#tw self injury mention

[pfhwrittes]

another part of my silly little werewolf au (that i will work on properly at some point) for you all.

TW: alcohol mention, minor self injury (reader chews on their paws), accidental voyeurism, fantasies of violence. 

author's note: let me know if i've missed any trigger warnings please!

--

they’re still here, the strangers that have made themselves comfortable in your territory. there are traces of them everywhere. the scent of an unfamiliar cologne and metal lingering in the air of the corner shop, an echo of the mohawked man’s laugh from the pub garden reaching your ears as you collect sticky abandoned glasses from what was formerly ed’s booth, the weight of four pairs of eyes on you as you pull pints or pour glasses of wine for the locals. 

you know why they’re here. even if they don’t know that you know. 

it makes your gums itch.

for the first time in a long time you stay home the night of the full moon, curled up tight in a ball on your bed, your nose tucked under your tail. you long to lope through the fields at the edge of the village, to snap at rabbits with their stuttering fearful heartbeats, to howl long and lonesome at the moon - calling for your family, your pack. 

your ears twitch irritably and you move to lick and gnaw at your front paw. the human side of your brain sighs knowing full well that come dawn you’ll be patching up raw knuckles and the tender broken skin of your wrist. it could be worse, you could shred your pillow. again. feathers are a bitch to get out from between your teeth. 

the sound of two voices drift through the thin pane of glass of your bedroom window and your lip curls around a low rumbling growl. interlopers. their voices are low, indistinct as they snoop through the neighbour’s front garden. the growl in your chest kicks up as you catch a snatch of their conversation. 

“for fucks sake, johnny. quit whinin’ and get on wiv it.” around the broad flat vowels of his accent you detect a fond sort of irritation that speaks of years of familiarity and affection.

“you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me on!” the other voice is exasperated but no less fond as its counterpart. “i’m no’ doin’ that here -” 

whatever he’s not doing becomes abundantly clear as you hear the sounds of a wet gasp and a long groan.

you snarl and bury your teeth into the softness of your pillow, letting yourself imagine that you’re sinking your fangs into an exposed abdomen as you ignore the wet slick sounds just beyond your window.

and they have the fucking nerve to call your kind animals.

-- tagging @kaadaaan

[attorney-anon-offtopic]

Crisis & Pain-Seeking Stims

So, I posted a while ago about stim toys for pain-seeking stims. I haven't found anything new, but I wanted to discuss that behavior because some of my NT friends have expressed concern that pain-seeking is a SI behavior.

For me and my autism, there are generally three types of crises that impact my ability to function: I get (what I call, anyway) overstimulated, repulsed, or overwhelmed. They can, and often do, overlap.

I get overstimulated when sensory stimulation reaches a fever pitch; I sort of feel like I'm a staticky balloon and other people (or sometimes animals or things) are pushpins that will pop me if the interact with the static field. When I am overstimulated, the answer is less stimulation, of course, but it is also different stimulation. This is where you might find me rubbing my worry stone on my bottom lip or the side of my thumb. Usually, this will last until I can change my physical state in some noticeable way, such as cooling down fully on a warm day or changing my clothes if I'm wearing a shirt with a high neckline.

I get repulsed when something causes a physical revulsion or rejection reaction in me. I feel sick to my stomach, shaky, and alarmed. When I am repulsed, the answer is to stop doing the thing that led to repulsion. Most often, for me, I get texture-repulsed by my food, and therefore have to stop eating whatever I was eating, or potentially stop eating, full stop. This is the easiest to deal with, but also the most frequent - I am extremely texture-sensitive when it comes to food.

I get overwhelmed when social situations reach a point where I cannot process how to proceed. I feel staticky, again, but not like I'm going to get popped - more like I'm overinflated and will explode. When I am overwhelmed, my go-to response is usually skin picking, especially on my face and arms. What skin picking gives me is a smaller, simpler problem to focus on: the bump I just picked now hurts. However, skin picking is maladaptive (those new sores can get infected, and continually touching one's face is NOT how one reduces hormonal acne, which I still have due to PCOS), and I know that, so I try to practice harm reduction techniques. So, what I do instead is try to find a way to create the smaller, simpler problem to focus on (pain) without the risks - hence, pain-seeking stims.

Right now, I do have a few pain-seeking solutions - I have one of those acupressure rings that looks like a metal scrunchie, a strip of rough velcro, and a little textured gyro spinner from TikTok that has rough spikes on the outside, plus I have a couple rough "calm strips" style stickers. I always want more, though, because I sort of... get used to the texture, a little. Like, it's still rough, but it's a roughness I'm used to, so I don't register the pain the same way. I have to rotate, but sometimes (like this month so far) I need it more often, so rotating doesn't work as well because I only have a few options.

Side note: I also fidget more when I'm overwhelmed, so I also have a bunch of fidget toys to keep my fingers busy.

[incyrayinc]

Somewhat more up-to-date Veri WIP reference sheet

Updated the text in the upper half to be more clear (some of my rough notes arent specific enough and rely on context that I have but you don't)

[reginalusus]

Ah yes. When the protective dad-figure beats up the son-figure's past tormentor only for said tormentor to make a point(?), because the tormentor is the catalyst of Gotham's chaos, and seeing two pieces of the debris from said chaos come together to try and be less broken is amusing. The butt of Gotham's joke, if you will.

I just felt like illustrating a scene from a possible future Harvey-Jason-centered fic...

[antikr1sta]

(tw sh/blood/vent art) "i hate it here, i hate the smell and fluorescent lights, but most of all I hate you", he utters, gazing at his own face in the reflection of a dirty mirror; as both are only hanging on by a thread.

blood/injury tw ↓

..yeah.. i really really hate it here

[applesauce42069]

My mom told me to watch Hersh's funeral. She told me I would cry.

I have been resisting it. I don't know if I have the ability. Sometimes it feels like a struggle to get from one day to the next. I don't know if I have the capacity to feel the emotions I have been feeling for the past almost year so crushingly, all at once.

My mom told me that I needed to hear the way Hersh's parents spoke about him. She told me that the things they said reminded her of me. I know she feels the same way as every other Israeli mother, who sees a picture of a hostage and knows that in some universe that is their child, no matter how far away. I was born and live across the world from where she as born in Haifa but like her and many other Israeli expats and diaspora Jews for that matter, our heart is in our homeland.

Maybe I need to watch Hersh's funeral. Maybe I need to feel these things, so crushingly, all at once. Maybe that will enable me to go on. Maybe that will give me my moment to pay my respects to him, and to all the others who have been killed and taken.

I got to campus today and saw a poster of Eden Yerushlami. I knew it was new because these posters don't last long on my campus. There are poster rippers on both sides, don't get me wrong, but there are much much more of them. The poster was put up so high on the pole that it must have been put up with a ladder. The person who put it there wanted to protect her in a way that we weren't able to in a reality. The poster says "kidnapped' but she has been murdered and I want to honestly smash my head against a wall in frustration, anger and despair but I just keep walking.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,794 Words

Summary: The solar eclipse after Solar's death has an energy to it.

Warnings: Character Death, Caps, Cursing, Overworking, Self-Hatred (from Moon, of course), Sleep Deprivation, Blood (minor), Minor Injury, Ghost, Magic, Mind Meld, Soul Bond, Sharing A Body/Brain, Pain, Nausea, let me know if I should add anything else.

Binding And Bonding

Solar woke up in an abyss. Everything around him was darkness. He could see a vague ring of light around him, lighting up the rest of his surroundings decently well. He could vaguely hear something being said into the void around him in a vaguely familiar voice but he was knocked out before he could acknowledge the voice.

-Two And A Half Weeks Earlier-

"I don't wanna go…" Solar muttered, body deteriorating and slowly disintegrating as it collapsed to the floor like his dimension likely was. Moon was quick to grab him and try to keep him steady but it wasn't any use given he couldn't feel his legs anymore.

"You don't have to!" Moon insisted, holding Solar as close as he could, Solar feeling Moon's hands slip through him as he could feel himself fading into an abyss.

"Solar? SOLAR!" Solar could vaguely hear Moon screaming as he went into a void.

-A Week Later-

"Moon, you're pushing yourself. You aren't charging or resting." Eclipse finally broke and snapped at him.

"Maybe I would if I hadn't fucked everything up!" Moon screamed back at him, too stressed to not scream at the inconveniences anymore, too focused on getting Solar back now.

"Moon, you're at a max of five percent." Eclipse reminded him.

"I'll charge when my brother is back." Moon growled venomously, eyes turning to glare that Eclipse dare interrupt him but Eclipse had gotten used to Moon being like this fairly quickly. Eclipse knew Moon would inevitably run himself down and then Eclipse could carry Moon off to bed.

Thankfully, Eclipse got that opportunity sooner rather than later as Moon stumbled and his hand hit a tray, knocking it to the floor with Moon collapsing to the floor as well a few seconds later.

Eclipse went and finally was able to scoop the poor sap up and groan at how heavy Moon was, muttering complaints about how much Moon weighed as he kicked the door to Parts & Service open for him since he was busy carrying Moon.

"You." Ruin caught Eclipse's attention before Eclipse was able to leave.

"Yeah, what about me? Want me to come in there and kill you finally?" Eclipse asked.

"No, actually. I would like you to forget Protocol 87.775.2, actually." Ruin told him and Eclipse tilted his head in question, not really knowing what Ruin was talking about.

"Forget about what?" Eclipse asked.

"Exactly! Good job! Thank you! Be on your way now!" Ruin cheerily told him and Eclipse shook his head and carried Moon up to the daycare and through the portal to the house, sighing seeing Sun's cats practically waiting for Moon, though they hissed as if they hated him anyway, but Eclipse knew the little cretins were pretending they hated Moon.

Eclipse laid Moon on the couch and put a blanket over him for the cats to crawl on top of and purr now that they knew Moon was sleeping. Eclipse chuckled at the little gremlins. They sure loved their uncle, they were purring on his unconscious body.

Eclipse plugged Moon's charging wire into the wall outlet near the couch and left to go figure out what the hell Ruin was talking about, landing at the daycare computer inevitably. It seemed the computer knew everything anyway so he may as well try.

"Nice attempt, but you are not a member of the Celestial Family." The computer told him.

"Nice joke, I actually am. But I came for answers." Eclipse told the machine.

"Whyever would I give you answers?" The computer asked.

"Ruin mentioned a protocol in me, basically asking me to delete it but I don't know what he was talking about. I will let you scan my code if you look for Protocol 87.775.2." Eclipse told the computer.

"…I will agree to these conditions, only because it may serve well for Moon." The computer agreed. Eclipse plugged himself into the computer for it to scan him and just sat back waiting, all he could do was wait. The computer was doing two things at once and it was taking a while.

Eclipse ended up falling asleep for a bit in the computer chair while the computer did its thing. However, the computer also decided to be an alarm for Eclipse as it woke him up with a loud bussing noise through his circuits.

"HEY!" Eclipse jolted awake, pulling out the cord and thoroughly startled by the computer.

"Ah, good, awake. I have found Protocol 87.775.2 as well as scanned your code." The computer told him.

"And you wake me up like your about to try giving me a controlled shock?" Eclipse snapped.

"Yes, I found it amusing." The computer would've laughed if it could, Eclipse could tell.

"Fine, what is the protocol about?" Eclipse asked.

"This protocol entails a means to what Moon has been working on. A way to undo what has been done." Eclipse scoffed at that.

"So that's why he wanted me to get rid of it. I haven't been alone in a room so he couldn't give me an order to try to get me to delete it until today." Eclipse muttered.

"Unfortunately, it is extremely difficult as it works with the essence of an energy." The computer told him.

"Tell me what I have to do."

-One Week & Four Days Later-

Eclipse walked into the room Solar had died in. He had finally made good on getting everything else ready and Sun and Moon were out with Earth and Lunar, watching the solar eclipse on the roof of the PizzaPlex.

