#really getting this one in under the wire

[em1i2a3]

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

��You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,�� You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

[requiemofthewinds]

SENSITIVE | BOOTHILL , ANAXA , SUNDAY X M!READER

⊹ 𓂃 1.0k words : top.dom!reader + bot.sub!character

thank you all for 100 followers! it truly means a lot to me, i didn’t really think this little project to get back into writing was gonna go anywhere. but here we are i guess, fucking fictional characters because we can. i also apologize in advance, this isn't my best writing as i'm still getting out of the flow of school, and i'm still not the best at smut... anyways enjoy making hot men moaning in writing, and we'll be back to tooth rotting fluff soon enough <3

on today's roster we have:

- boothill wireplay

- anaxa’s chest hole thingy

- sunday’s wings

BOOTHILL | WIRES

Boothill doesn’t let anyone touch his wires. But maybe you’re the exception. He doesn’t keep any of them physically visible, but he occasionally has to let you open the port on his lower back for maintenance. He always gets really squirrelly whenever you’re poking around in there– and you thought it was because he was worried you;d mess something up, but he always says he trusts you with everything. So why…?

aAAh–mmmgh–! D-darlin’, don’t touch that.

Oh. That’s why. 

That’s a place you’ve never touched, apparently. But you like how he reacted. Really like it. It wouldn’t hurt if you just… did it again? You reach back into the port, the small grooves of your fingertips brushing against the wires again. 

What, like this? 

Fuck, fuck-! Ah! 

His whole body lurches forward, trying to get away from your touch, the sensations overwhelming his circuit board. You grab a bunch of the wires and pull back, forcing him back towards you. In hindsight, it wasn’t safe in the slightest to pull at his wires like that, but that’s a problem for you in the future. His mechanical limbs creak to a stop before flying back towards you, and your arm snakes around the front of his waist, holding him in place. You hold one wire in your hand, and fidget with it, your fingers brushing up and down the insulation.

What’s wrong, cowboy? Something wrong?

Plea––mhf, hnngh- s-sensitive-!

Hm. You seem like you’re enjoying it though, no? You look so pretty like this.

His whole body goes lax at the praise, and his head drops back onto your shoulder as his eyes roll back into his head, his mouth hung open in a silent scream as you tug at the wire again.

Maybe he won’t dread maintenance day anymore.

ANAXA | VOID 

You’ve always been fascinated with your professor. Honestly, there’s a lot of parts to it, but there’s one thing that always keeps you distracted during class, keeps you up at night, hands working tirelessly under the covers. That void.

That damn fucking void.

You have no clue as to what it is, but all you know is you want to touch it. That’s probably not how you should be thinking about your professor, but it is. Anaxagoras does things to you that will (hopefully) never leave the confines of your mind, but he has a way of just knowing. He always knows. 

Excuse me, sir. But class is over, which usually entails that the students are not still here. 

Oh. Uh, shit. Sorry, professor. Just… lost in thought. 

Hm. Credit for your thoughts?

No sir.

Pardon?

It’s… not really appropriate.

As is any growing pupil’s mind.

Ah. Um, what is it? Your… um…

You stare directly at the void, almost hypnotized by its seemingly never-ending expanse inside of his chest. And what scares you is that you can swear that it stares back. What does it feel like? Is it soft? Liquidy? Would it suck you in? Spit you out? Fuck, is he getting closer? Your hand hovers over the opening, but what surprises you is that he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t grab your wrist, doesn’t push your hand away, doesn’t even say anything. So, you reach. Your pointer finger dips into the abyss, and your gaze juts towards him as he braces himself on the edge of your desk. His head droops like a willow, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate. His breathing grows more rigid, and out of all but ecstasy, he does grab your wrist. Except, he pushes it deeper. It’s wet. Soft, pliable, shifts around and rearranges the stars around your fingers. You curl your finger, and he all but moans, his head dropping back into the air.

Oh, Aeons. Ahhh, sshit. S-sensitive.

And thus, your curiosity has been fulfilled. Although, there’s so much more you could put in there…

SUNDAY | FEATHERS

Nngh– dove, please–!

Please what, birdie?

You slide in and out of him, his folds sucking you into him as you rearrange his insides. 

Please, please, I n-need more. Dove, p-please. 

His wings tremble around him, the feathers quivering around his face, trying to hide his eyes. You pull his wings away, gentle but firm. He whimpers and tilts his head back as his back arches up for his stomach to meet yours. He surrenders, bending and tucking them back behind his ears. You rarely ever touch his wings, but you’re the only one he lets even brush against them. They’re sensitive normally, but when he’s in heat, oh fuck does he go wild when you touch them. 

Don’t hide, birdie. Let me see you. 

Please, ‘s so much, please touch them more.

Your wish is my command.

As he asked, your hands make contact with as much of his feathers as you possibly can, and his body lights up like wildfire. He cries out, and his whole body screams with him as he squirts around you. His wings quiver around his body, and it’s like a jolt of delight shoots up his spine, sending his body up towards you. He practically jumps into your arms, and his legs; already wrapped around your waist, constricts around your body like a vice. Your arms wrap around his back, and you slowly rub his back. 

Breathe birdie, breathe. ‘M right here. Take a rest.

Y-you didn’t cum though…

It doesn’t matter. I’m happy you felt good. 

I love you, dove.

I love you too, birdie.

© | all works are property of 「 REQUIEMOFTHEWINDS 」 𝄃 𝄂 𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄂𝄂 𝄃  2025 𓂃 written by sen : do not steal, translate, repost, or plagiarize my work on any platform. all works belong to me.

[sideprince]

I would love to hear your opinions about the sexist tropes that are so present in the hp movies (like what they did to Hermione and Molly in making them these “harpy” like women vs how they appear in the books)!

WELL OK IF YOU INSIST

From the outset there's a weak foundation to female representation in the HP films, because the books already have a narrow and prescriptive definition of acceptable ways to enact womanhood. It's important to put this into context, though, and remember that it was considered progressive at the time the books were written, especially in Britain (and that British feminism has its own philosophies that don't necessarily align with North American feminism).

There's a very "not like other girls" approach Rowling (boo, hiss) has to girls Harry's age who the reader is meant to like. Hermione and Ginny prioritize friendships with boys, aren't sentimental or interested in looks, and are contrasted with other girls their age like Lavender and Parvati whose main interests are boys and gossip. Harry ultimately chooses Ginny as a girlfriend and then wife, who's lauded for not crying even in an emotionally fraught moment:

She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brothers must have toughened her up.

-Deathly Hallows, ch. 7

Rowling draws a deliberate parallel to Ginny being tough as a result of masculine influence, framing it as a positive trait. The only other girl Harry is involved with romantically is Cho, whose constant show of emotion and tears are presented as irrational and burdensome, despite the fact her previous boyfriend was murdered and her entire community is in denial about how and why, politicizing her trauma - but no one likes a weepy girl, according to Rowling! Cho is just there for Ginny to look better in comparison to and Harry to learn the lesson of substance over looks, so there's no need to care about her! In short, the girls who emulate traits enforced by toxic masculinity such as suppressing emotion and being attractive without trying (because trying is vanity and women must be naturally beautiful through... magic, I guess?) are the ones who merit the narrative's respect. These girls are also brave and bold - nevermind that Lavender Brown also fought in the battle of Hogwarts, which means she was just as brave, because she failed in enacting womanhood correctly and was thus expendable and killed.

