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ultravi0lence14 · 25 days ago

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Thoroughfare

DEAN WINCHESTER X DOE!READER

WARNINGS: sexual content (MDNI), fingering, hair pulling, finger sucking. first smut, pls i know it’s bad🫣

SUMMARY: with a light whisper of ‘do you wanna see the west with me?’ dean had you right where he wanted; by his side and sitting pretty in the front seat of his car.

WC: 3.3k

the humid air of the western skies lingered on your skin, bringing a humid and sticky sheen to your arms and shoulders. dean had all the windows rolled down, a testament to the light breeze that broke through the stickiness of montana.

your cotton tank top stuck to your skin, slick sweat making you feel like it had melded with your body. the cutoff’s you wore weren’t any better, adhering to your thighs like glue. the stubborn weather of a mid july afternoon didn’t allow for any cold; no chill wracking you through the bone, only a sickly, immobilizing heat that crashed through your senses and made it’s way into your dna.

though some part of you didn’t seem to mind. the rolled down windows allowed you to stick your head out the open space, wind blowing in your hair as you took in the blurred and rolling sights of crooked leafless trees and dried up fields.

dean wasn’t any better. one of his hands rested on the steering wheel, long nimble fingers clutched tightly so he could steer you to wherever the road leads you two. his other hand — firm in it’s grip, rested on your thigh. his fingers travelled into the inside of your leg, fingers delicately dancing across the seem of your shorts as his eyes stared at you from his peripheral vision.

you were ethereal, an angel sent from God just for him. your hair, unruly in how the wind tossed it about, was flowing behind you like a fairy with her wings. the side profile of your face was directed towards dean, your back facing the passenger side door as you stuck your head out in the placid and dry air.

the fullness of your cheeks was properly on display to dean’s eager eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to run his lips across the skin, brushing delicate kisses onto your cheeks and face until you were covered in his love. he could faintly see the plump pout of your own lips, eyes shimmering with admiration and desire as he pictured running his tongue across them; your soft lips pressed timidly against his as he pulled you into his body, almost swallowing you whole.

he loved you, so incandescently. you were the face of beauty, a true goddess in the eyes of the eldest winchester. it wasn’t just your delicate features that pulled dean in, it was the way you carried yourself, a graceful mist following you wherever you went.

softness rolled off of you in tidal waves, and dean loved how your gentle nature contrasted and grounded his frequent pessimistic and grumpy behaviour. the human embodiment of a doe; a creature full of love and life, who walked through flower gardens erupted by spring like it was her calling.

it didn’t help that your eyes resembled one of the animal; big and round, always so soft and caring. he loved you so much, it physically made his soul ache.

you were always there for him, never wavering even when times got tough. you didn’t love his job, believing that hunting was dangerous and the stem of all of his childhood and lasting trauma. but dean always waved you off, saying that this was his life, and he would never do anything that would jeopardize a life and future with you.

but he could still see the emotional tole it was taking on you, weighing on your heart like a heavy burden that you shouldn’t be carrying. he ached for you to feel secure in this life that he was giving you, but dean also knew that everyone needed breaks. so, he decided to give you one.

a couple nights ago, the two of you found yourselves tangled in the sheets of a nebraskan motel, limbs intertwined as dean embraced you in his arms, your fingers drawing small hearts on his chest.

“let’s go to california.” the random outburst from dean had you pulling away from him slightly, lifting up on your elbows so you could get a better look at the man who’s eyes glimmered with hope and mischief. “what are you talking about, dean?”

“what i’m trying to say is,” dean sat up as he spoke, resting against the headboard and grabbing your hips so he could pull you into his lap. “let’s go to california. you are always begging me to go to malibu, and you deserve a vacation every now and then.”

the smile on your lips was beaming, a shine that could light up a thousand skies. dean wanted to bottle it up, put it in a jar, and never let it leave his side. he felt your hands move to his shoulders, those big, beautiful eyes staring at him with unbridled excitement. “you’re being serious right now? this isn’t just some sick joke?”

“no jokes baby,” he drawled, hand brushing your soft hair away from your face. pulling his face closer to yours so he could brush his lips against your ear, dean whispered so softly you believed you were imagining it. “do you wanna go see the west with me, pretty girl?”

you were elated the whole car ride, excitedly babbling about all the things you two would do in the golden state. as the nights rolled into days, the air started to get more and more humid, which led to the very moment that dean was in now. he shook his head from the memory of how he got here, watching your smile take up your whole face as you giggled at something unbeknownst to him. he didn’t really think about the why, he was too busy getting drunk on the sound of your laugh.

lightly patting your thigh, dean grinned over at your windswept and sticky frame as your giggles danced alongside the flow of the wind. “c’mon crazy girl, get back in here. can’t have you falling out.” his words held a joking lilt, yet you could see the concern in dean’s eyes. with a joking huff, you retreated back into the car, legs immediately sticking to the leather as the hot air melded your skin like sticky glue.

“oh c’mon dean, it’s so hot.” you groaned out, another giggle rippling through your lips as you saw dean playfully role his eyes in your peripheral. “i can basically feel my skin melting off.”

“you’re so dramatic,” his teasing was palpable, you could feel it in the way his smile reached his eyes and how his fingers clutched a little tighter onto your thigh. “what do you think cali’s going to be like, baby? think it’s going to be an ice box?”

letting out a grunt as you smacked his arm, dean watched with love struck eyes as your grin got impossibly even more wide. “you’re such a jerk, dean winchester!” dean swore he has never smiled harder in his life than when he was with you. that sweet, playful nature always brought out the best in him, and he didn’t even dare think about a life without your brightened presence.

crossing your arms over your chest, those pretty pink lips dean loved so much puffed out in a pretty pout. dean’s hand itched on your thigh, wanting to reach up and pull down your bottom lip. “i’m prepared for the weather in california, dean.” your voice broke him from his revere, making dean slightly cough as he intently listened to your ramble

“we won’t be spending all the time in the car. we’ll be at the beach, santa monica pier — oh i’m so excited for all the rides!” the vibrant glimmer of your excitement shined through the car, hitting dean straight in his heart, spreading until it was pumping through his veins.

“yeah, no rides, doe.” the previous excitement in your eyes dwindled, a shocked expression breaking through. “what? we have to go on the rides dean! it’s almost like a birthright.” he just loved how you expressed yourself, loving how when you defended the things you loved, your eyes got wild and your cheeks tinted. it was such a pretty sight, though dean was starting to believe everything about you was pretty.

dean’s words came through his lips in a chuckle, a grin etched onto his face as he looked at your pretty features. “i don’t do rides. never have, never will. sorry, sweets.”

shaking your head in disdain, a sad pout decorated your face, turning towards dean as he continued to drive down the desolate, montana road. “you’re such a buzz kill, do you even know what fun is?”

your question was a joke, your voice light and airy as it always was, but this time with a twinkle of comedy. but dean was already so wound up from the image of how pretty you looked with the wind blowing in your hair, illuminating you like a framed painting, that an idea slid into the depths of his mind.

a smirk adorned his lips as he shifted the wheel, pulling the impala off to the side of the road. your face twisted up in confusion as dean pulled the gear shift into park, cutting the ignition and turning his body to face you. your lips parted in question, about to voice your thoughts before dean’s hands grabbed at your calves.

with a squeak from your lips, dean hauled your legs onto the front seat, moving your body so your back was leaned against the door. he then tracked his fingers down the smooth expanse of your skin, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you down until you laid flat on your back.

the space was cramped, but dean somehow found a way to make it work; bending your legs at the knees and spreading them open so he could fit in between them. words were lodged in your throat, a sputter of air leaving your lips as dean situated himself. he had that shit eating grin on his face, and you could already tell that he had something wild up his sleeve.

“dean!” you exclaimed, hands going to rest against his chest as a laugh erupted from your lips. “what are you doing?”

he just smirked, trailing his hands from your ankles up your thighs, one hand gripping your waist as the other worked to pop the button of your shorts. “just showing my girl how fun i can really be.”

the words that fell from his lips were amplified with the sound of your zipper undoing, and your eyes widened suddenly at the realization of what dean had in mind.

“we can’t do this now, dean.” you exasperated, hands pushing at his chest as his fingers worked to take off your pants. “someone could drive by, they could see us for christ’s sake!”

dean just leaned down to leave a lingering kiss on your forehead, shimmying the waistband of your shorts a little ways down your waist before his hand on your hip shifted to go under your ass. “no one’s been on the road for miles, sweet thing. we’re alone, everything is going to be okay.” his words were followed by the softening of his eyes, the hand that had been undoing your zipper went up to stroke your cheek. “do you trust me?”

sliding your hands up from his chest to around his shoulders, a soft, serene smile graced your lips. you brought your face upward, brushing your mouth against his as the shallow breath’s leaving dean’s lips hit your own. ��of course, i always do.”

you felt him smile against your lips, placing a delicate kiss on your nose before he pulled back slightly. “good,” he breathed, hands going back to your waistband. “now, lift your hips f’me, baby.”

a dusty blush adorned your cheeks as you obliged, hips lifting slightly as dean slid your jean shorts from your legs. when they got to your ankles, dean helped you kick them off, picking them up and throwing them somewhere in the backseat with a grin.

“that’s much better.” words wrapped around a grin as his fingers dipped into the waistband of your panties. the giggle that left your lips at his comment turned into a shallow whimper as one of his fingers dipped into your folds, his fingers slipping through your already wet cunt.

a breath left dean’s lips, eyes blowing wide as he watched your face twist in pleasure from the finger he had down your pants. “jesus, sweets, you’re already fucking soaked. did i do this to you? was it my words and my finger that got you this wet?”

a high pitched ‘mhm’ left your lips as you nodded your head, eye’s half lidded as you watched dean stare down at his finger teasing your folds. moving the finger that was teasing your entrance towards your clit, lightly pressing down and eliciting a sharp moan from deep in your gut. “there’s my girl,” dean cooed, his fingers moving in tight circles on your sensitive bud. “you’re doing so good for me baby, such a good fucking girl.”

the sensation was overwhelming, a shot of bliss the curled in your gut and wound into your soul. your half-lidded eyes caught sight of dean, his head down as he watched the way his finger played with your clit. the mid-day sun was washing over his figure, bathing him in such a light that made him look almost angelic.

as dean pulled his finger away, you felt a sense of emptiness unfurl in your stomach. a deep whine left your lips, hips lifting upwards to try and chase the high that dean was providing you. “more dean. please, give me more.”

“patience, pretty girl.” his voice was soft, but there was an air of demand and dominance that hid behind the cracks of his voice. “i’m just getting started. didn’t know you were so needy for me.”

another whine tore from the depths of your throat, whimpering as dean slid the side of your underwear out of the way, exposing your cunt to his eyes and the cold air that was whirling through the car’s vents. a groan rumbled in his throat, your eyes half lidded as you watched him put the finger covered in your slick in his mouth.

“jesus christ, you taste like a fucking dream.” his words sound slurred, and they were heightened as two of his fingers went back to your leaking pussy, prodding at your entrance as tiny whimpers left your throat. “i can’t wait to see how you look stuffed with my fingers, gushing all over my hand like the good girl i know you are.”

the whine that would’ve left your lips at his words turned into a deep moan, dean’s middle and pointer finger entering your tight walls, his own ragged breaths mixing with yours as he felt you clenching around him.

he watched as your breathing grew ragged, chest heaving up and down as you gripped onto his shoulders for dear life. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so dean waited until you gave him the green light, his other hand smoothing down the hair the fell in your face.

after a couple of moments, he felt your hips rut into his hand, eyes screwing shut in pure pleasure. that was all he needed to thrust his fingers into your tight walls.

high pitched whimpers left your lips as dean’s fingers prodded at your cervix, a guttural moan leaving your lips as he brushed against your g-spot.

“there it is,” he breathed, hollow breaths leaving his own lips as he watched his fingers go in and out of you. “that’s the spot, isn’t it baby? you like it when my fingers make you feel good?”

all you could let out was a guttural moan, hands clawing at dean’s clothed chest for any sign of resolve. too caught up in your own pleasure, you didn’t realize that dean had forgotten to roll up the windows, your loud moans and whines flowing through the wind and alerting anyone who drove by about what was going on inside of the impala.

but in the moment, you didn’t seem to care. dean started to move his fingers faster, your hips rutting up to meet the frenzied pace of his hand. the coil in your stomach was starting to tighten more and more, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your eyes closed and slightly turn your head as the euphoric feelings started to intensify.

though that didn’t last for long, because without a warning, the hand that dean had previously used to smooth down your hair tangled in it’s strands, gripping tightly as he pulled your head upwards so you were face to face with him.

“open those pretty eyes for me, sweetheart.” his voice held that same softness with a lilt of dominance, fingers quickening as he felt your orgasm approach. “i wanna see you when you cum. see how good i make you feel when i fuck you with my fingers.”

your eye’s shot open, lips parted and heavy pants and whines leaving your throat as dean kept going with the relenting pace. “i can’t- fuck, dean! i’m gonna cum!”

the pace at which dean’s fingers were moving inside of you was relentless. each thrust of his fingers hitting your g-spot as his piercing green eyes stared into yours. at your words, he moved a little faster, lips brushing yours as his voice travelled from his lips to yours. “c‘mon, my sweet girl, come for me.”

you could feel it, the bliss that started in your core and creeped it’s way into your entire body. the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until, like a crashing wave, it gave way.

you came with a loud cry, back arched and head leaning into dean’s hand embedded into your hair. you watched as dean kept moving his fingers inside of you even as you gushed around his fingers. he was transfixed, completely enchanted by the bliss that took over your face.

“there you go,” he cooed, the hand in your hair lessening as his fingers started to slow down. “pretty girl, all messed up, coming on my fingers. you look fucking unreal.”

his words were mixed in with the small whimpers that left your lips, mouth parted and cheeks flushed with bliss. there was drool running down the corners of your mouth, and you felt as dean took his hand out of your hair and wiped it away with his thumb.

you whined as he pulled his fingers out, feeling empty without his fingers deep inside of you. looking down, you watched as your juices spilled out of your entrance, dean immediately dipping his two already wet fingers in the mess and putting them in front of your mouth.

“open up for me, doe. want you to taste yourself on my fingers.” with wide, wet eyes, you parted your lips for dean to place his two fingers on your tongue. when you closed your mouth, sucking on the two digits, you felt as the pads of middle and pointer finger prodded at the back of your throat.

“that’s my girl.” dean breathed out, watching in awe as he stared at your pretty face sucking your juices off of his fingers. he swore you weren’t real in that moment, too good to be true. yet as you swirled your tongue around his fingers, he realized that you were his, and he was yours, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

as you came down from your high, dean cleaned you up with a napkin that he found in his centre console. when he was done, he helped you sit up, moving your underwear back into place and allowing you to take a breather.

realizing your shorts were in the backseat, you leaned over the seat to try and find them, jumping as you felt dean land a smack on your ass.

“jesus dean,” you laughed, grabbing your shorts and sitting back down. “can’t get enough can you?”

“when it comes to you?” he grinned, turning the car back on and starting to pull back onto the street. “i can never have enough,”

TAGS: @haunteres @starzify @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @foolinthera1n @vaiieydoii @bluemerakis

NAT BABBLES: i’ve been so wrapped up with my angel series, that i wanted to reset and write a little dean story. also, this is my first time writing smut, so i know it’s probably ass, but just bare with me😭

#supernatural #dean winchester #imagine #supernatural x reader #fluff #ultravi0lence14 #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x doe!reader #ethel cain #southern gothic #dean winchester smut

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buckyalpine · 2 years ago

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Exhibitionist Bucky

Exhibitionism, possessive, feral Bucky. This is just filth, forgive me.

There's only one time Bucky is okay with you calling him James. He loves being your Bucky, your baby, your baby bear.

However.

The one time he wants you calling him by his first name is when he’s balls deep in you, railing you with his cock.

“J-JAMES”

“That’s right mama, let everyone know whose making you feel so good” He lets out a dark chuckle, gripping your hips, slamming you down to meet his thrusts, spearing his cock in and out of you. He fucks you hard enough, the sound proof walls fail to do their job, your wanton moans easily carrying down the halls.

You sound like an absolute whore and he loves it.

He loves the way your eyes roll back, chanting and calling for him, unable to form a single coherent thought while he utterly wrecks you. The only thing you manage to get out is his name and it makes him feral, knowing the whole compound can hear how slutty and needy you are just for him.