Eclipse had chalk, blood, and a dagger. He hated this, it felt so weird. It felt so awkward to probably be the first person Solar sees when he comes back.

"Solar?" Eclipse calls to whatever remained of Solar's energy, which he had attuned himself to over the last week and a half.

"Solar." Eclipse called to Solar again, sitting down in front of where Solar died. He could feel the energy around him swirling as though Solar was trying to tell him he was there still.

"There you are." Eclipse closed his eyes, holding the chalk and drew a circle of runes with his eyes closed, following the images of runes the protocol was feeding him on the back of his eyelids. The circle was around Eclipse himself and the spot Solar died in, interlocking them.

"Solar, I can feel you. God that sounds weird." Eclipse muttered the last half. The energy jolted like it was laughing at him. "Yeah, laugh it up, idiot. Sit with me." Eclipse sighed. He could vaguely see the outline of Solar's energy sit with him.

"Thank you." Eclipse muttered, knowing he had to thank Solar. He hated that he had to. Eclipse cringed as he poured the blood on the inner ring of the rune circle, watching outside as the sky began to go dark.

"I willingly open this connection for Solar." Eclipse stated as the protocol had, cutting open his right hand with the dagger in his left dominant hand. Eclipse could see that the whisp in his vision that was Solar's energy was interested.

"Hold my hand, Solar and only Solar." Eclipse told the energy. The energy seemed to hold his hand and Eclipse sighed at the feeling, relieved Solar was just listening to him, probably out of curiosity rather than genuine willingness.

"I connect what is mine to what is yours. Wire for wire, energy for energy. I share willingly what is mine with you." Eclipse spoke evenly, making sure to read word for word.

"This day is a connection." Eclipse felt the rune light up with light, blazing as the room went completely dark. "I bind us. Mine is yours. under this light, we become connected." Eclipse lost his breath after these words of the spell, making him choke a bit as he could feel Solar's energy binding to his own, coughing to get air as he could feel his mind breaking in half, body feeling aches and pains as Solar's energy was bonding to him.

Eclipse lurched forward, nauseous as he felt Solar's AI blooming into his head, using the broken-off half of Eclipse's mind, their mind? Eclipse didn't know but he was nauseous. Animatronics weren't supposed to get nauseous. He leaned with his hands on the ground, hearing someone screaming. Was that him? Was he screaming? He still had to say the final words and get Solar to say them too.

Eclipse reached his energy into his mind, making Solar take half control with him, each having control of one half of their? body. Eclipse fed the final words into their vision to make Solar say it with him. Once Solar nodded using their head Eclipse nodded back.

"We claim the energy of the solar eclipse given to us." Both of their voices echoed and the pitch-black void of the room glowed with a peace around them, the white ring around them calmly pulsing with their energies. Eclipse finally felt a peace now as he curled up on the ground, trembling with everything that had happened, too overwhelmed to move but he had to finish it. He had to finish this. He fed to Solar in their optics the final step and words.

Solar was the one to drag their body upright again. Eclipse was shivering, Solar was shivering. The room felt cold. Everything felt cold. Solar seemed to have more force than Eclipse, Solar was learning how to share their energy.

"We undo the damage that has been done through false trust." They made sure to echo each other and Eclipse felt a bloom in his chest of the energy they claimed from the solar eclipse above in the sky still, the ring around them, practically burst into a running visual of universes coming back into being, rebuilding themselves, lives being brought back immediately, everything blooming around them in the circle of light like flowers.

Eclipse gave a soft, exhausted chuckle seeing it and seeing the sky begin to get light again. Once the ring around them finished, the warm feeling slowly dissipated and Eclipse and Solar simply collapsed onto the ground, shaking and taking deep breaths.

"Thank you." Solar whispered.

"I know." Eclipse tried to laugh but all that came out was a wheeze.

"Are you okay?" Solar asked.

"I'm exhausted." Eclipse whispered back.

"Well, you gave up your magic to bring everything back, you're probably going to be exhausted for a while." Solar sighed.

"I expect Moon to thank me, you tell him that if you wake up first." Eclipse told Solar before letting himself ease into unconsciousness, giving Solar control for a brief moment before Solar fell asleep too from being brought back and losing a lot of energy himself.

[delopsia]

Reeth | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 10,000   Cross Posted on AO3 Brief Summary: Between his injuries and his insecurities, Rhett nearly falls apart. But you're there to put him back together again. Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, hurt/comfort (physically and emotionally), bodily injury, blood, brief mentions of violence and attempted murder, crying, brief appearance of food, Rhett's self-doubts and insecurities, rodeos, body worship & praise, I love you's, riding, overstimulation, happy ending. Inspired from the song Reeth by Penny and Sparrow.  

There's something thumping.

A dull, insistent tap, tap, tap that seems to stop when you lift your head but restarts when your head reunites with the cool material of your pillow. Mayhaps the antics of a ghost you're not yet aware of in this big old rental home. Or maybe it's the antics of the boy down the road, who thinks ding-dong ditching is practical in a town where the men are trigger-happy, the land is flat, and driveways are a mile long at the bare minimum. 

Or maybe it's your elderly neighbor pleading for help because her husband fell again. 

Thunder rumbles, icy drops of rain pattering like a symphony against your metal roof. If it's not a tree limb, and someone is truly out the door, then something must be wrong. Lightning bathes your bedroom in a brief flash of white, and the longer you wait for the following boom of thunder, the thinner the air seems to become. Shit.

The last thing you feel like doing is crawling out of bed; you've only just begun to fall asleep, but alas, your feet hit the cold hardwood anyway. Sleepily padding down the hallway, past the kitchen, and toward the front door, where the knocking seems to have stopped once more. The house is silent as you peek out your window, fighting to get a glimpse of who may be at your door. The porch is empty, devoid of anything but leaves blown up against the house. 

But there's movement down your cracked sidewalk. A tall figure stumbling away from your door. 

Icy wind blasts the door open, ripping the handle from your hand as it rushes past. Strong enough to knock over picture frames and the knick-knacks from the table by the door, but you hardly notice it. "Rhett?"

That has to be him because he slows to a halt. It's dark, but it's hard to miss the way he minds his left foot as he turns. That's him, that's him, and you're trying to come to him, but you can't move. Feet frozen to the wet concrete of your porch step. 

Even the downpour cannot wash the blood from his face. Dripping from the bridge of his nose. A gash in his left cheekbone. And from somewhere up in his hairline, streaking down his forehead. He opens his mouth, but the only thing to come out is crimson liquid. Pouring down his chin. Staining his flannel. 

The sound of your name cuts through the air. Garbled by blood that he can't swallow down. Drowned out by the rain. And the wind that rustles through trees. And the thunder that rattles the ground. 

 He's speaking again, but you don't understand him. Tripping over his own feet. Reaching out for you. Like you're just out of his reach. A sob pierces through the air because his arms come up empty. Mutters it again. 

"Help."

His knees crumble out from under him.

And he drops. 

You can't move quickly enough.

Running out into the pouring rain. Uncaring of how the freezing rain feels like tiny bullets upon your skin. Can't hear the slam of thunder because it's washed out by the wail of a cowboy. 

A cowboy who can't lift himself up as he reaches for you. Whimpers your name when you drop into the grass and pull him up into your arms. His head heavy against your chest. Trembling with such a force that you shake with him. Those once strong arms wind around you. Dangling loosely. Not strong enough to do anything more. 

The dull glow of your porch light illuminates more than you can bear to witness. 

Bruises mottle his cheek, knuckle shaped and leading up to a deep, blackened bruise in the corner of his left eye. So close, it's easy to catch onto the split in his scalp, sliced open by something sharper than human nails. Reaches down to his left ear, takes a small divot out of the shell of it. There's a matching one on his forearm, scrawling up through his beloved bull-skull tattoo, and that's only what you can see at a glance. 

"Baby," whispering into his uninjured ear, cradling him to your chest, "what happened?" 

Lightning flickers; no sound to it, but he flinches into you anyway, shudders worse than the leaves in the trees as the autumn wind howls past. "It's my fault," his voice cracking, unable to hold together. "t's my fault...I started it." 

In the back of your head, you can still hear yourself asking him to keep out of trouble; a bar fight a month doesn't sound like a lot until you're the one patching him up. You can't even begin to count the number of times you've been witness to the aftermath of what cheap beer and a small disagreement can lead to.  "Rhett..." it slips out on its own. 

"I'll be good!" He hiccups, "I'll—I'll be good! I'm sorry!" Choking on tears and blood and rain that you can't wipe away quickly enough. Still tries to talk as he coughs, beginnings of more I'm sorry's that never fully leave his frantic tongue. 

His arms squeeze tighter. Yet they're still a shadow of their usual strength as he squirms closer. "Please don't...please don't leave me out..." stammering, can hardly get his head up against your chest like he's trying so hard to do. "Please don't...don't..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," and you're shushing him, soothing your hands over his messy face, and his head is heavy as he leans into it like he can't keep his own head up without help. "Rhett, look at me, breathe." 

"Don't—don't leave..." sucking in harsh breaths he can't catch, mouth moving, but not a thing coming out.  

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," you're whispering, and for a second, you think the storm has calmed just long enough for him to hear your words. Frigid rain has long since soaked through your clothes, and you need to go inside, but all you can think about is pulling this trembling cowboy closer. 

"I've got you. I promise," cooing into his ear, stroking the back of his head. "You're alright; I've got you." His cold nose finally finds its way into the crook of your neck, and you don't care if the blood stains your shirt or not. 

The wind screams past your head, feels like it'll rip the clothes right off your body. Tiny pellets of hail strike at your skin, and you think they might just pierce through you. "Let's get you inside, alright?" 

You're surprised that he's got the strength to nod, never mind get back up to his feet. A heavy weight against you, his arm slung over your shoulders because he can't support much weight on his left foot. This screeching wind has the pair of you teetering from side to side, and his foot catches on the first stair of your small porch. 

And this part is easy; he knows this routine too well. Stumbling down your short hallway and into the bathroom, damn near collapsing onto the floor when you reach down to turn on the water to the bathtub. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Asking as you help him unbutton his shirt, revealing a myriad of deep red and purple marks that will surely worsen come morning. The handiwork of angry fists and the sharp edge of a steel-toe boot kicking at his ribs while he was down. 

"Perry..." he starts; those eyes flutter, and just like that, he stops. Like he's still recollecting the rest of the story. 

Well, that explains it.

Bar fights are almost always broken up before they can do damage such as this, and you've almost always had to come down to the police station to release him of Sherrif Joy's care. And even though you've seen firsthand how the Tillerson brothers are always looking for a fight with their neighbors, they know when enough is enough. 

Luke and Rhett have been at each other's throats for years, but Luke doesn't kick a man while he's down. Where's the fun in an opponent who doesn't fight back? 

Rhett's nemesis of a neighbor has more respect for him than his own brother.

The worst part is getting Rhett's legs over the edge of your clawfoot bath, and you're thankful that you've already seen the worst of his injuries because you don't think you can bear seeing another open wound. 

"Was he drunk?" Only asking indirect questions as you rub this soapy cloth across his cheek. Washing away the dirt and blood that's caked to his skin until you can see his pretty face once more. 

"He flew off the handle at mom," he sniffles, reaching up to rub a drop of water from his nose, "'n my smartass decided that was a good time to say that his temper is why Rebecca ran." 

You hate the way that he whimpers when you have to wash the blood from his scalp. Clean water stinging at somewhat-open wounds, only further upset when you carefully scrub dried blood from his hair. The sight of these cuts makes your stomach twist sourly, but they're closing without assistance; no need for DIY stitches or a two-hour hospital trip. Not yet, at least. 

"I think...he," Rhett's eyes flicker up to yours, swollen and red; if he had any tears left, they'd be streaking down his cheeks by now, "he tried to...he tried to kill me."

