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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

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Hello my love! ❤️

Another for you, if you’re still taking them, though of course feel free to ignore this for any reason (or even no reason) at all!

I would love to see what you can do with Steddie and James Arthur’s “Car’s Outside”. I feel like this is one Eddie would write for Steve, maybe after an argument..? 👀

I had to look this one up because I’d never heard it before and this is some emotional stuff I wasn’t prepared for but should’ve been when you said maybe after an argument 😭

Touring the country had been his dream for so long that when it became a reality, he forgot what was most important.

It happened to a lot of rockstars.

His reality check came like lightning, fast and sharp.

“I’m just trying to understand, Stevie. You wanted me to do this. You told me to go on the tours and record the albums. You supported me. What changed?”

“You did.”

That was the last thing Steve said to him over a week ago.

All he knew now was that Steve was back in Hawkins staying with Wayne and hadn’t told him much other than he wouldn’t take up too much room for long.

Wayne didn’t tell him anything except that Steve was alive and safe, but didn’t seem to be taking care of himself well.

The first two days, all Eddie felt was anger. He was full of contempt for Steve suddenly changing his mind about Eddie’s life and dreams.

But the third day was when it hit him that Steve left.

He’d avoided everyone after that, only answered the phone in case it was him calling and hanging up if it wasn’t him.

He barely got out of bed, barely ate, didn’t even go into the bedroom converted into a music room to play his guitar.

The next tour was set to start in two weeks and he didn’t think he could go, not like this, not without Steve here waiting for him.

- - - - -

Wayne called the night before he was leaving for the tour, said he needed to come to Hawkins, but wouldn’t say why.

“Are you sick or hurt?”

“No, Ed.”

“…is Steve?”

“Just get here.”

So Eddie did.

He called the guys and told them he would meet them at their first stop in New York in three days, that he had a family emergency and couldn’t travel on the bus with them.

When he got to Hawkins, he felt like turning right around and leaving.

He hadn’t been back in years; Wayne always came to see them for holidays and visits.

Nothing has changed, not even the trailer Wayne insisted on still living in, even when Eddie offered to buy him something nicer.

Steve’s car sat in the driveway next to Wayne’s truck, just like it did before they’d moved to Chicago to try to make Eddie’s dream happen.

Eddie parked next to him, the rental from the airport much cleaner and nicer than anything else around here, but not in a good way.

It clicked suddenly, that Eddie wasn’t the same. That the guy who used to drive a beat up van and live in this trailer and loved Steve so much it felt like a physical ache when he wasn’t around wasn’t here.

He walked up to the door, knocking like this wasn’t his home just five years ago.

Wayne answered, sullen face making his chest tight with worry.

“Where is he?”

“He’s asleep finally. Come on in, son. Have a seat.”

“What happened?”

Wayne sighed.

“He’s been overworking himself and not sleeping or eating, and it finally caught up to him. He’s had a migraine for three days now, longest I’ve seen. Can barely sit up to sip water but begged me not take him to the hospital.”

Eddie’s fists clenched.

“Why wouldn’t he go?”

Wayne blinked at him.

“Son, you’re not an idiot despite the way you’ve been actin’ for a while. Think about it.”

Wayne walked to the kitchen and started packing his lunchbox.

“Where are you going?”

“I got a shift to get to. Steve shouldn’t be alone.”

Eddie stayed on the couch for the next two hours, his brain shifting through thoughts that quickly turned into song lyrics.

He wrote them down, but barely focused on what he was writing. Now wasn’t really a great time to be producing something new.

He heard a groan from his old bedroom and shot up from the couch, making his way to the end of the hall and entering the room without a second thought.

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, body hunched and eyes closed, pain a physical presence through every inch of him.

“Stevie,” Eddie choked out.

Steve’s head shot up. He winced in pain, but the tears in his eyes didn’t seem to have much to do with that as Eddie got closer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wayne called.”

“And?”

“If you need me, I’m gonna be here.”

Steve looked away, his eyes closing as he turned his head.

“That’s not how things have been.”

It hurt, but he was right. It hadn’t been how things have been. Not for a while.

“I know. I…I don’t think sorry is enough for any of it, but I am. I’m sorry. So sorry, Stevie.”

Steve looked at him, the haze of the migraine keeping a lot of emotion off his face.

“Yeah. Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness, and forgiveness wasn’t deserved yet, but it was a start. And when Steve let Eddie get him water and medicine, and play with his hair, it felt like a start.

- - - - -

Eddie had to go.

If he didn’t go, he’d miss the first show of the tour.

He’d be in deep shit, and the guys would hate him, and he would never make music again.

His manager called him every four hours at Wayne’s asking when his flight would be and he always said “when things are right with Steve.”

It started to feel like that might not happen.

But something about the way Steve was slowly letting him in, allowing him to care for him more every day, gave him hope that he could get him back, get them back.

Wayne didn’t say much to him, didn’t have to. The way he watched was enough to know how Wayne felt about him, this situation.

But he didn’t go.

Steve’s migraine was gone, but he still needed Eddie, still needed to see that he was the priority.

Eddie needed to show him that he mattered more than his band, because he did. He always had and always would.

He missed the last flight that would’ve gotten him there on time.

He called the guys to let them know, to apologize, to tell them that he had to do what was best for him.

They understood, but told him their manager was livid and probably would try to replace him instead of postpone the tour.

He didn’t care at this point.

He’d gotten his taste of fame and it was bittersweet.

Steve stood in the doorway when Eddie hung up the phone, watching him with his arms crossed as Eddie covered his face in his hands.

“You’re not going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Eddie dropped his hands and sighed.

“If I have to pick, then I pick you. I’ll always pick you.”

Steve’s brows furrowed.

“You think I want you to pick between me and your career?”

“Yes. That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

Steve shook his head.

“I left because you forgot that I was a choice at all,” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “I left because I didn’t even think you’d care if I did. You didn’t seem to care much about leaving me anymore.”

Eddie’s heart couldn’t possibly break more.

“Sweetheart, of course I care. I’m here because I can’t lose you. If it’s you or the band, then it’s you. Always.”

Steve let out a sob.

“I didn’t want you to choose me instead of your career. I wanted you to recognize that choosing your career didn’t have to mean not choosing me.”

“Oh, my love.”

Eddie pulled Steve against him, holding the back of his head against his chest, other hand running up and down his back slowly.

“You’re always my first choice. I’m sorry I forgot to show you that. I’m sorry you ever had to feel like you weren’t even an option. You’re the most important choice I’ve ever made and I’m going to keep choosing you every day. Even if it means giving up the band. None of that means shit to me if I don’t have you.”

Steve nodded against his chest.

They stayed like that for so long, Wayne came home, nodded and smiled from the doorway of the kitchen.

- - - - -

Steve came with him.

He called his manager the next day, said it was non-negotiable that Steve be with them for this tour.

The band was on his side, of course. They loved Steve and they loved Eddie and the last thing they wanted was to see either of them hurting.

The first time he performed the song he wrote while he was in limbo with Steve, he let the crowd know what was most important in his life.

“Gonna slow it down a bit for this next one. Sometimes this life has some downsides, hard to believe, right? It’s hard to maintain who you are when you’re being pulled in so many directions. But I’m lucky to have someone who keeps me grounded. Leaving them for tour wasn’t an option this time around, and I’m glad they’re here with me. I wrote this a couple weeks ago when we were having a hard time. I wasn’t being the partner they needed, and I wasn’t showing them that they’re the partner I want. I’m not loving you from afar anymore, sweetheart.”

Steve watched from his spot backstage, like he did every night.

He didn’t feel like an option anymore, he felt like the choice.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #headcanon #rockstar eddie munson #angst with a happy ending

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nothingbutnowhere · 8 days

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Paid In Full (18+)

The Apartment Anthology

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Contains: 18+, Unethical and creepy maintenance man!Simon, I don't know how else to put this but he comes on your toys in your shower when he enters your apartment for maintenance, come eating, if I missed anything lmk

It could be worse. Really, the building you live in isn't that old or in disrepair, just out of date. There's only been one thing you've needed to call maintenance for.

Despite this, you see the maintenance guy around a bunch, or at least his truck full of various tools and parts parked outside the buildings. The man himself proves to be elusive and you've only seen him when he came into your apartment to fix the heat. Tall, stoic, and handsome. Polite with his face mask and shoe covers. His eyes glance around your apartment, seemingly bored with the way his eyelids droop. Neither of you attempt small talk while he works and you stand awkwardly across the room. He scribbles down some info about the repair on a carbon copy sheet and tears one off for you, nodding when you thank him. His eyes travel down your body, making your genuine smile fade as you silently wish for him to leave.

It's the time when you don't see him in your apartment that causes an issue.

You're a person who likes to play solo. Regardless of whether or not you're getting laid, there's fun to be had in reveling in your imagination while you masteurbate.

And what better place to play than in the shower? Warm, steamy air, nice and wet and sensitive...

So not one or two, but three toys sit in the corner of your shower, their own little city line of dildo skyscrapers, varying in lengths and thicknesses.

Therein lies the problem. You usually keep them there. And why not? No roommates, the only one in there is you!

Until you're not.

You return to your apartment one day to a pink slip sitting innocently on your bathroom counter. The scribble you can barely make out reads: Ceiling fixed- upstairs bathroom tub leak, with the date and an illegible signature.

Your face drains of blood as you look over and see the open shower curtain.

Without a doubt the maintenance guy saw your toys.

Well it's time to leave the country and change your name and start a new life.

But something catches your eye. You step over to the tub and take a closer look. Lines of white streak the toys, some sort of liquid running down them.

That's- no. There's no way. That can't be come.

Against better judgment you reach out tentatively, pointer finger sliding through the mess, which sticks to you when you pull back.

You look at the slip clenched in your other hand. At the bottom, something is written directly on it in pen:

6pm for payment

Ok first of all that's not how that works, and second of all: fuck. He has a key. And you've seen him before, he's huge and muscular enough he can definitely pull the chain right out of the wall if you used it to keep him out. You're screwed. You're going to have to leave the country, this time for another reason. You should march right down to the rental office and demand to be let out of the lease. You should be grabbing your emergency bag and going to stay with a friend. You should be filing for a fucking restraining order.

But you're frozen, breaths ragged and loud in the enclosed space and your heart pounds in your chest so hard it nearly rattles your ribcage. The- stuff- on your finger is a glossy, milky white. You definitely should not be touching it. But you have to admit that deep down the real come (and not your own) on the toys looks good.

You stick your finger in your mouth.

...

I do NOT consent for my works, part of my works, or my ideas to be used for ANY form of AI.

Part 2

More Simon

So This amazing fic jogged a memory of the maintenance guy seeing my toys in the shower- mortifying btw- so naturally I decided to extrapolate into a fic. Because I'm totally normal!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #my writing #x reader

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 11 months

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AITA for getting my grandfather arrested to prove a point?

My grandfather (70 m) is a functioning alcoholic. Or, he was. He was forced to detox like twice, so get rid of the functioning bit.

Point is, man can't live without his drink.

So; I was helping my grandparents move, when he disappears. Me and my grandmother (65 F) were looking around for him and couldn't find him, but managed to zone in on a firehouse.

Grandfather used to be a firefighter, so if he was lost or confused, we were pretty sure he'd go there.

No Uhaul, but I went in and asked if they had seen him.

They had.

He'd driven in, downed a bottle of "Orange Juice", yelled at them for not being as good as he'd been, and drove off.

They sent someone to follow him in case he was having a medical emergency, because that was weird.

Grandfather drove the Uhaul rental into a ditch.

So the Firefighters walked me into the station and next to the radio thing, whatever it's called, and were all solemn saying that my grandfather was telling them he was having a diabetic episode.

I knew he wasn't.

His go-to was half OJ half vodka, and this motherfucker drank the wholeass thing and was gonna get away with it. Again.

Cuz he did this shit regularly, and always got away with it.

So I told the Firefighters to order the cops to breathalyze him.

Grandfather got to spend the night in the drunk tank.

He also got a sizable fine, and had to get a thing installed in his truck where every set amount of miles he has to blow in it to prove he isn't drunk or it'll ping the authorities or something idk, but like.

It worked.

He never got to drink and drive again.

AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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liz-allyn · 2 years

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sugar and vice, pt 4 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Honey wakes up to a new life.

words: 5.8 k

warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. drugging. threats of violence. coersion. kidnapping. traumatic flashbacks. violence. blood. shameless forced proximity trope. imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions.

you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if your parents aren't harboring a several hundred dollars-worth stash of beanie babies that are worth maybe $1 today, then this is not your jam.

Back to Part 3

Part 4

When her eyes cracked open, she was staring at a chandelier made from antlers. She blinked several times, noticing that the ceiling was different from any of Peter’s other rooms. She was gazing up at a vaulted A-frame ceiling with exposed redwood beams. The peak of the frame opened to a glass wall where sunkissed blue-green needles of giant Eastern white pine trees billowed.

She groggily sat upright, realizing she was nowhere near the familiar Boroughs of the city. Her limbs felt heavy. Once again, she was alone and buried in another heavenly-soft bed. She was in a bedroom, but it featured no personal touches. It could’ve been a hotel room, or a vacation rental.

She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and her bare feet touched the floor. She shuddered at how warm it was. Heated floors. A very, very expensive vacation rental.

Rubbing her dry eyes, she made her way to a closed door. It opened to a loft balcony, which overlooked the living room of a massive, two-story modern cabin. She gawked at the floor-to-ceiling windows, her breath catching in her throat at the splash of greens, yellows, and oranges from the trees lining the house. Beyond the thick treeline, she could see the smoky blue haze of a mountain range in the distance.

She stood dumbstruck, like Dorothy emerging from her tornado-tossed house.

Not in Queens anymore, was all she could think.

“You’re awake,” his voice echoed from the lower level.

She glanced down at Peter, hands in his jean pockets, wearing a thick cable-knit sweater. He looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye, one that made her fret over the state of her bedhead. She felt ridiculous up on the balcony, like someone would start the monologue from Romeo and Juliet.

She bit her lip, pulling her eyes away. No good could come from seeing him as a Romeo. Even if he easily looked the part.

“So...” she began awkwardly, her cheeks flushed by his gaze. “Are we at Disney World or something? Did we check into the Wilderness Lodge?” She studied the rustic-meets-mid-century modern furnishings, idly rubbing the lace sleeves of her blouse. Her leather jacket had been removed and she honestly didn’t know how she felt about that.

“Sorry, Honey,” he said with a soft laugh that made her stomach weak. “No Mouse here. No gators either.”

Her cheeks pinched into a smile, before she remembered how she got there. The previous day’s events— Had it only been a day? How long was she out?— hit her like a truck. Her grin faded as she recalled her kidnapping. Her abduction. Her shameful, subservient soak in a stranger’s bathtub, followed by a dreary, restless slumber in his sheets. She’d been fed and given a good wash, like a stray dog. Dressed in clothes she could never afford. And had been drugged and taken to—

“Where are we?” she sharply questioned, anxiety chilling her tone.

Whatever smile Peter wore faded. “Not in Orlando,” he bit off.

He turned his back to her and crossed the enormous but cozy living room. Returning to his previous task, he crouched down in front of a soapstone, wood-burning stove in the corner of the room. He pulled the logs loose from a small bundle of firewood, and began loading it into the stove’s iron frame.

Frustrated, she huffed, glaring at the back of his head. Wondering what she was supposed to do.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Wherever here is?”

“Well, I’m building a fire,” he gave a haughty reply. “I’ve already tested the fuses, turned everything on, unpacked, changed clothes, and made coffee in the kitchen.”

“So you do know how to make it,” she muttered under her breath, sarcasm dripping from her mouth. It was quiet enough that there was no way he could’ve heard it.

“Lemme know if you want a taste,” he coyly replied, and it made her question whether or not he had.

He hadn’t looked at her when he said it, and she was grateful because the innuendo was making her stomach flip. “I’m good.” She cursed the fact that her voice sounded more like a squeak.

“Well, since you’re wide awake,” he countered, in a teasing way that sounded too much like flirting. “Lemme show you ‘round the house.” He came to a stand, brushing the dirt and wood fibers from his hands. She found herself staring at the way his large palms glided across one another.

It triggered the memory of those hands on her waist as he helped her into the bathtub. As he dressed her wounds. As he cradled her in his arms as he carried her away from her captors. As he cupped her face, wiping away tears, shielding her from the sight of a bloodied man who likely was dead because of her.

A chill went down her spine, her arms hugging herself tighter. “Maybe later,” she frowned, tucking her chin to her chest.

Silence settled for several seconds before she peeked at him from beneath her downturned brows.

He considered her with pursed lips, silently observing. He shoved his hands back in his pockets. She bit her lip, and for a moment, she expected to hear another thinly-veiled insistence.

“Okay,” was his calm reply. It surprised her. “But do me a favor instead. Go put on some hiking boots.”

“Hiking boots? I don’t have any—”

“They’re in the closet of the room you were in,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Grab a coat too. Meet me in the kitchen in five.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strolled away. Once again, she had no room to protest.

When she opened the closet door in the room she assumed was ‘hers,’ she found a decent, walk-in space with rows of clothes hung up. She found a pair of leather hiking boots that looked brand new, in a cubby space next to 18 pairs of other shoes for a variety of occasions and seasons.

Curiously, she checked the size. She was surprised to find that whoever she was borrowing these from had similarly small feet. Looking up, she spotted a lightweight puff jacket— Patagonia, of course— hanging up among the other articles of clothing. With a sigh, she pulled down the coat and checked the size. Another lucky match. She felt odd putting on someone else’s clothes. An uncomfortable thought crossed her mind— how many women had Peter brought to this cabin?

It was a thought she didn’t like.

When she traveled downstairs, fully dressed, she found the kitchen. She could tell he had a particular style, not too far removed from the one in the penthouse she’d observed earlier. A Scandinavian take on rustic. Immaculately organized open shelving. Spotless stainless steel.

Curiously, she opened the fridge. There were a few groceries. Eggs, milk, sliced cheese, lunchmeat, orange and apple juice. It was a lot of empty space save for a few basic condiments in the door. Mustard that had exceeded its “best by” date by several months.

The more she studied the kitchen and its contents, the more information she gathered about the man currently occupying it.

An extravagant house in the mountains with breathtaking views. A kitchen worthy of Thanksgiving Dinner and every holiday celebration of the year.

Barren. Untouched. Lonely.

A few minutes later, Peter approached with the handle of a small cooler in his grip. A backpack thrown over his shoulder. She curled a brow at him.

“Sure you don’t want any coffee before we go?” he asked. “I’ve got a tumbler if you wanna take it to go.”

“Where are we going?” she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile on his face. To her astonishment, he seemed...excited? Like a teenager going on a camping trip.

“Hiking,” he shrugged, like he was keeping a surprise.

She stared at him like he had grown an extra arm.

“You’ll get a chance to break those in,” Peter added, pointing at her shoes. “‘Sides, it’ll be fun.” He reached into his backpack, inspecting the contents, mentally going through a silent checklist. She hadn’t moved a muscle when he looked back up at her.

“We outta get goin,’” he explained, disagreeing with her lack of hustle. “Sun’ll set in a few hours.”

She stared. Unnerved. Swallowed hard. She picked up her boot slowly, as if it was lined with concrete.

He started shuffling towards the door, before pausing and turning back to her. “Oh, one more thing,” he added. He locked eyes with her, smile never fading. “Lose the knife.”

She blinked. Her heart skipped. He watched her, eyes piercing like a hawk.

“Y’know,” he nodded nonchalantly, “the one you took from the butcher’s block?”

Her pulse started racing as she gazed blankly at him, rendered motionless. He jerked his head towards the butcher’s block on the counter, acknowledging that he noticed one of the knives was missing.

With wide guilty eyes, she glanced at the block, then back at him.

“Go on. Put it back.”

She felt like he was staring at her forever. Every second that passed, his eyes got darker. More challenging. More dangerous.

Eyes on the ground, she crept slowly back to the block on the counter. Pulling up her shirt, she retrieved the 8-inch steel butcher’s knife tucked in the waist of her jeans. She slid it back in its proper place, then turned towards him. Trepidatiously, she lifted her eyes off the ground. Peeking up at him, afraid of his wrath.

What she found was his eyes locked on her, a satisfied little smirk on his lips. He gazed at her with an expression that was either affectionate or amused. Either way, he made it clear that she was practically powerless in this situation. She posed no threat.

“Good girl,” he appraised, before turning and heading out of the kitchen door. “Follow me.”

The hike through the woods was quiet, but not tense. At least not on his part. Peter led her on a path through a thick grove of trees. She was still shaken by being confronted about the knife. It was obviously a shock to her, but not to him. She couldn’t know that his observation skills were sharpened by years of people trying to stab him in the back, and not just metaphorically.

The trail was solid with only a few patches of mud. Luckily, the weather had been ideal for his plans. It wasn’t wet, or too terribly cold, especially with the sun positioned where it was. The increased blood circulation from the gradual upward climb helped. There was snow in the forecast but it wouldn’t start until tomorrow morning. They were lucky enough to enjoy one of the last days of fall before the winter would sink its teeth in.

Luck was not something he was used to, but he always seemed to find it with her.

Peter felt his own heart begin to beat faster, but not due to physical exertion. He dragged his hand through his hair. His palms were sweaty. They were getting close.

“Almost there,” he announced, trying to maintain his cool. Or whatever it was he was pretending to be. Many awkward years as a teen and even more awkward conversations with women proved that he was anything but cool. He’d always been a nervous wreck. It was pure luck that he’d undergone the changes in life to be able to talk to a girl, let alone have the confidence to ask them on a date.

And here he was again, feeling like he did in high school. He didn’t really know what he was saying, probably didn’t make any sense, and had no idea how to ask such a pretty girl whatever it was he was asking.

His lack of practice was showing. It had been a long time since he felt this way about anyone.

Not since—

“Are you taking me out to the woods to kill me?” his Honey blurted out.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to her with an incredulous stare.

She stood several feet from him, ramrod straight, shoulders tense.

“Really?” he breathed. More confused than offended. “That’s what you got outta this?”

She shrugged her shoulders, with that adorable anxious look on her face—the one she’d make when the wheels in her brain were spinning, and her mouth was moving a mile a minute, and all he could do was be hypnotized by the way her lips moved. “I mean... you’re you,” she softly replied, in her defense. “What else am I supposed to think?”

He pursed his lips. The sting of her words seized his throat.

'You’re you.' He considered her meaning, heart sinking. A monster, she intended to say. He couldn’t keep the sorrow from filling his eyes and her expression changed. She looked apologetic.

It made him feel even worse. She was apologizing to him. He swallowed hard.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said sincerely. He held his chin a bit higher, and she considered his truthfulness. He turned back towards the path. “C’mon.”

Quietly, she followed.

A couple of minutes later, they arrived at a clearing next to a huge flat rock. It was from an elevated vantage point that offered a beautiful view of the valley through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the vista. With ease, he scaled the rock, setting down his backpack and the cooler.

She watched him curiously as he pulled a blanket from the backpack and began laying it out on the solid surface. Once it was flat, he began pulling items out of the cooler. She heard the rustling of plastic, staring up at him curiously. He came to a stand and leapt down to her level with surprising agility. He extended his hand to her.

“C’mon,” he beckoned. “I’ll help you up.”

His Honey hesitated, as she always did, looking up at the rock, then back at him. His smile began to falter, worrying that she would refuse. She had no reason to trust him, after all. But slowly, she took his hand. He smiled, feeling his heart soar.

He clenched her body to his, wrapping one arm around her waist. He used the hand to quickly scale up the rock again, in a move so quick and effortless it made her think he was a professional rock climber. Or a mountain goat.

He held onto her tightly when they were at the top of the rock. Like the night before in his bathroom, he found himself not wanting to let go. He stared down at her bright, beautiful eyes—soft, gentle, timid— and breathed in her air. The scent of his body wash on her skin. Mingling together in an aroma that made his heart flutter.

Sheepishly, she glanced away, not able to withstand the heat of his gaze. As if remembering what planet he was on, Peter released his grip and let her stand on her own. She looked down curiously, her eyes widening to the sight at her feet.

Peter had laid out a picnic blanket and a delicious-looking spread complete with sandwiches, fresh fruit, cookies, charcuterie, and empty champagne flutes. The small gasp she let out as she observed the meal made his stomach flip. He was excited and terrified—not sure himself how she would react to his attempted olive branch.