“Say my name, say my fuckin’ name” He grits out, pounding you against the door harder, the obscene squelch of your sopping cunt nearly as loud as your wails. “C’mon, say it princess, I want ‘em to hear”

There's no doubt he’s possessive little shit so when a new agent gets too close to your for his liking, he’s 100 times worse. Bucky knows the guy can’t do much, having to fly the jet after a mission but still. He has to make a point of showing the guy exactly who you belong to. He pops open the button of your tac pants, hushing your feeble protests, puling you onto his lap, your back to his chest, spreading your legs apart.

He makes quick work of the zipper, slipping his hand down your panties, humming when he feels your swollen clit, rubbing you slowly while you bite back your moans, squeezing your eyes shut hoping to silence yourself.

Unacceptable.

He plunges two fingers into your entrance without warning, pumping them in and out of you, drawing out a needy whine. He knows your trying to hard to control yourself, curling his fingers deeper while holding your down with his arm splayed across your waist.

“James p-please-”

“Sound so pretty when you call for me baby” He purrs against your ear, pumping them faster, your voice getting higher and higher, your hands clawing at his leather jacket. He’s hitting that spot in you that makes your vision go white, squirming on his lap, your thighs spreading apart all on their own.

Bucky knows that sound, his eyes feral, trained on the way he fucks you with his fingers, determined to get you to lose your voice but the time he’s done with you. “Go on babydoll, make a mess, c’mon, get your panties wet baby, wet yourself for daddy”

“JAAMESSS”

Your screams bounce off the walls of the jet as you squirt, soaking his hand, too lost in pleasure to care about the agent, whose knuckles are white with the grip he has on the wheel.

But that isn’t good enough.

Bucky needs the guy to cum in his pants like a pathetic little boy, hearing how broken and gone you sound for him.

You pant on his thigh while he kisses your sweaty temple, while working at the buckles of his pants, pulling them down just enough to free his leaky cock. He yanks your pants down just below your ass; your gasp turns into a slutty moan when he pulls you back onto his lap, rubbing his swollen tip through your puffy, sensitive folds. He pushes his hips up, letting his cockhead breech your cunt, groaning when you sit back, taking in his full length.

You’re so dizzy with pleasure and need, you blindly reach to hold onto his knees as you start to move up and down, impaling yourself on his cock, your slick making salacious sounds you can’t even hide.

“Thats it mama, ride me, ride this cock” Bucky’s head is thrown back, hitting the wall of the jet, chest heaving watching you greedily bounce on his cock, “Whose cock do you ride baby, say it”

“JAMESJAMESJAMES” You chant over and over again, tears streaming down your face, the veins along his cock throbbing.

“That’s right babygirl, scream for me, fucking scream!” He starts to meet your thrusts, fucking up into you with a bruising grip on your hips, your body going limp, head falling back onto his shoulder. You let him manhandle you like a ragdoll, the pleasure in your belly winding up tighter than before.

“OH FUCK JAMESSSS” Your clench and squeeze around his cock as your second high washes over you, making Bucky growl against your neck, his pace growing sloppy.

“That’s it, so messy for me babygirl, m’gonna make a mess too, gonna fill that little pussy up princess, fuck me, m’gonna make such a mess for you fuck-oh shittt” He wrapped his arms around your pliant body, hugging you tightly as he spills himself into you, moaning into your skin. He doesn’t pull out until you’ve landed, the jet touching the ground rougher than usual.

“M’sleepy baby bear” You mumble as he helps straighten out your suit before wrapping your legs around his waist so he can carry you out, lips pressing soft kisses onto your sex flushed skin.

“Let’s go take a nap princess”

Bucky smirks when he notices the agent shudder, poorly adjusting himself to hide the wet stain on his pants.

Mission accomplished.

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deepspacenova · 2 months ago

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Zayne’s insomnia + Sylus being the perfect cure HCs

Zayne x Sylus (x Reader)

Incidentally, reader is third wheeling in like, this whole list (but somehow I feel like many of us won’t mind).

[Inspired by the replies in this post with @leighsartworks216 where we spiraled about Zayne + Sylus… dynamics that made my brain go into full HC mode.]

Sylus taking care of day to day Onychinus business when he starts to notice traces of Zayne around the house at night: a medical tome left open on the coffee table, a glass of ice water (but mostly ice) on the counter, one of Zayne's rings on the end table;

Pretty sure he understands, Sylus ventures out of his office more often. Each time he sees Zayne, he looks more exhausted but the one time Sylus raises a brow at him, he’s brushed off with an, "I'm fine.";

Sylus, of course, takes it as a challenge and makes it his mission to become the biggest tease. I mean, he's king of pushing the limits of your self control, so Zayne’s cinder block wall exterior is the ultimate challenge and he’s set on tearing that shit down brick by fucking brick;

It starts with touches. Brushing Zayne's hand, playfully squeezing the back of Zayne’s neck when he walk past him on a business call, using his evol to pull Zayne's books, phone, snacks out of his hands;

But then there's Sylus' words. And when it comes to those, Zayne's a goner. He's used to you being forward in your affections with him but he can't help but clear his throat at Sylus' double entendres and flirty quips, or feel heat in his abdomen when Sylus uses his drawling rasp;

"You’re always so tense, Z. Want me to loosen you up?";

"Those medical texts aren't doing anything to put you to sleep. Maybe you need something that penetrates deeper... into that overactive mind of yours.";

"I know you're the doctor, but maybe you need someone else to prescribe your... treatment tonight.";

It’s not long before it becomes a subconscious thing for Zayne — seeking out Sylus whenever he jolts awake at night. Zayne's very adamant that it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb you in bed though (sure baby boy);

But there's something about Sylus’ ruthless teasing and the mind games they play that has him tired out within an hour of even the worst of his nightmares;

And he'd never admit it out loud but sometimes, Zayne falls back asleep imagining the satisfaction he'd get from finally silencing the Onychinus leader's teasing by stuffing his cock down his throat;

Of course Sylus can tell when Zayne’s frustration and tension finally snaps. His new favorite thing is seeing Zayne try to resist him before he gives up and crawls back into bed;

Sylus knows exactly how to wear him down. Sometimes, it’s pulling the book from Zayne's hand with his evol, only to say "Careful, doctor. Grabbing it like that might get you into trouble,” when Zayne reaches over to snatch it back;

Sometimes he sneaks up behind Zayne, kissing the back of his neck while his Evol tugs Zayne's hips back against him;

Cut to Zayne, pants pulled down to his ankles, legs over Sylus's shoulder, getting the best fuckin blow job of his life. Sylus holding onto his thighs, refusing to let the doctor hesitate to squeeze around his head. Zayne's hand in Sylus's hair, pulling and tugging and trying to keep some semblance of control;

Zayne throwing his head back against the couch, breath choked in his throat, hand tight in Sylus's hair to keep his nose pressed to his stomach, but then Sylus pulls off of him. It's frustrating, it draws unexpected noises from him. And Sylus just smirks and says he promised to tire him out, kissing all up his hip and legs; (credit to @leighsartworks216 for these pieces of genius).

On particularly bad nights, Zayne goes to the balcony to catch his breath and some cold air to calm himself down. One night Sylus, effortlessly smug with the phone at his ear, at work, uses his evol to force Zayne to his knees. "Handle it today," he says to the person on the phone, "you know how I like to put men in their place.";

Speaking of, Sylus loooves edging Zayne. Leaving him a panting, writhing mess, pulling away just when Zayne’s hand tightens in his hair or his breath hitches in his throat. “I said I’d tire you out, but I never said I’d make it easy.”;

For a guy who doesn't say much, Zayne's vocal and very demanding in the heat of the moment - which wakes you up sometimes.

Knowing all about Sylus' scheme to tire Zayne out, you love sliding into bed hand pressed to his chest, "Doctor Zayne, your heart is racing, maybe we need to do some tests?" Sylus chuckles darkly, watching Zayne’s eyes flutter between both of you. The idea of you both teaming up to tire him out finally makes Zayne’s control slip;

The best time of day is twilight, a few hours before you and Zayne start the day, as Sylus is ending his. The three of you fall into bed, Zayne's body is exhausted and his mind is quiet. Barely keeping his eyes open when his fingers twine with yours. Sylus pulls you close from behind, his hand on top of both of yours. Sylus smirks at both of you, proud of himself. "The only nightmare you two are allowed to have is me."

#i just realized how not okay i am over these two #can you tell i need to be SANDWICHED between these men #zylus #zayne x sylus #sylus x zayne #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #zayne #lads zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne love and deepspace #snowcrow #l&ds #love and deepspace headcanons #nova yapping

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 6 months ago

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˗ˏˋ Arthur Morgan Modern!AU Headcanons ´ˎ˗

To answer this ask from the lovely @crystalofmoon19 , I got to think a bit more deeply about what a modern!AU Arthur could be. This absolutely stunning Arthur pic is from @arthurmorgan-vp!

JOB ´ˎ˗

Has a job that means a lot to him and is totally dedicated when doing it.

Arthur flourishes when helping others. I saw a Chartur fanart that portrayed him as a nurse and god I love this idea. He's emotionally VERY tough, making him efficient even in difficult and stressful times when a patient's life is in his hands. He's also a practical person who needs to have a concrete, manual aspect in his work. On top of that, we have the whole "service to society" aspect.

Police officer could also fit this dynamic. (I know it's pretty ironic considering he's a criminal in the canon but it's one of these jobs where he could put his strength into action to help others).

Also, without the need to survive and do criminal acts, with a caring family who could push him in the right ways, he also could have a job in arts. Arthur canonically is a curious and inventive person, he draws every little thing he finds interesting around him and cares for places, characters and events most people wouldn’t. I could picture him as an illustrator/concept artist. Or tattoo artist too? Why not.

HOBBIES ´ˎ˗

Sooooo artsy.

If he works at the hospital, he needs to have a sketchbook to just write and draw like in the canon. With other mediums being way more accessible nowadays, I think he could also paint and even sculpt from time to time.

Art helps him to get dark thoughts out of his head and focus on something when life gets hard.

However, if he already works in an artsy field, I think he would need to get up and move after a whole day sitting and would love to just go jogging, hiking, and taking long walks in nature. A combat sport could also do the work, as Arthur has an important code of honor: a discipline like Judo or Wrestling could help him get all his pent-up energy out while respecting his opponent; boxing could work too.

100% have a Polaroid and takes pictures of good times and his close ones every chance he gets. His bedroom/apartment is full of objects that carry an emotional value to him.

MODERN THINGS HE LIKES ´ˎ˗

Barbecues.

Would wear the ugliest apron and cap while doing them btw. And doesn't see what the problem is.

Classical rock music and vinyl. Thinking about Led Zepplin, The Stones, The Doors. Vintage music all the way. Has a secret soft spot for Lady Gaga though. Don't tell John. And (not-so) hot take, it's Hosea who introduces him to his old blues and rock records (Dutch prefers Jazz music.)

Camping and long hiking trips. Trekking when he feels really adventurous.

Going to the cinema. (100% eats salty popcorn and messes with John during the film if it's a family outing.)

In modern days Arthur would have been born in 1988. This means he was a '90s kid: he fondly remembers VHS tapes, baggy jeans, his old PlayStation One, maybe watching the first episodes of Pokémon, too. He's canonically such a nostalgic.

Would 100% make his own mix on cassette tapes btw

Flannels. I picture him with comfy rather than fancy clothes. He would also have a big leather jacket or vintage bomber for winter. And a leather bag like this one where important work papers are mixed with random trinkets found on his hikes.

RANDOM LITTLE FACTS ´ˎ˗

Arthur is so messy (I mean look at his tent). His car (Hosea's old one) is also a complete mess, cups, leftovers from meals, CDs, work stuff and random objects cover every possible inch of it.

Talking about it, looooves to drive. Totally do it with one hand on the wheel. And with good music ofc. (He would put his other hand on your thigh)

Has a dog. Or wants one deeply. A big one. And he definitely wants a lot of animals once he has a bigger house with you.

I said he could be a tattoo artist. I think he would have a tattoo, of an animal. Of course, we as a fandom thinks of the deer, but it has to be something meaningful to him. Maybe the animal who inspires him the most, or one they have seen in the wild with John during a walk in the woods.

Arthur is not a good cook. Buys a lot of food telling himself this time, he will succeed at making this damn dish. Biggest mess ever, ingredients everywhere on the floor, the walls, his body and hair. Pure chaos. Everything burns. Kitchen ends up on fire. Uses the internet as last hope, tries to watch as many tutorials as possible but it doesn't help+his phone ends up covered in egg white, flour, and wet ingredients. Throws away the food and gives up, orders a pizza.

Repeat previous paragraph every time he wants to try a new dish he saw somewhere.

(The phone is okay because he has the strongest and largest phone case ever. The kind of enormous one made to protect phones in building zones, for his hikes. It's pitch black.)

Overall I'd say a Modern!AU Arthur would probably be a bit happier even though still very nostalgic and melancholic at times (without the constant need to run away and kill people, his mental health would be much better.)

Important disclaimer: these are my personal thoughts, they could totally be shitty, I'm not at all claiming this is the absolute truth about him. A character is always subject to a personal interpretation, therefore anyone could picture him differently! Btw, I would love to hear your thoughts about it!

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked my silly little ideas.

I'm thinking about doing a part.2 where we could dive into his habits, his relationships with family, friends and s/o and other little fun facts. Let me know if I should! -Pine 🌱

#also he's way less stinky and takes extremly hot showers #I actually LOVED doing this #prepare for more headcanon guys #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan modern au #red dead redemption modern au #rdr2 modern au #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan headcanons #rdr2 headcanon #rdr2 headcanons #arthur morgan headcanon #rdr2 community #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader

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toweroftickles · 7 months ago

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Hi (:

What do you think about characters of "Inside out 2"? Do we have some lees here?

Ok I somehow didn't experience the original Inside Out until like 2 weeks ago, and then immediately rushed to theaters for the second one, and I have not been able to stop thinking about it since! Of course the first thing I started daydreaming about was the chaos that would ensue in Brain HQ during tickles. So yes, I've definitely got headcanons. XD

EMOTIONAL * RESPONSES

When Riley Gets Tickled

Joy squees, claps, bounces up and down, the usual. "AAAH Tickle time! Awww, our girl is still so adorable..."

Disgust: "Mm-mm. I hate this. Hate it. Majorly messing with my zen."

Sadness: *confused and a little uncomfortable*

Fear: *open-mouthed and deeply uncomfortable*

Envy gasps and hops up to the screen. "Omigosh omigosh they're touching us. That means they like us and think we're cute, right? Right?!"

Anger: "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be, huh?! You want a fight, kid?! I'll give ya a fight! Right up your -"

Anxiety: "Wait! There's a million possible variables in what'll happen if we decide to fight back! Accidentally punching them would be devastating to our network!"

Joy's not paying attention, she's too busy laughing and hammering the serotonin injector.

"I-I got it! Scream! Just holler, really loud!"

"GUHH, get out of the wayyyy; stop hogging this thing! We have to run! Come on!"

Ennui: *exists in French*

*Meanwhile Embarrassment is just spread out like a starfish and rolling his entire girth back and forth across the keyboard.*

When Riley's Tickling Someone Else

Joy takes the wheel here. The others know not to disturb a master plying her craft. She's an expert tickler, so she feeds Riley a whole bushel of fun ideas, and Envy is her eager troublemaker minion.

There is in fact a dedicated "Tickle" command button. The plastic is slightly stuck in the slot because it hasn't been used much.

Anger keeps trying to grab his levers and switches, but Joy usually shoves him to the side with her foot.

*tries to wrest control from Joy and rein her in*

*barfing in the corner somewhere*

When a Tickle Scene Pops Up in a Movie

Joy giggles happily and squirms in her seat, then boops the control panel so that Riley follows suit.

Disgust is a tiny bit antsy...she's not influencing Riley yet but she's on standby in case stuff gets weird.

Embarrassment gingerly taps the console at increasing intervals until Sadness pulls his arm away.

Ennui: Probably watching something else. Or doomscrolling.

When Someone Asks Riley if She's Ticklish

*screams like a little girl*

*hides, bangs head on the desk*

"That is NOT funny!"

"Oh no! What do we do; whaddawedo?! Riley's way too ticklish! What if they tickle us and don't stop for the rest of eternity?! What if they think Riley's laugh is weird and we're socially ostracized and forced to get a job in a fish cannery?!"

“Ew ew ew ew no. Lie. We have to lie right now!” *jumps for the controller*

*Joy grabs Disgust's arm* "Whoa whoa whoa, eeeaasy there. Let's just calm down...this is a fun question; we're having fun..."