"And your parents didn't..." you're trying to find what to say, scrambling for thought; what do you say? "They didn't stop him?"

His response takes a while to come. 

Silent as you dry him with a towel and help him step into some clothes he's left in case of unplanned sleepovers. Doesn't find what to say as you apply ointment to his wounds and wrap his sliced forearm. His eyes speak a million and one words, but they don't string together into full sentences. A hurt that doesn't restrict itself to physical pain alone. 

"Want some ice cream?" You chirp, holding his hand as he gingerly sinks onto your couch.

Those saddened eyes light up like little blue fireworks, knows that you've still got a pint of his favorite in the freezer. Chocolate chip cookie dough. His head bobs with a nod, a small, "please," falling off his bitten tongue. 

You'll forever take pride in being the one to introduce him to this flavor. Originally, you'd only done it to keep him from nibbling on your baking endeavors before they even touched the oven. Now, you keep it around just to see him brighten up after a long day. 

Who would have thought that they make ice cream flavors that are not Royal's beloved vanilla bean? 

But his hands are trembling far too hard. Spoon tumbling out of his flimsy grip and falling into his lap before he can even scoop any ice cream onto it. His frown deepens. Tries again, reaching for the spoon, but he can't seem to pick it up. Fingers poking and prodding, trying to pick up something that they simply cannot grasp. 

"Here," picking up that evasive spoon, "let me help you."

There's that smile. 

Sheepish, the tips of his ears burning with red, wobbling lips parting, wrapping around the spoon. Doesn't seem to know what to do with himself as you settle down next to him and spoon-feed him his ice cream. 

Especially doesn't know what to do when the bowl is empty, and he impulsively sputters a quiet, "More?" Soft-spoken and shy, afraid to ask for such a thing. 

You leave him with a kiss on his frozen lips and return with the whole damn container. And so what if you let him eat over half of the ice cream that you just bought yesterday? You don't even care that there are tornado sirens blaring outside your home or that Rhett wants to give you sticky kisses that you can feel lingering on your face. 

The storm worsens after his head settles against your chest, listening to the thump of your heartbeat. Your arms have long since wrapped around him, cradling that big, strong body of his and humming when a sniffle wracks through him. The wind howls as loud as she can; you simply turn up the volume to the television. 

It's been nearly two hours when Rhett finally responds to your question. And you've nearly forgotten that you even asked if his parents stopped Perry or not.

"Ma jumped in when Perry got ahold of the kitchen knife," he mutters, his eyes fixated on the movie playing on the screen, "Dad got me by my collar 'n hauled me out back."

Your thumb soothes across the short stubble of his jaw, freshly shaved this morning and already growing back in. Just as stubborn as he is. 

He's quiet again, but only for a moment, "He threw me my keys 'n locked me out." 

"But they didn't lock Perry out?" You already know the answer to your question; not surprised in the slightest when Rhett rumbles a small 'no.' 

You hate to imagine what would happen to him if you weren't around to patch him back up. 

It's hard remembering just how you got into bed. 

Regardless of how and when it happened, you find yourself waking up late into the morning. Cozied up in a big, warm bed with a soft cowboy snuggled into the space beneath your chin, little wisps of his hair tickling your skin. 

It's almost strange to wake up and find him still in bed. On most days, he's off to the ranch before dawn, busting his ass for a full hour before the rest of the family arrives to pick up where they left off. But you suppose being locked out of your own home warrants a day or two of skipping work. 

Your lips press to his forehead, and faintly, you can feel him smile into the crook of your neck.

"Mornin," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep, vibrating against your neck. Tilts his head back just far enough to take a look at you, eyes barely open. "'m sorry for showin' up in the middle of the night," pauses to kiss your wrist as you reach to tuck his hair behind his ear, smiling weakly, just for a moment, "I shouldn't 've woken you up." 

"You're allowed to come to me when you're hurt, Rhett," tilting his head up to meet your eye as you speak, "You'd do the same for me if I was in that situation."

He's quiet at that. 

And you're not sure who it was that taught him he's not worthy of being cared for when he's hurt, but you hope they forever regret it. You can't stand the way he frowns and snuggles back into you, doesn't quite believe your words because someone has been telling him otherwise for his entire life. 

It could be the fault of his father, who has gone as far as to teach him that boys don't have birthdays and that they should never cry in front of another person. Maybe it's the fault of his mother for standing by and never stepping in, even when she knew better. Hell, maybe it's the fault of his brother, who blames everyone but himself for his temper. 

Rhett should be laying in bed, letting himself heal and taking it easy on himself, but he follows you out of bed, lingers in the kitchen while you cook, and tries to help where he can. Stretches his weary limbs after breakfast, pushing through a pain so severe that his eyes water as he raises his arms above his head. 

"Are you really sure about riding tonight?" You find yourself asking, running a comb through his hair all the while. He's not particularly happy about it, but he's got some knots in the longer parts, and he's never been one to complain about his hair being played with. Forced scowl melting into upturned lips and smiling eyes.

"I ain't hurt that bad," he says, and you're sure that he believes that to be true, too. Stubborn to the end, this one. 

Your nails rake down the back of his neck, tracing down the soft bumps of his spine, just to watch his back arch into your touch, flinching when he shifts his ribs too much. "You can hardly walk straight, baby."

"'m fine," he meets your eye through the reflection of the mirror, confident as he pushes his poorly forged narrative, "'ve ridden through worse."

Maybe, but most of those 'ridden through worse' times have been fueled by the elusive gift of adrenaline, biting away the pain until the moment the stadium lights shut off for the night. These injuries have had time for the hurt to set in and for sore muscles to tighten.

But you can't say you're surprised when Rhett digs out his gear and, admittedly, slowly gets ready for tonight. He can hardly button his flannel, never mind wriggling into his slightly too-tight jeans and fumbling with his chaps until you take pity on him and help him out. Sliding the thick material up his thighs and giving his ass a playful little squeeze when you're done, all to see him jump. 

"You leave my ass alone!" He squeaks, swatting your offending hand away. 

All you can do is wink; you've already won. "Too late, cowboy." And his pale cheeks are blazing with crimson. For a minute there, he's got you near convinced that he is feeling better. 

Until you catch his facade slipping.

He limps to his truck, parked precariously in your driveway, crawls into the driver's side with all the speed and ease of a ninety-year-old man, his face twisting as he upsets just about every injury he's got. 

"'m fine," he insists as you settle into the passenger seat. 

"'m fine," he says when he puts too much weight on his left foot and gasps at the sudden bite of pain. 

"'m fine," he promises right before he steals his good-luck kiss from your lips and hobbles off to join his buddies before they finish their warmups without him. 

You expect to find Cecelia, Amy, and Royal up in the bleachers, in their spot tucked off into the far corner. They always sit in the same space, where it's easy to hop down and beat the rush of the crowd when the rodeo comes to a close. But they're not there. An empty gap that never fills. 

At least, it doesn't fill until you catch the familiar, warm eyes of deputy sheriff Joy, her wife, and daughter in tow. "Now, this may be a dumb question because I know who usually sits here with you," she pauses, glancing around the stadium once more. Packed to the brim. Not another space to be seen. "But is the space next to you taken?"

"It's all yours," sliding over to make space for them, "I don't think they'll be coming tonight."

Joy and her wife have been nothing but kind to you ever since you stumbled into this hidden town way back when. And maybe that's why, when she asks about where the rest of the Abbotts are, you tell her. Recounting your memory starting from when you awoke last night, not missing a detail.

You only pause to watch as Rhett comes bursting out of the chute. 

His body twisting, right hand held high as he hangs tight. But this bull is mean. Knocks him around like he weighs nothing. Kicking up plumes of red dirt. Never has more than two feet on the ground at a time. Almost smacks Rhett in the face with his horns. Yet, your cowboy manages to stay on until the buzzer sounds. Diving into the dirt in the same, not-so-graceful fashion as his usual.

One good ride. Two more to go. 

"This ain't somethin' I'm supposed to go repeatin'," Joy begins, not a moment after Rhett's disappeared from sight, "but I have good reason to tell you that if nobody stepped in to stop Perry last night, Rhett wouldn't have even made it to his truck." 

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. But nothing comes out. 

She seems to think for a moment, carefully analyzing her words before they ever leave her mouth. "It's cruel to say, but Rhett's safer if he's not in that house."

You hate that she has a point. You're no stranger to Perry and his temper, either.

And then Rhett's up again, firing out of the chute for a second time. His right hand once again held high to the sky as that bull drops into a spiral. Kicking, twisting, and Rhett's glued to this bull's back. 

Until he's not.

The bull makes a sudden twist to the left. And Rhett's falling. Sideways. No time to react. Left shoulder crashing into the cold, hard ground. Tumbling. 

But the bull is still bucking. Spiraling, trying to get that flank strap off. Uncaring as he all but jumps over Rhett's body. Misses him completely. Hooves mere inches away from his face as it turns a sharp left again. 

Heavy hooves dig into Rhett's stomach. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Darting away just as quickly, still bucking as those bullfighters step in. Urging him away.

Rhett's not getting up. 

But he's coiled in on himself. A minuscule ball that doesn't budge until one of the bullfighters rushes in. Yanks him up from the ground and hauls him toward an open chute. Rhett's feet are moving, but they're slow. Struggling to keep up as he's all but drug across the dirt. 

"They won't stop you from seeing him if I go with you," Joy's already ripping you from your stupor, taking you by the hand. "Come on." 

You have no memory of standing up, nor do you recall anything on the way down the stairs. The flickering of the scoreboard briefly steals your attention; Rhett's name no longer occupies the number two slot, but you can't look to find where he's dropped down to. Your ears ring, muffling the chaotic chatter of the rodeo grounds into near silence. 

Joy's leading you somewhere you've never been before; past security, through staff-only gates, and around sharp corners that never seem to end. Places you can't hope to memorize as she hauls you down toward a collection of familiar faces. Rodeo friends that Rhett's introduced you to in the past; you don't recall their names. Nor do you hear their voices as they point you toward where he's at. 

The ringing fades within an instant. 

"He took off on us," one of them is saying, and he's looking dead at you like you can do something about this, "talk him out of riding again, would you?" 

It's not hard to find Rhett. The riders all point you down past the bull chutes, a one-way path that leads directly into the tree line. He's curled himself beneath the thick trunk of an old oak, trembling hand wrapped around an empty can of Rainier Beer.

He hates Rainier. 

"Hey, cowboy," he jolts at the sound of your voice, surprised features instantaneously wrinkling into something pained, jaw clenched, grunting as his injuries bite at his nerves with razor-sharp teeth. 

"You shouldn't..." his voice fades, chest heaving, "shouldn't be back here." 

That rough 'n tough front dissolves the moment you settle next to him. He's muttering to himself, unable to keep upright as he all but collapses into your chest, right arm coiling around you, the left one dangling at his side, limp as can be. 

"I'm the biggest fuck up out here," he sputters, weak against your neck.

"That's not true," you're carefully wrapping your arms around him, hand tangling into his hair as you hold him to you; it's last night all over again, only this time, he wails. A noise that bursts past his lips, wetness forming at your shoulder, and he's shaking and muttering something you can't understand, and there's blood seeping through his shirt and, and— 

"That's not true at all," repeating yourself, murmuring into his ear, stroking the back of his head. Can't reach any further, not with that heavy vest in the way. "Look how far you've come; you're in the finals, Rhett. That means something." 

Two of his buddies are coming around the corner, and you don't need to know their names to know what they're doing back here. 

"Don't touch me," Rhett's snarling like a cornered animal, but they're unphased. A silent team as one grabs him by his collar, pulls him back, and the other gets ahold of his dislocated arm. "Don't! I'm fine! Don't, don't, don't—!"