She blinked up at him, astonished.

He felt his tongue go dry as he stammered anxiously. “I, uh... thought we could have a late lunch?” She stared, stunned and silent. “Um,” Peter felt his fingers begin to twitch. He glanced around the space, swallowing hard. “Um, p-please... Sit.” He lowered himself onto the picnic blanket, crossing his legs like a kid. Slowly and hesitantly, she followed, mirroring his position.

He beamed at the gesture. He turned his attention back to the spread. “So, yeah—um, we got sandwiches. Uh, I did turkey, cheese, with tomato, I... I-I sorta forgot the lettuce. We can still get some though. Tomorrow, not now. Because... yeah.”

She gazed at him, her expression softening as he stumbled his way through the menu.

“Some other stuff here—crackers, salami, this sliced cheese I got at a Middle Eastern grocery. I don’t think there’s anything regionally specific about the cheese, though. I think it’s just cheddar and gouda...”

He worked to hide his flustered blush. She looked up at him with a soft gaze. He hoped she found it endearing, maybe even charming—and not like he was a dork. Which is how he felt.

He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Um, cookies—The good kind with the chocolate chip chunks that are really big. There’s also some raisin cookies because I accidentally grabbed them from a place thinkin’ they were chocolate chip, and then I got the chocolate chip cookies, but I had these oatmeal raisin ones, and nobody likes those when you think you’re getting chocolate chip, but maybe if... you had them... in addition to chocolate—”

He cleared his throat. Pictured the way his last serious girlfriend would grin at him when he was babbling. He relished the memory, and glanced up. She looked different. Not just in the obvious way, but not in a bad way. Her expression wasn’t judgmental, or annoyed, and she didn’t make him feel like a dork. She stared at him in silent astonishment, almost like she was marveling at him. Almost like he was worthy of her.

It made his heart flutter. “Anyway... uh... you can have whatever you want, um... I...” He swallowed hard. “Um, there’re also grapes. And, uh—” He glanced down into the cooler, his smile falling. “Shit,” he quietly muttered. “Damn it.”

“What is it?”

“The champagne,” he huffed in defeat, frustrated with himself. “I forgot the goddamn champagne.”

“Oh,” Honey said, gently. “It’s okay.”

He ran his palms down his face. “Nah, s’not okay—”

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine,” he groaned. “I didn’t bring anything else to drink. I-I didn’t think—”

“This is—this is great,” she emphatically replied, trying to ease the pain of his embarrassment. It was another one of her kindnesses toward him.

“No, no, no, it’s—look, I got it.” He hopped to his feet and it made her nervously stretch her arms, as if she could somehow catch him if he slipped off the rock. “Don’t worry, I-I-I got it. It’s... it’s right back at the house, I can run back real quick—”

“Seriously?” she replied. “It’s... it’s way back there? I mean, you don’t have to! I promise, I'm not even thirsty. Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“No, no, no, I already laid everything out. The food’s out. It’ll just take me 2 minutes. You should dig in.”

“Wha-what? Are you sure? I can wait for you.”

“Have a cookie,” he pleaded, filled with a nervous energy that had him scurrying down the rockface. “Don’t worry, just 2 minutes. Less than! I’m gone. Already gone. Be right back!”

He took off in a frenetic jog, disappearing from her sight. She watched him, curious and confused at how he’d be able to cut down a 10-minute hike into just two.

Honey glanced back down at the appetizing spread and the thought and care that went into each detail. When did he even have time to do this? She picked at a sandwich that was cut into an elegant triangle and wrapped with cellophane. Examined it.

Then, it hit her. She glanced back at the trail, eyes wide. Peter was nowhere in sight.

He was surprised at how fast he could move through the woods, almost as quickly as he could navigate through skyscrapers. His mind was still churning over the picnic, scolding himself for forgetting something so pivotal. He grumbled about his forgetfulness, and about the awkward dissertation he decided to give about the cookies. He also neglected to bring anything else to drink. He should’ve remembered the moment she turned down coffee back at the kitchen—

He froze, dropping to the ground from the canopy. Both feet hit the dirt with a soft thud. His stomach plummeted even further.

He glanced back at the trail behind him. Where he had left his Honey.

Where minutes ago she’d questioned whether he was plotting to murder her, a thought so obscene it made him sick to his stomach.

And just a few hours before that, he’d drugged her and brought her to a location so secluded she wouldn’t even know what state she was in, not having seen a license plate.

He’d left her. Alone.

“Mother Hubbard!” he growled.

What a fucking idiot. A lovesick, bumbling dork.

At once his senses shifted into overdrive. Panic rising within him. An urgency overtook him, like a scream crawling up his throat. He was hurtling back through the air, cursing himself as he broke his body on every branch along the way.

By the time he approached the rock, he landed hard enough to crack the surface. His fears were confirmed. The picnic blanket was abandoned. The young woman was nowhere in sight.

“No, no, no, no, no…” he babbled to himself, pulling at his hair as he scanned the clearing desperately. “Honey!” His voice boomed, a crack of thunder wrapped in frustration and fury.

No reply. Not that he should expect one.

He shouldn’t expect anything.

He shouldn't expect to see her ever again—not alive, anyway.

His stomach lurched. The next time he would see her face, she’d be beaten beyond recognition. Her skull and body broken on the fists of Wilson Fisk, her blood staining the cuffs of one of his dress shirts.

“Honey!”

His second shout came out with more desperation. Breaths exploding in short bursts. The trees were spinning. His heart threatened to break out of his chest. It felt like it already had.

He dashed down the trail, eyes scouring the landscape. Senses were hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig. It was too much information to take in at once.

She was gone, and he wouldn’t find her again until it was too late. Why would he think she’d stay put? Why would he think she’d stay with him a moment longer than she had to? He had her, and he lost her.

She was gone.

—stay with me, Gwen, please—

“Honey!” he screamed with a flayed voice—shrill, broken, terrified.

She had been terrified. Shaking like a leaf when he’d found her on the freezing concrete of the auto body shop. Scared of what had happened and what could happen. Scared of what Fisk’s men would do to her. Scared of what Peter would do to her.

Peter Parker, the monster.

He was trembling. He was about to cry—when had he started to cry what a fuckin’ loser— as he stared at the soft dirt and crushed leaves of the path he was on— Gwen’s broken body, spine smashed to pieces, blood spilling from her nose and eye sockets, about to be interred in the soil—searching desperately for footprints...

Katzenberg had been terrified, sputtering petty excuses through bloody lips. Half-dead, incoherent pleas. Desperate in a futile attempt to save his own life.

“It was nothin’ personal, I swear it.. I-I... It was all Kingpin’s idea—takin’ pictures... I-I-I’m not even into that sick stuff... It’s disgusting, what he wan’ed... Can’t even watch it on the internet, I gotta kid sista, y’know...”

Peter dug his nails into his palms.

Honey had been terrified.

Gwen had been terrified.

Ben had been terrified.

May had been terrified.

He was terrified. He knew Wilson Fisk and what he was capable of. Peter had seen with his own eyes the victims of Kingpin’s wrath. The gender made no difference. He left bodies destroyed.

He was going to be sick. In a fit of panic, terror and rage, he started stalking down the path, roaring out her given name.

“Your hands, Nicky,” Peter sneered as he approached his terrified captive. He was sobbing over his gag, fat tears, snot and blood streaking his face. “You put hands on a woman for the last time...”

Peter gripped the hammer tight, brought it down onto Katzenberg’s knuckles. Then he did it again. And again. And again. One for each knuckle. One for the gash on his Honey’s forehead. Eventually, he quit counting.

Peter was cupping his face, nearly dropping to his knees in the dirt. The sun would set soon. It would be dark, how would he find her in the dark? He could barely breathe. Deep breaths.

“People are so lame sometimes,” Honey gave Peter this weird little face, like she was saying ‘bleh’ and gagging simultaneously. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

They had been in one of those rare, magical moments where it was an odd hour of day and the shop was empty save for the two of them. It felt selfish, having her all to himself. Indulgent. It was an indulgence that made his mouth water.

Bright-eyed, body poised like a ballerina, she craftfully poured foam into his cup. He fell under her spell. The aroma of coffee and lavender flowed through his senses, and he felt himself relaxing as he sank deeper. Taken by the current. Longing to dive into her magic.

“Ugh, it’s the worst,” she said. Even her complaints were done with a smile. “Things get a little crazy in here—like that one time during the marathon when the street was closed down so the crowd could watch so we were just friggin’ blitzed, like DEFCON 1, and it was the Rock’n’Roll one, and y’know we’ve got that drag queen revue across the street, too—super fun by the way if you haven’t gone yet—but they constructed a stage on the street with like 100 giant speakers so that one of the queens could perform as the runners went by, and they turned the volume way up and everyone kept piling in here wanting coffee. Meanwhile I can’t hear any orders because Cher is belting it out.”

She giggled and the sound alone could break his heart. “S’anyway, that’s not the point—When it gets all crazy train in here, I just hafta close my eyes and think to myself ‘deep breaths.’ In and out.”

He took a deep breath, pulling his hands from his face. Inhaled the chilly air. Breathed in the scent of wet leaves and pine and the memory of coffee and lavender.

In and out.

In his mind, she was staring at him. Giving him that look that hurt to look at. Like staring at the sun. Burned his eyes and his soul.

He’d take that image home with him, wired from the excessive amount of caffeine, and think about it when things were too overwhelming. Whenever he felt his anger building. Or when he was showering off his sins for the day and he’d let his hand wander to the part of him that burned the most for her.

In and out. Breathe. Listen.

He felt the tingle crawl up his spine. Then he heard it: a twig snap.

Before he could see it with his eyes, the picture was in his head. He bolted in its direction just as a crack rang out overhead.

Honey was falling. She let out a squeaky shriek that Peter never wanted to hear. She was plummeting, her eyes staring up at the tree canopy. She was falling to earth from her hiding place in the tree above their picnic spot.

The solid rock beneath her rushed up.

Impact. And another.

Peter gripped her body close to his chest, his arms wrapped around her like serpents. He’d snatched her from her free fall, catching her in midair and landing with a heavy thud. Chest heaving, his eyes shot to her face, searching for blood.

Her eyes fluttered wildly, disoriented from her near-fatal fight with gravity. She sucked in breath, heaving in a gasp. Gently, he lowered her to the ground, dropping to his knees. It’s like his brain lagged behind his eyesight. The fierce sound of her pounding heart released him from his terror-striken state.

When she made eye contact with him, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, tears welling with relief. They stayed like that for a moment—he kneeled while he cradled her, fingers trembling against her skin. He searched her eyes—you stay with me—listening to the song of her pulse.

Her hand lay limply in the dirt beneath her. Fingers brushed the sharp rough face of a softball-sized sandstone. She gazed up at him, blind instinct taking over, and slammed the rock into the side of his head.

He tumbled to the side, releasing his grip immediately. She hesitated, glancing back at her devastating hit—both shocked and horrified at her own actions. Then the panic set in. She flipped around and scrambled to her feet. She pumped her legs, running as fast as she could down the dirt trail away from her captor.

Suddenly, her feet were pulled out from underneath her. She came flying down, chest slamming into the dirt. She coughed as the air expelled from her lungs, tears filling her eyes from the shock. Reflexively, her legs were still moving, almost like a cartoon character.

No! No! No, please, no! She was unsure if her screams were in her head or if she actually recognized the sound of her own disembodied voice. Kicking her legs, confused and frustrated as it seemed they were bound in some sort of stringy—what the heck is this stuff?—material that wrapped around her legs like snakes. She kicked wildly to no avail, like her legs were tangled in blankets made of glue. She reached down, trying to free herself, snatching her hand back when she felt how sticky her binds were.

A shadow fell over her. Peter’s silhouette stood tall, back against the setting sun, as he glared down. Blood trickled from the temple near his ear. Eyes blackened with rage.

The sound she made was barely human, a pathetic yelp, as he snatched up her body and yanked her into his grip. Her legs were useless, so she used fingers, fists, palms, nails—anything to get him to release her. His hold was iron around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

He marched down the path with her writhing desperately on his shoulder. A mix of blubbering sobs—please, nonono, please, somebody help me, please help!— and savage scratching. When she was able to angle her arm and drive her elbow in the back of his head, he whipped her body around to his front. The ease at which he tossed her made her feel infantile in comparison. A muzzled, declawed feral kitten, whom he could easily toss off a bridge into a river.

