#i wanna get into all of them but these are just the ones my brain immediately lit up with hehe

[barblaz-arts]

Hello!

I would like to start with the fact that your art style is amazing, same goes for the design of the characters. (They look yummy tbh)

I have been wondering if you ever got some kind of art block, if yes what did you do?

If you see this, I hope you have a great day.

Thank you!

Most of the time, when I wanna draw but cant quite know WHAT i wanna draw, I redraw stuff. Like, screenshots. Or old drawings. Or even memes. Those are especially fun for drawing expressions I might not usually draw. Or I take scenes from fics I like or fics I've written and draw them. It helps that I get to move my pen with only half the brain power needed to picture what I want drawn.

But sometimes when I really cant overcome it, I usually just wait it out. Do my other hobbies like read or write or churn up another meta analysis. You cant force yourself to overcome that block sometimes and that's ok.

Oh but sometimes tho! Something that works unintentionally is when I'm like really really upset. I dont like to show it much, bcuz I understand that I'm getting old and I have a significant amount of followers that I dont wanna be a bad example to... But I can have quite a temper on me and can get really petty. But instead of exploding, I try to draw with those feelings.

Like, a while ago, I got really upset about stuff with an AI art fraud. And im just like, you know what this person can claim they're an "artist" all they want, but they still havent even shown a paper drawing as concrete proof. all just excuses and shit. The next moment I drew this, just to reassure myself that I'm an artist and I know what being a real artist is. That unlike AI frauds, I can show I dont need a computer to draw. All I need is a pencil and paper and I'm good.

(Then I proceeded to draw more than I usually do on paper because of that lmao)

And then when Youtooz came with an announcement that they're gonna release four figurines, half of which was 2 versions of Alastor and NO sign of Vaggie, I drew four Vaggies. Yes. I drew all this angry. Until yunno. I got so happy over how nice this ended up looking instead.

And then the last art I posted with the Harem Hotel AU? That's been in my drafts since november but I only got to finish it recently because I got upset over all the people in my notifs leaving hate comments about Vaggie lmao. Just told myself that they can claim to be objective critics who arent misogynistic, but at the end of the day all they could do is leave mean comments on twitter. Meanwhile, I can create! It's borderline horny gay shit, but hey! At least I'm doin' something productive! I can show female characters like her are are worth so much love to the point of making art!

Just. Idk. Maybe next time you feel negative feelings and shit, use art as the outlet for that negativity. Make something out of it. It doesnt have to be pretty, but hopefully it could make you feel good.

Or you know. Like I said, just wait it out.

[dokidokitsuna]

It’s 2025, and I’m starting off the new year by announcing that I’ve moved to BlueSky, finally! It’ll be nice to run a more casual art account again, and have a place to promote and advertise projects without feeling icky: https://bsky.app/profile/dokitsuna.bsky.social

Speaking of projects– I really wanna get a lot of stuff done this year. For one thing, I WILL finish and release Magical Friends Episode 2 or die trying. 😤

I also wanna start getting my personal projects off the ground: LADYBIRD, Magical Girl No. 1, my as-yet unannounced short film…some other one-off projects I’ve got stashed away…all the depressive episodes I went through last year gave me a lot of time to plan and write, so it’d be great if this year I could start bringing those ideas to life. ^^;

In general, I’d like to keep watching my skills improve (because they have been progressing a lot lately), and keep on making art to make people happy. ^^ 

I’ve decided that one of the things I want most from my art is to give people a distraction from troubled times. It may sound silly, and it definitely feels silly thinking about cartoon blobs goofing around when there’s so much going on in the world…until I remember how much I rely on the work of other creatives to help reset my brain when I’m overwhelmed with grief and stress. 

Everyone needs a break from suffering occasionally; there’s nothing wrong with that. And if I can give someone a good laugh or something cool to think about when they need it most, even if it’s just to break them out of doomscrolling…that alone makes it all worthwhile. 👍

[ablobwhowrites]

HAPPY NEW YEARS!!!

Also kinda thinking of the sad detective y/n idea I did and now I’m about to expose more angst I was hiding from you guys and adding more salt to your/n’s wound with this idea from @someone-named-adel and the original start of detective y/n’s angst arc started HERE so please enjoy my yapping session and also I promise I’m going to release a fic on this soon.

I imagine when y/n’s partner was killed. Y/n was the last one to leave the grave even when it was raining heavily, y/n didn’t wanna leave their side. Even at the hospital through the surgery and when they told him the news, it was like he was torn apart. Especially when it was New Year’s Day when he was to propose to them and how they talked about having a family. To find out later when y/n was trying to clean their, his apartment he found a letter that was neatly folded as he opened it was a letter that his partner wrote that told him that they were going to have their child and be able to have the family that y/n and them wanted for so long. They were going to give the letter to y/n when y/n was going to propose as well and this had y/n sob as he couldn’t save his love and now he lost their future, the life, the dream that him and his partner were planning. (In a alternative universe y/n saved his lover and was able to live a happy ever after with them and his child. I say as I'm dragged into rock myself back and forth in a corner)

And that sometimes in certain cases he has is when he sometimes has to be like a parental figure to some kids who have lost or need help to find their parents as some part in him tells him to protect the kid who needs help but he is still afraid that he'll have the kid die when he tries his hardest to protect them but that never happens. He it's just afraid of having kids and feeling that anyone who puts trust into him would get hurt or worse as even if he had no control of the situation, he'll always feel like he could have done something to help even when he couldn't have done anything to prevent this situation. Just for anyone he cares about, he wants to be safe especially having to see his lover die had given him more purpose to try help and protect more people even if it kills him.