Crackles soar past your ears. Bones popping back into place. Loud.

But not as loud as the ear-piercing cry that tears through the air. Raw. Torn. The kind of sound that hurts you to see more than it does to hear.

And Rhett's crumbling back into your arms, tears streaming down his cheeks like waterfalls, sobbing into your chest. As broken as the bones in his body. His shoulders tremble as he cries out again, pawing at your sides. Can't lift his arms to hang onto you.

"It's okay, it's okay," you don't know if those words are meant for him or for yourself. You've barely got the strength to wave his buddies on; you've got him, you'll look after him from here. 

His voice is caught in his quivering throat. Choked off noises that barely form words. "You...shouldn't," shaking his head against you, over and over, "shouldn't be dealin' with this."

Something in your gut twists at that. "Rhett..." 

"Look out there! My own fuckin' family ain't—ain't here for a reason," he blurts, and he's trying to look up and meet your eye, but he can't lift his own head. Too heavy for his beaten body to carry.

A choked sob rattles past his lips, "How are you meant to feel safe when I can't even hold my own in a fight I started?" He's reeling back, grimacing, clutching at his lower belly. Still has hoof-shaped prints of dirt on his clothes. 

"All I do is worry you 'n put you through hell," and you hate how Rhett can say these things so easily. Weakly voicing thoughts that have probably been running through his head for months. Years, even. 

His bloodshot eyes burst open as your shaky hands rise to cradle his cheeks. Thumbs stroking away dirt, sweat, and tears to find the remarkably soft skin beneath. Always so soft. Even with all that scruff on his jaw. 

There's blood in his smile, wobbly, but there, some involuntary thing that always happens when you tuck his hair back behind his ear. You're leaning in, ignoring the dirt and grime as you meet those quivering lips with your own. Nothing but a soft lock that you can only hope gets him to hear what you're trying to say. 

"You deserve someone...someone who can give you better than...this," he's talking softly, voice hitching around a sudden gasp for air, "Look at me... 'm a broken piece of trash, most days." 

With a shuddered breath, you begin to speak, "Do you think that I kiss you because of what you give to me?" ignoring the bits of rock that dig into your knees as you bear your weight on them, attention laced solely on this cowboy of yours. The one you've always known would break, eventually, because he's not his father. Never has been, no matter how much he tries to force it. 

His head doesn't nod, but you can see the burning 'yes' in his eyes. Once so vibrantly blue, now a muted hue.

"Well, it goes to show that you're not listening when I say that I know what I deserve," your forehead comes to rest against his, peering into those eyes that you can still become lost in, even all these years later, "And you're not listening when I tell you that you are worth more than you've ever realized."

And he's searching.

Never has been good at words, but he's stellar at finding even a single wrinkle of doubt in a face. Puffy eyes flickering across your features, to your nose, cheeks, chin, lips, but they freeze when they meet your gaze. A puff of breath escapes him. Eyes flickering closed as he leans into you.

He's looked for doubt. Denial. A scent of a lie. 

He hasn't found it. 

"It hurts," whispering, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, as a buzzer sounds. 

"I know," whispering in return, and you think your voice might have cracked. 

"But I need to..." his head twists to look back at the stadium, flinching as he tries to look over his swollen shoulder, "I need to do this. It's...it's my last..."

A part of you already knew he was going to lead back around to that. "You're sure?" 

With a deep breath, he smiles. Something familiar flickering back to life within him. And that's all that needs to be said. 

When you'd stumbled over here, unable to keep in tune with Joy's valiant step, you'd thought it was the physical pain that had brought Rhett to his knees. Body beaten and abused beyond its breaking point, taking him down and swallowing him up in a pit of metaphorical flames.

But as you leave him with a gentle squeeze of the hand. And you listen to him argue with his buddies on your walk to rejoin Joy; you can't help but realize that sometimes, it's the internal wounds that hurt the most. 

Because, would you know it, Rhett Abbott rides like he's never been hurt at all. 

His right hand held high as that raging bull bucks and twists beneath him. Hundreds of pounds of muscle fighting to get him off. Turning with every buck. Never has more than two hooves on the ground at once. 

Two decades ago, Royal Abbott took the Amelia County Rodeo by storm. Won four back-to-back seasons before he suffered a concussion so severe his wife served him an ultimatum. Quit riding or divorce. Rhett's got all but one of those season wins recorded on an old VHS tape. He's played it a million times, the excited giggles of his five-year-old self blaring through the speakers, shaky, unclear footage barely depicting a thing as Royal reclaimed his rodeo crown over and over again.

But out of all those tapes, of all those wins, the crowd never roared as loud as they do when Rhett's name soars back to first place. 

"Down, boy!" 

But your squeals are no use; Rhett's already drug you down, your bodies bouncing painfully against the mattress. His elbow digging into your side. You think your knee smacked into his tailbone. Limbs hopelessly tangling. His hair somehow in your mouth. And he's grunting because his belly is still sore, but he's too stubborn to acknowledge it.

"What did the doctor just say, huh?" You're trying not to giggle, but it's bubbling out of you anyway.

"Dunno, two hours ago is a long time," he deadpans, refusing to move off of you. At least, not until you start reaching for one of the throw pillows. "Sorry! Sorry!" Squirming, rolling off of you and onto the mattress, where he belongs. "Just tryin' to make the most of these painkillers."

Looking at him now and thinking back on the events of earlier, it's hard to believe that all this has happened within the same night. Normalcy shouldn't have come this quickly. This easily. Even so, it's fleeting; the moment this medicine wears off, Rhett's going to be a lump on the couch for the next week, at the least. 

But right now, he's nuzzling his cold nose into your cheek, red and freshly bitten by the chilly autumn wind. Smiling as you look over to him, smiles as he realizes that you've caught on to what he's asking for.

If it were any other day, you'd tease him, make him voice exactly what he wants, and play coy when he isn't specific enough. But you've pushed him enough by taking his keys and driving him to the hospital, and that little impatient grunt of his is so damn hard to resist. 

Rhett hums. Leans into your kiss with all the grace of a fat cat in the sun, rolling lazily into you, his hand skittering up your side. In no hurry to explore each other, the sugary taste of cola still fresh on his tongue, meeting your own in fleeting, shy touches. You wonder if he can taste the same on your own, the evidence of a stolen sip while he wasn't looking.

His body shudders with a shiver that runs through him from head to toe. Squirming even closer to you—

"Fuck," his eyes screw shut as he clutches at his lower belly, hissing. 

"You alright?" He's nodding before you've even finished your question, doesn't open his eyes. You're not sure that you entirely believe him. "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this yet."

Images flicker behind your eyelids. Memories. The heavy hooves of a bull that damn near ripped him apart. The rippling crack of a shoulder put back into place, and the earth-shattering cry that followed.

Oh, but why do Rhett's eyes have to sadden like that? Gaze dropping to the comforter, afraid to look at you, like a kid who's just been scolded, "But..." 

"Rhett, look at you. You're hurt." you're curling your hand around his cheek, stroking the thin skin beneath his eye, still a touch swollen from crying, "It's a wonder that you're even walking after tonight." 

"It doesn't hurt that bad, I promise it, it—" stumbling over his words, "It doesn't...it doesn't hurt."

"I know, I know," you're trying to shush him, but he's still muttering under his breath. False promises that neither of you believes, "but you're hurt. Look at your poor stomach, Rhett." 

Your hand wanders to the lower hem of his shirt, gently tugging it up to reveal the abused skin beneath. Once milky white, now a horrific mottling of dark yellows, blues, and purples. That protective vest bore the brunt of most of it, but gear can only do so much. 

Rhett's shaking hands reach for yours, pushing them away, "I can...keep my clothes on?"  Already beginning to tug his shirt back down, concealing those bruises once more, "You don't have to...you don't have to see..."

"Baby..."  is that what this is about? What his body looks like? "That's not..."

You don't know how to finish your sentence.

Rhett's never been good with words. Might not fully understand, even if you handcraft a poem on the spot meant just for him. But maybe, he'll hear you if you voice your thoughts with more than just words...

The mattress squeaks as you begin to move, gingerly swinging your leg over to straddle his thighs. Not sure if his beaten hips can handle any pressure on them, as you lean forward to press your lips to his clothed chest. Working your way up to his open mouth.

"I know you're not fond of them, but I love these lips of yours," you only allow him one kiss because he'll shut you up if you allow him anything more. "And I love seeing them swell after I've given you too many kisses."

Oh, and it's hard to miss those eyes, the way they widen a little, catching onto what you're doing. "And I love these eyes of yours, how they can go from bright blue to nearly black with the simplest change in lighting," his gaze darts away, shy, "you don't speak a lot, but your eyes are always talking. "

Your fingertip runs across his bottom lip, watching how his tongue daringly darts out to lick the pad of it. Leaves a thin, glistening trail as you trace toward his lower jaw, stroking past three-day-old scruff to find the pale white line of a scar, courtesy of a bar fight. "And this old scar, from when we first met..." pausing to stroke down his neck, finding a matching mark beneath his chin, "this one, too..."

"I have a scar there?" He's reaching up, rubbing where your finger rests.

Humming, you press a kiss to each minuscule mark, fingers running along the sides of his neck as you work your way to the soft space beneath his ear. "And the noise you make when I suck on the skin here," pressing your lips there, pleased to hear that involuntary gasp as you apply a little suction, "is worth its weight in gold."

"You don't...you don't have to do this..." his voice vibrates against your mouth, some deep rumbling that could put you to sleep on the spot. 

"I know," beginning to work your way down now, popping open the buttons of this soft, pearl-snap flannel that he loves so much, "but I want to."

The final button comes loose, breaking away to expose his wonderfully pale chest, remarkably soft for a cowboy. Skin like silk beneath your palms, roaming over the broad expanse of him. Thumbs drifting overtop sensitive, dusky pink nipples on their way to trace up his ticklish sides. He's too sore for his back to arch off the back, but oh, does he try. 

"And this scar, too..." pressing kisses to the prominent, raised skin near the meet of his left shoulder, beneath his collarbone, "I wasn't there to see it, but you've told me the story so many times that I feel like I was."

Now you're working across, tongue trailing until you can lave over the black ink that occupies the right side of his chest. "And this tattoo you got when you were sixteen, using the fake ID that you still carry in your wallet," the lines are no longer crisp, but you wouldn't have it any other way, "You tell me you hate it, but it just goes to show how dedicated you can be when your heart is in it." 

Rhett's breathing shifts, deepening as you work lower; already knows where your mouth is going. 

"Then there are these cute little nipples," spiraling around the little nub with your tongue, right hand working his other one in perfect synchrony. Feeling them roll against your touch, drinking in the whimper that he can't swallow down. "Always so sensitive for me." 

Your assault only stops long enough for you to switch sides, working the right one with the same enthusiasm as the first. A simple thing that has Rhett bracing his hand on your bicep. Needs something to hang onto that isn't the comforter. 

When you pull away, inspecting your handiwork, you're more than pleased to find that pale pink has blossomed into bright red. Just as swollen and wet as his lips. 

Again, you're moving. Never in one place for too long, working your way down his bruised belly. Pressing feather-light kisses to each and every mark that mar his flesh; maybe if you pepper enough to them, they'll heal faster. All the while unclasping his buckle and tugging the zipper down. 

"Can you lift your hips for me?" Hooking your fingers into his waistband as you ask. 

His hips lift, shaky as you pull his jeans and boxers down all in one go; hardly has the strength to let you get the material past his ass. But then you're tugging it down his legs, and he's collapsing against the mattress with a pained grunt. Chest heaving with the effort. 

As soon as those jeans hit the floor, you're pressing your mouth to the inside of his ankle, overtop a darkened bruise; you're not sure how Perry gave him this, and you don't think you want the answer, either. 