He was going to kill her. She knew it. She had screwed up badly, and now he was going to kill her. Her fight wore down, the overwhelming exhausting sorrow bearing down on her, and soon she was a weeping mess of desperate pleas. He said nothing, paused for nothing, and gave her no inclination of what was next. The way he gripped her prevented her from being able to see how infuriated he was, but she felt it in his muscles. Like osmosis his fury seemed into her and it made her shudder.

There would be pain, she thought. She was certain. Her mind flashed back to his victim in the chair and her imagination pictured what he must look like right now. She imagined a torso floating in the East River, picked apart by fish. Head and arms buried somewhere nearby in concrete.

She screamed, terrified. Begging desperately that someone could hear her. Praying for salvation.

Sooner than she thought, he had kicked open the kitchen door and was carrying her through the living room.

She could barely breathe through her sobs. “Please, please, don’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry s-so sorry, please, don’t do this—”

He marched up the staircase and turned down the balcony to the bedroom she had woken up in. As he passed the threshold her fight came roaring back.

“No, stop! Please, please stop! No don’—I won’t run away, I promise—!”

He threw her, and her body was flying backwards. Landing hard against the mattress. The force of it silenced her for a moment as she struggled to catch her breath. Like a lion, he was on her. On top of her. His hands caught hers as she came up defensively to hit him. Wordless and possessed, he dragged her up to the headboard, his weight smothering her.

She wailed incoherently—Please don’t do this, I'm sorry, please— and was silenced by a sharp thwip. Her wrists flew to either side of her head, covered in the sticky gunk that restrained her legs. The sensation stunned her. Her body went rigid as he straddled her hips, pinning her hips down with his weight while her hands were unmovable at the sides of her head.

His eyes were the color of ink. The darkness in them threatened to swallow her. She went still, save for the uncontrollable heaving of her chest, as she peered up at his nightmare-stare with horror.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he glowered and hissed through his teeth. Her fear beckoned her to look away, but he gripped her jaw tight. Forcing her gaze into his. Pupils blown, blood trailing down his cheek like motor oil, he glared at her. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

It was more than a threat. It was a promise. She knew it. Her heart seized in her throat. She cowered beneath him, trembling and pliant. Silent as a mouse.

“And I swear to god—on my mother’s soul,” he breathed through his mouth, speaking so quietly it was nearly a whisper. “If you ever pull that shit again... I will.”

It was a horrible look he gave her after that. Chilling, to say the least. Something so intimately livid. It bordered on obscene. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching his body leer over hers threateningly. It wouldn’t surprise her if he reached up and snapped her neck. She was expecting it.

But he released her chin, withdrawing himself. His footsteps pounded like a hammer as he marched across the hardwood floor. The heavy door slammed, shaking the top story of the house.

With a trembling chin, she gazed up through wet eyes at the ceiling. At dust-covered antlers suspended by chains, swaying in the gentle draft.

The sound she heard outside of her room was almost inhuman. A bellowing roar. It frightened her—of every fuckin’ little thing, always so frightened, scared of your own shadow, when would she going to be done being so scared all the time?—and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She wept as quietly as she could until sleep overtook her.

Continue to Part 5

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emergencyfleetsolutions · 3 months

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delopsia · 1 year

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what remains of wabang | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 6,900 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB Reader, the plot is inspired by a bizarre nightmare I had. A fumbled proposal. This could count as a dystopian AU, depending on how you interpret it (it wasn't intended). Unprotected sex (with lots of feelings!), reader comes untouched, cunnilingus. One (1) mention of the reader owning/wearing a babydoll. Royal has passed a 'gift' on to his sons. Brief Summary: Two months after Rhett mysteriously went missing, he appears from nowhere to ask you to run away with him. You don't expect to see what havoc BY9 has wreaked upon Wabang. Nor do you expect to learn new things about your cowboy.

This old trashcan couldn't be any louder.

Plastic wheels grind against the pavement, the echoes of it bouncing off the walls of identical homes. Alerting everyone on this street of the fact that you're once again taking the trash out at eleven o'clock at night. It's strange, being this close to other houses; you've grown so accustomed to your rental home in the outskirts of Wabang that you now struggle to adjust to the customs of neighborhood life. All of you packed into the same microscopic homes, like a bunch of sardines.

Temporary homes, they'd said, in the emergency evacuation notice. Meant to last no longer than a week, just long enough for them to clean up the nondescript biohazard spilled into Wabang.

But the trash runs bi-weekly, and this is the third time you've brought the can out to the curb.

Yet, when you let go of the container, ready to walk back into the shoddily constructed building you're supposed to call home, there's a rumbling that doesn't quite stop. A distant sound that seems to grow louder the longer you stand here. Sounds like a truck, but the street suffers a significant lack of headlights. You squint. Fighting to see what lurks down the dark street, unlit and empty.

It's a truck.

Too small to be anything modern, its headlights shut off as it slowly creeps down the street. Intent on not being seen, like the driver is afraid of drawing even the slightest bit of attention to themselves. And so far, they seem to be doing a great job of it. If anyone had noticed, BY9 trucks would be swarming the area by now.

Your shoes scrape against the concrete driveway as you stumble away from the road, ready to get inside before the truck crawls past your home but unable to look away from it for even a second.

It stops just short of your mailbox. Engine dying as the door opens.

A figure steps out. Dark. Still.

You bolt at the same time it does.

Racing for your half-open front door. Feet pounding against the ground as you all but tear past the crudely placed bushes by your sidewalk. Throat tight. Mouth open but can't make a single noise. Who is this? Who is this? Who is this?

"Wait!"

You know that voice.

That figure doesn't slow down as he all but hurtles toward you. Shoes skid against the dirt as frenzied feet try to stop. His body slamming into yours. A runaway train that's gone off the rails. The arms that wrap around you are the only reason you don't fall.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," words frantically uttered into the crook of your neck. Words spoken by a voice you thought you'd never hear again.

"Rhett?" Asking it feels like a dream. A sick fantasy played upon you by your own imagination. But your arms are wrapping around a firm torso, just as warm and alive as you remember. The labored breath tickling your skin feels too real to be a trick.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as you try to speak again, struggling to so much as lift it. "Rhett, where have you been?" And even though you're asking it, you're not sure if it's really him. "It's been two..." He smells exactly how you remember, something airy and crisp, maybe a little bit sweet, like the autumn breeze. "You've been missing."

"I know, I'm so sorry," Rhett's pulling away, and you're already clinging to him. Unwilling to let more than an inch of space between your bodies. Nose to nose. So close that maybe you'll be able to keep him from disappearing again. God, those eyes. You've missed those eyes. "Please just, please, I don't—please, I don't have time to explain."

He's so worked up and all over the place that you can't follow. Palms trembling against your cheeks. Eyes so wide that you almost see nothing but the whites of them. Where has he been? Why is he so nervous?

You've never seen him like this.

"I have an apartment, and I have a job at a ranch, and I want, I want," voice wavering as he pauses to push your foreheads together, "I want you to come with me."

"Rhett, what are you—"

"I never meant to leave you behind," he's still talking. Speaking so quickly, you can't keep up. Body shuddering against yours. "I promise I was comin' to get you the night I left, but then those people started followin' me and, and, and, I'll explain it all if you come with me."

You don't...

You don't understand. People chasing him? A job? An apartment? Why didn't he come back sooner? What people is he talking about? You don't even know if you're hearing him correctly. If this is even real. There's no way this is real.

Headlights pierce through the dark. Attached to the front of a white Chevy Tahoe, bearing a familiar triangular logo on its side. BY9. Belongs to the mining group that put you all here in the first place.

Rhett's tugging on your arms. Downright drags you down behind the bushes. Crouching. Barely concealed from the view of the officer driving the vehicle as it rolls past. Eerily slow. Looking for something.

Or someone.

"Please. I can't...I can't leave you here," Rhett whispers, and you don't know if that's his heart pounding like a drum or if it's yours. A loud thump, thump, thump in your ears. So loud you're surprised the patrol officer doesn't hear it. "You're not safe here."

You don't know where he's been for the past two months. Don't know what triggered him to leave in the first place. Or why he's come back now, in the dead of the night, without warning or notice. Does this have something to do with the interview BY9 had with you right as you were moved into this temporary residence? All those questions about Rhett...were they ever meant to help you find your missing cowboy?

So many thoughts fluttering about your head. But as you watch that cruiser stalk past your driveway, and you feel Rhett tremble against you, something clicks. Your confused mind made up in an instant.

"Alright," and as soon as that vehicle is out of sight, you're rushing toward your front door.

The hinges squeal as you rush past. Snatching your blanket from the couch, on your way to the tiny excuse of a bedroom you've been given. Rhett's boots thump behind you. Spurs chiming with every step.

"You're already packed?" He's hardly stumbled into your bedroom before you're shoving one of your two suitcases toward him. The wheels rumbling across the cheap linoleum, catching on the planks that are already beginning to curl up from the ground.

"Correction, I never unpacked," you're scrambling, shoving your few belongings back into your open bag; a toothbrush, blanket, a stuffed cow Rhett bought you for your first anniversary, "We were only supposed to be here for a week."

Never did you expect him to sling that heavy suitcase over his shoulder. Bicep bulging under the weight. Knuckles white as his fingers cling to the handle. "You let 'em move y'here?" Hearing that low drawl doesn't feel real.

Reaching out and squeezing his wrist doesn't feel real, either.

"We had no choice," you mutter under your breath, almost mindless as you let him take you by the hand, guiding you back to the front door. Through an unfamiliar hallway and past a bathroom you know you've spent time inside but have little recollection of. "They issued an evacuation order and sent us all here."

Evacuation for what you're not quite sure. The paper had claimed it was a biohazard, but if it was so serious, then how did they have the time to build these miniature homes? An answer doesn't come, too distracted by Rhett leading you through the yard, shoving your suitcases into the bed of his truck.

At the end of the street, a pair of blinding headlights flicker on. Siren wailing to life.

"Shit." And Rhett doesn't need to say anything further.

You don't understand why you're scrambling for the passenger door. Hands missing the handle on the first try. Barely clawing it open on the second. All but falling into the truck, door slamming behind you. The engine roars to life. A deep rumbling that you can hardly hear over the squealing siren. Red and blue flashing from the roof of a BY9 SUV.

Rhett's hat flies off the dash as the truck lurches forward. His hands flying across the steering wheel. Rolling up into the neighbor's yard as he turns. Front bumper slamming into the corner of a mailbox.

A second pair of lights appear on your right. A sleeping car awakening. Another on the left. Then another. And another. The street alight with white, red, and blue. Sirens screaming. A sea of color that chase you down. Hot on Rhett's squealing tires as he veers to the right. Barely clinging to the pavement.

"Rhett, what's going on?" You squeak. Bouncing in the passenger seat. Scrambling for purchase on something. Anything. Your suitcases audibly slam into the side of his truck bed as he swings to the left. Narrowly avoids hitting the front end of a Wabang police cruiser. "Rhett?"

"I don't know," his voice shivers through clenched teeth. Frantic eyes bouncing between the road and the mirrors. Back and forth. Up and down. Never still for more than a second at a time. "All I know is that they ain't gettin' you and me."

Your seat belt tightens as he hits the brakes. Tires smoking as the old GMC careens to the left. Barreling down a one-way street. In the wrong direction. Blowing past the barrier arm that tries to block your path. Wood splintering. Too flimsy to stop Rhett from tearing out of this copy-paste neighborhood. Fleeing back to the safety of familiar Wabang streets.

Streets that you don't recognize.

You know there should be a little white farmhouse off to your right. Nestled next to a towering Oak tree that serves as home to a small wooden swing, and the lawn littered with children's toys. But now, all you find is a parking lot. Opening up to a sea of drill rigs. Swinging up and down.

God, they're everywhere.

"They found somethin' on our land," Rhett's saying. As if he can see the questions fluttering through your head. "Whatever it is, they're rippin' the whole town apart to drill for it."

Wabang isn't your hometown. Not by a long shot. But the sight before you has your heart twisting in your chest. That old, fairytale small town no longer exists. Those old family ranches were bulldozed weeks ago. Historical buildings and small mom-and-pop shops reduced to empty land, fodder for newly built drill rigs.

All that remains of Wabang are the streets.