But now to the silly and the brain rot

Also I was rewatching the justice league series and was the episode A better world and saw that they cared for our regular flash because the one in the other world died and I saw how panicked the other Batman was when he thought our world flash died so I was thinking. What if the opposite justice league also lost their y/n and basically went to take the y/n from our dc cause they are still alive. Just a little thought and also watched the Crisis on Two Earths: Crime Syndicate Earth. And thought of other world y/n who worked with that justice league from the crisis on two earths. I dont know, might to a more imaging part of it but yeah.

Detective y/n: "wow that was a great dinner. Well thanks for inviting me over but I gotta go back home now."

Bruce: "who said you were leaving?"

Y/n: "huh?"

Detective y/n seeing killer croc running straight at him like

Detective y/n: "good to be back at my job in gotham."

Romantic DC yanderes: "I want you."

Y/n: "what-"

Detective y/n: "well at least theres no more insane universes that try to harm this world.....what do you mean there's more universes?"

(bro is going to tweak when he realizes they get worse from here. But thats all today and if you'd guys like more than feel free to request more but right for now please stay healthy and drink lots of water and stay healthy guys!)

[nekrosmos]

Nekro you have no idea what you caused in my brain with that last Poker Post. I do apologize for your notifs. 😭 But my god, the potential... Can you imagine if the life Nik tried to keep separate from Price ended up accidentally involving him too? Maybe he pissed off some dealers, maybe it's about the many people who want Nik dead or hurt. The moment Nik hears Prices name being mentioned he loses all composure. Is it hell upon earth? Does he make them regret even *considering* to plot against him? Does John know? Do they have a conversation about honesty and trust, or is John blissfully unaware as his partner goes on a hunting spree? WHO KNOWS!!! It's all so delicious either way. 😌 I think Price would have *some* idea. Just, not to full extent. That poker match does show him the realities his bf deals with though, and that reminder is enough to get him hot and bothered. JFC. I need to take a breather

also feel free to ignore this if you planned on continuing that haha i wouldn't wanna spoil or ruin anything. just here to vomit my thoughts abt nik, apologies 🙂‍↕️🙏

Never apologize for sharing your thoughts Oliv, they are highly valued !!

And for real, there's a lot to think about here. (Poker post in question)

I like the idea that Nikolai is absolutely terrified of his life impacting John in a negative way. He's scared that someone, someday, will be bold enough to try to get to John to get to Nik. It would be a terrible idea, considering how dangerous Price is as well, but it is still a risk.

Nik is also scared that Price aligning himself with someone like him, with his background, with his connections and just general shadiness, will impact John's career eventually. It's one thing to have someone like Nik as a friend, it's something else to be sleeping with him and eventually share a life with him. Maybe some hire-ups already said something about them, threatening John. Of course, Price wouldn't let this shit fly, and he probably wouldn't say anything to Nik either, he doesn't want him to worry, but Nikolai always knows, eventually. John had to reassure him a lot that day, because Nik would absolutely sacrifice his relationship with John to save him, even though John is his reason to live, and Nik means everything to John.

And then, there's your idea that Nikolai would go on a hunting spree after some people threaten or hurt John. You do not fuck with Nikolai, or the man his heart belongs to, and live to tell the tale. He would hunt them, he would get them, and he would finish them, sending a message to anyone who dares to think about attempting the same thing again. Price finds Nik on his doorstep two months later, exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes, and John asks him where he was, says he was worried sick about him. Nikolai smiles softly and simply answers "I was making sure you would be safe, John."

There would definitely be a talk about trust and honesty, because both of them would put themselves in danger to protect the other, and that is just not a productive way to go about things. They're from different worlds, and if things had turn out just a little differently, they could have been from different sides. This thought never leave their brains, and every single time they embrace, Nik and John are grateful that life turned out the way it did.

[somerandomcockroach]

OKAY THIS MUST BE BLURR?? I think he was the one showing the road and helping people evacuate?? And I think he just sticks his head out and looks for people who need help to get out and save just like with Swindle

HELP yes this is Blurr. He blabberies a lot. MGRHFJROIFPROdo you bring your millions on a death operations? Please the image of the wealthy runaway kid buying and running his little bar at his fifteens

BLURR LIKES SWEET CONFIRMED PLEASE SPEED RACER FULL ON SUGAR WHEEEEZEEE ....A week ago... they don't even have an access to dates?.. WHEEEEEEEZEEEEE OKAY NUMBERS WOULD HAVE LOOKED FUNNY IF HE ACTUALLY HAD A BDAY TODAY

I TAKE ALL MY WORDS BACK IT'S NOT HIS. HE DRINKS IN SOMEONE'S BAR AHAHSHAGHSAG *breathes in and out* Short Swindle sitting on a long bar chair when his toes can't even reach the floor with his elbow and head on the table in the underground bar that still works while the rumble is above and Blurr staring up. I love it.... HERE IT STARTS. IT WAS THE PROBLEM RIGHT FROM THE 11TH MECHAS. THEY ARE NOT SEEN. JUST BIG ROBOTS. OH. DEBTS. MMMM. LOVE DESPERATION BECAUSE OF BEDTS. Can I joke about debt trauma making Swindle desperate of money? A smiling man came in your life and suggested money. His sensei. Imagine a teen coming across a real pilot. First impressions showing that they can easily die and their mecha's life saving systems suck. And then hearing "I had to do it for the people". Not sure if Blurr could read it as a "leave me be" answer, but it might be a good push for a teen's mind *BEATS THE TABLE* *BEATS THE TABLE MORE AGGRESSIVELY* TRAUMATIZED PEOPLE WHO CAN FINALLY REST FOR A LITTLE BIT IN A RANDOM PLACE WITH RANDOM PEOPLE

