#for a first in wisp history:
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
elderwisp · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
190 notes · View notes
em1i2a3 · 23 days ago
Text
No Angels
Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader
Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding
Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)
Word Count: 18,010
Tumblr media Tumblr media
The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”
You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.
Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.
”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.
”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.
”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.
“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.
“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.
“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.
”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“
”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.
Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.
”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.
Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.
You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.
You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.
“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.
”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”
”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”
“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.
“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”
“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”
That had shut you up pretty quickly.
He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.
Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.
From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.
It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.
Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”
Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”
Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”
That had been the end of it.
Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.
Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.
He knew what you were to Rhett.
And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.
One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.
“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.
”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.
”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.
Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.
You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.
You’d gotten good at control.
“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.
”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.
”Been quiet since we pulled in…”
“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.
“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.
”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.
”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.
“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.
In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.
A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.
Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.
Because it did.
Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.
He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.
You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”
And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.
“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.
Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.
“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”
You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.
“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”
Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.
And you didn’t.
But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”
Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.
“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”
Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.
“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.
Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.
You watched him go.
And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–
You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.
“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”
Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.
Maria Olivares.
You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.
She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.
And yet here she was.
You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.
”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.
“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.
”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.
Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.
”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.
You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…
Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.
You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”
And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”
Because what else could you do?
You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.
Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.
So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”
You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.
And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.
But now, she was here.
In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.
“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”
You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.
”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.
”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.
“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.
“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.
”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.
You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.
Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.
You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”
“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.
Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.
You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.
“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.
Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”
You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”
Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”
You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”
That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.
“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”
You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.
Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.
“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.
Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”
You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”
Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”
”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.
He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”
And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.
“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”
You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”
Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”
You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”
“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”
Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.
“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”
Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.
He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.
But your chest was a live wire.
Because he didn’t know she was here.
And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.
But you knew exactly what it would do to you.
Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”
And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.
————————
The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.
Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.
You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.
He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.
“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.
“Yeah…You looked good out there.”
But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.
“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.
“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.
“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”
You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”
There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”
You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”
Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.
Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.
You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.
————————
The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.
But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.
Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.
The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.
You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.
Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.
Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.
“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”
Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”
“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”
Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.
“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”
“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.
“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.
You stared at the condensation on your glass.
Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.
They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.
Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.
But it felt like watching them through a window.
At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.
You drained your glass.
The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.
“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.
”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”
Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”
”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.
”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.
”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.
”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.
And then you caught it–that scent.
Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.
And it always made you a little dizzy.
You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.
“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.
His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.
And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.
“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.
You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.
“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.
Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.
You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.
You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.
And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.
As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.
Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.
And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.
“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”
Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”
He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”
She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”
Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”
Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”
Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”
You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”
She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.
Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.
You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.
You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.
Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.
Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.
“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.
“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.
————————
The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.
It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.
Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.
“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.
You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.
“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”
You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”
He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.
“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”
“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”
Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.
“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”
“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.
“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”
You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”
Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”
Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.
“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”
Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”
You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.
“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.
“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.
“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”
Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.
“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.
You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.
“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.
He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.
And he remembered.
He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.
But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”
Didn’t even ask what night.
You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.
He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.
Sometimes he wished he could read minds.
Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.
What you thought when Maria’s name came up.
What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.
What you thought about him, period.
Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?
“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.
Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.
Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.
“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”
You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.
He always did.
Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.
“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.
But instead you said:
”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.
————————
The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.
You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.
You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.
“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”
He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.
“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.
“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.
“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.
“Guess it hit me late.”
He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–
“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.
“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.
“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.
“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”
“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.
“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.
“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”
“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”
“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.
Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.
And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.
But not tonight.
Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.
You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.
Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.
Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.
“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.
“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”
You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.
The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.
“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”
Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”
You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.
The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.
The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.
The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.
The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.
The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.
It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.
You had cried when he showed you the key.
The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.
The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.
Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.
You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.
You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.
The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.
Tires.
Crunching gravel.
Slow. Deliberate.
You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.
A truck.
Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.
Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.
You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.
“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”
You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.
It wasn’t Perry.
It was Rhett.
Soaked to the damn bone.
His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.
And his expression…He looked furious.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.
It was a supernova.
Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.
“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.
You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.
“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”
But he didn’t bite.
He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.
“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”
You froze in place.
“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.
“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”
You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.
You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.
You swallowed.
“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”
You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.
He caught your wrist.
Not hard. Not angry.
Just… steady.
Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.
“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”
And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.
And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.
The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.
Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.
Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:
“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”
Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.
Rhett saw it.
And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.
He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.
“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a command.
You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.
Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.
They couldn’t.
Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.
“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”
You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”
He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.
“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”
Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.
“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”
Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.
“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”
And there it was.
Out in the open.
The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.
Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.
“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”
“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.
“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”
Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”
That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.
“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”
And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.
But this time?
This time it wasn’t to stop you.
It was to make you listen.
He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.
“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”
You froze.
Every word struck like thunder in your gut.
Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.
He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.
“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.
And it did.
You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.
And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–
You launched forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.
Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.
“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.
And all you could think was: finally.
Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.
You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.
“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”
You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.
“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.
“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”
“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.
But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—
You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.
Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.
You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.
Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.
You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.
But not like this.
Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.
He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.
He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.
Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.
This one was feral.
Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.
You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.
His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.
It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.
The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.
You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.
And maybe he had.
“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”
You barely had time to answer.
Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.
You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.
He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.
“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.
You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”
Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.
You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.
Rhett didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared.
“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”
You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”
His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.
You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”
Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.
You nodded.
That was all he needed.
His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.
You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.
And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.
“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.
Loud.
Right against your nipple.
The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.
His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.
And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.
He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.
You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.
In him.
His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.
He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.
“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.
“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”
He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.
Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.
You nodded.
That was all he needed.
He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?
His breath caught.
“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.
Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.
“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”
You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.
Then–without warning–he dove in.
His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.
“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.
“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.
“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.
His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.
Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.
You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.
Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.
“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.
“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”
“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”
He smirked into your core.
“Didn’t plan on it.”
And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.
You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.
Rhett didn’t stop.
Not through your first wave, or the second.
He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.
And then he kissed you.
Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.
You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.
“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”
You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.
“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”
That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.
And then he paused.
Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.
“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”
Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.
You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.
“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”
Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.
“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”
He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.
Then he pushed them down.
The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.
Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.
Because Jesus Christ.
He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.
Your mouth actually watered.
You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.
Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.
He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.
“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”
You whimpered–because he was right.
Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.
The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.
“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”
You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.
“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.
You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”
That broke him.
Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.
He was fully inside.
You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.
“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”
You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”
He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.
“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.
He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.
”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”
His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.
“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”
“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”
He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.
“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”
You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.
And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.
His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.
You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.
“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”
That did it.
His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.
“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“
You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.
The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.
“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”
Your climax hit like a lightning strike.
You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.
And he broke.
With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.
“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.
You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.
The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.
Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.
“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.
You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”
He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.
“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”
You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.
He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.
Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.
“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”
And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.
1K notes · View notes
lustlovehart · 5 months ago
Text
Modern Monster!Twst... mmm (I need to stop making different variations of the same au LMAO)
Warnings: Human Eating, Blood, influencer!Reader (who is the opposite of MH!Reader in terms of personality. You'll see how 😭), Breaking and Entering, Zombies in your bed
Maybe rather than a monster hunter, you’re an influencer who fakes monster sightings. You record yourself sifting through abandoned places, searching every place, and without fail, something always seems to appear from the shadows, your poor self only narrowly escaping...
Most of your audience knows its, but there are always many who believe its real simply from the sheer horror! It looks so real!
With your camera in hand, you walk into the abandoned asylum, famed in history for its treatments. When patients go mad, they lock their necks with tight collars, old studies believing it would stop the illness from spreading to their heads... Heartslaybul "hospital".
Maybe it's a special live stream. While you're talking the chat begins to explode with worries, their fear seeping into you.
Your friend didn't tell you they were gonna set off the fake that early... You're ready to turn off your camera and search for them, only to be met with a glowing, transparent light. It's similar to the ghost fake you've used a few times before, but... since when was it red?
Realization finally hits you when you turn to the side; pale blue hair holds what looks like your friend's camera, curiously gazing at the contraption splattered with crimson liquid. He carries it above and lets the scarlet drip into his mouth.
You drop your stream onto the floor, not daring to look at the chat, nor your back before you sprint as far as you can. You don't even make it five feet before you're met with decaying limbs wrapping around you, orange hair invading your vision, and a heart-shaped wound on your captors face.
"You like monsters a lot, don't you?" his smile is cocky as his arms envelop your waist, "you wouldn't mind letting one take a bite, yeah?" He's about to take a chunk out of you with his canines before another rotting man appears, except with more stitches than wounds and a height that towers over everything. He's swift to hoist you over his shoulder, out of the gluttonous beast's range.
"You have to share, Ace. It's harder to find food than it was a while ago." You would jump out of his hold, but being eight feet in the air is horrifying.
Any shouts are caught in your throat, especially when another person comes into frame, except... He looks the most normal out of all them, albeit the slight wisp in his body... and the way his mouth is delayed like it doesn't belong there.
"They're kinda cute! Can't believe this frail thing is the one I've been watching!" his bright personality contrasts the dark background, as well as the stifling atmosphere. The corpse holding your friend's camera walks over. His face looks sorry, but the way he licks his lips clean of blood tells a different one.
Your lips tremble; you may not have seen it first hand, but you'd be a fool to believe they survived that. Survive...
You have to...! You really wish you had a gun right now, or maybe even a knife you don't know! Anything!
"Here's your friends... weapon, I think. They were kinda hitting me with it so."
...
"Please don't eat me!!! I've been eating junk for the last few weeks. I promise I probably taste like grease and sugar!" Maybe they're the brain-eating type... "Ah, I'm... stupid! Yeah, my brain doesn't taste good at all!" You continue your blabbering, begging them not to take a bite out of you as you flail. Your legs kick the giant you're on, and each hit has him awkwardly smiling, yet it doesn't stop him from holding you. he doesn't seem phased at all...
If you can somehow get out, the exit to the forest isn't far... In fact! Your apartment isn't far at all!
The red glow you saw first float in front of you, the stitched corners of his mouth twitching into a devious smile.
"No one's broken the rules of coming here in awhile. Even humans have gone as far to make rules themself about entering, yet you disobeyed them too." he leans closer, dark hollow eyes staring into yours. "You broke them; what is your reason?"
"I saw a picture of you online and thought you were really cute so I came to find you!"
That, is what seems to shock everyone into paralysis.
You quickly flip yourself over, your back hitting the floor before running towards your exit. You can hear them all running after you, yet when you turn, the one that catches your attention is the scarlet ghost. His eyes are distant, yet they seem fixated entirely on you.
...
Your breath is heavy as you fall down your door, processing what just happened. How... How do you explain your friends disappearance? If anything... You'll be the first suspect.
What do you, what do you do, what do you??
The stress has you passing out on your floor, your whole body trembling in fear at the reality that you have almost lost your life.
In your slumber, you fail to realize the five figures that stare at you through your window.
...
You shift in your covers, the alarm on your clock waking you up. Slowly, you lean up, your mattress creaking from the movement. A dream, a horrible dream... Your worries lift off your chest at the prospect. It was so realistic...
The sight of a bloody camera and cracked phone makes your initial relief disappear.
"Man, I didn't realize how comfy beds were now...!" the voice has you look to your left a rotten moving corpse under your sheets with you, the heart-wounded monster smiling at your shock. The shift of a different zombie has you looking to your right, pale blue emerging from under the blankets.
"He made me sleep here, i'm so sorry-"
"I did not; you came in here on your own Deuce-!"
You jump out of your bed, your body hitting the wall as photos fall to the floor. "How... How...? How the hell-?!" You reach for a fork you had lying around on your desk, an unfortunately familiar large hand gently grabbing your wrist and guiding the utensil away from the zombies.
"Sorry, silver works better on vampires." A spark of electricity leaves him when he exchanges this fact, the shock barely caressing your skin. You leap at the sensation, metal sounding off the floor. The corpse complied of different flesh, smiles at you as if you were simply jumpy, not absolutely horrified.
Those exist too?!
The curtains to your room are closed, minimal light seeping through. It might be cause for your current predicament. You swear, as they talk to you, a pair of green irises stare you down, and right when you're about to direct attention to the entity, shadows wave you goodbye.
It's as if you've given up your drive when they watch you sit on the floor, blankly staring at their rose tyrant.
"Can you at least kill me painlessly before you eat me...?" They all stare at the sudden willingness you have for their hunger... Their shock subsides when they notice the way you have a far-away camera recording them. It's no worry to them though; it's not live.
Riddle's apparitional form floats forward, the first one to break the stalemate. You shut your eyes tight, sticking your arm out for him like he was a vampire rather than a ghost.
as long as someone, anyone really, finds the footage...
You can go out famous for your mysterious death!
"Don't be foolish." Riddles cold wispy hand suddenly solidifies, his warm palm taking your hand. "the only way to truly stop a rule-breakers transgressions, is to make sure they can never do them again." They're gonna kill you. They're gonna-
"We're staying right here." Wait, is he saying...
Are they gonna live with you!?
Tumblr media
A/n: I was actually gonna do all the dorms for this but realized i need to stop doing long posts for really small stuff 😔
It's not clear, but all of them actually know who you are solely from the phone Riddle got Cater when he went out as a human. he found you and then showed you all to them, collectively agreeing you'd be a good meal.
Riddle thought you were pretty on sight, but knows it's in his best interest to stay rule-abiding and just stick to consuming you. It must be destiny, the influencer they've all been secretly crushing on watching, said they thought he was pretty.
Cue the rest of Modern! Monster Twst about a fake monster investigator and the very real monsters who start living with them solely out of affection <3
573 notes · View notes
brain-rot-central · 1 year ago
Text
Pegging Your Vampire Boyfriend: A Beginner's Guide
A/N: This is exactly what you think it is. Kudos to @kittenintheden & Shaurbox for teasing this pegging idea with me over a month ago. It hasn't left my head since.
Rating: E, a very hard E Words: 5.3k Pairing: Spawn!Astarion/Fem!Reader Warnings: 18+, pegging, bdsm- soft!Dom Tav & sub!Astarion, bottom!Astarion, praise kink, ear play, size kink if you squint, inappropriate use of magical scrolls, oral sex - fellatio, anal fingering, anal sex, trauma mention, intimacy issues, verbalized consent, blood warning
Summary: Astarion has been on the receiving end before, but not since he's gotten with you. Wanting to try it again, he propositions you in a rather intimate way.
“Darling?”
A soft, questioning voice calls out from the living quarters of your shared home. 
“I'm in the kitchen, love,” you respond. You're standing before the countertop, fileting a roast of beef into smaller portions for easier storage.
Wisps of bergamot fill your senses as the inquisitor reveals himself, arms wrapping gently around your waist. His nose dips into the crook of your neck, cool lips planting chaste kisses upon your skin.
“Oh, that smells divine,” he comments. Of course it does - it's a blood-soaked slab of beef. You laugh and lean your head into his, carefully slicing another steak from the meat. He covers the hand holding your knife and brings it carefully to his face, tongue lolling out to drag across the flat of the blade. He sighs in contentment as the blood soaks into his tongue, lavishing the flavor.
You wince as he releases the grip on your hand, gently placing the knife off to the side. I’ll need a new one, now, you comment to yourself. 
“Is there something you needed, Astarion?” you ask him.
He hums low in his throat. “Hmm, yes, there was something I wanted to ask you.” He peels himself away from your back and stands straight. His hands are still on your hips and you feel his forehead fall against your back.
In a whisper, he asks, “How do you feel… about taking the reins?”
You turn your head to the side, cocking an eyebrow as you ask, “What do you mean? I was on top last time.”
Astarion laughs against your back, a puff of cool air passing over your clothed skin. “I know, love,” he begins. “I mean to suggest that… you play the part of me. And I… well, you.”
It takes your brain a few seconds to interpret his words, but once it finally comes together, you feel a blush beginning to creep up your chest.
“Oh!” you exclaim, now with full understanding. “A-are you sure? I'm not opposed to it, but I have to admit… I've never done it before.”
Astarion chuckles lightly, tightening his grip around your waist, placing soft kisses along the side of your neck. “Neither have I, my dear.”
You peel yourself out of his embrace, turning your whole body toward him. A scowl lines your face; you know of his history.
“Well, I-” he stammers. “I've been with men, yes; laid on my back a number of times for them.” Astarion casts his eyes to the floor before continuing, “I have never done… this, though. With a woman.”