The adult women in the series can easily be divided into two categories: maternal and thus worthy of salvation, and non-maternal and thus doomed. Molly Weasley is the consummate mother, a full-time housewife despite her family struggling to make ends meet, which can be interpreted as a statement of values the author is imparting in which motherhood is more important than working even when your family could really use the second income (although I also think that the author's primary motive is romanticizing poverty, but that's for another post, this one is long enough). Lily Potter's main character trait is that she died for her son - very little is known about her in canon and what can be inferred is pretty subjective. While Harry spends a good deal of the series learning about his father from a number of people who knew him in his youth, those same people have little or nothing to tell him about his mother (and while this is likely because the author was saving information on Lily for the big reveal at the end, there's no reason she couldn't have been explored more from the Marauders' perspective or even her post-Hogwarts years to give a better sense of her character). The story is peppered with women sacrificing for their children - Molly faces Bellatrix, Tonks has a child just before she dies in battle, etc. ("Gotta get that motherhood under the wire for her before she gets killed off, or it won't be heroic!" - JKR, probably.) Even Narcissa Malfoy is redeemed at the end of the series, because her main motivation in the few moments she's present is to protect her child.

In contrast, Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge are villains and childless (as is Aunt Marge, but she's a fleeting antagonist and not a full fledged villain). Umbridge's ultimate fate is left up in the air and unknown, but we do see her get dragged off by a herd of centaurs at the end of OoTP so there's a comeuppance there. If there weren't such a clear line between mothers and childless women in the series she would be less noticeably unmaternal, but given her penchant for favoritism and indulgence of students who obey her, the character trait that she hates children feels kind of cartoonish. If she'd had a child of her own who was either a grown adult at the ministry or better yet, a student at Hogwarts who was the head of the Inquisitorial Squad, it could have lent the story some additional complexity, but it's not for me to rewrite the books, I'm just trying to illustrate that these women could have easily been as villainous while also being maternal - that division is the author's deliberate choice.

Bellatrix, who goes against Narcissa and throws Draco, her nephew, into harm's way eventually gets her comeuppance and is killed in battle with a hefty dose of symbolism by Molly Weasley, the matriarch of the series, whose last words to her are "not my daughter, you bitch." The last word Bellatrix hears before she dies is "bitch" but I'll get into that later. JK Rowling (professional bigot)'s choice of language here is very telling - for all her talk of feminism, the values imparted in canon are of venerating motherhood as the ultimate form of womanhood, with a big helping of Thatcherite British feminism ie. that the goal of feminism isn't equality, but of taking patriarchal power (often through emulating traditionally masculine behaviors as we see Hermione and Ginny do). Ie. this kind of feminism is focused on seizing the power structure, but not changing it, and instead wielding it in the same ways as before but with women at the helm instead of men (brought to you by the same culture that took global colonisation to new heights, so not a lot of surprises there). Not one of the women who have a significant role in the narrative have a job, let alone a career, except Tonks, and the implication is that she gives up being an auror when she gets married. Even Fleur, who was top enough at school to be chosen as a TriWizard champion, settles into domestic life as soon as she gets married, moving to England for her husband and leaving her family behind. There's a problematic dichotomy in the narrative's expectation of women to emulate masculine traits in order to be respectable but also putting them on a pedestal for becoming mothers and domestic laborers.

In short, the feminism of the Harry Potter series is very set in its Thatcherite/post-Thatcher 90s British "girl power!" ways. It was a bold and powerful statement at the time the books were written that Hermione, a central female character, was the smartest against two male characters, spoke her mind, and fought for social justice. For all the necessary critiques, it's worth noting that a lot of girls found feminism through Hermione and for many years she was a symbol of female empowerment. It's definitely worth noting and appreciating, while also keeping in mind that Rowling nevertheless chose to have a male protagonist and tell a story in which most prominent characters are male and the power structure is unquestioningly dominated by men.

With this as a starting point, Kloves had nowhere to go but up in his representation of these characters on screen, and yet.

*Heavy sigh*

And yet.

Kloves manages to take Rowling's problematic but reasonable-for-its-period feminist representation and strip it of the respect and love it has for its characters in order to instead project the kind of misogyny that launched the second wave of feminism in the U.S. in the 1960s. The women of HP become such two dimensional stereotypes in his interpretation that it extends to the characters around them: Mrs. Weasley becomes a caricature of a dumpy, pestering mother to the point that Arthur Weasley has to shed his role as self-posessed patriarch and instead is a mild-mannered, submissive husband afraid of his wife. Hermione becomes such a two-dimensional shrill harpy that Ron's role as an equal who matches her in spirit, feist, and whose challenges to her character keep them both balanced is nowhere to be seen as Kloves turns him into a quippy sidekick who mumbles antagonistic comebacks under his breath for fear of getting into trouble. In boiling down these female characters to stereotypes, the whole narrative and supporting cast along with it are compromised and made less interesting.

Hermione

The most glaring example of Kloves' sexism is, of course, how he writes Hermione. At first, in Philosopher's Stone, there's a reasonable consistency between the Hermione of the book and the film, but that makes sense, since the book was short enough that the film could be an almost scene by scene representation and very little was changed. Hermione is introduced as very clever, but also pretentious and condescending. Once Harry and Ron become friends with her, the pretentiousness becomes endearing, and the condescension is directed at others, not them, so she becomes likeable to the reader. She also has great heart, however:

‘Harry - you’re a great wizard, you know.’ ‘I’m not as good as you,’ said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. ‘Me!’ said Hermione. ‘Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and - oh Harry - be careful!’

-Philosopher's Stone, Ch. 16

As the books go on and the trio get older, Hermione becomes more and more bold, adamantly defending the defenseless. In CoS she brews an illegal polyjuice potion to get info that could save Muggleborns; in PoA she slaps Malfoy in defense of Hagrid and Buckbeak; in GoF she starts S.P.E.W. etc. Although she often serves to convey the perspective of the author, she's a fully fleshed out character with values, convictions, and a clear emotional world. If she helps with story exposition, it's a result of her curiosity and insistence on researching relevant subjects - she moves the plot forward as a result of her choices and interactions the same as Harry or Ron. She rarely, if ever, just knows the answer to a question, and instead (and more realistically) remembers bits and pieces of information which lead her to ask questions relevant to her and the trio's needs and curiosity, or she does the work of researching an answer because she knows what question to ask. This critical approach is somewhat inconsistent with how she acts in a classroom setting, where she's eager to please teachers and mostly just regurgitates memorized information (which Snape notably sneers at in HBP). It's nevertheless impressive, however, that she's able to recall information from texts verbatim after only one reading, implying she's not only clever, but has a photographic memory. In short, she's an exceptional and impressive girl.

In contrast, the Hermione of the films starts out similar to the one in the books - she says the line about friendship and bravery with warmth - but by the third film she becomes a nagging harpy whose lines are more often to give exposition than to be actual dialogue. When she does have dialogue beyond exposition, it usually entrenches her personality as combative and overbearing. In the film of PoA, when Ron is telling Harry about his trip to Egypt, Hermione interrupts him to insist that the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats, defending Crookshanks while Ron dismisses her comment. Then Fred and George turn up and Hermione gets up and walks out of shot... except there's no reason for her to. She gets along with the twins and staying would give her an opportunity to show her lighter side, whereas leaving puts a physical distance between Hermione and the fun the twins represent. Instead, she goes to sit next to Ginny, who faces away from her.

PoA is also the film where Hermione starts pointedly calling Ron "Ronald" which is a small detail but diverges significantly from the books. It's unnecessarily formal and tends to make her sound like a disapproving mother calling their child by their full name when they're in trouble. Hermione's and Ron's relationship starts to be represented very differently from the books overall - this is the film where notoriously Ron says, "he's right, you know" in response to Snape calling her an insufferable know-it-all, whereas in the book he defends her and gets detention for it. Kloves takes this one facet of Hermione's character - that she reads ahead and prepares for lessons, resulting in having knowledge most other students don't yet - and makes it her entire personality. She not only offers exposition in class (like when she replies to Lupin and tells the class what a boggart is), she offers it when necessary for the plot (telling the others "everywhere else is full" on the train despite Harry walking ahead of her and them all having gotten on at the same time, telling Hagrid he has to take Draco to the hospital wing when he's injured etc.) or even for other characters' development (drink every time Hermione tells someone she knows what they're thinking or feeling throughout the rest of the films). There are several scenes where Ron and Harry talk to each other and have a good rapport, but Hermione's only lines are either to give exposition or chastise Ron needlessly.

