want to talk about their powers. Frieren is known to be great mage, who is in the team of the Hero Himmel that had defeated the Demon King and are greatly praised. And when said about the strongest, Frieren is not exactly the one. She had lost to a whole numbers of at least 11 mages(?). And talking about other things like a warrior or a knight? We haven't counted at all. But when we said about powerful? Frieren is indeed a powerful one. She greatest power is probably her minds, not with her speed, not with her mana. Her knowledge of magic and her experience of thousand years, is her greatest benefit in fights. We didn't even talk about how calculated and wise she is. That's why I deemed Frieren to be a powerful person.

And for Sephiroth, it's easy to know. He is raised to be a weapon after all. If they didn't make him one of the strongest if not the strongest, then why would they even bother with him?

Both of them are overpowered, let's be honest. Up to the anime right now, there are only a number of people who can maybe defeat Frieren, later on in the manga there will be more, but I would like to think Frieren is overpowered.

And then again, talking about their past, both Frieren and Sephiroth, were raised to be a weapon. For Sephiroth, we all know why. Those mad scientists (*glaring at Hojo*) are sure another breed. And for Frieren, it's because of her hatred for demons that killed her whole village. Flamme did a good job on teaching Frieren, but what she taught was only ways to killed and deceived the demons, not how to live and enjoy life, just like a weapon. But Frieren's fate is different, because there is Himmel, there is Heiter, there is Eisen, there is other people around her who taught her how to live in Flamme's place. It's endearing and lovely.

That's why when I think about it, I find myself laughing at the idea of Sephiroth being Frieren's apprentice. I don't know how, or why did I even thought about that, but I feel like it would turn out pretty wholesome and cute, and it might even helped Sephiroth not turning into the person he is now.

Like in Frieren, years passed by and Fern had passed away, she found herself looking at the boy with sliver hair, frantically finding something amongst the corpses of the soldiers. Frieren eventually helped Sephiroth find his necklace and later on took him in as an apprentice (I don't know how so yeah). Which leads to some sequences of Sephiroth sneaking out just to meet Frieren in a small house near the sea and in the vast forest, far away from the city and everything related.

Maybe something like when Sephiroth was young, he is not as tall as he is now (which is 6'7" aka 197cm-ish??), he is only like the same or taller than 2-3 inches (5-7cm) height as Frieren. So when he left for like years for missions and things, Sephiroth barged into the house and Frieren actually jolted with surprise because Sephiroth is somehow taller than the door now.

Or maybe when Sephiroth met Angeal and Genesis, he would brought them with him when they met Frieren. And don't get me started on birthdays presents, the steak would be the best food Sephiroth could found in his whole life cause look at it!!! Would.

With how Frieren interact with Sein and Stark, even with Fern, I think Sephiroth would appreciate and love headpats from Frieren so much btw. Because I believe this man need physical touches love language and don't forget about the words of affirmation, look at how Fern frequently get compliments from Frieren when she shows something good or great in her improvement. I think Sephiroth would be so downbad for compliments and encouragement words from a Master or like, parental figure.

Roughly calculated by people's assumptions, Frieren is 5'3 (153cm?) and Sephiroth as said above, is 6'7" (197cm?). That would makes Frieren is only as tall as Sephiroth's chest and I find that so fucking cute, omg, I would die for them to interact, especially pre-Nibelheim Sephiroth and Frieren.

Please for the sakes of my life, I want them to interact.

(The art is mine, please don't take it elsewhere without credits)

[idontknownothin]

13 books tag game - tagged by @anyboli (thanks!)

1) Last book I read:

I've recently abandoned a couple books without finishing them, so the last book I actually read was Wool by Hugh Howey. It was good! I've heard not everyone loves the sequels so I'm in no hurry to continue the series, but I might someday.

2) A book I recommend:

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker. Such an amazing book, absolutely killer period-piece historical fantasy, it's got a masterless golem finding purpose, it's got immigrant metaphors and literal immigrants, it's got romance, it's got mysteries, it's got baking, it's everything and you should read it.

3) A book that I couldn’t put down:

In recent memory, what comes to mind is Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir. Did you like The Martian? Would you like more of The Martian? Great news, friend. Scratches the same "how do I fix this problem with these limited resources" itch without feeling like a lazy retread of his first book.

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more)

A Closed and Common Orbit by Becky Chambers. Loosely connected sequel to Chambers' The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, this book narrows its cast to focus in on two characters. I've heard some people say Small, Angry Planet was a little too cozy for them, in which case I would recommend they give A Closed and Common Orbit a shot.

5) A book on my TBR

What Feasts at Night by T. Kingfisher. I picked it up on a whim at a bookstore and I'm excited to get to it - I really enjoyed What Moves the Dead.

6) A book I’ve put down

The Blacktongue Thief by Christopher Buehiman. Not a bad book, I enjoyed what I read of it, I just kind of lost interest in the back half.

7) A book on my wish list

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. I don't think it's out in the U.S. yet, but I'll give anything by this guy a shot.

8) A favourite book from childhood

The Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones. Obsessed with this book as a kid, and it still holds up on more recent rereads. Check it out if you haven't already!

9) A book you would give a friend

Sabriel by Garth Nix. This book and its sequels are possibly the most underappreciated fantasy books I can think of. I cannot praise Sabriel, Lirael, and Abhorsen enough. The fandoms for these books should be massive, there should've been a bad movie in the 2000's and a critically acclaimed big-budget streaming show in the 2020's, ComicCons should be brimming with bell bandoliers and glow-in-the-dark charter marks, I don't know why none of this is true but here we are.

10) The most books you own by a single author

That would be my boy Brando Sando. I don't own all his books by a longshot, but I think I have almost 20 of them which makes him the clear winner. Robert Jordan, Garth Nix and Becky Chambers are probably all tied for second place.

11) A nonfiction book you own

I will never, ever pass up an opportunity to talk about How to Invent Everything by Ryan North (the Dinosaur Comics / Squirrel Girl / Got Stuck in a Hole with his Dog guy). Ostensibly a book written in the future for time travelers to use in the event they are stranded in the past, this book walks you through the steps you need to rebuild civilization from the ground up, from farming to animal domestication to basic medicine to smelting, power generation, math, navigation, engineering, chemistry and literally even computer science.

The wildest part? This book is a riot. It is as entertaining as it is interesting. If you only read one non-fiction book for pleasure, make it this one.

12) what are you currently reading

The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson. A near-future climate science geopolitical novel, it's not an easy read and I'm not sure I'll finish it. It is quite good though.

13) what are you planning on reading next?

As mentioned above, probably going to jump into What Feasts at Night when I'm done with Ministry for the Future. It'll be nice to have something short and spooky instead of long, dense and existential!

No pressure tags: @sherpawhale, @melavixen, @analysethisinkblot, @shadowsofselfdoubt and also just anyone who sees this, I would honestly be tickled pink if you did this and let me know!