Expression softening from his explanation, you turn your body again toward the counter, moving yourself over to the sink to begin washing your hands. “Are you sure you want to explore this?” you ask, concern evident. “That it won't bring back… memories?”
He leans against the opposite end of the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “There's no way to truly know unless we try,” he explains. “Though, I must admit, it's been on my mind incessantly, as of late.”
It's your turn to laugh, grabbing a hand towel to dry your hands. “Really?” you ask. “You've been thinking about me fucking you?”
Astarion scoffs, a scowl forming on his face. “Must you be so vulgar?”
You smile, moving toward him to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “I'd be your first?”
He sighs with an eye roll before saying, “Proverbially speaking, yes, you would be my first.” Astarion's hand comes up to hold your chin fast as he captures your lips in a chaste kiss. “My second first.”
You hum in satisfaction, wrapping your arms around his waist. He releases your chin and you rest your head against his chest. “So, how do we do this?” you inquire. “I wouldn't even know the first place to start.”
Leaning his cheek against the side of your forehead, he replies, “Not to worry, I've taken care of that already.”
“Astarion!” you exclaim, lifting your head from his chest.
He smiles as he meets your gaze. “I already told you I've been thinking about it!”
You lightly tap on his chest in a scolding manner before asking, “How did you know I'd even be okay with this idea?”
“I didn't,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders. “But even if you weren't, I'd still have something to play with later.”
Your face burns at his bold admission, images of him sinking said something into himself flooding your vision. You've never thought of him in that way before, but you quickly admit to yourself just how much it excites you.
“Hello?” Astarion asks innocently, waving his hand over your face. “Are you still with me? Have I given you too much to think about?”
“You're terrible,” you tease, peeling yourself from his embrace in a huff once again. Your face is as red as hot coals, head swimming. “When did you want to try this?” 
Astarion cocks his head to one side in thought. “I was thinking tonight?” he answers. “Or sometime soon. Whatever works for you, love.”
Nodding your head in agreement, you say, “Alright, then. Tonight it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Evening has fallen and you're fresh from the bath. You walk out into your shared bedroom, bathrobe wrapped snugly around your form as you dry your hair with a towel. Astarion bathed earlier as you cleaned the kitchen, telling you he would use the opportunity to prepare for your night ahead.
“Ah, there you are!” he exclaims in joy. “I've been waiting for you.” Dipping down into the drawer of the end table next to the bed, Astarion says, “There are a couple options we can choose from, darling.”
Astarion is dressed in nothing but his ruffled white shirt with the front laces undone, and his favorite pair of baby-blue and gold underwear. The hem of the shirt covers his underwear, giving off the illusion of wearing nothing underneath.
Standing up straight, he's now holding a tube of rolled parchment in one hand and a phallic toy in the other. “We have a scroll of Mystical Phallus,” Astarion explains, “or, your more traditional approach.”
You smirk as you run the towel through your damp hair, letting your bathrobe fall to the floor. Lifting your chin toward the direction of the parchment, you ask, “What's the deal with the scroll?”
Astarion clears his throat as the robe falls off your form, eyes quickly roaming over your newly exposed skin. He turns to place the toy back in the drawer, returning to meet your gaze before saying, “The shopkeeper explained it as ‘granting the caster a temporary phallus that's as close to the real thing.’ Not quite sure to what level it goes, but I'll admit - I am curious.”
“Alright, let's go with that one, then,” you decide, walking over to take the scroll from his hand. 
You're not too familiar with magic, being a soldier and all, but you've used scrolls before. Opening the paper tube, you're relieved to find that the spell is a rather simple one.
As you recite the incantation etched within the scroll, a faint blue light envelops the room for a mere moment. The light fades, the scroll disintegrating, and you can't help but notice an unfamiliar heaviness between your thighs that wasn't there before.
“Oh,” Astarion comments, shifting his weight onto one hip, accompanied by a hand. “Well, that's rather generous.”
Looking down, your eyes drink in the source of your discomfort. Glowing blue, and well endowed, lay a cock. Your cock, at least for tonight. It juts up proudly in the air from between your thighs, seeming like an extension of your clitoris. Other parts, thankfully, have remained unchanged.
“...Oh,” is all you manage, continuing to survey the mystical length. “This… this is mine?”
Astarion walks over, lowering himself onto his knees in front of you. “It would appear as such,” he states. “And my, oh my, how beautiful it is.”
You scowl, meeting his gaze. You're suddenly uncomfortable, his eyes flitting between yours and your newly summoned appendage. “I don't know what to do, Astarion,” you admit in a hushed tone.
He chuckles lightly. “Touch it, love,” he says, reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. It's your cock.”
Nodding your head, you bring a hand up hesitantly to brush over your new addition. “Ah!” you exclaim in shock, your fingertips passing over the bulbous tip. A familiar pulling sensation in your groin begins to stir as you bend slightly inward.
Astarion, looking up at you with wide eyes, asks, “So? How does it feel?”
You can feel everything, as if this has always been part of your anatomy. Each feathered touch sends sparks of electricity up and through you, snagging behind a peculiar spot in your lower stomach.
“Real, Astarion,” you sigh in disbelief, giving yourself a few more tentative touches along the shaft. “I feel like this is my cock.”
“Do you, now?” he quips in a sultry tone. “Is it okay if I do this, then?”
Your mind barely has time to register what he might be implying before Astarion drags the flat of his tongue up the underside of your ethereal summon. Your vision blanks from the sensation, nearly toppling over had Astarion not been bracing you.
“Wh-what was that?” you yell, nearly breathless.
Concern outlining his face, Astarion asks from below you, “Too much? We can stop, if you want.”
You shake your head in disagreement. “N-no,” you respond. “No, that's not it.” Placing a hand on his head, you brush his fallen curls out of his eyes, meeting them with yours. “If this is even remotely close to how you feel when it's me doing this,” you explain, “then I appreciate the level of self-control you maintain over yourself.”
Astarion hums in satisfaction, placing a quick kiss along your shaft before rising to his feet. “It's a lot, I'll admit,” he tells you. Your length jumps in response, and he smiles. “Especially how you suck my cock.”
You're barely able to respond before Astarion’s kissing you; soft, but passionate. His hands grab hold of your hips, drawing you in closer until your centers meet. You moan into his mouth as he repeats the motion a few times, your jaw going slack under his ministrations.
His arousal is evident through the fabric of his undergarments, though not quite there just yet. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you roll your hips into his with vigor, a bolt of pleasure pulling behind your pubic bone. He groans, tangling his tongue with yours, and begins walking you back until you hit the wall behind you.
Astarion asks, “Do you want me to do that to you, darling?” breathily, breaking the kiss. A hand winds in your hair, pulling your head to the side as he licks a stripe up the side of your neck. 
You shudder under his touch, grinding your length against his clothed erection again, searching for friction. “O-oooh-nly,” you groan, “i-if you want.”
Astarion pulls himself back entirely, tapping a finger lightly on your chest. “Ah-ah-ah,” he chides, “I asked you. I already know what I want.”
You close your eyes in frustration, hips involuntarily lurching forward in an attempt to catch more contact. You feel how heavy your cock is - painfully hard between your legs, desperate for release. It throbs in time with your clit, and you feel the wetness of your arousal beginning to gather at the apex of your thighs. 
“Y-yes, please,” you gasp, thighs rubbing together in a hopeless quest for relief.
Satisfied, Astarion plants a kiss along your jaw, placing his hands on either side of your shoulders. “Good girl,” he purrs as he begins to kneel again. Tracing a line of kisses down your body, starting between the valley of your breasts, his hands move down to cup each within his palms.
Rolling the sensitive peaks of your nipples between his fingertips, your body jerks again, cock brushing ever so lightly against his chest as he continues kissing down the plane of your abdomen. Astarion, now sitting on his heels, braces his hands against your thighs. 
He looks up to meet your eyes through full lashes. “Please tell me to stop if it becomes too much,” he tells you, genuine concern lacing his tone.
You hum in agreement, a hand coming up to tangle within the silver locks atop his head. Watching as he closes his eyes, Astarion licks again at the underside of your cock, base to tip. You shudder as his hand wraps delicately around your shaft, peeling the foreskin back. He takes a few tentative passes with his tongue along your frenulum, meeting your eyes momentarily to gauge your reaction.
Your hips buck and stutter under his tongue, a string of pleasured gasps and guttural moans slipping past your lips. The hand in his hair tightens as he takes the head of you past his lips, suckling softly on the sensitive gland. 
It takes a world of restraint not to shove the rest of yourself into the inviting cavern of his mouth. Astarion must know this, however, as the hand still planted on your thigh moves to your hip, holding you still. He doesn’t leave you wanting for long, passing as much of your length into his mouth as he can manage, his hand following you down to the base. He flattens his tongue on the way back up, hollowing out his cheeks as he reaches the tip, only to do it all over again.
Knees growing weak, you push your back into the wall behind you to hold yourself steady. The hand in his hair slips, pads of your fingers passing just over the tip of his ear. Astarion moans at the faint touch, the vibration shooting up through your cock and spreading like wildfire throughout your abdomen. You perform the same motion again, and Astarion begins craning his head into your touch.
“A-ah-” he gasps, pulling himself off of you. “Darling, if you keep doing that, I-”
His mouth falls open in a delicate pant, eyes flitting closed as he works his spittle over your length with his hand. You continue toying with the outer shell of his ear, intrigued at this new discovery, and he rests his forehead against your hip. 
“I never knew you had such sensitive ears,” you comment as you look down, watching him rub his thighs together as his hips buck up and down into the air.
With a drawn out groan, Astarion explains, “I’m an elf, my love. We all have sensitive ears.”
“Noted,” you respond, shakily bringing a hand down to join him along your shaft. You softly peel off his touch, lacing your fingers together. “I-I think I want to try something else, now,” you admit.
Smiling, Astarion slowly rises to his feet, cradling your jaw within his hand. His lips, swollen and soft from his prior activity, find yours; his kiss is desperate - hungry. “What do you have in mind?” he questions between quickly stolen breaths.
A fire swells within your core, and you're suddenly met with the same raging intensity and desire displayed in Astarion's kiss.
Hand tangling within his mess of moonlit curls once again, you pull Astarion’s head back, exposing the marble column of his throat. He groans when you drag the flat of your tongue over the apple of his throat, hips jerking into yours.
“I want to try fucking you,” you whisper into his skin, grinding your conjured length against his concealed erection to punctuate your intent. The coiling in your core winds tighter, but not enough to snap just yet.
As his weight presses into you, his hands grip your biceps for stability. Another roll of his hips and he sighs, dropping his head down to catch your eyes. “Are you sure?” he questions, breathless. “Because I'd really like that.”
With a nod of your head, your hands travel up under the hem of his shirt to settle on strong, narrow hips. Your lips meet again, the kiss just as ravenous as before, and begin walking you both toward the bed. When Astarion’s knees hit the edge of the bed, he gently falls back, with you quickly closing the distance above him.
“You needn’t worry about preparation,” he reveals as you lavish attention on his neck. “I took care of that earlier.” 
He shudders beneath you as you mouth his scars. “Isn’t that part of this whole process?” you ask while hooking your hands into the waistband of his underwear, slowly tugging them down.
Astarion lifts his hips up and laughs, providing enough space for you to slide the cotton fabric down and off his form. “It is, but I figured it was gracious enough of you to entertain this idea,” he explains. “Prep for this is… well, intimate.” He averts your gaze for a brief moment, drawing a large breath in before continuing, “I would understand if it didn’t appeal to you.”
Removing yourself from his reach, you sit back over your legs. His face shifts uneasily at your sudden withdrawal. “Astarion,” you begin to tell him, “I’m not ashamed of your body. I want to explore this as a couple.” He’s drawn his legs together in a likely attempt at covering himself. You place a hand atop one knee, rubbing soft circles as you say reassuringly, “All of it, together. So, please. Let me?”
Astarion sits up with a smile, and rests his forehead over yours. “If you keep being this nice to me, I may just return the favor,” he says, light-heartedly.
“You already do, Astarion,” you tell him with a laugh. “Always the gentleman.”
His kiss is a quick peck over your lips as he tells you, “There's a bottle of oil in the bedside drawer. Grab it, and I'll show you what to do.” 
You nod, sliding off the mattress and doing as instructed. Astarion moves himself higher into the center of the bed, sinking into the comforter and pillows. The bed dips below him as you climb back on, bottle of viscous liquid in hand.
“Pour some into one palm and rub your hands together, love,” he instructs. “This helps warm the oil.”
Popping the stopper off the bottle, you pour the cool, thick, opaque fluid out into your hand. You reapply the cork, placing it face up on top of the bedside drawer, rubbing the palms of your hands together. It takes a bit, but inevitably your body heat begins to seep into the oil.
Astarion lay before you, eyes beginning to hood over as he follows your hands. His legs fall silently open as his breath hitches for a mere moment. “Good,” he says encouragingly, his voice an octave lower. “Now, come here. Between my legs.”
You move in closer and note how the hem of his shirt is obscuring his cock from view. You can just make it out, though - it pushes against the fabric of the shirt, tenting it slightly and you swear you see a small darkened spot right where the tip of his cock lay hidden. Looking up, your eyes drink in how his collar has fallen to one side, sliding down and off his right shoulder, exposing his collar bone. Astarion normally wears this shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight, yet today, he's chosen to wear them loose.
His hands, half covered by the cuffs of his sleeves, envelop yours in a gentle embrace as he guides your slickened fingers to his core. Astarion stills for a moment, and you look up to find him staring back at you. 
There's an expression on his face that you’re not immediately familiar with - it's not fear, excitement, or lust, really. Yet, the longer you study him, recognition begins to dawn over you. 
It's the same look you've given him countless times before on this very bed, having thrown caution to the wind as you entwine the very fabric of your souls together.
Astarion is… submitting himself. To you.
Something majorly delicate, knowing his past. 
You know of what he was forced to endure while being compelled into submission. 
The barrage of lovers who cared not for the person below them; who saw him only as a means to an end. A quick pump, a cheap lay, a tool to scratch a nagging itch.
“Some people refer to the moment of climax as ‘a little death,’” he’d once told you. That was before you knew just how many he'd lead to their actual deaths.
True to form, Astarion's words are often double-edged blades. His mind dances constantly on the edge of pleasure and shame. You see it in his face, now. He’s standing on that precipice, knowing not whether to jump head first or step back.
You swallow thickly and stare back at him, unblinking, before saying, “You can always tell me if it becomes too much, and I will stop.” You pause for a brief moment before adding, “Pleasure is my only intent, Astarion.”
A smile graces his lips as he welcomes your fingers to make first contact with his entrance. “Oh, my dear,” he says with a sigh, “I’ve never doubted that about you.”
Leaning over him as you press the pads of two fingers teasingly against his tight ring of muscle, you kiss him. Astarion groans softly into your mouth, his hands coming up to cup either side of your face as he arches into the kiss. He’s grinding down lightly into your fingers, meeting each of your chaste touches against him.
“How many should I start with?” you ask softly, breaking the kiss for a brief moment.
“Two,” he answers, voice but a whisper against your lips. “Whichever ones you want.”
Humming into his mouth, you begin pushing your fingers into his entrance. Astarion’s breath hitches as you breach the perimeter, shoving his head back against the pillows. He instinctively tries closing his legs around you, though you hold one open with your free hand.
You still your movements, giving him a chance to adjust to the intrusion. “Is it alright?” you ask him.
Astarion nods his head as he moves a hand under his shirt to toy with a nipple. “Yes,” he huffs out. “I'm more than fine, love.”
Emboldened to the task at hand, you move, gently pushing and pulling your fingers within him. You feel his muscles contract around you and you briefly wonder if this is what he feels when he's inside of you. The thought sends a bolt of pleasure to your cunt, reverberating as a twitch of your cock. 
You look down to watch your fingers as they work him open, and finally see his cock laying against the plane of his abdomen. Compared to the pallor of the rest of him, his length is flushed pink and red, and you can make out the labored beating of his undead heart as his cock thumps softly against his stomach. Pre-fluid seeps from his tip, gathering in a small puddle just below his navel. Bending down, you catch a small rivulet rolling off his hip with your tongue, tracing it back to the source. Astarion shudders under you, threading his free hand through your hair as he pushes down onto your fingers.
You're beginning to understand that this isn't too different from your usual sexual encounters with one another. It's truly just a mirroring of your typical positions. Out of curiosity, you curl your fingers upward in one particular pass, and his entire body spasms beneath you.