While it's a key plot point of PoA that Hermione has a time turner, the only foreshadowing to this is a running joke that Ron is surprised when she turns up out of nowhere in classes. None of the foreshadowing involves any information about Hermione's character, despite it being relevant to the plot. We don't see her stressing over her course load or her teachers addressing it in any way, or her exhaustion or stress etc. She has just as much free time as Ron and Harry and is as well rested as they are. We're literally given no information whatsoever on why she needs a time turner to get to her lessons when no other student uses one. As for the character arc between Hermione and Ron when they think Crookshanks ate Scabbers (another key plot point), it's reduced to a single short scene in which she dismisses Ron's claim and blames him for losing his pet. There's no tension between the two of them, because Hermione dismisses the conflict like an actor at an improv show who's never heard the words "yes, and." This also means there's no opportunity for character development through resolution - we don't get a scene where Hagrid tells Ron to cut her slack or that she's been helping him with his case to defend Buckbeak. Hermione is given no redeeming qualities, she's just a harpy who doesn't care about her best friend's concerns (whereas book!Hermione is defensive but also clearly hurt and stressed - a lot of her moments of frustration are informed by her workload and exhaustion, and yet she still does more for Hagrid and Buckbeak than Ron or Harry).

Hermione as a harpy nag intensifies in GoF. She shows up when Ron and Harry have to wake up to travel to the Quidditch World Cup - she first wakes Harry, who asks when she arrived, to which she replies "just now" even though by the time they all set off it's barely dawn. She then wakes Ron by telling him to wake up in a voice dripping with irritation, and then saying, "honestly, get dressed" to both boys as if she were their mother telling them to do so for the tenth time, adding in that Ron's mum says breakfast is ready. The entire scene is unecessary, frankly, but if it had to be done as it was (Hermione waking the boys instead of Mrs. Weasley, as in the books), then she could have at least been wearing pajamas and been there for a few days already. I'd say, why not just have the boys wake up to an alarm clock but god forbid women do anything, I guess?

Kloves treats Hermione as a plot device more than a character, and it's telling of his attitude towards her that she arrived only just to wake the boys because that's her only purpose. She doesn't act like a friend - if Kloves saw her as equal to the boys, he would have written her walking in groggily in pajamas and waking them to say the line about breakfast being ready, or something similar. It would have conveyed a sense of friendship and the shared experience of having to wake up early as a teenager. But Hermione isn't portrayed as a peer, she's a disciplinarian and critic, much in the same way men who have mommy issues view women. Tellingly, she's harsher With Ron than with Harry, as if Kloves' idea of romantic tension were stuck in preschool - Ron and Hermione's relationship hinges on what is, essentially, the verbal equivalent of pulling pigtails and throwing dirt on the playground.

For Kloves, Hermione's main purpose is to be the voice of exposition. She's the one to tell Harry what the Dark Mark is at the quidditch world cup, which she also does in the book, except there's a crucial difference. Book!Hermione does it to protect Harry (emphases mine):

‘MORSMORDRE!’ And something vast, green and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Harry’s eyes had been struggling to penetrate: it flew up over the treetops and into the sky. ‘What the -?’ gasped Ron, as he sprang to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared. For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realised that it was a colossal skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Harry didn’t understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood, like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn’t see anyone. ‘Who’s there?’ he called again. ‘Harry, come on, move!’ Hermione had seized the back of his jacket, and was tugging him backwards. ‘What’s the matter?’ Harry said, startled to see her face so white and terrified. ‘It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!’ Hermione moaned, pulling him as hard as she could. ‘You-Know-Who’s sign!’ ‘Voldemort’s -?’ ‘Harry, come on!’

-Goblet of Fire

Although Hermione gives exposition, it isn't her character's sole purpose - she's with Harry because the trio have stuck together, and the purpose of her explanation of the Dark Mark is to convey the urgency and danger of the situation in order to get Harry to safety, which she also tries to do by physically urging him to move, as well as verbally.

In the film, Harry gets separated from Ron and Hermione, falls down and loses consciousness because... honestly, who even knows? He's found by Ron and Hermione just after the Dark Mark is conjured, their voices unknowingly deterring an approaching Barty Crouch. They stare at the Dark Mark but don't act, as though they're actors waiting for their cue, which they are (I blame the editing and lack of coverage, not the actors, though) - The Ministry wizards appear, and Hermione's explanation of the Dark Mark is reduced to exposition, though at this point any of the Ministry wizards could say it and it would make no difference, except that they would likely sound less condescending and scolding than her. In a subtle move, it's Harry who pulls Ron and Hermione down and puts his arms over them for protection when the Ministry wizards fire stunning spells, instead of the other way around as in the book. This kind of slight change isn't significant because it deviates from the text, that in itself isn't necessarily problematic - it changes the dynamic between characters, and does so unnecessarily, which affects their motivations and characters arcs, especially when it happens repeatedly.

It's not just Hermione whose relationships get reduced to perfunctory lines and blatant plot devices. After the whole ordeal with the Dark Mark, the book!trio return to their tent with the rest of the Weasleys, and the conversation in which Mr. Weasley and Bill explain what Death Eaters are to Harry is one which also makes him and Hermione feel like part of the family. They all process the recent scare together as a unit, and there's a comfort in doing so that is important to Harry's relationship with everyone else in the scene, and his handling of events to come. In the morning when they arrive back home at the Burrow, Molly is beside herself with worry, showing the side of her mothering self that is full of love and warm embraces, not just nagging and scolding. In the film, Harry does what Kloves usually has Hermione do, and blurts out the exposition with no real justification - Mr. Weasley's role is merely to name the masked people as Death Eaters (tangent because it bothers me: the DEs in the film don't target muggles, they just wreak senseless chaos on their fellow wizards, and not with visually compelling spells because we wouldn't want to overpay the special effects team, but with... fire. They just set everything on fire. It's so reductive and misses the point so completely).

Hermione, however, is the only character who gets reduced to the voice of exposition like this regularly. Unlike Mr. Weasley, she's a central character and often crucial to the plot. She has complex relationships with most of the other central characters, and when she does serve as the voice of exposition, it's in the context of her character and justified by her actions and interactions. Well, in the books, that is. To keep using the Dark Mark scene to illustrate, in the book it's Hermione who tells the Ministry officials that they heard a voice conjur it and points to where it came from. Hermione's passion for elf liberation is also sparked in this scene, after seeing how Crouch Sr. treats Winky. In the film, it's Harry who hears the voice and tells the Ministry officials (who all run off, conveniently exiting the scene), and Hermione's S.P.E.W. crusade isn't part of the story at all. At. All. The thing which she feels most impassioned about, and that frames her moral compass is completely dropped, as is pretty much every other aspect of her character except her nagging, exposition, and her date with Krum, which is really mostly just her telling Ron off.

This post is already long enough but to hell with it, let's also unpack Hermione at the Yule Ball for a quick moment. She descends the stairs looking radiant, but despite the already existing setup of romantic tension between her and Ron, he's not around to witness this moment and admire her. Although we know Ron's anger in this scene is rooted in jealousy, Rupert Grint isn't really given a moment in which to betray his true feelings, and the scene is written with a focus on setting Ron and Hermione up to bicker, which they do. Excessively. While book!Hermione is angry at Ron for being rude to her and her date, she still enjoys her night with Krum (who looks nothing like his burly, athletic film counterpart). Movie!Hermione, on the other hand, scolds Ron who in turn tells her condescendingly that he doubts she can take care of herself. Hermione tells him outright that he should have asked her out before it was a last resort (book!Hermione would never, she's far too upper middle class British), and says that he's "spoiled everything," sends the boys off to bed as if she were their mother (what IS it with Kloves???), and ends her night crying in a heap on the stairs outside the Great Hall. Behind her, a couple of girls console a third girl who is also crying. Because girls, right? All they do is cry over boys, what are ya gonna do? Where book!Hermione's personality is one which is strong and deliberately shows her being a "not like other girls" girl who doesn't cry and doesn't let a boy spoil her evening, Kloves' version of Hermione in the films is one who comes completely undone by Ron's disapproval, crying publicly as if the sight of a sad girl in a pretty dress was the epitome of romance - which for Kloves (and Mike Newell, the director), it seems to be.