Traveling up again, following the dots of four mosquito bites that trail up to his knee, licking the trail of a series of stretch marks that lead you all the way up to his inner thigh. These soft, plush thighs that so few have had the pleasure of seeing. 

"I love these thighs," your words muffled because you can't bring your mouth away from them for more than a second. "They fit so nicely in my hands, perfect to squeeze." He squirms as you suck darkened marks into that pale flesh, soothing them with your tongue. Working your way up to where his cock twitches against his lower belly, needy.

But you've got a few more pit stops to make first.

Namely, these hips. Boney and a little sharp. There's a bruise on his left one, not from Perry, not from the hooves of a bull, but from the edge of your kitchen counter. He's been smacking into it so long that it's become a customary thing. 

"And your hips," gripping them in your hands, feeling them writhe, because he'd rather your tongue trace away from his hip and closer to somewhere else. "I love getting to sneak up behind you and grab them, even when you roll your eyes like you are now."

Rhett freezes at that.

A creature of habit, he is.

"The dimples in your spine, right above your cute ass that you always struggle to get into your jeans," you can't pepper those spots with attention, not right now, but you'll get to another day. For now, you're very happy with tracing your nails up his thighs, watching him wriggle once more. "You're lucky I can't make you roll over, Abbott."

He's quiet as you move over to his arm, paying your attention to the thick muscle that you've drooled over more times than you can count, "I love your biceps, even if you think they're not as big as you want them to be."

"And I love your forearms, so strong, even when they don't need to be," It's trying to move, trying to stroke your shoulder, a little difficult for you to lower your head, but you make it work.  "And this tattoo you impulsively got three days before you met me." The wound there doesn't look as bad now that it's had a day to heal. A perfect slice through the ink that almost looks intentional.

But you're not done, "And these veins..." tongue poking past your lips once more, tracing over them, "so easy to trace and get you riled up."

His knuckles brush against your cheek, lightly stroking. The back of his hand right there for you to nip at, lazily soothing over with your mouth after. "I love these hands of yours, calloused and worn beyond their years," Don't care that you're getting a little carried away as you lick up his fingers.  "Tough enough to hold onto a bull, yet always so gentle when you touch me with them."

As you wonder about what part of him you should lavish with attention next, your eyes flick up.

Oh, that's not what you expected at all. 

His eyes glassy and wide, thin trails of tears shining on his cheeks, mouth opening and closing, wrapping around the shapes of words but unable to voice them. The same word over and over, so familiar...

"And you, Rhett," rising again as you speak, taking his wet cheeks into your hands, warm beneath your touch, "the sweetest cowboy I could have ever met, with the biggest heart I've ever seen." "There aren't enough words in the English language to depict just how much I love you." 

Your name tumbles out of him. Hardly a whisper, voice cracking, wavering. 

That's the only thing he can say as his arms wind around you and pull your body against his, burying his face within the crook of your shoulder. A sob rattles out of him, but it's different compared to the ones you've been hearing as of late. 

"I love you," he murmurs into your collar, vibrating up your neck, "I love you."

You only mean to shift your weight, unintentionally brushing your thigh between his legs and Rhett whines.

As he lays back against the mattress, and your noses press together, peering back into one another's eyes, you reach down. Finally, finally, wrapping your palm around his dripping cock. Hard as can be, the tip glistening in the light as you loosely stroke him. 

"Is that what you were wanting, cowboy?" Your answer comes in the form of him reaching toward the bedside table, getting ahold of the new bottle of lube sitting atop it. So new that you have to stop and remove the plastic from it before you can properly slick him up. 

His hips rise off the bed, needily chasing your touch, the sweet whimper in his throat dancing with the wet sounds of the lube. Always so responsive for you, and you've hardly done anything to him.

"Hah, that..." Rhett's eyes screw shut, head bobbing from side to side, as your thumb polishes over his head, working over the slit and all. "But...you." 

"You don't need to worry about me," on its own, your mind darts to what lurks in the box next to your bed. Plenty of things to play with. "I don't wanna hurt you, remember?"

Rhett's not having it. Bottom lip pouting. "But it feels better when I know you're feelin' good, too," His voice high, breathy, "Please?" 

He could sell you on a one-way ticket to the moon if he really wanted to. 

He must know he's convinced you, too, because he's already pulling your shirt over your head. Hands roaming up your sides, cupping your breasts in his big palms, still wet from your ventures with your tongue. Then go your pants, joining Rhett's on the floor with the quietest noise. 

"Now, what if I really do hurt you?" Your palm runs over his belly, watching how he tenses despite your feather-light touch. So, so sore. Bound to be worse in the morning.

His left-hand trembles as he drizzles lube onto his fingers; it should be resting in his sling like the doctor ordered, but between the walk from the truck to the house, he's wriggled out of it. "Ain't too worried 'bout that." 

"But—"

Wet fingers slip between your folds, lazily pausing to stroke your clit on their way to their destination. "If I can ride a bull, y'sure as hell can ride me." 

Stubborn to the damn end. 

And you want to complain. Never let him hear the end of how you don't want to hurt him. But two of those wicked fingers of his are pushing into you without the slightest warning, and your higher thinking vanishes within an instant. Stolen away by the drag of calloused fingertips, has you shuddering before they've even passed the second knuckle. 

A chuckle bubbles out of Rhett's chest, darkened eyes glinting; he knows what he's doing. Grinning to himself as he begins to those fingers of his in and out of you, eyelashes fluttering when you clench around them. 

Your attention darts to his neglected cock, laying haphazardly against his belly, precum spilling out of his tip like a leaky faucet. Perfect to reach for and torment, sliding your thumb over his cock head, spreading it around him. 

Rhett's hips jerk, a breath bursting out of him, "St—hah, stop that." 

One little touch, and he's twitching in your hand. It's only been a week since the last time. Is he that sensitive already?

Those fingers of his twist, cooking to drive against something that has your thighs quivering, letting go of his cock to brace yourself against the bed. Damn it, damn it, damn it. 

"Alright," reaching down, you take hold of his wrist and pull him out of you. Disappointed by the loss of his fingers, even though you know you'll get something better in just a moment. "But just remember, this was your idea." 

"I know it," Rhett's good hand rises to settle on your hip as you move to straddle him. Contentedly rubbing the skin there as you take hold of him once more, guiding his leaking tip between your folds. 

And who's to stop you from lazily rubbing him against your clit, gentle spirals that makes your fingertips tingle. It's hard telling if Rhett moans first or if it's you all along, gasping together like it's all you know how to do. 

"Fuck," muttering under his breath, peering up at you from beneath thick lashes. "That's...different..." 

Your hand twitches. Pulls him back far enough to catch on your entrance. Ends your fun too soon, but the delicious pressure of him against you is too good to miss. With a shaky breath, you sink down on him, eyes falling shut at the stretch of him. 

Rhett's panting like a dog beneath you, the hand on your hip growing loose as you slowly but surely take him. God, he's so thick, and it's not fair. Stretching you wide, his plush head dragging against the walls of your cunt. So hard to relax when he seems to fill you completely, bordering the line between a perfect fit and a little too much.

His hip bones press into your ass as you bottom out. Your chest heaving, heart pounding in your chest. Think you can feel him throbbing inside of you, subtle little pulses of his cock that make you jolt. 

"Are you alright?" You ask. Struggling to open your eyes.

Rhett's hand rises, smoothing up your waist and settling on your breast, pressing his palm against it. "Think I outta be askin' you that, darlin'." 

You're more than alright. 

Carefully, you lean forward, bracing one hand on the mattress, the other on his heaving chest, steering clear of his bruises. On its own, your thumb flicks over his nipple, gasping when he jolts up into you. 

"Y'gotta leave those alone," he fusses, but he doesn't stop you from craning your neck to suck on one of them. Worrying the hardening bud between your teeth, listening to him whine at the attention, only letting go once it's begun to swell once more. 

 Before he can open his mouth again, you begin to move. 

Raising yourself up, feeling him twitch inside of you, then sinking right back down. Starting shallow, for his sake more than your own. Breathing out a silent noise as you feel him move inside of you, thick length massaging against a particular bundle of nerves within you, without the slightest effort. 

"Fuck, fuck, you're tight," he whimpers, eyes barely open as he peers up at you, hair spread out beneath his head in a messy halo. "Baby, baby..."

"Is that what you were needing, cowboy?" Teasing, not bothering to fight the noises he's working out of you. Feeling those devilish hips swivel. The best he can do. 

And those lewd little noises are spilling out of him like a waterfall. Whimpers carried to your ears by his short, quickened breaths, "uhuh." 

Drawing yourself up quicker now, settling into a comfortable rhythm that lets you feel the drag of his cock head inside of your pussy. Filling you impossibly well, so deep that you're not sure how he fits. 

"Can feel you flutterin' round me," his voice gravelly, absolutely hypnotized by the way your body moves on top of him. Even that shaky left hand is rising, settling on your thigh, needs to feel your muscles flex with your motions. 

On your own, you clamp down around him; almost regret it because the noise he makes sends something stirring to life within you. Warm. Familiar.

"Again," Rhett babbles, head rolling side to side, "please—please, do that again."

 Your thighs are beginning to ache, forces your pace to fall into something shallower as you squeeze down around him once more. Oh, oh, oh, how he jerks up into you at that. Rips a surprised cry out of you as his hips come off the mattress, slamming into you.

"Fuck, Rhett," your eyes bursting open; don't remember closing them. 

"'M already close," his voice an octave higher, words punctuated by the smack of skin on skin. Biting on his lips, trying to swallow down those noises you're working out of him.

Your hand trembles as it rises to pull his lip free of his teeth, replacing it with your thumb. That short, hot tongue swirls around on it, lazily sucking on it, eyes falling shut. So, so focused. "You gonna cum for me, cowboy?" 

He can't speak, too busy with your finger, can only nod and hum. It's easy, pressing down on his tongue, pinning it down if only to feel it writhe. 

"Come on, sweet boy," you're cooing, urging him on, fighting to keep yourself going. He's already twitching in you. Little jerks of his cock that always bubble to the surface when he's close. "Cum." 

Those pretty blue eyes roll back into his head. And with the quitest sob, he cums. 

Muscles flexing as he jolts up into you, back arching despite it all, the hand on your thigh squeezing tight. A familiar heat fills you. Ropes of sticky, hot cum, pumping inside, already beginning to spill out as you ride him through it. Gradually slowing, pulling your thumb from his slackened mouth, watching him spin back down from the clouds. 

"Keep," he's interrupted by a desperate gasp for air. "Keep goin'."

Well, that's new. "Are you sure?" Because you can already feel him beginning to soften inside of you, spent. 

"Wanna feel you cum 'round me," pleading like his life depends on it, voice gone raspy, "Please, please, please."

Something about the way he says it stirs something to life within you. Ache in your thighs seeming to disappear as you begin to move once more, too distracted by the way he reaches down, pressing rough fingers to your sensitive clit. Regaining your rhythm once more, dizzied by the delicious thickness of him inside of you. Sickeningly loud squelch be damned.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," babbling under his breath, Rhett's fighting to keep his eyes open. Hungry gaze eating up the sight of you, using him for your own pleasure.

"Good boy," leaning back, savoring how he's twitching in your pussy, already beginning to harden once more, "hang on for me." 

And Rhett's shaking. His muscles tremoring as heat blooms between your legs, thumb struggling to spiral around your swollen clit, shaking too damn hard to stay steady. Downright vibrating. His thighs spasm beneath you, whimpering high in his throat, and he sounds so, so pretty like that. Looks it too.

Just the sight of him has you clenching around him like a vice, head beginning to spin. Rhythm faltering as you all but chase the heat starting to spread between your legs, spurred on by his trembling thumb and the drag of his plush head against the inside of you. Skin prickling. Close, close, close. 

His hips jolt up on their own. Once. Twice. And you're gone. 