“Fuck, darling, yes… You've found it,” Astarion groans out, labored. The grip in your hair tightens and he begins fucking himself in earnest on your fingers, a string of moans falling from his lips as he passes that same spot over and over again.
Your cunt aches and your cock throbs watching the scene before you. To see him unraveling before you, submitting himself to the pleasure of the moment is intoxicating. His legs have fallen open again and you watch, diligently, at how easily your fingers glide in and out of his core.
“I- I need more,” Astarion suddenly chokes out. You meet his gaze and through lust-hooded eyes, he says, “Please… let me ride you.”
He's pleading, you notice. Begging. Your eyes travel down his form again, drinking in the wanton display of him splitting himself open over your fingers. Your cunt throbs; you think of nothing else in that moment but pulling out your fingers and replacing them with your cock. 
To hear the delicious whines, the sobs, the cries that would surely tumble freely from Astarion's lips as he came undone around you. You want this, just as much as he does.
Pulling your hand free from his entrance, Astarion sobs as you crash your lips into his. “I'd love that,” you tell him, honestly.
Astarion begins to sit up, concentrating on never breaking the kiss you share as he aids you both in switching positions. You lay back, him straddling your lap mere moments later. He grinds his taint against your conjured appendage, your shafts brushing, and he cries out in a gentle moan against your lips. He breaks the kiss, reaching for the bottle of oil on the bedside table, dribbling some onto your cock.
With a few languid strokes of your mystical length to spread the oil and he lines himself up over you. Your eyes meet and you hiss through clenched teeth as your tip kisses his entrance, feeling the pressure slide over your glans as he slowly begins to take you.
“A-ahh,” Astarion pants from above you, still holding your cock steady in one hand. You sigh as you feel yourself push past the first ring of muscle, throwing your head back against the pillows. Your hands grip at his thighs as the sensation threatens to overwhelm you, fingertips likely to leave bruises that will be gone come morning.
Once he feels confident that you're nestled far enough inside, he releases his hold on your shaft, resting the palms of his hands against your lower stomach. He continues to slowly take you further in, words in a language you're unfamiliar with spilling from his mouth, until he's flush against your thighs.
Both of you freeze in that moment - you struggle to control your ragged breathing as he flutters around you, Astarion taking a moment to adjust to this foreign, but not unpleasant, sensation.
“H-how do I feel?” he asks in a hushed voice.
Truthfully? He feels… astounding. Tight, wet, and warmer than you would have thought for a vampire. When he lifts his hips, you feel the air being pulled out of your lungs. His walls drag deliciously along your shaft, and a nagging pull starts to build behind your navel. 
Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as your eyes meet his through hooded lids. “A-amazing,” you pant out. “You feel so good, Astarion.”
He moans above you, his head falling to one side as he rolls his hips over your cock. His shirt hangs off one shoulder, the hem obscuring his cock again from view. Though, you feel its weight slap against your stomach with each lift and drop of his hips. 
Astarion’s voice comes out strained when he says, “Tell me again… please.”
You feel your cock twitch within him; he clenches around you as he locks eyes with you, waiting patiently for a response. Strands of sweat-soaked hair stick to his face, and on one particular stroke of his hips, you brush up against that place inside of him that forces his vision to blur at the edges. His mouth begins to salivate.
“Please, please, please,” he begs impatiently, voice an octave higher now. He's practically sobbing, spearing himself over your cock so each roll is angled to hit his prostate. You meet his thrusts from below, coil winding tighter within your abdomen as his walls continue to massage your cock.
You're not going to last much longer.
“You're so good for me, Astarion,” you say, obliging him. “You're being such a good boy.”
Astarion's mouth drops open as he bows his head forward, his entire body dipping down over you as a shudder passes through him. “Yes,” he whines, rocking back on your hips with renewed vigor. You feel his cock lay flat against your abdomen in this new position. It drags over your stomach, pre-fluid dripping from his tip and onto your skin providing an easier surface.
I am! And beautiful - not enough people mention that.
His words from long ago echo in your mind as you drink in his expression. He's gorgeous above you; handsome to begin with, but as he slips further toward toppling over the Cliff's edge, his beauty is quickly becoming amplified as he continues to lose composure.
“You’re beautiful like this,” you coo to him, lifting a hand from his thigh to rub over an ear.
Astarion's body is wracked by yet another tremor as he cries, “Darling, if you don’t-, I will-, I'm going-!” His head nestles into the hand toying with his ear and his hips pump erratically over your cock, having lost his prior rhythm.
You suck in a sharp breath, jaw clenched as Astarion becomes impossibly tighter around your shaft, and you groan. You're so close, so very close that all you need is one more thing to push yourself over the edge.
“Let go, Astarion,” you say, somehow finding the rhythm in his desperate rutting. The sound of skin slapping roughly fills the room as your hips meet his on his downstroke. You wrap a hand around the outline of his cock tenting his shirt, and jerk him in tempo with your thrusts.
He’s sobbing, loud and unabashedly. With one particular pass of your fingers over the outer tip of his ear, Astarion suddenly unwinds. He yells his pleasure above you, collapsing onto your chest as wave after wave overcomes him. You feel his spend seep into the fabric of his shirt and onto the skin of your abdomen in a small warm pool. 
It doesn't take long for the involuntary spasming of his core over your cock to send you spiraling into your own completion. Moans slip freely past your lips and you feel your folds become soaked, drippinh down the cleft of your ass as your relief washes over you. You bury your face against Astarion's hair, breathing in his soft silver curls and the signature cologne you know so well.
As you both begin to come down off your highs, you wrap your arms around his back and hold him tightly against your chest. You feel the spell of the phallus lift, Astarion whimpering softly as it vanishes from within him. You both lay on the bed, panting, trying to catch your breath for what feels like ages.
Astarion is first to lift up his head and say, “That… that was amazing.”
“Mm,” you hum in agreement. You can barely open your eyes as fatigue begins to set in.
Taking a finger, Astarion traces circles absentmindedly into your skin as he rests his head back down over your chest. “Darling?” he asks softly. “May I tell you something?”
Sleep almost has its claws in you when you jolt back awake, forcing your eyes to snap open and find Astarion. “Hmm?” you groan in question.
With a quick huff, Astarion says, “I just wanted to thank you for doing this with me.” He places a quick peck below your jawbone before adding, “It was really nice.”
You sigh audibly, and say “It was, we should do this again.” Your eyelids are impossibly heavy; sleep is threatening to claim you and will do so in mere moments. “I love you,” you manage to mumble out before slipping gently out of consciousness.
Astarion smiles into your skin as he says, “I love you, too,”
I love this, he thinks.
I love us.
2K notes · View notes
grace5425 · 3 months ago
Text
love you so
Stiles Stilinski had never been particularly skilled at hiding his emotions. He wore them on his sleeve—no, more like plastered them on a billboard for everyone to see. Words tended to tumble out of his mouth before he had the chance to filter or finesse them, and his big, brown eyes always gave him away. His cheeks flushed with betrayal at the slightest provocation, no matter how hard he tried to will the embarrassment away. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.
But when it came to you, he had perfected his air of indifference.
Or so, he thought.
You were Scott’s baby sister—though only by a year—and yet something about that label made you feel miles out of reach. Some unwritten, iron-clad rule of the sacred bro code had lodged itself in his brain from the moment he realized that his feelings for you weren’t just a passing crush or some fleeting schoolyard fascination. It had settled in quietly at first, just a whisper at the back of his mind. But over time, it grew louder, harder to ignore. Still, no matter how his heart thudded whenever you laughed or how his stomach twisted when you smiled in his direction, he clung to that code like a lifeline.
Because you just made it so damn easy.
It wasn’t fair—the way you wrapped yourself around his life without even realizing it. The way you still made him seal pinky promises with a kiss to the thumb, like you were both still kids, like the world hadn’t already started to pull you apart in different directions. The way you’d steal his hoodies without asking, sleeves hanging past your hands, smelling faintly like him by the time you returned them weeks later. How you always claimed the passenger seat of his Jeep like it was made for you, feet on the dash, music turned just a little too loud. The way you held him on the worst days—quietly, fiercely—when life got too heavy, too real, too much. Like you knew exactly how to carry the parts of him he didn’t let anyone else see.
And God, he knew you.
He knew the way you bit the inside of your cheek when nerves started to creep in, the way your eyes flickered around when you were overthinking. He knew what songs you played when sleep refused to come—soft, sad things with lyrics that hit too close to home. He knew you hated your natural waves, the way they curled wildly no matter how hard you tried to tame them, and how you’d scowl at your reflection, even though he thought you looked beautiful like that—free, untamed, real.
He noticed how you always caught yourself mid-sentence, slowing down the words that tended to fall out too fast, too messy for most people to follow. But he followed. He always followed. You never had to explain yourself to him—he just understood.
He knew you hated anything grape-flavored, but cherry was your favorite, despite the fact that you couldn’t stand the fruit itself. He knew you despised math with every fiber of your being, but could talk about history like it was a story only you had lived. You wanted to be a writer—he remembered the way your eyes lit up when you talked about it, your dreams too big for this town. You wanted to go to college somewhere on the coast, where the air smelled like salt and possibility. You loved the ocean—not just the view, but the sound of it, the smell of it. You said it made you feel infinite.
And somehow, with you around, he almost felt infinite too.
That’s how he felt now—completely undone—watching you from his spot on the edge of your bed. The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of whatever playlist you had playing in the background and the occasional rustle of paper as you furiously scribbled something down. The window was still cracked open from when he’d climbed through it thirty minutes earlier, letting in the crisp evening air that smelled faintly of pine and the fading light of sunset.
Your hair was thrown up in a messy knot, wisps falling loose around your face in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, though he knew you’d call it a disaster. The oversized T-shirt you wore—his, he realized with a flutter of something in his chest—hung off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of your collarbone and the faintest glimpse of a sports bra strap. It swallowed you whole, two sizes too big, and yet somehow it looked like it belonged to you more than it ever had to him.
Your eyebrows were furrowed in frustration, your full attention locked on the math worksheet spread out in front of you. You were chewing on the end of your pencil, eyes narrowing at the numbers as if glaring at them hard enough would make the answers magically appear. He was supposed to be helping you—technically, that was the whole reason he was here tonight—but he hadn’t said a word in at least ten minutes. He couldn’t. Not when you looked like that. Not when you were completely in your own world, sitting there in his T-shirt, mumbling about equations you hated, like you hadn’t just stolen the air right out of his lungs.
“You’re staring,” you said, not looking up, your voice soft but teasing, pencil still poised over the page.
Stiles blinked, caught. “No, I’m not,” he lied, terribly.
You glanced up then, one brow arched, a knowing smirk playing on your lips. “You’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes, Stilinski. Either help me figure out how to factor these equations or admit you’ve got a crush.”
His mouth opened, then closed again, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up to your words. “I—uh—what?” he stammered, voice cracking slightly. “I do not have a crush. That’s ridiculous. Who said that? You did. That’s weird. You’re weird.”
You laughed, and the sound was like sunlight—warm, unbothered, familiar. “You’re deflecting,” you said simply, turning back to your worksheet. “Classic Stiles move.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, heart thudding too loudly in his chest. “I’m not deflecting. I’m… strategizing.”
You snorted. “Oh, yeah? What’s the strategy?”
“Make you forget the math and confuse you with my charm.”
You looked up again, lips twitching like you were trying not to smile. “So far, you’re just confusing.”
“Still counts,” he muttered, but he smiled too, soft and crooked.
You stared at him for a beat longer, eyes searching his face like you were trying to decode something he hadn’t said out loud yet. Then, without warning, you scooted closer, nudging your knee against his.
“You really suck at hiding things, you know that?” you said quietly.
His breath caught. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”
You tilted your head, eyes gentle now. “So why do you keep trying to hide this?”
Stiles looked at you—really looked—and all the rules he’d tried to follow, the ones about bro code and boundaries, felt like background noise. You were right here. You always had been. And he was so, so tired of pretending.
“I guess I was waiting for the right moment,” he said.
You smiled, barely-there but real. “And?”
He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I think this is it.”
Your breath hitched, just barely, and for a second neither of you moved. The space between you was thin—barely there—and charged with something unspoken, something that had been building for a long, long time. You looked at him with those eyes that always saw too much, always saw him, and this time… you didn’t look away.
“So,” you said, your voice a little quieter now, a little more careful. “Are you gonna kiss me, or are you still waiting for a better moment?”
Stiles let out a breathy laugh, more nerves than humor. “God, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”
“Then do it,” you whispered.
And he did.
He leaned in slow, like giving you time to change your mind, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. But you didn’t move away. You met him halfway. His lips brushed yours gently at first—soft, unsure—testing the waters. But when you sighed against his mouth, everything else fell away. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened, slow and warm and just a little messy, like both of you had been waiting for this but didn’t know exactly how to do it right. It didn’t matter. It felt right. It felt like finally.
When you pulled apart, just slightly, your foreheads rested together. Neither of you opened your eyes right away.
“Guess we’re breaking a few rules,” you murmured, a breath against his lips.
Stiles smiled, still a little dazed. “Screw the rules.”
You laughed again, and he swore it was his favorite sound in the world.
“Okay,” you said, leaning in for one more kiss. “Just don’t tell Scott until after finals.”
“Deal,” he whispered, and kissed you again like he didn’t need to breathe.
203 notes · View notes
skyloftian-nutcase · 6 days ago
Text
In honor of Fan Joy July :D Have some brief Fierce Deity and the Chain, inspired by @maesonc-artistic-adventures wonderful piece of Fierce and Warriors :)
.
It’s the first time Link’s donned the mask in years.
The magic is instantly familiar and terrifying, like trying to breathe in air that’s blasted into one’s lungs at the speed of a hurricane, filling him to the brim with energy. His body is overwhelmed, mind filled with sudden pain and a fear that is not his own, with screams and laughs and memories and history and it’s too much—
Link screams, the magic taking over him entirely, and his voice deepens as he cries, his own consciousness violently shoved into a void of numbness, a blessed release, with just the sentiment of save him echoing in the distance.
The cry vanishes in the air, swallowed by the sounds of clashing swords and snarling beasts, and the Fierce Deity takes in a breath.
It’s the first time he’s been out in years.
Blank, glowing orbs scope out the environment in seconds, accustomed to taking in a disaster in an instant, and he sees four heroes still trying to fight, two huddled around one fallen teenager while another tries to reach someone who likely just got knocked down.
Fierce hardly knows these faces, only wisps of images from his host, but he knows this one.
His double helix blade is out in an instant, carving a path across the battlefield. Black blood stains the grass, like spilled ink over a green canvas, and the other heroes note quickly that a veritable force of nature is heading their way.
The monsters converge on him, recognizing he’s the greatest threat, but as heads and limbs go flying, they flee quickly. He doesn’t give them a chance to go far, stabbing his final opponent in the back, and then he reaches his destination.
He remembers this little soldier, remembers his love and care for Link, his smiles and laughs and yells and anger and courage. He remembers his battles, victories and losses alike.
There is another young one near him, hesitantly watching him, sword at the ready in his grip but tipped off to the side, waiting for the deity to make the first move.
He knows that sword, too, though he hardly knows the one holding it. Still, there’s an aura to this child, like the vague remnants of a perfume of divinity, just enough to get a hint of it.
Fierce flicks his blade with enough power to stir the air, singing as it slices, and the monsters’ blood is off in an instant. He then puts it away.
Hylia’s Chosen relaxes, still watching him. “Old man?”
Fierce doesn’t speak at first. He’s focusing on the captain, kneeling down to look him over. He hardly even recognizes that the other hero is addressing him—how long has it been since someone even acknowledged him rather than shrank from him in fear?—and he realizes the child thinks he’s Link.
He doesn’t bother explaining, not this time. It’s been too long, the captain looks too bloodied, and his blood is boiling from the fight. Instead, he gently orders, “Look after the others. Are their injuries worse?”
“I—no, the captain definitely took the worst hit,” Hylia’s hero answers, eyes worried.
“He will be fine,” Fierce assures. “Get to the others. I will follow you to your camp.”
He doesn’t realize his words tip off the other hero, a sudden edge of anxiety giving weight to his movements as he dashes for the others. He instead reaches for the little soldier he once fought alongside, carrying him gently in his arms as he moves to follow Hylia’s hero. The young one feels a little heavier in his arms than he remembers, and he smiles just at little, knowing that he must have grown.
He still seems too small, though.