This Hermione is miles away from her book counterpart, who's perspective is that when the boy you like doesn't like you back, find someone else to date (advice she not only lives by, but also gives Ginny) and have a good time despite them. Kloves centers her joy and sense of self on whether or not a boy likes her, or rather, the right boy. It says more about Kloves' perspective on Hermione as a person (or shadow of one, as it were) that despite her date to the Yule Ball being a world famous athlete and TriWizard champion, she still ends up crying alone in public, almost as if he wants to punish her for not liking who she's supposed to (there's a hint of "she'll regret turning me down for a date" fantasizing in there somewhere). Add to that the source of her sadness: Ron, whose own character is reduced from the endearing, ride or die friend in the books to a sassy sidekick with pithy one-liners who not only never defends Hermione even if it earns him a punishment, but says things like, "he's got a point, you know" when Snape calls her an insufferable know-it-all in PoA. There's a startling reductiveness but also an immaturity to how Kloves frames Ron and Hermione's tension-underscored-friendship by putting Hermione in the role of mothering harpy and having her cry over Ron while her book counterpart is having a ball with Krum. It's as though Kloves is punishing her for daring to have a romantic interest outside of the one she's already expressed (and the plot has deemed for her) - mother Hermione can't enjoy a night with Krum because it betrays Ron, who she's obligated to look after, and she must pay the price in tears and disappointment.

(Also, because this is how I get my kicks, I timed how much screen time is eaten up with Hermione sending Harry and Ron off to bed, Hagrid playing grab-ass with Madame Maxime, and the crows flying around Hogwarts until we get back to the plot with Harry's nightmare, and it's 1min3sec. If you cut down a bit of the Ron/Hermione bickering along with all the other fluff I just mentioned, you could easily fit in the scene where Harry overhears Snape and Karkaroff - you know, actual narrative and character development - especially if you cut the bits from the beginning and the end of that deleted scene, ie. Harry watching couples hook up and Moody also overhearing the conversation. So that's what got sacrificed for this nonsense. It's also telling that, based on that deleted scene, Kloves didn't think it was relevant to include Ron because again, he's just a quippy sidekick and not important to Harry's actual character development.)

Throughout the rest of the film, and the rest of the films, Hermione's primary role is to be the voice of exposition. She tells Harry what he needs to think about to prep for the nex task, but when Cedric shows up, she walks away because she's no longer needed. What's really telling, though, is the way in which she often shows herself to be the voice of exposition: the constant refrain of "I know what you're thinking" and "I know how you're feeling." Not only does Kloves struggle to allow characters to experience even a modicum of emotional development, he often prevents them from this by having someone else feed them their thoughts and feeling - and that someone is almost always Hermione.

She's not only portrayed as a mothering harpy, but also as conveniently omnipotent when it serves the story. The Hermione of the books is intelligent, both intellectually and emotionally. For example, in PoA at the height of the conflict in the Shrieking Shack, it's Hermione who tries to de-escalate the situation and reason with Snape, a moment conspicuously absent from the film. In the films she's not given enough character development for her insights to be contextualized in the narrative, however, and instead they're justified by her pared down character traits of being an overbearing, bossy know-it-all who's emotional because that's just what girls are, apparently. (She's also given one of the most useless, idiotic lines in the entire series at the end of GoF, which is "everything's going to change now, isn't it?" which I could write a whole post about. Harry's response of, "...yes." is just jaw dropping, honestly. Kloves, my dude, when your protagonist has nothing useful to say, the problem is the line he's replying to).

More relevantly, though, Hermione's constant giving of emotional exposition ("I know what you're feeling, Harry") echoes all too strongly the misogynistic idea that it's a woman's job to provide emotional labor. There's also something telling in the way this dialogue tends to happen. For example, in HBP when Hermione notes Harry's interest in Ginny: she says, "I know. I see the way you look at her." Kloves can't let her get through this moment, when she seeks comfort from a friend, without framing it in the context of emotional omnipotence and subsequent emotional labor which is taken for granted. Hermione often fades into the background, spending entire scenes with just one or no lines of dialogue, because when she does speak it's for the sake of blatantly moving the plot along with exposition, to do emotional labor, or to be an overbearing mother hen to Ron and Harry. Her role in the films is reduced to the most basic, outdated, misogynistic stereotypes of womanhood.

Molly Weasley

Speaking of overbearing mother hens, Molly Weasley is done dirty in the films. For the most part, she fades into the background. In CoS she doesn't just tell the boys and Arthur off for bewitching the Ford Anglia to fly, we see Arthur positively shrivel around her. In the books he's a strong father figure, the man of the house, but his character is compromised in order to amplify Molly as an angry-nagging-wife-with-a-rolling-pin 1950s stereotype. Where in PoA the book!Molly and Arthur argue about whether to tell Harry about Black, Molly displaying her maternal protectiveness over him, the film centers only Arthur and leaves Molly out completely. She's cut out of this scene at the cost of compelling interpersonal drama and character development for both her and Arthur, and in the process Kloves also makes her opinions and worries irrelevant. In the same amount of time it takes Arrthur to tell Harry about Black, the scene from the book could easily have been done.

Instead Molly's main purpose, a few moments later, is to make sure Ron doesn't lose Scabbers - the goal of which is to highlight Scabbers, as he'll be relevant to the story later, because Molly is just the overbearing mother who reminds her children of things they forget and is a conduit for foreshadowing. Book!Molly is maternal in every sense of the word: she takes care of the family and the household, but she's also fiercely protective and treats Harry like a son. She shows up with Bill to cheer him on in the TriWizard final, knowing the Dursleys wouldn't show up. In OoTP when Sirius says to her that Harry isn't her son, Molly shoots back "he's as good as!" Well before the Order figure out that the Dursleys are abusing Harry, Molly hosts him every summer, never expecting his family to return the favor. She's the one who makes him feel like part of the family. Movie!Molly, on the other hand, is maternal only in the way a 1950s mother-in-law joke sees a woman as maternal: she nags, reprimands, and is only around to do those two things, excepting the end of DH when she kills Bellatrix.

That moment, in both the book and the film, is fraught. Before killing Bellatrix, Molly says the iconic line, "not my daughter, you bitch." I could go into how in the film we don't see Ginny fighting Bellatrix at all, or see Bellatrix taunt Molly by asking, “What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?... When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?” as she does in the book. That the film doesn't show Molly pushing Harry and several others students out of the way to protect them as she insists Bellatrix is her, and only her, opponent. But what I actually want to talk about is the use of the word "bitch," which was Rowling's original choice of dialogue that Kloves kept in the script.

Throughout the seven books we see numerous references to foul language - Ron cursing, Snape cursing in the pensieve, as well as several other characters - but whatever words they're using aren't ever mentioned, only alluded to. In the entire series, the only character we ever see use an inappropriate curse word is Molly Weasley when she calls Bellatrix a bitch before engaging her in battle and killing her. Rowling's choice to use this specific term undermines a lot of her claimed feminism. It's clear her feminism is about taking power, not working for equality, and doesn't seem to be intersectional. Her choice to put this word into Molly Weasley's mouth, directed at a villainous (and childless) female character belies the sense we get from her approach to the other prominent female characters that some women don't pass muster and that political and social values are a privilege, not a right, extended only to those she deems deserving. The use of the term "bitch" from one woman to another undermines the sense of female empowerment in this scene where two powerful women representing light and dark magic go head to head. "Much like the anti-suffrage movement, the term “bitch” was and is about containing women, says Karrin Vasby Anderson, a communications studies professor at Colorado State University." Although the word was reclaimed in the 70s, its use has remained varied to this day, and when used as an insult is derogatory in a way that specifically targets women, relying on the bias that woman are inferior.