Envy: "Ooo, what if they're ticklish and they want us to tickle them?" *already wiggling her fingers in the air*

"But if we misread that signal and make them mad at us, then..."

Ennui: *groans and taps her console app*

Riley, being super casual: “Meh…a little. Not really.”

Suddenly Riley's eyes dilate. Her throat hitches and there's the tiniest bit of pink in her cheeks. Everyone turns their heads to look at -

“EMBARRASSMENT!!! *dry heave* WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

"Ohhhh boy. There it is. We're doomed now."

When They Get Tickled Themselves

Come on, we all know that Joy always draws first blood. (Er...first giggle?) She's such a switchy monster. Tickling is her default method of cheering others up. It's canon. Case closed.

As someone whose default setting repels positivity, Sadness is not ticklish at all, and this actually upsets her.

*silently grabs the tickler by the neck and tosses them out the window*

Nobody protests like Disgust. She gets mad. She slaps. She hurls insults. She runs away. Disgust is both extremely ticklish and extremely touch-averse, so this is Code Red for her.

Fear is the type who doesn’t so much “laugh” as “have a shrieking, spastic outburst and breakdance like Sonic the Hedgehog in a malfunctioning taser-testing facility."

At first, Anxiety is overcome by stressful jitters, miserable and whimpering, and her whole body contracts. After a few moments of tickling, though, she starts to let all that tension out and relaxes into nervous vibrato laughter. It becomes sort of a therapeutic stress release, like her special chair.

It's not exactly the physical sensation of tickle torture that Envy craves, it's the attention. The sound she makes when tickled oscillates between wild, snorty cackles and the dulcet hoots of a baby owl trapped in a pinball machine.

Ennui is dead. No reaction. Her body is a neurological cemetery. ...EXCEPT for her heels and the back of her knees. (And if you thought phone loss made her experience Vietnam flashbacks...)

What do you think Embarrassment does? He plops himself down on the floor and pulls his hoodie so tight around his face that no one can tell if he's laughing or sobbing.

Misc.

As Riley's primary protector, Fear is always scouting ahead for any potentially-tickly environmental hazards, and gently nudges her away from catastrophe ("you forgot your shoes! put them back on before you walk on grass;" "don't lift your arms up around Bree and Grace;" "those massage chairs in the mall are actually full of rusty knives and drug dealers sleep on them;" etc.)

When Riley gets tickled, the emotions don't "feel" it, exactly, but they perceive something of a contact buzz.

These are typically how the reactions go, but they're not universal. If Riley's been in a bad mood, Anger might be more proactive in grabbing the handles. Embarrassment may have more or less of his body mass pancaking the buttons, depending on who's tickling her. (Like...a boy?! Or Val?! Or -) Standard variations like that.

Riley

Riley has an extremely ticklish tummy! She’s sensitive all over, but that's her death spot. (Just the vibe I get; IDK.)

Bree and Grace are really ticklish too, but Riley is the weak link... the member of the trio that the other two team up against. Lots of tickle fights and sneak attacks.

She obviously loves to laugh and goof around with her friends, but probably isn't over-enthused by that last part.

Val

The most popular girl in school, the tough athletic one - her adulating devotees wouldn't think it, but beneath that too-cool exterior, Val is very vulnerable to tickling.

All the other Firehawks know, and like to tease Val by poking her.

She's a good sport about it and takes it like a champ - just yelps and laughs and pushes back. They have fun.

Her biggest weakness is her feet.

Lance Slashblade

Crop top alert. The abs are asking for it. (Just sayin.')

The thought of being tickled is intolerable to him. Even in this...what should be a moment of joyous camaraderie...he is haunted. Forced to laugh like...like some sort of...clown swordsman?! How could he be so weak...so degraded...so unworthy to carry the holy blade of his ancestors, they whose destinies were written in the stars ere these centuries long past? Will he never be a true warrior, with the strength to stem the tide of encroaching night? It is too painful to think about...the icy whips of humiliation, always ravenous and bitter in their lashes, strike! and cast him into the shadows and okay the joke's over now we're getting long-winded and edgelordery big words drama sparkling vampires and junk

(Also, yes, he Morph-Balls himself.)

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delopsia · 1 month ago

Text

the kind that money can't buy (calico creek) | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 12,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, friends to lovers, size kink, general awkwardness due to a love confession gone wrong. Cunnilingus, creampies, multiple orgasms, hand jobs, grinding, usage of the 'snowed-in' trope, slightly implied inexperienced reader. Reader generally being overwhelmed at times. Notes are subject to be updated because I feel like I'm forgetting something... My almost-late entry for @lewmagoo's holiday celebration!

Brief Summary: Sometimes, all love needs is a botched love confession, broken bridges, a tiny cabin out on Calico Creek, and an inconceivable amount of snow. Inspired by the Stephen Wilson Jr. song, Calico Creek.

"And what's the plan if we die on this mission?"

"There ain't one," Rhett chuckles, his eyes flickering between the bridge and the rearview mirror. Whatever he sees isn't enough, has to twist in his seat to look out the back window. "Might as well write your will and send it via carrier pigeon."

He's gonna die with the left side of his neck, and the lower portions of his jaw smeared in cheap paint, and he doesn't even know it. Hell, there might be some in his hair now that you look at it.

You don't know how he can manage to do this. You can hardly look away from the window for more than a second, staring down at the edge of the bridge. Nothing but rushing waters and wood laid decades before you were born, no guardrail to prevent you from plummeting a hundred-something feet to your rocky, hypothermic demise.

The turn onto this old-fashioned safety hazard is almost too tight for the trailer, one of the tires briefly hanging midair as it crawls onto the bridge. Something creaks below, low and grumpy, an ancient spirit disturbed from its eternal slumber.

"I still think it's cracking beneath us." That sounds like wood cracking. Does he not hear it? Why is he not putting it in reverse yet?

"Well, we don't seem to be fallin' yet." The idiot seems to have left his intelligence back at the rodeo.

You must have forgotten yours, too, because you're the one who stupidly agreed to this whole venture, knowing full well you would have to cross this godforsaken bridge. This thing has been ready to collapse since the day you were born and has threatened to take you down the countless times you've ventured over it. But, like clockwork, the truck crawls out the other side, emerging onto safe, solid ground.

"Oh, I forgot all about this," you don't mean to say it out loud, but it slips past your defenses, a breath that you can only hold back for so long.

Snow-covered trees decorate the sides of the beaten gravel road, arching overhead, their baren branches seeming to kiss the silver sky itself. Icicles hang from some of them, twinkling in the light. Stunning in its own right, but nowhere near as gorgeous as Calico Creek herself, still just as wild and alive as she has always been.

It's a wonder the Tillerson's haven't tried stealing this out from under the Abbotts, too. There's no way they haven't heard the stories about this place, and there's no way they have never wondered about where the water beneath the bridge on Warm Creek Road leads.

"The cabin is still standing?" It looks the same, too. Time itself must stop every time someone leaves this place.

"For some reason," Rhett's nails tap against the steering wheel. "Mom comes out here to pull weeds every other month in the summer."

"Still?"

"Old habits die hard."

And that...fuck, what do you say? Nothing? That was an invitation for a follow-up.

...no, maybe it wasn't. Why are you making it weird? Come on, think.What is it that you usually say when Cecelia comes up in conversation? Oh! You should ask about...no, he already said that she's spent all day cooking a roast.

The tires slip beneath the truck. Rhett reaches for the gear shifter. His paint-mottled hand spins across the wheel, drawing the vehicle off the ice as quickly as it crawled onto it. Focused entirely on the road and nothing else.

Rodeo lights flicker through your mind. Old dirt flies through the air again, a neverending plume of dust that still makes your nose burn. Your stomach is twisting around, working itself into a knot it'll never get out of.

"Hello?" A gloved hand waves in front of your face. "Y' in there?"

"Huh?"

The truck has long since stopped. Crudely parked in front of the cabin with no regard for how it may look to anyone else. It's been stopped for a while, too; you can already feel the cooler air creeping through the vents. How a cowboy like him can put up with a truck that only blows heat when it's moving is beyond you. You would have sold this thing years ago.

"I was askin' if you're ready," Rhett's brow furrows, and for a moment, you're worried that he can see straight through you. "Are you sure you slept last night?"

"Yeah." Lie.

The corner of his mouth wobbles up and down, lips parting with the beginnings of a sentence. Then, flattening into a line. Your eyes meet. You don't know what to say. Neither does he. Your face feels hot all of a sudden.

It's too damn quiet in this truck.

Your saving grace comes in the form of a squealing door hinge. Shrill. Screaming at the top of its lungs as Rhett shoves it open. Yeah. Okay. You'll get out, too, then.

If life were a comic, then the rush of frozen air would have steam rising from your heated cheeks. Fortunately, no such thing happens; it's just your burning skin and the vicious bite of single-digit temperatures eating away at what little moisture you have left, not satisfied until your skin has been left raw and chapped.

Snow crunches beneath your boots, soft at first but growing firm as it compacts under your weight. Every step feels just as unsteady as the last, and with each one, you're nearly certain that this time, you will find uneven ground and go tumbling head-first into this pristine, wintery hell that has encased the entire state of Wyoming. And yet, you continue to find solid footing.

"Remind me again why we're looking for a...?" Your words die in your throat, lost to the howling wind. Did he ever mention what you were looking for out here?

A moment passes. Rhett turns his head to you. Gives you a few more seconds to conjure up the words you're looking for. "Horse-drawn grain drill?" Finishing your thought. "Mom saw a post on Facebook and thinks she can turn it into decor."

You don't know what a horse-drawn grain drill is, but you've got a feeling that it's the old jumble of rusted metal that has been decaying against a cedar tree since you were in kindergarten. Somewhere behind the cabin, beyond the tree line. "Is this another one of those projects that she starts and you have to finish?"

"What makes ya guess that?" The corner of his eye crinkles with his smile; now that you've got something to compare it to, the snow doesn't seem so bright anymore.

"Well, last I checked, she was the one repainting the walls downstairs," the ground shifts beneath your foot. Sends you stumbling. "But half of your jaw is a nice shade of Beacon Gray."

"Shit." His hands rise, blindly pawing at his face with the backs of his gloved hands, digging at it the best that he can manage. "Why didn't ya tell me I had this shit all over my face?" Flecks of gray rain down like snowflakes, scattering across the front of his jacket.

He pauses, those expectant blue eyes landing on your shivering frame. Hopeful, even. Poor thing hasn't the slightest clue that his neck is stained with the imprint of his own hand right now.

You shake your head. "I think you're gonna have to shave to get it all off."

His whine echoes through the empty trees. "But I just got it to the right length again!"

As if it would get to last past the weekend, you can already hear Cecelia fussing at him to shave and tidy himself up for Christmas Service. She'll probably try squeezing him into that old suit she had tailored for him after he graduated high school, too. So tiny and narrow that the fabric visibly struggles to contain those broad shoulders...

You've gotta think of something else before you start drooling and a damn icicle forms.

"What, you don't think it adds character?" Rhett leans over, knocking his arm against yours. If he hears your heart lurch in your chest, he doesn't comment on it.

Looking at him is the worst thing you could possibly do. He's just so close, and he's waited until this very moment to tilt his head down and ease that old cowboy hat on, the felt one with the chipped brim. Rugged, just like his four-day-old scruff and the unruly hair that curls behind his ear and hasn't been cut since spring began.

"It adds...something," you don't know what your conclusion is supposed to mean. Fortunately, he doesn't ask any further; just rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

Against all odds, that old bench Royal built for you is still sitting and facing the creek. The piles of snow almost entirely obscure its frame, but it's the bench nonetheless. Two wooden pallets crudely cut and nailed together, Abbott engineering at its finest.

"Do you remember the tire swings?" You vaguely remember them, hung from trees that once occupied the space the bench now occupies. But they weren't ordinary tire swings. No, they were fashioned to look like horses, with old recycled bridles and name tags. Isabela and Flash.

Rhett shakes his head, chuckling at a memory. "I remember jumpin' off of 'em a lot."

"And breaking your arm because you overshot and landed in the creek?" You can still hear Cecelia screaming at the top of her lungs. "No wonder why you turned out to be a bull rider. You're still chasing the high of nearly breaking your neck in Calico Creek."

All he can do is laugh; there's no defending himself from this one.

Fortunately for him, the conversation dies at the sight of that old hunk of metal. It still lies in the same spot it's always been, somewhat sunken into the soil and leaving behind an indent in the tree it rests against. The thing has all the right in the world to stubbornly cling to its resting place, but Rhett doesn't even seem to struggle when he pulls on it.

It's reasonably light, all things considered.

...or maybe it just feels light because Rhett is doing most of the pulling.

But the metal is frozen in a thin sheet of ice, and by the time you get it within distance of the trailer, it's melted and seeped into your gloves. Frozen water gnawing at your already cold fingers, eating through flesh and straight down into the bone. Solidifying in your joints for extra measure.

You've got no choice but to drag it along for no reason other than you can't let go. Trudging through the snow, audibly crunching with every step, every inch of your exposed skin burning in a frozen fire. And it must freeze your memory, too, because the next thing you remember is the rear trailer gate falling open, clattering against the ground. It creates a ramp of sorts.

"I can pull it up from here," Rhett, ever the gentleman.

You'd love to let him take it, but...well, you're trying, but your fingers are hardly budging. Frozen in place, another piece of the machine. You don't remember when they went numb, but you can hardly feel them anymore; they may have even detached from your body entirely. But, slowly, they pry themselves open, stiff muscles fighting against your effort to pull your hand back to your chest.

Rhett tilts his head. "'s your hand frozen?"

"My glove got soaked," pausing to blow air onto it. The heat of your breath is nice...until it fades and leaves you even more aware of the difference in temperature. "It's fine, just a little cold."

"'Cold' my ass," muttering under his breath. He reaches out, his big hand practically engulfing yours as he pulls it toward him, plucking the soaked glove off before you've even realized what he's doing. "I ain't havin' ya get frostbit."

His other hand dives into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief that's been wrapped around something. You can feel the heat radiating off of it before he's even placed it in your frozen palm. A hand warmer.

The wind nips at your frosty skin, but the handkerchief is big enough that you can wrap the fabric around your hand entirely. A thin shield to block off at least some of the cold.

Truly, you don't think Rhett even needed you to come along in the first place because he gets the old piece of equipment onto the trailer without the slightest hint of a struggle. It's so easy that you almost catch yourself looking back to see if there's a bigger piece to haul up. Why did he ask you to help with something so simple?

And why did you agree to it?

It's something you're still wondering when you heave yourself back up into the truck, squeezing into the corner of the old cloth seat like it'll somehow save you from the burst of frigid air that races out of the vents. God, why were you wishing for snow last week? This is hell.

"How do you put up with this every winter?" You're fighting to keep your teeth from chattering, not even going to make an attempt at straightening yourself out to put the seat belt on. Curling into a ball sounds like a much better option than that; safety be damned.

"Layers 'n a dash of self-hatred." The truck rumbles as Rhett's foot presses on the gas pedal, the beaten tires frantically searching for traction on the slick ground. They find it. Lurching forward. "I shoulda become an accountant or somethin'."

"You as an accountant?" Snickering.

Somewhere, in the effort to almost entirely spin the truck around, Rhett finds the chance to lean over and knock his elbow against yours. "Hey, y' don't see none of them office folk freezin' for a livin', now do ya?"

"I'd love to see you crammed in a little cubicle," you laugh, and all he can do is roll his eyes, shaking his head all the while.

A beam of light bounces off the creek waters. You know it's merely the change in angle that caused it, but the little voice in your head quietly wonders if old Calico Creek is laughing with you. She keeps doing it, too. Light-reflecting in little sparks, bouncing off chunks of broken ice and the rushing silver water itself, following you all the way up to the bridge.

You don't remember the bridge groaning like this last time. Maybe more towards the middle, but certainly not this early. Though, even as you untwist from your huddle and peer out the window, you can't see anything crumbling.

"Rhett?"

"I hear it."

Still, he eases the truck forward, but you can hear the whir of the window as he rolls it down. You would do the same and stick your head out, too, if you weren't just now regaining sensation in your nose.

It sounds like popcorn beneath you. Soft little popping noises that you can feel when you press your feet against the floorboard.

Rhett jumps for the shifter.

Wood snaps.

The truck dips forward.

Something roars. You're going backward. The earth spins. White and silver and brown blurs into one big mess. Metal and tires scream. Your head bounces against the back of the seat.

And everything is still.

You're facing the river. The cabin is on your right, and the bridge is...the bridge is...

"Did it...?"