VORTEX LAUGHS LIKE HYENA. PLEASE SOMEONE MAKE HIS POSSESSED MECHA LAUGH I WANNA HEAR THE CRACKED MACHINE WHEEEZEEING

GHFDHEGWEHRG I can't decide if Vortex is so yuky that you don't want to strangle him with your own hands or Blast Off is too smart to leave the trace of his hands on his neck HFHGEGFHEGHSG

CAN I. MY BRAIN DECIDED THAT BLURR WAVES HELLO IN A ROUNDED FAST MOVEMENTS This time he brought money but better be safe, come on, make your mood by learning it's free .................Okay I was just laughing at it but I think they are fed like animals in the program and he does shovel good food to share man.... ............man...... I am melting at how their relationship slowly changes over years... Also walking orchestra. Yes. WHEEEEEEEEEEEZEEEEE VORTEX I LOVE YOU IN THE MOST STRANGEST WAYS Was Swindle promoted to the work in lab? Or overall their group was promoted to something that freed them from rough experiments?.. .............I wonder if you have in mind exact bot for the boss position with this smile.... I kind of think of bots with mnemo surgery And Shockwave went through something too..... IMAGINE. IMAGINE EVEN IF CRAZY AND HARD TO HANDLE WARRIOR. DOESN'T COME BACK ON E DAY BECAUSE OF MONSTERS HE USED TO KILL DAILY. Have to take care of every of them... Brawl's safety and their own. Not like with such answer they can get something out of any of them .......okay that's why I usually don't read stuff on pc on tumblr it turns into this disaster...... THEY DID IT. I KNOW IT WAS CUT OFF SHORT BUT THE IMAGE OF THEM ALL VIOLATING. TURNING EVERYTHING UPSIDE DOWN AND MAKING THEIR PLANS TRUE. YESSSS. PROMOTION TO "I'M BUYING". THE DAY HE CAN DO IT. MAN. HE HAS POSSIBLE CANDIDATE HE HAS AND I DON'T EVEN WANT TO TELL HIM TO RUN BECAUSE THIS IS LITERALLY THE ONLY PERSON WHO FITS FOR EVERYTHING AND ACTUALLY WILLING TO HELP OKAY BYYYEE OH GOD HAGSHAG DAMN GOD *THROWS UP HANDS*

Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

------------

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

---------------------------

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

[ghostgirl-22]

OBSESSED with your stupid cockslut art!! Needy little baby too stupid to think about anything other than getting wrecked by his teammates…. The first time it happens…. They’re changing after training and the new kid - some handsome clearly gay guy - is flirting with art, leaning over him, putting his hands on arts chest, on his waist and Patrick’s being his typical jealous about it until he realises arts brain has completely turned off and he’s spacey and giggly and blushing and Patrick is immediately hard and like. Needs to explore this immediately actually. Drags art away and back to their room and arts so different to normal and Patrick just can’t help himself he has to fuck art immediately because as if he’d miss out on the chance to have him like this????

Ah yes…yes… I hear you anon…<3

So like Im taking it as the first time Patrick realizes that Art goes brainless or something like that (idk enjoy lol)

CW: 18+ !NSFW!

—-

It takes a little while for him to notice, if Patrick’s being honest. He’s not really paying attention at first. He’s joking with a couple of his teammates about how predictable one of their regular opponents serve is. They’re all laughing and out of the corner of his eye is when he sees it.

The new kid, Craig Reynolds, is also the only openly gay kid on the team. He’s this tall, handsome, conventionally attractive athlete from a rich family. That’s pretty much why he gets away with it, integrating seamlessly while taking little if any flack from his teammates.

He’s talking to Art, talking up close, the way Patrick might. Barely giving him any personal space. Art’s leaning with his back up against the lockers, half dressed, smiling at him. Letting him touch, letting him grip at his arm, at his waist.

“God, Craig wants to fuck him so bad,” One of Patrick’s buddies mutters when he notices Patrick staring.

“Put him in make up and a dress and I’d wanna fuck him too,” another teammate snorts and they both laugh.

Patrick feels his stomach do a somersault and he’s suddenly burning up with irritation. Of course Craig is into Art, it makes perfect sense. Art is the pretty boy blonde on the team with the perfect ass. What’s bothering him is the way Art is mirroring his attraction.

It’s the way Art’s leaning back, letting himself be played with. Eyes wide, posture submissive. Smiling the way girls do when someone really attractive is giving them attention. When Craig leans in to play with his hair and Art starts wetting his lips is when Patrick decides to interrupt.

He gets first dibs. He gets last dibs. He gets everything in between. “Hey so you wanna go?” He asks Art.

“Patrick, Craig said he can help me with my backhand,” Art says, he’s chewing bubble gum, always has something in his mouth. And Jesus Christ up close it’s even worse. Patrick can see his eyes are dilated and his cheeks are pinkening. If he had longer hair he’d be twirling it for him.

“Oh yeah?” Patrick glares at Craig.

Craig glances at Patrick, eyes filled with amusement before his gaze returns to Art. “I mean, whenever. If you want to come play with me Donaldson, you know where I live.” His eyes fall over Art’s body, his desire so fucking obvious.

“Okay but promise you won’t go easy on me?” Art says, softly. Flirting. It’s so silly and irritating. Patrick’s one step from grabbing him and dragging him away.

“Don’t worry, you’re strong,” Craig rubs Art’s bare chest, “I know you can take it.”

Art’s grinning now, like it’s funny. It’s so not funny.