The second DH film retains Molly's dialogue (one of the rare times a line from the book is directly transferred to a film) but not much else. We see her duel with Bellatrix and kill her, but the transition from fierce mama bear protecting children to ruthless fighter in battle is so quick that you barely see her protecting Ginny - in fact, all you see is Ginny blocking a spell from Bellatrix, a cut to Helena Bonham-Carter's reaction shot, and then cut back to see Julie Walters as Molly Weasley stepping into Ginny's place as Ginny stands behind her alongside Arthur and George. The blocking is passive and it's uncharacteristic of Molly's family to be standing and watching in the midst of battle instead of fighting, let alone doing so as Molly is up against a witch like Bellatrix:

Molly is stepping up to fight Bellatrix, but she's not doing it protectively - it's more of a polite changing of places. There are no other children she's herding out of the way, and the clumsiness of the whole thing along with the lack of other actions takes away from Molly's air of protectiveness and becomes, instead, an act of aggression against Bellatrix. What is a defensive action in the book is portrayed as an offensive one in the film. In short, everything about how this moment is constructed feels out of character for Molly and as if the writer and director (and perhaps producers) just wanted to capture this one iconic line where the resident matriarch gets to call another woman a bitch. The most generous interpretation of this might be that they thought it was fun to watch mommy swear, but I'm not feeling very generous this far into the series. If there had been investment in Molly as a character in the narrative up until this point, the few extra seconds of screen time would be worth it to show her spotting that there are children fighting Bellatrix, Bellatrix taunting her about her son's death, and Molly rushing to put herself between children and harm, instead of clambering up clumsily when Ginny politely offers her space. If you look closely, Julie Walters has her back to Ginny as the latter is blocking the killing curse, and it's the spell that makes her turn around - why would she have her back to her daughter who's facing Bellatrix of all people? Arthur is just as casual, and Molly is facing him before turning around, so there isn't even a reasonable excuse that she was fighting someone else - Molly, Arthur, and George are just standing around while everyone around them is fighting (again, like actors waiting for their cue, which they are - a fault with the directing and editing).

Some of this is the general passivity with which these films were made - the blocking, the dialogue, the camera angles are all very polite and demure in ways that aren't commensurate with an action fantasy story. But because Molly has spent every film being little more than a nagging harpy, this moment isn't just clumsy, it's fully out of character. Molly's satisfied smile at the end cements her as the winner in a catfight, not a devoted mother forced to do battle and take a life to protect her children. There's no understanding of maternal instinct, protectiveness, or love in this moment - it's written, directed, and produced by men and through their eyes we see a two dimensional female character gleefully taking down another female character. Where book!Molly has a moment of fully realized maternal devotion and willingness to sacrifice herself against a dangerous and worthy enemy, movie!Molly is merely a sexist manifestation of the kind of pitting women against women that serves to further entrench patriarchal norms. This isn't just a fun moment where we get to watch mommy say a swear word; Molly isn't using the word "bitch" because her maternal ferocity is at its peak (and I still take issue with Rowling's choice to use the word at all), but instead her use of the word "bitch" is what this whole moment is constructed around. It's what's really at the center of the scene, not Molly the character herself. This is the only moment Molly gets in the whole film - later, when she's mourning her son's death, we see it only from afar and through Harry's eyes. She's served her purpose and can fade into the background again.

Ginny

The films don't really know what to do with Ginny. In the books she has a strong, "not like other girls" thing going on - a trait venerated by Rowling's Thatcherite feminism for bearing all the traits of having grown up with only brothers, not being emotional, and excelling at sports. There's nothing wrong with any of these traits, and they are, in fact, feminine! Because a lot of girls have varied interests and a range of emotional expression, and are still very much girls. What Rowling does is emphasize Ginny's traits as both admirable the result of masculine influence. She also, along with Hermione, sets her apart as unique and likeable by comparing them to other more traditionally feminine girls around them (Lavender, Parvati, Pansy, etc.). Nevertheless, book!Ginny is clever, skilled at hexes, fierce on the Quidditch pitch, and once she gets over her childhood awe of Harry is capable of challenging him in ways no one else can. She's confident, if her attitude toward dating is any indication, and is the only sibling Fred and George are unwilling to cross.

Movie!Ginny is passive and gets little opportunity to be anything. While the 2 seconds of screentime it would have taken to show her impressing Slughorn with a bat bogey hex is nowhere to be seen, she does show up late to one of his dinners - so late, in fact, she walks in during dessert. And she's crying. Ginny Weasley, who is described thus in HBP at Dumbledore's funeral while even Ron still has tears dripping from the end of his nose (emphases mine):

She did not cry, she simply looked at him. ‘Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He’s already used you as bait once, and that was just because you’re my best friend’s sister. Think how much danger you’ll be in if we keep this up. He’ll know, he’ll find out. He’ll try and get to me through you.’ ‘What if I don’t care?’ said Ginny fiercely.

-Half-Blood Prince, Ch. 30

This is the character Steve Kloves has crying over a boy and, even more uncharacteristically, being so late to a prestigious Slug Club meeting (that notoriously helps people network and have careers) she misses most of it. As if boys were the most important thing to her. Up until HBP movie!Ginny hasn't been around much. Despite being a constant presence in the books (hanging out during summers, being friends with Hermione, being active in the DA), in the films she's in the background, with little to say or do other than look jealously at Harry when Hermione mentions Cho's interest in him. But now, in HBP, Kloves has no choice - Ginny is going to be Harry's love interest, so he has to include her in the script as a more significant character. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to understand the difference between "significant" and "has dialogue." Ginny has lines, sure, and she's in more scenes, but she's passive, coy, and does little more than exist as an object of interest to Harry.

It's hard not to look at Kloves' writing choices around this without an uncomfortable sense that you've learned something about this man you didn't want to know. Book!Ginny is in a relationship with Dean Thomas, and when Harry and Ron stumble onto them making out, it's Harry who feels jealous. Again and again Harry struggles with his increasing interest in Ginny, who's none the wiser until Harry grabs her in an emotionally laden moment and kisses her. Harry goes through an emotional process, learning to appreciate her in new ways while Ginny is living her life. In stark contrast to this, Movie!Ginny is the one to do all the work (when Hermione isn't talking about Harry's feelings for him, that is). She feeds him a mince pie (and you can almost see both actors cringing), then another scene later bends down to tie his shoe (while he's fully dressed and she's in a bathrobe??? I have so many questions and actually you know what, I don't want to know the answers). Kloves chooses to show Harry's interest in Ginny by making Ginny do the work, not him, and uses acts of unnecessary servile caretaking to do so.

There's just too much to unpack here. Kloves literally can't bring himself to make Harry lift a finger, and not only manages to transfer Harry's affection into Ginny's actions entirely, taking the onus off him and putting it onto her, his understanding of romantic love seems to be female subservience. This moment is then interrupted by Death Eaters inexplicably attacking the Burrow and burning it down - a moment that is not only completely absent in canon and unnecessary to the narrative, but given Kloves' consistent avoidance of emotional tension feels very much like an inability to resolve the clumsy and backwards way he chose to show tension between Harry and Ginny culminating in literally just setting the whole scene on fire and running away.

