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delopsia · 6 months

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every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 17,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader, Hanahaki disease, soulmates AU, childhood friends to lovers, alcohol, food mentions, vomiting, first kisses, thunderstorms, (temporarily) unrequited feelings, almost kiss, unprotected sex, eventual happy endings 🌹. Vaguely based on the Gary Allan song of the same name. Brief Summary: It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, and yet, your tattoos don't match. You're not made for each other.

It's hard to tell if the feelings started with the stuffiness in your lungs or if it's something that has always been there.

An indescribable sort of longing that has flown beneath your radar for the better half of a decade. The kind of thing that has let you assume a false sense of comfort under the title of childhood friend.

Best friend, if Rhett has a few drinks buzzing through his system. Two shining plaques with your name written across them in bold letters.

But neither of them are what you and your dumb heart crave. The pride of being called his significant other is a feeling you will never know, so long as your tattoos are around to remind you that they don't match. So, so close in nature, and yet, they're not the same.

It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, so perfect he could fit into your life like a puzzle piece, and yet fate has destined him and you to fall in love with strangers. Not each other.

Never each other.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat. Snowballing larger and larger until you can no longer—

A horn blares.

Your head jerks back toward the street just in time to see the passenger door of an old GMC squeal open. Rhett. Leaned all the way across his bench seat, hair in his face and all.

"Y' comin' or not?" He chirps, already beginning to impatiently pat on the cloth seat, beckoning you in like he would a stray cat.

In this cold little town, your heart burns a little warmer.

How he got here so fast, you'll never know, but you've never been more thankful for it. Water splashes beneath your feet, darting toward his truck and away from the crowd of people raging on behind you. Up into your designated place in his passenger seat, slamming the door closed before you've even gotten settled, effectively shutting off the thumping music and flashing neon lights.

"How did you know where I was?" Because last you recall, you never told him about where you were headed tonight.

Rhett just hums, the noise lost to the rumble of his truck engine. "Recognized the floor in the picture y' sent."

Of course, that would be one of his many odd talents.

"Being able to identify a bar just from the floor tile might mean you have a bit of a drinking problem, Cowboy," your eyes roll, shifting to rest against the door.

"Listen," the streetlight catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a memory, "that checkered pattern is cute 'til your head stars spinnin'."

He's...got a point.

Ugh.

The silence that falls into the truck is a comfortable one. It's the kind of quiet that lets you hear the impatient drum of his fingers, dancing to the soft drone of his radio set to an old country station. Backdropped by the sound of water spraying beneath his tires, washing away weeks upon weeks of built-up dirt from the ranch.

His whole truck could use a good wash, but it won't see a bucket of soap and water until he scores another date with some no-name from the rodeo grounds. Or alternatively, you show up in the middle of the night and scrub it from top to bottom.

Your phone lights up with a text asking about where you went. Sent from some guy you cared so little about that you haven't even bothered to save his number in your contacts. But as you move to unlock the screen, it opens up to a different set of messages.

You: Nothing quite like being stuck at a bar, waiting on your designated driver to decide she wants to leave. 10:47 PM

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

You: I told a guy I didn't want to dance, and he 'accidentally' spilled his drink on me 🙄 10:51 PM

You: But my ride doesn't want to leave for another hour or two. 10:52 PM

You never noticed the message that was sent right after yours.

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

Maybe not every man in this world has gone to shit.

Rhett's hand bumps into your chest, some kind of gray fabric balled up in his hand, "here."

You've seen this old shirt before; it's the first thing he ever bought online, hadn't realized until it arrived that it was a few sizes too big for him. Not particularly ideal for a cowboy who can get caught on equipment, but perfect for your impromptu sleepovers.

"You still have this old thing?" You're already beginning to tug your damp T-shirt over your head. Potential onlookers be damned, you're ready to be free of the overwhelming whiskey bitterness reeking from it.

The back of his knuckles graze up your naked side, guided by the thin path of a decade-old scar. A branding from younger, brighter days; the ones when Cecelia would let you spend weekends on the ranch. Waking up at dawn to help Rhett with his ranch chores because the quicker things got done, the sooner you got to run down and play in the creekbed.

"Still can't believe that piece of glass marred ya like that," Rhett mutters after a long moment. You can't see into his thick skull, but you've got a feeling that he's got a similar memory flickering through his mind.

"To be fair, I did fall on it," slipping your arms through the clean shirt, you pull it over your head, and once again, that old scar is out of sight.

That half-hearted chuckle sends a warmth rushing through your veins. The exact one that shouldn't be there. But he hasn't the slightest clue of the wildfire sitting next to him, back to tapping along on his steering wheel as he drives through the main stretch of town. Past feedstores, tourist shops, dinners, the grocery store, and every other little niche boutique hidden between.

"Thank you." You hardly recognize that it's you speaking. Hadn't realized it was your voice until the sound of it met your ears.

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

But Rhett just reaches over to shake your shoulder. "Y' don't gotta thank me for shit like that," for a fleeting second, he's got just enough time to look away from the road and offer you a lazy smile. "'s what friends do, ain't it?"

Your chest feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Meek, you nod, attention suddenly on the floorboard and nothing else—nothing else to say.

Yeah. That's what friends do.

He doesn't make mention of it, but you've got the feeling that your SOS text must have interrupted another one of his dates. A pile of rose petals rests at your feet, scattered as if they've been swept off the seat in a hurry to make space. Caked in mud and the rainwater that tracked in from your shoes. Storebought, that much you know for sure.

Roses don't grow in Wabang.

The next time you see him, it's planned.

You have, for some reason, allowed yourself to become roped into the craze of Wabang's beloved Sugarbeet festival. Right smack dab in the middle of some old ranching land that the county bought some years back. It would have been a pleasant idea if the festival was hosted in spring or autumn and not in the blistering heat of summer. Not an ounce of shade to be found, nothing but cheap tents to protect you from the beating sun.

It's the kind of misery that makes the outdoors feel like a goddamn oven, and heading out to start your car is its own kind of devil. The air jammed in your AC blasts your face with the boiling winds of hell itself. So damn intense that if Rhett's truck weren't crawling down your driveway, you would have canceled and called it a day.

And you're so glad that you didn't, because good lord.

The last thing you expected was for Rhett to hop out in that unbuttoned flannel, broad chest on display for all to see. The sleeve falls just far enough from his shoulder that you can see the scar hiding below his left collarbone.

"Quite the festival outfit you've got," you chirp, dragging your eyes away from his bull tattoo and over to a nearby tree, feigning interest. The back of your throat is starting to tickle, lungs tight as you fend off the urge to cough. Not here, not here, not here.

He laughs, "What, y' don't think I look good like this?"

You do, but he doesn't need to know that. Not in the slightest.

"Its...certainly a choice," faking a grimace, you turn your attention back to your car, slowly but surely growing cooler the longer it runs. A pleasure that Rhett and his broken air conditioning unit haven't known since last summer.

You don't mind the idea of it staying broken if he keeps showing up at your house looking like this. Even if that does mean that you become his ride on the hotter days, fearing an onset of heat stroke.

The passenger door is silent as he opens it. No longer squealing due to whatever he and Royal did to it last weekend. Being friends with a family of DIY ranchers has its perks.

Thunk_

"Shit."

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah.

It was.

As if last time wasn't enough of a lesson, Rhett's got his knees pinned up against your glovebox, the seat too far forward for him and his big body to fit. Though this time, he isn't hurriedly pawing at the seat levers like he'll die if he doesn't get any more space. Instead, he's resigned to a frown. More annoyed with himself than anything.

"You alright there?"

Rhett's sigh is so heavy that his shoulders visibly deflate. "Yeah," reaching off to the side, pushing the seat back as far as it can go. "Humbled, but 'm alright."

It's toward the end of your drive that you notice the flower petals sitting on your dashboard. Roses, you think. It must be what you get for leaving your windows rolled down all morning, vulnerable to adventurous squirrels and other varmints that enjoy trespassing into property they don't own.

They're certainly not from you, and you would have asked Rhett if your destination hadn't come up so quickly. Fighting for a parking space in the withered grass is a bigger task than folks let on. Even with folks on the ground, pointing you to the perfect spot, someone will always try to steal it out from under you.

For a festival in such a small town, there is a hell of a lot going on inside of it. Food trucks, concession stands full of sweet treats, craft booths, and cheap knick-knacks bought offline to resell under the guise of being handmade locally. Apple bobbing, the duck pond, and ring toss. There's a precariously placed dragon roller coaster and a horse carousel that Rhett tries convincing you to get on.

Worse. There are so many people. Faces you recognize and those you've never seen before. Waiting in lines and shoving themselves between you and Rhett because the small gap between your shoulders looked like a good opening to get somewhere quicker.

"'s a lil crazy out here, don't ya think?" Rhett's asking through a laugh, once again stepping over to you. Two kids dart between you, their hands occupied with bags of fake goldfish.

Only took a decade for them to learn not to hand out live fish. You can still remember the three you and Rhett got when you were small. One didn't survive the drive back to his house, and the other two managed to stick around long enough to see New Year's.

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

"I think it's always been crazy," tilting your head to cough into your elbow, dislodging that goddamn tickling sensation—you look away before you can see what it is.

There's a girl off to the side, staring in your direction. Or rather, Rhett's direction. Long, wavy hair and a delicate sundress, the kind of woman who looks like she's walked right off the beach cover of a magazine. Her warm gaze has long since settled on Rhett; it's a look you've seen a million and one times at the rodeo. The one that gets him a little weak in the knees.

You look away as quickly as they flickered over there. If you don't make eye contact, maybe she won't come over to introduce herself.

"We weren't that bad, though," but then, pausing to look at you, concern lacing his narrowed gaze, "...right?"

Rose-tinted memories flicker through your mind. Rhett falling and breaking his wrist after taking you out on a green horse. Trespassing onto the Tillerson property to play with Luke and Billy, only to get hauled home in the back of a police cruiser, 'cause their momma didn't care much for you two. Getting busted, sneaking out your bedroom window to go spend the night with Rhett. All those times, you had to run through back alleys together because you'd been caught out after Wabang's curfew.

"I like to think we were relatively well-behaved," concluding after a moment. Though your families may have a vastly different opinion on that.

Laughter rumbles from you at the same time it does from Rhett, shoulders bumping together. Sends a little shock of warmth rippling through your bones, twisting around your heart like briars.

Maybe the conversation would have lasted longer if you didn't get distracted. Rhett lays eyes on a truck dedicated to a locally crafted beer, and the small frame of a self-serve station from the local candy shop catches your attention. It only makes sense that you would step aside and regroup in a few minutes. You're in desperate need of a breather before that girl works up the nerve to approach him and turns you into a third wheel.

There's more to this little station than what initially met the eye. It's shelves full of caramel apples, peanut brittle, fudges of every flavor you can imagine, covered pretzels, cookies, and hard candies galore. And here you thought that it would have been wiped clean by the folks who came early in the morning before the sun could reach mind-numbing temperatures. Even your favorite candy is here, the last box left on the shelf.

The price is a little steep, but the flavor of them on your tongue is enough to distract from the pained cries of your wallet. If Rhett knew these were here, then he absolutely would have skipped out on beer in favor of convincing you to split them together—the candy mooch.

But you must have taken too long to make your decision because you don't see Rhett. Not by the crudely decorated truck, and he said he would be waiting next to the old wooden bench under the oak tree, but it's entirely empty. Not a cowboy in sight. That stuffiness arises in your throat again.

Maybe he's...

"Hey!" A herd of kids are darting around you. Like a bunch of cats scrambling from the bang of a tractor. One slams into the side of your leg as she rushes past. It doesn't affect her in the slightest, but your feet stumble. Knocked off kilter. Your open container of candy threatens to spill onto the dirt.

But then another kid is bursting through the crowd, and this one...

You recognize this one.

"Amy?"

She doesn't need to say a damn thing. Her wide eyes tell all you need to know.

The crowd is too tall for her to see over it, but as she tugs you along behind her, you've got the feeling that she knows exactly where she's going. Navigating the festival based on terrain alone, over thinly spread gravel, and down a broad dirt path. Her hand clings to your wrist so tightly that her knuckles have gone white.

You don't know who she's bringing you to or what could have happened. But it has to be something. Perry could have fallen into another one of his rages. Rhett very well may be doing something dumber than getting a DUI on the back of a horse. Or, or—

It's both of them.

Perry's clawing at Trevor like a goddamn cat. His teeth bared like an animal. Crazed. Feral. Someone's got him by the collar. But it's not doing anything. He barks something incoherent. Jabbing a pointed finger at Trevor. Amy's shoulders jolt. Squeezing your wrist impossibly tighter.

Plaid shirts scuffle behind them. Cowboy boots and Prada sneakers kick up plumes of dirt. Two brick walls slamming into one another. Caught in a spiral until someone makes the first pull backward. Luke's fist connects with Rhett's jaw.

Flower petals burst into the air.

All of a sudden, Luke is jumping backward, his palms raised to the sky. A rare white flag. One that you didn't even know was in the Tillerson arsenal. "I'm sorry, man," is all he can say. Pale as a damn ghost.

Almost pale as the baby pink petals fluttering onto the dirt floor.

"Is that..." Amy's the one to break the silence, looking your way as if you hold all the answers. In a sense, maybe you do. "I thought it was a myth?"

Air catches in your windpipe. Feels like you're about to choke. "I did, too."

What the fight was over, you're not sure. It couldn't have been something serious; they've dropped the issue far too quickly for it to be something worth fighting over. There and gone within the blink of an eye. The Tillerson brothers are dispersing into the crowd without another foul word, Rhett's wordlessly pawing at the fresh red mark on his jaw, and Perry's barking something you don't care to hear.

Amy's long nails are biting into your skin, threatening to tear through and draw blood, but you can't ask her to loosen up or let go. The sting is half the reason you haven't unraveled like a loose ball of yarn. It isn't enough to stop your lower belly from twisting and turning, a bitterness rising in the back of your raw throat.

"Sorry," Rhett's voice comes so suddenly that you jolt.

"I leave you alone for five minutes." Your tone comes out blander than you intended, doesn't match the roll of your eyes, deliberately avoiding the sight of flowers lying in the dirt.

He must catch onto it because his frown deepens. But he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Only offering a wave and a forced smile when Amy ultimately ventures off with Perry for another one of his ice cream apologies. Those seem to be happening more and more lately.

Hypothetically, someone should say something. Explain what the fight was about, how he got across the festival so damn fast. Was the beer any good? Want to share this candy before your jaw starts to ache like a bitch? The words are flickering through your head a million miles a minute, but not a syllable makes it to your tongue.

"It's over someone at the bar," Rhett's admission comes in the tune of a guilty child confessing to breaking a vase. Meek. Like he'll fall apart if pushed any harder. "If that's what y' were wanderin'."

Falling back into the character of annoying best friend is easy. All you've got to do is throw your weight into his side, not strong enough to deliver a playful shove. "So there really is another person stuck with that god awful tattoo," letting your mouth rise into a smile, almost thrilled to be pulling this off so well.

"Hey!" He's pushing you back, laughing, though he's careful not to knock you off your feet this time."'Least mine ain't a shoe."

Defiant, you raise your left arm, the tattoo on your wrist just as dark and bold as it was the day you were born. "It's a lucky horseshoe, thank you very much."

And just for a little bit, you can deceive yourself into thinking you can still breathe.

You never do put the passenger seat back into its place. It's so far back that you catch yourself thinking it's not there at all; more than once, you clamber into the vehicle and think someone has robbed you of it. A part of you wishes it would happen. That some ridiculous bandit would break in and take that seat.

It would be doing your dignity a favor; you're acting as if he's dead.

You passed his truck on the way over here, parked outside the Handsome Gambler. If you weren't worried about wrecking, you would have tried to get a glimpse through the open door to spot him with his shiny new soulmate.

A good friend would stop in and say hello; if she makes Rhett happy, then you should be happy. It should be on the forefront of your mind; you're three stores down from the bar, but your feeble heart jerks in your chest with a familiar sourness. Hand trembling, struggling to hang onto this little bag of chips.

A good friend would be happy for him.

But you're not a good friend.

And if this cashier doesn't hurry up, you might also become a horrible customer. Your stomach is twisting like you're about to puke, something bitter rising in the back of your throat. Damn near dropping the receipt when she hands it to you, shoving it into the bag, and darting out the open door.

You hardly make it to the edge of the sidewalk. Keeling over with a wretched noise.

But the only thing that comes up is the shit that's been lodged in your chest all afternoon, stubbornly sitting in your chest with the weight of a damn elephant. Refusing to move, restricting your airway until you crack, and confess your feelings to a man who was never meant for you.

"Hey!"

Bleary, your eyes peel open. Really hope they're not talking to you.

"I have your sidekick!" Sherrif Joy's voice cuts across the night air like a knife. Swift and straight to the point.

Turning your head might be the thing that puts you on the ground, vision spinning like your eyes have gone loose in your skull. Funny. You can almost deceive yourself into thinking that's Rhett she's towing along.

Maybe because it is him. Boots dragging against the sidewalk, shoulders so loose that they sway in the wind, eyes hardly open, simply led along by the hand Joy has on his bicep. You've got just enough time to paw at your mouth with your sleeve before she's close enough to notice that something may be off.

"I know he's not your responsibility," the glint in her eye suggests she's getting more amusement out of this than she should be. Probably because this wouldn't be the first, second, or third time that she's sought you out. "But he wouldn't shut his mouth when he saw you."

Rhett's grin is too bright for his flushed face. "Hi."

You don't need to look at your phone to know that it's too damn early for this, and yet, you can't seem to muster up the slightest bit of irritation as you ask. "How are you already drunk at eleven at night?"

"I—" Hiccup. "Been here all evenin'." Shreds of red rose petals cling to his lips, flaking off with the movement of his mouth and fluttering to the ground like rain.

Oh, Rhett.

"If you don't want him, I can bring him to the station," Joy always says this, the same damn line over and over, as if she doesn't know what you will ultimately say, "it's no big deal for me."

Looping your hand through the handle of your grocery bag, you reach out to take Rhett by the wrist. He comes to you easily, long arms reaching out to wrap around you, clinging like an oversized piece of velcro.

"I'll take him," feigning annoyance is impossible when he's smiling at you like that. Drunk but completely and utterly happy to be with you.

If only he looked at you this way when he's sober.

Getting him to the car might be the hardest part of this excursion; it takes you and Joy to get him into your passenger seat without banging his head on the roof like last time. But this isn't your first Drunk Rhett Rodeo; Lord knows it ain't Joy's either. It might even break your previous record of five and a half minutes. Not that you were counting.

"Where we goin'?" He chirps the moment you've clambered into the driver's seat.

"Home." It's the only response you've got. Not entirely sure if he's got the capacity to follow long sentences.

But his head cocks to the side like a goddamn puppy. "My home, or...home home?"

Ice forms in your wrist. Suddenly caught before you can turn the key in the ignition. Is he...? It's gotta be. What else would he be referring to?

"Home home?" More of a question than anything, but he's not sober enough to notice the difference. That grin simply grows a little bigger. His boots kicking against your floorboard, happy as a clam in high water.