A silent noise stumbling out of you as your eyes screw shut. Body freezing. Pulsing around him as your orgasm washes over you like a ton of bricks. Distantly aware that you're falling forward. Head coming to rest against his collar. Stars dancing beneath your eyelids. A dull tingling in your limbs. 

Rhett's hips jolt one more time. Short. Jerky. And you're distantly aware that he's cumming again. 

You wonder if this is how it feels to take a hard fall off a bull. A brief blankness in memory, followed by the slow opening of eyes. Barely able to recall where you are before the ache in your thighs comes knocking at the door. 

"Don't..." Rhett whispers, lips tickling your ear, "Don't move...just for a minute."

You're glad that he asked because you don't think you can move. "Can I convince you on a bath and a movie?" Because if you two stay on this bed for too long, you'll have to rewash this comforter. 

"Will you get in with me?" And if you thought his lips tickled, then his hot breath is a different monster entirely. 

"Of course, I will," pressing a kiss to his collar before finishing your sentence. "Whatever you want, cowboy." And it seems you may have left him a few hickeys because you don't recall him having bruises here. 

"Whatever I want?" And you can hear the cocky grin in his voice. 

God, why did you ever tell him that? "...that's what I said."

He seems to think for a minute. Looking for something that will truly test your resolve, simply to see if you're true to your word. "Then d'you think you can put that sling back on me after?" How dare he sound so shy, with his softening dick still in you. "Shits startin' to hurt." 

"Where did you put it?"

"I haven't the slightest clue."

How you wind up finding it hanging off the top of the refrigerator is anyone's guess.

Thunk.

"Shit!" Rhett's voice echoes from the kitchen; you don't need to think to know what just happened. "Fuck this fucking—I'm not gonna miss this damn counter!" 

The landlord is gonna shave some funds off your deposit for the dent your poor cowboy has put into that tabletop. That you know for sure.

"Consider it a parting gift," you chirp, scooping up the last of your boxes. Picture frames, delicately wrapped in old newspaper and towels. 

When you'd moved into this house, you had a grand total of ten boxes. Hardly anything to your name, other than essentials you'd scrapped up from yard sales and big box store sales. Just little old you in a big house that's seen more life than you could have ever hoped to live

But now, as you finally, finally move out of this century-old place, you've got more boxes than you can count. Cookware, throw pillows, knick-knacks brought to you by a cowboy who didn't know how to court you. Stacks of DVDs and CDs, a stuffed bull bought at a rodeo, plaid curtains and blankets, memories galore. 

Rhett's lingering by the door. Big hands reaching out to take the box from you; it's not heavy, but you've given up on bickering about who can carry what. 

His gaze is heavy, falling to focus on the box. Index finger tapping on the cardboard, in its own uneasy tune. 

"You alright?" You chirp, surprised by how your voice carries in this house now that it's completely empty.

His boot taps the ground. If you were outside, he'd be kicking the dirt. "Are you really sure you want a home with me in it?" 

The hardwood squeaks beneath your feet as you step forward, crouching to catch his eye. They lock with yours, following as you rise once more. "I can't imagine a house without you in it, cowboy," licking the pad of your thumb, wiping away a streak of dirt from his cheek. "Even if you do try to distract me with kisses, so you can steal cookie dough off the tray."

His gaze falls again. The tips of his ears go red, smiling to himself like it's your first date all over again. 

 Your hands squish his cheeks. They've gotten a touch thicker now that he's exchanged bull riding for lazy nights on the couch with you. And they're perfect. "What are you?" 

His eyelashes flutter. Mouth opening, then closing, only to open again. "Worth it." And then he's twisting his head to bite your thumb and darting out the open door. Tripping over his own feet as you come after him. Giggling, yelling his futile, I'm sorry's, despite provoking this all on his own.

Yeah, you're glad you picked this cowboy. 

[poltertoast]

I raise you: Toast talking Ghost through a panick attack after he tried to pull off his face.

Ghost wearing masks to combat the fact that he doesn't fully identify with his own face after the puppet arc. He gets therapy for it but it still lingers about.

[typicalopposite]

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚘 𝙵𝚕𝚢 (𝙸 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕)

BuckTommy Fic | M | Chapter 3/7 | 5595 words

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | ao3

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎: 𝙸 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚞 (𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎)

PLEASE READ TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS

There’s a distinct noise a body makes when it hits the ground after a significant fall. A splat— a squelch— that’s unmistakable, and sickening. Buck has heard it far more times than he’d like to think about, and yet at the moment it seems the forest has gone silent for it. Like all of nature holds its breath along with him in anticipation of that god forsaken sound. 

Buck tries to close his eyes before Tommy hits the ground, but just like a nightmare (which is what this feels like; what he wishes it were) they stay wide open. He sees everything. He sees the exact moment the sound happens; this time up close and far more personal than any other. There is just a moment more of silence—like the universe is paying its respects for what it has just done—then all the noise comes flooding back. 

Buck stops moving—he can’t get any closer. He tries to take in a breath and it catches halfway. The air is suddenly too thick, and too hot… and uthere’s a good chance he’s going into shock. 

Tommy’s body is contorted in a way that’s not too gruesome, but enough that it’s clearly not natural. There’s no way—Buck can’t break his eyes away from his body, as much as he desperately wants to—but it looks like he is still breathing. He knows it’s just a cruel trick of the eye; dead bodies appearing to breathe. There's just no way. Buck finally looks away. 

Again he tries to take a breath; again he doesn’t get in much air before the flow is stopped by the ever tightening of his chest. There’s also a chance he could be having a heart attack. Bobby did, from the stress he was under… and this very well might have that stress beat. 

“Oh god…” he chokes out, voice strangled by the bile rushing up into his throat. He feels like he might be sick, or maybe pass out, and he desperately needs to scream or cry… or both… or all of the above. His head feels like it might explode… the amount of guilt and anger and grief filling it is just too much. 

There’s a soft rustling of leaves. So soft he almost misses it; his head is spinning so fast and his ears are buzzing so loud, he’s surprised he’s even still standing, much less able to pick up on random noises. He hears the rustling again. It’s coming from the direction of Tommy’s body. It could be an animal… he needs to look back. 

Tommy’s hand is moving. 

His fingers are curling into the leaves and twigs then stretching back out. Buck thinks it might just be nerves… because there’s no way— Tommy sucks in a deep breath, then groans. “Oh my god!” Buck gasps, his knees finally giving out and he collapses to the ground. Tommy is breathing; it’s ragged, and each breath in his face twists like it hurts to do so… but he is definitely breathing. 

His hand closes around the foliage again. He opens his mouth and exhales sharply: “Eh… ehh…v…” he manages, slowly turning his head to the side, before sucking in another pained breath. “Ev… Ev!” Buck gasps, scrambling across the ground to Tommy’s side.

He very gently, very carefully, slides his hand under Tommy’s, and the bloody hand grabs on weakly. “Hey— hey,” Buck says, hovering his body over Tommy’s. The non swollen eye is still closed; the other one crusted over. 

“Ev’n,” Tommy manages, his hand opening and closing around Buck’s. Blood trails run down his cheeks from his nose. His lips are dark red, teetering towards purple, likely from the lack of oxygen he’s getting from the staggered breathing. 

“Tommy,” Buck whispers, bringing his other hand up to Tommy’s cheek. He’s so scared to touch him, he doesn’t know what’s broken, or bruised, or sore. He would hate himself if he hurt him more than he can only imagine he already is… more than he already has…  Tommy doesn’t move, Buck holds his breath, fearing the worst has caught up to them. Oh how typical would it be if the universe let him live just to take him right after; literally right out of Buck’s hands… But he can still see the shallow breaths. He’s still here, for now. “Hey… I’m here. I’m— I’m right here. I’m with you…” 

Slowly the good eye cracks open—that’s such an understatement… it’s just the only one that can open. He blinks it a couple times before the eye turns and looks at Buck. It widens, the corners of his lips turning up every so slightly, and he lets out a sigh, squeezing Buck’s hand. “Bu— B- Bu— K..” 

Maybe you should just stick with Buck…

“Hey, no… no don’t—” Buck squeezes Tommy’s hand back, carefully bringing it up his lips, he kisses over the swollen knuckles. “It’s Evan… please… it’s still Evan…” That gets him as much of a smile as Tommy can manage across his swollen face; his thumb grazes slowly across Buck’s cheek, catching a tear. 

“‘M… s’rry…” 

“For— for what?! You didn’t— It’s me who should be apologizing…”

Tommy jerks his head back and forth. “No… ‘m s’rry…” His eye stares up at Buck, tears welling up in it until he blinks and it topples over.

“Okay, okay… it’s okay,” Buck says, a soft laugh escaping as he clings to Tommy’s hand. “We can work on apologies and who should and shouldn’t give them later…” He looks around, not even sure how far from a clearing they are. “Right now I just have to— I have to get you out of here…” But he can’t even remember the direction his Jeep is in— much less how he’s supposed to get Tommy back to it—he was just running so wildly in his panic. 

He removes his hand from Tommy’s cheek and goes into his pocket for his phone. No signal. There's a creak from above him, and he looks up at the helicopter. His first thought: there’s no way to get up to the radio; second thought, the radio is probably broken anyway; third thought, the helicopter is creaking… it’s falling… It’s going to fall, right on top of Tommy. 

Shit. 

If there is one thing Hen and Chimney has ingrained in his head about fall injuries… you don’t move them without a neck brace and backboard… and you definitely don’t move them by yourself. Another creak and suddenly those teachings seem to matter far less. He looks down at Tommy, who is still staring up at him with his one glassy eye; still almost smiling through the swelling and the blood; still clinging to his hand. 

“I— I have to…” he says, and Tommy squeezes his hand, gives him the slightest nod. Buck might have only imagined it, but he nods back, and moves until he’s at Tommy’s head. “Okay…” he whispers, letting go of Tommy’s hand, to hook his arms under Tommy’s. “Okay, one… two…” a louder creak, the helicopter shifts. “Three!” Buck screams and pulls Tommy across the ground. He sucks in as much air as his body will allow and grunts, his eye screws shut. 

It’s not nearly far enough. 

Buck moves back and again—as carefully, but as quickly as he can—pulls Tommy with him. He does this until they are far enough away from the helicopter it won’t affect them in a fall; and fall it does. 

There's another loud creak and the helicopter comes crashing right down onto the spot still covered in Tommy’s blood. Buck throws himself over Tommy’s body to shield it from the debris that is thrown at them from the crash, but they are otherwise fine. “Oh my— oh my god…” Buck gasps, looking back at the wreckage. If the radio wasn’t busted before… It is now. He looks at Tommy; he’s still breathing. Buck could cry… he is barely breathing, but still breathing. His eye is still closed, and Buck touches his cheek. “Hey— hey, just— just stay with me okay?” Tommy cracks it just enough to look at him a moment before letting it fall back closed. Buck laughs. He breathes a sigh, and checks his phone again… still no signal. 

It would take a miracle for them to be found, he thinks… then off in the distance, he hears the faint whirring of a propeller. 

“There’s no way,” he mumbles to himself. Looking up through the cracks in the treetops, as the sound intensifies… They are about to pass over. “You hear that?!” He laughs, looking down at Tommy. His eye is closed, and he doesn’t open it again, but he does squeeze Buck’s hand. “I’m gonna— I’m going to go try to flag them down… I’ll be right back,” Buck says, bringing Tommy’s hand up to his lips before gently laying it down on his chest. 

He pushes up to his feet, his legs still wobbly, and runs over to the wreckage. There’s a fairly big opening from the helicopter coming through, but he wonders if it’s big enough. The helicopter gets closer, the propellers louder, until it’s about to pass over the opening. Buck already knows his neck is going to go stiff from looking up so long but he doesn’t care, and starts screaming and flailing his arms. 

It passes over. 