When Harry and Ginny finally do kiss, it's Ginny who does the heavy lifting again. She goes to the room of requirement with Harry to hide the Prince's potions book, because Harry has to get rid of it after using Sectumsempra and almost killing Malfoy (for which he gets no punishment or even a talking to) - a choice I'm sure Kloves had a good reason for but his notes burnt up in the Burrow fire apparently so that explanation is nowhere to be found I guess. Ginny is inexplicably coy and flirtatious, similar to this section in the books:

Excerpt not found

-Book and chapter not found

"I can hide up here too, if you want" is the dialogue equivalent of Ginny slowly shoving a mince pie into an awkward Harry's mouth: unsettling, uncalled for, and makes their relationship uncomfortable to watch instead of endearing. None of this is helped by the fact that Daniel Radcliffe and Bonnie Wright were cast in their roles years earlier as young children and not, as is often done with a romantic pairing, screen tested together to see their chemistry, and it turned out they didn't really have any. Which is then compounded by the production's incessant and insistent avoidance of emotional tension and the script failing completely to build up their relationship in an effort to compensate for not having done so in previous films.

After this, there's no change in how the two of them relate to each other. We don't see them spending time together or even exchanging warm (or, god forbid, flirtatious) looks. There's no gentle hand taking Harry's to pull him away from the sight of Dumbledore's body below the tower because we barely get a glimpse of Ginny walking over to him and even her torso is barely in the shot as he embraces her; it's Hermione who's face the camera shows with a tear streaming down it (but in the director David Yates' defense, it's Hermione's job to tell Harry what his feelings are, Kloves told us so, so there isn't much left for Ginny to do). At the end of the film, Harry doesn't break things off with Ginny as he faces the mountainous task of searching for Horcruxes after Voldermort's death.

At the start of the next film, the two of them share another passionless, chaste kiss (after Ginny flirtatiously asks Harry to zip up her dress because... *gestures at Kloves* *laughs uncomfortably*), and again, there's just too much to unpack in a single moment here. Kloves flips the script of the book again - where in HBP Harry's passionate kiss became Ginny's coy chaste peck, now Ginny's passionate goodbye to Harry becomes a coy excuse for Harry to kiss her. The heavy lifting is not only always in the opposite hand, but it's not supposed to be heavy lifting in the first place, but an expression of affection. There's no mention of a goodbye at all, just two kids kissing like confused twelve year olds at their first sleep away camp who spun the bottle on each other one too many times. All the fierceness, understanding, and love that book!Ginny shows is completely absent - she exists only to be an object of interest to Harry, which he forgets the second he has something more important to do (and that basically describes everything). When they reunite before the battle in the room of requirement, they stare at each other so passively the air between them might as well be a dense fog. No one tries to keep Ginny back when the battle begins, no protective parent or Harry, so she doesn't get to prove her stubborn bravery and thirst for fighting, she's just part of the action and becomes part of the background.

In conclusion: a sigh of relief for all as this post finally ends (jk no one's reading anymore)

While Rowling projects a quintessentially British, Thatcherite kind of feminism onto her narrative, Kloves brings a more American but distinctly male sense of misogyny to it instead. For all the problems there are to unpack in Rowling's feminism - and British feminism in general, including a lack of intersectionality and a focus on taking power instead of treating everyone equally and with respect, it at least aims to empower women. Although her priorities are clear and she makes moral distinctions between women who are maternal and those who aren't, her major female characters are well-rounded, strong, empowered, powerful, and have numerous admirable qualities. These same characters lose most of these traits in Kloves' scripts. They become flat, supporting characters who are there to serve the protagonist's story, and sometimes very literally the protagonist himself. He goes out of his way to disempower them and make supporting characters instead of central ones in the case of Hermione, reduces them to outdated stereotypes in the case of Molly Weasley, and a genuinely uncomfortable kind of male fantasy in the case of Ginny. As a result, other characters are also compromised, because they have only a flat counterpart to play off of, and you can't write interesting interactions without interesting characters. Whether he does this deliberately or as a result of ingrained biases that color his interpretation of the books, I'm not sure, but I also don't think he's worth the amount of thought it would take to consider his motivations; the outcome is the same.

[chrissiewatts]

@rwrbsource & @rwrbmovie's rwrb appreciation month bingo: underrated moment

[autumnlassitude]

I was inspired by @imagineitdearies fic Perfect Slaughter to draw Astarion and Tyrus stealing a quiet moment together. Poor Tyrus was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long.

[vargaslovinghours]

Say it like you mean it

[wyrmoftheweb]

Prefacing that this was intended to be a silly idea, and not necessarily a likely one

The first option is definitely plausible and I feel like this is most likely what ends up happening the majority of times, whether or not they try to chase. Obviously, in 99.9999 percent of cases, a bronze firelizard is going to be left in the dust within less than a second of the queen taking off since wingpower is what's being tested there, (since bronzes don't tend to "cheat" by going between during flights, otherwise it would be a "teleports in front of you" contest) so it makes sense for them to collectively stop trying, if they can- but they may not be able to, or may be instinctually wired not to want to stop, rather.

How obligated a bronze is to chase when a gold rises, and to chase that gold, and how that crosses over to firelizards vs dragons, is an interesting question in general, especially when it comes to a species that is so similar. It's possible that they wouldn't be affected at all. But it feels like Kitti Ping would have also modified them to not effect humans that theyre not directly in contact with with their flight instincts if she was going to do it for firelizards. Maybe firelizards simply aren't attracted to dragons, as well.

I feel like, from a firelizard perspective, though, dragons seem like a giant firelizard. Big and scary, but also possibly hot because of how big and scary they are. After all, "big" and "scary" are two very good traits for a gold to have.

From a dragon's perspective, it genuinely seems like most dragons don't care about them much or are kind of annoyed by them by default (with Ruth being an outlier) but I also don't think any of them would hurt one on purpose, possibly just for the reason that they would start playing it over and over in the hivemind like that one incident in The White Dragon and it could get annoying.

I personally don't think the gold in question would notice, or care. Too busy, especially when she'll leave them by the ground almost instantaneously.

The hypothetical "bronze firelizard thinks he's the parent of the latest clutch on the sands" deal is more like a Walnut the Crane scenario, where that crane thought she was in a relationship with her human caretaker, except for instead of being for conservation, it's just that it's not really possible to convince him otherwise. The dragons all know he is not the father here, and it's not even under consideration that the gold dragon has any type of feelings for him, but it's easier to just ignore him flitting about proudly than it is to try and convince a firelizard of anything.

...do you think bronze firelizards also get the urge to chase when a gold rises? if their hormones are the same i can see a firelizard queen being too small and simply not having the surface area to put out a strong enough signal to cause a bronze dragon to try and chase her but surely a gold dragon would absolutely overwhelm a bronze firelizard.

do you think there's a small cloud of them that reluctantly fall out of the sky at some point after the gold gets far enough away that they're not getting anything at this point

[thegreatyin]

as revenge for all of the various atrocities veils has inflicted on the scoundrel (physical and psychological) she's decided to enact the ultimate form of revenge: walking around in broad neathlight with the worst fashion sense possible. i'm talking the WORST fabric quality in existence. i'm talking colors that clash so bad she's inventing 90s radical fashion like a century before the 90s even happen. i'm talking shoulderpads that can't even shoulderpad right. the vake annihilates her before she even makes it out the door

[the-narwhals-awaken]

Bloody Hearts Bingo Day 11

Prompt: Don't Tell, Whump | You do the talking, sew up my mouth if I can't keep it closed.

Despite the quiet chill of the lab, Uryuu was actually fairly comfortable. Ordinarily, he would have been as tense as he could have been- he was bound to the lab table, wrists and ankles and an extra harness around his shoulders to make sure he was holding still for Urahara, shirt gone- but over the past few months, the wariness he felt around Urahara had steadily faded until he was only wary during spars, when it would have been suicidally stupid not to be.

It certianly helped that Urahara was helping- the seal on his powers was thick and layered, but Urahara was good at his work and was slowly, steadily, peeling it open. Already, Uryuu could call little motes of reishi to himself again- gone were the perpetual chills and the steady anxiety of feeling fragile because he hadn't realized how much he kept himself reinforced with reishi, gone was the eerie way he felt like the whole world was under a layer of cotton wool because he wasn't picking up on all the spiritual currents he usually did. It was far from the way it felt to be running hot, reishi flowing into him and through him like he fit perfectly in the world around him, but it was far better than it had been and Uryuu could be patient.