Warriors wakes up briefly to the feel of armor against his side, of weightlessness and safety that he hardly remembers. He sees facial markings and glowing eyes, and he almost croaks out a word before passing out again.
He wakes far later to a ring of heroes worriedly hovering over him while Time nurses a magical hangover in the corner of the camp. But when the captain sits up, accepting a potion from Legend, he locks eyes with the old man.
Thank you, he says without words, nodding.
And as Time nods back, he can feel the fierce deity mask warm with magic, almost as if in relief.
141 notes · View notes
cuinaminute229 · 7 months ago
Text
With death comes life part 3
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
pairing: Agatha x Rio x reader
a/n: this took a while but here it is!
part 1, part 2
...
It almost feels impossible.
Agatha without magic.
But you know the truth as if it were engraved into your very soul. She is powerless.
The knowledge leaves a bad taste in your mouth. This is so much more than a binding. At least that would still leave the lifeblood of a witch's magic alone even if unreachable.
But Agatha's powers aren't bound. They're missing. 
With furrowed brows, you glance back up at her. She's not looking at you, her posture rigid as she studies the polish of the piano. A single painted nail drags against the paint as if she wants to peel it away to see what's underneath. 
Something happened to her. Something chased her to the road.
This is a witch's last resort after all.
You want to ask. The question is on the tip of your tongue but you hesitate.
If this conversation continues all that will be returned is insults and profane remarks. You don't want to argue, not like this.
Not when her emotions simmer just underneath your own. Her anger, her pain, her grief. It would be too much when added with your own.
You close your eyes, lower your head and force out a slow breath. You need to think; you need to find Rio.
You need answers that Agatha won't give.
The feeling of your fingers brushing over the delicate skin of your wrist is grounding, calming. There is no physical mark from her touch. She hasn't intended to hurt you, at least not like that. 
Yet, the soft pulse of your magic as it comes to the surface feels like relief. The way it dances along your fingers is familiar as the sight of falling stars.
Your emotions turn bittersweet when you remember how Agatha loved mixing magic with you. Seeing her purple and your white dancing together was always a sight. 
It was breathtaking when Rio joined in, that subtle smile on her face.
She always said it was for research. Was her magic untouchable to others, was she just a siphon? She had so many questions and you were never one to deny her. 
That first time she asked is a memory you will never forget. 
Agatha laying in bed next to you, heavy with sleep, daring to ask the question fully conscious Agatha wouldn't dream of. 
She was curious; she was terrified. And still you held little hesitation as you reached out to the fire-lit ceiling above and pulled your magic to the surface. 
The wisps of white magic danced around like a small cloud, lighting the room with its glow.
The look on her face when she overcame her hesitation and matched your movement was worth everything. The astonishment, the relief.
Agatha's magic isn't volatile by nature. Sure it's unchecked, wild even, but it doesn't lash out first. It doesn't take until there is no choice.
To be able to see the swirls of white and purple magic dancing together, to know that it was possible. You know those moments were special to her. Even after she learned someone had to blast her to activate that pull.
With a very subtle glance up you can see that you're not the only one thinking about that time long ago. Her gaze is lowered to your wrist, a pinch in her brow as she watches silently.
The twitch of her fingers tell you enough. That subtle reflex to bring her purple to her fingers and reach out for you, the muscle memory of moments long gone.
When she steps back you let her. The notion is clear she will walk away if you will.
You flex your fingers, letting your magic settle as it's pulled back from the surface. You decide that this trial is more important than shared history and pain. If you focus on the goal here you don't have to look at you, you don't have to notice her.
When you glance up you see her watching you. Those baby blue eyes of hers are looking at you with a coldness that's familiar. 
No more vulnerability between the two of you. You can’t help but wonder if there was ever a chance this wasn’t doomed from the start.
You don't say anything as you turn and walk away. This middle ground is fragile, to speak now would break it so you don't.
When you turn the corner you find Alice. She's looking at a picture with a sense of recognition. She glances at you when you step closer, giving you a fleeting smile. 
As you look at the picture you can see the resemblance Alice shares with the woman. “Your mother?” You question with a glance at her.
She gives a small nod.
“She loved singing. It was her passion, right after showing me how to play soccer.” Alice smiles and you watch her closely.
“She died when I was sixteen. There was a fire, her hotel room. They said it was a freak accident but it felt like more."
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable but you feel the need to continue on if only to give the protection witch some privacy to wrestle her own emotions down.
With a quick glance around your eyes land on a single ajar door. You walk over and step through with ease, this room is still part of the trial. 
It's a sound booth, you conclude as you glance around. The wide expansion of glass at the front of the room shows off the lounge. The witches scattered as they look for a clue they don't know what is.
“Boring isn't it?” 
You glance back at her and scoff. It is boring, that you can't argue with but you have other concerns at the moment. 
“Rio,” you say her name with a warning, turn to lean back against the soundboard that sits below the window. 
The green witch gives you a dangerous smile as she stands from the rolling chair she was just in and walks to you. When she's close enough to touch you reach out, brush a hand over the exposed skin of her chest, fingers dancing up her sternum. 
As she leans closer, places her hands on either side of you, it's easy to slip out the knife from it's holding at her hip. 
The moment you have it in hand she moves. Not away, no that would be too easy. She pushes into your space like a cat caging a mouse.
You feel her hand on your neck seconds after she closes the distance. Everything becomes an afterthought, the knife, your questions, the witches on the other side of the glass. The second hand emotions from Agatha fade like a breeze.
Rio kisses you with a hunger you know runs deep. She pulls you into her with a growl that makes you yield. Her touch feels like the first sparks of a dragon’s fire, it's intoxicating and she knows you love it. 
When her fingers brush against the nape of your neck, scratching lightly you swear she's trying to make you melt like a puddle. The sensation almost makes you drop the knife, makes you moan into the kiss.
When she pulls away her eyes are bright with satisfaction when you need a moment. You spread your fingers out over the place where her heart is buried, close your eyes and bask in the feeling of her fingers brushing through your hair.
“You are cruel.” You mutter under your breath when you finally see what she’s done. She’s distracted you from those racing thoughts, the assumptions and questions. 
“You looked like you wanted to argue.” She says, states a fact really because she was right. She saw right through you and decided to play her game. 
With a soft sigh as she runs her hands down your arms you twist the knife in hand when she pushes closer. Giving you no room to breathe around her, there is only Rio and god do you love it. 
“You know me too well.” You raise your chin and she smirks. When her fingers encircle your wrist, the subtle tell of her knowing what you did, you let your hand go limp. There was never a question about if you were going to use it, she never would have let it get that far. 
But those few seconds of thinking you got away with it makes you grin at her. You tap a rhythm against her chest, hum softly when she pulls her knife away and puts it back where it was. Her dark eyes never leave your gaze. 
“I know you better than the stars know the moon.” Her little proud smile makes you chuckle, you drag your hand down her chest to fiddle with the end of the gap. 
With a glance at the window, the sight of a witch looking at the decorated walls, you have to remind yourself to focus. “I do have a question.” You look at Rio who merely raises her brow and waits. 
The subtle exploration of her hands at your waist, fingers fiddling with the embroidery of your clothes distracts you just a bit but not enough to derail your thoughts. “Agatha,” She frowns as the name falls from your lips but lets you continue. “Do you know why she’s here?”
The question isn’t even a question, not really. You know Rio’s always kept tabs on Agatha, even when she got a hold of that damned book Rio never stopped looking, never stopped trying to find her. 
If something as drastic as Agatha losing her magic wasn’t enough to draw Death��s gaze then you don’t know what could. There is no darkhold this time, there is no magic, only a broken woman still running from her pain and her past. 
When Rio bites her lip, glances away, her hands on your waist halting, you know the answer without a doubt. 
“Why didn’t you tell me? What happened to her? Who is chasing her?” You try to catch her eyes but Rio refuses, she looks tired. You don’t like it. 
“Rio,” Her name on your lips is a plea, soft and gentle. You reach out for her, brush your hands along her jaw and guide her to look at you. She doesn’t want to fight, you know this so you bury down the betrayal you feel. You can feel it later but right now you need answers. 
With a defeated sigh she gives in. Explains what she knows happened, what she had to figure out afterwards. Why Agatha is here is only a suspicion, she knows along with you that Agatha doesn’t need the road, she never did.
And finally, who is after her. The Salem Seven. The name makes you groan in annoyance, everywhere they travel destruction seems to follow. The fact that they have a vendetta against Agatha is only personal. 
“So you pulled me here with you because…” You don’t finish what you were going to say. This entire situation is like a spark to a wildfire, everything can go wrong with just a snap of a finger. 
“She needs us right now. Both of us.” Rio looks you in the eyes when she says the words you don’t want to hear. When silence follows, when it is you who looks away, your touch falling to her shoulders, Rio tilts her head to find your gaze. 
The moment she whispers your name as softly as you said hers, you give. You look at her and she softens, gives you a reassuring smile that does nothing of the sort.  
“She doesn’t want us.” You tell her. Agatha's screams echo in your mind, she hates both of you for what happened. The memory drowns out everything about what's going on around you. The danger everyone is in. 
“And still she needs us.” Rio reminds you gently. You hate that she’s right.
Whatever Agatha is trying to do she can't do it alone. Not like this, not when she's a witch with no magic. 
Not when she's on a road that only takes and hardly gives in return. She’s not going to find what she wants here, not in the way she’s imagining. Trick and trials alike, right? The road is famous for not playing fair.
And still, you wont leave. Not when Rio is here, not when Agatha is here.
...
288 notes · View notes
clownfire · 2 months ago
Text
my insane interconnected multiverse theory
this is (mostly) a joke, but also I worked really hard on this
The magic system & pantheons in Judgement and Apotheosis are identical down to the 'cycle of aether' reincarnation system appearing in BOTH, to the point that the players themselves are theorising that it's the same universe. BUT judgement HAS to happen first, because there are still gods and ppl are still aware that usurping the gods is a thing that can be done (Zuen confesses to erasing that from the collective consciousness).
In Apotheosis, Ludite is a magical crystal-like material that rained down from the sky when the celestial realm was destroyed. It allowed mortals, for the first time in history, to wield magic without having to be 'chosen' by the gods. What's also a magic rock? Wonderous Coal.
The very top of the mountain of wonder is directly connected to Prime, as well as many other realms that seem to be converging. Alystr Cross also lives in Wonder (while I'm inclined to believe this is a different version of him, he does reference prime and heroism in a way that to me is meant to imply this is the same Professor Cross from PD). Another character from Convergence that appears in a different campaign is Kasper (referred to as Mr Kass). He travels the multiverse with this pocket-dimension that the carnival is.
We also know that Riptide is connected to Wonderlust - a pirate world does make a brief appearance - and is thus also connected to Prime Defenders. But as further support, I'd refer to the two non-canon what-if crossovers.
Another character from a different campaign also makes an appearance in Riptide; Green is clearly meant to be an older Taxi (Green Needle is was his tabaxi name in fated). Wild theory, but hear me out: the world of Mana in Riptide is the same Mana from Fated, in a timeline where Ungarou won and flooded the world (or at least was defeated after large parts of the land were already lost beneath the tides).
Now that is SEVEN campaigns that I can red-string together through explicit cross-over happening.
I could also connect PD to The Suckening through the taxi driver that Arthur meets who Charlie gives a similar voice to William Wisp, and say that he was that universe's version of him. From there I could say that BITB and TS could feasibly exist in the same universe, on the merit that they are other-wise 'our world' settings, and BITB's story is self-contained to Galloway. There's nothing saying that they couldn't take place in the same universe.
86 notes · View notes
rippersz · 8 months ago
Note
thank you for blessing us with your Lilia fics 🥹🫠
Here, have another. - Rip x
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
Tumblr media
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Reader) (Song Fic; Fluffy; Character Study; Angsty; Love Confession) (~3.4k words)
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
There was a time once in history when Lilia Calderu wanted to be a performer. 
She sang the songs and recited the rituals of her coven, she honed her voice for incantations and for spells, and when the time came for her to grow up, it was rumoured that her talent was so strong, so steady and intense, that even the goddesses could hear it. For a while, it made her popular. The girls loved to listen to soft lullabies before bed, the superior witches enjoyed her singing at their events, even her maestra, at times, asked for a little tune to help get her through the rest of the evening. Most nights, when everyone was already fast asleep, Lilia would lie awake in her bed and try to picture a life of free vocal pleasure. A life where she could be an adored witch and an even better performer, one with the light feet of a dancer and the voice of an angel. A woman so good she could travel the continent, go beyond Sicily, see the fruits of the world, and be loved by all for what she could do.
It was, for what was really such a short period of time, a lovely existence. Then, gradually, unexpectedly, and terribly, her life began to pause and resume out of order, transporting her to versions of herself she had yet to meet. And though she did see those unfamiliar places, the world beyond Sicily, she was never faced with the loving, excited crowd. Most times, it was pitchforks and threats, angry faces of strange men and women, children with teary eyes, and licks of fire cast toward her body. She had never seen such fear in her life, never felt hatred so strong it seemed like a physical presence, and after a short while, Lilia Calderu realised that instead of becoming a beloved singer and performer, she was destined to run and hide for most of her life. 
It came as no surprise that when the gaps got so powerful, so frequent and so bad that sometimes she didn’t remember an entire day, the coven lost their combined interest in her talent. It fizzled out and eventually became a secret kept to herself. A faded myth that some girls chattered about to newcomers. The only person who heard her sing from that point forward was her maestra. The old woman didn’t care for Lilia’s reputation, she only cared for her talent. Both within magic and outside of it. So sometimes after their lessons, unpredictably to keep Lilia on her toes, her maestra would request a song. On one afternoon it would be a ritual tune, on another it would be a chant, and some evenings she asked Lilia to sing something–anything–just so the two of them could enjoy a bit of peace. 
And so Lilia would sing. She would sing, sing her heart out, and she would watch the way her maestra closed her wise eyes and swayed back and forth to the sound of Lilia’s music. Those moments in her life were the ones most cherished. When she closed her eyes, they were just as vivid as the day she experienced them for the first time: the soft waves of the ocean kissing the shoreline and the great rocks of the coast, the setting sun nearly over the horizon, filling the atmosphere with great wisps of pink and purple-tinged stratus clouds, the air smelling of whatever the cooks had prepared for supper. Her maestra in her chair, tipping her head back, enjoying the lilt of Lilia’s voice until she faded into silence and the old woman opened her eyes, straightened her posture, and gave Lilia only two claps before rushing her off inside. She could picture their moments in the garden just as easily, the birds and the wildlife scurrying in the underbrush and the burrows and the trees, the smells of rich forest plants, vines, and flowers, the way the sun reflected off of the gazebo’s carved stone pillars, the familiar comfort of the bench whenever she sat down across from her. It was a unique paradise, a home she understood she would never have again. 
And a community she would never have again. 
Once the coven forgot about her voice, she mainly used it for herself. On slow walks around the grounds, she would hum, during her soaks in the bath, she would whistle, and whenever she had a moment alone in a secluded place, a place of utter tranquillity, of silence and precious independence, she would belt. She would belt and she would croon in every key she could and she would do it until her throat hurt or it got too late or she couldn’t think of anything else to perform. 
That’s why you never interrupted her singing in the shower. 
It was loud every time, louder than the water and the washing, and it would reverberate off of the tiles and the mirror and it would hit your ears through the thin walls, but you never dared ask her to stop. You couldn’t. 
No, not that you couldn’t because Lilia would most definitely stop if you wanted her to but that was just it - that was the last thing you wanted. 
Lilia’s voice was polished marble. It was richer than sweet chocolate, huskier than the tang of whiskey, more gentle than the fur of a kitten. It was steady, it succeeded in its rhythm, its measure, its keys and its choruses and whenever you heard the shower curtain slide open and the water turn on, you knew to prepare yourself for a performance. 
And always, without fail, it was a performance you got.
Sometimes it was a happy one, a joyous loud one where her voice went gravelly as she tried to emulate a rockstar. Sometimes it was an angry one, when she sang with a growl and a bite to her lyrics. Sometimes, most times, it was sad and melancholic, ringing and chirping like an operatic bird, and tinged with so much history and pain that you worried if she was as alright as she claimed to be. Perhaps, you thought, it was a form of therapy. That was her release. To spread the swirl of talent and desperation that built up in her body, eager to be revealed to the clouds, the cosmos, the world. It was her history, coiled up like springs, and every time she disappeared into that unique space of music, it was like they all burst up at once. History springing everywhere, bouncing from the tiles, painting the foggy air of the bathroom as Lilia stood beneath hot water and opened her mouth and released. 