“Can you go get dressed?” Patrick demands. “I want to get food before the cafeteria closes.”

Art blinks, “Oh yeah… um…” he stumbles forwards running into the bench and he bends over to rub his shin as Craig laughs.

“Careful pretty boy.”

“Shuddup,” Art says, playful. “Um… wait… where’s my bag?”

Patrick narrows his eyes, “where it always is?” He says, incredulous when Art looks around helpless. “Other side of the room. Under the bench,” He points. “Near your locker.”

“Oh yeah,” Art grins.

“I think your roommate likes boys,” Craig’s sing song voice sounds teasingly in Patrick’s ear as they watch Art make his way over to his bag. “But of course you already know that… you’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, turning around to face him. “Did he—”

”He didn’t say anything but it takes one to know one. Everyone talks about you guys like you’re one entity and then of course you show up all jealous,” Craig smirks, bending over his bag on the bench. Patrick rolls his eyes.

Impressively, Art hasn’t even made it five feet without being distracted by another boy.

“This is his right?” Craig hands Patrick a razor phone that definitely belongs to Art.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Fuck.”

“Be careful with that, someone might steal it away from you.” Craig pats his arm. Patrick shrugs him off and follows Art to the other side of the locker room.

He’s no more dressed than he was a minute ago. Instead he’s like a little space cadet, straddling the bench and bouncing his thigh while the guys Patrick was chatting with earlier are teasing him about Craig.

“Do you have any more gum, Donaldson?” One of them asks, sitting across from him while idly rubbing Art’s thigh. It’s their teammate Tyler Fitzgerald, who everyone just calls Fitz. Art smirks and blows a bubble which Fitz pops with his finger.

“Someone gave it to me.” Art says, soft. Pretty little grin on his face as he licks all the gum back into his mouth. Someone’s always giving him something.

“I like how you blow bubbles. You wanna blow something else?” Fitz smirks, still rubbing Art’s thigh. “I don’t think Craigs is bigger than mine.”

Art leans back on his hands, still chewing, skin flushed. “You’re so gross,” he says, but he scoots his body closer and sticks his gum coated tongue out.

“Art,” Patrick sighs. Fitz glances up at him at the same time Art does, pulling his hands away from Art’s thighs and getting to his feet with a not so subtle wink in Art’s direction.

“Patrick I’m— I’m coming,” Art says. He reaches for his bag and then sits up straight patting his pockets. “Wait I can’t find my—my—”

Patrick pulls the silver razor phone out of his own pocket and hands it to Art. ”Oh wow. I- where did you—?”

”Don’t worry about it, come on,” Patrick interrupts. He’s anxious and not for food. He thinks he’s starting to understand what’s happening.

Art is so shy when girls flirt with him, but he’s absolutely ditzy when he’s taking Patrick’s cock. Maybe with Craig flirting and Fitz flirting, maybe just the thought of getting fucked has him in that same drunken silly state. Unable to focus on anything but the idea of getting filled. And suddenly Patrick’s jeans feel so much tighter.

“Come on,” Patrick holds out his hand and Art chews a little longer before he spits the gum out, gazing up at Patrick, lips parted, eyes dilated, pink tongue tracing the surface of his white teeth. Patrick thinks about fucking him right here… taking him in the bathroom stall just to get it out of his system. Everyone probably already fucking knows by now. Art reaches for Patrick’s zipper and Patrick barely stops him, stepping back to go throw the gum away. “Get dressed,” he says.

Craig smirks at him from across the locker room.

Art just barely manages to get his clothes on. Patrick has to help him collect his gear. He’s all over the place. A little bit of boy flirting and he’s a fucking mess. Teasing the whole time, desperate for Patrick’s attention… for his…

He barely gets Art home. They’re kissing in the elevator. Art is dizzy, grabbing at him. Climbing all over Patrick as soon as they get onto the bed. Hes such a fucking cock slut he’s moaning before Patrick even gets inside, he’s moaning just for the promise of it. Falls apart all over it. Doesn’t recover till they’re sweaty and breathless, covered in lube, spit and semen.

And then Art’s back to normal. It’s fascinating. The way he comes back down to earth with little or no recollection of the way he was acting in the locker room. They clean up and go to dinner and it’s Patrick’s turn to fall apart. Tripping over himself to open doors for him, pulling him closer where they sit in the cafeteria. Patrick’s practically on top of him, consuming all his time, his attention, all the food he wants but can’t finish. Art’s not even eating his dessert, just licking the icing off. Patrick’s asking him what he remembers still trying to understand this particular tick.

Art denies flirting, says he was just talking to Craig, says he would never cheat and or let another boy fuck him. “I mean, unless…” he shrugs licking the frosting off his spoon. “Unless you wanted me too.” He bites down on the spoon and gazes at Patrick.

Patrick stares back at him, he can’t help but to smirk. “Yeah, okay.” He says but his mind is screaming because whatever the fuck this is… he knows he wants it. It’s only a matter of time before Art gets hit on by another boy and Patrick decides he’ll just have to be there so he can do more research.

[dreamsofbroflovski]

yo…hear me out..

what the main four or others (as long as kyles in it..) are like for new years celebrations!

happy 2025 yall. let’s cook.

oh look its kyle bufflobster on that gif. my personal enemy.

Happy 2025!!! Hope everyone's having a great time already! As for me, I managed to drink cider that's been expired since 2021. It's going swell.

My first request for headcanons! I don't even know if I did these right, but I really did rack my brain. I also added some words about how they'd be with the reader because why not.