It doesn't fade, either. Even as you get the car going, and he fusses about leaving his truck behind, he doesn't lose the excitement that bloomed the moment he laid eyes on you. Content to sit here and let you drive, looking out the window and commenting on whatever he sees. The crazy lady on Second Street has added more flamingos to her lawn hoard, and someone's mailbox has been knocked over. What does that sign say over there?

"So what's your soulmate like?" You ask, reaching to turn down the radio. "You haven't said anything about her."

Rhett's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug so subtle that you nearly miss it. "They're alright," pause. Then, a weary laugh. "I jus' wish they'd like me back."

Yeah. You understand the feeling.

He doesn't seem to notice the petals clinging to the lower strands of his hair and into his flannel, hanging off the edge of his pocket and accumulating in his lap. They're identical to the ones sitting on your dash, dry and shriveled from the sun, bouncing as your front tire hits a pothole.

Now that you give it some thought, you suppose that's why he's drunk.

"My throat hurts," he grumbles out of the blue, rattling you from the sanctuary of your thoughts.

You hum, not entirely there. "Getting sick?"

Quiet, he reaches into his flannel pocket, producing a small assortment of something green. Rose stems, their thorns stained with crimson. There's no way that he's...

Your tire smacks the edge of a curb. The steering wheel yanking out of your hands.

Shit.

Right. The road.

"You've been coughing those up?" Voice strained by your heart, sitting high in your esophagus. You're so damn lucky that was a concrete curb and not another car.

And yet, you dare to peer at him through your peripheral. Those stems still resting in his big palm, as if he doesn't have the strength to put them away again. You reckon he's not sober enough to have noticed your mistake. He would have commented on it by now, making fun of it as if he's any better of a driver.

"Fuckin' hurts," it comes out softly, a confession that his own ears are afraid of.

And it's the kind of statement that echoes throughout your car for the rest of the drive. Rattling between the pauses between songs and bubbling to the surface at every lull of the music. Clouded over by too many wonderings of how long he's been quietly dealing with the roses growing in his lungs. A condition so extreme that the stems are beginning to come up, too.

You would ask why he's never told you about this, but...

Rhett's head cracks against the window with a heavy thunk as you pull into the driveway. So sharp and sudden that you fear he's broken the glass. But the only wound to come out of it is the red spot on his forehead, the color already rising to the surface by the time you put the car in park.

"Did that hurt?" It's impossible to ward off the lightness in your tone; a smidgen amused.

"Nuh-uh," but he's rubbing at it like it does.

You shouldn't have believed him, either, because by the time you get him through the door, it's already begun to swell. Miniscule at first, but if you give it some time, it'll grow into a proper bump. One that he'll grimace at in the morning but will lie through his teeth when you ask if it's hurting him.

If he were sober, he would be nipping at your palm for daring to venture near his face; you can hear it now, the prematurely yelped "'m alright!" before you've even opened your mouth. But he's not sober. Has to put his hand on your waist to stabilize himself, not entirely aware of how you're curling your hands around his cheeks, holding him still.

You don't think this one will rise too horribly, but you've been wrong before. Like how you insisted the cut on your side was just a scratch and wound up needing more stitches than you knew how to count.

"Will you let me put ice on it?" You find yourself asking, your fingers drifting up to smooth over the bump.

Defiant, his head shakes.

"What if I order a pizza? Will you let me then?" Trying again. But even at the prospect of his favorite drunk snack, he's not interested.

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

"A promise to never speak of this again?" Nada.

Huffing, you let go of his face, throwing your hands in the air instead. "Is there anything I can bribe you with?"

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods.

You've got a bad feeling about whatever this could be, but God, it's too late for you to care. "What is it?"

Even if he would have let you go on for the next century, you would have never guessed that he wanted this.

Here in the soft sanctuary of your cozy little unmade bed, nestled beneath the myriad of sheets and blankets that you swore you'd throw into the washer three mornings ago. There might be a few crumbs left over from your snack last night, too distracted by the video on your phone to notice the mess until it was too late.

The state of it all would bother you under normal circumstances, but you reckon you're getting contact drunk. Head spinning at the sight of this cowboy, snug as a bug in your bed, his cheek squished against the spare pillow. His arm has wound up draped over your side, over the sheets, and you can't remember when your hand drifted to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his scruffy, unshaven jaw.

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

He's so unnervingly close that you reckon he can hear the hammer of your heart rattling against your chest like a caged animal. Furious. Determined to burst through and spill its contents for him to see. The devil on your shoulder suggests that you should let it happen; chances are, he won't remember any of this come morning. But the soft, whiney voice of the angel reminds you.

Rhett's got a soulmate. And it isn't you.

"What made you ask for this, anyhow?" The sound of your voice comes as a surprise; one of those thoughts that have journeyed to your mouth, rather than staying up in your head.

Those sleepy blues peel open; maybe the slightest bit cross-eyed perfectly matches that crooked little grin. "'s like a sleepover."

There's a word you haven't thought of for a while. Probably hasn't surfaced in your vocabulary since your early teenage years, arising in arguments about how unfair it was that hitting puberty meant no more sleepovers. It was okay before, so why did it become a problem when your ages started ending in 'teen'?

Hesitant, your attention drifts to the tattoo on your wrist—that not-so-lucky horseshoe. A symbol that only became a problem in your second year of high school when your heart decided that it wanted your best friend over a soul mate. "Like the ones we're banned from?"

"Uhuh," his foot juts out to kick your ankle, "'cause we're too damn old."

You're kicking him back before you can think twice about it. Old habits be damned; you're not letting him get a shot in without getting one yourself. But he's already fighting back, socket feet smacking against yours. Tangling. Fighting to get one punch in over the other. His leg bangs against your knee. Your hands lightly shove against his chest.

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

And you're lying on your back. Caged beneath the broad frame of a man proven to handle animals over a thousand pounds heavier than you. His hands planted on either side of your head, knees straddling your hips. Long hair strays into his face, slipping out from behind his ears, but it's not enough to block your eyes from locking.

You're itching to reach up and tuck it back into place. To drift your palms across the roughness of his cheeks and trail a thumb over those thin lips. They're bitten to all hell, but try as you might, you can't imagine they're anything other than soft.

Time itself might have stopped.

God. You can't breathe. Don't know if it's from the infestation building in your lungs or the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his tongue.

Or maybe...maybe it's because he's gradually growing closer. Minimizing the gap between your bodies, inch by debilitating inch. An image plucked right out of your own imagination, replayed a hundred and one times.

But this version of Rhett doesn't belong to you.

The one in your head didn't reek of whiskey and beer.

"Rhett..." You're whispering as if anything louder will shatter you like glass. But he's still...he's still leaning in, and, and— "Rhett. You're drunk."

He freezes. Stiff as a board. Eyes so wide that his irises look tiny.

"Shit," jerking away as if he's been burned, "sorry."

This time, when his back hits the bed, your belly doesn't fill with butterflies. It fills with something much, much worse.

It's the silence that eats at you the most. He's right next to you, and yet, not a word can leave your mouth. What if you hadn't stopped him? Did he confuse you for the pretty thing at the bar, wandering around with the same marking as him? Your heart lurches in your chest, tummy twisting sourly. God, why are you even entertaining this sort of thing?

He's your friend. Friends don't think of each other like this, especially when one of them has a soulmate waiting on them.

A funny feeling swells in the back of your throat, stomach gurgling so loudly that it's got Rhett tilting his head to look at you.

"Are y—"

You're getting up before he can finish talking. Darting for the bathroom for the umpteenth time today.

You wake to an empty bed.

Sunlight trickles through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the freshly made sheets that Rhett once occupied, tucked in the best he could get it. He's been gone long enough for them to feel cool to the touch, but you can't hear him moseying around your house, either.

Your bare feet drift across the chilly, wooden floor, still frozen with midnight's temperature drop. Where Rhett would typically bump the thermostat up a couple of degrees, today, it sits the same as you left it.

"Rhett?" Voice a smidgen too fragile for the hammering of your heart.

All you receive is an echo, variants of your own tune. His boots are missing from where they once sat by the front door, and when you creep far enough to peer through the kitchen window into the backyard, you don't find him there, either. The ice pack has been resting in the freezer long enough to begin hardening again.

And your phone left sitting on the counter overnight, contains a notification from everything and everyone, except for one man. Still the same text messages from three days ago, no matter how many times you refresh the page. But the magnetic whiteboard on the side of your refrigerator has a new smiley face on it.

...and the marker is once again missing.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. 09:47 PM

It's not until after you've got a morning drink in hand that you recognize the tire tracks in your front yard. The grass flattened in the corner of your driveway in a fashion that only Perry Abbott can pull off. No matter how many times he's driven here, he's always overshot the turn and ventured into the lawn.

Your phone is still quiet when you cruise through town a little after nine. Rhett's truck is missing from its place in front of the bar, the space now occupied by a vehicle that the Abbotts can't afford.

On its own, your heart lurches in your chest. The tail end of a blue pickup is poking out from a streetside parking spot just down the main drag, and that's got to be him. You know this town like the back of your hand. There aren't many trucks that look like Rhett's. If you catch him now, maybe you can smooth things over regarding last night. Before the dust begins to settle and erode away at your psyche—

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers.

This time, you don't make it to the bathroom before that damned sickness overtakes you. Spewing onto the side of the road at the only red light in town, right in front of the old cafe with its outdoor seating.

A hangover would be more dignifying. At least then, a little old lady wouldn't be tilting her head at you, her kind, wrinkled eyes soft as she offers you a smile. You understand that look more than you'd like to admit.

It's the same expression you carried when those petals burst from Rhett's mouth.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Yesterday.

Odd. Usually he responds fairly quickly, at least when it comes to him hijacking one of your belongings, but maybe he's busy. Summer has never been kind to the Abbotts, between blistering heat and cattle who love to take down the southern fences to get at the neighbor's grasses. Judging by the forecaster rambling on the news, things aren't about to get easier, either.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Two days ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. 07:33 PM

No dice.

How are you meant to leave reminders in the kitchen when a rogue cowboy has pocketed your only marker? It's barely been three days, and you've already started to forget things. Today was laundry day, but now you're standing here, swaddled in Rhett's oversized shirt because it's the only clean thing you have left. Maybe there is a benefit to not returning his clothes. You were meant to go get a spice for this new recipe but didn't remember until you were halfway into working on it. Come to find out, that recipe really, really relied on it.

You can try to blame your lack of an appetite on your cold, unseasoned dinner all you want, but it only goes so far. Heart lurching in your chest, as the screen lights up with a text.

Autumn: Still coming with us Friday night? 👀 07:51 PM

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. One week ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. Five days ago.

You: I'm going to call a bounty hunter if you continue this hostage situation. Three days ago.

You're getting sick of feeling your heart twist every time you look at this damn screen. But that stupid son of a bitch still hasn't—

"Excuse me," a lady whispers, squeezing past you, "I'm sorry."

The entrance of Odessa's probably isn't the best place for you to be checking your phone, now that you think about it.

That's alright; you're already sliding the device into your back pocket, reaching to catch the door before it can close behind her. You've wasted enough time for your friends to have already secured a spot at the Handsome Gambler. It's a wonder nobody hasn't given you a ring to make sure you weren't nabbed off the street.

Stepping outside does nothing to ward off the drone of multiple shop televisions. All of them moan about how another wicked storm is due to ravage Wabang and every town around it. Same channel. Same woman talking. Same obnoxious blue background. It's a tale you've heard so many times that you can nearly quote it word for word.

There's a serious storm rolling in tonight. Tornadoes and hail are possible. Here's what to do in a tornado. Do not do these five things in a tornado. Download the news app to stay connected. Tune back in soon to find out if the forecast has miraculously gotten better or worse!

Looking overhead, you can already see the dark accumulation in the distance, a humid breeze tickling your neck as it drifts past. It feels just like the night you and Rhett rode out into the west pasture to watch the storm roll in.

Sitting in the grass, watching those dark gray clouds roll closer and closer whilst the horses relaxed behind you, their attentions focused solely on the greenery below. You can still hear the tune blaring from the speaker of his phone. He'd really thought he was clever, playing that Gary Allen song about how every storm runs out of rain. It wasn't so cute when the south pasture flooded.

A laugh cuts across the evening air. Sharp and pitchy enough to have your head tilting in the direction of it. Right behind you, on the corner of the block.

Maria Olivares. That's a face you haven't seen in a long while. Wasn't she off to medical school, a couple hours away from here? Who in the world could she possibly be...

You know that cowboy.

Puzzle pieces click into place. The darkened mark gracing her inner wrist. Too small for you to make out. How she giggles and batts her eyes up at Rhett, as he talks about something in that wonderfully deep voice of his.

Of course, Rhett's soulmate would be Maria. How could it not be? No wonder why he was so crazy about her in high school; they've got the same damn marking on their bodies.

As if to spite you, a muscle spasms in the juncture of your wrist. Sourness bubbles in the back of your mouth, but for once, you're able to swallow it down. Not here. Not when either of them can turn their heads and realize that you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like some kind of creep. Even coming from a childhood best friend, that would be weird.

"Are you in line?"

You jerk backward. Wide eyes landing on the wirey frame of some middle-aged man standing in front of you. He motions, with the brim of his hat, toward the door. The Handsome Gambler. Your destination.

"Distracted," you blurt, scurrying to grab the handle before he can, "sorry."

"There you are!" A glass of beer rises from the opposite end of the bar. Autumn. "I was fixin' to come looking for you!"

You have to wait until you're within earshot before you can respond to her, squeezing past the group of cowboys crowded at the corner, watching a PBR ride on someone's cellphone. "I was eavesdropping," You supply, can't keep a damn thing to yourself these days, "Maria Olivares must be Rhett's shiny new soulmate."

Autumn's jaw slackens, eyes so big they might comically burst out of her skull, "are you kidding?"

One of her friends, you forget her name, gives you a gentle nudge with her arm. You suppose Autumn has already filled her in about your situation. "How did you find out?" Her tone is gentle, nearly washed over by the music blaring from the stereo.

"Saw them laughing together in the street." There's more to that statement, context, and a reason behind why you've come to that conclusion, but Autumn is taking a brightly colored drink from the bartender, passing it your way.

The Handsome Gambler and mixed drinks do not go hand in hand; there's always too much or too little of something. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see the door opening, two familiar frames entering the bar, the happy new couples themselves.

Tonight, you don't give a damn what these things taste like. So long as it makes you forget the sour twist in your chest, lungs tightening as if all the air has been sucked from them. Without second thought, you bring the glass to your lips.

It doesn't leave until it's halfway empty, and that's only because the need for oxygen has grown superior.

The lady behind the bar lifts a freshly cleaned shot glass. You've got a feeling that she's overheard your ramblings. "Need something stronger?"

She doesn't need to say another word. "Absolutely."

One shot.

Fuck this town.

A second.

And fuck Rhett Abbott.

You're feeling delusional enough to ask for a third, but Autumn's nudging you a glass of water instead. It doesn't have the same bite, but it's equally unpleasant against the back of your throat, still raw and sore.

Next to you, Autumn and her two friends are already delving into a new conversation. Something about the oddities going on around town and how some old man says he walked into a cave and saw a mastodon. You suppose there must be some inside group dedicated to continuing the claim because it's a rumor you've heard every year.

A smile fights its way onto your face. You and Rhett used to gear up and go mastodon hunting up on the old trails behind the Abbott property. Royal loved to ask what y'all planned to do with it once you caught it, but you and Rhett never thought that far ahead.

Your gaze follows the bartender, ready to ask for something sweet, but she's on the other end, gathering a dozen beers for a party that just walked in. Someone leans onto the bar. His head blocking part of your view. But then he looks over, and—

Rhett's eyes widen at the sight of you. By the feel of it on your face, the expression is mutual.

At least, it is for a second. That sourness jumps into your throat. Lower gut churning with a fervor unlike ever before.

"I'm heading out back," you blurt, hand rising to cover your mouth, "you don't wanna follow."

The girls frown, but they're certainly not making the risk to stop you. Autumn's already reaching for your drink, accepting your nod as a sign that she can finish off what you've got left. A voice jumps across the blare of the music. Almost sounds like the call of your name. But you don't have the luxury of stopping and looking.

Your feet are barely falling into line. Rushing to push through the men gathered by the back exit. Past the blasting jukebox. There's that tightness in your lungs again. A thick sensation rising higher. Higher. Higher in your throat. There's the door. There's the door. Your hands are reaching out. Grappling at the handle.

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete.

Vivid purple petals burst past your lips like goddamn confetti. Stems and all. Ripping past your already battered windpipe and sticking to your tongue, little bits of purple carrying in the wind.

Those three-petalled flowers were pretty until they started growing in your lungs. You can't stand the sight of them, but you've got no choice but to cough more of them up. As if any amount of effort will make them disappear.

A bundle of them have caught in the back of your mouth, stubbornly thwarting your ability to breathe. Light as a feather, your head spins, feet stumbling as you scurry to one of the chairs, sitting against the wall. The plastic groans under your weight, so brittle that it ought to give away at any moment.

Lightning flickers as another wave of flowers rain to the floor, and it's a wonder you can get these out at all.

The back door opens with a screech. Music pours through the gap, an incoherent tune so loud that you can hardly hear the thunder rolling through town. Someone in boots stumbles out, keeling over.

A bloodstained rose tumbles to the ground, pink and red petals dancing behind it, landing amongst your mess of purple.

When you lift your head, you know what you're going to see. But that doesn't make the look in Rhett's eyes any easier to bear. Some kind of hellish cross between horror and bewilderment that manages to look akin to a wounded puppy.

Not a word leaves his mouth. Doesn't get the opportunity to, for that matter, another plume of petals forcing their way past his lips before he can do anything about it. Just the sight of them has that tickle building in the back of your throat, but for the time being, your tank is empty.

Thunder booms as Rhett falls into the chair opposite you. His hand dips into his flannel pocket, producing...

your marker.

"'m sorry," he mutters, sentence broken by a cough, "Didn't realize I stuck it behind my ear 'til you texted me."

"Which time?" You can't help the bitterness seeping into your tone, plucking the little writing utensil from his outstretched hand.

His eyes dart away.

The tension in the silence doesn't come from the storm. Wind howling around the corner of the building, rustling through the trees. Lightning flickers, illuminating the world around you for the briefest of moments, and just like that, rain begins to fall. Coming down in a thick sheet, so strong that even under the awning, it manages to reach you, mist tickling your skin and dampening your clothes.

Idle, your fingers twist the marker back and forth; it's still warm from where it rested in his pocket, snug against his chest. A part of you wonders if he always runs this hot or if your hands are just cold from the Wyoming air.

"So you and Maria, huh?" Even with the roar of the storm, your voice is too loud; a megaphone in the library would be more tolerable.

"Nah, I just ran into her 'bout a half hour ago." Rhett's head shakes, eyes on the floor. "We were both goin' to the same place, 'n that was about it."

"Damn, and here I thought she was your soulmate." You hate that a selfish part of you floods with relief. So overcome with it that you can feel the way your shoulders drop. "It would have made for the perfect story."

You could have been the perfect story, too.

"I don't know why I liked her in high school," he's continuing, running a hand through his hair, fingers visibly catching on a tangle, "'s like talkin' to a fuckin' wall."