"Yeah..." Rhett whispers, his eyes as equally glued to the sight as yours are. "it did."

The bridge is gone.

"I have good news and bad news." Rhett's voice bounces off every wall in the cabin, almost makes it hard for you to figure out which of the two rooms he's walking out of. As if you didn't watch him disappear into one the moment that his phone started ringing.

"What's the good news?" You ask, squeezing the hand warmer just a little tighter. But there's no longer any heat radiating from it, reduced to nothing but a dull, rapidly fading warmth.

"The bad news is," it seems he's completely ignoring what you just said. "The roads are shit 'n Perry doesn't think he can plow out the upper path 'till at least tomorrow afternoon."

And then he's gone. Vanishing back into the room he just moseyed out of.

"The good news?" You know he can hear you, but you don't get a reply. Nothing but a load of underwhelming silence. "Rhett?"

Something thunks against the floor. Heavy. Solid.

"Remember that time we snuck out and went over to Idaho for that rodeo mom didn't want me goin' to?" The echo is so bad that it takes a moment to catch up to what he's just said.

A memory stirs to mind. "I remember you getting drunk and busting your lip falling out of the truck."

Rhett's head pokes around the corner, his pale nose wrinkled with what you can only identify as disgust. Maybe a hint of embarrassment. Not his favorite memory, you suppose.

"I don't know if y' remember it, but Dad was so furious that he made me come out here 'n chop every downed tree he could find for weeks." He disappears for another moment. Then, steps back into the room, lifting a chunk of split wood into the air. "Come to find out, all of it's still here."

"Suddenly, I'm considering forgiving you for the grilling your mom gave us after that." You can't resist your smile. For once, your teenage antics pay off, even if it was all his idea.

"It's inappropriate for you two to be alone together like that!" Mocking in the shrillest voice he can manage as he steps over to the fireplace, bending down to load the wood inside. "Don't know why she always thought that we..." His Adam's apple bobs. Glancing at you.

You look away.

...yeah.

Your lower belly twists, inexplicably filling with butterflies who have blades for wings. Or maybe they're moths, eating through you like old laundry. Whatever they are, they worsen when you peek at him through the corner of your eye, the momentary flicker of a memory nearly making you nauseous.

"Do you need help?" You don't know why you're asking when you're already reaching out, ready to take the next chunk of wood from him. It'll be easier for you to put it in; you're already down here on the floor.

"No, it's—it's fine," he freezes mid-crouch. Your fingers brush against the back of his hand. "I've got it. You should..."

Life...stops.

For a split second, you fear that your fingertips have melted and become one with him, stuck together for the rest of eternity. But the blaze of the fire burns before you can reach melting point, jerking away as if burned. Rhett looks away. You do, too.

You're right back at the rodeo again.

Dusty Sunday night air spirals around you. A dry earthy scent burns at your nose, disguising the already vague tinge of sweat and what you can only describe as animal that clings to him. Dirt clings to his glistening jaw, smeared all the way down his neck and the left side of his jeans.

If you didn't know any better, you would think they replaced Rhett with that of a wild-eyed mustang, icy blues damn near about to swallow you whole. It hardly matches his stuttered whispers, so damn shy in comparison to what lurks at the surface.

"I...I uhm..." his boot kicks at the ground, stirring up another plume of dirt. "I know ain't good at this sort of thing, but I—" His tongue hitches, lips still moving, but not a damn thing comes out.

Broad shoulders shiver. Caving in on themselves. And he drops his head, the brim of his hat concealing everything but his mouth from view. Hiding in plain sight. This doesn't nearly match the excitement that the shiny new championship buckle in his hand should warrant, but now it's been reduced to nothing but a toy for him to fidget with. Twisting it round and round in his wavering palm.

"Rhett...?" Hooking your finger under the very edge of his hat, lifting it until you catch sight of red cheeks and impossibly wide baby blues. A deer caught in the headlights.

"I love you."

It's there and gone with the breeze. So swift that if not for the sight of his lips shaping around those three little words, you would think you made it up entirely.

But it was there, still clear as day in your memory; if you try hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can step through time. Re-enter your starstruck body and kiss him before the sheriff can cut in and shoo you away to ask questions about another spat between his family and the Tillersons.

But time travel doesn't exist, and that confession still hangs in the air, its rusty hinges squealing every time you think you've finally forgotten about it. What do you even say now? 'Hey, I'm sorry that in the span of a few weeks, I couldn't conjure up a better way to revive the topic, but I love you too. Hope you haven't taken my silence as rejection and moved on already!' What if he didn't even mean it as a love confession?

Rhett hasn't said anything about it.

Neither have you.

The crackle of the fire is the only thing present to fill the silence. Occasionally broken apart by the pops of Rhett's joints every time he goes to fetch another piece of wood, ancient floorboards groaning in tandem with the thump of his boots. Even his jingling spurs are a welcome sound, shrill as they might be.

Nightfall is either your greatest blessing or the biggest curse known to mankind. The darkest corners of the cabin are lost to the shadows in a matter of hours. God knows if anything is lurking in there, ready to pounce at any given moment, but with it, Rhett's solemn face disappears, too. Reduced to glistening eyes and flashes of skin in the firelight.

"Do you remember when we used to beg your mom to let us spend the night up here?" The sound of your voice is borderline shocking. A smidge too loud for the heavy silence that covers the room like a thick winter blanket.

Rhett's hum dissolves into a chuckle. "Guess we really should have listened when she told us to watch what we wish for."

He peeks at you through the corner of his eye, a strand of brown hair falling out from behind his ear and into his face. You catch his gaze, locking for a lingering moment. His mouth rises into a weary smile.

"We should have wished for endless snacks and a million-dollar lottery ticket while we were at it," you can only imagine what other things you two have begged poor Cecelia for. "And maybe a spare blanket."

Rhett blinks. Staring into the fire. His eyes widen, lighting up with a realization. "I got some in the truck."

"Lottery tickets?"

"Blankets," he's trying his best to sound annoyed, but his own grin betrays him.

Something in his knee pops as he stands up, audibly protesting, but he's already on his feet. There go those spurs again, chiming away with every step, glinting in the light, and...

"What is that?" You ask, with a tilt of your head. It doesn't help you see any better, but the effort is there.

Rhett freezes. "Huh?"

"Come here," beckoning him closer. "You've got something on the back of your boot."

"Those are called spurs, sweetheart," but Rhett comes back to you anyway.

He...meant that as a joke. Yeah. That's what it was.

...right?

"No, it's..." There's something silver just above the spur on his left heel, so sharp that it pierces straight through the leather. Something long and gray hangs from it. Feels like plastic. It looks like...a rubber fish?

"'s that a damn Rapala?" Rhett's voice rises in pitch. Confused.

"I didn't know fishing lures could catch cowboys," giggling, you pinch the hook, tugging it from the hole it's created in his shoe. The thing is ancient. Its once brilliant silver scales now a muted yellow, the singular remaining hook mangled and warped into an unrecognizable mess.

He reaches down, opening that big hand of his. The little lure practically shrinks when you place it in his palm, suddenly nothing but a minuscule hunk of plastic and metal. "I knew they were in the creek but I didn't expect them to be all the way up here, too."

You think that you can still hear Cecelia calling out, warning you two to watch where you step and to be careful in the shallow creek waters. It's a wonder how neither of you ever got a hook in your foot. You've lost track of how many summer Sunday afternoons you've spent in Calico Creek. You don't think you even liked visiting their church; you only ever tagged along because of what came after the service ended.

Thump_

"What was that?" You're pretty sure it came from outside, but you're not about to dismiss the potential of someone lurking in the shadows of the room.

"Dunno," but he's about to find out, slinking toward the door like a stray cat. You don't know how he does it, but his boots are suddenly quiet. The spurs on his heels don't even sing. All holding their breath as he opens the door.

It's snowing so hard that you can see the shape of the wind when it bursts through the gap, cloaked like a ghost in a white sheet. Swirling around the room, all too eager to eat away at the warmth of the fire. Circling closer and closer with all the ferocity of a pack of hungry wolves. A shiver races up your spine.

"Hang on."

The door slams shut, and—

"Rhett?" You squeak. Where did he...did he go outside? He must have. You only looked away for a moment, and you would have heard it if he had rushed into the backroom.

In his place lingers, what you can only describe as a sentient winter wind, rushing through the thick fabric of your clothes as you stand and make your way to the door. It doesn't matter how long you've been huddled by the fire. By the time your hand finds the ice-cold door knob, you're shivering again.

Snow bursts through the gap once more, splattering across your face. Clinging to your eyelashes, wiggling down through the collar of your jacket.

"Rhett?" But the midnight air swallows your voice like a sponge. It doesn't even echo. You can't see a thing. Not the truck, not Calico Creek, not a damn thing. "Rhett!"

No such reply. It's as if he was never even here in the first place, but you can vaguely see his footprints in the snow. They don't go far.

Or rather, you can't see them go very far out. You could be floating through space right now, and you would be none the wiser about it. It's all just...black. Even as you step through the door, your unsteady frame slammed by a bigger, angrier gust of wind.

"Rhett!" Your voice should be able to get louder than this, but no such thing happens. Maxed out. "Rhett!"

You still don't see him. What the hell did he go looking for? Shit, what if it was someone lurking outside that grabbed him? And now you've just made it known to the whole forest that you're out here by yourself!

A shape moves in the distance.

You jump back, snow-caked boots sliding across the floor. Your grip on the door handle is the only reason you don't fall.

It's getting closer. You think you can see two legs. Walking closer and closer, and—

"Rhett!" Your voice breaks this time.

But it's him. Shoulders coated in a dusting of snow. Hair blowing into his windburnt face. Some kind of thick fabric bundled up into his arms. Blankets, you think. The wind blows harder, and he disappears into the sea of white once again, the waves trying to suck him back into the abyss.

Snow tumbles into the front door as he steps inside. He's carried half of tonight's snowfall into the damn cabin. But you can't think about that right now.

"Blankets?" You don't know if your voice is shaking from the cold or if you're just mad. "You run out into a blizzard and scare me half to death for fucking blankets?"

Rhett Abbott has had his soul replaced with that of a newborn deer because he looks like one caught in the headlights. Wide blue eyes staring back at you, can't possibly fathom what has got you so mad. As if he's not the one who just inexplicably ran off into the night with no regard for his own safety.

Those snow-dusted eyelashes flutter. "You said you wanted one." Innocent as can be.

And you...you did ask for those, but. "You could have said something before you just up and walked out."

"Were you worried about me?" His head tilts to the side.

"Maybe I was," muttering, you turn back to the fire. There's a chair sitting in the back corner. Wooden. Didn't look all that inviting until just now, swallowed up by one of the many shadows cast by the fire. The chilly air has collected over here, clustering into its own little storm, but you can't feel it. Not with how hot your face has gotten all of a sudden.

The chair creaks beneath your weight. It breaking is the last thing you need right now, but fortunately, it seems to hold. You lean forward, face falling into your hands. Of course. Of course, he went to get the blankets that you asked for. And here you are yelling at him like a damsel in distress as if he wasn't born and raised in conditions worse than this.

Something drapes across your shoulders. Fuzzy. Smells like the bonfire the Abbott's had a few weeks back, burning away the brush collected from the most recent storm. Another one wedges itself into your lap, Rhett stubbornly pushing it onto you as if you're the one covered in snow and not him.

"What are you doing?" Peeking through the gaps in your fingers.

"Buildin' you a cocoon and hangin' ya from the ceilin'," he hums, and if you didn't know him any better, you might have thought he was dead serious. "Wanna see if you'll come out with wings like one of them butterflies."

You're putting on your best frown.

Or at least, you think you are. You can't really feel your face. "This implies that I look like a caterpillar."

"Hey, caterpillars are cute," says Rhett Abbott, the man who yelped when he saw a bright green caterpillar inching up his pant leg last summer."Y' remember that book we used to have where the little dude kept eatin' everything?"

"The one you took a bite out of?" Yeah, you remember that.

"The caterpillar did that." Still just as defensive as he was when Cecelia started asking questions about what happened to the book. "Not me."

"Uhuh." Sure.

The last of the snowflakes scatter from his eyelashes, cascading down onto his bright red cheeks and melting into minuscule little droplets of water that seem to dance in the firelight. A tiny galaxy that is wiped out by a singular stroke of your thumb.

...you're touching his face.

You don't recall when your hand left your side, but it's resting against his jaw, your thumb still damp with the evidence of your crime. He's noticed it. There's no way he hasn't noticed it, but he's not telling you to stop. And...well...you're already here.

Properly curling your hand around his cheek is the easiest thing you've done in a lifetime, his soft scruff tickling your palm. Rhett still doesn't say anything. Hell, it's so quiet that you can hear the minuscule sound of him breathing through his nose. His lashes flutter again. Thinking about something.

He tilts his head, leaning into your touch.

"You're frozen." You noticed that a long time ago, but if you don't break the silence, you're gonna combust.

"Yeah, that kinda..." his mouth hangs open, tongue visibly faltering for a good moment or three, "happens when...you snow."

Your giggle is so loud that it echoes, but you hardly notice it. "When you snow, huh?"

He's running from you.

You can't believe it. He's squirming up to his feet and turning around, his hands rising to cover his face in a fashion identical to what you did mere minutes ago. Mutters something, but it's so muffled that you can't understand a word he's said. You don't necessarily care to figure it out, either. A little bit distracted by the sound of puzzle pieces clicking into place.

You think you get it now.

The floorboard squeals as you stand, the sharp sound eating away every bit of the certainty that you just built up, but your momentum still carries you forward. Feet falling one after the other as if caught in a trance.

Rhett turns to look at you, then back to the door.

He tries to, at least.

It happens on reflex. You grabbing ahold of his jacket collar, pulling so hard that you both stumble. He gasps. So do you. Chest to chest in this tiny old cabin, nothing but the flickering fire to guide your eyes as you drink in his face. The same old, big blue eyes you've always known. Pouty lips wobbling, torn between a lopsided smile and trying to come up with something to say.

If this were a dream, it would be perfect. Seamlessly falling into place like trained actors.

But this is real, and you're both moving at the same time, and your noses clash at the same time your mouths do. You stumble. His arm cinches around you. Pulls you closer. Teeth clatter. It's everything that a Hallmark first-kiss scene isn't, and it's incredible. All those movies, and they still couldn't quite capture the dream of kissing your best friend in—

Best friend.

"Shit, I..." Jerking away. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat. "I shouldn't have..." Shouldn't have what? Kissed him without asking?

Oh, but he's grinning at you like a damn fool. Wobbly smile and sparkling gaze, flickering back and forth between your lips and eyes. You don't feel the hand resting on the small of your back until it's pulling you back in, lips crashing once more.

A faint twinge of mint and chocolate still lingers on his lips, the only remaining evidence for his crime of raiding his momma's jar of Christmas chocolates. Or maybe cowboys just taste like that. Rough as stone, carved and broken into jagged edges by the test of time, but sweet as can be on your lips.

He steps forward at the same time you do, already can't stand the minuscule gap between your bodies. But your foot slips between his, and the side of his spur catches on the toe of your shoe, and you're falling.

Your elbow slams into the wooden floor. Chin bouncing off his too-firm chest. It's a damn miracle that he's the one who fell backward. You may not have survived if your positions were reversed, solid as he is.

"Guess I fell for you," Rhett wheezes, groaning low in his throat.

"Idiot," giggling.

Figuring out where your legs have landed is a task of its own, your frozen joints protesting any further movement for fear of another catastrophic fall. Rhett doesn't make much of an attempt to move. Content to part his legs and let your body fit between them, knees resting against your hips.

His palm finds your cheek, calloused fingertips stroking the soft skin there. You're melting into it before you can realize what you're doing, drowning in the sensation of how big his hand is. You think it could cover half of your face without even trying.

"'n here I thought I'd fucked this all up," his hum vibrates through his chest and right into yours; kind of feels like distant thunder.

"I didn't know how to bring it back up after Joy left." It's easy again. Talking to him, confessing exactly what's on your mind without fear of further fracturing things. "Then you didn't say anything either, and I...figured I'd read into it the wrong way."

His thumb finds the corner of your mouth, gently tugging it up into a squished smile. "Oops."

You can't help but reach for him, too, your hand finding his cheek once more, just for the hell of it. In the shadows of the fire, you can see the small chunk of skin permanently missing from his nose. An old scar from a kitchen fight with Perry a while back, courtesy of Perry's wedding ring and an argument that you don't remember the context of. Something about a remark Perry made on an already tense night.

Should you?

Rhett blinks.

Yeah, you should.