MAIN FOUR HEADCANONS - NEW YEAR'S CELEBRATIONS

𓆩♡𓆪 STAN MARSH

First thing that needs to be said: this man is pissed off days in advance over fireworks - if he has any pets, he has to make absolutely sure they’re safe and secure before anything else. He’s that guy who’s very vocal about how bad they are for animals (doesn’t really mention their effects on people), has probably tried to get them banned completely at some point.

Now that that’s out of the way. I think he’s the type to stay holed up in his home, order takeout and treat it as just another evening. 

With the exception that he’ll have an excuse to drink a whole lot of cheap champagne without anyone being up his ass about it.

Avoids his family altogether, mostly due to his father wanting to go absolutely wild on the holiday, he needs to be far away from all that.

He’s not opposed to attending a party and being around his friends, but will not actively seek that out.

And if he’s partying, he’s gonna go blackout drunk and probably miss the actual turn of the year - only to try and drunkenly state his well wishes (or personal grievances) to everyone half an hour later when the whole thing has pretty much died down.

Thumbs up reacts to everyone’s texts on the afternoon of Jan 1st; no real response.

No resolutions at all. There’s no point - at the end of the day, the new year is just a continuation of everything that has been going on in his life. If he has to achieve anything, he’ll do so of his own accord, making a promise is just putting unnecessary weight on his own shoulders.

If he’s with you, however… He can be a little better and put more effort into it, because he sees how excited you are and doesn’t wanna burst your bubble.

Will do whatever you wanna do, but has a high preference for it just being the two of you somewhere isolated, with some food and music and the aforementioned champagne (which he drinks a lot less of if you’re present)

Will pull you into a kiss right as the fireworks start and try to keep you distracted for the duration, both because he wants to be as close to you as possible in that moment and also so that he can ignore the things entirely.

Will tell you all about how he loves you and how you’re the best thing that’s happened to him. Even if he sounds drunk, you know he means all of it entirely.

𓆩♡𓆪 KYLE BROFLOVSKI

He’s probably nothing special on NYE. Probably also stays at home, but not isolated.

Jewish New Year isn’t on Dec 31st, but I still think his parents do a little something, like some nice dinner or a reunion with extended family members or friends.

If he finds himself at some party, he’s pretty well-behaved even there. I don’t see him raising hell - however, if anyone stresses him out, he’ll fight like it’s any other old day.

Is the one fucker who brought the expensive champagne that no one can recognize the name of - which got the same treatment as the other cheap ones from the supermarket.

I do unfortunately see him in the position of designated driver. Someone has to make sure his dumbass friends don’t kill themselves on the road. That doesn’t mean he’s ever happy about it, though.

Watches people partake in superstitions, but doesn’t do any of them himself.

Sends ‘Happy New Year’ texts to almost everyone he knows as soon as midnight rolls over.

Makes resolutions and sticks to them - writes them, pins them to the wall, the whole nine yards. Morning of Jan 1st he’s already making detailed plans about how he’s going to achieve everything he said he would that year (whether those plans actually succeed is a whole different animal)

If he’s with you… He absolutely tries to make it a special night, despite it meaning little to him in a superstitious sense.

He’s also in the position where your plans are his plans, he’ll follow you. However, if you do accept to spend NYE with his family and him the whole time, it sends his heart soaring because he knows that you’re choosing him above all the other stuff you could be doing, and he’ll make sure you have a great time even if his family is… difficult.

Brings you into a soft and tender kiss as the new year rolls over, holding you close as you both share a toast of champagne and sort of ignore the first fireworks in favor of being with each other.

At the top of his resolution list is the mission to make your year the best it can possibly be, and to love you through all of it. He hasn’t really written that down on his list, though - because it’s on his mind 24/7 anyway.

𓆩♡𓆪 ERIC CARTMAN

Leaves his mother alone - he’s at a party somewhere, for sure. Even if he was invited to none, he’ll sneak his way in. Since no one really has it in them to argue with him on NYE, he gets to stay.

Which shouldn’t even be a bad thing, because he actually brings the heat; he shows up with several beverages and food every time. The part of it that sucks is the fact that everything he brings is for his consumption, so he’s still an expense to the host.

He can, however, legitimately be trusted with the aux. Actual decent taste when it comes to party music.

That one guy making jokes about how he ‘hasn’t showered since last year’ or shit. Except he says them at 10pm still on Dec 31st and no one’s sure if he’s just stupid or if it’s really true.

Wears party accessories ironically; possibly brought them.

Buys whole boxes of fireworks. He’ll try to find some poor soul to do the work of lighting them up for him, but normally can’t, so he does it himself and probably needs to be taken to the hospital from the burns or sets fire to something else entirely.

Makes posts and stories on social media wishing a half-assed Happy New Year to ‘everyone’ - when in reality he got maybe like, two texts at most. (Butters and his mom, most likely)

Strangely superstitious? People will see him go through all the possible traditions that anyone said would bring him good fortune. If anyone asks him about it, he’ll deny deny deny - actually, he’s wearing full white ‘because it’s drip’ and eating those grapes under the table ‘because he doesn’t want to share them’, it’s definitely not that he fears for his own luck if he doesn’t do so.

Since he is a little ‘stitious, that does mean he makes resolutions. And they’re usually grandiose, full of bullshit, and don’t really signify any relevant positive change for his life - it’s mostly just material and physical gratification. Needless to say, they’ve never come to fruition.

If he’s with you, barely anything changes, really.

Talks to you about his plans for the evening as if they’re a done deal. Basically drags you to whatever it is he wants to do. (You might even be the reason he’s able to get into a party to begin with)

Doesn’t kiss you straight away because he’s busy with his fireworks, but if he manages to not hurt himself, you get a heavy makeout session afterwards.