Of all the things you've imagined him saying, that wasn't even close to making it on the list. Though, you can't say he's entirely wrong; ever since that time you got paired with Maria for a history presentation, you haven't been able to see what's so interesting about her, either. Nothing but one-word answers and giggling with her friends while you worked on the assignment by your lonesome.

It may be petty, but you're still bitter.

"I'm sorry, I..." Rhett's talking again, caving to the silence that you've unintentionally put between you two. His hands fall into his lap, clasping together. Then, break apart just as quickly, one of them reaching up to rub at his forehead. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you the other night."

"It's alright—" your tongue pauses before the rest of your sentence can follow. I wanted you to. But you're looking down at your tattoo, and it's still the same horseshoe. It doesn't match Rhett's.

It will never match Rhett's.

Finding your voice is damn near impossible, but you do it anyway. "You've done stranger things while under the influence."

"Like gettin' a DUI on the back of a horse?" He says it so bluntly that you can't help but sputter.

It's easy. Dissolving into laughter. Peering at each other through smiling eyes. Yeah, getting a DUI on horseback is much, much worse than trying to steal a kiss. You've still got the voicemail from when Joy called you in the dead of night, asking you to come get Rhett and his horse.

White flashes. Lighting up the world for the briefest moment. An ear-splitting crackle erupts from above. So loud that the town lights flicker in unison like a bunch of candles nearly blown out by the squealing wind.

"'s gettin' pretty bad out here." The sound of Rhett's voice is nearly lost to the ringing in your ear.

"Tell me about it," you lean forward, peering over at the miniature river that runs down into the alleyway, carrying with it a parade of purple, pink, and red flower petals. "The road'll be flooded by the time Autumn decides she's ready to leave."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "You didn't drive?"

"Couldn't." Shocker, you know. "I had a hot date with a shot of whisky."

"Two from what I saw," so he was watching you do that, huh?

You wink. "I would have made it three if I knew you were watching."

Something crackles in the distance. Maybe a tree struck by lightning, bits of bark falling like rain. A little too close for comfort, whatever it was.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat once more. Forces another cough out of you. The purple petals catch in the wind before they can hit the ground, soaring off like tiny planes. Rhett's eyes follow them until they're out of sight.

All of a sudden, he rises to his feet, spurs chiming with the motion. Must have forgotten to take those off again. "Need a ride?" Offering his hand.

You take it before you even realize what he's asking.

A part of you is beginning to suspect that Autumn can see into the future because she's hardly phased when she turns her head to see you meander back into the bar, hand in hand with Rhett. Her white teeth flash you with a smile, perhaps a little too interested in whatever Billy Tillerson is babbling into her other ear. With their hands intertwined, you can hardly tell that they've got timers imprinted on their wrists, bearing identical numbers.

Autumn doesn't need to ask when you hand her the twenty from your pocket; in the time you've known each other, you've proven to be a creature of habit. Instead, she offers you a wink, not a word said.

Rhett's already by the door, working his beat-up wallet back into his jeans before he can set it down and forget that it's there. "Y' ready to get wet?" He chirps once you're within earshot.

You're not, but there's no stopping the rain now that it's coming down. "Ready as I'll ever be."

The door creeks open. A gust of wind rushes in through the gap. Slams you with the force of a freight train. Damn near strong enough to knock you on your ass. But Rhett's grabbing hold of your wrist and him hauling you forward is the only thing keeping your feet from being swept out from under you.

Freezing rain splatters against your skin like a million tiny bullets. So sharp you think they might pierce through and come out the other side. A sheet of white blinds you. Forced to lower your head and prey Rhett's hauling you the right direction. The sidewalk is already flooded. Splashing up to lick your ankles. Soaking through your shoes.

You're moving. You know you're moving. But you might as well be on some hellish treadmill because it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

All of a sudden, Rhett's pulling you to the right. Toward the curb. Reaching for the handle. Yanking so hard you can hear it over the rain.

It opens. You're inside within the very same second. Clambering into the cloth passenger seat, pulling your legs in, just as Rhett slams the door shut. Through the blurry dash, he's only identifiable as a big blue splotch, travelling around the front of his truck. His door rips open just as quickly, the vehicle rocking as he all but throws himself inside.

"'s fuckin' cold!" He sputters, blindly jabbing the key at the ignition. Miss. Miss again. Another miss. He tilts his head. It slides home.

It's been a minute since the last time you heard this old truck roar to life. Even longer since you've last felt your skin go this numb. Shivering like a leaf, nerves so ruthlessly beaten by the elements that they're shot. There's a texture to this seat. You know there is, but you can't feel it.

A weary hand darts out. Wavering back and forth. Narrowly misses the little heat dial.

"Ain't got heat, remember?" Rhett almost sounds guilty, though you can't say for sure. It's hard to get a read of his face when he's focused on putting the truck into gear, looking straight ahead as he pulls onto the road. Though you're not entirely sure why, he's still got that old—

...no. His spare shirt is still sitting in your clothes hamper, next in line for a wash. Even if you had miraculously known to carry it with you tonight, there's no way it would have done you any good. Not with how soaked your clothes are, dripping like you've just gone for an impromptu swim in the coldest river you could find.

Your arms rise to wrap around yourself, clinging to what little body heat you've got left. A jacket. Why didn't you think to carry a jacket? Lightning flickers. Crackling so loudly that you can feel it travel through the ground; almost sounds as if it's laughing at you.

Even in the safe confines of this truck, the win threatens to wriggle in and get ahold of you. Screaming around the truck. Whipping past light posts. Rattling them so hard that they sway back and forth. Something is telling you that a power outage is in your near-to-distant future. With how you can look out the back window and see it ravaging the main part of town, there's no way it's not going to take out a power line. One little mess up is all it takes to plunge this little town into darkness.

There's already a tree down. Its long branches obstructing part of the road, forcing Rhett onto the other side to squeeze past.

"'m I over far enough?" He sounds like he's got a handle on it, head tilting back and forth, drawing the truck closer and closer to the edge of the road.

Your eyes squint. Struggling to see through the window. "I think so."

It's an obstacle easily overcome, but as you begin to pick up speed once more, a new problem arises. Those poor little windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the rain. Coming down in sheet after sheet, splattering against the glass quicker than it can be swept off. Driving in the ocean would have better visibility.

"Can't fuckin..." Rhett's talking to himself. You hope he's talking to himself because you can't hear him over the chatter of your teeth. Trembling like some kind of exaggerated cartoon character.

The truck gently veers to the right, off into some kind of gravel space on the side of the road, grinding to a halt.

"The— the wipers can't go any faster?" Tongue limp in your mouth. Impossible to move.

Rhett's head shakes. "No, they don't..."

His eyes lock onto yours. Even that might be enough to eat away some of the ice forming in your bones. His jaw softens. Eyelashes fluttering with an incoming thought.

Slow, his arm rises from his side, extending your direction. "C'mere."

Your breath catches. Is that...no, you....you shouldn't—

"Promise I won't kiss ya," his fingers tap your shoulder, "'m jus' gonna warm ya up."

Another bolt of lightning flashes.

You're scooting across the bench seat before thunder even has the chance to arise. Slipping beneath his outstretched arm, helpless to do anything but fall into his big chest, equally soaked as you are, but he's warm. A big furnace, wrapping around and squeezing you into him.

He shifts the slightest bit, leaning against the door, opening himself up for you to properly squirm into his side. With such little space in this truck, it's a squeeze, but you fit nonetheless, cheek resting atop that old bucking bull tattoo, the scruff of his jaw tickling your forehead.

Another rumble rolls through, wind slamming into the side of the vehicle, rocking it back and forth like some kind of giant cradle. Rhett's legs shift, properly rising up onto the seat, knees knocking into yours as they settle. There's no way that you can feel his body, not with those thick jeans in the way, but a part of you swears that you can. So certain of it that you think the ice in your bones is beginning to thaw.

A big, warm hand runs up and down the expanse of your arm as if to create a little friction there. "Can y' still feel your hands?" He murmurs, voice rumbling against the top of your head, and you think that's the tip of his nose bumping into you.

You're wiggling your fingers, can see them moving in the darkness, but hardly any sensation comes of it. Feels as if you're operating a separate object and not a part of your own body. "I don't know."

He reaches down, both hands wrapping around yours, and immediately, it's as if you've been set ablaze. Fire burning in your frozen joints, sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature. Rhett's thumb swipes against yours, a rough glide, his skin weathered by a lifetime of labor on the ranch.

They're so much bigger, too, dwarfing yours in comparison, long and thick with muscle and built-up callouses. He must be noticing it as well because he's sliding his index finger down next to yours, and even in the dark, you can tell that he's at least twice the size. So big that you can hold just the four of his fingers, and not even need the rest of his hand.

You don't know why you're doing this or why he's letting you.

Careful, your gaze crawls upward, roaming over the wet fabric of his flannel, up his damp neck, and the dripping curls resting at his nape. And he's...

he's already looking at you. Half-lidded eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lip twitching upward for the briefest moment. A tickle rises in the back of your throat. Nothing comes of it. Lightning lights up the world like a light switch flicked, but you don't hear the thunder that follows.

His nose bumps into yours. Breath fanning out against your skin.

This...you shouldn't...but...

Those blue eyes drop down to your lips. Then back up to you. His eyelashes flutter. You think yours might, too. He's so close. Can feel the stubble on his chin brush against you, a fleeting thing that you can somehow still feel, even after the contact breaks. A breath trickles out of your chest. The slightest little movement that brushes your bottom lip against his. And he's not moving away, he's—

An ear-splitting boom tears past the truck. Rattling it back and forth. Sends you and Rhett jumping. Your head bangs against the seat cushion. His elbow hits the horn.

"The hell..." he grumbles, with a shake of his head. "Was that s'pposed to be thunder?"

"Is that what it was?" Parroting him, looking toward the window as if that could possibly give you an answer.

The rain has slowed into a slow trickle that is easily swept away by the windshield wipers, unveiling the world around you once more. You recognize where you're at now, just two or three miles down from your house. So damn close, and yet...

"Let's get you home," Rhett's sitting up, and you've got no choice but to do so as well. The scoot to the passenger side is almost shameful, the cold, soaked seat squishing beneath you like a sponge.

A thick collection of petals swell in the back of your throat as Rhett's foot finds the gas pedal once more. Were you about to kiss him? What the hell were you thinking? That isn't how this works. You're not soulmates.

Somehow, the air has grown even colder without him wrapped around you, his very presence haunting you like a ghost. Lingering in the back of your mind so strongly that you can almost deceive yourself into believing that you're still snuggled into his side. But no matter how hard you focus, you can't force it to manifest into reality.

Cruel is what it is.

Even as the rain picks up once more, it's not enough to pull you over again, swept away from the windshield as quickly as it lands. There's another tree down, but it has barely made its way into the road, such a simple obstacle that only takes a second or two to get past. And just like that, your porch light is emerging in the distance. A golden glow that grows larger by the second, like a tiny sun rising to greet you.

The gravel driveway crackles beneath the tires; it's usually a pleasant sound, but today, all it does is cause your stomach to sink. Such a sour feeling that it rises, flower petals tickling the back of your throat until you cough. Little bits of purple scatter across your lap. Rhett's foot jumps to the brake pedal, a soft squeal emitting from beneath the vehicle as it comes to a stop.

You've never been so disappointed to see your front door.

"Thank you," barely a whisper as it leaves your mouth. Anything louder might break you.

He nods, eyes darting from your lap and up to your face. "Yeah."

The only sound in the truck is that of the frozen rain pitter-pattering on the metal roof. Nothing more. Nothing less. With a forced, tight-lipped smile, you reach for the door handle. It opens with a groan, creating just enough space for you to slip out, the oversaturated ground squelching beneath you. He doesn't say anything as you shut the door, so neither do you.

Resigned to silence, you trudge through the rain. Wind rips past, determined to lift you up off the ground and whisk you into the sky. But you don't lift off the ground. You don't even slip. Your feet find the front steps of your porch, hand fishing into your pocket and producing a set of drenched keys.

The confines of your home are so much warmer than it was outside, and yet, as you toe off your muddy shoes, you can't help but compare it to Rhett. Your heater may be strong, but it doesn't wrap around you the way his arms did. Big. Secure. The kind of thing you thought only existed in your daydreams.

Strange, you don't hear his truck pulling out of the driveway. You know he hasn't; that old GMC runs far too loudly for it to slip by unnoticed. Curious, you hook your finger into the blinds, pulling them down.

No, he hasn't moved at all.

...what's he doing out there? Even from here, you can tell that the storm is picking back up again, rustling through the trees, swaying them back and forth.

Nothing has fallen or otherwise obstructed the driveway, and something couldn't have gone wrong. Not that quickly. Unless he's suddenly developed the ability to hear your heart hammering against your chest, wordlessly begging him not to leave your driveway, there's no reason for him to still be parked.

The cab light flicks on. Then off again. All of a sudden, he's rounding the back of his truck. You're opening the door, socked feet stepping out onto the cold, wet porch. His spurs chime, boots thumping up one stair. Two. Three. Four. No, no, something must have happened. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack, looks half scared to death.

But he's not stopping.

"Rhett—"

"I forgot somethin'." One more step, and he's leaning down, and, and...

It's the simplest of things, merely pressing against each other for a long moment, but heaven itself cannot compare to the feeling of Rhett's lips against yours. His nose crushed uncomfortably against your cheek, big hands cradling your cheeks like you'll break if he doesn't.

Just as quickly, he draws away, soft blue eyes meeting with yours. Lightning flashes, but even the following slam of thunder cannot stop you from grabbing a fistful of his flannel and yanking him in once more. Lips crashing together, feet stumbling with the force of it. One of his arms is wrapping around your waist and your hands are sliding up into his hair. Bold. As if this is familiar, something you've done every day of your lives.

The press of his mouth and the stubble of his chin are so much more than your imagination ever could have crafted. Warm and scratching against you so deliciously that your head goes quiet. Soul mate markings be damned. This is where you're meant to be. Right here. Twisting your fingers through his unruly curls, gasping against him. Drowning as he kisses you again, and again, and again.

Your head is spinning. Stumbling blindly as he leans into you, forcing you backward. Your heel catches on the doorway. "Rhett—" But you don't fall. You can't. Not with that strong arm around you. "Cowboy!"

"You're the only one that's ever called me that." He breaks away, kicking at the door with his foot. There's no doubt a mud stain on the white frame now, but you've hardly got it in you to care.

"What?" Your nose bumps into his cheek. A little too close.

"Cowboy." He mutters, lips brushing against yours. So, so close.

A breath hitches in your throat. "Should I stop?"

"Never." And he's kissing you again.

Muffled thunder rumbles outside, and you're pretty sure the power has gone out, but you can't open your eyes to check. Helpless to do anything but tug on his hair, drinking in his deep grumble like you're starved. You should be embarrassed. Shouldn't be this desperate over a first kiss.

But Rhett's got it just as bad. Pushing you backward until you're bumping into the wall. His big, calloused hand is venturing beneath your soaked shirt. God, and you're letting him. Back arching as his fingertips trail up your spine, chest pressing into his. Gasping against his lips like you're trying to put on a show.

More. You want more. Reaching down to toy with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time, shaking fingers struggling to push them through the holes. Too eager to feel the expense of his chest beneath your palms.

"You're gonna have t' stop me," Rhett's speaking against your lips, batting your hands away. Makes no effort to finish your handiwork as he yanks the flannel off his shoulders, the final three buttons snapping off and scattering across the hardwood floor.

Before you can stop it, your hand drops to his belt, pulling him closer. Earns you an affectionate chuckle that echoes throughout the house. Those hips of his press forward, obnoxiously large buckle digging into your belly, not an inch of space left between your bodies.

"Why would I stop you?" It's too early for you to be reaching down to grab at the hem of your shirt, but you don't care. You want this damn thing off. The soaked fabric stubbornly clings to your frame, heavy as you drag it over your head. It hits the floor with a wet thunk, a mess for the future version of you to handle.

Those deep blue eyes might eat you alive. "Good point."

It's hard to tell who makes the next move. All you know is that you're leaning in to kiss him, noses crashing together, and his hands are appearing on your ass, squeezing until you get the hint to jump. It all happens so fast. The thunk of your back against the wall. His hips slotting between your thighs.

"Y' feel what you're doin' to me?" He grunts, and he doesn't need to specify for you to know what he's talking about—heavy bulge straining against his jeans, pressing perfectly against your core, igniting a familiar heat there.

"Uhuh," is all you're capable of. Greedy hands sliding across his chest and up his shoulders, feeling over all the little freckles and marks that have haunted your imagination. Fuck, and he just lets you. Too busy leaning in to steal a kiss off you. One. Two. Three. Before he shifts to the juncture of your jaw, stubble tickling as he kisses down your neck.

Your hips buck forward.

"Fuck," Rhett's voice tickles your ear, "shoulda let me kiss you earlier, sweetheart."

A shiver ripples down your spine. That's new.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Finding your words is a task in of itself. Hard to do much of anything when his lips find the soft spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly.

"You were drunk," voice strained, wound too tight in your throat.

"Felt pretty sober in the moment," He hums, tongue poking out to wet your skin. Fuck, you wonder what that would feel like in other places, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter around his hips, works a groan right out of him.

Thunder booms outside, but it's not enough to stop your lips from crashing once more. Teeth clattering, hopelessly grinding down into him, and even these layers of clothing can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches.

It's all a blur.

One moment, you're up against the wall. The next, you're on the ground again, socks sliding against the floor as you stumble down the hall. Hands tangled in his hair. Gasping against his lips. Moving blindly, too focused on each other to spare even a second. You don't know you're in the bedroom until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, falling backward with a yelp.

Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this. There's no reason for you to be letting Rhett Abbott climb into bed with you and slot his big, warm body between your legs. He's your friend. You've known him since you could walk. And these tattoos. They don't match. You're not soulmates.

Rhett's hand rises, pinning yours to the mattress, fingers slotting together. Must know what you're thinking about. "Who gives a fuck 'bout soulmates," he whispers, leaning forward to bump his nose against yours, rubbing them back and forth. "A damn stranger ain't gonna make me as happy as you do."

And you don't...you don't know what to say.

Maybe you don't need to say anything because he kisses you like he's heard everything your heart has to tell him. Stealing your breath away, plucking every little flower from your lungs, so dizzying that your legs have to curl around him to keep from floating away. As if you could possibly escape the big, warm arms that have settled on either side of your head.

Slow, his weight settles on top of you. Bellies snug together. So close that you can hardly grind up into him, reduced to a needy squirm, whining high in your throat.

"Shh," he coos. A big hand curling around your cheek, thumb stroking the thin skin there. "I'll take care of you."

He's already making good on his promise, pulling away to kiss down your neck once more. Hot tongue poking past his lips, running over a vein, leaves behind a glistening trail as he makes his way to your collar. One of his hands dips behind your back, pinching the clasp of your bra, opens it so easily that it almost surprises you.

The last thing you expect is for him to gasp when he pulls it away. Awestruck by the sight of you, bare, for his eyes only. "So fuckin' pretty," whispering, as he kisses down your chest. Too eager to run his tongue down the swell of your breast, so content that his closed eyes seem to smile.