"Watcha doin'?" He asks, scrunching his nose as you lean in, pressing your lips to that little scar.

"Something I've thought about doing ever since you barged through my front door with blood pouring down your face," pressing another to the tip of his nose.

"Funny, I recall y' wantin' to hit me at first."

"Because you scared the hell out of me."

"'s that why y' tripped me just now?" There's that light tone in his voice. Taunting. "Revenge?"

"Shut up." You know where this is going.

So does he. "Make me—"

Kissing him quiet. Another thing off your bucket list. Maybe it was on his, too, because he laughs into your mouth like he's been waiting on this his whole damn life. Hell, you know you have.

Your skin prickles beneath your layers of clothing, burning from head to toe, and you can only peel your winter coat off so fast. Pulling away from him might be the hardest thing you've ever done, but in the time it takes you to shrug it off, Rhett has gotten his off, too. That old black undershirt hugs his frame a little bit too well; you almost stop and stare.

Almost.

Rhett's arm loops over your shoulders as you come back to him, hand curling around your bicep, lazily hanging on. Those jackets must have been a mile-thick because you don't recall being this close last time, his chest against yours, heart beating so heavy that you can feel it.

But you're a little bit too far down, an ache blooming in the back of your neck at the strain to reach him. You don't want to move, but now that you've noticed it, the pain is the only thing that you can think about. Gives you no real choice but to dig your knees into the hard floor and scoot up—

"Mmh—!"

You don't remember breaking away from Rhett, but you must have because you're blinking down at him, and he's found time to clamp a hand over his mouth. Eyes the size of dinner plates. Red in the ears.

"Did I...?" Suddenly aware of where your thigh is resting right now.

"Just a little bit," he doesn't seem to have any interest in making you move, either, using the arm around your shoulders to pull you back down once more.

You don't know how you've survived so long without this.

The pressure of his lips, the stubble on his jaw, the awkward bump of noses that haven't learned where to go quite yet. It's all so new, and yet you can already feel the embers of an addiction burning to life, roaring as hot as the fire, and you might need him more than you need to breathe. Heaven is a place on earth, and its name is Rhett Abbott.

Your forearms brace themselves on either side of his head, steadying yourself before you can become inconceivably lost. And again, your thigh unintentionally presses into him, and he's groaning low in his throat, lithe hips bucking up into it. You can't help yourself this time, intentionally grinding into the growing tent in his jeans, feeling his knees flutter around you.

"I'm sorry, I..." clarity strikes like lightning. "I'm rushing things, aren't I?"

"Naw, I'm..." he looks off to the side. Sheepish. "Kind of into it."

Even now, he's still Rhett. Bold one moment and shy the next, his impulses always a moment quicker than everything else. You don't need to ask if he's mortified about saying that out loud; the big dummy is already showing it. Gulping so hard that you can see the muscles in his neck flex with the effort, his cheeks three shades redder.

You throw one of your legs over his, straddling it, the silence broken by the sound of your knee hitting the floor a little too hard. And again, he covers his mouth when your thigh grinds into him, but he fails to conceal the slight roll of his eyes. Breathing hard through his nose, impulsively twitching up into your touch.

"You're something else, cowboy," you can't help but find your way to his jaw, pressing kisses into the soft outline of bone. His legs flutter around your thigh, clinging onto it as you work it against him. The arm around your shoulders tightens; you fear you might be anchored here.

It's on the side of his neck that you can feel the faint rumble of a moan, so quiet that it fails to make its way past his hand, but it's there. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised about it, but your daydreams never involved getting around this obstacle. There's no way you're prying his hand away, not with how he uses the same damn hand to cling onto the back of a thousand-pound bull every Sunday night.

Your lips make their way to the space below his ear, sucking lightly at an old scar that lingers there. He jumps. Hand coming off his mouth just long enough to audibly suck in a breath, cutting off the beginnings of a whine. His back rises off the ground, grinding into you the best he can. But it's not enough. He's still chasing you like he wants more, and you still can't hear him.

You're so quick to replace your thigh with your hand that you can almost deceive yourself into believing you've done this before. Palm pressing firm against his bulge, gently massaging the heel of it into him, and he jerks again. Impulsively reaching for your wrist, head tipping back, lips parted.

"That...you...I..." he can't talk. Words broken apart by surprisingly ragged breaths. Worked up over so fucking little. It has no right to make you clench around his thigh; desperation is a hellishly contagious virus.

You might be drooling.

Lazy, you fall into the space next to him, your leg splayed over his, hyper-aware of the way you've just tucked yourself under his arm and how perfectly you fit. That rodeo buckle falls open at the slightest pressure, button popping open just as eagerly. He shouldn't get anything out of the sensation of you tugging on his zipper, but his hips rise as if he can feel every bit of it.

The moment your hand wraps around his cock, his head thunks against yours. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but the impact still makes you wince.

"Ow."

"I'm sorr—" his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Biting back a noise as your thumb blindly traces the underside of his tip. "Sorry. Shit."

If only you could go back in time and tell yourself to do this sooner. You don't know how you can ever expect to go back from this. Lying with your head propped on the side of his chest, gingerly drawing him through the opening of his jeans, the head of his cock so wet that it glistens in the firelight, a bead of precum spilling over, barely caught by your thumb.

Rhett's scruffy cheek presses against your forehead, blindly nuzzling into you as your hand wanders, gradually working down his length. It's such a simple motion, but his hips rise to chase you on your way back up, a stifled noise rumbling out of his chest. The tip of your index finger glides over his tip, rubbing past his slit and—

"Mmh!" Jumping like a live wire. Still muffled, but louder than last time.

You can't help but repeat it, using your thumb to draw loose circles against his weeping tip. Those hips jump again, slipping from your grasp. But it doesn't take more than a second to get ahold of him again, a sharp little sound slipping out of him as you pick up right where you left off. Swirling around and around and around.

"Who taught you how to..." He sucks in a breath. "Who taught..." But he can't finish that thought, trailing off into nothingness once more.

You haven't the slightest clue where your voice has gone. Lost somewhere in your throat, stolen by the same thing that took Rhett's ability to speak.

All of a sudden, he's moving. Rolling onto his side, blindly guiding himself with his nose until he can properly find your lips, stealing them away before you can find a way to talk. You don't know if you could have come up with words even if you wanted to. Not when he whines into your mouth like that.

Whatever you were trying to do before this is lost to the abyss. Too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips melting against yours and the tiny noises he's making to realize that you're properly stroking him now. Working up and down his cock as if you're already familiar with it, wrist lazily twisting on every upward glide.

"Shit, I'm—" His voice is raspy all of a sudden. "I..."

He doesn't finish that thought, either. Mouth hanging open with a silent moan, his hand reaching to cling to the side of your shoulder. Something to hang onto. He might crumble into a million tiny pieces if he doesn't. And he's panting into your mouth like a dog in the blistering heat; it's hardly even a kiss anymore, but neither of you is making any move to pull away.

His breath audibly catches in his throat. Cock twitching, cumming with a whine. Painting your still-moving hand white, spreading over his length, makes this sickeningly loud squelching sound that ought to make your head swim. Fuck there's so much of it, rope after rope of white, making a damn mess that you haven't the slightest hope of cleaning up.

"Sens—ah!" His big hand dwarfs your wrist as he grabs it. Forcing it still.

"Too much?"

"Too much."

It's quiet.

At least, it is for a moment or two. The wind squeals outside the fragile window, ripping around the edges of the cabin, frantically searching for a crack in the foundation to squeeze through, desperate to steal the heat of the fire out from under you. But the flames still dance, the wood crackling as it burns.

The squeal of the wooden floor is your only indication that Rhett is moving, rolling over top of you in the blink of an eye. His mouth finds the side of your neck, the scruff clinging to his chin brushing against the skin there, as if the heat of his lips alone wasn't enough to make you gasp.

"I thought..." Words. Where the hell are your words? What were you even about to ask him?

"Never said I was done," his voice vibrates up your spine, rattling the thoughts swirling around your head.

His body slips between your knees like it's something you've been doing for your entire lives. And maybe he did wind up there once a few months ago when you snatched the hat off his head and tried to flee the scene, but you don't remember it feeling quite like this.

You don't get to linger on that thought for too long. Not when he's pepering kisses across your sensitive neck, his tongue boldly darting out to trace the outline of a vein. Heat flushes across your body. The tiny, invisible embers of a fire sparking to life, the smoke already beginning to cloud your head.

"Rhett," gasping. Now it's your turn to squeeze your legs around him, vaguely aware of how you can feel his hip bones pressing against you. Firm, nothing but muscle trained from a lifetime of ranch work, rippling under your touch. You can't help yourself, grabbing hold of a bicep with your only clean hand.

And you can just barely catch how he pauses, peering up at you through thick lashes, like something has just occurred to him. Doesn't make any move to voice it, but his smile is enough of a hint.

"Is this," smooching at the collar of your shirt, the flimsiest barrier that you wish wasn't there, "alright?"

On their own, your legs squeeze around him, forcing him closer. "More than alright." Because telling him that you never want him to stop might be a little too much too soon.

Big hands dip beneath your shirt, tracing with his nails as they glide up your sides. Your back arches up off the ground. Not sure if you're chasing the sensation or running away from it. The bottom of your shirt catches on his wrists, sliding up until he's pushed the fabric over your chest.

"So fuckin' pretty," downright marveling at you, his eyes shimmering like he's just found a pot of gold. There's a whole night ahead of you, but he doesn't give himself time to linger. There's a whole lifetime of kisses to catch up on, and he's already getting started, peppering his way down your chest.

You've waited all this time, only to have one available hand to use, forced to let go of his bicep and curl into his hair instead, fingers twirling in the loose curls that rest at his nape. Can't do both. Not without making a bigger mess out of your cum stained hand, and it might just be the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

Because here he is. Real and warm and alive and kissing at the underside of your breast, those big blue eyes flickering up to drink in your expression, and you can't touch him how you want to. You feel like you're gonna float away. One more kiss, and you're gone. Out the window. Never to be seen or heard from again. One with the snow.

Rhett laughs against your belly, almost sends you straight through the roof instead. "'m I takin' too long?"

"Huh?" Blinking.

"You're squintin' at me like you're mad 'bout somethin'," and now that he says that, you can feel your face begin to relax.

"I'm not mad." Have your internal thoughts always been that obvious?

"Your little nose is scrunched up," kissing closer to the start of your sweats, poking his tongue out to lick his way down. "You're mad."

"I'm not mad," holding up your sticky palm, "I'm just frustrated that I can't use my hand."

He was just in the process of curling his fingers beneath your waistband, but he pauses, fishing for something in his back pocket. That red handkerchief again. Passes it off to you before returning to the task at hand, but you're already one step ahead, lifting your hips until he's gotten the fabric over the swell of your ass.

You don't realize he's stolen your underwear until the breeze hits you, thighs shyly squeezing together. Don't really know what for; it's not as if you weren't anticipating this, but now that you're in the moment...

Rhett tilts his head, looks kind of like a confused puppy sitting at your heels, those gears visibly twisting and turning in his head. His eyes widen with a thought, and before you know it, he's reaching for his own waistband, shoving them past his legs and over his ankles.

Now you're both naked from the waist down.

He reaches for your ankle, delicately lifting your leg until he can kiss at the inside of it. Not satisfied until he's marked every square inch of you. But your knees still remain defiantly glued together. Timid, as if you haven't thought about this more times than you'd like to admit.

His hands dip beneath your naked thighs. Raking his nails down the sensitive skin there. And for a fleeting moment, the concept of worry has flown straight out the window, your legs falling open with a shiver.

Fuck just the feeling of him kissing your inner thigh is enough to make you whine. A little spark of heat darting up your core is the tiniest thing, and yet it's the most overwhelming thing you've felt in your life. Because it's Rhett. It's Rhett fucking Abbott sucking a mark into your skin, right where it'll poke out from beneath your pajama shorts and tell everyone who sees it what you've been up to.

"'s this too much?" He hums. He fucking hums. Sends you jumping.

"Yes." That's not what you wanted to say. "Maybe? No? I don't know." Your head thunks against the floor, can't give a damn about if it hurts or not.

Rhett pauses. "Want me to stop?"

"No!" Too loud. You said that way too loud. "No... I—I want you to keep going. It's just...new?"

There go those hands again, massaging the fat of your thighs, stealing away whatever tension was lingering there. His mouth burns against them, working another mark into your skin, just in case the first one disappears too quickly.

"You just tell me when it's too much, a'ight?" He murmurs, peering up at you, and it's all you can do to nod and utter a fragile 'yes.'

There's a rising chance that he'll be bringing you home in a sack and spend the next week gluing you back together because you might fall apart at any given moment. Nerves alight with a newfound anxiousness. You don't know what for. This is Rhett you're talking about here. Same old cowboy that you've known for as long as you can remember.

Lips find the thin skin where your thigh joins with the rest of your body. Jumping out of your skin is suddenly a very possible task.

"Y've no idea how long I've been wantin' to do this." And that's the last thing you hear before his mouth is on you.

You might pass away on the spot. Off to heaven, hell, or whatever the fuck is out there.

But all that comes of it is a hitched breath, a shudder racing through your body as his burning hot tongue licks a long strip up your cunt. Experimental. Does it again when your hips rise up off the floor; he's just started, and you're already impatiently chasing him.

"Hang on, hang on. 'm takin' care of ya," you can hear the smile in his voice as he forces you back onto the floor. "Don't gotta chase me for it."

It's a promise he's already making good on.

Lazily mouthing at your clit, nothing but fleeting barely-there touches that have you squirming and biting into your fist. Oh, shit shit shit, he's twirling his tongue around it now, directly targeting that poor little bud for nothing but a few seconds.

Your whine is too damn loud for this little cabin; his folks probably heard you from ten miles up the road. But all Rhett does is curl his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer. One of your legs wind up over his shoulder, and you don't know when you started reaching down, but you're pawing at his forehead. Helpless as he prods his tongue at your entrance, pushing inside if only to feel you clench around him for a moment or two.

"Rhett," you don't know what you're babbling about. Didn't know you were talking until your ears catch the familiar tone of your own voice.

The bastard fucking hums, vibrating up your lower belly and through your spine, and again you're jumping. But you're not getting anywhere. Not with those arms around your thighs, holding you perfectly still as his tongue glides up through your folds, drawing a little figure eight around your clit.

His lips wrap around it again, gently sucking on it as he flicks the tip of his tongue over it and—

"Too much!" Your hands are in his hair. Yanking him away. "Too much."

You don't know what the hell you'll do with the sight of Rhett's chin glistening in the light, thin lips stretched around a big ol' grin as he climbs back up your body.

"Cute thing," he chuckles; you pretend you don't feel how wet his mouth is when he kisses your cheek.

He's already hard again. Cock so heavy that it can't even stand, resting against a pale, freckled thigh. It's so damn close to where you want him. Can only imagine what it would be like to feel him push into you for the first time, but there's an item critically missing here.

Rhett's nose bumps against yours. "Y' look mad again."

"Because I just realized that we don't have lube," you grumble.

...or maybe you do because he's on the move all of a sudden. Grabbing the pant leg of his discarded jeans and dragging them over, rustling through the pockets until he finds what he's looking for.

Lube packets.

"Were you planning on this, or do you just keep lube on you at all times?" You can't help but ask, can't really believe what you're looking at right now.

"Believe it or not, I use it when that fuckin' barn door gets jammed," he pauses, tearing at the corner of a packet with his teeth, "but I'd rather it be you than a rusty hinge."

Eyeroll. "How romantic."

Even his oversized hand isn't enough to make his cock look any less intimidating; you thought it would dwarf in comparison, but it's almost as if the complete opposite has happened. Daunting, even as he strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. The voice in your head suggests that you might have bitten off more than you can chew, but there's only one way to find out for sure.

The calloused tip of his middle finger glides between your folds. Has you jumping a little bit. A slight pressure blooms, slowly pushing into you, his gaze fixated on the sight. It certainly feels bigger than it looked, if that is even remotely possible, blindly feeling around for a particular little spot.

The asshole knows he's found it before you even do. Pushing a second, dripping finger into you, deliberately crooking them to rub up into it. Heat sparks between your thighs. Pretty sure that's just the lube, but you're convinced that you can feel yourself getting wetter, already hopelessly desperate.

"Rhett," mewling in a tone so unlike you that it's almost insulting.

"What?" Tilting his head.

You didn't really think that far. Aren't particularly sure of what it is you want or why you're saying his name, but your arms lift themselves into the air, hands opening and closing in a vague grabbing motion. You still don't know what you initially wanted, but you sure would like to have him closer.