He talks mad shit about how you’re lucky to have him and how you should thank him for spending this time with you, but in reality, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Immensely grateful for your presence in his life and willing to do anything to keep it that way. However, you won’t hear a single word about it.

𓆩♡𓆪 KENNY MCCORMICK

Out of his house by sundown - the addicts around him don’t really need a special occasion for doing their shit and stirring trouble, but it still seems to worsen on the holidays, so he wants to avoid that.

The protection Stan feels towards animals, he feels towards his siblings. Before he goes do anything else, he has to make sure they’re accounted for, with their friends somewhere safe where they can enjoy the night.

When that’s dealt with, it’s party time. He does get invited to stuff, and tries his best to not show up empty-handed, even if it’s just a bottle of cheap alcohol. He might still fail in that regard, though, but it’s okay, we still love him.

Wears all the ridiculous party accessories unironically.

Has died, more than once, due to firework-related accidents. Still enjoys watching them, albeit from a very safe distance now.

Watches the ball drop livestream on the television with great interest, even if just because it’s in HD this time. Celebrates heavily when it finally happens.

His ‘Happy New Year’ texts come in the afternoon, because he’s always too wasted in the morning to tell anyone anything. People might receive a drunken nonsensical jumble of letters at midnight, though.

Says surface-level words about a resolution or two, but it’s mostly really simple stuff. Also doesn’t really hold any of that to heart, because he knows of his own bad luck.

Doing the absolute most for a new year’s kiss (or several), practically on his knees begging for it.

However, if he’s with you… You’re getting way more than a kiss. It doesn’t even matter where y’all are, he’s starting the year by doing his favorite thing with his favorite person.

He kinda drags you into his plans, but it’s not in a selfish way like Cartman does. He just wants to make sure the both of you have a great time.

If you turn out to invite him personally to spend time with your family or just yourself, words cannot describe how happy he’s gonna be. It’ll basically make his whole year. He’ll ditch any party for that.

Partying all night with his baby, watching the fireworks, making love and not having to worry about anything else? Count this dude in.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[ssoulttofu]

Do y’all ever worry that you might be infantilizing yourself? People all ways talk about the way neurodivergent people get infantilized by others and it brings up a deep seated fear I have that I might be doing it to myself. Whenever i engage in my interests, I get worried I am babying myself. Like my mom gave me a gift card for Christmas and I bought a tea pot and a monster high doll. For some reason I felt great shame getting the doll I wanted and felt icky while at checkout? Can a neurodivergent person really even baby themselves not on purpose or this shame I feel indulging in my interests (which have been deemed childish in nature) just one of my insecurities that I haven’t recognized yet?

Anyway, the conversation happening about people infantilizing and greatly miss interpreting Amir’s character got me thinking. I have totally seen people casting Amir as a uWu smol boi and it kinda bothers me but at the same time I feel it’s just people misinterpreting his character based on base knowledge you learn about him and his hyper personality. Once you actually get to know him there is alot more to him than that. I kinda wanna see more interpretations in fics and art of that side of his character. Also if you ship Quincy and Amir you can suck my dick.

The only Amir and Quincy fics I can find is of people shipping them together which drives me fucking crazy. Like? They are basically brothers, Amir and Quincy both have voice lines and talk about being brothers. Ship who you want, I am not gonna tell y’all what to do, but like can we get some good brother fics or something? Ik that’s a lot to ask but like plz I am begging someone to write a found family Hex fic where Amir and Quincy aren’t fucking.

Anyway, this post is not coherent and I apologize for that. I am just rambling and needed to get this out to someone. The miss characterization of the Hex is something that has been racking at my brain and I wanna see more discussion around it. It’s not crazy important or anything but I love having conversations like that and would love to hear y’all’s opinions.

[gotham-adrenaline]

The Importance of Abnormalities

Author note: Really pushing my autism/alexithymia on Tim this time but I cannot be contained- not beta read to even heavily proofread cause it is past 1am...

Pairing: Tim Drake x Kon-El/Conner Kent

Word Count: 1300

Warnings: nothing really though Tim thinks a lot about feeling "different" than the rest of the world (very hinting towards autism)

Look, Tim wasn’t stupid. It would be impossible by now to be unaware of his own… eccentricities.

Not many people stalked and then blackmailed their way into a family of vigilantes to essentially babysit a grown man running around every night in a bat costume. He was completely aware he was a bit outside the norm.

But most days it was easy to forget that everyone around him didn’t function like he did. Life was busy, he was busy, and his family wasn’t exactly known for self-analysis and being introspective of their feelings.

Today was not most days.

It started firmly in “most days” territory, with a nap before breakfast and Damian accusing him of trying to “lure Titus into a life of debauchery” when Tim attempted to slip the dog some bacon on his way down the cave. He had only just opened up a file when, immediately, as if it had sensed Tim trying to be productive, his phone began to ring.

Kon calling to ask for a bit of help with a stealth mission was not an everyday occurrence, but Tim pushing down the swell of warmth in his chest absolutely was a regularity (Kon called him, Kon could have contacted so many people but he chose Tim to help, trusts Tim even after everything Tim’s done-), so Tim could ignore the disruption to his routine and suit up so Kon could come get him.

The mission went well, really well actually, which could be considered odd with their track record but by the time Tim and Kon had finished, he was tired enough to disregard that and let Kon fly to the nearest safe house for them to crash in for the night.

The safe house only having one bed was somewhat standard too, and yet that’s where everything seemed to get weird.