Light appears in the distance. A tiny speck that splits into two. Three. Four. Five. Until all you see is blinding white. An army of vehicles speeding toward you. A flurry of red and blue flickering. A clash of voices echoes over PA systems. Orderings to stop the truck. Pull over. Surrender. We mean you no harm.

Rhett jerks the wheel to the right. Jumping the ditch and tearing straight into an open field. A small farm once stood here, but not anymore. Nothing but flat land that this old truck tears through like it's nothing. Bouncing you in your seat. Luggage slamming into the sides of his truck bed, leaving a myriad of dents in their wake.

"I hope you planned for this," yelping as you cling to the seat. Fighting to stay put.

Rhett's right-hand rises up from the wheel. Making a fist. You can almost swear that you see something move in the distance.

The truck hits a bump. Wheel jerking out from his grip. Forcing him to scramble with both hands. Forearms flexing as he forces the truck back in the right direction. "I did."

But you're running out of drivable land. A thick collection of trees drawing closer and closer. Too closely packed for his truck to fit between. He makes a fist again. So tight his hand turns white.

The trees warp.

Twisting in a circle, like a cloth spun from the center. Wrinkling and blending into a plume of blackened dust, sparkling as it dances past the truck. A bunch of tiny stars that lead to a deep, dark abyss. Towering before you, circular, like a tear in the seams of your reality.

Rhett drives straight through it.

Like a door, the hole spits you out into another field. Empty and dark. Devoid of any other vehicle but your own. The only light coming from Rhett's busted headlights and a lone street lamp, not too far away.

As you look over your shoulder, the hole closes. That cloth untwisting, returning the land to its former, peaceful glory. In an instant, those daunting lights are gone. Whisked away by the black smoke that twirls up into the night sky.

Maybe now is a good time to take a drug test because there is no way that just happened.

But the squeal of Rhett's brakes sound real, the vehicle slowing to a complete stop. Rhett's chest heaving is heaving, sweat rolling down his forehead and past reddened cheeks, as if he's just run a marathon. And that looks pretty real, too.

"I ain't pinchin' ya," he breathes, the corner of his lip quirking upward as he says it.

And that's exactly what he would say after such an event.

It takes you a moment to find your voice. "What the hell just happened?" Comes out as nothing but a croak, your throat far too dry to produce anything more.

Rhett's head shakes back and forth. Like he doesn't have an answer himself, "the folks chasin' us or the whole...hole thing?"

"Is both an option?"

That gets a smile out of him, lazily sprawling across his scruffy face. The first one you've seen in months. Hand leaving the steering wheel, reaching out to squeeze your knee. You reach down, curling your hand overtop of his, fingers slotting together.

"I think it's 'cause of somethin' related to my family," he says, after a moment, his gaze locked on your hands, "After them BY9 folks took the land, they came knockin' at our door. Took Dad...came back for Ma 'n Perry a couple hours later, sayin' somethin' 'bout how we all had a gift."

You suppose you can infer what that gift could be. "They didn't come for you?"

The hand on your knee squeezes a little tighter, making sure you're still here, "Ma told 'em I wasn't home, 'n one of 'em said they'd come back for me later." His tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek. Pushing back and forth, thinking. "I grabbed a bag 'n went lookin' for you...figured I'd ask to hide with you for a bit."

In the back of your head, you can't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd gotten the chance to hide in your home. Would they have taken you too? Would they have even known Rhett would be hiding from you?

"But then they started trailin' me," his index finger twitches against yours as he continues, "I got frustrated 'cause they wouldn't let me on your street...next thing I know, I'm goin' through a hole."

You catch yourself glancing up at the rearview mirror. Searching for any instance of the hole you just drove through, almost expecting it to still be there. But all you find is an unfamiliar pasture and a lamp post. "Where did it take you?"

"South fuckin' Dakota."

Your eyes might pop out of your head. "We're in South Dakota?"

His sheepish grin is the biggest 'yes' you've ever received in your life.

Rhett's definition of an apartment is very different from your definition of one.

When he'd said it, you pictured a small place, one bedroom, one bath, tucked into a housing complex that served as home to more people than you could ever count. A laundromat in the basement and a slightly too big parking lot with more spaces than there are tenants.

But this isn't that at all.

No, it's a bite-sized cabin tucked away in the forest. A little worse for wear, part of the railing on the porch could use replacing, and the door doesn't want to shut at first, but it's more than you could have imagined. With a tiny kitchen and an even tinier living space attached, nothing but a thrifted couch, a plaid blanket, and a television, he found on clearance.

"You got this all together in two months?" You ask, reaching out to brush your fingers against brown plaid curtains, unsurprised to find them here. You've yet to see his bedroom, but you can already imagine his comforter must bear a similar pattern and color.

"Yeah," Rhett's scratching the back of his neck. "I know it ain't much, but..."

"It's perfect," words delivered a little too quickly, not letting him finish that sentence.

His eyelashes flutter; surprised. "Yeah?" Smiling as he speaks, big and dopey, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with it. A touch proud of what he's built here. His socked feet thump across the floor, eager to minimize the space between the two of you. Big palms settling on your hips, smoothing up your sides, drawing you in.

When you daydreamed about him coming home, you'd always imagined that you'd throw yourself into his arms. Cling to him and never, ever let go again. But it's been well over an hour and a half since he raced down your driveway, and you're terrified to lift your arms and wrap them around his waist.

Because maybe this is just that. A daydream. A trick of the mind that will end when you pull him close to you, disappearing into a misty dreaminess that throws rocks at your glass heart.

"I'm so sorry I left you," he whispers into your ear with the faintest shiver in his voice.

On its own, one of your arms begins to move. Wrapping around him, weakly squeezing that big, warm body against yours. Feeling his chest rise and fall, warm and full of life. The same old cowboy that you remember from two months ago.

He doesn't disappear.

Rather than vanishing from your arms and floating away, he pulls you a little closer, arms a little tighter. Scruffy cheek scratching against your softer one as he buries his face into your neck. His breath tickles your skin, fingertips drawing invisible shapes into your clothed back.

"Just a one-arm hug?" His voice rumbles down your spine like thunder; can never stop himself from teasing, even in times like these.

Blindly, you reach up with your other arm, no longer allowing it to dangle limply at your side. Hoping to find purchase between those perfectly strong shoulders.

Your knuckles catch on the edge of something hard.

It falls, hitting the floor with an explosive, metal clatter. Silver bursts out of the tiny wooden box. Rolling in all directions. Heading into the living area, some even stretching to the kitchen, others race to the bathroom, a few strays wander between your legs, and two let themselves right into the bedroom.

"Are these...rings?" You chirp, watching one as it spirals, circles growing tighter and tighter until it falls on its side with a soft sound. They certainly look like rings, but there's such an obscene amount of them that you're unsure.

Rhett's quiet as you step away from him, crouching to pick up one of the little things. Doesn't make a sound when you roll it between your fingers, feeling the way the uneven metal rubs against your skin. This one is far too big for any of your fingers, and so are the next two you scoop up. Another is too tiny, and the one that seems the right size suffers a big crack in the side.

"I..." he starts, twisting at the hair resting on his nape, "they're...yeah. They're rings."

But that doesn't make any sense. Why would he have so many? From what you can gather, they're all similar. Made of the same silvery material, visibly handcrafted; some with etchings of letters inside, others bear empty brackets meant to hold a stone.

Rhett hardly moves as you reach for the one next to his foot. Just as identical as the rest, plain and with rough lettering on the inside of the band.

'Marry me?'

You nearly drop it. Caught off-guard by the sudden text.

"That's not..." Rhett's crouching next to you, teeth worrying his bottom lip, staring down at the engraving like it owes him money. "I...I was tryin' to make you an engagement ring."

He reaches over, scooping up a handful of rings that have collected against the wall. Moves them in such a way that you can see his attempts at asking you to marry him within the ring itself. Along with all of his deviations from the concept and the failures that came along the way. One has your name on it, the letters overlapping with the edge. Another has 'marry' written as 'mary.'

"Couldn't get it right, so I figured I'd..." One of them falls from his hand, bouncing across the floor and rolling into the bedroom. He doesn't speak again until it falls. "You know...wait 'till I could afford a proper ring."

You hum, tracing your nail against the rugged markings. Messy yet lovingly crafted. "Did you still want an answer?"

That gets him. Head snapping up to look at you, then jerking his attention back to the floor. Unable to take in your expression, fearing what he could find hidden there. "It ain't...it doesn't have to be right now. If you don't want to..."

You twist this little ring down your finger. It's uneven, not perfectly round, but it fits near perfectly, only the slightest bit loose. Made just for you.

His eyelashes flutter. Jaw slackening.

Your answer never leaves your tongue, but it's the loudest thing you've ever said.

Gradually, the corner of his lip wavers upward, "yeah?"

"Yeah," the ring feels foreign around your finger; you can't wait for the day that it feels naked without that little bundle of metal.

It glints in the light when Rhett takes your hand in his, smiling giddily to himself as he runs his finger over the ring. And it probably isn't the one he would have picked for you; there are likely nicer ones in this scattered mess of silver, but it's the only ring you want.

He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, avoiding your eye as he does so. Like the slightest eye contact will cause him to crumble into nothing. The presses another to the inside of your wrist, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Slowly crawling up your arm until he's close enough for the tip of his nose to bump into yours.

Kissing him while crouching isn't easy; the gentle press of his lips against yours is enough to have you worrying about losing your balance. But then he's rising to his feet, drawing you up with him, and it's so, so easy to stumble forward and close that gap once more. Hearing him grunt against you, warm arms coiling around you in the same fashion they always have.

Oh, how could you have forgotten that he tastes like honey? Warm with a hint of butterscotch, can never seem to keep himself out of those darned little candies. Sliding your arms around those broad shoulders, fingers winding into his hair, listening to his breath catch in his throat.

It's been two months since you've last felt him part your trembling lips with his own.

Two months too fucking long.

"Rhett," you don't mean for it to come out as a whimper, but it does, and you can hardly stop yourself from hiding your face behind your hands. A little too needy, a little too fast.

But Rhett's rumbling your name in return; doesn't seem to notice your embarrassment, only pulls you closer to him. Hands roaming, soothing up and down your sides, as he pushes you backward, doesn't stop until you're right up against the wall. No way to escape from the rough hand that curls around your cheek, bringing you in to meet his burning mouth again and again and again.

Rings chime against the floor as he steps forward, jean-clad knee sliding between your legs, fits like it belongs there. Muscled thigh pressing against you, grinding up into your heat.

You don't realize you've made another noise until he grins into your mouth. Proud. A little too eager to repeat the motion, rolling upward in loose circles. Your hand falls from his hair. Nails biting into his shoulder. Panting against his lips.

"Fuck, I missed you," he's whispering as he breaks away, pressing wet kisses down your jaw, working toward your neck, "so, so much."

Words are hard to come by. Don't know what you want to say; all you know is that this shirt of his needs to come off. Tugging on the thin material, fumbling with tiny buttons that you can't seem to get ahold of.

Rhett lets go of you. Breath burning against your neck as he yanks the flannel open. Buttons flying, bouncing across the hardwood, quickly joined by his now ruined shirt.

"Need this yellow off you," grumbling directly into your ear, big hands returning to your sides, lifting the hem of your shirt. Your arms rise, and in one quick motion, he pulls it off. Dropping it to the floor, drawing you up against him, away from the wall.

Rings scatter beneath your feet as the two of you stumble into the bedroom, metal clinking and rolling with every uncertain step. Uncaring of paying attention to where you're going, distracted by wandering hands, breathy kisses, and noses bumping together.

Your back hits the mattress with an unceremonious thump, the springs squealing their dismay. That wild-eyed cowboy is on you in an instant, lithe hips slipping between your parted thighs, bare chest against yours, nipping at the shell of your ear. His forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, bracketing you in. Gives you an eyeful of the wicked veins that snake down them.

"Fuck, Rhett," sucking in a sharp breath of air. The layers of clothing between your bodies aren't enough to stop you from feeling that bulge grinding against you.

"'s it too much?" His lips brush against your ear, sends a shudder down your spine.

Your head shakes, rolling back and forth against the sheets, "not enough."

"Yeah?" Pressing his lips to the meet of your jaw, then again to your collar, "take it y'missed me, then."