He screams louder. Jumps up and down right on his bad leg. He’s sure he’ll feel that later, too, but he couldn’t care less right now. He just hopes they saw the opening; saw him. 

They did. 

The helicopter comes back to the opening and hovers. “Hey! Hey— yeah here. He’s— he’s here!” The door opens, and a ladder drops. McCarty pokes his head out, then turns and starts to climb down. The helicopter lowers enough the ladder is almost at the ground, just low enough that McCarty can safely hop off. “Oh god, I can’t— thank god…” Buck exclaims, teetering back; McCarty grabs him before he falls. 

“Whoa there, kid… you good?” 

Buck nods, points back to Tommy, then starts running back without warning. “Tommy,” he calls towards him. “Tommy! They— they’re here. McCarty’s—”

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

“Tommy!?”

“Holy shit…” he hears McCarty gasp from behind him. 

“Tommy!” Buck drops to the ground, and takes his hand back; it falls, limp. “No! Tommy… they— they’re here! P- Please…” 

“Collier…” McCarty says into his walkie, his voice solemn. “Take that clearing… we’re— we’re gonna need all hands… to— to move Kinard’s—”

“No!” Buck screams back over his shoulder. “He’s— he’s not— I just have to— I’m starting compressions!” Gently he turns Tommy’s body so it’s flat—as flat as he can get it considering… He wonders how much more damage his body can take, and CPR isn’t a gentle technique by any means. He starts it anyway. 

“Kid,” McCarty says, laying a hand on his shoulder after the first set and Tommy’s still not breathing. “Buckley,” he says more sternly after the second. 

“He’s alive!” Buck gasps! Looking back at McCarty. “I— I don’t know how… but he… he survived the fall.”

“The fall?” 

Buck nods, going back to blow air into Tommy’s lungs. The smell, and taste, of blood is so strong it’s making him feel sick. He finally feels air blow back. “See! See- see- see! He’s— he’s breathing!” Buck sits back on his heels, pointing frantically at Tommy’s chest; the rise and fall much slower this time… but once again there. 

“I’ll be damned… he’s— hell…” McCarty gasps, staring at Tommy in disbelief, he opens the neck brace he brought down with him and Buck helps him get it around Tommy’s neck. “Collier! Have you landed her yet?” McCarty says into his walkie. 

“Affirmative. We’re heading in now,” Collier replies. 

McCarty runs his fingers through his short cropped hair, and laughs. “Make it quick, sir… he’s alive!” 

“Come again?” 

“Tommy is alive! But he’s in pretty rough shape, we’re gonna have to be quick.” 

Buck leans over Tommy, touching his face. “Hey, did you hear that? They’re coming!” He slides his hand back into Tommy’s; it's limp, so Buck squeezes it instead. “You’re getting out of here…” He waits, hoping Tommy will open his eye again, but he doesn't. It’s okay… he tells himself, at least he’s breathing.

He looks up when he hears the crunch of feet on the leaves and twigs. Collier walks up to McCarty, looks down at Tommy in shock. “You— you sure he’s—”

“Yes sir… he’s breathing.” 

Two more firefighters are right behind him holding the backboard. Buck doesn’t recognize them. They are young, likely new; Tommy had mentioned getting a few recruits. One — their name tag says, Dominguez — looks around Collier and McCarty at Tommy’s body and pales. The other — Hicks — tears up and has to turn her eyes away.  

“Come on you two…” Collier snaps. “Get it together and get over there!” They quickly straighten up and run over to Tommy. Buck moves back, letting them do their job, even if every fiber of his being is itching to help them. McCarty and Collier join them, and in no time Tommy is strapped to the backboard, lifted up between the four of them. They all but run past Buck, in the direction they came and he doesn’t hesitate to follow after them. 

Dominguez climbs in and they feed the board through the door, carefully laying it on the gurney and securing it. Then Hicks climbs in, immediately going for blood pressure cuffs, and IVs. Collier radios into the hospital that they are coming in, then back to the station that they have him. Buck can hear someone talking back, their voice frantic… but he’s too busy staring at the empty seat next to where McCarty just sat down. 

“Can— can I?” He asks, knowing he doesn’t deserve this right; knowing Tommy’s team might not give it to him. 

Collier looks out at him from the pilot’s seat. “What about your vehicle?” Buck quickly shrugs; the forest rangers could keep it for all he cares. “Alright, make room,” he yells behind him. McCarty surprisingly smiles, and clears the free seat. Dominguez and Hicks give each other a look, but go straight back to working on Tommy. 

Buck sits quietly, watching them hook up a couple lines; getting him started on fluids, and oxygen. Dominguez uses a wet wipe on the swollen eye, and then pulls it open once the crust is cleaned off. He shines the light over both. “Both pupils are reactive,” he says, and Buck lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Hick looks up at him, not even trying to hide the scowl that crosses her face. 

“This is exactly what Lucy was afraid would happen…” she says, quietly… but definitely let it be loud enough Buck would hear it. McCarty sighs, and glares at her. “What?” she continues, voice now raised. “It’s true… I mean, look at where we’re at…” 

Buck feels his face heat up, and looks away from Tommy—from them—to his hands. Tommy twitches, and groans. “E- Ev…’n” 

“Oh shit…” Dominguez gasps. “Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?” 

“Ev’n,” Tommy repeats, trying to turn his head. “E- Ev’n…” 

Dominguez looks at Hicks, who sighs, gesturing for Buck to come closer. 

Buck stalls. 

Look at where we’re at…

Why the hell does he stall? Because in that split second decision Tommy’s eye, that is cracked open—searching the limited vision space it has for Buck… for Evan—rolls to the back of his head. His body seizes up. Every machine they have attached to him starts blaring alarms. 

McCarty moves past Buck to help Dominguez hold Tommy’s body still. Hicks tries to get a reading for his BP, his pulse, his oxygen levels, something… anything. Collier lowers the helicopter onto the hospital's helipad. Buck… still doesn’t move. He stares—maybe he is in shock, maybe he should have expected this… 

Everything had worked out too well. It had been too… easy; too convenient; too miraculous. Something was bound to go wrong.  

The residents waiting on the roof for them, snatch the door open as soon as the helicopter touches down. Tommy is lifted out, placed onto another gurney and is quickly wheeled away into the hospital before Buck fully even registers they have landed. His eyes are burning; he blinks against the tears, and follows McCarty out of the cabin. Tommy is long gone, rushed off to an OR to access the damage… and Buck had stalled. 

Why the hell did he stall. 

He didn’t let him know he was there. He should have let him know he was there… and now he might never—

Buck looks at his hands.

“Buckley,” Collier calls from the helicopter. “You want a lift back to your vehicle?” A moment passes before he repeats, “Buckley,” a bit louder. 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, it’s McCarty. “You good? Do you need to be checked out?” He asks. Buck lifts his eyes from his hands to McCarty’s face. He blinks, trying to register what was even just said to him. It clicks, he shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine,” he lies. Or, well… he mostly lies. Physically he is fine. Mentally, though? Emotionally? He’s honestly a wreck. But the pain in his heart—the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts and regrets running wild in his head—is not something anyone is going to be able to check out and fix; it’s not something anyone needs to worry about. He deserves to feel it. He blinks slowly, looking back down to his hands, suddenly hyper aware of how tired he feels from the adrenaline finally plummeting to the ground (as sickly ironic as that metaphor may seem now).  “I’m— I’m fine,” he repeats, thinking maybe doubling down on the statement will really sell it. 

He turns and walks away before either can respond; off of the hospital’s helipad through the sliding glass doors into the oh-too familiar white walls, and the strong scents of disinfectant, iodine, and saline. 

He probably shouldn’t be able to navigate the hospital as well as he has become accustomed to doing. He is a firefighter after all, not a doctor… Yet his eyes remain on his hands, rather than ahead of him, and he still easily manages to reach the elevator—taking it down to the emergency room floor—with no issue. 

A part of him desperately grasps for a shred of positivity. Internally he gives himself reminders of all the times he has been here before for some situation that seemed dire and then turned out alright in the end. A much bigger, much more negative, but logical, part of him replays the fall, the flight to the hospital, the hospital staff taking the gurney through the doors out of sight, over and over and over as if to say: How can this turn out alright?! 

The answer? It can’t. It won’t. It’s not possible. He fell from too high; he lost too much blood; he sustained severe internal damage. 

He continues to look at his hands…

“Buck,” a voice calls just as he steps into the waiting area; it’s Bobby. He looks up shocked to see his team there, unsure how they even knew to come, and wishing he could find some solace in the fact they are here, and he is not alone. He finds none. “What happened?” 

“He happened,” another voice says, so angrily it makes Buck flinch. Morris storms across the room towards Buck, face red and pulled down into a deep frown. Buck realizes his team isn’t the only one here… “What the hell are you even doing here, Buckley?” The man snarls, making it into Buck’s space. Bobby reaches out an arm to keep him from getting any closer. Morris scoffs: “You don’t have to protect him, Nash. I’m not stupid, I won’t touch him… Tommy wouldn’t want—” Morris takes a breath and steps back from Buck anyway. “Why don’t you just leave, kid…” he says, voice suddenly drained as if he put all his energy into the sudden burst of anger. “You’re good at that.”

Buck wilts. He tries to not let it be visible; he doesn’t deserve to let it be visible. He doesn’t deserve sympathy (he doesn’t think anyone is really going to sympathize with him anyway… maybe his team will… although they have been pretty upset with him too). “That’s enough,” Bobby says, staring down Morris like he’s daring him to speak again; it manages to make Buck feel better and worse at the same time. 

Hen approaches him, with Chimney and Eddie on her heels. “What do we know, Buck?” She asks, voice kept low so that the question stays within their circle. “How bad is it…”

“It’s— He— He’s… in surgery… I guess— I’m sure. I was so— so close, Hen—” Bucks shoulders rise up then fall in a helpless shrug. “I tried. I tried to get to him but he fell; I couldn’t— there was nothing I could—” 

He looks at his hands, they are trembling. 

He wants to cry. He wants to finally let go and break down, and just maybe someone will have pity on him enough to comfort him through it. He takes a breath and once again pushes the emotions away. He doesn’t deserve any kind of release. He doesn’t deserve pity, or comfort. He does deserve the anger… he has half a mind to chase after Morris just to be given another dose of it. He looks at his hands.

“Buck,” Eddie says, squeezing his shoulder. “You can’t— it’s not—” Buck looks up at him, eyes pleading for him to not go there. Don't attempt to take what is rightfully his. Don’t tell him not to blame himself. It is his fault. 

Buck looks at his hands… there’s blood on his hands… Tommy’s blood is on his hands.

“Where is he?!” Buck looks up to see Lucy running into the lobby. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, and they easily find Buck—standing awkwardly in the middle of the full lobby, covered in blood and dirt—and lock on him. “Buck… they— Collier said you found him… was he— is he…” She walks up to Buck, looking to him for answers. Everyone is looking to him for the answers to what happened in that forest; answers only he fully knows. Answers he doesn’t know if he can share… not yet. 

Suddenly he understands Tommy’s reasoning for not telling him about Jay. Suddenly it all makes sense. He looks at his hands… He looks at Lucy. “I’m— I’m so…”

She grabs his shoulders, and shakes her head. “No… Buck you tell me he’s going to be okay! You tell me right now.” 

“Lucy… I— I can’t… he’s—” Buck takes in a shaky breath. “Lucy, I'm sorry—” 

“I don’t need you to comfort me, Buckley.” Lucy snaps, releasing him and stepping back, her voice ice cold in a way she’s never used with him before. “He wasn’t even supposed to be in the air today. Captain grounded him until he could get his head straight…” she narrows her eyes at him, the look slicing through Buck like a knife.”— til he could get over you.” She shakes her head, wipes a tear as it falls from her eye. “He never should have been up there… I was supposed to be the one who went…I— I should have been—”

“You can’t blame yourself—” Buck tries, reaching out to touch Lucy’s arm. She snatches back from him and scoffs. 