Kon showered first and was already curled up in the bed by the time Tim slipped out of the bathroom, hair wet enough it would be a nightmare to fix tomorrow if he went to sleep now… but that was a future Tim problem. Present Tim was busy very pointedly not looking at how adorable Kon looked buried under the covers (he always bundles himself up even though he can’t get cold, just his eyes and hair peeking out and it makes Tim's chest a bit too tight). So he grabs himself a blanket and gets ready to curl up in an armchair to sleep for at least 10 hours when Kon, voice soft in a way to Tim can only describe as “safe”, breaks Tim’s worldview like it’s nothing.

“Hurry up and get in bed, it’s cold.”

And that is not how this usually goes.

Stranger yet is that Kon doesn’t get cold, and Kon knows that Tim knows that, which means that Kon is concerned about Tim getting cold, wants Tim curled up in bed with him and oh god his heart is racing, there is no way Kon hasn’t noticed-

Kon shuffled a bit around behind him and Tim turned before he could stop himself, taking in the sight of the clone sitting up partially and blinking at Tim like he’s the one being strange here when once he’s being completely normal.

“Tim,” Kon has this little smile like Tim is the one being cute and maybe a little ridiculous when he most definitely was not- “Come on, seriously, I’m tired.”

And when Tim didn’t move, Kon’s smile slipped away, and no no that was not allowed-

“I- if you’re okay with that, obviously. Don’t wanna freak you out.”

And oh, it was way too late for that, but Kon looked nervous and Tim could fix that. He was sliding under the blankets before his brain realized his body moved.

Kon settled back down onto the bed and stared at him in a way that made Tim wonder if he’d learned mind reading recently, or worse if Tim’s thoughts were written all over his face, if his heart rate gave away how much he wanted to curl up as close to Kon as he could and not move until he was physically forced away-

And maybe somehow Kon had known (or maybe Kon wanted it as bad as Tim had) because he reached out slowly, giving Tim enough time to move away before pulling Tim into his chest and that was all the permission Tim needed.

Pushing his face into the curve of Kon’s neck, Tim went completely slack in Kon’s arms. The clone gently rubbed his hand on Tim’s back, and god Tim’s muscles must’ve disintegrated or something, Tim is a detective so he should really look into that- and yet Batman could walk into this room right now with an assault rifle and stripper boots and he probably wouldn’t even twitch.

“All good?” Kon is using that safe voice again, which sounds even nicer up close, his chest rumbling under Tim’s hands.

And Tim knows he’s different, okay? He knows, because he spends most of his days neutral to most of life and apathetic at worst. Sometimes he just can’t connect to things in the way everyone else seems to so simply, can’t summon the emotions the world wields as easily as breathing. He has to monitor his face to make sure he doesn’t ruin a new Wayne Enterprises contract or scare a victim on a crime scene.

He feels emotions, he’s still human, but it’s hard enough to know what he’s feeling and even harder to make sure everyone else can identify the emotion correctly when his facial expressions don’t ever seem to display them naturally.

But this? This is easy. Loving Kon was so natural to him that it sometimes hurt.

There hadn’t been any second-guessing in years, not since he first identified the feeling pushing at his rib cage in a desperate bid to get out, and that love had only grown, a hungry creature that Kon often unknowingly fed.

People always make love seem so gentle and Tim could relate to that too, sometimes. When it feels like laying in the sun in the backyard of the manor or taking a warm shower after a good workout.

But so often, Tim’s love was just so… forceful.

He had nearly destroyed himself in his attempts to satisfy his parents, stalked Batman and Robin for years and threw away what was left of his childhood to save his city and Batman himself (because he was too late to save Robin and he knew he could have done more-), put himself into harm's way time and time again for his friends, searched the whole globe and manipulated the League of Assaains to find Bruce-

And he’d never want to make Kon uncomfortable, to scare him, but sometimes he felt as if he’d crack the whole planet open if Kon truly needed him to. Would take the very air out of his lungs if Kon needed the oxygen.

When Tim loved, he loved hard.

Tim knew he wasn’t normal. He just couldn’t find himself to care if it meant loving Kon like this.

And since Kon asked and now that he’s thinking about it, he was all good right now. Tim sighed into Kon’s neck sleepily.

“Yeah.”

Kon’s arm around his back tightened. It felt like a shield from the rest of the world and he let out a breath that felt far too controlled, something that Tim would read more into if he had any brain space left for anything other than being warm and safe and happy and-

“Good.”

And that was the last thing Tim heard before drifting off to sleep.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Greetings, Father! I just wanted to come by to say I've been reading some of your fics again and 🤌 as always, I am blown away by how good it is. Genuinely, reading them always refresh my mind in some ways (?) cuz it's interesting and the dynamic and flow you do is just so vast and yet so very you.

I do have a question and you're free to answer this ask privately or dm or not, I don't mind xD I am curious on your thought process whenever you write smutty fics, what are the things you fuss over? or what are some things you do to keep the vibes going. For me personally, I don't write a lot of spicy stuff but when I do it's hard for me to really capture the raw need and intimacy a lot of the time (not to mention I have this issue where I like writing the buildup and tension than the actual intercourse part LMAO)

Have a good day/night ahead! o7 I've got a few things I wanna draw from your posts so stay tune too hehe :3

Your tags are always amazing; I wake up and read them over my morning coffee and eggs. So good when other fans of the same skrunkly arseholes love your work about said skrunkly arseholes.

Also, your writing is bloody brilliant. Like, the thing you wrote for Nekro? Blew my brain out. It was gorgeous.

As for the smut...