Oh, that's...

"Rhett..." Heat swells in your lower belly. The feeling of his tongue swirling around your nipple is...truly something...

Just as quickly, he's darting to the other one, all too excited to feel the little bud harden beneath his touch. Sensitive. Only takes the slightest bit of suction to make you jolt. But he must have noticed something even more enticing because he's pulling away from that one as well, a big hand rising to toy with it as his head dips down lower.

A delicate kiss presses to the scar on your left side.

Then another. And another. And another. Loving on the old wound, as if he can possibly reverse the damage if he gives it enough attention. Maybe just one more kiss will do it. If not, then surely the next one can make it happen.

"It was nobody's fault," you say softly, reaching to run your fingers through his hair once more. Truly, it wasn't. Nobody could have anticipated that shard of glass.

"I know," the rumble of his voice tickles, pausing to run his tongue up the expanse of the mark, "jus' wish it didn't hurt ya like it did."

Gradually, he draws himself away from your side. Kissing his way down your belly until he meets the thin, delicate band of your underwear. His eyes peer up at you with a silent question. Your answer comes in the form of lifted hips, allowing him to pull the material down your legs. Then, he reaches for his belt, pinching it open with mesmerizing ease.

One boot thunks against the floor. Then the other. You really hope he didn't track mud all over your hardwood.

"You and that obnoxious buckle," the comment slips off your tongue before you can stop it. Too busy watching him undress. It's unfair how well the fabric clings to his thighs, fitting him like a damn glove.

He laughs, kicking his jeans off his feet. "What, don't think it looks good on me?"

"If I answer that, your ego will go through the roof." Your eyes roll; the last thing you need to do is tell him that, yes, you do like it. Lord only knows he'll run himself through four more rodeo seasons, trying to score an even bigger buckle.

"Already has," he winks, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his boxers.

You don't know what he's got to be so confident about until...

"Jesus, Rhett."

"What?" He grins. Absolutely fucking obnoxious. But you can't formulate a single word. "What?"

Your thighs cinch together, hiding yourself from view. There is absolutely no reason why that should be springing up from its confines, so heavy that it smacks against his hip, unable to stand up against his belly. So wet that even in the dark you can see him glistening.

"Naw, y' don't gotta be shy," Rhett's hand travels up your knee, slipping between your closed legs, callouses dragging deliciously against your sensitive skin, "'s just me."

A little too easily, you fall apart once more, feeling a little too exposed as his hungry eyes rake down your body. Every imperfection and curve is on full display. An exhibit of the life you've lived. And Rhett just might be your biggest admirer, his warm frame slipping between your legs, big hands gliding up your sides, pressing lazy kisses as he settles on top of you.

"Rhett..." you don't know why you're saying his name, thighs curling around his sharp hips. His cock head bumps into the meet of your thigh, sends you jumping before you can realize what's happened.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," uttering beneath his breath, a sentiment meant for your ears only. "I promise." He reaches between your bodies, gently guiding himself to—

Your head tilts back with a gasp. That's new. The delicate drag of Rhett's cock, gliding between your folds, the underside of him nudging at your clit. Hadn't realized you'd gotten this worked up until now, so wet that you can almost convince yourself that you don't need any lube at all. Not a hint of dryness to be found, sliding so, so easily against you.

But then you're gathering the courage to peer down between your legs, and even the darkness can't hide how big he is. Thicker than your daydreams have ever depicted, just a hair longer than any of the toys hiding beneath the bed.

"Bedside table," you blurt, heart fluttering in your chest. Walking is a privilege you'd like to keep.

An unforeseen positive to letting your best friend between your legs is the fact that he knows exactly what you're trying to say. No need for questions as Rhett reaches off to the side, hand disappearing into the drawer. Comes back with the bottle, then delves back in, producing some tiny, round hunks of plastic.

You don't recognize them until he flicks one on—the tiny, fake candles from a few Halloweens ago.

"How romantic," there's a strangeness to this that you didn't expect; oddly casual, even with this newfound situation.

"What?" He asks, innocent as can be, like you have a choice in the matter, already putting one flickering candle off to the side. Another, next to your hip, and he's still got four or five of them left to turn on. "Ain't in the mood for some mood lightin'?"

Lying to yourself is fruitless. The soft golden glow is a welcomed addition to this dark little bedroom. Highlights the room just enough for you to catch the way he drizzles the lube into his palm, reaching down to spread it over himself. That big hand almost tricks you into believing his cock is smaller than it really is, the flushed tip nudging at your cunt with every upward glide.

They say monsters hide in the dark, and you know you caught sight of one between his legs.

Two fingers press into you. No warning to be found, the thick digits easing in like they've done it a million and one times, crooking upward, dragging against your walls. There's the slightest hint of a stretch, a soft ache that—

You suck in a breath, a soft noise escaping past your lips.

Rhett's cock twitches against you. "'s that it?"

Weak, you nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Not with him gradually beginning to move, shallowly pumping those long digits into you, never pulling out far enough to make you feel empty. But it's so hard to stay quiet when he continuously rubs up into those little nerves, nudging them on every pass over.

"Rhett..." hips writhing against the bed, not sure if you want to lean into it or squirm away.

That must be all that he's planning to give you because all of a sudden, he's drawing away. Wet fingers glisten in the candlelight as he reaches for his cock once more, guiding it back between your folds. Not entirely the same as what you had before, but the drag of his cock head against your clit is so, so worth the exchange.

His warm chest settles against yours once more, lips finding your cheek, scratchy jaw tickling the skin there. Sounds like he murmurs your name as he travels to the corner of your mouth, pressing another kiss there. Finally. Finally, he meets you for a proper kiss, almost immediately broken by the swivel of his hips, reformed just as quickly.

Your hands are on the move. One in his hair, the other on his naked shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips. Strong from a decade of bull riding and all that time spent on the ranch, chiseled and perfect in every way you can imagine. Fuck, it's like he was built just for you and this. Rutting between your legs like he's in heat, dragging against your needy clit until your hips twitch off the mattress, pressing into him.

Swallowing down his groan is enough to put you up on cloud nine.

A pressure appears at your entrance—the soft nudge of his tip. Your antics must have caused him to wander a little too far down. But you're pushing down onto him like it was your intent all along, and by God, he's not trying to stop you.

Rhett stiffens. "You want me to...?" Muttering against your lips, unable to draw himself away any further.

"Yeah," it's the easiest thing you've said all night.

It's all the encouragement he needs, mouth meeting yours once more. Slow, that pressure between your legs begins to grow, his blunt tip spreading you wide. There's a part of you already beginning to wonder if you should have asked for more lube, but his incessant lips are so damn distracting. Tangling with yours, drawing you into a captivating dance, spinning your head round and round, drawing your mind away from the burn.

His head slips into you with a soft 'pop,' such an odd little feeling that has you gasping into his kiss, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. Now you can really feel him. The delicate drag of his length gradually filling you, centimeter by debilitating centimeter. You'll be waddling come morning. You can already feel it.

There's no way you won't be. Not with how your pussy aches with the overwhelming stretch of him.

"Y' want me to stop?" Rhett's low voice rumbles against your bottom lip; when did the kiss break?

Thunder rumbles outside, your only reminder of the storm that looms just past the thin walls of your home. Even the memory of running with him in the rain feels like it was forever ago. There were flowers filling your lungs just a few hours prior, but as you draw in a breath, you can't feel a shred of evidence that they were ever there.

"Yeah," nodding, your nose bumping into his, "you're just...a lot."

God, you shouldn't have said that.

But it's too late. There's already a wild grin emerging onto his scruffy face, so pleased with your words that his eyes seem to sparkle. As if the sight of you struggling to take his cock wasn't enough of a boost to his ego.

"'s that it?" Speaking through his smile, still has the audacity to sink even further into you. "Ya never had anything big as me?"

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

All at once, his hips are flush with yours, not an inch of space left, your legs tightening around him as if there's a risk of him pulling back out. But that's not happening. Not with the way he's blindly nuzzling his nose into you, so lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can't hold his eyes open.

"Y' alright?" His eyelashes tickle your cheek as they flutter open.

"Uhuh" is the best that you've got at this given moment. It's so hard to speak when you're so full. Couldn't take another millimeter of him, even if he begged you to. "You can..." pausing for a breath, "you can move."

In perfect synchrony, your attentions flicker down to where your bodies meet. A sight lit by the golden glow of the artificial candles, illuminating the slow withdrawal of Rhett's cock, where you're stretched so wide that you don't think your smaller toys will ever satisfy you again.

"Shit, look at that," there's no reason why Rhett, of all people, should be so mesmerized by this, but he is, and it makes you fucking dizzy. "'s fuckin' hot."

And then he's sinking back in and—

"Fuck," it's too early for you to be whimpering so high in your throat, but his blunt tip is dragging right against the sensitive nerves hidden within you, and it's so, so much.

This close, it's hard to miss the way Rhett's breath hitches, "'s that the spot, baby?"

All you can do is nod. Nails biting into his shoulders as he draws back once more, rubbing past that little spot once more. Toys don't normally get this sort of reaction out of you, but there's just something about it being Rhett that's getting to you. Your childhood best friend. The man that your weary heart has yearned for since high school. Eye candy at every rodeo he's ever set foot in.

His lips find yours, tangling lazily, humming all the while. A part of you wonders if he always demands this many kisses. If he makes a habit of smiling into them. The rest of you knows that he doesn't because otherwise, he'd know that the heavy thrust of his hips would send your teeth clattering together.

"Ow," he's jerking back as if he's not the main culprit behind it.

His cock head drives right up into those nerves. Sends your back arching up off the bed, pussy spasming around him, and you don't know which of you cry out louder.

"There, there, there," you're babbling like a fool, but he's already missing it again. Such a minuscule thing that every correction is an overshot.

Rhett's brows furrow, focusing so damn hard, and yet, "I can't...shit, that ain't it either."

But you've got an idea.

Without a word, you begin to lean up, foreheads bumping together as Rhett tries to follow along, his big blue eyes so wide that they glisten in the light. Slipping out of you entirely as he falls onto his haunches, looks like a big puppy when he's confused like this.

"On your back," your command is soft. It could easily be bent if he really wanted to, but he's already following through on it, twisting and falling back onto the bed without a fuss.

Settling into his lap is a feeling you've imagined a million and one times, and yet, somehow, it's unlike anything your mind has ever come up with. Warmth radiating off him like he's a damn heater, broad chest making your hand look impossibly tiny, as you lean on him for balance. He's already one step ahead of you, carefully guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt; all you've got to do is sink down and—

A pair of gasps tear through the room. Louder than the storm raging outside.

"Y' look so fuckin' beautiful on top of me, baby," Rhett sputters, peering up at you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

Already, you're beginning to move. Knees digging into the mattress, palms firm against his chest as you lift yourself up. The curve of his length alone is enough to make your thighs shudder.

"You're not so bad yourself," you're breathless already, hips swiveling, searching for that deceptive little angle. Maybe if you...lean a little further forward...

There it is.

A tingle ripples up your spine, clamping down around Rhett's cock, and he must feel it because his head rolls to the side, lips parting with a groan that ought to make your head spin. Those big hands settle onto your thighs, gripping like he'll fall off the bed if he doesn't.

"Is that—oh fuck," his hips jerk up off the bed, leaking tip kissing those little nerves head on, "is that it?"

You can't answer. Palms shivering against his chest, already fighting to keep yourself upright. An ache blooming in your thighs with every rise and fall, head tilting back, a familiar heat beginning to bloom in your lower belly.

Rhett must be feeling it, too. There's no way he isn't. Head rolling from side to side, back arching off the bed, unable to keep himself still beneath you, a whiny mewl escaping his parted lips. And all it's doing is jostling his length inside of you, sporadically tapping against all those sensitive spots.

A calloused thumb appears on your clit. Not sure when he started reaching down, but it's damn near got you collapsing onto his chest, a tremble setting into your exhausted bones.

"Fuck, Rhett!" You're squealing, poorly built rhythm already beginning to fall apart.

Again, his hips snap upward, heavy balls smacking against your ass. "'m sorry, I'm not trying to buck my hips. I just..." he doesn't get to finish that because you're falling forward into his chest, face burying into his shoulder. It's too much. It's too much.

Big hands settle on your hips. Gripping tight as his knees bend, feet digging into the mattress to pump into you properly. Lewd smacks of skin on skin echoing through the room, artificial candles bouncing with his every motion.

"Anyone else ever fill your sweet pussy like this?" He rasps in some rumbling, guttural tone you've never heard before. "Hm?"

Your head shakes, but it takes a moment to realize that he can't see what you're doing. Not with you nuzzled up under his jaw. "N-no," whimpering right into his ear.

Those hands are moving again, gliding up your back, big arms securing themselves around you like a hug, the only damn thing that keeps you from bouncing further up the bed. Your forearms settle on either side of his head, shivering as you try to lift yourself up, but you can only go so far, barely able to meet his eyes.

Lips clash, so loose that it hardly even counts as a kiss. Drinking down Rhett's feeble whine. Makes your head spin so much more than the alcohol ever did. Heat pools between your legs, pussy tightening like a vice around his pistoning cock, thick tip rubbing into those nerves over and over and over.

You're close.

"I love you," it slips out of him so quietly that you nearly believe it's a figment of your imagination. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

One of your hands delves into his hair, noses colliding. Think you might be whispering it back, but you can't hear what's coming out of your mouth. Overridden by the blood rushing to your head and the slap of his skin against yours, and, and, and...

Spots appear in your vision. Body going taut as you cum around him without the slightest warning. Crying out high in your throat, forehead knocking against Rhett's, an invisible flame racing across your skin. Every thrust pushes your head higher into the clouds, could damn near float up to the ceiling if his arms weren't tightening around you, his hips stalling. A melody of whimpers bubbles out of his throat, orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave.

You think you can feel it. The spasm of his cock and the warmth of his cum painting you white, flooding your pussy so full that you think it's already beginning to pour out of you. His hips jerk up into you, punctuated by a sickening squelch and his own broken moan.

And yet, somehow, you've got the strength to meet his swollen lips, lazy tongues poking out to twist together like a greeting. Wet and messy as can be, saliva running down your chin, drooling like dogs in the summer sun. Rhett twists beneath you, and you're vaguely aware that the world around you is spinning, falling into the mattress beside him.

A tickle rises in the back of your throat, forcing a cough out of you. Two purple flowers dance out onto the bed, obnoxiously vibrant and dainty. They've always been small, nothing compared to the roses Rhett's been choking up, but they look even tinier in his sweaty palm.

"Spiderwort," he murmurs after a moment, running a fingertip over their petals. Bleary blues peer flicker up to you, half-lidded and turned upward by his dumb smile.

They've always been his favorite.

"So there was no girl at the bar?" You ask, hand wandering onto his cheek, curling around it like he's the most delicate thing on this planet.

His head shakes. "Never."

There's still a storm lurking outside, rattling the house, lightning and thunder striking the ground with an unmatched fury, but you hardly notice it. Too distracted by the warmth of a cowboy, his legs tangling with yours, uncaring of the mess you've made together. Kissing just for the hell of it, wandering across cheeks and peppering over old scars, musing about the memories attached.

When you fall asleep, you're not sure, but you wake snuggled into his naked chest, his big arm looped around you like a blanket. Sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains, the shrill tune of a bird singing her song, and for once, it's dreamy rather than irritating.

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler.

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open.

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses.

As quickly as they start, they stop.

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following.

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm.

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh.

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture.

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it.

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all.

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened.

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort.

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #oneshot #afab reader #hanahaki disease #soulmate au #friends to lovers

190 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 8 months

Note

big sister snail 🫰🏻

plz a garp fluff

(mad daddy issues mmkkm)

Bonnie Lass

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,659

Summary: As the assistant to one of the warlords of the seas, it is your task to man the small den-den-mushi earpiece assigned to Mihawk: managing his assignments, scribing the notes of importance. As the receiver drones on, you answer the call and are greeted to the familiar brogue of the Vice-Admiral you had not yet met face to face.

Themes: age gap, flirtation, “The Garpening”, Vice-Admiral!Garp x Assistant!Reader, mutual pining, faceless swooning, den-den-mushi calls, suggestive dialogue (not heavily NSFW but implied themes), f!reader, gendered terms used.

Notes: Garp do be looking mighty fine at the faceless end of the transponder ear piece… I blame @sordidmusings and @carrotsunshine for this. Came out a lot more flirty than intended, but then again - it's Garp.

The vocal hum of the small shell of the den-den mushi had your head lulling on your shoulders. A sigh depleting from your chest alongside an eye roll had you place the firm shell against the shell of your ear, hooking over the curvature and securing it against your lobe.

Being Lord Dracule Mihawk’s personal assistant was no easy feat; securing such a luxury to work for a man of high reputation challenged you in all the ways that mattered. His intimidating aura, alongside his world renown title as “World’s Greatest Swordsman,” had challengers from all four points of the seas calling his receiver at all hours of the day.

Setting down your morning coffee against your work station, you huffed out an exasperated breath, and pressed down against the shell of the receiver to begin a verbal dialogue with the recipient at the other end.

"Lord Dracule Mihawk residence, state your name and purpose," you drawled monotonously with a practiced disdain, fishing out your notepad and pen to begin to notarize any key points to the call. A small pause occurred before the familiar rumble of a partially hushed tone drew a shudder through your spine.

"...Oh, Bonnie Lass. I wassnae prepared to hear such a sweet melody from a pretty lady so early in the morn,” the voice hushed against your earpiece, your heart swelling at each syllable he graced you with. You shook your head to stifle your nerves, a smile threatening to break over your lips.

"Good morning to you too, Vice Admiral,” you purred professionally into the earpiece, “Shall I fetch Lord Mihawk for you?" The soft crackle of distortion hid the verbal growl in refutation from him.

Of all of the calls you had been privy to receive, the ones you looked forward to the most belonged to the rumbly drawl of the marine vice-admiral. The initial meeting of his gruff aggression to your playful vocal tone immediately held him smitten against his desk, leaning his chin on the heel of his palm and a dopey smile gracing over his features.

He had not felt this way for an individual in some time, never allowing himself to give in to entertaining the thought of joining himself so affectionately with a woman, for anything more than a brief fling. As his gruffness met the honey-sweetness of your voice, all words of caution were flung to the wind as he drank in each word you purred at him.

You were much the same in a similar sense. Your duties performing as Mihawk’s assistant held every waking moment of your attention, constantly chasing the broody warlord around with itineraries, notes and alerts, and jobs he’d received at the call of the marine headquarters.

"Allow me the luxury of hearing your voice a little longer, Lass,” his voice held a small promise of your regular flirtation engaging with one another, hitching at the ‘L’ in ‘Lass’, “You know what your pretty melody does to a man like me."

Rotating your head on your neck, you stifled the rising tension of your fluttered heartbeat. You could only admit to yourself what the brutish whispered tone of the Vice-Admiral roused in you, refusing to speak it to light with a verbal confirmation. A small smirk rose to your features, the hardened pelt of your heartbeat elevating in your chest.