“I don’t blame myself,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I blame you.” The words hit Buck like a slap to the face, as Lucy draws in a deep breath, ready to take another swing. “If I had been up there everything would have gone smoothly. I would have actually cared about making it back in one piece… or making it back at all.” 

Buck can feel his eyes widen. “Wh- what’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy tightens her jaw, a hint of regret flashing across her face. “Lucy,” Buck tries again. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Why are you even still here?” She asks instead of answering Buck’s question. “Be- Because you feel guilty? You did your part; you got him to the hospital… So why are you sticking around?” 

Why is he sticking around? 

Because there is absolutely nowhere he would rather be, than here when (if… it's all just a big if right now and that thought terrifies him) Tommy comes out of surgery. He isn’t exactly sure what to say, because he knows he can’t say that. He doesn’t deserve to say that he wants to be here. He does, however, feel guilty, like she said. So guilty in fact it’s making him feel sick; making him feel like there’s a vice around his chest, steadily squeezing. 

“Look,” Lucy finally says after taking a few breaths to calm herself down. “If you honestly think, that the man who acts like you’re the center of his universe; who spends every second of downtime either calling you, texting you… or talking our ears off about you; the man who you’ve said yourself treats you better than anyone else has ever treated you… If you can without a doubt tell me you really think for even just one second that he is this terrible person you have been trying so hard to paint him out to be— then you never deserved him in the first place… And you should just go home and let those of us who do care be here for him.” 

I do care… Buck thinks. “I— I’m sorry…” he says. 

“I need to go call his mom…” Lucy sighs, turning her back to him as she pulls her phone out. She walks back to the 217’s claimed side of the lobby, and Buck is left alone. 

He looks back down at his hands and attempts to wipe the blood off onto his pants, but it has dried. 

“Where’re you going?” Eddie asks when Buck starts across the lobby. 

“I just need to— I need…” he tries, and fails, to find the right words to explain that if he doesn’t get Tommy’s blood off of his hands he is going to go insane. He points to the bathroom, and Eddie relaxes back into his chair. “I’ll be right back,” he mumbles under his breath.

The extremely bright LED light inside the bathroom isn’t helping his raging headache, so he squints as he walks over to one of the sinks. He loads soap into his palm and starts scrubbing… avoiding looking into the mirror. Unable to look at himself. 

The water runs over his hands turning red as it falls into the sink and goes down the drain; his hands are still stained… he adds more soap. 

E- Ev’n…

He scrubs. 

B’ck…

The creak.

He remembers.

The snap. 

He scrubs. 

The water still runs red. He adds more soap. He pictures Tommy falling. He watches it play out again through his memory; Tommy frantically reaching for something to grab. The sound of the scream he lets out when he finds nothing. The splat of him hitting the ground. 

He scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs.

It won’t come off.

He scrubs harder.

He was never supposed to be in the air today. 

He scrubs harder.

I don’t blame him, I blame you.

It won’t come off.

I think I see forever with you. 

He can’t get it off. 

They had plans… He was going to teach Tommy how to surf… Tommy was going to take him to the snow. “Ready to take some big steps,” Buck repeats the words Chimney had said to him when he thought Tommy was taking Buck to meet his mom. 

“She’s going to love you,” Tommy said when they had actually approached the idea. 

They still haven’t even gotten around to his flying lessons. They just never had time. He'd only learned a little Muay Thai… but Tommy always held back; always scared he might hurt him. Little did he know Buck was about to turn around and absolutely destroy him. 

He adds more soap; he scrubs harder. His hands are starting to feel raw. 

The door opens, he doesn’t look. “Buck,” Eddie says, softly at first, then again, panicked. “Buck stop.” He feels Eddie grab his wrists prying his hands apart. Buck fights against him. 

“I can’t look at it anymore, Eddie… I— I can’t!” Doesn’t Eddie see the blood? Doesn’t he understand Buck has to get it off. 

“Hey! Someone help me!” Eddie screams towards the door. 

“What the— hey! Buck, whoa— hey…” Bobby runs over to Buck’s other side, taking one arm while Eddie still has the other. “That’s enough, kid…”

His energy drains once again. He looks at his hands. 

The water is still running red, except the blood is no longer Tommy’s… it’s his. 

Buck looks down at his hands; from his fingertips up past his wrists is deep red, rubbed raw and bleeding. “Oh god…” he gasps, trying to take in a few calming breaths; instead it turns his stomach and he has to push away from the sink, away from Bobby and Eddie’s hold on him, to stumble through the door of the nearest stall. He collapses to the floor  holding his ruined hands away from the seat—the last thing he needs is an infection—as he heaves into the toilet. 

“Here,” Eddie says, handing him some paper towels. 

Buck sits back on his heels. “Thanks…” he says and begins to dab at the still bleeding spots on his hands. 

He wants to cry; he pushes it down.

A hand covers his, stopping his ministrations of trying to stop the bleeding. It's Hen. She offers a genuine smile—he doesn’t deserve that. He looks away. “Hey,” she says softly. “Let me see.” He opens his mouth to say that he’s fine… “I’m not asking,” she says before he can. “Wet these,” she instructs Eddie. “And find me some antibiotic ointment and gauze.” 

Buck hisses as she spreads it over the bleeding spots, avoiding her eyes. She wraps his hands and lays them back in his lap. Bobby and Eddie help Buck to his feet. He thinks he should probably just leave. He is causing more trouble than anything by being here… 

Chimney is waiting in the hall. He looks at Buck, with puffy red rimmed eyes, when he walks out of the bathroom. He looks down at Buck’s hands, and sighs. Buck braces himself for another attack. To be called selfish, and told this is all his fault, that he doesn’t get to take the attention from the person who deserves it by hurting himself. That he’s really being Buck… and he needs to just stop. 

Two arms wrap around him. Chimney holds him like he might just disappear if he doesn’t hang on for dear life. “He’ll get through this, Buckaroo…” Chimney says, and Buck thinks it might hit harder than if he were screaming at him. “Tommy’s strong and— and he will fight to get back to us— to you, okay?” 

Buck sucks in a breath and holds it. He doesn’t deserve this from them… why are they mad at him? The 217 seems to get it. This is his fault. 

They walk with him back to the lobby, and Sal has arrived, sitting with Lucy and Morris. They all look up as the 118 walks Buck to a seat, Eddie and Chimney sitting on either side of him. Sal glances over, the first person not on his team to look at him with pity rather than like he someone hijacked the helicopter’s controls and made it crash himself. 

Hours of a heavy awkward silence pass before a doctor finally walks out into the lobby. “For Kinard,” she says, seemingly taken aback when nearly the whole of the lobby’s occupancy stands up.

“How is he?” McCarty asks. 

“He coded several times during surgery, but he pulled through,” the doctor says. Buck feels the vice around his chest tighten with each injury she explains. Multiple broken bones, a ruptured spleen, a tear in his liver from a broken rib… Severe trauma to his spinal cord… More words to run, and rerun through Buck’s head. She looks over Tommy’s chart, and sighs. “I'm not going to lie to you all, it’s very touch and go right now. All we can do now is monitor him and wait for him to wake up. 

“Can— can we see him?” Lucy asks. The doctor looks around at the large crowd. “We know everyone can’t but—” She looks around her team, and even at the 118. “We’re kind of all he has until his mom gets here.” The doctor reluctantly agrees, says only a few can go in at a time. The rest have to stay in the ICU waiting area. 

Buck feels like his feet are cemented to the floor when everyone starts towards the elevators. He thinks he hears Morris mumble he’d have to go through him to get into Tommy’s room. He thinks he hears Sal say he needs to back off. He thinks he should just go home. Tommy doesn’t need him here, he has his team; he has Buck’s team, too. 

Chimney puts a hand on Buck’s back, breaking him from his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he says, giving a slight nudge that seems to break Buck’s feet free. They wait for an empty elevator and squeeze inside.  

_________

Tags <3

@bucksxkinard @kinkley-are-adorkable-flirts @sira1420 @30somethingautisticteacher @girlwonder-writes @do-androids-dream-ao3acc

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[pfhwrittes]

another one from the prompt list, "how do they deal emotionally after a bad mission".

tw for angst, non-graphic self injury, hurt no comfort (despite kyle's best efforts), and blood mention below the cut.

–

there’s blood under her nails and it won’t come out no matter how much she scrubs. she can still feel it, settling deep into the creases around her knuckles and in the life line on her palm.

a warm palm lands on jonesy’s shoulder and she flinches, wide eyes meet worried brown in the cracked mirror. 

“jonesy, c’mon mate -” jonesy shrugs the hand off and ducks her head and focuses on the bead of blood welling up on her thumb.

“leave it, gaz.” 

pink tinted water slips down the plughole of the basin in the safehouse. 

“he’s fine. barely even a scratch, it’ll take more than a lucky knife to get soap -” 

“i said, leave it.” jonesy’s voice is a whip crack, cutting off pretty soothing words that she knows she doesn’t deserve to hear. a better soldier, a better teammate, a better friend would deserve to hear them. not her. not someone who almost got her friend killed. 

gaz sighs softly and fabric rustles over the sound of running water.

“i’ll be back in a minute, yeah?” he says softly and jonesy ignores him. she scrubs harder at her hands, ignoring the astringent sting of cheap soap against her knuckles. 

the hinges on the bathroom door squeal as gaz retreats. 

there’s blood under her nails and it won’t come out.

[sparrowsortadrawzzz]

pssssst...neurodivergent person.....

reminder to stop picking at your cuticles <33 use an orange stick, some trimmers, and cuticle oil, the owie is not worth it

love you big bunches!

[kriimhild]

We gone too far #15-16

See more on Patreon

tw:

threat a specific human

torture

blood

scars

foul language

adult themes mention

violence

i'm terrible at English sorry about that.

Page collection 1-9

Page collection 10-14 15

16 tw: blood/scars

[kadextra]

Dapper talking about how it feels cold and that it’s “comforting” in their last few entries right after saying she’s using their own health and almost died is literally the biggest red flag ever

[dont-blame-it-on-the-kids]

Feel You in My Bones

Even when wounds are scarred over, when time has passed and she’s grown older, she still feels them in her bones.

TW Assault, Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Self Harm, Domestic Abuse, Drowning

/Ao3 Plink/

Scar Study of Lin by @mgthejerkbender

(commissioned by me for my hc lmao)

[cartoonghosts]

genuinely people need to tag triggers. Love all the 'not my responsibility to tag stuff the way you want it' shit but that is for fandom and weird kinks and whatever not LITERAL PICTURES OF SELF HARM AND BLOOD EVERYWHERE like I'd be fine if it was tagged 'tw blood' (which I don't have blocked!! I'd still be triggered as fuck but hey you tried idc) but when you don't tag it at all I have to assume you are actually trying to hurt someone. Yeah I block immediately but thst doesn't change the fact that I'm triggered and the sh urges are back. This is true for text posts too, although I try to block words (I genuinely hate it so deeply when people sidestep other people's word blocks with 'sewerslide' or button mash numbers in the word like. I am going to fucking kill you. 'Oh noo it's triggering to me uwu' bitch you made me actively suicidal for the first time in months. Fucking die. Don't post that shit if using the actual words triggers you). You ABSOLUTELY ARE responsible for what you put out into the words. People saying 'oh ur not responsible for other peoples triggers and emotions' are genuinely heartless and have never felt human empathy. You ain't responsible for how I react to your content, but you NEED to try your best to give people the bare minimum of warnings when you post triggering shit. Look at ur vent post and be like 'hey I'm gonna tag this as tw vent/ tw si' and you genuinely might save someone's life. Probably not but the chance should be enough for you to care and if it isn't, block me. Don't argue, just block me now.