I use personal experience and what I focus on. I find human bodies very fuckin' sexy, even the bits that other people might think are gross (or they might be embarrassed by). The bits they get coy/shy about me touching, the most intimate parts of them. Yeah those are what I want and they're going in my mouth. Admiring all their unique bits, their freckles, the pattern of their hair, the scars and the stretch marks, their curves and bumps. Arousal, for me, should be represented as similar to hunger; instinctual. Because that's how it processes for me.

If you like the build up, then focusing on the sweet relief of it, the dirty talk - "finally got what you need, baby? does that feel good?" - and how that intimacy of being inside someone (or having them inside you), feeling their heartbeat, listening to their little moans, feeling them tense up involuntarily and wiggle cause it feels so good, watching their bodies give or flex into your hands.

I say "you" here. I can't write x reader, but... ya get the idea.

Write one character like they're starving and tucking into a buffet, I guess?

I have varying levels of "hunger" on the dial. I don't tend to get as visceral in longer works because of the "flow" of the narrative. Like, 15k of narrative and then a sudden 7k of one character gobbing on another's dick would be funny and jarring, but, eh.

[lewmagoo]

this was everything to me! as soon as i saw it was going to be friends to lovers, naturally i was hooked. and of course, you did not disappoint! i love reading your fics and picking out certain highlights that stood out to me, because you always hit me with the most breathtaking lines that i have to just set my phone down and stare at the wall for a few minutes because you’re such a creative genius. said highlights are below the cut.

"'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."

okay the little protective things you always incorporate with rhett have my heart ready to burst. it’s always so endearing!

"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."

he’s so fucking cute. stop it right now

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. 

rhett abbott tasting like mint christmas chocolates feels so fitting. and of course you hit me with that poetic “maybe cowboys just take like that” like. get outta here with that (but don’t…please keep going)

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

SHUT UP!! he’s so stupid i love him so much

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. 

the giggling! i just love the moments of tenderness and humor you incorporate throughout your sex scenes. it always makes them feel realistic.

"'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.

this part got me good, holy fuck 😵‍💫 big dick rhett agenda is alive and well

this was such a fun read. i’m a sucker for friends to lovers, and love confessions, and this scratched that itch for me. your writing is so special to me, i love your big beautiful brain and all the things it conjures up! especially about this beloved cowboy. you understand him better than anyone!

thank you so much for joining in on this celebration. sending you all the love, and i hope you have a wonderful new year!

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. 

[spaciebabie]

at first getting diagnosed with cptsd was like, "yay my trauma has been validated (it always was valid)!" and i really thought that was going to be it, but then i started to do research as i do whenever i realize i have something and learned that!! the way i experience socialization is!! quite horrid actually!!

[sulky-cabbage]

The sukugo fight can't get animated any sooner I'm craving sukugo tiktok edits

[shadyvoidhologram]

I was laying in bed overthinking, as you do, and started to go on a depressive doom spiral. And then, to distract myself I started thinking about the things I like.

[Spoilers and some gross details incoming, you know what Mouthwashing is about]

So, eventually I started thinking about Curly being in a similar headspace as I was, laying down, incapable of doing anything, constantly in pain and hearing time and time again how quickly things are going to shit and that it's all your fault.

Him replaying his mistakes over and over on his head, imagining the many ways things could've gone a different way if only he had done something instead of ignoring the issues to "keep the peace".

Remembering every interaction that led to the accident, Anya's confession, his friends poorly disguised resentment, him ignoring and filtering details of his crew's mental state, her taking the gun, the notice, Jimmy.

Him being a coward and disguising his hate of confrontation with the guise of being a good friend.

And then comming back to reality, to is burning flesh. To the blood, shit and bile staining the bandages, robe and bed, to watching and hearing his friends suffer and die, unable to do anything.

When the kid dies, in the midst of all the emotional chaos, he feels some sick sense of relief knowing that probably Swansea will deal with both of them quickly and it'll be over at last.

Then Jimmy finds the gun.

And he can't help but laugh. He remembers the conversation they had and he cackles bitterly because not even in death can her wishes be respected. She trusted him and he failed her even after she was gone.

Soon enough it's just the two of them left.

Through muffled ears he hears Jimmy rambling, talking to himself, asking questions and answering right after, he sees him moving the bodies around. When Jimmy carries him from the infirmary to the common room table he's still as stone, not a sound leaves his mouth, he doesn't look at the bodies thrown on the chairs around the table, he doesn't even breathe.

But all of Jimmy's attention, hatred, idolatry, and envy are on him only. Eyes glossy, cut pieces of a one sided conversation and a tentative smile on his lips when he reaches for the slightly dented knife.

He screams until his lungs close and his throat burns. When he's fed parts of himself he cries and throws up until he is forced to swallow and keep it down.

He's dehidrated, half delirious from the blood loss and emotionally checked out when Jimmy picks him up and tells him they can still fix this, he knows what to do. That he's going home.

Sure, he thinks, he wants to go home.

When he's placed on the cryopod he just stares at Jimmy talk to himself at him some more, about being heroes and everything being all right now. Then he steps out of sight.

It's on the silence after the loud bang when his brain starts working again, he's completely and utterly alone on a crashed ship of a company that's closing it's doors, with a now depleted shipment that wasn't even important enough to guarantee a search party, and no way of fending for himself in the case of 20 years passing and no one coming, even less if the power gave out before that.

As the cryopod finally starts to cool, the few tears he has left fall from his remaining eye.

He hopes he doesn't wake up to see what happens next.

..ok see y'all when I wake up-

[theswedishpajas]

The man truly can’t take a genuine compliment 🙄

[shorlinesorrows]

qpr jean and neil. that's all i'm gonna say.

do you see my vision?