"Vice-Admiral, you're making me blush,” your coy purr called to him, serenading him with your flirtatious tone. Although you could not see him, his rumbled cocky laugher held you hostage to his comments.

"That's not all I could make you do, Lass,” his voice rumbled against your earpiece, his drawl vibrating against your eardrum, causing your blush to rise and follicles to stand to attention to his every command.

Although you had never met face to face, you could tangibly feel his smile within the mouthpiece of the den-den-mushi. He had informed you prior that he was more than twice your age, not a factor you had pushing aside your flirtatious words and halting them completely. Although your curiosity held you bound to his words, you refused to look up imagery of him in fear of shattering the illusion you had crafted for yourselves.

Garp was sure he had pushed a boundary with that final statement, anxiety pulsing at his neck with an intense rapidity. Panicked, his eyes floated to his desk and catching his attention over the novel he had been reading over the past few nights.

"Did you read that chapter we were talking about yesterday?" he’d asked you suddenly with the craving the answer you held behind your smile. You looked to the leather bound book beside your notepad; it’s words sprawled over your desk beneath its open pages.

"I did, Vice-Admiral. It was beautiful,” you recounted the playful and romantic words written on their page, “I especially enjoyed the part where they met face to face for the first time-." Your playful and longing tone was met with a small, dry laugh from the vice-admiral.

"-I know what you're hinting at, Wee Bonnie,” his voice cut you from your thoughts, his brogue causing a subtle swoon within your chest, “Your boss won't let you come on his next task, so we're not going to meet for a while yet.”

Almost allowing a small whine to depart from your lips at such a confirmation, you instead hardened your resolve and played into his wild flirtations.

“Vice-Admiral-,” you began, halting by his next rumbled words alone.

“-Garp, lass,” his vocal reprimand called to you, “Call me Garp, wee Bonnie. We’ve spoken so much of late, you have no need for such titles anymore.” Your heart swelled, a warm flush rising to your cheeks at such an utterance from a powerful figure.

“Garp,” your voice called to him, his body curling into the receiver further for every drawn out syllable you poured onto him, “I will be ushered into whichever seas you call my lord to be. Should you desire to meet face to face-.”

“-I shall forever desire to meet such a beautiful woman. I crave hearing your laugh in person,” he halted the end to your declaration with a confirmation of his own. Your heart fluttered at the rising anxiety depicted at the mouthpiece end of your receiver. After a few moments pause, your smile had your words beaming through the transponder.

“Was there a particular reason you called the Dracule residence, Garp?” Your voice ticked at the end, hoping to stifle any personal favoritism from the vice-admiral at the other end of the call. No such stiflement occurred, the vice-admiral’s voice crackling through the static of the den-den-mushi to affirm you instead.

“Just wanted to hear your voice, Bonnie Lass,” he confessed, his breathy voice dancing within the same frequency of your heartbeat. Your giggle rose a swell within the vice-admiral, his longing for you physically depicted within his risen hue of a pink flush.

“You have heard me, Garp. Does this mean I will not hear from you until you call for my employer again?” You quipped, your smile dancing on your teeth with its humorous jest.

“If I had my way,” his rumble broke you from your taunting, hanging on his every syllable with glazed orbs and dancing heart elevation, “I’d have you on my lap and whispering your praises into my ear each time the sun rose and set each day.” You drew your dominant hand up, clasping over your lips to halt a girlish squeal from departing from your lips.Taking several moments to halt your rapid heartbeat and youthful anticipation, you drew the mouthpiece into your lips to allow every vocal utterance to flee from your lips.

“Vice-Admiral,” you gasped breathily, flicking your tongue out to dampen your lips as you hardened your resolve, “I do not think you could handle such an attentive partner fawning over you on your lap.” You heard his breath suck in through his mouth, halting as it hit his chest.

“Garp,” He corrected you in a breathy whisper, “Call me Garp.”

“Garp,” your voice purred as you continued your train of thought, sitting back against your office chair and kicking your right foot as it hooked over your left knee, “You would not know where to place your hands, should you ever find my company upon your lap.” Although the crackle of distortion drew against the earpiece of the den-den-mushi, it did very little to withdraw the growl from the other end of the call.

“I could think of several places I would place my hands, Bonnie Lass,” he uttered in a low rumble allowing great distance to fall between each syllable, “You’d be begging and crying for my attention to remain in a certain few key places.”

At that final confirmation, you allowed a girlish giggle to flee from your chest sooner than you could contain it. Each small, melodic twinkle of your laugh held Garp captive beneath the whisper of your breath.

“Are you flirting with me, Vice-Admiral?” Your playful voice called to him, his den-den-mushi staring at him with a vacant stare. He held onto your every word, huddling closer to the mouth-piece of the transponder.

“I will always flirt with you, me wee Bonnie,” he confessed, swiping his hand over his hair to rid him of his tingling nerves, “Why do you think I call on Lord Dracule Mihawk so much?” You allowed several moments to contemplate his question.

“Because his swordsmanship outnumbers you and the marines one thousand to one?” You offered him weakly, your resolve as half-hearted as your soul cried it to be.

“Because I desire to hear your voice,” he confessed. Your breath hitched within your throat, your heart hanging upon each word he uttered, “You are the reason I summon him each morning, and call on this line before I sign off for the day. Just to hear the small rise in your voice, Bonnie Lass,” he continued. You could almost tangibly feel the rake of his index finger against your jaw to usher you into himself. You could feel his presence, the cologne he adorned upon his neck, jaw and wrists through each utterance.

“Mihawk has certain skills we desire to abuse, yes. But, you,” He continued, the rasp turning breathy and slow in each drawl, “Oh, you. You are the reason I am at the end of my transponder in the wee hours of the morn, holding myself hostage to my desk at a small utterance of your voice.” His confession held you stationary against your desk, your breath refusing to dance in order to release any tone from your lips.

“You are why I call on Mihawk so much, lass,” He continued, “Your voice makes me feel young- makes me want to be a better man.” You hung on his words like a lifeline coaxing you to shore. You slunk down onto your desk, cradling your lips within your palm to stifle your breath.

“What I would do to such an innocent flower of Kuraigana,” his raspy rumble teetered off to verbalize his rising stutter, “I’d have you thrust against my desk, screaming my name like a prayer as I sink my teeth and lips against your sensitive flesh. The pleasure I could grant you with my lips alone would have you bound to my bedchambers with desire and longing-.”

“-Is that Garp?” The voice of Dracule Mihawk broke you away from your flush, shaking your head at each flirtatious thought pouring from his lips, “Another assignment so early?”

“My lord,” you bowed to him, your voice breaking the vice-admiral away from his utterances of flirtatious promise, “The Vice-Admiral was only calling to offer you praise in completing your prior assignment-.”

“-That’s not all I was praising, me wee Bonnie Lass-,” Garp's voice broke you away from your concentration in relaying your verbal commands to the lord of Kuraigana.

“Is there another assignment, or shall we halt the call?” Mihawk’s verbal warning ticked at the corner of his mouth as it rose into a knowing smirk. Your startled expression allerted all Mihawk needed to know of your call, the dance of his knowing smirk threatening to break through as he claimed the shell-end of the den-den-mushi receiver from your earpiece.

“Vice-Admiral,” Mihawk’s voice called over the mouthpiece, “The office hours are from the time the sun rises in the east blue, until its hues dance in the evening over the grand line.” Your voice hitched, the silence unbearable in the office alone with your employer. You caught the hitch of his breath, the swell in his pupils and the growl in his throat as he handed back the receiver into your hands.

“Make it quick,” He uttered, placing the shell once more within your ear, “We leave Kuraigana within the hour.” Mihawk walked away, the pointed tip of Yoru dancing at his ankles with each swell swing. You slowly drew the mouthpiece up to your lips, hanging on the silence depicted within the static.

“Vice-Admiral?” You called to him, your voice timid and direct. Your question was met with silence on the other end, no swell of a voice, nor sneer of a whisper depicted within the earpiece of the transponder. As you drew a reluctant hand up to end the call, the raspy voice you craved swelled within the earpiece.

“I’m still here, Bonnie Lass,” it called to you. You stifled the need to stifle the flames of joy within your chest at the swell of his voice, your heart beating with an unnatural rapidity.

“I am grateful, Vice-Admiral,” you confessed, your withheld breath leaving you as the flutter of Mihawk’s tailcoat disappeared from view. After several moments had departed in silence, Garp’s voice called once more to you.

“It seems we are to meet face-to-face afterall,” his chuckle did very little to stifle his anxiety within, “Mihawk has granted you passage to stay within the halls of my vessel while he rids the land of the plague of piracy.” Your heartbeat elevated, swooning at the mere thought of putting a face to the name of such a powerful man. Although you spoke daily, your anxiety played a heavy part in meeting such a decorated man within the marines.

Sucking in a heavy breath and hardening your resolve, you turned your attention back to the parchment you began to notetake upon.

“In what capacity will we be meeting, sir?” You asked him, your voice stifling your anxiety with succession. You heard Garp suck in an anxious breath of his own, halting his racing thoughts with free words than his jumbled thoughts would allow.

“I would have you wined and dined,” he confessed, his voice low and laden with grandiose splendor, “And while your boss concludes with the heavier business, I will look forward to spoiling you with the splendor my toils have offered me.” Your heart fluttered at the notion, before the imagery began to plague you of what ‘after’ may look like at the conclusion of your dalliance. Before you had the time to speak of such woes, your words were stolen from you at the utterances of the vice-admiral you had come to adore.

“It is now that I may offer my apologies to you, love,” He uttered into the mouthpiece, “I desired to not shatter the illusion we had created for each other. Believe me, Bonnie Lass. I had intended to leave you faceless in my dreams. But-,” his voice drew off into a small raspy hum, the growl of his voice perking up at the end of his last utterance, “-I had found a den-den-mushi graph of your likeness,” your anxiety began to thicken in it’s stupor, only halting at the further compliments of the man behind the call, “And I had found myself hypnotized beneath your beauty.”

Unsure of how to feel at this utterance, you allowed a small, apprehensive giggle to depart from your lips. Sensing your uneasiness, the den-den-mushi shell on your desk began to vibrate and drone on in its print of a piece of parchment paper.

“That is me in all my rapidly aging glory, lass. The last shot I had received from the militia,” Garp’s voice confessed. You eagerly reached for the parchment, flipping the page over to reveal his face to you.

He was handsome. His eyes relayed a kindness and ferocity you had not encountered in your experience prior. His silvered hair, his wispy accents atop his jaw. Everything held you captive and plagued by every thought you had sent his way in the near year you had spoken with him.

After taking a moment to collect yourself, your smile returned to your lips.

“I am very much looking forward to meeting you in person, vice-admiral,” you confessed breathily, staring into the eyes of the print within your fingertips, “Wined and dined? Is that all the simplicity you offer for me, Vice-Admiral?”

The rumbling chuckle held your attention, the peaks of your hair follicles lying at the back of your neck alerting you to danger did naught but encourage you.

“Bonnie lass,” his rumbled voice purred into the earpiece of the receiver causing a shudder to run through your from coccyx to crown, “I would wine and dine you to your heart's content; pleasing you with many a ministration with my hands, mouth and tongue until no thoughts occur within that pretty head of yours except how good I make you feel.”

Your soul screamed, your heart heavy with the burden of desire at each utterance of his fighting words. Sucking in a sharp breath, you cradled the earpiece into your mouth as you quietly uttered to him your desiring praises.

“After all this time, you think so little of me to sit there and take what I’m given?” You challenged him, your voice purring at each of your affirmations, “Vice-Admiral,” you drew your tone down. Shepherding the earpiece against your lips to quiet your tone further, “You may wine and dine me should you truly desire it,” you rotated your neck on your shoulders, ridding it from a click located within, “But only I would make you dance between the borders of ‘so good’ and ‘too much’ before I have your writhing between my legs in a dance of absolute bliss.”

Before Garp could offer a retort to your challenge, you continued your taunt in a low tone within the mouth piece.

“Your lips will tremble, your eyes will flutter in their daze,” you continued, "I’ll have you in every sense of the word before you’ll fall to your knees before me, offering me praise and adoration while begging for me to continue.” A rumbled shudder rolled over his spine and shoulders as he leaned into the call, focussing on your every word.

“A-And the fact that I’m a little older?” His voice called to you, begging for you to enable him of his lust for you, “You are not perplexed nor disheartened?”

“I am intrigued, sir,” you rephrased his unspoken question, drawing out your syllables with your tongue and teeth, “And I shall take what I am given with a smile on my face.”

Several unspoken moments fell between you, neither one to break away from the illusion that perplexed you. You sucked your lips between your teeth, gnawing at them while the vice-admiral contemplated your words. A shuddered inhale revealed he was ready to inform you of his thoughts.

“I am ready to receive my orders, my lady,” he sighed, his voice riddled with anticipation and desire. You allowed yourself a moment to collect your racing thoughts to form cohesion, offering him a sensual verbal command of your own.

“I look forward to giving them and more to you, Vice-Admiral,” your smirk was depicted through the lifeline Garp held onto. Hs white-knuckled grip on the mouthpiece of the transponder and the desk below his fingertips shuddering with each passing moment he had not held you within his arms. He shuddered in a heavy breath, furrowing his brows in concentration.

“Would you allow me the luxury of giving you a kiss?” his voice quirked up, his tone subtle and almost boyish in question. You allowed yourself a small giggle in response, leaning into the desk to grace him with an answer.

“All this talk of worship and orders, Vice-Admiral,” you laughed a huffed giggle, “It would be a shame if such lust fell to waste.” The rumbled voice of brutish confirmation held your ears lingering on every utterance of the words departing from his stubbled lips.

“Until we meet face to face, me wee Bonnie Lass,” The vice-Admiral’s voice sung to you.

“Until such a time, Vice-Admiral,” you uttered in confirmation, your vocal tone filled with youthful longing yourself.

Concluding the call with a mischievous grin, you drew your eyes up to the door of your office where Mihawk was leaning against its frame. Your smile never ceased, prompting Mihawk’s smirk to tick up his left hand corner.

“Vice-Admiral Garp?” he asked, his brow also elevating with his grin. You shrugged, nodding in confirmation and biting back the rise of your smile. Mihawk sighed and shook his head, turning from the door and walking down the hallway.

“We will find a way to exploit this, I’m sure of it,” he called over his shoulder, “But for now, get packing. We leave in an hour.”

You jumped to your feet, ignoring the next vibration of the den-den-mushi call in favor of following the orders of your boss. Your eagerness had you bouncing with each step, causing Mihawk to let an exasperated breath to leave his body at your youthful giddiness.

A meeting with the Vice-Admiral, with threats and promises interwoven from his lips, had you buzzing and bobbing with each minute that ticked by. You hoped you both would live up to the hype you had created in the small pocket of the universe, no doubt in your mind that it would.

Tag list: I am sorry about "The Garpening." He's got a hold of me, and I'm taking you lot with me. @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @feral-artistry

#one piece #opla #x reader #opla fic #one piece live action #garp #monkey d garp #garp x reader #monkey d garp x reader #op x reader #one piece x reader #op age gap fic

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rosewaterandivy · 28 days

Text

wouldn’t know where to start

summary: she likes to roll here in my ashes anyway

pairing: former s.h. x f!reader

a/n: did anyone ask for this? no, but I felt it in my heart of hearts! we need some hangdog steve and Mother Nature working her magic— adrenaline, tension, & forced proximity, aka storm chaser!steve and his band of misfits.

series m.list

It was nearing sundown as he drove into the small town. Soft summer winds blew through the wheat fields, bending the golden stalks as if it were an ocean of glimmering sunlight.

Main Street didn’t have much to offer— a Sonic, Dollar General, and a lone 7-11 were the corporate standouts amongst a panoply of mom and pop store fronts offering everything from a homestyle breakfast to antiques to laundering services.

Letting his wrist hang against the wheel, he pulled into the turn lane and flipped on his signal. A lone ‘88 Ford pickup passed him by with a neighborly tip of the hat. He flashed a smile and wave as he turned into the gas station.

He parks the rig and cuts the engine. To his right, Eddie blinks slowly taking in his surroundings.

“This it?”

His voice is scratchy with remnants of sleep. He reached back to wake Dustin and Robin, the latter doing so a bit more spastically than the situation warranted.

She rubs the sleep from her eyes as Steve exits the cab and waits at the gas pump.

Soon, Dustin and Eddie start whispering about what supplies to stock up on from the gas station and stumble from the truck.

Robin stretches and rolls her neck before pressing her finger to roll down the window.

Steve is leaning against the dusty cab, marks of red and ochre cleaving to his white tee shirt as he watches the numbers tick by from behind his aviators.

“Hey,” She offers with a quick grin, “Kinda like old home week, huh?”

He nods and pushes off the truck stepping toward her window. His face is drawn behind his glasses, despite his closed lip smile. He pulls the ball cap from his head and runs a hand through his hair.

It’s a lost cause really. He’d thrown it on earlier at the motel before they’d rushed out of the room just before checkout time. Between driving all day and mediating arguments that broke out between his three stooges, there hadn’t been time to pull off and change in an attempt to make himself decent.

The hat goes back on but Robin manages to pluck the glasses from his face and place them on her own. She sticks her tongue out and rolls the window back up just as the pump stops with a click.

He can hear Eddie and Dustin bickering as they walk back to the truck— something about the drone and upgrades. Steve returns the pump and slides his phone from his back pocket, the screen brightening back to life.

He thumbs through his messages with a sigh and pauses at your name.

As expected, there’s no response to his earlier query. The message reads delivered but his heart still sinks at being rebuffed.

Still in TX?

He’d sent that weeks ago. And still, he had no clue what to expect. For all he knew, he could show up to find another family living at the property or your granddaddy greeting him at the door with his shotgun.

It could really go either way.

Settling back in his seat, he puts the truck in gear and turns back into Main Street. Robin, Eddie, and Dustin chatter about some such shit as he grips the wheel, knuckles flaring white the closer and closer they drive to the house.

Red dust kicks up under foot as he steps out of the truck. The white-washed house before him is bathed in a dull yellow light from the lone bulb on the porch.

He turns back to the truck.

He could just pack it up and head back now, it wasn’t too late. He hadn’t been spotted yet and no one would be the wiser. Robin catches his eye with her blue eyes wide, a slow shake of her head tells him to do the damn thing.

A storm door slowly creaks open, boots falling against the worn wooden planks on the porch.

“Well, well, well,” A gruff voice intones into the night air. “I’ll be damned.”

Steve slowly turns around, willing his shoulders back down from his ears, and pastes on a megawatt smile.

“Hi, Mr. Wilder,” He greets with a wave, “Long time, no see.”

The old man scoffs, “You can say that again.” The double-barrel of the gun remains trained on Steve, his eye never leaving the scope.

Steve clears his throat uncomfortably.

“D’you know where she is?”

He laughs in reply, a callous thing.

“I sure as shit know where you weren’t.” He steps down from the porch, a flood light flickering on and illuminating the front yard as he does so. “At the altar, where you swore to me you’d be as you begged for my blessing.”

Logically, Steve knew it was coming. But it was still hard to stomach— he was a coward and he well knew it too.

“Now, Imma give you the count of three to git off my property. Which I think is mighty fair of me, considerin’ you how you broke her heart and all.”