And he gives it to you.

Carefully settles into your waiting arms without a fuss, his lips wrangled up into another one of those wild grins that you can never seem to get enough of. A strand of hair falls out from behind his ear, just long enough for the ends of it to tickle your cheek, drawing a giggle out of you. And for reasons unbeknownst to you, he giggles, too.

His length rudely bumps against your thigh, demanding attention from both of you. Damn thing is so heavy that he has no choice but to reach down and guide himself, dragging the fat tip through your folds just for the hell of it. A slight pressure appears at your entrance. Then, disappears. Slipping upward and gliding past your clit instead.

But then the pressure appears again, and this time he's not intentionally screwing up to mess with you. Air jams in your throat.

"Gonna have to relax for me, sweetheart," he whispers; there's that pet name again. God, you might legally change your name to sweetheart just so he'll call you that every day for the rest of your life. Something in your lower belly unwinds. "There y' go."

The fat tip slips into you without any further warning, simultaneously puts a shiver in your bones, and steals away the little bit of clarity that you had left. You don't even know what you're shaking for. The fire is still crackling next to you, albeit dimmer than it was before. The room is far from cold, but you can't seem to keep still, quivering like an autumn leaf in the breeze.

Rhett appears like a fucking daydream. Cradling your face in his hands, a sudden presence that you've somehow managed to forget about, murmuring something against your lips that sounds like your name. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. You don't care to find out, too eager to steal him away in a kiss instead.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle that you find there, clinging to him for dear life as his cock gradually pushes into you. Inch after devastating inch, your chest progressively becoming tighter and tighter, as if you're running out of space to give.

This can't be right. There's no way that you're really doing this. Lying here in the deserted cabin out on Calico Creek, nothing but a fire and Rhett's burning body to keep you warm, thighs squeezing his sharp hips as he sinks into you. It's a scene plucked right out of your own wild imagination. You should be waking up right now. Alone, in bed, like you have every other time this has happened.

But the scruffy chin that your hand has found its way to feels so real. The kiss breaks. Rhett leans back just far enough for you to catch sight of that stupid old grin, and holy shit, you've got Rhett fucking Abbott's cock in you right now.

"Just a little more," he's murmuring so nonchalantly, and you really, truly, have no idea if that 'little more' is gonna fit or not.

It either fits, or you pass away in the process of trying. The jury is still out for that one. One way or another, though, he's bottoming out, body flush with yours, not a centimeter left to take, and you think you've stopped breathing. Rhett has, too, for that matter. Completely and utterly quiet as he leans back, lashes fluttering at what he finds.

"'m almost too big for your poor little pussy, shit." He's not staring; he's marveling at you. "You're sure I ain't hurtin' ya?" The pad of his thumb traces where you're stretched around him, hopelessly bound together with no hope of ever untangling from each other.

Experimental, his hips roll, drawing a little noise past your lips. It's so much. So, so much. Helplessly curling your legs around his waist, heels digging into the swell of his ass, as if that can possibly save you.

Rhett's not doing much better. Dropping his head into the crook of your neck, timidly drawing back by an inch before pushing back in just as slowly as he did the first time. His labored breath burns through your skin, grumbling something incoherent below his breath. But he's doing it again, and now, now...

"Fuck, Rhett," whimpering, clinging to his shoulders.

The fire could go out at this very moment, and you would never feel even a wisp of the cold, not with how he's already finding a lazy rhythm. Hardly pulling out, rocking your body beneath him. His weight is the only thing keeping you from scooting up the floor, little puffs of air knocked out of you with every thrust.

He's got it just as bad as you do. Panting into your mouth like a dog, the softest noises resting in the back of his mouth. Still sensitive from already cumming once.

All of a sudden, he draws back, and for a fleeting moment, you're horrified that he's already pulling out of you. But he's pushing back into you a little quicker now and, and, and...

"'s that feel good?" He's grunting, already peeling back to do that again. The length of his cock grazes against a familiar bundle of nerves. Stars sparkle behind your vision.

"Uhuh," all that you can come up with.

Now that he's found it, he's not letting up. Moving a little quicker now. A wet little noise punctuating the snap of his hips, your poor pussy helplessly fluttering around him, so fucking full of him that it almost aches. Writhing beneath him, torn between wriggling away from the sensation and pushing into it, as if you have any choice when you're pinned beneath him like this.

"Can feel ya clenchin' round my cock, sweetheart," he's grinning as he says it, cocky in the worst way imaginable.

Your face is so hot that you're gonna catch on fire. "Please quit talking."

To his credit, he does exactly as you ask, but that does nothing to wipe the stupid fucking grin off his face. You can't escape it. Not when he's leaning back onto his haunches, just far enough to gaze down at where his thick cock disappears into you, and suddenly you can see it. Such a wide fucking stretch that you feel bite-sized beneath him.

The weeping head of his cock strikes those little nerves. Knocks a cry right out of you. And it's the worst possible thing you could have done because he's doing it again. Tilting his hips, working just a little quicker now, drilling into that same fucking spot.

"'s that the spot?" He coos, breathless, his hands finding your hips, dragging you into. Every. Single. Thrust. "Fuck, I don't know how I even fit in ya."

You don't even know how to talk anymore, never mind put up with his senseless mutterings. Voice caught in your throat, your cries completely and utterly silent. Blindly pawing at his forearms. Squeezing. Clawing. You manage to get ahold of one, dragging it up to your chest like you're trying to hug the damn thing.

"Rhett," your voice wavers, "Rhett, I want—" Closer. You want him closer. But all you can manage to do is pull on his arm.

Those pretty eyes widen. The next thing you know, he's coming back to you. Using his only forearm to brace his weight beside your head, his chest snug against yours once again. You only let go of his arm in exchange for his shoulders, practically pulling him into a hug.

Rhett nuzzles his nose into the side of your cheek, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Don't want me too far away?"

"No," grumbling.

You've got just enough leverage to crane your neck up, mouthing at the sweaty underside of his neck. You're not trying to leave marks. Not when you know that you'll have no choice but to face his family after this; it's only a matter of time before Perry puts two and two together, but you can't help yourself. Lips finding a space just beneath his ear, mindlessly sucking on the skin there, uncaring of what evidence you leave behind.

Rhett whines. Loud in your ear, sends your lower belly twisting with something inexplicably warm, pussy clamping down around him, drawing a second sound out of him. His arms shiver. Fighting to keep his weight up. Hardly has the strength to pull away from your mouth, his hips stuttering.

"Look how well you're takin' me," he's peeled back just far enough for you to get a glimpse, mouth hanging open, can't seem to shut himself up.

"It's mortifying."

"It's hot."

You'd argue. You want to argue, but fuck, you can't. Not when he's got you pinned to the floor like this, fat cock bullying into your poor pussy, panting into each other's mouths like it's the only thing you're good for. A lewd smack of skin on skin defiling every innocent memory you've ever had here.

There's a familiar coil in your lower belly, your cunt clenching down around him, legs locking around him. Your vision blurs. Chest tight. "I'm..."

"Yeah," he's agreeing before you've even finished your thought.

It's the mistake of looking down that does you in. The obscene sight of his wet cock disappearing into you, those strong hips stuttering as you clench around him again, punctuated by that stupid breathy moan that falls off his tongue.

Your back arches off the floor, burying your face into the crook of his neck as it hits you. Heart hammering against your chest. Ears ringing. Cumming around his cock with nothing but a choked wail. Helplessly clinging to him, squeezing him so tight that your arms ache from it.

The fire might as well jump out and engulf you in flames; everything is burning. Distantly aware of how your legs have begun to tremble again, locked so tight around him that you can feel him try and fail to pull away from you. Babbling something about how you need to let him go, one of his hands pawing at your thigh. Pushing, trying his best to peel you away.

But it's too late. His hips are seizing up, and your eyes are opening to the sound of his strangled whine, collapsing back into you. The muscles in his back twitch beneath your fingertips as his orgasm washes over him, cock spasming so hard that you can almost convince yourself that you feel his cum flooding you.

Oh.

Oh shit, he's cumming in you.

You should be more worried about it than you actually are, lazily letting your legs unwind from around him, uncaring about the kind of problems that this is going to cause in a few minutes. Worry is beyond you, on a completely different plane of existence. The only thing your mind has the ability to comprehend is the warmth of Rhett's face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, a final shiver racing up his spine before he becomes dead weight on top of you.

"You..." he tries, breathless. "Was that...too much?"

You don't even know where your voice has gone, wordlessly laughing into his shoulder. "It was perfect," is what you try to say, but your poor tongue can hardly shape around the letters, nothing but a senseless warble leaving you instead. And maybe Rhett's got the same condition because whatever he says next makes no sense, either.

It takes a minute for him to roll off of you, and when he does, you wind up rolling with him, your naked back facing the fire. You don't really mean to, just mindlessly following, can't look away from him for more than a second. The fire isn't nearly as bright as it was when all of this first started, but certainly not any cooler. Heat licking up your sensitive back. Pleasant at first, but the longer it goes on...

"This fire is hot on my ass," your sentence makes sense this time.

His hand drifts down onto your ass cheek. Your eyes roll. Rhett's face lights up with a giggle, lips twisting up into a smile that you need to kiss off of him. Even if you can't really lift your head, noses crashing, kisses reduced to fleeting pecks.

"If I woulda known this was gonna happen, I promise I would've brought somethin' to clean you up with," he murmurs, reaching to brush something off of your jaw. You don't want to know what it is.

"If I had known this was going to happen," your momentum is interrupted by a yawn, "we wouldn't have made it out of my bedroom."

He winks at you. "We can still make that happen."

"Oh my god." Eyeroll. You're gonna walk home.

Or, you would if he didn't curl an arm around your waist and pull you into him like a teddy bear that he's suddenly decided he wants to snuggle. And you just fit into the space below his chin so perfectly that you can't possibly bring yourself to move.

The wind wails outside, and the fire desperately needs tending to, but neither of you are moving. If anything, you're making it worse, tangling your legs together, wedging an arm around his torso, and for a moment, you can convince yourself that you can stay like this forever. Wrapped up in your favorite person, out here on Calico Creek, never to be seen or heard from again. Lost to the magic of winter.

Your stomach growls.

So does his.

Laughter spins through the air.

Maybe forever out on this creek would only work if you had electricity and a snack. But you don't mind losing out on forever, so long as Rhett's with you. Just like he always has been, snowstorm or not.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #oneshot #afab reader #outer range #delgato writes

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chaconnehoonie · 10 months ago

Text

Welcome to Earth- Enhypen(Pilot) (discontinued)

⟿ Extraterrestrial! Enhypen x Fem! Reader

Synopsis- The idea of extraterrestrial life was never a deeply interesting topic to you. Of course, that was before you found a wrecked spaceship and seven inhuman beings.

Estimated WC: 20k-25k

Pilot WC: 812

Warnings: Aliens, cursings, angst, smut(hyung line), fluff, idiotic humor, mythology, [etc. will be added on]

Taglist-

@deobitifull @shinrjj @notevenheretbh1 @skzenhalove @jooniesbears-blog @kgneptun @minniejenseo @strxwbloody

Please comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist, and please have your age in your bio!! I will not be tagging minors or anyone without an age.

A/N: Although this is titled as the Pilot chapter, this will not be a series! The purpose of having this short Pilot chapter is for everyone to get a taste of what’s to come, and to test the waters with a less common genre. So, there will not be chapters, only the pilot and the full length fic.

The depictions of aliens and extraterrestrials in this writing are not meant to be “historically” accurate or follow society’s standard view, these characteristics are made to fit the storyline.

This is fiction and the scenarios are completely fake and from my brain, none of the characters are like this in real life, MDNI!

“Seriously- who’s idea was it to visit another galaxy just for some stupid party!?” Sunghoon stands up from the table he was sitting at, abruptly leaving the game he was playing with Sunoo and Jungwon. He stomps his way over to the spaceship’s control system, catching the attention of Jay who was taking a nap. “And why is Riki flying us? Who’s supposed to be controlling this ship!?”

The panic in Sunghoon’s voice rises, quickly attempting to shove Riki out of the seat but the younger just shoves him back. “Chill, Jake was steering but he needed a bathroom break so I took over.” Riki shrugs casually. Jay finds interest in the conversation and walks up next to Sunghoon, heavy yet squishy feet slapping the tiled floor underneath him.

“Chill? Chill?! Do not tell me to chill when we’re at risk of dying!” Sunghoon is yelling now, drawing their friends’ attention to the situation. Jay groans at Sunghoon’s volume ringing in his sleepy ears.

“What’s going on? Where’s Jake?” Heeseung hears the commotion and comes to rest a hand on Sunghoon’s slimy shoulder, speaking calmly to steady his friend. “Jake left to take a leak, and told Riki he could steer the ship. So unbelievable.” Sunghoon shakes his head in disapproval, mentally listing off the ways he’ll punish Jake in the future. “Maybe if I water his favorite plant with acid rain he’ll get the message.”

Heeseung attempts to relax his raging friend, forgetting about their younger one now steering the ship in the wrong direction. “Wait, Riki- do you even know where we’re going?” Heeseung looks towards the radar, noting how the small image of a ship was further than it should be. “Well…Jake didn’t tell me where to go, he just told me to keep steering.”

The eldest rubs a long finger against his temple, trying to remain calm unlike Sunghoon. Just in time, Jake comes strolling out of the bathroom with a sharp-toothed grin. “See! I knew he wouldn’t crash. You guys just have to trust me.” He sits in the passenger seat next to Riki, encouraging him to keep flying as he’s doing a great job at “keeping everyone alive.”

Before Jake was able to take over the steering, a loud shriek comes from Jay who was now pointing towards the radar. “Guys look! What is that?” All five boys focus on the electronic, watching the way the ship is now suddenly turning towards a massive unidentifiable object. “Not you Riki! You’re supposed to focus when you steer!” Jay turns the boy’s large head back towards the windshield, but it’s too late.

“Watch out! It’s an asteroid!” Sunghoon grabs the steering wheel above Riki’s hands, trying to take control of the whole ship, sighing as the flying vehicle becomes stable again. “Seriously guys, who lets a child have this much power?” Everyone lets out relieved laughs, although Sunghoon wasn’t cracking a joke.

Just as they thought they were safe, a loud crash is heard behind them followed by the screams of Sunoo and Jungwon. Everyone turns to see the two of them holding onto different pieces of furniture as a hole in the large broken window threatens to suck them out of the ship as smaller pieces of furniture fly out. “There’s more!” Jungwon shouts as him and Sunoo look out of the big broken window next to them, watching as the star-speckled sky fills with large flying meteors.

Jungwon grabs Sunoo’s arm, pulling him towards the front of the ship with everyone else to huddle for protection. “This is bad guys, there’s too many!” Sunghoon is cautiously dodging any meteors and debris while everyone else is balled up together, slimy cold skin pressed tight as they get ready to say their goodbyes forever.

“I never thought it would end this way.” Heeseung starts speaking, voice shaky as he tries not to worry the younger members. “I always thought Jake and Riki would accidentally light a mushroom forest on fire or something…not this.” He finally breaks down and everyone else follows, sobbing and gripping each other tighter.

Sunghoon doesn’t give up, continuing to steer even with multiple asteroids denting and destroying the ship. “I can try to land us somewhere.” His voice sounds frantic as he tries not to show his panic. Before he can find a clear planet to land on, a sudden asteroid is seen rapidly flying forward and into the windshield.

A fire erupts from the destroyed engine, any alarms enabled on the spaceship are now blaring and flashing red as the whole aircraft plummets down. “Hoon!” Sunoo cries out as he extents a hand to the older who is cowering away from the windshield and running over towards his friends.

“We’re going down! Prepare for impact!”

#enhypen smut #enhypen x female reader #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff #heeseung smut #jay smut #jake smut #sunghoon smut #enhypen drabbles

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buckevantommy · 3 months ago

Note

꒰ 18 ꒱ “it’s just one night- surely sharing a bed for that long won’t kill us.” ꒰ N ꒱ fondness ꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ the walk-in fridge of a failing restaurant

bucktommy

“it’s just one night- surely sharing a bed for that long won’t kill us.” + fondness + the walk-in fridge of a failing restaurant

note: this takes place in an au where Tommy is still at the 118 when probie Buck joins; Buck has been there for a few months..

“You're limping.”

Buck pauses in the doorway of the old walk-in fridge of Guillermo's. So much for not bringing attention to it. At least he managed to get halfway through his shift before someone noticed. He gives himself away even more by looking right at Tommy, like Buck knew he was talking to him. “Am not.” They’re bringing up the rear after Hen and Chim wheeled the owner out on a stretcher.