You imagined her there, shaking with the force of her own voice, closing her eyes, curls wet and plastered to the back of her neck, her shoulders, and letting the power take hold - not in a witch’s way but in a mortal’s way. In a way that spoke to centuries of pain, of wonder, of exploration. You couldn’t remember the moment she told you she liked her water scalding hot, but you never had a doubt as ‘steamy’ seemed to be the bathroom’s atmosphere whenever she walked out from a shower. The two of you mutually agreed to disable the second smoke detector in the flat that, for some reason, was on the ceiling in the same hallway and would have no doubt gone off every time Lilia wanted to wash up. 
It was quite endearing to see her slip out followed by a gust of steam, sporting reddened skin and messy damp curls plastered to her head and neck. She looked like a wet puppy. A wet puppy that was very hard to look at, partly because she needed the privacy to get dressed but also because she often walked out in nothing but a towel. A single red bath towel, wrapped around the top of her bust that fell below her knees. The first time you’d walked into the hallway and saw that, you backpedalled into your room so fast you nearly fell and cracked your head open on the floor. It was embarrassing sporting a blush for the rest of the evening, but she didn’t seem to notice - or perhaps didn’t care. 
And why would she? You were two women. You could be normal about things like that. About bodies and nudity and the curves of the female figure and the curves of Lilia’s body specifically.
Yes, absolutely. Normal. You could be normal.
You could be normal about the shower singing. 
You could be normal when Lilia sang of love.
You could be normal when she sang of love in different languages like French and Latin and Sicilian and Greek and something else, something ancient, that you’d never heard before.
You could be normal when her voice dipped into a low husk as she cooed, emulating the style, the niche, of a beautifully dressed jazz singer in a dimly lit jazz bar.
You could be normal when she hummed something light and sweet beneath her breath, dressing her voice up as the garlands of Spring. 
You could be normal when she poured her entire heart into a note. 
You could be normal when she stole your mind away with a whistle.
You could be totally normal about things like that. 
You could be totally normal about it all.
Totally normal. 
Yeah.
Nothing but normalcy. 
───༺༻───
You had a favourite song. 
It was stupid. So stupid. You weren’t sure how you allowed it to happen, but it happened and because of it, you were screwed. Screwed. So stupid…
You had a favourite song. 
She sang it the same way every time, with soft prolonged vowels and crystal clear tones, like windchimes and violins. She sang with heart, with soul, her tongue was fluid in the first verse, her inflection lilting and gentle in the second, and her mouth shook with power as she belted the third. A mezzo-soprano through and through you came to learn after looking it up one day (just another example of your foolishness). 
You had a favourite song. 
It was cold honey in her mouth, made for her voice, crafted for most of her range. For the sweet and soft, the careful and gentle, to the rough and loud, strong and courageous. She could roar and whisper, cry and laugh, be righteous and upset all at once. It was so moving the first time you heard it, the spoon you were washing fell right out of your hands. 
Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
A sharp breath. A trip of your body as your heart ran right to a stop. 
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed
You’d heard her sing about romance before, in all possible forms and ways, but you never expected those words from her lips. 
Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless aching need
They were familiar. You already knew them. You’d learned when you were young, when you still had the chance to sing with your mother, with your grandmother, and harmonise when you weren’t too shy. Granted, none of you could harmonise very well, but that wasn’t the point. All that mattered was how you knew it, sang it, together.
I say love, it is a flower
And you, its only seed
Your mouth moved with hers, only silence flowing from your throat, and you closed your eyes as your body melted against the sink. You followed her pause, her break, imagining the instruments there to fill the blank space, and took a deep breath when she continued.
It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It felt so nice to listen, to recognise the music and the shifts, and you pressed one hand to your heart so you could feel its beat as you heard. So you knew that it was still going, that you hadn’t died and Lilia wasn’t an angel singing you to Heaven. 
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
You’d never told Lilia about your music taste. You feared that saying anything would result in an accidental slip and that your soul would spill out before you could do anything to keep it inside. You couldn’t have that, you couldn’t ruin everything you built, so you sat in your songs and you listened to the ones she sang, remembering the lyrics and copying them into Google as soon as you had a moment alone. You connected in silence. You appreciated her compassion by listening at night, before sleep, and betrayed your heart by wishing she was there next to you to sing it rather than in the other room, already drifting away into dreamland. You wanted to cross the bridge, to bring your adoration up to her and put it in her lap and tell her how in awe you were, but you never felt like it was your place. 
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
Then she opened her mouth and sang out your childhood, the sum of your warm memories, and suddenly you were crying like a baby in your little apartment kitchen, looking around through a curtain of tears at everything you’d made together. 
And the soul, afraid of dying
That never learns to live
Was it going to kill you? Keeping it inside? Telling yourself that being normal about Lilia, resisting the temptations of love, was better than being rejected? That’s never how the stories ended, did they? If no one confessed, then it was a life lived wrong. If things were unsaid, it was an opportunity lost. If you didn’t tell Lilia, then it was another dead end. 
When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
Oh her belt. Oh she way she sang. Harrowed, lost, speaking of times she was familiar with, loneliness that she knew like the back of her hand, a road she’d been travelling since the day she was born. 
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Something she never had, something she could never keep for herself, no love for Lilia Calderu because she was not lucky and she was rarely strong. She lived her life in pieces, luck was not a friend, and she ran from every place where she found solace, and strength was never a lesson learned. 
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
But that didn’t mean time stopped moving or stopped passing. It didn’t mean the world took love away on purpose. She knew this. She understood that life was meant to be lived a certain way, and that for her it was different. But who needed linear time when she had nonlinear time? Who needed order when she experienced the bits out of order, over and over, and found that still, in every space, in every world, she maintained her talent and her passion? 
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose
Who needed desolation and exhaustion and hopelessness when hope was so strong? So eager to persevere?
Why did Lilia need to believe that she could not be loved if you were there to love her? 
“Darling? What’s wrong?” 
You were dry-heaving, clutching at your chest like it would stop the breaking of your heart, the cracks and the fractures, and you were so loud that you didn’t hear the bathroom door open. Tears made your cheeks warm and your breaths, your sobs, turned you red. The world was numb, only a collection of brief sounds, but Lilia’s voice, as it always did, pulled you back. She was blurry behind tears, but you looked at her anyway, pitiful and sad, and didn’t even bother to hide when she ran forward in her towel and tugged you into her warm arms. 
“Did something happen?” She whispered, patting at your hair, doing all she could to soothe you, and you could only cry harder against her shoulder. 
Smelling her shampoo, feeling the natural warmth of her soft skin, revelling in the grounding sensation of loose drops of water smearing from her hair onto your head and neck, unable to hold yourself back from wrapping your arms around her and holding on like she’d fall to sand otherwise. These were the things that made you break. 
“I love you,” your voice was barely there, not even a whisper, as you spoke against her skin. “I love you.” 
“What? What are you saying, honey? Speak up, baby, let me help you.” She sounded so worried, so pained, so shocked but determined to help, and you shook your head to rid yourself of fog. 
“I love you.” It was a croak. “I love you.” A louder croak. Until you were repeating it into her shoulder, falling apart against her body, clutching her like a dead man to life. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you Lilia. I love you Lilia. I’m so sorry, I love you.” I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. It was all you knew. It was all you felt. 
“I’m in love with you.” A huff of breath, a final stutter, as you swallowed harshly and sniffled and cleared your throat. Your eyes burned something fierce, still red and puffy and wet, but you kept them open and stared at the side of her neck when you said it again. “I am in love with you.” It was a shameful whisper, an out of place declaration, but you were overwhelmed and she was there to hold you and you felt like nothing else mattered in that little moment. Only your love for her. Only Lilia. 
She was quiet. Her hands still moved, running along your back over your shirt, patting down your hair, resting her chin on your shoulder. She was quiet. 
“Was it the song?” She whispered, and you nodded. “Was I too loud?” 
“No,” you said too quickly, loosening your grip, preparing to move away, but Lilia didn’t budge. Not a single muscle moved. And so you held on again, surprised, and admitted softly, “You were perfect.” 
She was still quiet. For a little while, that’s how it was. Your heart began its slow recovery, piecing itself together, readying the battle stations for the moment she properly rejected you, and you shook lightly in her arms while you tried regulating your emotions. And Lilia was still and quiet. Petting you, holding you, not worried at all about her towel or how much water was getting on the floor. You were going to mention it, going to try and move on from the moment so you could return to the way things were as if you hadn’t just poured your soul out to her like you always told yourself you wouldn’t, but then something happened. 
Her throat moved against your ear, a light buzz, then a louder one. 
“Lies the seed,” she sang softly, “that with the sun's love… in the spring… becomes the rose,” she trailed off, slowly, into a gentle hum, and your heart trembled, barely holding on, and you almost choked on your breaths when Lilia finally moved. 
Her hands were gentle, detaching you from her, slowly pulling back so soft damp palms could move up to cup your cheeks. There was only one place to look, into those deep amber eyes, and you felt your expression crumble when you saw the quiver of her lips, the tears, the furrow of her dark brows, the way her curls stuck to the sides of her face. No makeup, no armour, no magic, bare for the world to see, open and vulnerable in a way never experienced, felt, witnessed before. You looked at her, stunned, and saw the fear and the hesitation in her gaze. She was so scared, so worried about the consequences, about what would happen if love once again only favoured the lucky and the strong. But the desperation lurked - the same need you saw in yourself. The knowledge that to keep it inside was to kill. 
And why succumb to death when you could love instead? 
“You are my sun,” Lilia breathed, raspy and gentle, her chest heaving with breath. Her cheek twitched like she wanted to smile, but you were frozen, and you could only look at her like a lost child. “And I love you.” 
And she loved you. 
And she loved you. 
And she loved you. 
Lucky and strong.
Your rose. 
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
The Rose by Bette Midler you will always be famous... - Rip x
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
246 notes · View notes
yan-lorkai · 9 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Day twenty one: Genies!Kalim and Jamil deceiving their darling
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ A/n: This idea seemed to be living rent-free in my head for a few months now, so ofc I had to write. I actually wanted to write more about it but decided against; all the fics on the halloween had to be easy to write and faster. Writing 30 fics in the span of two weeks was certainly something but tbh i was stress writing lol. Either way, I'm rambling now, good read, darlings!
Tumblr media
The lamp felt heavier in your hands than it should have. Its ornate metalwork was intricate, with delicate filigree and worn engravings that hinted at centuries of history, a history long lost - now preserved as a legend.
The lamp gift from a friend, they had laughed when they handed it to you, suggesting the possibility of a genie inside. It was, of course, just a joke — something fun, a relic from a forgotten time. But as you sat alone in your quiet room, you couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't true.
Turning it over, you traced the smooth surface of the metal. The dim light of the room glinted off its curves.
“What’s the harm?” you muttered to yourself, half-smiling at the absurdity of it all. "Nothing will happen."
And yet, curiosity urged you on. You gently rubbed the side of the lamp, not expecting anything beyond perhaps the sound of metal against your skin.
At first, nothing.
You giggled, setting the lamp down on the table beside your bed. Wishing for something like that work was futile; you had to make your future happen with your own hands.
Yet, one could hope.
As you turned around to open another birthday gift, a faint warmth spread through your body, like a blanketbeing wrapped around you so gently and softly. The lamp vibrated slightly, a low hum echoing from its core. You froze, eyes wide as thin wisps of golden smoke curled from the spout, swirling and expanding until the room was filled with it.
You blinked, heart pounding as two figures emerged from the mist.
One stood tall and composed, his dark hair framing a serious face, sharp eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His clothes were regal but foreign, a blend of deep colors and shimmering gold that seemed almost alive.
Beside him was another figure, smaller and brighter, with an infectious smile that lit up the space around him. His pale hair glowed under the lamplight, his eyes full of excitement and warmth, and he was holding the lamp on both his hands.
Both of them stood before you, impossibly real and tangible. If you reached out, you knew you could feel them there.
The taller one regarded you with mild interest. “I see… a new master,” he said smoothly, his voice soft and rich, like velvet. “I am Jamil and this beside me is Kalim. We're pleased to meet you.”
Kalim beamed at you. “Wow! It’s been forever since someone summoned us. You must be really lucky!” His enthusiasm was infectious, but you remained frozen, trying to process what was happening.
Was the legend real? They would grant you three wishes right here and now? Do you have any wishes? You can't think straight.
Jamil’s gaze didn’t waver. Soon enough, the famous words left his mouth as he almost purred the syllables. “You rubbed the lamp, which means you’re entitled to three wishes.”
You stared at them both, still struggling to wrap your mind around the situation. “Wait, what… this is real?” you stammered.
Kalim laughed for a long time, the sound light and cheerful. There were little tears forming on his eyes, but he wiped them. “We're as real as you are, habibi! You summoned us, so we’re here to grant your wishes!” He leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Go on, ask for anything.”
Your heart raced as you tried to gather your thoughts. Wishes… real wishes. The possibilities swirled in your mind, but the disbelief kept you from speaking right away or remembering what you truly wanted.
The two genies stood patiently, Jamil’s eyes narrowing slightly as he waited, while Kalim watched with a wide, eager smile.
Tentatively, you spoke. “I wish for… I wish to have plenty of money.”
No sooner had the words left your mouth than the room shifted around you. You gasped as money started to appeared out of nowhere, everything felt too much like a fever dream, but this also meant you could finally treat yourself to some nice things, as you wouldn't struggle anymore.
Kalim danced around, his laughter filling the air. “Look at it! Isn’t it amazing?” he exclaimed, summoning a flower of thin air and handing it to you with a grin. “You can have anything you want.”
Jamil’s gaze never left you. He didn’t smile, but there was something satisfied in his eyes, as though your first wish had confirmed something for him.
“One wish down,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Two more to go.”
“What happens after I make all three wishes?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
You held the flower in your hand, feeling its soft petals brush against your skin. But deep inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling of something lurking just beneath the surface. There was something too perfect about it all, too controlled.
Too much like a dream.
Kalim’s smile faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered. “You’ll be happy! That’s what matters, right?” He twirled around, his carefree nature pulling at you like a warm summer breeze. “We’ll make sure of it!”
Jamil, however, met your question with a deeper, knowing gaze. “All you need to worry about is the next wish,” he said, his voice almost hypnotic. “Whatever your heart desires.”
The unease in your chest grew. You looked down at the flower in your hand, feeling the weight of their stares on you. Could you trust them? The money spilled on your floor wasn’t what you had imagined. It felt… artificial, like it existed solely to please you, the perfect amount to pay your bills and live comfortably, it seems.
“I wish for…” You hesitated, trying to find something more meaningful. “I wish to see the most breathtaking sunset, something that can’t be replicated.”
The sunset felt eternal, like time itself had stopped for you to watch. You stood in awe, the sight so beautiful it was almost painful. Yet, even as you admired it, you could feel the weight of Jamil’s eyes on you.
This time, Kalim’s expression brightened, as though he had been waiting for something grand like this. “Oh, I can do that!” he exclaimed, raising his arms toward the sky.
The sun lowered on the horizon, its light turning the garden into a canvas of fiery oranges and soft purples. The colors spilled across the sky, streaking it with brilliance that took your breath away.
“Your last wish,” he prompted, stepping closer. “Choose wisely.”
You took a deep breath, the air thick with magic and the overwhelming pressure of their presence. “What if… I don’t want to make a third wish yet?”
Kalim’s smile didn’t waver, but there was an edge to it now. “But don’t you want more? You can have anything!”
Jamil’s eyes darkened, his voice a quiet whisper. “You can’t stop now."
The air around you shifted, growing heavier as the two genies loomed closer. The carefree atmosphere that Kalim had created melted away, revealing something darker, more insistent.
Before you could speak, Jamil raised a hand, his expression cold and determined. “We’ll make it for you.”
Kalim’s grin grew wider, but it no longer felt warm. It was possessive, unsettling. The golden mist from the lamp began to rise again, swirling around you. “We’ll make sure you’re with us forever, litte master.” Kalim said cheerfully, his voice sounding almost detached from reality.
You tried to step back, but the smoke wrapped around you like tendrils, pulling you closer to the lamp. “Wait— what are you doing?” Panic surged through you as you struggled to break free, but their magic was too strong, too consuming.