Steve slowly backs up, hands in front of his body as if to soothe a wild animal.

“Sir, I don’t mean any offense, but if I could just talk to her—“

A sudden gust of cool air blows through the trees. The gun lowers minutely as Steve peers across the horizon, searching for something.

Rolling black clouds from the west, gaining speed and moisture. The temperature drops as the evening birdsong falls to a hush.

Robin scrambles out of the truck, all gangly legs and stammering sentences.

“Steve, it’s headed toward us. The doppler—“

“I know. Rob, get the—“

“Already done.”

Eddie and Dustin fall into step at his side, equipment gathered in their arms.

The old man sighs, pinching his fingers between his eyes in frustration and defeat.

“You remember where the storm cellar is?”

“Yessir.”

“I’ll meet you down there after I lock up the barn and house.”

Thunder rolls overhead as Steve leads his team into your family’s storm cellar out back. Crashes of lightning illuminate the freshly harvested fields, hay bales bundled tightly.

Your granddaddy joins them not five minutes later, shotgun still in hand. The phone in his pocket rings shrilly.

“You know, if I never saw your ugly mug ever again, I’d die a happy man.”

“Yessir, sorry sir.” Steve responds sheepishly as Eddie struggles to contain his laughter.

He sighs again and brings the phone to his ear. “You sure as shit better be, Harrington.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #storm chaser!steve #Spotify

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saystrinity · 9 days

Note

a little birdy (tumblr) told me you were taking requests 👁

charlie, our beloved, date night thoughts? im thinkin reader in his clothes, watching a movie or show, popcorn and his gas station eggs, falling asleep on the couch after hours of cuddling, yknow the vibe

started giggling and kicking my feet the moment i received this ask >//< also first post hi!!! hi!!! HI!!!

❛ hcs ; nights in with charlie <3 ༉‧₊˚✧

“hey angel,” the very millisecond you walk through the door; “was work alright?”

busying himself around you as he fine tunes the house for you - taking your coat, your bag, your shoes, your hand, guiding you to the bedroom, visibly proud of himself as he displays his freshest, comfiest clothes laid out on the bed, all ready for you.

sights set entirely on you while you strip away the remnants of your day, revelling in the content hums you release with every layer you remove, dutifully taking the cast-away clothes and placing them in the hamper for you.

listening ears ON while you deliver the latest work gossip, absolutely living for the newest updates

having to take a moment when you finally turn back to him, your hands resting on your hips as he marvels at you, swimming in an old merch shirt and his sweats, which you’ve had to roll the waistband of.

“there is no way you find this attractive,” you laugh out, watching him approach, hands first, coming straight for your waist. he laughs back, bubbling chuckles flush against your skin as he presses delicate kisses up and down your neck, “it is insanely attractive,” he moves up to your forehead, littering them around the rest of your face.

and you best believe you’re getting carried around. one arm hooked under your knees, the other threaded around your back and back up under your arm, hand firm against the side of your chest as you travel through the house as one.

looping strands of the hair on the nape of his neck around your fingers as he does, grinning as his eyes flutter at the sensation.

squealing when your back hits the cushions of the couch, playfully kicking your legs as he traps them between his knees, suspending himself on the palms of his hands, forearms caging your head.

this impromptu playfight continues for a good few minutes, lazy swings and hazy laughter until you’ve both managed to completely tire yourselves out, and you’ve ended up on top of him in the conflict.

he keeps a tight hold around your body, arms encircling you as your heavy breathing pulls the two of you in and pushes you out in tandem, exasperated giggles escaping your lips every few seconds.

“shitty movie?” he asks, running his open hand up and down your back. “shitty movie,” you confirm, nodding your head resting in the crook of his neck.

countless studio logos playing as he pads off to the kitchen, the tell-tale scent of popcorn drifting through the open door while the movie’s glaringly obvious exposition drones on and on.

opposite ends of the couch when he returns, legs entangled, the comically large bowl of said popcorn seated between them, the occasional hands brushing whenever you reach over.

spending the rest of the night heckling stitled acting and wilted writing, scoffing about how ‘we could’ve done so much better’

giggling as you gain numerous new inside jokes from awful line delivery and utterly incomprehensible plot holes

crawling back over to him as the evening chill sets in, and neither of you can be bothered to utilise the actual air conditioning, especially when you’ve got eachother.

fingers interlaced, held against your chests as they’re pressed against one another.

“i like this,” he mumbles, nose buried in your ruffled hair, lips moving against your scalp. ”i like you.” “whaaat?” “shut up,” you grumble, despite your smile.

eventually dozing off, you going first, lulled by his soft, rhythmic breathing. he watches your snoozing form with the fondest of smiles, head racing with the usual ‘how did i ever manage this?’ queries.

he still doesn’t get how he bagged you - but he’s sure as shit not complaining!!

“g’night, angel,” he murmurs, a soft squeeze of your clasped hands as he switches the tv off and joins you in sleep.

#managed to pump this out in 5 hours who cheered #is it bad i write in present tense #i americanised myself for this one btw #washing basket → hamper #joggers → sweats #film → movie #yadda yadda #slimecicle x reader #charlie slimecicle x reader #idk how to tag things #i'm still learning!!

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miasmaghoul · 1 year

Note

May we get some Dew fluff or comfort, he may just want snuggles, maybe he had a nightmare and wants comfort? -🌱

A little softness for Mountain Monday, perhaps?

(Dew is still here, don't worry!)

Another night. Another city. Another unfamiliar ceiling.

Mountain stares at it without really seeing it, flexing sore fingers and shifting on too-starched sheets. Listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the dull, creaking drone of pipes. Swiss has been in the shower for ages now, always one to abuse the bottomless hot water that hotel stays provide.

The tour has been brutal so far - the festival circuit always is - and the exhaustion runs bone deep. There are only three shows left before they pack up for home, and Mountain would be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to the break. Life on the road isn't bad by any means, but it does wear on a ghoul after a while.

He misses the things they all miss - his own bed, coffee that isn't from a gas station, the relative peace of the abbey. Misses the scent of the rose gardens and the feel of grass beneath his feet. Misses the comfort of his element the way the ghouls always do when they're stuck in glamour for weeks or months at a time. That's half the reason Swiss is busy boiling himself alive, trying to satisfy the fire inside him that demands the heat. Rain is probably doing something similar, submerged to his nose in a tepid bath until he's wrinkly as a prune.

Mountain wishes his element was so easy to access. He hasn't so much as seen a tree in three days.

A soft sound drags Mountain from his wandering thoughts. At first he thinks it's Swiss, thinks it's the movement of shampoo bottles. It takes a minute to identify the sound as the gentle rap knuckles on something solid, a light knock, and he blinks at the ceiling. It repeats after a moment and Mountain pushes himself up with a groan, his aching back protesting the movement as he pads to the door on sluggish feet.

He sees steam pouring out from under the bathroom door as he passes it, catches a whiff of herbal soap. He can hear Swiss singing under the sound of the spray as he crosses the room. It makes him smile.

Mountain yawns as he unlocks the door, scratching at his chest. He doesn't know what time it is, but they were late getting to the hotel and it's been hours since then. It's late, is the point, and there's no one he's expecting.

Least of all Dewdrop, baggy eyed and swaying in place in a shirt that's far too large for him and a pair of ancient flannel pants.

"Droplet?" Dew gives him a tired blink, hugging his own chest.

"Hey Mount," he murmurs, voice thick. Strained. "Did I wake you?"

"Hmm? No, no," Mountain assures him, taking in the deep creases lining Dew's face. His own brow furrows. "You okay, Dew?" The little ghoul sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

"Tired," he huffs, as though that much isn't painfully obvious. "Really fuckin' tired."

"Yeah, I can tell," Mountain chuckles, and Dew chuffs out his own laugh. He's not upset, then. Just wiped out. "Same here." He yawns again and Dew gives him a sympathetic hum.

"Think we all are." Dew mirrors his yawn, contagious as the things are. Then, "Can I come in?" Mountain blinks down at him. He sounds...shy.

"Sure, of course," he mutters, stepping inside and gesturing for Dew to follow. "Swiss is in the shower, I have plenty of room."

Dew groans low in his chest, shuffling inside and perching himself at the edge of the bed Mountain had been occupying. He sits like a gargoyle, knees pulled to his chest so he can tuck them under that ridiculously oversized shirt. Mountain is certain that if he pressed his nose to the fabric, it would smell like Aether.

"What's going on?" Mountain locks up again and strides back to the bed, plopping himself right next to the little ghoul. Watching him pick at a cuticle. He rests a hand on Dew's little foot, brushing over soft skin with a callused thumb. "I can tell something's on your mind."

"'s it that obvious?" Dew rests his chin on his knees and exhales through his nose. He gives Mountain a half shrug. "It's nothin' big."

"Something small is still something," he replies, moving that soothing hand to Dew's back instead. Rubbing slow circles into soft cotton. He's close enough that it's easy for Dew to lean into him, pressing his small frame to Mountain's side.

They sit in silence after that, the quiet only broken by Swiss's raspy voice and the soft splash of water. Dew's so warm against him, even in his glamour. It seeps into Mountain's bones, forcing relaxation into tense muscle. If he could, he'd purr with it.

At length, Dew speaks.

"Think I'm just...lonely, I guess." The tone makes it sound like he's not convinced. Like it's not quite the right word for how he's feeling. Mountain understands it - loneliness is a weird thing to feel when you're constantly surrounded. "I know it sounds stupid, but -"

"No it doesn't," Mountain tells him, voice low. He wraps an arm around Dew's shoulders, tucking the little ghoul's head under his chin. "I get it. How can I help?"

Dew answers by burying his face in Mountain's neck and wrapping those skinny arms around his chest. It's an awkward angle at best, but neither of them seems to care. The closeness is what matters.

"You wanna stay here tonight, fireball?"

Dew nods against his shoulder, nuzzling closer.

"'s that okay? I got roomed with Cir and you know how she is."

Mountain certainly does. Cirrus is a creature of habit on the road, refusing to share her bed or break her evening routine of peppermint tea and a strict 9pm bedtime. If Dew needs contact, he wouldn't get it from her. Not tonight.

"Course," Mountain buries his nose in Dew's hair, inhaling the scent of cheap shampoo and a hint of woodsmoke. "Whatever you need."

Dew sighs, his shoulders relax, and Mountain scoops him up like he weighs nothing. Carries him the few feet around the bed to settle the little ghoul against the pile of pillows at its head. Dew scooches under the covers without prompting, curling up on his side and shooting a questioning glance over his shoulder. Mountain answers it with a smile, crawling in after him and molding himself to Dew's back as he tugs the covers over the pair of them. Dew gives him a pleased hum, pawing at his arm until Mountain wraps it around his waist, pressing his palm to the center of the little ghoul's chest. Dew laces their fingers together, and Mountain can't help his fond smile.

"'m glad you're here," Dew mumbles, already sounding half asleep. He snuggles further under the covers, pressing his face deeper into his pillow. Mountain gives his a squeeze and drops a quick kiss into his hair.

"Me too, droplet."

Dew's snoring in no time, and Mountain knows he won't be far behind. That little body is so very warm against him, so familiar. He can feel the strain threaded through his body melting away with each passing moment.

Distantly, he's aware of a door opening. Of a change in lighting and a soft laugh. Of a large hand ruffling his hair.

"Mind if I join?"

Mountain hums, nods, and soon after the mattress dips. In the low light of the room he watches Swiss climb into the other side of the bed. Watches him settle between the sheets and pick up Dew's limp arm, tugging it over his own waist. Watches him press a soft kiss to the little ghoul's forehead with a gentle smile. He reaches over to stroke Mountain's cheek with his knuckles, and Mountain presses a kiss to his palm.

It's the last thing he does before sleep takes hold, and as it does, Mountain almost feels like he's home again.

For now, it's close enough.

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #mountain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #swiss ghoul #mountain monday #this is about as fluffy as i can get lmao

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phoebepheebsphibs · 4 months

Text

Double-Mutated Mikey

Chapter 26: Imposter Syndrome

Continued from the short story written by @boots-with-the-fur-club

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"Wait, back up, so who is Bishop?" Leo asks.

Casey sighs with exasperation as he repeats himself for the third time.

"I told you, he was a commander in the resistance! He helped to lead so many refugees to the base, and even helped to lead it before you and your brothers took over. He was a good man, great instincts, manned several stations when you were absent... He's a war hero!"

"No no, I get that, I mean, who is he now? Why are you freaking out?"

Casey shakes his head.

"Oh, right, right! He approached me at the pizza restaurant, he gave me his number -- he works for the EPF --"

The room erupts into multiple people shouting and yelling, and Mikey whimpering and hiding behind Raphael's legs.

"Everybody, QUIET!!" Leo bellows, commanding silence.

For a moment, Casey can see the leader of the resistance standing in the room again...

"Okay, Case... what happened? He approached you, and...?"

"He offered to help," Casey says with a shrug.

"Help?!" Donnie yells. "The EPF?! I highly doubt it!"

"He showed me that they had some security footage of me," he admits. "And of... Leo and Mikey."

"What?" Leo asks nervously. "How?"

"They caught you on camera when you went to the tunnels looking for Mikey, I think," Casey explains. "He only showed me a pic... but it was you. You even made a portal on camera."

"Great," Leo sighs. "There goes my secret identity..."

"What do we do?" April asks. She'd arrived some time before Casey with some extra drawing supplies for Mikey. "Do we trust him? I mean, we shouldn't, right? They're the bad guys?"

"I don't think Bishop is, though," Casey protests. "He was a respected member of the resistance in the future -- I mean, alternate timeline... and I think he genuinely wants to help us."

"How can you be so sure?" Raph asks, reaching down to pet Mikey's head to calm him; the poor kid is trembling.

"He told me that Mikey has a tracker imbedded under the skin," Casey informs. "Why would he tell us that if he didn't want to help?"

"A tracker?" Dee exclaims, disgusted. "Impossible! My tech would have picked up any --"

"Dee, just check him. He hasn't been in the lab for days, how would you have known?" Leo says.

Donnie grumbles and goes to look Mikey over with his goggles. Mikey flinches under his gaze.

"What else did Bishop say?" Leo asks, looking back to Casey.

"He said that we needed to leave. They know where we are --"

"I could have told you that, I've been fending off their drones relentlessly," Donnie growls.

"He said they wouldn't give up. He said that they would use drills if they had to."

"Drill?" Mikey asks, turning to Donnie. Isn't... Doesn't Donnie use drills?

Wait... how does he know that?

A vague recollection of Donnie pressing buttons on his wrist tech and giant corkscrew machines erupting from the ground flutter into Mikey's mind. For a moment, Mikey is dumbfounded. Did he just... remember?

"Waaaaaaait a moment, what's this?" Donnie says suddenly, pressing his hand against Mikey's shell and lifting the scutes up. In the soft underbody beneath the armor, Donnie reaches down and touches a spot besides Mikey's spine. "I think I may have found it... aha, there it is. A foreign subdermal tracker."

Donnie pauses, looking for something.

"...But... just the one...?"

Mikey feels Donnie's hands curl into fists. He turns to look at him.

"Donnie...?"

"They took it out," he growls, low and guttural and deeply furious. "They took away my tracker."

"What?" Raph asks. "Dee, it's just a tracker, you can make more--"

"That's not -- you don't get it, I'm not --" Donnie stammers before grumbling and smacking his fist against the floor. "They took away my protection for Mikey. I put that there so I'd never have to worry about him -- about any of you -- and they took that from him. From ME. They took away my security for him, and --"

Donnie growls angrily, unable to communicate any further. Mikey chirps at him softly. Donnie doesn't respond, he simply mutters furiously at himself. Mikey climbs onto Dee's lap and hugs him, his tail wrapping around him for security. He rests his throat against Dee, creating rumbling purrs that he can feel. The vibrations ground Donnie, he stops, calms, hugs Mikey back.

"Sorry," he says, sniffling. "I didn't mean to lose focus. I just... it makes me so mad... they took everything from you... from us."

"S'okay," Mikey rumbles. "Donnie do good."

Dee smiles.

"Thanks, Michael. Okay, so back to the matter at hand... I need to remove and destroy that tracker!"

While Donnie has Mikey in his hold, he creates a small device with his ninpo. It looks like a miniaturized pressure gun, but with some extra doodads attached to it. Dee slides the device up under the scutes, presses it to where the tracker is, and pulls the trigger. Mikey yipes from the small pain, but the tracker is pulled out almost instantly, stored in a tiny glowing purple jar. As the old tracker is removed, it is replaced with a new, sleek and slender, bright purple tracker.

With the press of a button, lavender sparks fill the tiny ninpo jar and disintegrate the EPF tracker.

"All done," he says, releasing Mikey. "Thank you, Angelo."

Mikey grumbles to himself as he scoots away.

"Alrighty then, so the tracker is gone, what do we do now? Where are we supposed to go that the EPF wouldn't know about?" April asks.

Splinter suddenly snaps his fingers.

"The Hidden City! I'm sure I could persuade Big Mama to make some allowances for us and --"

"Why not just stay with Draxum?" Donnie interjects. "He's been asking for help to fix his old lab, anyway."

"Fine, I guess we could go there," Splinter grumbles.

"So, we're going on a vacay!" April cheers. "I can't wait to visit witch town again --"

"If they'll let you in after last time," Donnie chuckles.

"You know that whole thing was your fault, Dee."

"That does not sound like me."

"Anyways, let's all get to packing. Dontron, you call Barry and see if he can take us in immediately," Leo directs. "The rest of us will get to packing. Only essentials, guys. This isn't exactly a vacation, but we have no idea how long we'll have to stay in the Hidden City. Bring what you think you'll need for an extended stay."

The group disassembles quickly, each one going in a different direction.

Mikey isn't sure who to follow. At the last second, he chooses April, trotting a few feet behind her as she makes her way to the kitchen. She pulls out a cooler before opening the fridge. Mikey takes an extra step back.

"What you doing?" Mikey asks.

"Packing some snacks," she replies. "I kinda doubt Drax has any human food at his place, so I'm just bringing what I can."

"You come with us?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Yeah! Of course!" she says with a smile. "I mean, I can't stay the whole time, I still have classes and stuff -- but I'll hang with you guys for as long as I can. You're important to me, Mikey!"

Mikey hums. His tail wags softly, but he purses his lips as he tries to understand.

You're important to me, Mikey.

"...Why?"

April pauses, flinching at the question. She turns to face him, her expression concerned and maybe even a little hurt.

"What do you mean, 'why'? Because I love you, silly! You... you do know that, right?"

Huh. Mikey kind of did... he felt her kindness when he first met her. She cried for him. He knows she likes him very much, like his brothers do. They all love him.

"Yes."

"So, then why do you wonder why you'd be important to me if you know I love you?"

"What did I do to make you love me?" he wonders.

April sucks in a breath.

"Mikey, you didn't do anything to make me love you. I just... you're my brother. Of course I love you, regardless of what you do. You don't have to earn my love, it's yours! That's why you're important to me."