He's skipping over the courtesy of more kisses, absolutely shameless, as he wraps his lips around your nipple. Big hand curling around your neglected breast, thumb working circles into it.

"Of course, I fucking missed you," it's hard to keep the bite in your tone, with that wet tongue laving over you like that, downright messy. "Idiot."

Just as quickly as he jumped to your breast, he's leaving it alone; your skin glistening with his saliva as he licks further down. Darkened eyes peer up at you all the while, once ocean blue, now dark as the night, eagerly drinking in your every reaction. Hungry for everything about you.

He doesn't need to ask you to lift your hips; they rise the moment his fingers curl beneath your waistband. Then he's pulling down those pastel yellow sweatpants, the soft ones that were in the gift BY9 left for you during the beginning of that so-called evacuation.

"Fuck, I was hopin' you were wearin' these," Rhett breathes, devious fingers skittering up the inside of your thigh, not stopping until they can slip beneath the edge of your underwear. Always so obsessed with these, despite being the simplest thing you own. Something about the dainty little bow at the top just does it for him.

"You should've warned me you were coming," you're trying to tease, but fuck is it hard to focus when he pulls your underwear to the side, exposing you to those hungry eyes of his. "I could have put on that matching babydoll."

A rough index finger strokes up between your folds, collecting your wetness. Rhett so mesmerized by the sight that he struggles to speak, "Baby, I don't think we'd even make it back t'the truck."

Historically, every time you've worn that soft lace garment around him, you've never even made it out of the room.

There are words sitting heavily in your mouth, already formulated and ready to go. But you don't get the chance to say them because Rhett's leaning down, pressing a kiss to your sex. His tongue pokes out of his lips, eagerly licking a fat stripe up your wetness.

"Can y'get the lube off the table, darlin'?" He's speaking right against your clit, lips tickling it.

The bottle is within reach, but it might as well be on the other side of the room. Rhett's lips are wrapping around that sensitive little button, makes it so, so hard to keep yourself from tangling both hands in his hair instead. Thighs fluttering around his head, hand shivering as it wraps around the small container.

It's new; the plastic still wrapped tightly around the cap. And though Rhett's short nail claws at the edge of it, the plastic refuses to tear off.

"Come on, you damn..." giving up on the correct way of removing it, he raises it to his mouth, biting at the material until it tears.

His nose wrinkles.

"Did you hurt your tooth?" Asking despite knowing the answer.

How dare he look so shy when he's coating two of his fingers with lube. Meekly grinning to himself, the tips of his ears flaming with crimson as he mutters a soft "maybe."

Dumb cowboy hasn't learned from the time he chipped his tooth while opening the last bottle.

Wet fingertips circle around your entrance, his mouth returning to your core, deviously lapping at you. Fuck, fuck, fuck that's a lot.

Sensitivity has jumped a couple of notches during his absence, squirming against the bed, unsure if you want more or if you want to run away from it. So distracting that you don't realize his fingers are pushing into you. Slow, letting you loosen for them on your own accord.

"That's it," he praises, peering up at you from beneath thick lashes, "take my fingers for me, baby."

They're impatient, curling up, massaging against your walls as he gingerly works them in and out to the tune of his lazy tongue. Drool sliding down, wetting his fingers even further. You whimper before you even realize he's found that little spot. The pad of his index finger rubbing against it. Has your hips lifting off the bed.

On their own, your hand wanders down, tangling in his messy hair. Rhett all but moans as you pull on it, wet tongue audibly working you over.

"Another," you whisper, can't get your voice any louder, "please."

That third finger isn't what you wanted. Isn't thick or long enough to give you that full feeling you've been so desperately craving. But it's a necessary evil that you've learned to put up with in exchange for no soreness the morning after.

Rhett groans, eyes falling shut as he works into a rhythm. Slow and sloppy, unconcerned with the intricacies of perfect movements, his hips grinding down against the bed. Massaging his neglected cock, still straining against his jeans.

Fuck, it's such a simple sight, but it has your head spinning. Heat burning between your legs, spreading up into your chest, heart jumping.

"St..." you can hardly speak, "stop."

Rhett freezes. Tongue halfway out of his mouth and all.

Your lungs ache for a breath that you can't quite catch, panting, fighting to form words, "close."

"Were you wantin' to cum 'round my cock instead?" He asks, lifting his head the slightest bit. His chin wet, shiny lips swollen.

You can't find the words you need to answer him, but something in your face must tell him all he needs to hear because he's moving again. Wet fingers slipping out of your pussy, reaching right for his belt buckle. It jingles as he opens it, the button hidden below damn near hanging on by a thread.

No matter how many times you've seen this exact scene, it never seems to get shorter. Time downright dragging by as Rhett tugs his jeans and boxers down his legs. Cock popping up, smacking against his left hip. The tip dripping and flushed red, angry, begging for attention. That should be all the waiting you need, but now he's reaching for your underwear, properly tugging them off, like the gentleman he just has to be.

You reach for the lube, pouring some into your palm, and admittedly, it's way more than you needed, but you just don't care. Reaching out to wrap your dripping hand around him, feeling him jump.

"Fuck," Rhett gasps, eyelashes fluttering like tiny butterflies, "didn't see you reachin' for...God, jus' like that."

It seems you're not the only one whose gotten sensitive during your time apart. Rhett's head tilts back, mouth agape as you loosely stroke him. Simple little ups and downs, with the slightest twist of your wrist.

Then you're impatiently guiding him to your entrance, already so wet with your own wetness, lube, and saliva, never mind the extra lubricant you've coated him with. His hips tilt forward, leaving no room for further teasing as he begins to push into you.

All that wetness, and he's still a stretch. The kind that has you biting your lip and your eyes screwing shut, feeling that fat head gradually open you up.

"Shit," Rhett's swearing, leaning back down, chests bumping together, pressing kisses to your quaking jaw, "forgot how tight this cute 'lil pussy of yours gets."

If you could speak, you'd remark that you forgot how obnoxiously thick he is.

But you can't. All you can do is curl your hands around his thick biceps and fight to relax. Feeling the tip of him fully slip inside. Just the tip. Fuck, there's still a whole six inches of him left, and you don't know how he's going to fit.

"Y'need me to stop?" He murmurs, scruffy chin bumping into yours. You think his voice has dropped a little.

Shaking your head, "Keep...keep going."

Looking between your parted legs is the biggest mistake you've ever made. Because the moment you make eye contact with the sight of Rhett's thick length slipping inside of your spasming cunt, you can't look away. Absolutely transfixed by the way he works his way into you, balls hanging low and heavy.

"There you go," Rhett's cooing, pressing kisses to your cheek, "takin' my cock so damn well for me, doll."

His pelvis comes flush with yours, and you think you may float right up into the clouds. Lightheaded, panting, can hardly keep your eyes open. Can't even look down again when he cautiously swivels his hips into you. Does nothing more than jostle his cock inside of you, yet it knocks the air from your lungs.

"Want me to move?" Yeah, his voice has definitely dropped a little. Rough and gravelly as he speaks.

Weakly, you hum. "Uhuh."

Oh, you've missed how his cock head drags against you, so thick that he's always massaging against that little spot. Drawing back a little under halfway, pushing back in just as slowly as he did the first time.

This is what you needed.

Your favorite cowboy on top of you, his face nuzzled against yours while he slowly fucks into you. Long, deep strokes that are so undeniably him, reaching deep into the farthest parts of you. The kind of thing you struggle to recreate with a toy. Isn't quite as thick and never brings the warmth that Rhett does. Toys don't come with a big, strong body and untamed hair that falls down to tickle your cheek. They don't give you kisses or pant against your lips with every thrust.

"Missed you so damn much," Rhett whispers against your lips like it's a secret meant to only be shared between the two of you. "Y'don't know how many times I've come back tryin' t'find you."

On its own accord, your hand reaches up to rest against his jaw. "I was so worried that you'd never come back," his hips twitch upward, cock driving directly into that little spot. It takes a second to unscramble your words. "Or that something happened—"

"No, no, hey," he's reaching for your hand, bringing it up to rest fully against his cheek. Presses a kiss to your wrist. "There ain't nothin' in this world that's gonna take me away from you, ya hear?"

Your eyes water.

So do his.

It's so much. So many feelings and emotions and thoughts floating through your foggy mind. And there's more you need to say, but you're pulling him into you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting him bury his face in the crook of his neck. Hugging him tight as he gently thrusts into you.

Slow ins and outs that completely fill you with him. Kissing your sweetest spots, bringing you to flutter around him, spasming in the way he's always loved. The soft squelch of wetness, balls softly thumping against your ass each time he bottoms out. So much of this cowboy. So, so much.

The ring on your finger glints in the dull light. Imperfectly crafted but looks perfect around your finger. You don't want a new ring with a precious gem and a highly valued metal. You want this one.

"Rhett," you whimper, muffled by his broad shoulder. There's a warmth settling between your thighs. The soft kind that has your skin prickling and thighs quivering.

"I know," Rhett's groaning. Unable to keep himself quiet any longer, "I am too."

He's panting into your collar, thrusts growing uneven. A little shaky. Your legs are wrapping around his hips, squeezing tight, anchoring him to you. You could reach down, pay attention to your forgotten clit, and bring yourself to the edge faster, but all you want is this. Your cowboy in your arms, fucking you like you're made of glass, the most precious thing he's ever seen.

Your mouth falls open, whimpering into the open air, "Rhett, Rhett, Rhett." Over and over, like a mantra. Like it'll make up for all the time you've spent apart. And he's murmuring your name, whining high in his throat, your voices weaving together into a wistful melody.

One, two, three more drags of his cock against that sweet little spot, and you're gone. Head falling back against the bed, his name still shivering off your tongue as you spasm around him. Heat washing over your body, floating up into the heavens on a plush, cowboy-shaped cloud.

Distantly, you think you can feel Rhett shudder above you. Breath hot against your neck as he cums with the softest whine. You never, ever thought you'd feel this again. The involuntary jerk of his hips. The kisses he tries to press to your skin when he's too incoherent to move his mouth. The heaviness of his body as he settles against you.

It's hard to tell how long it takes you to find the strength to open your eyes. Feels like hours before you pry them open, but it's probably closer to a minute or two. The first thing your gaze drifts toward is the bed.

"Of course, you would have a brown plaid comforter."

Rhett sputters against your neck. God, you've missed that laugh. "That's what happens when 'm left by myself."

This room screams his name in every way it possibly can. Cowboy hats scattered in places they don't belong, blankets occupying every surface. There's a basket of dirty laundry in the corner, what you suppose is a bag of chips laying in the middle, and there is absolutely no reason for one of his socks to be on the ceiling fan.

You love it.

You love this.

And you don't need to say it out loud. Rhett already hears you, and your heart hears him in return.

"This place has a clawfoot bath," he says, after a moment, "d'you wanna...give it a shot?"

Why this old cabin has a clawfoot bath, you'll never understand. What other odd things have you to learn about this place? "Would this entail me having to use your three-in-one body wash?"

He's quiet at that. The biggest goddamn yes you've ever heard. "...I have bubbles?"

In the morning, the first thing you're going to do is haul his half-feral ass to the store to do some shopping. Get him away from whatever the hell monstrosity lies in that three-in-one bottle and replace the couple of items you've forgotten back in Wabang. Maybe you'll make him explain how the hell he took you to South fucking Dakota in the blink of an eye while you're at it.

But for now, you're happy to nod your head, "bubbles sound nice."

#rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #ao3 oneshot #oneshot #rhett abbott outer range #outer range fic #outer range #rhett abbott imagine #rhett abbott x you #reader self insert #self insert #x reader #reader insert

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sweaterkittensahoy · 29 days

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what would you think a hallmark-esque fanfic would look like for rosielemmons, and/or Jackharding. I think that both have potential.

Oh, RosieLemmons is big-city lawyer Rosie ends up breaking down driving from the airport to a convention, and tow truck driver and mechanic Ken Lemmons is the one to show up at the side of the road.

Rosie's burned out from working for a big firm, and he was really looking forward to this convention because there were going to be workshops on starting your own firm. He figures he'll get his rental fixed easy enough, and it'll be fine.

But it's the week before the small town festival (Carp Days; Catfish Crawl; something like that), and the whole town basically goes quiet except to get ready for it. Ken promises Rosie he'll have him fixed up in a jiffy, but then it turns out he doesn't have the part he needs, and it's gonna take two days.