"Master, we've been watching you." Jamil’s voice echoed in your ears as the smoke tightened its grip, dragging you toward the lamp’s spout. “You’re ours now. You can't escape.”
The last thing you saw was Kalim’s glowing smile and Jamil’s cold, satisfied gaze before everything went dark, the world collapsing into the endless void of the lamp.
And there, in the heart of the lamp, you realized with a sinking dread that you were never meant to leave.
241 notes · View notes
julibellule · 4 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Celestial Chaos - Damiel
Relationship: Aziraphale ♡ Crowley 
Summary: This is a story of hope and love, and it’s playing out right here, in the heart of our little bookshop
Rated: General (tw: First person POV, OC's POV, Mild gore, Parent Aziraphale ♡ Crowley)
Chapter: 01/17
Words: 1851/23k
From the story: Celestial Chaos
From the series: Celestial Chaos
Song that goes with this chapter:
The Book of Love - Peter Gabriel
—-------------------------------------------
The scent of old paper and leather lingers, heavy in the air, a comforting aroma that's become as familiar to me as my own breath. Sunlight spills through the tall, arched windows of Aziraphale's bookshop, illuminating the dust motes that dance in golden beams. In the corner, the antique grandfather clock hums its steady rhythm, a low hum of contentment. 
Its pendulum swinging in time with the quiet, lived-in chaos of this place. The gentle rhythm mirrors the peaceful chaos of my life. This is home. A haven nestled amongst the towering shelves overflowing with centuries of stories, a sanctuary built on the most unlikely alliance—an angel, a demon, and a little whirlwind of human energy caught in between.
Aziraphale, ever the picture of refined grace—all gentle grace and perfectly tailored tweed—is currently engrossed in a particularly ancient, dusty volume on the history of perfumery, his brow furrowed in scholarly concentration. Crowley, draped elegantly across a plush velvet armchair, is attempting—and spectacularly failing—to teach himself to knit. A small ball of yarn lies abandoned on the floor, a testament to his waning patience.
They're a study in contrasts, these two—Aziraphale’s meticulous nature a perfect foil to Crowley's chaotic charm. And yet, their love is constant, a warm, comforting hearth in the often unpredictable world around us. And there’s me, their little wisp. 
My real name is Julie but, as Aziraphale always says, the name is more a formality for human necessities, Little Wisp is my true nature. I am a whirlwind of bright and bubbly energy. My short, dark hair curls wild around my face and makes a tangled halo around my head—a tangle of emotion and mischief.
Read Chap.02 - Apologies
Read on my AO3
86 notes · View notes
autlantic · 6 months ago
Text
CHAPTER 1 | ICE QUEEN
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
words : 1.1k
notes : hi guys ☺️ it’s me again. kinda love the plan i have for this story, so hope you enjoy! to be added to taglist just comment or send me a dm <3
masterlist | next chapter
Tumblr media
Returning to UA for third year felt surreal.
After the violence and total hell, to put it simply, that you’d all faced in the past two years, the fact you were still standing and attending school as normal was honestly shocking. Even more surprisingly, you were actually excited to return to class for the first time in history.
Summer had been busy- you’d completed your longest internship yet with Hawks, unable to see your friends (excluding Tokoyami) more than a handful of times due to the constant training and patrols. It was all worth it though, an offer to join the exclusive agency shining at the end.
Faced with the massive door labelled ‘3A’, a shiver of excitement and also sadness runs up your spine, familiar voices spilling from the classroom.
The second you open the door, a loud squeal of your name catches your attention and sends a massive grin across your face. Mina has you wrapped in a hug in seconds, the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo filling you with affection.
“It’s been too long!! Oh my god, i’ve almost dropped dead being away from you all summer.” She starts chattering away, pulling at the little diamond covered snowflakes hanging from your ears and asking if they’re new. “Come sit, I saved you a seat!”
Following the pink haired girl, you sit down and snicker noticing your seat is directly behind Bakugou’s. There’s your entertainment sorted for the year. Sero and Kirishima are in the midst of harassing Kaminari for the details of his new relationship, the flushed boy sighing in relief at the sight of you.
“You’re here! We thought you were gonna miss home room on first day.” He laughs, reaching over to squeeze your shoulder affectionately. If anyone deserved to have the fairytale high school relationship, it was him and Jirou. You’d witnessed him pining and staring at her all pink-cheeked during classes, and the little soft launch pictures she’d been posting over summer made you grin every time.
“I’d never do that to you all, not after you’ve been missing me so dearly all summer.” You smirk, before leaning forwards on your arms to kick at Bakugou’s chair legs. “Especially Bakugou, right blasty?”
Probably a bad idea to start picking a fight before Aizawa had even arrived, but it’s hard to resist when you’ve been put in the power position of the seating plan. Bakugou’s head spins round almost in slow motion, kind of like an owl. You snicker at the thought. His crimson eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed so deeply you wonder if they’ll get stuck like that.
“In your fuckin’ wet dreams, snow queen.” He snarls, pushing your arm out from under your head and barking out a satisfied laugh when your head almost hits the table. You don’t get a chance to snap back before Aizawa sulks into the suddenly silent class, slamming a mug of what you assume is coffee onto his desk.
“Don’t think you’re gonna get off easy because the year has just started.” He starts, voice gruff. “Pack your bags back up, we’ll be attending a training camp on Wednesday.”
❄️
It’s hard to focus in physical training later that day.
Mountains! Skiing! Hot tubs! All things you’ll get to enjoy on the trip, and not in the sweaty gym that had somehow been turned into a desert landscape. Even the temperature had been artificially increased, sweat making wisps of hair cling to your forehead in sticky barcode strips. Your quirk, ‘winter’, wasn’t cut out for this type of environment- you could make and manipulate ice, snow and wind, but in this heat it was a lot harder to produce the cold substances.
A loud bang exploded in the distance, making you grimace. Dealing with Bakugou right now sounded like a pain you’d rather not have to deal with. Your quirk was powerful, but it made you struggle to maintain the correct body temperature. Excessive heat or cold was bad, leaving you weakened.
“Oi!”
You groan, frosting your palms over and rubbing the cold slush over your face in search of some relief. God he was the bane of your existence. A larger explosion goes off, a lot closer this time, and you send a wave of slippery ice over the sandy ground for easier movement.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Bakugou sneers, palms sparking as he storms towards you.
“I’m flattered.”
You and Bakugou have been stuck in this rivalry since first year; ever since you had claimed Todoroki was a bigger threat at the sports festival. Shoto was supposed to be your natural born rival- ice on ice, element on element. Your ice abilities were stronger, but he had an entire second quirk on top of that which seemed a little unfair. It was only a throw away comment, but Bakugou had taken it personally and blown you to absolute smithereens in the ring. You hated him for it then, and you still did now. Since that day, you’d trained harder than ever to take him down- and you had, many a time.
“I’m too hot to fight you, Bakugou.” You pout, clicking your heels together so the little blades would shoot out. Hatsume had saved your life with these babies.
The boy sends a massive blast your way, forcing you to skate off to the left. Creating a path of ice under foot, you expel a gust of wind to throw him off course mid air, sharp splinters of frozen water hidden in the blow.
A harsh siren blares, signifying the end of class, and you clap gleefully at the thought of lunch and air con. Turning to Bakugou, you resist the urge to point out that you made the last move, deciding not to rile him right before meeting your friends. Kirishima was insistent on making the two of you ‘bond’, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him his two best friends weren’t going to magically get over their differences and start skipping along hand in hand.
Maybe one day, if pigs learned to fly.
Tumblr media
taglist : tba
128 notes · View notes
dollya-robinprotector · 10 months ago
Note
Outside of your dol ocs do you have ocs for other fandoms?
I have many!
Tumblr media
Warning: LOTS of old drawings
The first one with ears and a tail, and the two girls beside him are my first OCs. They're independent OCs and have many AUs together.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
This big girl was a roleplay mascot for Hetalia fandom and later for other roleplay pj as well. She's based on Jeanne's reincarnated "Lisa"
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
The little cheeb she's holding is Amber, for Houseki no Kuni fandom
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Their hair is ref from Kaine (NieR) and my old mascot hair style. Now you see that "Flower with two antennas" everywhere on my other OCs
Tumblr media Tumblr media
These four are my Tarot spirits. I have two Tarot decks: Shadowscape and Ostara, both have twin spirits. Guess who is who!
Tumblr media
This girl is an OC for a closed species my friend created - CIST. They only have 4 fingers, are born from and live at the cemetery, have a will-o'-the-wisp flame in their eye socket, and each one has a unique voice that fits in an orchestra. Mine is named Ilyia, a Mezzo/Soprano type girl.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I also have two Vietnamese mystical creatures - girls. One white snake and one white catfish. I intended to write a story for them, but hahaha....
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
And not to mention my mascot, my old sona, now an OC, joined many fandoms. Kimetsu no Yaiba:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Cookie run: Red Velvet cookie
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Also I have other Cookie OCs: Lotus Cookie and Religieuse Cookie, based on how France invaded Vietnam in the history UwU
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Genshin: Old -> Now
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Also lots of Vietnamese cultural fandoms and gacha games fandom
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Even Papa is originally Doctor from Arknights
Heh, hope u had fun scrolling to this far :D
160 notes · View notes
capuccinodoll · 9 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
The Invitation
Before the sun hits (chapter one)
Hi there, this is the first time I post something here, so I hope you like it! It's defenitely going to be a fun story to write. This is going to be a Joel series, so feel free to send any ideas and suggestions, as english is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any mistakes (if there are, don't hesitate to let me know so I can correct them), x.
DECEMBER 15th.
The window was misted over, softening the pale, nocturnal landscape outside. Winter had started creeping in, slowly but unmistakably. The asphalt below gleamed, slick from the recent rain, and a thin wisp of smog slipped through the narrow crack in the window that your mother had just opened.
"The heat is suffocating me," she murmured, and you nodded, understanding. You couldn’t really blame her; she'd spent the first twenty years of her life far away from Austin's warmth.
Inside, the living room felt warm and inviting. Soft, golden light illuminated the white walls, which were lined with family photos, each one a little piece of your history. In the corner by the window, the Christmas tree stood, decorated with a quaint charm that somehow stole the room’s attention.
Your father stepped into the room behind you, his smile wide and content. He wore a green sweater dotted with white stars and red hearts, holding his phone against his ear with exaggerated enthusiasm, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.
"Like a kid at Christmas," your mother observed, and she wasn’t wrong.
The holidays hadn't been your favorite for the past few years. They’d been tangled up with messy breakups, the stress of school and work, and a handful of regretful decisions. Like last Christmas, when you decided to leave early for New York instead of staying with family, and ended up drinking cheap wine on the cold floor of your new, empty apartment—far from home, and even closer to a personal catastrophe. Not that you could have known that at the time, of course. 
"Joel is coming," your father announced suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie. "And Sarah too. Remember her, honey? She was this tall the last time we saw her," he said, holding his hand at his waist.
Of course you remembered Sarah. She had stayed with you for a weekend when you were twelve, while her father took care of her brother Tommy in the hospital. She’d been eight then—funny, wide-eyed, a little whirlwind of curiosity. The two of you had spent the weekend browsing your local library, eating far too many sweet treats, and giggling over childhood crushes on the Twilight cast.
"Of course I remember her," you replied, feeling the weight of those intervening years. "It’s been a while, though. She must be an adult by now."
"She turned twenty-one last July. I saw it on Tommy’s Facebook," your father added.
"He’s not coming?" your mother asked, but before you could catch the answer, you found yourself slipping out of the room, seeking a moment of solitude.
Upstairs, your old bedroom welcomed you with silence as you shut the door, muffling the voices from downstairs. You let yourself collapse onto the soft bed, feeling a heavy weariness seep into your bones. You hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with everything yet, but you kept promising yourself that you’d sort it out after the holidays. As you lay there, staring at the ceiling covered with old movie stills and band posters, Eddie Vedder’s frowning face seemed to stare back at you, almost judgmental. 
You’d made a mistake. That was it. You hated your job, and you’d made a mistake. New York wasn’t what you thought it would be—at least, the people in it weren’t. The city had chewed you up, spat you out, and left you feeling raw and disillusioned. But your parents couldn’t know that, not yet. It would break their hearts to learn that their only daughter hated her career and needed a fresh start. They’d worked so hard to make this holiday special. Your mother had even won the family bet on Halloween, the one they did every year, where the winner got to choose the Christmas and New Year’s destination. She’d picked Canmore—her hometown in Canada—where she promised a true winter wonderland that would let everyone leave their troubles behind, if only for a little while.
Leave everyday life behind, you thought. It was exactly what you needed: three weeks away from New York, away from Austin, away from anywhere that already knew you. Maybe the snow would help wash it all away.
*
"Sweetie, it’s time for dinner," your mother’s voice interrupted your thoughts. She stood at the door, her smile tender, with Eddie Vedder’s glowering face staring over her shoulder from the poster on your wall.
"What time is it?" you asked groggily.
"Quarter past eight. We’re waiting for you downstairs. Fix your hair a little, Joel and Sarah are here. You should see her, she’s gorgeous!"
"I’ll be down in a minute," you mumbled, your eyes already sliding shut again.
"No, you won’t," she said knowingly. "I know you too well. You’ll fall back asleep the second I walk away." She perched at the foot of the bed, pressing down on your feet, and you let out a frustrated sigh.
With a resigned groan, you forced your eyes open and sat up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. She waited, watching until you were fully upright before finally leaving. 
In the bathroom, you saw what she meant about your hair—a mess of tangled strands falling around your face, the braid you’d done earlier completely undone. You quickly brushed it out, splashed some cold water on your face, and tried to shake off the haze of sleep. When you stepped back out, your mother was gone, but you could hear the voices from downstairs—Sarah’s laugh, bright and familiar, followed by your father’s. And then another voice, deeper and more reserved. That must be Joel, you thought.
You remembered him vaguely. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a serious expression that never seemed to soften. He was always in a hurry, rarely stopping to chat, always working to keep things afloat while raising Sarah on his own. Your dad used to talk about their childhood, how he and Joel and your Uncle Luke had grown up in the same neighborhood, the four of them inseparable as teenagers. For some reason, you lingered a moment longer in front of the mirror, fixing stray hairs, before heading downstairs to face whatever awaited you.
*
Before you even stepped onto the first stair, you paused, tugging at the off-the-shoulder black dress you’d chosen on instinct—or maybe not. Oh, of course you knew why you’d picked it. How long had it been since Sarah had last seen you? Back then, you’d been the effortlessly cool older daughter of her dad’s best friend. Now, you were twenty-four, slightly adrift, but she didn’t need to know that.
Still, you’d pulled yourself together in record time. Your skin had a soft glow, your cheeks rosy, your lips glossed with a shade of red that wasn’t too loud but just right. Your eyes, framed by delicate makeup, carried an understated glamour. And you’d even worn the choker your mother had given you three birthdays ago, a beautiful piece that added a touch of sophistication. Yes, you looked good.
As you descended the stairs, the murmur of voices grew louder, the conversation below taking shape. In the living room, your father was enthusiastically recounting a recent match, and your mother kept interrupting him, correcting his version of events with affectionate precision. Sarah’s laughter rang out, bright and easy, clearly entertained by their dynamic. Though you tried to make your footsteps light, they were quickly noticed.
“Sweetheart! Finally, come join us!” your mother called, her face lighting up with a wide smile. She was seated on the couch by the window, your dad beside her. Across from them, with their backs to you, sat Sarah and Joel. Sarah turned as soon as she saw you. Joel didn’t.
“I was just asking Sarah if she remembered that weekend,” your dad said, shifting to make room for you beside him, “She was so small back then! This small!” He held his hand out at the level of his face to demonstrate.
As you sat down, you caught your breath. Sarah wasn’t just grown up—she was stunning. Her smile was warm and playful, though her hands rested a little nervously in her lap. But her eyes were the same, wide and full of light.
“Of course I remember! It was such a fun weekend. You were like the big sister I never had,” Sarah said, her voice warm and nostalgic.
“Really? I’m so glad to hear that. I had a great time, too. I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” you admitted, laughing. “God, I sound so old saying that.”
“At least someone had fun that weekend, huh, Joel?” your father joked, and it was then that your eyes finally found Joel for the first time that evening.
Maybe it was nerves that kept you from looking sooner, or maybe it was something else. But Joel was different—very different. Or had he always looked like this? You weren’t sure if you were about to laugh or choke. The transformation felt seismic.