Mikey hums, pouting in confusion. It doesn't equate, it doesn't make sense. Shouldn't he do something? A test, an exercise or experiment, something to help her or prove his worth to her? She barely knows him, he barely knows her. Nothing about how they're treating him makes much sense. Especially compared to the labs. He had to earn everything there, he had to earn his own life most days.

"...What is your name again?"

"April," she replies sadly.

"April. April. April. Okay... Can Mikey -- can I ask another question?"

"Sure," she says with a kind smile.

"If you're my sister, then why don't you live with us or look like my brothers?"

April's expression looks shocked. Her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the right words...

"Hey, guys! I was wondering where you'd gotten to," Leo says as he enters the kitchen, interrupting and effectively ending the conversation between the two. "Whatchya doin'?"

"I-I was packing some snacks for us," April stammers, "when Mikey came in and-- huh?"

April looks around the room, suddenly noticing the strange lack of Mikey.

"Where'd he go?"

Mikey left the kitchen as soon as Leo came in. The soft limp and new bandages wrapped around his leg and neck made him feel sick to his stomach with guilt.

So he crept away while Leo was busy with April. Mikey sniffs the air, trying to find a scent of his brothers. Casey and Donnie are in the labs. Raph is in his room. Splinter is in his bedroom. Splinter is closest.

Mikey trots off to find his father. He hasn't spent a lot of time with him.

Mikey pokes his head through the sliding paper door, and spies Splinter holding a thick and heavy book. He smiles fondly at the pages. His ear twitches, and he turns to look at Mikey.

"Ah, Orange! Come in, my son."

Mikey hops in, sitting himself beside his father. He likes when Splinter calls him 'Orange', like the fruit. Sweet and simple. It makes him think maybe he can be as sweet as that... though he's not sure how he earned the nickname. He hopes he can live up to it.

"I was just packing up a few things, and found this scrapbook! Look at how young you all were..."

Mikey peers over the page and stares at the photos. They are such tiny babies... Leo and Donnie are in teacups getting bathed with a toothbrush. Raph is eating a strawberry twice the size of his head. Mikey is sleeping on a sponge.

April's not there. Neither is Casey. But, aren't they family...?

Splinter turns the page before Mikey can finish his train of thought. The next page has images of them all as toddlers. Splinter smiling in front of a lemonade stand run by Leo, with Raph crushing lemons into a bin behind them. Donnie is fiddling with a wrench and a toaster. Mikey is painting.

Huh. He looks so different.

Well, they all look a little different. Leo's stripes aren't as big or noticeable, Raph's tail isn't as long and spiky, and his scales aren't pointed. He doesn't have the hole or the chip in his shell and plastron. Donnie's head looks too big for his body.

But Mikey is so much more different. He traces his finger across the photo.

Splinter turns the page again.

Mikey gasps when he sees the next picture.

It's all of them together. Splinter, his brothers, April, and... and...

Is that Mikey?

Is that what he looks like?

Looked like...

Mikey leans into the page, his beak bumping against the paper as he sniffs it, hoping in vain that he can smell himself to prove that the child in that photo... is him.

Where is the tail?

Where are the claws?

The teeth are small and non-threatening. There's a gap in the upper jaw.

His skin is lighter, less spots. His shell is perfectly intact and whole, the patterns on it are bright and brilliant and beautiful. Nothing like the dull and scratched-out marks on his...

Mikey looks like his brothers. But not anymore... he had no idea...

"Orange? What is wrong, dear boy?"

Mikey is no dear boy. That title belongs to the kid in the photo. Not him. Not this monster.

Mikey slinks away from the photo and runs out of the room. He passes Leo in the halls.

"Whoah -- hey! Mikey, slow down, where are you--?"

Mikey doesn't slow down. He runs away and hides in Raph's room. Raphael jumps and shouts in surprise as Mikey hops up onto his bed and curls under the sheets.

"Aiiee! Mikey? What are you--"

He stops when he hears Mikey crying.

"Mikey? Big man? You okay?"

Mikey shakes his head no.

"Aw. Well, do you want me to sit with you?"

Mikey thinks it over. He lifts his arm, signaling for Raph to climb into the blanket with him. He sets down the box and sits on the bed, wrapping the sheet over his shoulder. The height difference between the two of them makes the blanket drape like a tent over Mikey.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Mikey shakes his head no. Talking about it will reveal how Mikey is lost. He couldn't even remember what he looked like! How is Raph supposed to love him when he finds out he isn't Mikey anymore?

He doesn't care what April said. He HAS to earn it. If he isn't their Mikey anymore... then whatever they think he did before doesn't apply. He has to start over with them, get their affections back for this new Mikey that they have. But... if that's the case, then he's off to a really rough start.

"It'll be okay," Raph promises. "You'll lick this."

Raph pats Mikey's shoulder, trying to comfort him. Mikey sighs.

This feels... familiar...

Mikey sits with his brother, rubbing his shoulder softly. Raph whimpers under the blanket, crying.

"Dude, it's not that big of a deal."

Raph peeks out from under his pillows at Mikey and whines.

"B-but your face..."

"It's just a bruise!" Mikey says, smiling brightly at Raph. His round face is slightly rounder, one of his cheeks is puffy and black and blue. Mikey had come in to wake him for breakfast and Raph had freaked out, forgetting he was home and smacked his baby brother in the face as he flailed awake.

Raph whimpers again, reaching out and cupping Mikey's swollen cheek.

"It looks so baaaaaad..."

"I'll be fiiiiiine," Mikey assures him. "It's all okay!"

"B-but I--"

"Raph." Mikey says sternly. "I scared you. You reacted. It happens. Do you know how many times I've been smacked by Donnie when I try to wake him up? And have you seen how many times I've kicked Leo in the face when he tries to get me to go to bed earlier?"

"This is different!"

"You're right, this time it was an accident, and not on purpose."

Raph sighs.

"You know what I mean. I can't... I don't want to be like this."

Raph subconsciously starts to scratch at his eyepatch again. His eye is still injured and slightly irritated, and he knows it will only get worse the more he scratches at it, but he can't help it. He's the protector of the family, the biggest and oldest and arguably the strongest... though, Donnie can carry them all with his hover shell, and Leo can block a mutant's punch without even flinching, and Mikey can flip a whole building. He isn't supposed to be this frail, fragile, frightened mutant ninja turtle.

Mikey's expression falls. His gaze softens. He scoots in closer, taking Raph's hand in his as rests his head on top of Raph's.

"You won't be like this. It WILL get better."

"How do you know?" Raph asks nervously.

"Because I know you. You'll lick this, like you lick everything. Nothing is too tough for my big brother."

Raph sighs with a chuckle.

"Some big brother I am, having to rely on my little brother to help me get outta my head..."

"Even big brothers need to take a break and get some sense knocked into 'em," Mikey jokes, smacking Raph upside the head playfully.

"Hey!"

"Haha!" Mikey jeers, jumping up and pulling Raph along the with him. "Now come on, let's go make brekkies! I'll do your favourite -- chocolate chip pancakes!"

Raph smiles, following his baby brother out the door...

"Mikey?"

"Hmm?"

Mikey comes back to reality and turns to look at Raph.

"You zoned out on Raph. You all good, big man?"

Mikey doesn't say anything. He reaches up and touches the area around Raph's injured eye. Raph smiles, and takes his claw in his gentle giant hands.

"...Lick this," Mikey echoes. "Y-you won't be like this. It WILL get better."

Mikey stares up at Raph, who looks like he might start crying.

"...It will get better for Mikey, too?"

Raph nods with a smile.

"Absolutely, big man. It will get better."

Raph hugs Mikey tightly before going back to packing.

"Hey, wanna help Raph pick out which plushies should go with us to Draxum's?"

Mikey chirps in agreement, hopping down from the bed and shuffling through the stuffed animals and plush dolls. The two organize the collection for a few minutes before Leo pokes his head in.

"Hey Raph, have you seen --"

Mikey jumps into the pile and hides.

"-- Mikey. Uh, what is going on?"

"We're choosing which stuffed animals go with us," Raph explains.

"But why is he in the pile now?"

"I'm, uh... not entirely sure."

Leo approaches the pile cautiously. Mikey's tail is still hanging out. Leo taps it.

"Hey, Mikey --"

Mikey bursts out of the pile of stuffies and runs away again.

He's not ready to talk to Leo yet.

Instead, he runs into the skate room and scurries up into the jungle gym Donnie made for him. He hides in the tube, waiting to see if Leo will come after him again…

Maybe if Mikey is quiet, Leo won’t find him… but, he sorta does want Leo to find him.

It’s hard to explain, and hard to understand. It’s the same as when he left the lair and got scolded by Leo. He wants the scolding, the anger, the unpleasantness to be done with so he can hurry up and feel better. But it's not Leo that's angry with Mikey... Mikey is the only one angry with Mikey. So, he's not sure what to do.

Twenty minutes go by before Leo finally makes his way into the rec room.

“Mikey?” he calls out.

Mikey unintentionally makes a despondent chirr. It’s quiet and soft, but he thinks maybe Leo heard him.

His theory is confirmed when he hears Leo walk directly underneath the structure he is hiding in and call up to him again.

“Mikey, come down from there. We have to leave soon, and I need to know what stuff of yours we gotta pack!”

Mikey doesn’t budge.

“Mikey, what is going on? Why are you avoiding me?”

Mikey doesn’t say anything. His tail twitches.

“Are you gonna come down?”

“Mm-mmngh,” Mikey mumbles, shaking his head despite the fact that Leo can’t see his head.

“…Fine then. I’m coming up!”

Mikey jolts, sitting upright and watching in surprise as Leo grabs hold of the rope and starts climbing. It’s not quite so easy on his leg, and Mikey suddenly feels bad for making him come up. But Leo isn't one to be deterred, and pulls himself up to wriggle through the tube tunnel. He smiles at Mikey, who crouches and slinks away from him sadly.

“Mikey, don’t run away again, I just got up here!” Leo gripes, crawling towards his brother.

Mikey whines, shrinking into himself. His tail wraps around him. Mikey taps the floor of the tube sadly. He won't run again... if only because it might hurt Leo's injuries.

Leo sighs with relief as he crawls closer.

“So what’s up? I mean, besides us right now,” he jokes.

He hopes it will lighten the mood. Mikey makes a half smile, but turns his face away from Leo.

“Mikey? What’s wrong? Do you not want to leave the lair or something?”

‘Not that,’ Mikey signs.

Leo’s smile falls when he sees Mikey isn’t talking at all. That’s not a good sign.

“Then what is it?” he asks. “Why do you keep running from me—“

The words stop in his mouth. His eyes widen. He’s figured it out.

“…Oh. You’re scared… of… me? Or of hurting me again?”

Mikey nods.

‘Leo going to be mad. Mikey… scared. Mikey hurt Leo, Mikey monster.’

“You’re not a monster, Mikey. We talked about this last night, and I already told you I’m not mad!”

“But I am!” Mikey snaps back loudly, tears in his eyes. “And I want you to be mad at me! It doesn't make sense, I don’t get why you won’t be mad at me!!”

“Because I already forgave you for what happened! It was an honest accident and —“

“But it wasn’t! I did that myself!! It wasn't Instinct, it wasn't sleepwalking, or whatever else could happen! I knew what I was doing, I knew I was g-going to hurt s-someone, and I didn't care who, a-and I-- I--!”

“But not me. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“But I did—“

“Mikey.”

Leo's tone is stern, severe, strong. Not angry, but maybe a bit irritated. Leo reaches forward, and Mikey flinches, eyes squeezing shut and muscles tensing. He waits for whatever Leo will do. He waits for the punishment.

Mikey feels a pat against his cheek. A soft slap. It doesn’t hurt, but it does surprise him.

He opens his eyes and stares at Leo, brow folding in confusion.

“There. We’re even.”

“W-what?”

“I hit you back. We’re even. So you don’t have to be so upset about it anymore. I’m not mad, so you don’t have to be mad either.”

“B-but… that's it? That can't be it! What if I hurt you again?”

“I don’t think you will. Do you think you will?” Leo asks with concern.

“I… I don’t want to! But what if I can’t control it?” Mikey asks, digging his nails into the tube. “What if Instinct lashes out? What if I can’t keep myself from attacking someone again?? What if I really am a monster —“

Leo takes Mikey’s hands.

“Mikey… I won’t let that happen. You cannot ever convince me that you are a monster. Not ever. I don’t care what they did to you in there, I don’t care what bull-crap they made you believe about needing to earn things and what your worth is, but none of that is true. You mean everything to me, and I don’t care how many times I have to say it to you. I’ll say it every day if I need to! Mikey, we love you no matter what, no matter the mistakes or mess-ups or whatever else happens. We love you. And we want you to love yourself just as much as we do, so whatever I have to do to show you the real worth you have, the real value that we see in you, I'll do it. Because Mikey, you're worth -- you are worth --"

Leo hyperventilates, trying to catch his breath and force the words out.

"-- You are worth everything to me. I'd sacrifice anything and everything for you... I-I'd even go back to the P-P-Prison D-Dimension for you!"

Mikey stares at Leo, terrified. He has no idea what the Prison Dimension is, but from how white Leo's face went when he mentioned it, Mikey is certain that the 'Prison Dimension' is his version of the labs.

Leo is shaking. Mikey reaches over to take his hand --

It's been one of those days again... Leo is having a hard time recovering, and hasn't spoken a word at all. He made tons of jokes on Staten Island, and he talked up a blue streak in the tank with everyone on the drive home, but... once he got home... he went silent.

Some days (usually the days when he's high off of painkillers) he'll goof and laugh and joke and converse to no end. But they can see the mask, Mikey can tell Leo is secretly terrified about everything that happened. Simply because he won't talk at all about the invasion. He won't even recognize Casey as a part of the room. He just pretends it never happened.

But most days (like today) Leo sits in his bed in the medbay and stares off into space.

Mikey likes to come in and talk with him while he's being quiet but present. If Leo won't say anything, Mikey can say enough for the both of them.

And that's what he's doing now. Mikey just spent the past hour talking about a new Lou Jitsu reboot prequel television series he heard about. It looks cool, but of course will never match up to the real deal. He mentioned what Barry was up to during the invasion. He talked about what toppings they should get for Casey's first pizza once Leo is out and walking again...

But Leo seemed to not respond to anything, so Mikey figured he was dissociated. Mikey sits in the quiet, twiddling his tremoring hands.

"...I tried cooking again today," Mikey offers quietly. "I-I burned the eggs. Remember when I kept burning the food when you tried to teach me how to cook for myself? I burned everything in the kitchen! Heck, I almost burned the whole kitchen down!"

Mikey laughs to himself at the memory. It's a shaky laugh, and it turns into soft whimpering cries as he tries to maintain the positive facade.

"I g-guess my hands still aren't r-ready to do that yet."

Mikey's breathing speeds up.

"I tried to d-draw again, too. But the pencils -- my hands won't stay still. I keep sh-shaking. I keep, I keep --"

Mikey gasps for breath as he fights to keep the tears from escaping.

"I-I tried using my chucks. I hit myself in the face. I tried t-to paint, to do r-razzmatazz, I, I-I tried making a sandwich! I couldn't do--do it, I can't, c-can't --"

Leo takes Mikey's hand in his.

Mikey turns to look at his brother in shock. He wasn't sure Leo even knew he was in the medbay with him. But here he is, fully lucid and watching Mikey with concern.

"I-I'm sorry," Mikey blurts out. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you -- I shouldn't have said all that, you need your rest and to not worry about me, I'm fine , I just -- I thought you -- I mean, I just wanted to vent, but I -- You don't need to know --"

Leo pulls Mikey's hands closer and looks them over. The bandages cover over all the scarring that the mystic mishap caused. He smiles weakly, before choking out a quick sentence.

"Th-thank you for... opening the portal."

Mikey's eyes sting with tears. A lump forms in his throat. Leo hasn't spoken in so long, and... He looks up at Mikey, eyes welling up with tears. Leo starts to cry, sucking in deep breaths.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you had to do that for me..."

Mikey throws himself across Leo, wrapping him in a hug despite the injury to his ribs and arms and legs and... well, to his whole body.

"Leo, I would do it again and again and again and again and again and --"

Mikey loses the plot and just weeps over Leo. Leo weeps right back into him. The two are a sobby, teary-eyed, bleary-eyed mess of martyrs.

"I don't care about my hands, I don't care about the cooking or the art or anything else, I'm just so so so so so so so glad that you came home!" Mikey yells through the tears. "I can handle waiting on my hands to get better! Please don't think that I'm -- don't think that you don't mean more to me than all those things, you mean everything to me! I really would open up a portal to the -- to that place again! I just want you to be okay!"

Mikey sobs, his tears so loud that he can't hear anything other than his own pathetic blubbers.

"...I love you so much, Mikey," Leo snivels quietly. "I'm sorry... I love you... Thank you... I know what you gave up for me... thank you... thank you... thank... I didn't deserve that... you shouldn't have had to... but you did... f-for me....."

"Of course, Leo," Mikey whimpers. "You're more than worth it, and you deserve every good thing. You didn't deserve to go through the pain you've endured, you didn't deserve to get hurt and scared, you didn't deserve to be trapped in a heckscape with an evil alien warlord. But for every day of the rest of my life, I will make sure you get all the love you deserve, and it will still never be enough..."

Mikey squeezes Leo tighter. He can't let him go. He won't ever let him go. Never again.

The two suddenly feel more arms around them, as Raph and Donnie appear out of nowhere and pile on the cry-fest hug party.

Mikey stares wide-eyed at Leo's hand in his. He slowly looks up at him.

Leo smiles, tears in his eyes.

Oh.

Mikey is starting to see his worth now... he did something... something that cost his hands for a while. Something that saved Leo from the Prison Dimension. Whatever that is.

Mikey swallows slowly, and looks back down at his hands.

They are not the same ones that saved Leo. They are the ones that hurt him.

You cannot ever convince me that you are a monster. Not ever. I don’t care what they did to you in there, I don’t care what bull they made you believe about needing to earn things and what your worth is, but none of that is true.

Don't think that you don't mean more to me than all those things, you mean everything to me! I really would open up a portal to the -- to that place again! I just want you to be okay!

You mean everything to me, and I don’t care how many times I have to say it to you. I’ll say it every day if I need to!

Because Mikey, you're worth everything to me. I'd sacrifice anything and everything for you... I'd even go back to the Prison Dimension for you!

Mikey starts crying again.

He crawls forwards and wraps his arms around Leo, sobbing into his shoulder.

"D-don't leave me," he begs quietly. "I don't want to lose you."

"O-okay," Leo whispers back, patting Mikey's shell. "You won't..."

"Please don't leave me..." Mikey repeats. "Don’t go away from me, Leo… I can’t lose you…..”

"Mikey, what are you talking about?" Leo asks, stroking his shell. "I'm not going anywhere, I was just --"

"Leo, please," Mikey begs. "Just promise me. Promise me, that... no matter what... I won't lose you."

Leo holds Mikey stiffly. He's not sure what Mikey is getting at, but...

"I promise you, Mikey. I won't leave, and you'll never lose me."

Mikey rubs his face deeper into Leo's shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, Leo... for hurting you..."

Leo shushes him and squeezes him tight.

"It's over and dealt with. We don't need to worry over it anymore, right?"

Mikey nods slowly.