Rosie sort of sighs it out and says, "Well, okay, guess I'll get a place to stay."

And Ken has to explain that it's the Gar Jubliee or whatever it's called (I'm not trying to make fun of small town festivals; I grew up with one, and I lived near a place that did Sucker Days, named for the fish. This is all knowing ribbing; I promise). So, no hotel rooms to be found, but hey, his parents have a spare room, just across the hall from his, and his momma works from home, so they've got the manners and the internet connection he needs.

Rosie does his webinars and thinks about what he wants to do with his life as a lawyer, and the third day he's there (the part got delayed by a low-water bridge washing out in a thunderstorm), one of Ken's sisters is over trying to make sense of insurance paperwork because she needs them to pay the accident coverage, but they're saying she went to the wrong hospital. Rosie ends up sorting it out for her, and then neighbors start to show up with similar stuff. It's not that they can't figure it out; it's that Rosie knows the ways the insurance company will try to get out of paying, so he can get it done in about a tenth of the time.

And meanwhile, Gar Jubliee (I've decided that's what it is) is getting set up, and Rosie's really liking everyone he meets, and Ken's just so handsome and so helpful and smart and easy to talk to.

And you see where this goes. Rosie DOES have to go back to New York for awhile to get his affairs in order, but by next Gar Jubliee, Rosenthal, esq. is one of the happiest sponsors for Gar Jubliee.

For JackHarding, it's a little trickier because Rosie and Ken are just so openly affectionate it's easy to find a Hallmark story for them. But JackHarding feels like a classic "Perfectly fine with what I've got until suddenly the literal best man ever walks in" sort of Hallmark story. With Jack being the one fine with his relationship, but then Harding comes in as a consultant or something and at first, they butt heads, but then they end up really liking each other, and meanwhile Jack's trying to get his serious-but-not-quite-longterm boyfriend to agree to just show up to his family's house for one goddamn dinner. And, yes, he knows his family can be a bit stuffy, and yes he knows it's not an ideal Sunday evening thing, but he's asking for him to just suck it up and show up once.

And then on the Sunday the boyfriend finally agrees to show up, he ends up calling with an excuse at the last minute. Jack is actually working with Chick on whatever the project is (hot deadlines and all that) and knows his mother will be very annoyed if he messes up the seating arrangements, so he invites Chick, and Chick says yes. And Jack texts his family to let them know "Hey, my boyfriend had a minor emergency, but I'm bringing along a work friend."

So, like, no confusion from his family that Chick is NOT his boyfriend, but then Jack starts feeling a bit confused because here's this guy he's only known for a few weeks who's showing up to this dinner and doing great but also occasionally muttering smartass remarks about his family's airs under his breath, and Jack's snickering along with him because Chick's 100% right. And, why can Chick do this so easily but Jack's boyfriend was being such a dick about it.

And then, as they leave Jack's family's house, who's walking by just happy as you please definitely NOT dealing with a sprained ankle like he claimed?

Boyfriend.

And Jack is PISSED and just TEARS HIM UP and he shouts, "What's so fucking impossible about doing one goddamn thing for me?"

And the boyfriend snides that the problem is that Jack only asks for shit when it's something annoying but keeps himself closed off otherwise.

And that's when Chick grabs the guy and bodily lifts him into a trash can. And slams down the lid.

Chick takes Jack to bar, and they have a drink, and Jack bemoans that maybe the boyfriend is right. Maybe he's closed off, and Chick refuses to let that stand. Tells Jack that, hey, you're quiet, but you're an open guy. I mean, hell, you invited me to your family's dinner and let me make fun of them a little. Maybe if that asshole had shown he was willing to try, you'd open up to him more. You think about that?

And so on and so forth, they kiss. Final scene is Christmas at Jack's family's house, and he's got a huge smile and Chick's got a huge smile, and they get scolded for giggling as they mutter to each other and refuse to share anything they're saying with the table. Which makes them laugh harder.

#hallmark movies #but make it gay and mota #rosielemmons #jackharding

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try-set-me-on-fire · 1 year

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‘this is my husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner etc.’ for soft fic prompts?

Send me soft fic prompts! Read the rest here!

Heather would say she's not having a great day. Sure, her and Tracy hadn't been on the most stable ground lately, but coming home from the San Francisco office to a two page (both sides!) handwritten letter full of incredibly beautiful prose that more or less boiled down to it’s not you, it’s me was still a shock. And, you know, maybe she had been spending too much time crunching for work, but she’d been trying to make senior art director for years and when she’d finally got the promotion she wanted to make sure the studio didn’t regret it. The studio who, 15 minutes after the whole ‘getting dumped, epistolary style’, called to tell her the promotion had been unpromotioned. Two steps, unpromotioned, actually, seeing as they were “taking the project in a new direction” and “felt she would be better suited to a support role rather than leadership.” And, you know, Heather thinks of herself as a relatively laid back person, she’s chill, she’s calm and collected, but after four straight months of 6 day work weeks pulling overtime almost every night she thought she deserved a face to face goddamn explanation for all of this, so she had climbed right back into the subaru she’d driven all night in and took off towards Burbank.

She’d made it three exits past her apartment when some asshole in a truck too big for him to control had swerved into her.

At least someone's already called 911, judging by the emergency vehicles pulling up, and this was a rental car paid for with company dime, so she doesn't even have to stress about it being crumpled up like a tin can. There's a tap on the window frame (the glass is gone, she hadn't even noticed) and she startles, peering out at the platonic ideal of a hot guy she might have described to friends as her "type" when she was sixteen and still trying to be straight. Ruffled dark hair, warm eyes, a kind look on his face. She can't see his arms under his firefighter coat, but she bets they're jacked.

"Hi," the apparition says. "My name's Eddie Diaz. Are you in any pain?"

"Uh," Heather says, trying to take stock. "Mostly shaky, I think."

He nods, shining a flashlight in her eyes. "Can you wiggle your fingers for me? How 'bout your toes?"

"Eyes and ears and mouth and nose," she sing songs as she does so, and Eddie Diaz has the good grace to laugh.

"Alright, you're a little scraped up but I don't think you have a concussion. Can you tell me your name, the date, and where we are?"

"Heather Pantry, July 23rd, the 5 somewhere near Atwater."

"Pantry?" Eddie quirks an eyebrow as he examines the car around her.

"Hand to god," she says, used to the double take. "From the proud Pantry line of middle of nowhere Massachusetts."

"Well, good to meet you Ms. Pantry. I have to go get-" Eddie straightens up and waved someone over. "Honey, can you stay with her? I'm gonna grab the jaws and some bandages."

Eddie steps away and a new man crouches in his place. He's blondish, has a red birthmark splotched above his eye, and is grinning cheerfully. "Hey, we're gonna get you out of here in no time."

"I bet you got shit from other kids about your name too, huh?" She smiles at him in commiseration, and then confusion as he looks at her questioningly. "Oh, you didn't hear- I'm Heather Pantry. And you're Honey, right? Food names."

His face stays puzzled for a second before he laughs. "Ah, no." He jabs a thumb in the direction Eddie walked. "I'm married to that guy." He says it proudly, and his grin gets somehow more cheerful.

"Oh, shit, sorry," she says as he flaps an understanding hand.

"Don't worry about it, just don't let our colleagues know he used a pet name at work or we'll never hear the end of it. My name's Buck Diaz." He holds out a hand.

She mimes a zipper over her mouth as she shakes it. Multi tasking! Take that, potential concussion! Her eye catches on his name tag as he pulls away and she frowns. Aw no, concussion. "Why does that say…"

Buck looks down at the letters. "Ah, right. Well, I took Eddie's name when I got married, but my- everyone calls me Buck, has for ages, but it's a nickname from my old last name, and I didn't want to be Evan Diaz with no tie to that, so I changed my first name too, because Evan just isn't really my name anymore. But," he gestures down at the name tag, and then over his shoulder at the back of his jacket. "The names on our turnouts are one of the ways we find each other in low visibility, and how we might be initially identified if something, uh, goes wrong, and everyone rejected my perfectly good idea of being labeled 'Diaz 1' and 'Diaz 2' so… I was born Evan Buckley, my legal name is Buck Diaz, my work name is Buckley, sometimes people call me Buckaroo, and Chimney says they should just start sending me out to explain all that as the new concussion protocol."

"Chimney?"

"You'd fit right in around here, Pantry. You looking for a career change?"

"Hah," she says. "The LAFD looking to recruit failed art directors who can't maintain a good relationship with the best girl they've ever known?"

Buck grimaces in sympathy. "You've had a rough day."

"I've certainly had better." She looks at her shit thrown all about the car, feeling a little pathetic, and then back at Buck. If something goes wrong… "Is it hard, working together? Do you- I mean, either of you could get hurt at any time. It's gotta be hard knowing that, or- seeing that. Being there."

Buck's smile turns a little rueful, and he looks back towards the firetruck for a moment. "Yeah… we've had our fair share of close calls." He laughs, though there's not much humor in it, and starts holding up fingers. "Eddie's been crushed in a collapsed well 40 feet underground, and he got shot standing two feet in front of me, and there was the whole thing with the freeway collapse - which is how we got together, actually - and I've been crushed under a firetruck, was on the pier with our kid when the tsunami hit, and I got struck by lightning." He does a little jazz hand. "I died for three minutes."

"And seventeen seconds," comes Eddie's quiet voice. He's standing there with the supplies, looking down at Buck, something too steps more sad than a frown on his face.

Buck looks up at him, eyes intense, smile small. "And seventeen seconds," he corrects, and then looks back at Heather with both eyebrows up. "I don't recommend it!"

"I'll do my best to not get deceased."

“But I think…” Buck looks thoughtful as he stands to let his husband press gauze to cuts Heather didn’t know she had. “I’d rather be here, than not. I want to be by Eddie’s side, even and especially when things are hard, and to, uh,” he laughs a private laugh, bumps his elbow with Eddie’s. “To have his back, like I know he has mine.” Together, they work the jaws into the door and finally wrench it open with a terrible metallic screech. “And anyway, some of that stuff happened while I wasn’t even at work, so bad things can happen at any time. I want to… know I had the chance to do something about it, when they do.”

Both of the men reach in to help Heather, moving around each other so easily, so familiar. Her eyes sting a little, and she could blame it on the scrapes but she’s thinking of Tracy singing while she does the dishes. She sniffs a little as Buck holds her elbow. “Wasn’t… the tsunami years before the freeway collapse? You guys had a son already?”

They make eye contact over her head (jesus, they’re tall, is that a firefighter requirement?) and Eddie laughs first but Buck really cracks up.

“We may have done things a little out of order,” Eddie says, loud enough to be heard over Buck’s guffaws. His eyes are crinkled up. “Let’s get you to the ambulance, Ms. Pantry.”

She’s handed over to other paramedics, who go through a more thorough checklist than Eddie’s field triage. She’s paying attention to the questions, she is, but the ambulance doors are still open and she sees Eddie in the shade of the fire truck look around before pulling Buck close, a hand gentle on his cheek. He kisses him, and they’re pretty far away but she thinks the small smile on his face is probably visible from Saturn.

The doors close, and she’s carted off towards Cedars-Sinai where as soon as she’s cleared to leave she’ll find the gift shop and buy a notepad, a get well soon card, a coloring book- anything she can write on. She has a letter to send.

#eddie diaz #buddie #evan buckley #911 fox #my writing

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ttalgi · 1 year

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cupid ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ diluc x fem!reader

:01 feeling lonely

synopsis: growing up a hopeless romantic, you always believed in cupid. however because of your social anxiety, you end up as a loner and start to lose hope,,until fate has you move nextdoor to diluc, the all-star bachelor of teyvat university

cw: small amount of depressing/depreciating thoughts; if there's more, please let me know

small smau + 2.7k written portion

Thirty-seven minutes have passed since you parked the moving truck into the residential parking space, and yet you haven't made an attempt to get out.

Actually, that's a lie.

You've been trying to mentally prepare yourself, but each time ends in failure because of thoughts like these.

‘What if when I try to move my mattress, it accidentally falls on top of me and I can't move and need help to get it off of me.' and 'I feel like there's so many people out and about right now. I know that they're going to see me alone and think that I'm a loser...'