“Don’t remind me,” Joel said, his voice deep, vibrating in the room. He turned to you then, his gaze locking onto yours for just a moment too long before he added, “Kid.”
During that weekend, twelve years ago, you saw Joel two times max; once when he dropped Sarah home, and again when he came back for her. He looked stressed and mainly angry. But you didn't remembered exactly why. Pretty sure it had to do with Tommy having a fall somewhere. 
“Too bad he didn't come to dinner. I haven't seen the bastard in months, though I must say far fewer months than I haven't seen you,” your father added. 
Joel leaned back on the couch, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you took the opportunity to really look at him. He was wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark jeans fitting snugly. His hair was streaked with gray, messy in that deliberate way, and God, he was massive. Broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt, every subtle movement revealing the strength beneath.
Your dad had mentioned Joel was a contractor, and now it made perfect sense. That kind of body was built through hard labor, hours spent lifting, hammering, doing things that required strength and grit. His eyes, though, were what drew you in—dark, a little tired, but still sharp, with the lights of the Christmas tree flickering softly in their depths.
“He’s becoming a bit of a hermit,” Sarah teased, her voice lilting with affection.
Joel smiled then, his whole face softening. “Tommy’s with his in-laws this Christmas,” he explained.
“You owe me a couple of beers, Miller,” your dad teased, and Joel shot him a sideways grin.
“For now, be happy with dinner,” your mother interrupted, her voice brimming with excitement. “I’m sure we’re all starving!”
You couldn’t help but glance at Joel one more time as everyone began moving toward the dining room. There was something about him now, and as he rose from the couch, towering over you, you couldn’t shake the thought.
*
He sat across from you, elbows propped on the table, his focus fixed on your father, who was gesturing animatedly from his spot in the left corner. In this softer, golden light, his face appeared more open, less stern. You let your gaze linger over his features, taking advantage of the fact that he seemed wholly absorbed in your father's story. His eyes, which you remembered as dark and unreadable, now looked a little lighter, a warm honey hue emerging beneath the shadows. Faint lines etched the corners of his eyes and mouth, traces of a life well-worn, and you found it unsettling—indecent, even—how much you liked the way they shaped his face. He looked... you didn’t quite know how to put it. Weathered, maybe. But in a good way, like something that had been around long enough to carry a few secrets.
It wasn’t that you were into older men. You’d never been that girl. Your exes had all been within a reasonable margin of your age, maybe three years older, max. But Joel... well, Joel was looking at you now. And you, with your head tilted slightly and your lips just barely parted, were looking right back at him. Like he was a puzzle, a rare artifact you couldn’t help but analyze. Then reality caught up to you, and you straightened abruptly, trying to regain your composure, your face heating up with the embarrassment of being caught. 
You shifted in your chair, trying to steady yourself, but your foot—unsettled by the awkwardness—stretched out a little too quickly, bumping against his under the table. You froze as heat flushed your cheeks, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But Joel's eyes flashed with a brief moment of surprise, which he smoothed over quickly, turning back to your dad. 
He probably thought you were being clumsy, which, in fairness, you were. You glanced over at Sarah, who sat beside Joel, mirroring her father’s posture, absorbed in whatever they were saying. But then you caught the tail end of their conversation and realized they were talking about you.
“We’ve got to make the most of our time with her,” your dad was saying. “She’s a big city girl now. Since she’s been home, she’s been sleeping like the dead. Completely exhausted, isn’t that right, honey?”
“True, true,” your mom chimed in, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. “We’ve barely had the chance to chat about her life. I bet you understand that feeling, don’t you, Joel?”
“Mom,” you cut in, a twinge of discomfort in your voice, but Joel’s eyes stayed on you, his curiosity finally directed your way.
“What do you do?” he asked, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.
You hesitated, feeling strangely self-conscious under his attention. “I’m in marketing area, in Arcor, uh, in New York.”
“The candy company?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. You nodded quickly, like you wanted to get past it.
“Yeah, that one.”
“And she’s been doing very well. We almost didn’t get her to come home for the holidays,” your mom said, eager to emphasize your success.
The truth was, you had been busy—insanely, overwhelmingly busy. The holiday season meant one of the biggest sales periods at the company, and even though your salary didn’t quite justify it, you’d spent countless late nights at the office, dealing with the endless pressure from above. Or at least, that’s what you’d told them. They bought it, of course. You were the golden child—never rebellious, never a troublemaker. So they believed every word you said. But when they offered to visit you in New York, you’d panicked. Somehow, returning home to Canmore seemed like the lesser of two anxieties.
“I’ve always wanted to go to New York,” Sarah piped up, her voice carrying a wistful tone. “I bet you never get bored there.”
No, you didn’t get bored. That much was true. Even though the city had left you feeling a little bruised, there was something undeniably captivating about it. The bustling streets, the ever-present hum of life, the art and culture pouring out of every corner—it was beautiful, in its own overwhelming way. If only you had more time, maybe you’d have enjoyed it more.
“You don’t, and it’s stunning, especially at Christmas,” you admitted. “The snow can be a mess, but it’s part of the charm.”
“You say that because you’ve never spent Christmas in Canmore,” your mom interrupted with a knowing smile. “Now that’s as magical as it gets.”
“What’s it like?” Sarah asked, her curiosity making your mom’s eyes light up.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said, leaning in with enthusiasm. “The snow-covered mountains, the twinkling lights, tourists bustling through the shops—it’s like a postcard. And there’s so much to do. I was there just last October, and it was lovely then, too. Are you a Halloween fan, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded eagerly, and your mom nodded back, feeding off her energy. “You’d love it in the fall, then. Canmore is perfect for any holiday.”
Your dad chimed in, a twinkle in his eye. “Speaking of the holidays, what about you, Joel? Got any plans?” His smile was wide, as if he’d just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world.
“He doesn’t,” Sarah cut in before Joel could speak, and he shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable.
Your mom’s brow furrowed. “How’s that?”
“I’m spending Christmas and New Year’s out of town,” Sarah explained. “I invited him to join me, but he doesn’t want to spend that much time with my boyfriend’s family. Right, Dad?”
“That’s not true,” Joel objected, sounding almost wounded, like he’d been caught in an unflattering light.
“Well then, you should come with us,” your dad suggested with a grin, clearly proud of himself. “We’ve rented a great cabin, and there’s plenty of room. Sarah can join us later. It’ll be fun.”
“I’d love to,” Joel replied, but there was a touch of restraint in his voice, enough to make your dad frown. “But I was hoping to use the time to catch up on some work.”
“Joel, you can’t spend the holidays alone,” your mom pressed, sounding like she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “We’d love to have you with us. Really, it’s a beautiful place.”
“We’re leaving next Monday and we’ll be back by January seventh,” your dad added for good measure.
“I’ll drive to the airport with Dean and then head to Canmore myself after New Year’s,” Sarah said, giving Joel a pointed look. “Come on, Dad, don’t be a Grinch.”
Your dad chuckled, taking the opportunity to refill his glass. After a quick sip, he leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Look, Joel, Tommy’s out of town, Sarah’s leaving, so what’s your excuse? And don’t give me that ‘work’ line—it’s the holidays! If you turn me down, I’ll just assume you don’t want to spend time with an old friend who’s missed you.”
Ah, classic Dad, turning everything into a guilt trip. But now, instead of rolling your eyes, you found it amusing, watching Joel squirm a little, unsure how to respond. Even Sarah seemed to enjoy the show.
“Alright, alright,” Joel said, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. “Let me think about it, okay? And don’t try to manipulate me, Evans, you know that never worked on me.”
*
Dinner continued in a comfortably chaotic way, with your dad peppering Joel with jokes and playful nudges about the Canmore trip. Each time, Joel responded with a small, almost imperceptible smile, offering vague, evasive replies that left you wondering if your dad's persistent charm was working on him or not. You caught yourself studying the little shifts in Joel's expression, trying to decipher if he was actually considering the invitation or just humoring your dad.
Soon, your mother reappeared from the kitchen, carrying her signature apple pie, its golden crust steaming. She served it alongside cups of coffee, each in a mug sporting a different Christmas design. When Sarah mentioned how adorable the mugs were, your mother didn't hesitate to gift her one on the spot, complete with a matching saucer, her face lighting up as she watched Sarah’s delight.
But as the conversation continued, you found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Joel had begun talking about recent renovations around his house, and your mind kept drifting. You imagined him on a ladder, paintbrush in hand, or lugging a heavy toolbox. How would he look after an afternoon of hard work—sweaty, hair tousled, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows? A warmth spread through you at the thought, but then Joel's gaze flicked toward you, as if sensing your thoughts. Caught, you forced a smile and looked away, focusing on your pie as the heat crept up your neck.
After everyone had finished eating, you busied yourself with gathering the cups and plates, carrying them into the kitchen in a self-imposed silence. As you placed them on the counter, a sudden hollowness settled in your chest. It was the kind of feeling that made you realize just how out of place you were—how far you’d strayed from the person your parents thought you were. How long could you keep up this act, pretending that everything was fine when, in reality, your life had unraveled months ago?
You found your phone sitting on top of the refrigerator, where your mom must have left it earlier. You’d been avoiding checking it, afraid of what you might find, but now you unlocked it and scrolled through the notifications: three messages from Ally, your only real friend in New York, and a random email from an old forum. You made a mental note to unsubscribe, then opened Ally’s texts.
Have you seen his Instagram?
He’s a jerk. I’m sorry.
Are you okay?
Your heart clenched, and you hesitated before searching for what would surely hurt. There it was—a photo of Liam, your ex-coworker, arm wrapped around a woman’s waist as she flaunted a ring on her left hand. You shut your phone with a sharp breath, the realization hitting hard. How could you have been so naïve? Tears pricked at your eyes as your mother’s voice drew nearer, drifting through the door from the dining room. You panicked, ducking out the back door into the hallway. No one could see you like this, not when you’d worked so hard to keep up the illusion. If your mom saw you, the whole truth would tumble out.
You made it to the small bathroom under the stairs, and just as you reached for the handle, the door swung open, making you lurch forward. Joel stood on the other side.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, keeping your eyes down. “I didn’t know it was occupied.”
You turned quickly, ready to retreat, but his voice stopped you.
“Hey, you alright?”
You turned back to him, forcing a smile. “Yeah, yes, I’m fine.”
He frowned, unconvinced. “You sure? Doesn’t look like it.”
“I... I just had a long day, that’s all,” you muttered, but you could feel your composure slipping. Your eyes were fixed on a button of his shirt, trying desperately not to meet his gaze. But then, without warning, your tears broke free. A soft sob escaped, and Joel’s expression softened as he pulled the door open wider.
Your hand flew to your mouth, but the tears kept coming. Joel placed a hand on your shoulder, the warmth of it anchoring you even as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of losing control completely. He glanced down the hallway, then back at you with a furrowed brow.
“I’ll get your parents,” he offered.
“No!” You reached out, gripping his arm too tightly. “Please don’t.”
He blinked, clearly taken aback, and for a moment, you both stood there, your grip firm on his forearm. You knew you were making him uncomfortable, but you couldn’t seem to care. You could see the confusion in his eyes as he tried to make sense of your desperation.
"You sure?" you asked, swearing you could read an expression on his face that screamed 'Do I really have a choice?'
Determined, you stepped between him and the door and into the bathroom. Joel turned around in confusion, but quickly understood and closed the door behind him.  The moment felt strange, and it was. The room was cramped and the walls enclosed you in a non-existent, completely unfamiliar intimacy. You looked at him nervously and realized that you were on the verge of doing something irresponsable; of course he would tell your parents, of course he wouldn't keep your secret, why should he? If you had to be rational, you'll do the same thing. At the end of the day, they were best friends.   But it didn't matter. The was no space for consideration as the verbal vomit was about to come out.
“I quit my job, and my ex-boyfriend—who also happens to be my former co-worker—is marrying the woman he cheated on me with. I’ve been pretending like everything’s fine, but I’m probably going to have to move back to Austin because I hate how everything turned out.”
Joel's eyes widened slightly as he took in your confession. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, seeming at a loss for words, and you couldn’t blame him. It was a mess, and you’d just thrown it all in his lap. Finally, he let out a deep sigh.
“So your parents have no idea.”
“No,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised. “Why would you apologize?”
“Because... I don’t know. It’s not your problem.”
“Alright, don’t apologize,” he replied, sounding unsure of himself. “What’s your plan, then?”
You shook your head, feeling the weight of the uncertainty you’d been carrying. “I’m not sure. I thought maybe I’d figure it out over the holidays.”
Joel’s gaze lingered on your face, as if searching for something. Then, with another sigh, he leaned back against the door. “You think you can do it?”
The question stung more than you expected. “You mean, solve my life?”
He quickly clarified. “I mean, keep the secret. Pretending everything’s fine.”
You swallowed hard, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll try.”
Joel nodded slowly, pushing himself away from the doorframe. “Just... don’t push yourself too hard, alright? It’s not the end of the world. Trust me, I know.”
He turned to leave, reaching for the doorknob, but you couldn’t let him go just yet. “Joel,” you called out, your voice barely above a whisper. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Please don’t say anything to my parents.”
He studied your face for a few seconds longer than you were comfortable with, then finally nodded. “I won’t.”
Relief washed over you, loosening the tightness in your chest. At least one secret would stay safe, for now.
143 notes · View notes
scoobyrooster1 · 11 months ago
Text
She's Mine [Part 1]
Qimir x (she/her)!reader
Tumblr media
Summary: Events take place after episode 8 of the acolyte. You are Qimirs new acolyte after agreeing to train under him. But, first you both must escape to the outer rim and outrun the Jedi who now hunts you. A precarious situation arises when you suddenly owe a debt to the local gunrunner... but it could be just the opportunity you've been hoping for. Now you have to break the news to Qimir... Shit. Warnings: Angst, Angry Qimir, cursing Notes: I plan for this to be a slow burn story between you and Qimir. Haven't officially decided on a permanent title yet. And yes there will be plenty of future smut but I wanna do this right!
*Im trying my best to use canon history but high republic era is a little difficult so there will be discrepancies and times where I have to improvise... bear with me!
She's Mine [Intro] She's Mine [Part 1] She's Mine [Part 2]
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Republic's influence and reach were stronger than ever, and with that came the ever-present shadow of the Jedi. Since narrowly escaping Vernestra on Brandok, the last few months had been a blur. You were never truly safe. Settling down had been more a matter of necessity than comfort, and even then, "settling" was a stretch.
You were still trapped within the confines of Republic space. Your ship's transponder was a liability, a beacon that couldn’t slip past any checkpoints unnoticed. The only real refuge was the Outer Rim, far from the vigilant eyes of the Jedi and the ever-watchful Republic. But the closest jump to Hutt space was out of reach, forcing you to land on the barren sands of Jakart.
The Jedi were already scouring the galaxy for any sign of force discrepancies, even in the most remote backwater planets. And you both couldn't very well lead them back to Qimirs home. So, you made the choice to hide in plain sight, settling in a place where the noise of a thousand other lives could drown out your presence. Jakart, with its swarms of thugs, scavengers, and criminals, was the perfect cover. Here, you could disappear into the crowd, becoming just another face. But you knew that this was a temporary solution; the longer you stayed, the more you pushed your luck, and the longer you went without proper training.
You didn’t know when—or if—another opportunity like Ian’s would come along. Passage to the Outer Rim on a ship that could evade Republic scouts was a rare gift, one that you couldn’t afford to lose But now, you had to face the hard part: breaking the news to Qimir.
As you scanned into the small, cramped building you and Qimir now called home, a wave of exhaustion washed over you. The door slid open with a hiss, and you stepped inside, the faint hum of the city’s underbelly muffled by the walls. You pulled off your cloak, shaking off the fine layer of dust that clung to it, a grim reminder of the harsh environment outside. Your eyes stung from the grit of the sand, and you rubbed them wearily. It had been a long, grueling day.
The dimly lit room felt stifling, the walls pressing in with the weight of the choices you had to make. You tossed the cloak aside and took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before the inevitable conversation. Qimir wasn’t going to like what you had to say, but there was no other option.
The sound of Qimir moving around in the next room broke your train of thought. You squared your shoulders, pushing down the fatigue, and stepped forward.
There he stood. Looking at you through wisps of black hair, slick with sweat. His eyes, which you once thought were brown, seemed almost black now, with a sharpness that felt more predatory than human.
"You're back." He exclaimed.