“Evan, I can see you limping.”

Buck bristles at that. Generally speaking, he doesn't like people calling him Evan because he has a complicated history with that name. Gaining a nickname at the academy was one of the best takeaways he had of the whole experience.

But there's just.. something about the way Tommy says it. It's different from the way most people say it. His name feels safe in Tommy's mouth. And he was so bewildered by that feeling the first time Tommy said it that it was too late to say anything about it. The second time, though, he tried to insist Tommy call him Buck, but the want sounded weak even to his own ears and when Tommy asked if he was sure, Buck hesitated. Blinked. Then he’d been saved by the bell and Tommy continued calling him Evan, and he just kinda.. let it happen.

It's not that he doesn't like Tommy calling him Evan, it's that he does like it, and he doesn't really know what that means. No one else does it because Buck corrects them every time they try to switch things up, and every time he feels sure he prefers Buck.

But with Tommy..

He sighs.

“It’s nothin’.” It’s definitely something, but there’s nothing Tommy can really do about it so he continues moving through the kitchen with Tommy hot on his heels.

“What happened?”

He doesn’t owe Tommy an explanation. “I slipped, okay?”

“It’s not okay if you’re in pain.”

“It’s just a bruise, don’t worry about it.” If it were a sprained ankle or something, that’d be one thing; he’d need to keep weight off it and probably miss a shift. But a bruise doesn’t stop him from doing his job, so it’s fine.

He half expects Tommy to brace an arm across the kitchen dooryway, prevent Buck from leaving until he tells him what he wants to hear. Instead, Buck hears a worried sigh behind him and turns to find Tommy’s eyes on him, brow creased in concern. He doesn’t want the guy to lose sleep over it, so, after a quick glance around he puts his halligan down on the nearest bench and reaches for his belt - and Tommy draws back a little. Buck rolls his eyes and tugs his pants down far enough to show the nasty purpling bruise on his lower left hip.

“How’d this happen?” Tommy’s voice comes to him as if through a tunnel, distant and muted. Buck’s focus narrows to those large hands suddenly on him, gently framing his mottled flesh, shifting the fabric of his pants just an inch to find the edges of it.

“I, uh. I fell.”

Tommy’s eyes flick up to him, expectant. “How?”

“Um.” How did it happen? “Leaky pipes? There was, uh.” He clears his throat. “Um, w-water on the floor. The uh, the plumber’s coming by tomorrow, so.”

“There’s water currently leaking onto your bathroom floor?”

Buck gives a nod.

“That’s not safe, Evan.”

“It’s not gushing or anything,” Buck says, indignant now. “It’s just, like, a puddle. No biggie.”

Tommy gestures at Buck’s hip. “Kinda looks like a biggie.”

Buck hufffs and pulls away from him. The air is cooler on his exposed skin without the warmth of Tommy’s touch. He rebuckles his pants.

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You’re already injured, your house is flooding, surely you’re not going back there until the issue is resolved.”

Buck wants to roll his eyes again but he gets caught in the weeds of a wretched loneliness. “Not like I have anywhere else to go,” he mutters, and it comes out more bitter than pathetic, which is some kind of win.

“You’ll stay with me tonight,” Tommy says out of nowhere.

It’s a statement not a question, like he's already decided and that's that. It should be arrogant and presumptuous and annoying, but coming from Tommy it just warms something in Buck’s chest. But he’s confused. “Huh?”

“My couch isn’t really big enough for either of us to sleep on comfortably, but my bed is.”

“Y-your bed.”

“Cal King. Plenty of room to share.”

Buck blinks. Is Tommy suggesting they.. sleep together?

“It’s just one night, Evan,” Tommy give him a sardonic look. “Surely sharing a bed for that long won’t kill us.”

“What? No, I-I just—”

“There’s a much better chance of your bathroom floor killing you than my mattress.”

Buck swallows, nervous. He’s not weirded out by sharing a bed with a guy - he’s done that before, more than once, in his travels. “Why are you doin’ this?”

Tommy sobers. “Is it so hard to think that I might care about your wellbeing?”

Kinda. “We’re not even friends.”

“Well, maybe I’d like to change that.”

Tommy’s sincerity is disarming. It’s not like he thought Tommy hated him, or anything, but he didn't think Tommy was actually interested in his friendship and that hurt for reasons he can't really explain. And Buck wants to be friends with his team, it’s just. They’re all a little older than him, and he’s still the new guy, and Tommy’s hard to get a read on, and—

“We can start with this.” Tommy picks up his halligan and holds it out between them.

Buck takes it, dumbly. What are they doing with his halligan?

“C’mon. Engine’s waiting.” Tommy pats his arm as he passes by through the doorway.

“Um,” Buck says to the now empty kitchen. “O-okay.”

doing this thing

#bucktommy #evantommy #fanfiction #fic meme #.txt #interesting choices nonny! and in my mind this all leads eventually into the leg crush injury event....

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mermaidgirl30 · 1 year ago

Text

✨Crimson Tango: A Dance of Diamonds and Revenge Part 1: Welcome to the Moulin Rouge✨

A/N: SO excited for me and @mountainsandmayhem to bring you a Moulin Rouge Joel Miller series ❤️ We are both so excited to be writing this and hope you love it as much as we do! Hang on tight for the ride of your life between these two on their angsty, beautiful love story 🥰 Comments and reblogs mean the world to us! Chapters are in both reader’s and Joel’s POV. No explicit smut in first chapter.

Word Count: 6.2k

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem! reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY MDNI)

Tags: Angst, unprotected p in v, oral, fingering, forbidden love, murder, fluff and smut, jealousy, moulin rouge au, soulmates being in love, protective Joel, no outbreak, reader is 20 and Joel is 29, tags will be updated each chapter

Summary: Joel Miller doesn’t know what awaits him as he takes on a maintenance job at the Moulin Rouge. He doesn’t know he’ll meet the absolute love of his life, the Sparkling Diamond, as his world comes crashing down around him fast. Will he be able to stay away when he’s warned not to touch the dancers? Will he listen or will he challenge that pull that draws him to the one thing that sets his soul on fire?

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Welcome to the Moulin Rouge

Your whole childhood centered around death, but you never thought about the possibility of yourself dying, never thought about how you’d like to go. As your vision blurs and the world begins to silence, you realise that this is the ultimate way to go. For her. Saving her is all that matters, saving the person you love the most in the entire world, even if you’ve never met her.

Sarah, please Joel. Name her Sarah.

At times, your childhood may have seemed sad or tragic to the outside eye, but to you it has been nothing short of amazing. You don’t remember the incident that took both your parents, you were too young, so young that you can’t even picture their faces. You were brought to stay with the only family you had left - your mom’s much older brother.

Your uncle Edward was a quiet and kind man, he was also the owner of Moulin Rouge. A bright and colorful dance hall, filled with sparkling costumes and lively music. For the longest time you weren’t allowed outside of the living quarters, but you remember laughter and cheering filtering through the thin walls. This place was magic to you in your childhood naivety.

You remember begging the dancers to teach you the steps to the songs you overheard in the night. Occasionally, one of them would show you a kick or a twirl that you’d practice alone in your room until the muscles in your legs were stretched and sore, no longer able to support your tiny frame.

During the day, a tutor came in for a few hours to teach you and the few other children that lived there, meals were brought to your living quarters by an older woman who rarely spoke to you. Uncle Edward was alway home for those meals, but often had stacks of papers to go through. Most of the time it was just you and the broken guitar and pottery wheel your uncle had given you. But overall you were alone, far away music and laughter to keep you company.

For your thirteenth birthday your uncle surprised you with dance lessons. He knew how much you wanted to learn, and could practically feel the energy buzzing off you every time your eyes darted to the performing dancers. So he gave in, gifting you with something that might bring you a little joy in the isolated burlesque. A silent way of telling you he was sorry for not being around much and leaving you to delve in your loneliness inside your vacant room.

“Well, little petal,” your uncle says as you blow out the singular candle sitting on top of the small cake to celebrate you turning sixteen. “I think you’re old enough now to come up and watch my diamonds perform. What do you say? Would you like to come see the show?”

You practically jumped from your seat, mouthful of chocolate cake, “Yes, Uncle! Please. Nothing could make me happier.”

“Tomorrow night I will bring you up to see it. Perhaps when you turn eighteen you can join them.”

You’d seen the costumes and the women in their makeup before, you’ve even been out to the dance hall and on the stage. But that was only during the day, when the tables were only occupied by up-turned chairs, the overhead lights were off, and the band was nothing more than an empty pit in front of the stage.

The next night, your uncle brought you a new sparkly pink dress, and had the hair and make-up ladies get you all dolled up to watch. You looked at yourself in the mirror and had never felt more beautiful, seeing yourself as one of the famous diamonds of the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps when you turn eighteen you can join them.

The show was like nothing you’d ever seen before. You didn’t know so many varieties of reds and blues and purples existed. The women kicked their legs in unison, men cheering and clapping as they swooshed their large billowing skirts. The music filled your ears with joy and wonder, the sounds crisper than they were through the walls. Laughter and happiness held you like a tight hug. Perhaps when you turn eighteen you can join them.

As the show wound down, your Uncle leaned to you and said it was time to head to bed, “You’ve seen the show, little petal. Now the adults will indulge in wine and talk about things not for your ears.”

You didn’t argue, simply kissing your uncle on the cheek and saying, “Thank you, Uncle. I am going to practice harder so I can become a real diamond one day!”

You floated down the hallway. With your eyes still swarming with the bright colors of the show and your future dreams you hadn’t realised that you opened the door before the one to take you home, and this door led to something both sinister and unspeakable - it led to darkness. The room was only lit by candles sprawled across the wall, casting looming shadows of the acts happening before your very eyes.

You stood in the doorway taking in men and women completely naked, rubbing up against one another incessantly. Your tutor taught you that these areas of your body are not to be shared, they are only for you. Yet here they are, almost unashamed as they grind. The men all appear to be having a good time, but the women - they’re crying out.

Are they in pain? What are these men doing to them? Why are some men just watching? They should be helping. Your uncle, does he know that this is happening? Is this what his diamonds do?

Perhaps when you turn eighteen you can join them.

You nervously approached your Uncle about it a few days later. “Oh, my sweet little petal. I’m sorry that you had to witness that. I promise you, none of those women were in pain. Not all my diamonds dance like that, and you never will. I meant it when I offered you a spot to dance, fully clothed and on the stage only. I only hope that you do not think less of me now that you know what goes on behind closed doors of the Moulin Rouge.”

Four Years Later

Joel stumbles into the doors of the Moulin Rouge after seeing the maintenance worker needed sign displayed in bold letters outside the burlesque. This was the last place he wanted to end up, the last place he’d be caught dead in; but he needed something, and anything was better than the minimal income of selling his woodwork. He couldn’t get by anymore by only getting one or two customers every couple of weeks, if he was lucky. It wasn’t enough to pay the rent of his small, cramped apartment. Wasn’t enough to feed himself day and night. He needed more, and this was his shot.

He pushes the heavy black doors open, quickly tucking his red flannel button-up into his pressed pants, needing to look his best if he wants to get this job. He has to get it, has to impress whoever is the owner of this club.

He finds the first person he can spot, quickly getting the attention of a bartender as he washes crystal glasses with a thin rag behind the sleek bar top.

“Sorry to bother you, but I saw the sign out front that said you need some help with maintenance around here?” he asks briskly as he stares at the bartender with eyes that say he’s desperate. His hands come to rest on the bar top and he fights the urge to nervously drum his fingers along it.

The bartender looks him over as he sets down a glass, nodding his head. “Oh, yes. Let me go grab the owner real quick. Be right back, wait here,” he says as he runs in the opposite direction, disappearing behind a long hallway. Joel nervously pushes back his outgrown curls, silently cursing to himself for buying that loaf of bread instead of getting a haircut. His big brown eyes dart curiously around the club, trying to take it all in.

It’s light outside as the sun glistens in through the drawn crimson curtains, some dancers sauntering on stage as they practice their moves, swaying their hips to a nonexistent beat. Joel averts his eyes and takes in the rest of the large room - it’s filled with tables that are meant for the men to smoke cigars and drink their alcohol as they drool over the women of the burlesque. All lust and no love, the way the burlesque was set up to be. Joel was never into this scene, never fit in with any of those types of men, but he was desperate, he needed work and this may very well be the only way he can get any.

A tall, thin man walks into the room with slicked back sandy hair and green eyes that are as sharp as a snake’s. He eyes Joel carefully, one hand resting in his pocket, the other stretching to shake Joel’s. Joel wastes no time and reaches a hand out, feeling a firm grasp as the owner shakes his hand.

“The name’s Edward. And you are?” he asks with a gentle smile.

“I’m Joel. Joel Miller,” he says with nerves running through his body, the back of his neck slick with sweat. He’s nervous he won’t get it, nervous he’ll leave empty handed with no job. He’ll fight for it though because he’s a fighter, and he doesn’t give up easily.

“So, I hear you’re interested in the maintenance job. You got any experience?” Edward asks as he leans against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest as he examines Joel again, taking in his flannel and tan pants, his worn work boots.

“Yes, sir. Got years of experience with fixin’ things. Anything from sinks to building homes. Even have a little woodworking shop on the side,” he says proudly as he tries not to fidget with the buttons on his flannel.

“Hmmm,” Edward hums as he looks him over again carefully, those bright green eyes staring at Joel’s clothes like he’s judging him. Joel swallows down that dry lump of self doubt creeping in. “You seem capable. How old are you? Think you can handle working at nights, too? Gets pretty rowdy around here when the moon comes up, but that’s when we need someone the most,” he presses, eyes shifting over him as his brow raises in question again, waiting for Joel to respond.

“Just about to turn thirty and ‘course. Nights don’t bother me one bit. I can even start today, if I can,” Joel says with a determined smile as he shoves his left hand deep into his pocket, praying he’ll get the job.

“I see. Well then, looks like you got yourself a new gig. See you tonight at let’s say 7:00 pm,” he says, reaching a hand out to Joel. For most men that would be a question, but Edward is a very rich and powerful man, he doesn’t ask for things, he demands them. Joel doesn’t hesitate for a second and puts his grip in Edward’s, shaking in agreement.

“Thank you, thank you! You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” he says with tears almost filling his eyes. A job, he finally has a job that’ll get him by just fine. No more nights of going hungry. He can finally breathe a second, if not more.

Before he turns to leave, Edward puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him back around carefully. “Oh, forgot to mention something. There’s only one condition I ask of you. Don’t touch my dancers. They’re strictly for the guests that pay,” he says with furrowed brows, his eyes burning into him, as if to see if Joel will flinch at all.

“That’ll be no problem on my part. Promise,” Joel confirms with a nod of his head, his tousled curls moving with the motion.

“Good, good…” Edward hums out. “Alright, Joel. I’ll see you tonight,” he says with a wave as he turns around and heads back behind crimson curtains, disappearing into a dark hallway.

Joel can’t help but smile as he heads out the doors of the Moulin Rouge, stepping into the warm sunshine as it bathes across his tanned skin. He takes a breath of fresh air as it smells of autumn leaves and new hope.

Things start to feel like they’re looking up, like something nirvanic was right on the cusp. What Joel doesn’t know is just what waits around that heavy crimson curtain for him. He doesn’t know the beautiful disaster he’s about to step into. A Sparkling Diamond that will take over his life forever. Someone so precious, so special, so indescribably unique. Someone so very - you.

Joel makes sure to get to the Moulin Rouge fifteen minutes early, wanting nothing more than to give off a good impression. The burlesque is filling up quickly as the sun fades away, the bright full moon taking its place in the sky, stars scattering around it.

When he walks inside the double doors, he sees that the dance hall is filling up quickly with men who smoke expensive cigars and drink bottles of whiskey that he can only dream of affording. He makes his way further into the entrance, his eyes taking in his surroundings, noticing that the large room looks nothing like earlier when it was closed.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings as red curtains drape across the crimson wallpaper. The dance floor is littered with burlesque dancers that lift their skirts high and tease the men as they surround them, hoping to entice the wealthiest one. Money is what they’re after and selling themselves is their only shot at making any extra tips for the night.

Joel clenches his jaw at the sight and turns his head, waiting at the front until he finally spots Edward in a black pressed suit. His blonde hair slicked back tight, looking around to make sure his guests are happy and taken care of. When he sees Joel, he walks toward him and puts a hand on his shoulder in greeting.

“Ahh, there you are. Come along now. I’ll show you around,” he says gladly.