In reality, only about four people have passed by in the time frame that you’ve been parked, but to you, four feels the equivalent to 100. Now having thought of your worries again you realize that yeah, a couple of more minutes before heading out couldn't hurt.

Slumping back into the cushioned driver’s seat, you let out a small giggle thinking of how the seat probably has a mold of your body indented into it. You start your mental timer of five minutes before an unnerving thought emerges and jumps to the front of your mind. What are you forgetting, what are you forgetting, what are you forgetting?!

You spend a good minute racking your brain until this particular sun ray angles itself to blind you momentarily an- ‘Oh my god, Lumi should be here any minute now.’

Hastily grabbing your phone, you go to the conversation between the two of you to look at the timestamps. If you take into account the six minute drive from campus to the Starbucks in front of Windwail Highlands, the seven minute wait in the drive thru line, and the one minute venture from the Starbucks to the building complex; you realize that your theory is correct.

At times you worry that Lumine is worried about you. Ever since meeting in your guys’ shared dorm room two years ago, she’s experienced just how disencouraging your social anxiety can be in your everyday life. Lumine never fails to be caring towards you, and sometimes she even reminds you of a mother hen. Wanting to show her that you can easily do simple tasks such as moving boxes in new settings, you defrost the actor in you and put on your performance called “showing Lumi that you can be semi confident doing things in public without being with someone that you're comfortable with.”

‘I should really work on my naming skills.’

Having found a new motivator, you unlock and open the weighted door to hop down from the raised truck onto the asphalt. You go to grab your phone and the rental truck keys to slip into each of your back jean pockets before turning to the back of the truck and closing the door behind you. Stepping up to the raised sidewalk, you reach up to unlock the back double doors of the truck and carefully swing the doors out to the sides.

It’s kind of amusing seeing as how you arranged all of your boxes like you were playing a game of Tetris; except the only pieces that you were given are the squares and a single line piece representing your mattress. This is making you remember that you really don’t have a lot of difficult items to haul, so the whole process shouldn't be too hard…right?

After carefully lowering the deck ramp, you grab the hand truck that’s sitting to the side and then start to maneuver some of the smaller and lighter boxes onto the dolly platform. Successfully loading on two boxes, you begin to slowly tilt the cart backward towards you; you walk down the ramp and continue until you’re about to enter the elevator doors when you notice a white sedan pulling up and parking a space over your rented U-haul.

Bea, also known by her full name Beatrice. Bea is Lumine and Aether’s shared car that they got as a present for their 18th birthday. The 2021 Toyota Camry, although still fairly new, has definitely seen some things; examples being when they drove their little sister Paimon to Klee’s birthday party. Lumine told you that since they’re great friends in their grade school classes, Paimon wanted to give a whole food platter because “food is the greatest gift.” However, things quickly went awry when Paimon “accidentally” opened the container and started to eat one of the sandwiches. Then when an unnoticed speed bump appeared, the entire platter ended up nestling into each crevice of Bea. On rare occasions, you swear that you can smell deli meat while being a passenger in Bea…

Anyways, while reminiscing about the story, you register that the driver side door has been opened and that a blonde head with its signature blue flower clip now starts to become visible above the top of the car. You automatically start to smile and call out to Lumine, who’s holding two iced lattes in her hands. "Lumi! My pookie bear! I’ve missed you so much!”

She starts to gleefully skip towards you, careful to not spill the drinks. "Y/n! My scrunkle! My pookie bear! I missed you so much while in our class today," finishes Lumine stopping in front of you with a pout on her face.

Returning it with your own pout when you say, “trust me when I say that missing Professor Ningguang's classes scare me. Like, I know attendance isn’t a part of the grade, but missing her classes?!…feels unnerving.” You start to shudder a bit just thinking about it. “Plus, starting early in the morning today was the only time that they would allow me to park and unload the U-Haul for some reason."

Lumine starts to tilt her head to the side. "Huh..that is weird not going to lie. But! I see that you've started already!” She uses her elbow to press the elevator button for the both of you. “Come on! Let's go and put these boxes inside your place already. Then we can finish our drinks real quick and move the rest of the boxes together.”

The doors open with a ‘ding!’, and you wheel the hand truck backward into the elevator with Lumi squeezing in beside you. Not being able to press the floor button yourself, you ask Lumine to push the ‘4’ button on the side panel. After pressing the switch, Lumine starts to give you a quick crash course lesson of what happened in your guys’ shared “Principles of Microeconomics” class today.

“And then Childe had the GALL to interrupt Miss Ningguang saying things that I couldn’t even bother to remember.”

You ponder for a second before asking who this Childe person is. You've never been the best with names or faces, especially since you tend to look down for most of the time. After learning that he’s tall with ginger hair and plain blue eyes, the elevator doors open and the two of you exit the metal box.

Walking down the corridor Lumine questions which number yours is, and you respond saying that it’s apartment 440D and that it should be right around, “A-ha! Here it is!”

Still holding onto the dolly, you ask Lumine to take the keys from your pocket and to open the door to your new place for the upcoming year. Walking through the door first, you set the cart to the side and spin back around to Lumine, amusing her with your impression of pretending to be on an episode of the show “MTV cribs.”

The two of you drink your lattes while you give Lumi a quick tour of your one bedroom apartment. With the beverages basically chugged down, Lumine begins to push her sleeves up with a determined look. "Alright, it's game time."

"WHEW! We…finally…hauled the mattress up…"

After a particularly rough shove of the mattress through the door, you kick the door shut and practically dive to the floor in exhaustion. You can’t stop heaving, feeling that there’s not enough air on the planet to bring your lungs back to normal. It’s at times like these where you think to finally accept Lumine’s invitations to join her at the gym.

You can tell that Lumine’s in a better state, due to being fit with her regular weightlifting sessions, but she ends up joining you on the floor to cool down beside you, allowing herself to take a break. Taking your hand in hers, she starts to shake it back and forth with joy on how the both of you finished the job. “I know that it only took two hours, but that sure was draining. I’m really proud of us, Y/n!”

The two of you stay on the solid hardwood floors and end up in small banter, not realizing another hour passing by.

“Oh yeah! I actually have a friend who lives in this complex as well. Though, I don’t know the exact unit since he switched when his old lease ended a couple of months ago.”

You were about to respond when your thought process was halted by feeling a twinge in your stomach, making you realize that it’s been a while since you ate in the morning. “Hey Lumi, are you hungry?” Continuing after you hear her hum of agreement, “Do you wanna head to the new sushi place with the revolving belt? Uyuu Restaurant. I saw that it just had its grand opening the other day."

Lumine stands up with a swiftness you didn’t know existed, and you swear that you could see visible sparkles around her figure. She picks you up from your lying position and your only thought at that moment was that this must be how her barbells feel.

After having a satisfying meal and successfully paying the entire bill as a way of thanks, Lumine drops you back at Windwail Highlands before needing to go back to campus and attend her club meet. Before Lumine drives away, she tells that the two of you should meet up for lunch on campus, and you agree while waving her goodbye.

It’s now the late afternoon and frankly all you want to do is spend the rest of your day indoors, but you still have the U-Haul truck to take back. Once again settling into the driver's seat, you set your phone GPS to the nearest location which, thankfully, was only a three minute drive from the complex. After completing the dreadful drop off process, you awkwardly power walk to get on the bus waiting at the entrance to the U-Haul lot.

A factor that you love about this area, is that the public transport is one of the best, with relatively frequent arrival/departure times and numerous locations, some being Teyvat University and Windwail Highlands. However, a factor that you hate is how public the public transportation is. Having to be surrounded by strangers is a complete nightmare that you can't wake up from.

You did have your own car that you used to commute with, your 2016 Honda Accord that you’ve named Franny, aka Frank. But since you moved to a walkable area with good transportation, your parents wanted you to leave him at their house so he could be used as an extra family car. Not having a choice, you reluctantly departed ways with Frank this morning. All you could wish for is that your siblings don’t completely ruin him.

The bus commute comes to a stop when it finally halts at the Windwail Highlands station bench. Wanting to escape the sea of people (there were six other people onboard, including the bus driver) and the abnormal October afternoon heat, you don’t hesitate to dart straight for Unit 440D.

Forgetting that you haven’t unpacked anything was a big hit to your hp meter, especially since you know that leaving it for tomorrow would completely knock you out. You start to make a list of the priorities to unpack, just so it doesn’t seem overwhelming to unpack everything today.

‘Let’s see. First I should move my mattress to the bedroom, then unpack my bathroom products, then all of my clothe- wait, my dresser hasn’t come yet…then some of my clothes with the hangers, then my snacks.'

Deeming your list as complete, you go to find your headphones so you don’t have to spend unpacking alone in silence.

The next hour was surprisingly productive, most likely from the OSTs fueling your imagination as being the main character for once. It was halted when you decided to snack for a bit to get a quick power up. Taking a moment to pause, you grasp that even with all of the full cardboard boxes surrounding you, you feel barren and alone.

'Like how it always is.'

Your first thought is to text Lumi and absorb yourself into a conversation with her, but the devil on your shoulder sometimes can't help but to indulge himself onto your thoughts.

'I said that I could do things myself, deal with things myself, didn't I.' You feel your heart heavy in your chest, tossing, turning and folding itself up. 'I know that I'm being too clingy anyways.'

Waiting to escape from these thoughts, you subconsciously put yourself in autopilot as you leave your unit and end up in front of the playground that sits across from your specific building. You allow yourself to drag your feet until you end up slumping onto one of the swing sets.

With a pathetic attempt of swinging, you only end up slightly jostling yourself before coming to a stop. You can't help but to reminisce of the times when your parents would push you since your legs couldn't reach the bottom. Kicking the ground with greater force, it gives you the momentum to start swinging your legs. You could perfectly swing yourself, but all that you could wish for at this moment would be to not have to push yourself on the swings. To have someone pushing your back. To have your back.

To have to not feel lonely anymore.

Deciding to stop swinging your legs, you let the momentum allow you to continue to ride the wind back and forth until you come to a gradual slow still. You take a moment to stare at your sneakers, the same pair that your parents once bought you as a gift for getting accepted into Teyvat University. The once pristine and creaseless kicks now appear dull and beat up, and you can’t help but think that your shoes remind you of yourself at this very moment.

‘But worn out shoes show that they're loved.’

The corner of your lip twitches upwards and you sharply exhale out of your nose realizing that even in your dim moments, Lumine’s words never fail to pierce through the shadows, illuminating themselves to be seen once again. With your head now feeling a bit clearer and lighter, you finally raise your head and notice that you’re not as alone as you once were.

Gazing from left to right, you spot a couple of teens playing basketball and/or skateboarding in the court beside you, as well as the handful of joggers on the sidewalks surrounding the area. You let yourself slip out of the rubber seat and let go of the metal chains holding the swing up. Reaching your hand into your hoodie’s front pocket for your phone, you start to panic when you don’t feel the familiar device. Your panic ends as quick as it started when you spot it on a pile of wood chips a bit to the side where the swing naturally rests.

Bending down to grab your phone, you feel your body start to ache. Now knowing that your moving endeavors from the day are catching up to you, you decide that you want to simply head straight to your apartment to rest up for the night. It should have been simple, just walking 20 meters without any incidents.

‘It never is for me.’

Your first mistake was having your headphones still connected and playing music, unknowing of the warning call directed your way. Your second mistake was paying attention to your phone rather than focusing on where you place each of your steps. Your right foot landed on a spare skateboard that rested on the edge of the sidewalk, and not thinking, you tried to take a step forwards with your left foot making you start to fall face first.

Everything happened so fast that it’s still complicated to process what happened. All you saw was a flash of red before feeling arms wrap around you and your face pressing against something firm before falling to the ground.

scrunkle: "used to describe something or someone cute" (as seen on urban dictionary; me and my friends started to use this and it just stuck with me)

the moving process could have definitely taken less than two hours,,if only you guys hadn't started talking about aespa's new album

since lumine/aether don't have canonical birth dates, i'll just say that their birthday is on 1/1, new years !!

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notes: this chapter took so long to write,,maybe i was just too nervous to actually post it 乁₍ッ₎ㄏ

i feel like you could see where i derailed in the middle but anywho,,hope you guys enjoyed hehe

taglist: open! @whipped-for-fictionals @aisclosed @cieluna @freshlaundry

#cupid ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #diluc x reader #diluc x you #genshin smau #ttalgi stans diluc #ttalgi writes

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