"I picked up some Jogans." You tilted your head in the direction of the small table in the corner.
"Feeling hungry after that mug today?"
You only sighed in response.
"That thug tried to take my shit... Would you have rather I just let him walk away?"
He tilted his head back in frustration, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed whatever distaste was rising in his throat.
"How many times do I have to remind you that our survival here banks on our ability to lay low."
"About that..."
His eyes locked on you, demanding an explanation.
"I found a ship that can take us to the outer rim, under the radar."
His eyebrows shot up in surprise "the pilot you found wasn't a bust after all."
You bristled at his tone, almost offended by his doubt. These past few months had shown how strained the relationship could become. It felt more like a game of cat and mouse, and you hated losing.
"Not exactly."
He continued to stare at you through his eyebrows. Why did he always have to stare at you like that.
"A smuggler can get us there."
"who's the smuggler."
He didn't waste any time. You tensed. Ian was the last name you wanted to give. But thats where this was headed anyways. You just had to bite the bullet.
"Ian Skynyr."
Even the name tasted bad on your tongue.
His jaw twitched.
Jeez this was gonna a difficult one to swallow.
"Skynyr." He repeated.
He took a long pause before continuing. "No."
"This is our only shot. You know as well as I do that a freighter like his could secure us both passage safely off of Jakart. I just have to help him out then we can---"
"Help him with what exactly." He cut you off.
You froze.
"Its just a job." You stated casually.
"What kind of job."
"Obtaining and transporting cargo to some client." You brushed it off as if it were a mere fly buzzing past your ear.
"What else."
"Thats all he told me."
"Details matter y/n."
"No they don't matter... because this might be our only chance to get to the outer rim."
"Whatever debt he thinks you owe him... forget it. Skynyr is an idiot. Wherever he goes a blaster target follows him."
"I know, I know. I trust him about as far as I can throw him. But he's all we've got. So, I'm doing it."
"And the deal we made?"
"What about it? I'm not going back on anything. So being your acolyte is following whatever you say regardless? Can you not trust me on this?"
He grimaced.
"No. It means don't fall into a mess I have to pull you out of."
"I can handle myself just fine. I thought Brandok proved that."
"Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now."
Did the death of your old master, at your own hands, prove nothing to him?
No.
You were bartering with a man that had no interest with the rest of what you had to say. But no matter how much he disliked this plan or how much of a headache your existence seemed to him at this moment... he couldn't resist the appeal of Ians secure passage through Republic space.
"Do you have any better ideas then?"
He sighed, finally breaking eye contact and looking down at the floor. His posture slumped as he leaned against the wall, just as exhausted as you were.
"If you can come up with one, I wont take Ians offer. Otherwise we should take this deal."
You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you walked into the next room, slumping onto the small cot that had been your bed for the past few weeks.
You imagined that the only reason he didn't follow was because he knew the truth, which was that you both had no idea when another chance like this would arise. He was just angry it involved working for Ian.
You replayed what Qimir had said to you.
Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now.
You realized that killing your old master did prove your commitment. But to Qimir it also unearthed how little he truly knew you. And something he couldn't predict or control... that probably terrified him.
Good.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
You basically had to drag Qimir to the landing platform where Ians team was meeting. The air was filled with hyper fluid and gases that singed your nostrils. It reminded you of your old post fixing up freighters like the one that now towered before you. Although, that life now felt like it belonged to someone else.
Ian practically beamed when he saw you both approach, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the buzzing platform. "Glad to see you made it."
You only gave him a small nod in return face remaining neutral.
The rest of the crew were people you recognized from around the bazaar.
The Transdoshan known as Kiro. His presence was intimidating, standing at an imposing 6'7", with a build that suggested he could break bones as easily as he could snap his scaly talons.
Next to him was Shaun, a grizzled sharpshooter. He gave you a curt nod, acknowledging your presence with the little care.
A droid, its model old but well-maintained, stood quietly beside them. You couldn’t quite place its make, but it looked functional and that’s all that mattered.
And Ian. Your point of contact - begrudgingly so.
"Our buyer is interested in a rarity being sold at auction tomorrow on Carinth. Job is to secure the cargo and transport it. We'll rendezvous with him on Canto Bight."
"how do you intend to secure the bid. I'm guessing you don't have nearly enough credits to bid on something that an anonymous buyer wants"
Your skeptic tone was thinly veiled.
"Who said anything about bidding with actual credits."
"So what, you yell fire and then grab it in the chaos?"
"Our operation is a little more refined than that."
Qimir scoffed earning a frown from Ian.
Kiro growled, lacing his arms together in a tight cross obviously put off by Qimirs severe lack of respect for any of them.
"The buyer is willing to pay whatever sum for the item plus our services. But he doesn't want to be tied to the acquisition of the aforementioned cargo. So we're going to act as his ambassador of sorts"
"And how do you intend to make the highest bid."
"Rod here is going to take care of that." He gestured to the droid. "So no matter what you have the highest bid."
"Wait, that I have the highest bid?"
"Well Yord was supposed to be the stand in for the auction and canto bight but he's kinda occupied right now."
It took everything in you to bite your tongue.
"You said this was a simple job." You bristled.
"It is."
"You never said anything about impersonating a bidder."
"You didn't ask sweetheart."
Qimir clenched his jaw.
"Yord normally keeps a low profile which made him the best suited for the stand in. Unlucky that he broke his streak on trying to rob you"
"I'll be recognized."
"Where we'll be, no one is going to give two bactas about who you are. These aren't the type of joints where saints congregate. Jedi will be the least of your worries."
"Why are the Jedi looking for you two anyways." Shaun questioned suddenly very interested in the conversation.
"Thats none of your concern."
Shaun put his hands up realizing that you weren't one to answer pointed questions.
"Whats the item I'll be bidding on."
"that also happens to be none of your concern either."
"If we're doing this job I need more information to make sure were not walking into anything we can't walk out of."
"Even if I wanted to I couldn't tell you. The item only goes by its bidding number and the client wont share beyond that. Also I don't really care what it is... as long as I get paid. You're now the stand in on Carinth and Canto Bight, and thats all I'll hear of it."
"Why was it Yord? why me?"
"There's a strong likelihood that the rest of us aren't exactly on the best terms with some of the attendees frequenting the auction, especially not in Canto Bight. We need someone who’s not a big player—or better yet, someone who’s completely unknown. The client insists on absolute secrecy. The fewer issues we encounter and questions we face, the better."
You couldn't deny that everything he stated made sense for a job such as this.
"So what happens when they find out the credits being transferred are fake?"
"Thats when we blast out of there like a bat out of hell."
You almost smirked. You hated to admit it but the chase excited you.
"So you're what is considered a big player?" You replied mockingly.
"Ouch." He pretended to take a knife to the heart.
"Fine."
"And just because I like you so very much y/n I'll let the two of you split Yords share."
"How generous of you, Ian." You swallowed your words with disdain.
"I like to think so." he smiled with great satisfaction. "Be here at 05:00."
Before you could nod your head, Qimir had already turned on his heal heading towards the exit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Whatever you have to say, go ahead. Get it out."
Qimir said nothing as you followed him down the ally. Though you could almost read the back of his head.
"Well if you're going to brood about it at least -"
Before you could get your next words out, you were slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you barely had time to react before his hands pinned your arms to your sides, his grip like iron.
"This isn’t my fault," you gasped.
"Of course it isn’t," his voice was dripping with sarcasm.
You could feel the anger radiating off him. He continued.
"Skynyr is trouble, and nothing but. That makes him dangerous."
"And what are we exactly?" you shot back, your voice tinged with defiance. "What are we?"
"You know what we are," he replied. His tone was cold, as if stating an undeniable truth.
"So when did smugglers become the biggest, baddest thing in the galaxy? In the dark, there’s nothing to fear but us."
"Maker, you’re naive," he spat. "He’s more trouble than he’s worth."
"You’re right," you conceded, though your voice was steady with what you said next. "The sooner we leave the sooner we can continue training. And he’s our best shot out of here."
His jaw clenched, and his teeth bared in a snarl. The rage in his eyes was palpable, and for a moment, you felt a shiver run down your spine. He tightened his grip, pressing you harder against the cold, unforgiving wall. The proximity, the force, everything about the moment screamed danger, yet you held your ground.
"The only reason I’m willing to go along with this little drama," he whispered, a lethal calm overtaking him, his face inches from yours, "is because of that damn republic transponder. Maker knows who else has one... Maybe this trip will teach you a valuable lesson, my young apprentice."
Those last three words hung in the air like dead bodies.
Ghosts.
Ones that constantly haunted you.
My young apprentice.
It wasn’t just a title; it was a reminder of everything you had left behind when you walked away from the Order. He was asserting his authority, reminding you of what you were to him—and more importantly, what he was to you. The unspoken command was clear: Don’t forget it.
You could see the words of warning in his eyes.
"Yes, Master," you whispered.
He stared at you for a moment longer, as if to ensure you truly grasped the gravity of your position. He loosened his grip and pushed himself away from you, storming off toward the compound.
You remained against the wall for a few seconds longer, the echoes of the encounter still reverberating through your mind. The word “Master” clung to you like a weight.
The next morning you both had packed everything you owned... which was very little. But it wasn't the material things that weighed you down. Qimir lashed out at you for a good reason. It was the uncertainty, the sense that you were stepping into something that could very well get you both killed.
Or worst captured.
Maker help me. You whispered.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thats it for today! Hope you liked it! If your feeling it, let me know what you think in the comments.
136 notes · View notes
apomaro-mellow · 1 month ago
Text
King and Prince 50
Part 49
Eddie watched as Tristan tried to move his limbs, clearly aware of them in some way but not yet able to get them to act the way he wanted. Tristan was on his belly and Eddie was on his side. Steve was in the middle of a council meeting. Eddie did his best to stay away, now that the guards from his kingdom were around to look after Steve. While Eddie technically presided over these lands now, he didn’t think of it that way.
This was all Steve’s and Eddie would never take the power from his hands. Which meant there wasn’t much for him to do at meetings other than glare at anyone and dare them to disagree with his love. Tristan began to fuss and Eddie picked him up before he could cry in earnest. When he was alone with Tristan like this, Eddie took his time taking in his features.
He had Steve’s eyes (which Eddie supposed were actually his parents but he wasn’t giving them any damn credit now). His wisps of hair were still light but they’d begun to deepen like raw dough browning in an oven. Eddie carried Tristan out of the room.
“Let’s both get some fresh air, shall we?”
-------------------------
Jeremy was born in this kingdom. He’d grown up with his parents and school teachers and everyone else retelling tales of King Edward. The creature of darkness, born from pitch black muck, formless and aimless until it first tasted the blood of an unsuspecting creature. Now he only lived to feed. And when he wasn’t hungry, he killed just to kill. 
When rumors spread of his union with Prince Steven, people’s imaginations ran wild because King Alric and Queen Julianna hadn’t said a word about it. There was word that the prince was going to the north to complete a training. Then nothing for months. And then suddenly the news of him getting married to King Edward. A few whispers had traveled up the way before that, but they had all seemed so far fetched.
Prince Steven fighting for King Edward’s honor? Impossible! The prince was living as the king’s lover? Even less improbable. Nothing that Jeremy heard, much less the other subjects sounded real at all until the two of them finally arrived at the castle and people saw them. Even though King Edward had the appearance of a man, a shock to many, quite a few had seen the monstrous form he took when he attacked King Alric.
So when Jeremy heard King Edward’s voice, floating through the hall, he took his broom and hid around the corner to avoid him. But then he heard the coos of a baby and almost got curious.
“Yeah? You see your big brother?”
His voice was soft, the way anyone’s would sound while talking to an infant. Jeremy’s curiosity got the better of him and he peeked around the corner. King Edward was about twenty feet away, holding Prince Tristan. They stood before one of the royal family portraits. The one that showed the king, his queen, and their first born when he wasn’t much older than the child in King Edward’s arms.
“You look just like him. Just a happy, chubby little tenderling.”
Jeremy gulped. That sounded a lot like he wanted to eat the young princeling. Prince Tristan let out another soft sound and reached out. King Edward let the tiny hand wrap around his finger, delighted. 
“Such a strong grip! Will you wield a mighty hammer like your brother?”
“Please keep weapons out of his hands for now.”
Prince Steven! Jeremy made his escape before they made the decision to come down this part of the hallway. 
“Have you made your decision, love?”, Eddie asked after kissing Steve in greeting.
“Yes”, Steve smiled. “We can go home now.”
Because as lovely as it was being in the place he’d been raised under his parents’ cold hand, Steve was ready to return to the castle filled with people who actually loved him. Scott Clarke had been a modest tutor. He held no titles. But he was kind to Steve and knew more about history and science than anyone on the council. He was loyal to love and logic, which meant he was loyal to Steve.
So when they set to return to Eddie’s home, Clarke would be their hand, making sure whatever Steve decreed would be enforced. With that settled and Tristan’s belongings packed, Steve and Eddie returned, Nancy and Jeff in tow. The moment their carriage was inside the castle walls, a stampede was upon them. Steve sighed as he could hear Dustin’s voice above the others.
“We could use the shadows to our advantage”, Eddie offered Steve a way to avoid them for now.
“And how would that way of traveling affect our two little ones?”, Steve asked.
“Hmm, good question. I might need to leave you to the wolves then”, Eddie teased.
Steve rolled his eyes, knowing his love would never abandon him, even to this. The carriage door was opened and Eddie went out first, telling them all to watch their volume.
“If you wake that baby, so help me, I’ll learn to use a whip”, Eddie threatened, shaking his finger.
“Yeah, right, sure you will”, Max scoffed.
Eddie deflated before turning to help Steve out while he held Tristan. “I was spoiled in that place. People flinched and fled at my shadow. Here, I’m a joke.”
Steve kissed his cheek. “Here, you are a king who is loved by his people and not a monster to be feared. Would you have our children fear you?”
“You guys gotta be lovey-dovey now? In front of us?”, Lucas asked.
“You didn’t get it outta your systems on your vacation?”, Mike added.
Steve wouldn’t call executing his parents a vacation. But they were children. He’d let it slide for now. Robin pushed through them and held her arms out. Steve handed her Tristan, still napping.
“How rude of you to make me an aunt without nine months notice, at least?”
“Sorry to spring it on you”, Steve chuckled.
“He’s really your brother?”, Dustin asked, poking Tristan’s cheek.
“You think we just picked up a random baby on the way home?”, Eddie accused, holding a hand to his chest.
“Seems plausible, I mean you two were really excited about having a baby”, Robin said. “I wouldn’t put it past you to snatch a little cutie babootie, a widdle idle poopy smoochy yes you are”, Robin cooed, her voice going higher as Tristan woke up. She looked up to find everyone staring at her.
“What the fuck was that?”, Dustin asked.
“Oh stars…”, Robin said as she realized what she just did. “Oh shit, oh fuck, Steve take your baby back.”
“You really are an auntie. That baby talk came out of you more naturally than any other language I’ve heard you speak”, Steve said.
“You’ve enchanted this baby somehow. I know it. Never in my life-!” Then Tristan made a sound, taking her attention away. “Oh look at you. With your bubby idle cheekies and teeny-weeny handsies~”
“I think I’m gonna be sick”, Mike gagged.
They moved the party inside and Tristan was handed off to each of them to try to hold. Eddie sat in a plush chair and Steve sat in his lap. Eddie put a hand on Steve’s belly. As much as he complained earlier, he did prefer this. He’d rather be seen as a clown than as an abomination.
“I always forget how small babies can be”, El said as she held Tristan. His hazel eyes looked to Max, who sat next to El.
“Don’t look at me, I don’t do baby talk.”
“And I’ll thank you for it”, Steve said. “I was counting on Robin being her language tutor but it seems she is incapable of speaking properly in his presence.”
“See, this is why you don’t spring your babies on me. I already have a month’s worth of lessons prepared for that one”, Robin pointed at Steve’s torso. “I didn’t have enough time to get ready for the other one!”
“My apologies again. You should have more of a warning next time”, Steve said.
“Next time?”, everyone, including Eddie, echoed.
Steve smiled and kissed his temple. “You didn’t think this would be enough? I want a big family, Your Majesty.”
Eddie beamed, his embrace tightening around Steve. “And you shall get it, Your Majesty.”
Part 51
By my count we only have about six parts left and that's the end of this fic!
Taglist CLOSED
@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 
@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 
@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 
@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 
@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 
@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug
@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-stevee
49 notes · View notes