Part of why he was as comfortable as he was was that Urahara offered him choices. Real ones, too, not just the false choices Ryuuken offered that were 'obey' or 'be punished'. It was the reason he was conscious- the choice had been offered, and Uryuu had wanted to know what was going on and get some answers out of Urahara.

"It's interesting," Urahara said, not bothering to look up from his work, "the differences in power, and the similarities. My personal projects in the Twelfth were mostly based around poking at the barriers between the kinds of spiritual power and seeing just how far those barriers could be pushed. 'Shinigami' is a political distinction more than a spiritual one, after all- otherwise Kurosaki-kun could never be a 'Substitute'. 'Quincy' is more of a spiritual distinction, but even that's notoriously malleable- considering the variety of techniques you've shown the ability to learn, I'd suspect that there was once more variation that has since been mostly smoothed out, lingering more in preferences and acquired skillsets than in biology."

Uryuu nodded, thinking back to the times Kaa-san was still alive. "That sounds familiar," he offered, "Kaa-san sometimes mentioned that she was the best of her siblings at household charms, and while Ryuuken had more power than her the one time they shot against each other they were at the same accuracy." It had been one of the only times he'd seen his father utilize the Quincy powers he knew he held- Uryuu was fairly certain that whatever had killed his mother had also stripped his father of power, considering the responses he'd gotten every time after he'd asked for help. Even with the pain attached to most of those memories, it was one of his most precious, and Uryuu treasured the hint of warmth that lingered in it.

Urahara nodded. "Exactly. Your lack of power allows for some flexibility here- I can introduce small amounts of Hollow power to help build up your tolerances without needing to worry about you killing yourself with- well, the equivalent in normal biology would be an allergic reaction. And the Hollow power wears away at the seal, meaning that you get a little more power avaliable each time."

He hummed in response, flicking his gaze up to the ceiling panels- the dirtiest part of the lab by far, stained by smoke and fumes and lingering damp. Some of the panels were beginning to crumble in their frames, and Uryuu paused to count flecks and settle the quiet spike of grief that had risen at the memory. "Is there anything specific you wanted me to work towards? I know I can't do much here, but-"

"Do much? Ishida-kun, you've blitzed through three-quarters of the Onmi's precision training course in three days." Urahara cut him off, glancing up from where three instruments Uryuu couldn't name were settled in the in-between space between vision and sensation. "That kind of skill should be worked on as much as possible- regardless of any prior grudges, Soi Fon would commit quite a lot of crimes to get you in her ranks, and there would be not a soul who would say otherwise. Unohana-taichou would also poach you the second you showed a single hint of interest in medical casting- the primary determining factor in separating medics from surgeons, on the kaido path at least, is the amount of precision they can bring to bear on any individual casting."

Uryuu blinked. "What training course? All you gave me were a handful of puzzle boxes- none of them were that hard."

"Exactly! Those boxes mimic the most common types of precision threading needed- mostly lock picking, but a few mirror some common diagnostics or disarming wards or kido traps. And you got through five in under twenty minutes. Three-quarters of the Onmi- and I mean the actual agents, not the recruits that practially tear each other to pieces to get into the proper ranks- would happily throw three missions to get that kind of control, and you have it while experiencing the spiritual equivalent of hypothermia."

Uryuu tilted his head as far to the side as it would go. "Why do you want soldiers? You don't seem interested in war, and if you just wanted political upheaval- you're a better assassin than any of us could be."

The non sequitor seemed to stun Urahara, stilling his hands for a single instant. Uryuu let him think for a moment, then clarified. "Or survivalists- but soldiers seemed more appropriate. None of us are too opposed- Inoue's not fond of direct violence, but you have her refining her shields and healing, so she's not going to be front-line. I just want to know why."

The silence was still tense, though slightly lighter, and Uryuu ran through lines of reasoning. Urahara had been more than willing to explain things while in the lab, though less so the further away from his domain they got. He'd also demonstrated a tendency to knock flies out of the air with various hard things- ranging from jelly beans to fruit pits to ball bearings. Some of those flies had metal bits in them when they'd cleaned up the mess.

"You don't have to worry about me spilling the beans," he finally offered, glancing through his lashes at Urahara, suddenly too shy to look at him while making the offer, "you'd sew up my lips if you thought I couldn't keep your secrets."

Urahara stiffened, but it was a different kind of tension this time. "How did you know about her skills?"

"What her?" Uryuu was confused. The conversation was going all over the place. "You just feel like needles sometimes- it's hardly uncommon, it just means that some part of you does well with threadwork- honestly, it feels more like a loom just as often."

"I think we're going to need another examination of what your base perception sits at," Urahara said, pulling one of the instruments free and twisting another almost ninety degrees, "because that kind of sensing is far beyond typical."

"Oh, that's just a family thing- you know, the same way some families are good with fire and some families have big reserves, the Ishida line has good sensing. Kaa-san passed on resilience- she said it used to be a kind of joke, but until her siblings left they had the largest living Quincy family in the world." Uryuu would have shrugged if his shoulders were free. Bloodlines had a little merit, but not as much as people seemed to think- it was something to be aware of, something to consider if you were going to be close, but it was hardly as dramatic as some of the records he'd read had made them out to be.

Urahara snorted and removed another instrument. "We're going to need to have a full conversation about what's normal, Ishida-kun, and it's going to be very confusing for all of you."

He paused, twisting the last remaining instrument completely out of the visual spectrum, and Uryuu hastily averted his gaze before a headache started pulsing at his temples. "And to answer your question- there are more things that will need handling after Aizen. Once we're further along in dealing with him, ask me again." His voice was heavier, and Uryuu chose not to ask anything more. He knew how grief weighed on people, and he had his answers. The rest could wait.

[delightful-69]

i just fucking hate this neighborhood

[illustrationsbychristina]

OC_TOBER2022: DAY 20: BRITISH

I’m gonna be honest: had no idea what to do for this one! I don’t have any British OCs! But I do have two who’d enjoy a high tea and all the tiny snacks. On the right is my precious daughter Ashley and on the left is her Aunt Carrie :)

[catrinkets]

birds will always find a way to poop on my car it’s actually funny

[galedekarios]

[source]

i had not seen the "durge/astarion is canon!" post until earlier today with that discord screenshot and honestly ... a writer being like "i managed to shove in all this extra content for astarion/dark urge, but then we simply ran out of time for the other characters" is not good, actually. that doesn't mean your ship is the most canon. it means that astarion kept getting extra attention and other companions kept getting neglected. that other companions simply do not have the amount of content astarion has is not a good thing, it is a bad thing.

and like i'm saying this as someone who really loves astarion/durge. it's unplatable to me and that larian writers are sitting in fan discords going "yeah we just didn't do that for other characters but somehow i found the time for this!" is kind of gross to me

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

The zipper

You’d only mentioned it once.

Offhandedly. A passing sigh as you tried to get the damn zipper on your hoodie unstuck. You fought with it for nearly five minutes before giving up and tugging it over your head instead.

He was sitting on the couch at the time, mask off, hoodie half unzipped, watching you with that blank, calculating stare. You thought nothing of it. Just a normal, quiet night.

But something lodged in his brain. Something stuck.

The next evening, you found him in the kitchen, his jaw tight, breathing controlled - but barely.

A single zipper lying in front of him, cut from an old jacket. Tools scattered. His massive hands trying to feed the tiny teeth together over and over.

You didn’t say a word. Just leaned on the doorway, watching his rage simmer like a bomb with no wire to cut.

Snap.

He threw the zipper across the counter, and it skittered to the floor. He didn’t look at you.

“You alright, love?” you asked carefully, lips twitching.

Silence.

You took a step closer. “You, uh… sewing something?”