After that, he shows Joel the burlesque. He takes him to the maintenance closet and gives him a key to access it - metal tools and large shelves cover the entirety of the inside. Next he takes him down long, dark corridors, past rooms that are locked shut. Just when Joel thinks he's seen it all, they head up to the second story. Sweeping down wooden laden hallways, passed the balcony that overlooks the large city, and through winding rooms that seem to have no end. He had no idea it was so large and spacious here; didn’t even realise people lived here. Joel starts to think more softly towards Edward, sure these women put themselves in vulnerable positions night after night, but they have safe housing and a sense of family and community back here.

Edward takes Joel back down toward the main ballroom where the entertainment is held every night. Just as he latches on to the spiral staircase, he sees a man dragging a dancer with barely anything on into a dark room at the end of the luminescent hallway with red carpet sprawled across the floor. He shoves her in as he starts working his hands up her body, and Joel can see the mass of bodies already in the room as he closes the door, concealing moans and lust on the other side of the tarnished doorway.

Joel gulps and looks back toward the ground, keeping his eyes off the pleasure room. He knows what goes on in these walls, knows what filth lies in every corner. The stench of money and sex encompass the room, he can almost taste it on the tip of his rough tongue. He finds it revolting, men using these women's bodies. No love to be seen in these walls. Only perversions and sexual desire. He turns away sharply and descends the stairs, almost running into the back of Edward.

“I believe one of the wooden tables over by the stage needs some maintenance. The legs are collapsing, think you can do something about that?” he asks with a raised brow as he points at a dark wooden table with the legs barely hanging on.

“Sure. Probably just needs some tightening up. Easy fix,” Joel nods.

“Excellent. I have guests to greet, so fix that and then come find me,” just as he turns on his heel, he stops and looks back at Joel. Green eyes narrowing, a finger pointing in Joel’s direction. “Remember,” he says with venom in his voice, “Do not touch my dancers. They’re only for paying customers, and you cannot afford them.”

Joel only nods, letting Edward know he understands. With that, Edward turns and heads for the main doors, greeting more men as they pack in like sardines. Joel sighs and heads for the maintenance closest, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that shoots through his gut at the backhanded warning Edward gave.

Don’t touch the dancers…you cannot afford them.

Even if Joel could afford it, he would never do what these men are doing. The soft, beautiful women of this place deserve to be treasured, not pawed at and used. He wasn’t a rabid dog. He could control himself unlike all the other men that crowded the Moulin Rouge.

He grabs up a metal wrench and shoves some nuts and bolts deep into his pocket. When he makes his way back to the table he starts to assess the damage. This would be much easier to fix in his well lit workshop, but there’s no carrying this table away from the stage and through the crowd of hungry men.

Now that he’s thrust in the middle of the wooden dance floor, he can see the burlesque dancers seeking out the richest looking men, sitting on their laps and letting them put their dirty paws all over their bodies. The men laugh, carrying on conversations as they fondle their breasts, leaning down to trail kisses up their necks. Some get up and lead the women down the long, dark corridor. Back to the pleasure room. Back to their impending doom.

The three men at the table next to him have one girl propped up in front of them, all of their hands grabbing different areas of her body, asking her if she wants all three of them; the men are easily twenty years older than the petite and innocent looking blonde in front of them. Joel feels for the dancers, but there isn’t anything he can do. It’s business. It’s all about the fucking money and pleasure. Pleasure sells, and this is what most men desire. Sex.

The room grows louder as men cheer from the crowded tables. Some swarming the end of the lit up stage to get a peek at the next performer. Some start chanting, yelling in demand for the next poor soul to dance across that stage, right into the pit of vipers that are ready to spit venom at whatever girl walks out next.

The cigar smoke lingers in the air as crystal glasses clink in cheers, alcohol spilling over on the tabletops. Joel knows that’ll leave a huge mess for him and the other staff to clean up after closing. He tightens the bolts under the table, winding the wrench as he tries to turn his focus away from the lust filled crowd. They’re just a bunch of sick fucks who get off on ripping away the innocence and dignity of women. Nothing more than their play things. Theirs to possess and own for a few hours. It’s cruel and vile, disgusting in itself.

Joel was never the type of guy to use a woman. He’d never dream of hurting anyone. He was thoughtful and charming, a man who minds his manners and works hard for everything he has.

He digs harder into the leg of the table, trying to mute the hooting and hollering that is getting louder by the second. The sounds of the men start to overlap until it’s muffled and pressing on his eardrums, running along the nerves that wire his brain. He concentrates on the task at hand, shutting out the noise as he tries to fix the table.

“The Sparkling Diamond!”

“She’s coming on stage now!”

“Look, look!”

The men nearest him yell to each other, babbling about the Sparkling Diamond as the lights turn crimson and dark around the room, crystal chandeliers send glistening reflections across the expensive tailored suits that fill the crowded room.

“Here she comes, boys!”

Just then, the lights go out completely and a spotlight shines on the wide stage. Crimson curtains splay over the sides, exposing the long walkway where dancers show off for the men. The crowd goes quiet, a few whistles shrouding the silence as a slow, sensual song covers the room. The men pound on the stage, yelling for the Sparkling Diamond to come out. Joel thinks she must be something special if she has the entire room practically panting with anticipation. The wild men crawl towards the stage, pushing each other to get to the front so they can get the best view. Joel doesn’t know anything about a Sparkling Diamond, but he’s intrigued. Just what were they getting all worked up about?

Before he can comprehend what's happening, he hears the click of heels travel across the stage. He rises slowly, seeing the pretty figure that dances under the bright spotlight, the men now screaming and throwing their hands out, begging to get a touch of the enchantress that graces their presence. When she’s fully in view he freezes, dropping the wrench to the floor as it crashes with a loud thud against the spotless wood. It suddenly feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Joel braces himself against the table, the sight before him nearly knocking him back down to his knees.

It’s you.

The most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his entire life. Long, soft curls cascade past your shoulders and bounce around with every move you make on the lit up stage. Your short pink dress barely grazes the curve of your thighs as your arms raise overhead and you spin slowly. As you bring your arms back down, your red painted fingernails caress your curls, then tease the jawline of your flawless face. Your cheeks flush from the attention before you gently bite the tip of your finger, red lipstick sitting matted to your delicate lips.

Joel thinks they look soft to the touch, delicate even. Your lips call to him, almost scream his name. Joel, Joel, Joel. And he wants to answer it. God, does he want to answer that call.

He watches the way you twirl, fluttering your eyelashes as you look down at the men, seducing them effortlessly. Performing is what you were meant to do. When you finally look at Joel he falls completely apart, all his threads coming untied in a heap, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

He stands there frozen, sinking his nails into the hardwood table as he sucks in a shaky breath, almost unable to fully take in the vision that stands mere inches before him. He can’t hear the carnal men anymore, can’t smell the cigar smoke that encases the air, can’t focus on anything that even remotely takes his attention from the beauty that lights up the room. He can only focus on you. He feels a pull from his chest, like an invisible string, forcing him to look at nothing else but you. The Sparkling Diamond that draws men to the Moulin Rouge, and the one thing he knows will get him fired.

Your eyes sparkle and shine like a rare gemstone, pulling Joel in like a siren’s forbidden song, a lull that drags him under the dark depths of the sea. The smile you wear doesn’t quite reach your eyes, a sadness there that he can’t quite place. The men claw and reach for you like starving pigs, acting like you’re just a piece of meat to pass around to all the others to get a quick taste of.

It makes him sick the way they objectify your body, only caring about what’s underneath the short shimmery dress you wear. Joel doesn’t stare at your curves, doesn’t get sucked into whatever fantasy the rest of the men are in. He just stares at your eyes. Beautiful, sparkling. He’d cross oceans just to have a chance to memorize each fleck and color that maps out those starry eyes. Like roadmaps to his soul, leading him home to the deep depths of those glistening irises. And that’s when something snaps, he can’t - no, he won’t let any of these men put one grimy finger on you. Whatever it takes he’ll do it. He makes a silent vow to keep you safe, protect you at all cost.

There’s only one condition, don’t touch the dancers.

Edward’s voice plays through Joel’s mind on repeat, warning him to not tempt fate. But fate had already been tempted when he saw you up on that stage. He’d quit, starve, be homeless on the street if it meant he could have a chance to be with you. He’d give it all just to be able to touch you, to know you, to have you. He’d leave it all for you. His sweet, Sparkling Diamond.

You spin and turn, kicking your feet up to show off your smooth, long legs that all the men drool over. You turn to the right, drifting your eyes in the direction of a man you’ve never seen before. You almost freeze as he stares right back at you, big beautiful brown eyes gazing into yours as he gawks at you reverently. But his eyes don’t travel down your body like the other men’s do. His eyes stay fixed on your face alone, staring up into the pits of your soul as you suck in a breath and try to focus on the beat of the song.

His long tousled curls drape over his forehead, almost falling into his brown doe eyes that seem to suck you in. He’s tall, broad shouldered with thick biceps that cling to his rolled up button-up flannel. Spidery veins cascade down his arms and end in massive hands that stay clenched by his sides. His tanned skin seems to glow as he stares at you with brown eyes that melt into your own like a candle stick, wax flowing down slowly, sticky and new. It’s captivating. He is captivating.

It's like you’re stuck in a haze, thick clouds that cover you and wrap their fog around so you can’t see, can’t hear anything anymore. You try to focus on the men that praise your body, try to avert your eyes from the handsome stranger, but that organ in your chest you force yourself to ignore is almost screaming at you to run to him. Two souls colliding into each other that were destined to meet. Just like twin flames.

Soulmates.

You blink once, twice, peeling your gaze away from him, turning the other direction, forcing yourself to stay bright eyed, hoping your smile doesn’t lower. You come face to face with a gentleman with a large top hat that screams your name and reaches his arms out, desperate to get just a single touch from you that he hopes will become more.

You turn back around and find that heated gaze again with the dark brown eyes, your own eyes going wide as they draw you to him. He looks a lot like your saving grace. Someone that wants to come in and sweep you off your feet.

Again, he just watches you silently, eyes searching yours as he seems to clock into your mind, reading your thoughts like a book from front to back. He won’t find anything there except a longing for something more. An escape. Happiness. And maybe he could be that for you. Maybe, just maybe he was destined to find you. You can feel it in your chest, that ache and pull that draws you to him.

Your uncle won’t like this. Not one bit…

Joel watches your entire routine, never once letting his eyes drop from you. He watches as you disappear into the crowd of men, narrowing his eyes when he sees the way they grab at you and beg to have a dance with the Sparkling Diamond. It makes him want to strangle every single one of them slowly.

Please, just one dance?

Sparkling Diamond! Care to have a drink with me?

How about a little fun in the red room?

You politely decline each offer and just smile as you pass the men by, trying your best to not meet the stranger with the pretty brown eyes’ gaze. He’s so handsome, so very easy on the eyes. You try your best to look at the men with money, knowing this is what you’re here for, to give them a show so they’ll pay to come back. Try as you might, that thin string snapped the second you saw his brown flecked honey eyes. You don’t want to do this anymore.

You turn where you stand and look back towards the stage. You search as men cram around you and over the top of an older man’s shoulder you can see him, clear as day, still staring at you with a trance-like expression on his face. You hold his gaze for a few seconds, curling your lips into a shy smile and you swear you see his pretty caramel eyes light up like fireflies in the night.

Just when you’re about to walk over to him, you feel your uncle pull you away in the opposite direction. “Come on, little petal, got some nice men that’d like to meet you.”

You follow him helplessly past some drawn crimson curtains, already over the drunk men that will press their chapped lips to your face and place their grimy hands all over you. You’re finished though, over all the fake smiles and laughter you are forced to sell these men night after night. When you look back over your shoulder you can’t see him anymore. No more pretty brown eyes that make you feel somehow safe. You don’t know him, his backstory, his name, or even his age, but you’ll find out. You have to, you just have to.

After finishing fixing the two broken tables and putting them back into order, Joel gets another visit from Edward as he saunters over with a big smile and a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Everything going alright?” Edward asks as he pulls on his black tie and straightens out his long tailed coat.

“Yes, sir. Finished fixin’ those tables for you. They should be good to go now,” Joel answers as he stands up straight with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Excellent!” Edward goes over to the wooden tables and knocks on the top, inspecting Joel’s work as he looks them over carefully. Once he’s satisfied he gives Joel a strong pat on the back and nods. “Did good work, boy. Think we’ll keep you around.”

Joel smiles at the compliment, thanking him for the opportunity. “Oh, there’s actually something else that needs to be done. You remember that room we passed on the second floor? The very back room by the balcony? The one that says Sparkling Diamond?”

Joel’s eyes go wide as he recalls passing a big red door with the letters spelled out in fake diamonds. That has to be your room. He should’ve noticed it sooner, maybe asked about it. But he didn’t know that room would belong to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He didn’t know it until now.

“Uh-yeah. What about it?” he asks cautiously, eyebrow slightly raised in anticipation of what Edward would say next.

“The sink in her kitchen is dripping and some of the lightbulbs are burnt out. There should be some in the supply closet. Think you can handle taking care of that now?”

He doesn’t hesitate a second. “Absolutely. I’ll get right on it,” Joel says urgently.

As he turns to leave, Edward calls his name. “Oh, Joel. Before you leave tonight, go ahead and have a beer. It’s on me.”

Joel doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been offered a free one before, always had to pay money that he didn’t have to get one. “Oh, thank you. I… I appreciate it.”

“You earned it, kid. I’ll see you tomorrow night?” Edward asks with his eyebrows knitted together and gaze heavy on Joel.

“I’ll be here,” he promises.

“Alright, take care now. I’ve got some business to attend to so see you tomorrow.” Edward turns and walks back into a sea of rich men.

Joel pushes his way past men in black suits and black ties, cigars hanging from their open mouths and drinks spilling over their glass cups as they talk about money, sex, stocks, and women. He tunes them out and keeps walking, ignoring the nasty stares he gets from not being in a suit himself.

As soon as he grabs the bag of lightbulbs and a few plumbing tools, he heads up the grand staircase with red carpet sprawled across each step. He makes his way up the stairs, down the narrow dark hallway and stops before he turns the corner. He stands just a few feet from the pleasure room. The red room as they call it here.

He can hear the moans and cries coming from the room, can smell the stench of sex that whisks through the air. He wonders if you go into that room night after night, letting the men with dirty claws sink their nails into you, feasting on you like blood sucking vampires.

His jaw clenches up as his nails sink into the meat of his palm, his face becoming hot with heat as he imagines you splayed out on an open bed while the men take and take from you until you have nothing left to give. Until you’re just a used up rag doll for them to toy with. He snarls and turns the corner sharply, putting those dark thoughts out of his mind. If he had his way he’d make damn sure you’d never set foot in that room again. He’d slaughter a whole fucking mass of men if he had to. No one should lay their filthy hands on you as far as he’s concerned.

He walks through the long corridor, passing door after door until he finally gets to yours. He takes a deep breath and turns the golden doorknob slowly entering the dimly lit room with pale pink wallpaper. He gently shuts the door and when he turns around he stops in his tracks, hand sliding off the doorknob as he sees you standing in the middle of the room. Naked.

Your skin is soft, probably as soft as the back of a rose petal. Your legs are long, smooth, and enticing. He wonders what it’d feel like to run his long fingers over your creamy thighs. You’re bent over, ass in the air, as you unbuckle the straps of the high heels you wore on stage. Your hips are curvy, shaping your round ass into mere perfection. Your full breasts peek out from the corner as your long waves spill over your shoulders. You’re absolutely perfect, stunning, a work of pure art.

Joel knows he’s fucked now. He knows. After seeing how beautiful you are, he can’t turn away. He shouldn’t be standing here gawking at you while you change, but he can’t move. He’s stuck like glue, an immovable object that can’t be pushed. He’s in trouble, so much trouble.

He loses his balance when you bend over again, exposing a different view of you that nearly takes him to his knees. The bag of bulbs falls to the ground with a large crash, and you turn with a quaint gasp as you take in the man that stands before you. It’s him, the man with the dark eyes.

Your eyes go wide, quickly reaching for a thin, sheer robe as you wrap it around you and cover the parts of you that are completely exposed. You breathe hard, your breath coming out rushed and fast. He does the same as he just stands there staring, no air left in his lungs as he stands in front of the beauty that takes his breath away. And then it’s silence, only rushed breaths and pining eyes.

The longer he stares into your captivating eyes, the more he knows he’s fucked. There was no way he was getting out of this now, no way to back down. He was going to make you his one way or another. You would be his. Period.

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