Still nothing. Until:

“I should be able to do this,” he growled, each word like gravel under boot.

Your heart melted. Because it wasn’t about the zipper. Not really.

It was the idea that you struggled - and he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t master this stupid little thing that got in your way.

And that was unacceptable to him.

“I’ll just buy one that works - ”

“No.”

You blinked. His head turned slowly, eyes meeting yours with heat - not anger at you. But with himself. And that stubborn, brutal devotion.

“I’m gonna fix it.”

A pause.

“For you.”

You tried not to smile. “It’s just a hoodie, Si.”

But his hands had already picked up the zipper again.

Three hours.

Four zippers.

Two cups of tea.

A lot of swearing in deep, growled tones under his breath.

When it finally clicked - when the fabric fed through smooth and perfect - you swore the man almost smiled.

He zipped it up. Unzipped. Zipped it again, perfectly. Then held it out with a deadpan look.

“Put it on.”

You obeyed.

He stepped behind you, tugging it up around your shoulders, and - so gently you almost cried - zipped it up for you with steady, careful fingers.

No snags. No struggle.

His arms stayed around your waist afterward. Chin against your shoulder. Voice soft.

“Told you I’d fix it.”

You leaned back into him. “You’re ridiculous.”

His answer? A low chuckle, rough and warm.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “but you love me like this.”

And you did. Every furious, determined, unrelenting part of him - especially the parts that fought so hard to make the small things easy for you.

[bunny-jpeg]

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ i like my men older - simon riley♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

you knew that your friends from school raised an eyebrow when you told them that you were dating a man almost double your age. you were in your twenties, while this 'simon' guy was close to fifty. you told them that he was an army man who had a gooey center for you.

your friends could see the upgrade in your laptop and the new knapsack with a logo that proclaimed it was expensive. the small chain around your neck with a 's' on it that you toyed with when they asked questions about him.

you looked happy, healthier even! you weren't eating minute meals and surviving off of black coffee. there was a little roundness to your cheeks now and you looked more alive. a glow to you that wasn't that while you trudged through your graduate program. so honestly, how could they complain?

if you had a glow to you, it was because you were often fucked out. most women your age through that dating an older man would mean having to go slow. be patient about technical difficulties regarding their cocks. that was what you expected from a man that old. especially one with aches and pains like simon. your poor si, he had been in the military his entire life. barely had the touch of a woman during that time! poor guy! of course you'll teach him all the ways a woman should please a man. the first time you ran your tongue on the underside of his cock he cam all over your head, and while you whined. it made you crazy hot. fucking simon was like fucking a live wire. he hadn't slowed down with age. he fucked like a stallion in breeding season. and he loved when he pulled his heavy cock into you. you once told him that he could be a cervix breaker. and he simply said, "well, if i break it... i can't breed it." which made you go slack jaw for a moment before he continued to rut up against you. you didn't expect a man of his age to have a breeding kink.

you practically begged your doctor to give you birth control, because he was not buying condoms. "don't fit in 'em, lovie." he said as he patted his clothed cock when you started dating. you knew that was impossible, condoms could fit a lot of things and while simon was fairly big. he could fit in a condom. but, no. when you tried to put them on yourself, he simply took it off, tossed it to the side and pinned you under his heavy weight. legs in the air as he rutted against you like a hungry animal.

he was so much bigger than you. wide shoulders, strong thighs and a bit of a gut to keep you folded under him. there was a masculine heft to him. he was strong, picking you up was easy to him even when you tried to tell him your weight. one time he gripped you by the waist with one arm and moved you out of the way. you kicked and squeaked as you were moved. but to simon it was easy as lifting heavy equipment. but that softness to some of his muscles really got you hot all over. it didn't help that part of your role as his girlfriend was to make sure that your man was fed. you cooked him meals and he over devoured in your sweet dessert. he loved you in an apron. all domestic and sweet for him. you were real wifey material. could easily be cooking meals for him and the kids in a few years. you can have a graduate degree and a few riley babies. "look good cookin' for me, darlin'. know how to make a proper meal for your man." you wouldn't admit but his words excited you.

simon can be a little... chauvinistic. it was just his age. while he respected female colleagues in the military and was beyond happy that you were getting your degree. he'd do things for you that you could clearly do on your own. like when you tried to fix the leaky tap in your flat. or when you try to carry all the groceries inside. yes, darling, you're a strong woman. but let him take over. take care of you. that was what a man did right? he'll cut the onions for you and try to fix your buggy wi-fi connection. he's pay for dinner every time and even get you dessert after. he'd wipe your face clear of the sweet treat you'd have. "don't ask her anything too difficult, johnny. she doesn't need to be thinkin' too hard." he once said with his hands over your ears and glared at his teammate. which only made the scotsman laugh. simon didn't mind if he had to take over. he'd never pull the rug out from under you, even when you were under him. you looked prettier under him, letting him take charge of your fucking. he took care of his girl, even when you whined and told him you were capable. there was no need to whine. simon needed to take care of his much smaller, much weaker baby girl. no need to break a nail trying to do stuff that simon could easily do for you.

even with the grey in his blond hair, he still kept up to you. there were times that you were too exhausted from day-to-day that you let simon rut between your thighs until he covered your round ass with his hot cum. you'd whimper which would turn into a yelp when he easily slipped his heavy cock into your sweet pussy. where it belonged. he fucked you heavily as his cum coated your behind, even trailing down your sloped back as you had your head in the covers.

"don't spill a drop off that pretty ass, baby girl. or else i'd might have to mark you again." thank god you liked your men older. <3

[so-i-did-this-thing]

The wardrobe source post

Have had several Asks about where I get my clothes, so here we go.

My general style:

My build: I am 5'10", around 155-160lbs. I am a trans man, so that means some fit challenges. 36R tops, 32x32 bottoms, 8ish shoe.

My preferences: I adore 1930s/40s outdoor "country gentleman" and work wear -- I am building a wardrobe here. I love texture and mixing patterns. I try to stick to natural fibers. I am spending more money on pieces that last longer and shrinking my closet to a modern capsule and a vintage capsule. (Though I will sometimes mix eras.) Brown is my favorite color.

Online thrifting:

Unclaimed baggage. Really great for giving higher end brands a shot at huge discounts.

Gem App. Fantastic for searching multiple sites like ebay, poshmark, etc.

Modern clothing:

Taylor Stitch. Standouts are sweaters and wool trousers. Sizing runs trim - I size up to a 38 here instead of my usual 36. This means it's a great source for smaller trans mascs.

Yiume. Shirts a bit thin, but fun prints and frequent sales.

Imperfects. Small range, but fun, higher waisted fishtail trousers.

Taft Boots. Comfy right out of the box. Great at making small feet look elegant. Men's sizes start at a 6.

Schott. Fantastic pea coats. Recommended by Derek Menswear.

Vermont Flannel. Super thick plaid, flannel shirts. Very warm.

Sterkowski hats. Range includes flat caps and captains/fisherman.

Spier & MacKay. Great winter coats, run a bit trim. Their trousers look hideous and despite a bit of a vintage look, everything else in the catalog is too low waisted and skinny.

LLBean. Great for sweaters. I love my grey commando style one.

Banana Republic. I like a lot of their older stuff, so a brand to watch on Poshmark.

New Vintage:

Cathcart London. Sweaters and jeans are great. Hit or miss fit on the rest. Frequent sales, small runs.

Darcy Clothing. Great all across the board. They are a film supplier, so restocks are regular. Their suspenders are hard to find, fyi, so search under "braces".

Revival Vintage. Dipping into poly blends, but a great selection of fairisle sweater vests.

JoBear boots. Great prices and styles, requires breaking in.

Focusers. Vintage glasses. They will replace lenses. Love the Peabody gold wire frames.

Old Glasses Shop. Frames you won't find at Focusers. You can try on frames before committing to an Rx, but have to pay for the return. Love their round tortoise shells.