"Good. Now, can we get down from here? I'm starting to get claustrophobic!" He laughs. "But seriously though, it's too tight for me."

"We're telling him."

"I thought we agreed that was a bad idea?" Donnie argues.

"I said it was a tough discussion to bring up," Leo retorts. "But I think he needs to know what's going on about the anti-mutagen hitch. And I also think we should tell him about the rest..."

"The rest?" Raph asks timidly.

"His contributors to his mutant DNA," Leo clarifies. "We said we wouldn't talk about it at the time, mostly due to the fact that he was mutated using Krang DNA. But I'm thinking that..."

Leo looks over at Donnie anxiously.

"...Since you don't, uh... well... y'know. Since it doesn’t look like Mikey will be getting un-mutated anytime soon, I think he deserves to know."

The trio are silent as they stand in Donnie's room.

"I don't know, Leo," Raph sighs. "Wouldn't that just... make it worse?"

"Maybe it'll add to whatever he's dealing with, maybe not," Leo says with a shrug. "I don't think he understands what the Krang are yet. I mentioned the Prison Dimension and he didn't even bat an eye!"

"But... I... don't want to tell him," Donnie squirms. "I don't want him to know I failed..."

"Well, obviously we won't phrase it like that!" Leo says, balancing on his heels as he leans back and forth with his hands on his hips. "But he deserves to know how his condition is going to progress, Dee."

Donnie sighs and clutches his bow staff. Raph pulls him close into a side hug.

"We're telling him everything. There's no point in keeping secrets from him," Raph agrees. "I'm just worried how it's gonna affect his mental health stuffs."

"However it affects him, we'll be there to help him get through it. And, uh, there is something else, too..."

"What now?" Donnie sighs. He doesn't mean to gripe, but he's just so tired of all these problems that afflict Mikey that he can't fix or solve straightaway.

"I spoke with April and Dad. I think... there might be something Mikey hasn't told us about his memory problems."

Prev || Next

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spxcefarer · 6 months

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Starfield Radio Stations (a collection of Spotify playlists)

Sooo I got super bored yesterday and made 11 (yes, eleven) Spotify playlists for radio stations I made up for the Starfield universe. There's a huge mix of genres, so I thought maybe some of you guys might like to listen too. I've aimed for around 50 tracks each but total lengths vary a little. You can also click here to see all the tracklists.

Red Rock Radio - "martian radio for all your heavy listening needs" - perfect for dogfights and shootouts. Heavy, rhythmic, lots of classic and contemporary hard rock. Probably something the Red Devils would listen to, and a personal favourite of mine.

Space-DST Radio - "classical rock to ease you through the spacelanes" - recently taken up space-trucking? Got you covered. Road-trip bangers and dad-rock in this one.

Asteroid FM - "ambient tracks for when you're lost in space" - think lots of instrumental mountain banjo and some psychedelic rock themes. Some vocal tracks but not many, very mellow in general.

Atlantic FM - "feel-good indie for drowning out the corporate drones" - what it says on the tin really. New Atlantis vibes - up-beat, jazzy, designed to make you feel better.

Radio Cheyenne - "music to awaken your inner space cowboy" - Akila City vibes at their finest. Country, blues and soft rock, very frontier-esque.

RADIONEON - "electronica for those neon-lit nights" - upbeat synth and punchy drums to vibe/dance/astral project/kill bad guys to. Some indie and some more mainstream tracks in here.

RADIONEON ASTRAL FM - "entrancing electronic beats" - made to fit with the air of the Astral Lounge, lots of trancey EDM and house.

Stargazer Radio - "melancholy music found in someone's ancestor's collection" - for when you just need to drift through space and ponder life's troubles. Sad vibes, with modern and old stuff.

Planet Pop! - "a mix of popular music from old earth" - only stuff released before Y2K here, contains lots of 80s in this one.

Planet Pop! 2K - "pop music from after the turn of the millennium" - a mix of dance and classic pop tracks released after Y2K. Tried to keep it space-themed but got carried away lol.

FM Voyager - "moog-ish music to drift in space to" - think 60s space music, and then multiply by 200. Not as many tracks on this one, probably the weirdest out of the lot.

Please let me know what you think!!

I've been so excited to share this I'd love to know if you have any favourites!

#starfield #bethesda #spotify #spotify playlist #starfield playlist #music

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ohtobeleah · 1 year

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Poison Ivy // Bob Floyd

Summary: Bobs got the hots for the admirals assistant. Bad. So bad it makes him feral. But what happens when he gets the dosage wrong and messes the whole thing up.

Warnings: Drug Overdose. Spiked drink. Bob Floyd x F!reader. Mentions of date rape drugs. Man slaughter.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author Note: Happy Whumptober everyone! I’m so beyond excited to get to break your hearts for 31 days. So here’s to Day One of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Drugging. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“How’d you kill her Lieutenant!” Bob Floyd, with his big eyes and even bigger glasses sat in the police station held up in an interrogation room. He wasn’t talking—not without a lawyer. Sure he did it. He didn’t mean to, but still, he did it.

***~***~***~***~***

The human body is designed to compensate for loss. It adapts so it no longer needs the thing it can’t have.

But sometimes the loss is too great and the body can’t compensate on its own.

“Will you watch this for me?” It was common sense really, especially in this day and age, to not leave your drinks unattended at bars or clubs or restaurants. Your mother had taught you that. “I just need to use the bathroom real quick.”

“Oh yeah—“ Bob raised his brows as if he was shocked you were trusting him with such a thing. “Yeah sure thing Ivy.” You’d been enjoying a drink or two, or possibly even three after work with a few colleagues. Normally you wouldn’t indulge so frivolously—but the more you worked amongst the Aviators that called North Island home, you grew accustomed to Hangman's incessant pestering with that devilish panty dropping smile and Roosters charming aura that seemingly had you nodding along in agreement to a few fruity beverages after a long day in the Admirals office. “Not a problem.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right back.” And then there was Robert Floyd. The soft smiling, baby blue eye having, kind hearted soul who always had an empty seat available for you to perch yourself up on beside him. He was all encompassing, endearing even.

The time and energy he’d put into listening to you drone on and on about how your day wasn’t hard to notice. He always had time for you, no matter what.

As you got up, you leaned in to kiss Bob gently on the apple of his cheek. It was the simplest of gestures that you hoped he perceived as an intention for something more. You wanted Bob Floyd—

And he wanted you.

As you walked away Bob's eyes lingered down towards your drink, then back up to scan the expanse of the bar, then again to your drink. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest all the while he fished the small, glass bottle of rohypnol out of his pocket.

To be fair, Bob had tried to get you to go home with him in the past. He’d tried to give you small hints here and there but you just weren’t getting the hint. And there was just something stopping Bob from outright asking you to follow him out into the carpark so that he could take you home. His tongue always felt tied, so—the next best thing?

Spike your drink, get you a little giggly and easily influenced all so that Bob could feel what your velvet walls felt like clenching around him. He was no Hangman or Rooster, he didn’t have that confidence or the charming mannerisms. Bob was simply Bob.

And you should have known, it was always the quiet unassuming ones.

Bob watched your cocktail fizzle as the white substance settled to the bottom of the amber coloured liquid. He stirred the contents with the little black plastic straw and soon enough you’d never even know the beverage had been tampered with—and certainly the last person anyone would ever suspect would be the quiet and somewhat shy weapons systems officer that would bring you coffee in the morning and visit you during lunch.

He was going to fuck you tonight, wether you liked it or not. Bob knew that much for sure—he was done playing Mr. Nice guy. He was done waiting, tired of always being second to none. Bob wanted you and he needed you, bad. There was no negotiation. He wasn’t about to lose out again.

“You look a little paranoid there Floyd.” Hangman smirked as he let his hand fall to Bob's shoulder. Clamping down like a vice. “How’s things going with Ivy? You made a move yet?” It was no secret that you and Bob were in the beginning of what seemed to be a blooming romance.

At the sight of you coming back from the bathroom, Bob shrugged Jake's hand from his shoulder and sat up a little straighter, just a little taller as he sent you an all encompassing smile that ignited your nerve endings.

If only he knew how you felt about him.

“If you’d buzz off I’ll let you know in the morning.” Bob hissed over his shoulder and Jake left it at that. He didn’t press or stick around to see the train wreck unfold before his very eyes. He knew Bob didn’t have the guts to ask a lady of your callable to go home with him. Hell, Hangman was quite certain Bob was punching above his weight with you.

But if Jake had stayed, perhaps if he’d stuck around just five minutes more—you wouldn’t have taken a sip of your drink as you sat back down across from Bob at the small barstool table. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten lost in the way the corner of his lips curled into only one of his cheeks as he sent you a half faced grin. If only Hangman had hung around, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed the burning taste in your mouth or the way Bob's eyes darkened when you saw the sediment at the bottom of your glass. Oh. Oh no.

“Bob?” You felt sick to your stomach as He reached across the table to place his hand atop yours. “You didn’t, did you?”

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t already want.” Bob cooed, his thumb ran over your knuckles. “Come out to the car with me?”

“Oh—“ This couldn’t be happening. “No, no—I really don’t think I want to go.” Everything was beginning to spin as you tried to step down from the stool. “Bob?” It came out as a whine for help. Bob was at your side playing worried for his friends as he caught you, your knees felt weak and your feet felt like lead bricks. What was happening? Why, why would Bob do this to you? “I don’t feel good.”

“It’s alright, I got you.” Bob cooed as he helped you stand—he was quick to wrap your arm up and around his shoulder as your head lulled. Your neck felt weak, atrophied to the point where the muscles just simply couldn’t support the weight of your head any longer. Shit—this stuff worked quickly. “We’re gonna head out guys, Ivy’s not feeling all that great.” Bob explained without hesitation, the sad part was no one ever suspected a thing. “We’ll see you all Monday.”

“Atta boy Floyd!” Jake teased as he clapped Bob out of the Hard Deck, completely none the wiser as to what Bob had done. But it was always the quiet unassuming ones. It was a goddamn cautionary tale at this point.

“Come on baby, in we get hey.” Bob cooed as you felt you burning up, he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead as he tried to get your seatbelt done up. Safety first, as always. “You’re gonna be so good for me aren’t you? I’m gonna give you everything you need.” It was his lips against yours that really took your breath away as his digit’s slipped around your neck. You didn’t kiss back. You couldn’t do anything but whimper into him—which told Bob you wanted him. But in fact it couldn’t have been further from the truth. “Shit I dunno if I can wait till we’re home now that you’re making those pretty little sounds for me.” Bob could feel just how strained against his jeans he’d truly become. “Hold on—let me jump in the driver's side.”

You’re always so hopeful at the beginning of things. It seems like there’s only a world to be gained, not loss. And as you watched Bob open the driver's side door, everything was beginning to darken—you couldn’t hold your eyelids open. Couldn’t see, hear or think. All you knew was that this wasn’t right, it wasn’t what you wanted, that this wasn’t the Bob Floyd you thought you were falling in love with.

“Bob—help.” You couldn’t breathe. Your throat was so tight, you couldn’t get anything in. Couldn’t fill your lungs. “Please—help me.” People usually say that the inability to accept loss is a form of insanity. It’s probably true. Because as you took your last breath, all you saw was Robert Floyd.

Unbuckling his belt like the devil himself had whispered over his shoulder and had dared him to do it.

***~***~***~***~***

“I didn’t kill her.” Bob lied through those puppy dog eyes. “Someone must have spiked her drink! But it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

***~***~***~***~***

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines

#AIlessWhumptober2023 #Leah’s whumptober Masterlist #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #top gun bob #top gun fanfic #top gun fandom #top gun fanfiction #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd angst #bob floyd whump

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poisonheadcrabsalesman · 6 months

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Making the Most of It

A follow-up to Blown Lightbulbs by bellygunnr featuring Lasky, Palmer, and Roland and the ever-present passage of time. Here's 3.4k words of AI Possession, brunch, banter, and salvaging your precious time together after a trip to your childhood home.

Also on ao3. This work is mature but not explicit.

The trip to Mars wasn't a total wash just because of the disastrous meeting at the Lasky Household. They still had a few things left on the itinerary that Sarah and Roland had put together without Tom's knowing. And Roland wanted to try those mimosas.

There's some movie droning on the wall sized TV in the background, screen dimmed along with the lights in the room, casting gentle shadows on cream colored walls. Half the pillows are arranged in a comfortable nest, propping them up while the other half are piled on the overstuffed recliner in the other room. They're too high up for street noise, but every so often the passing engine sounds of a ship taking off rumbles through the thick walls of their hotel room.

It’s a little ridiculous, a huge room high above the sprawling landscape of a bustling downtown, views of the shipyard and further out the edge of the terraformed greenery giving way to natural Martian red-brown. A penthouse suite complete with minibar and a bathroom bigger than his quarters on the ship. Beyond excess, but he knows they picked it out for him. Just like they both came along, and comforted him when the house and everything related to it was so damn cold.

The sheets are soft and clean, and the comforter light yet warm, like a cloud surrounding them in their small bubble. Pressed against each other, skin on skin, her mouth moving from his ear to the back of his neck, trailing kisses as they entwine and exist.

He's two people right now and also just one, experiencing the feeling of being held, of warmth and love made physical as she crawls closer and pulls him back against her, their surroundings and worries forgotten as she pets his head, his hair, fingers scratching lightly as her other hand soothes and squeezes his arm, his stomach, his chest. Their legs tangle, his cold feet making her hiss before sighing as they settle down again.

There’s no Mars, no shipyard, no botched family reunion or ghosts of his past haunting them. Just the sounds of her heart beating slow and steady and the dual warmth of being pressed against her and the feeling of his passenger heating the CNI with his presence.

Dozing for a short time, they awaken as the movie ends and another one starts. The reminder that the time they have together is passing makes them oddly emotional, a swelling melancholy that stoppers their throat and leaks out their eyes. They sniffle quietly, blinking away fat, hot tears that slide down to pool on the arm holding them close.

Quiet concern murmured into the spot where two become one makes them fidget and turn, burying their face into her neck and squeezing her tight. She reacts with a forceful hug, one hand coming up to wipe their tears. Rolling over to her back, she allows them to sprawl across her while they sigh and wheeze as the roiling emotions of two beings settle again. Warmth and a steady rhythm of her breathing soothes them slowly. She waits until their stuttering breathing evens out and kisses their forehead and then both their hands.

There's no hiding here. No need to. No ranks or titles. A brief respite against the rising tide and ticking clock. They may starve for touch outside the four walls of this borrowed room, but here and now is an oasis of privacy. Embracing away from prying eyes, a chance of catching their breath without some threat hanging over their heads, not choking on the signs of their stations collaring them. No need for armor.

Her hands squeeze and let go of theirs before tracing feather light touches down their back and up their sides, teasing spirals and swirls into twitching skin as they struggle to stay still. Retaliation comes too late even as they try for the spots on her side that make her laugh; she flips them and drags the cover over their head.

Cocooned in the glowing warmth of the backlit blanket, they are pinned by her weight and by her mouth on them. Kisses and raspberries attacking any available skin, their wrists in her hands, their legs pinned by her sitting atop them. They laugh and struggle against her, bucking their hips against the onslaught before she pauses. Her smile beaming down on their flustered face, her hair messy and ringing her sleep-lined face.

"Vacation's not over yet. You can't get weepy on me after one nap, boys." Her voice rasps out of her throat, still thick with sleep. She releases their wrists and drops her arms beside their head, holding the majority of her weight off them as she boxes them in. Her chest presses against theirs, hearts pounding together and she looks them in the eyes and smiles with teeth glinting in the low light.

"We still have plenty of time, and I have a few things in mind." She whispers, grinding her hips down on them as she mouths at their neck, grazing her teeth along the junction between throat and shoulder. She doesn't wait for a response as she moves lower and laves at a nipple. Words seem out of their reach so they make some kind of noise, halfway between a question and an affirmative. She moves to their other side, repeating her actions with teeth and tongue, making them gasp, before she purrs in their ear. "You two should tell me what you want to do. We should make the most of this."

They remember their hands are free and take a moment to figure out where to put them. She notices their slight hesitation and lets them figure it out, only to be surprised when they grasp her face in their hands and pull her down for a kiss.

It's slow and sweet and lingering as they figure out who's driving. Waiting with a patience solely reserved for them, she lets them explore and hums her assent when they do something she likes. After a moment she kisses them back, gently leading this time, growing more forward and licking at their lips til they part; deepening the kiss til they draw back for air.

Their lips are wet and swollen and their eyes are blown wide, rings of gold still shining around dark pupils. Tom's face is flushed and wearing Roland's half cocked grin and she wants to eat them alive and hold them close and never let go all at once.

It must show on her face.

“Like what you see?” The words tumble breathlessly out of Tom’s mouth, but the confident little smirk doesn’t falter.

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Their next quip, either Tom’s or Roland's, is lost as Tom’s stomach growls in defiance. The sheepish grin is Roland’s while the embarrassed flush on his ears is all Tom.

“Room service?” She asks, inches from their face. A nod and she kisses them again before pulling back. “You’re buying, Lasky. This place is too rich for my blood.”

She rises, taking the comforter with her as Tom-and-Roland squawk at the rush of cold air. She laughs and throws it back at them as they grumble.

Going to throw on one of the too-small complimentary robes that came with the room, she chucks a pillow at their surprised face while they bundle up in the regained comforter.

Yes, Tom could afford to cover the cost. Captain's salary he never spent. The place was expensive, and she was the one that booked the room. Least he could do was pay for the food…and drinks.

They splurge. The numbers on the right side of the menu sit there politely in neat font while she fights her rising blood pressure. They want how much for a burger? She’s out of touch with the cost of tea in civilian populated areas- her own food and nutrition coming straight from the UNSC for so long now. Her main concern was sending money back to Luna for her dad and squirreling the rest away for some inevitable emergency. It’s fine, it’s a vacation, but she can’t imagine spending that much regularly.

Tom can afford to splurge and being planetside means fresh food. Fresh food alone makes it worth the price. That and Roland's eager to try almost anything. He's practically chomping at the bit for new experiences.

The food arrives on a cart left at their door; the wheels sinking into the plush carpet under the weight it bears. It's covered in silver serving dishes complete with cloches, looking like it's straight out of an old movie. They aren't dressed like it's an old movie though, but it's their vacation. Food tastes better lounging in a robe or half wrapped in a duvet anyway.

Roland delights in revealing their brunch- brunch! Isn't that neat? A meal for people who don't start their day at 0500- and they dig in.

She can't keep the grin off her face as she watches them eat and talk between themselves in one body. Roland seemed to lose most of his usual issues about crumbs and mess in his mission to try as many foods as possible.

She ends up having to hide a laugh in a sip of coffee as Tom reins him in and redirects them away from the mimosas.

She wonders how long that will last.

Tom's trying to tell Roland that his- their tastebuds didn't like hollandaise sauce, but he's bound and determined to try it all. Watching the usually more reserved duo decimate the plate of bacon and eggs was cute. She was endeared and trying not to be annoyed about it. Her chest felt full and she couldn't stop grinning.

So the hardened Spartan Commander shoves half a bagel with lox in her mouth and starts fixing a third plate instead of dwelling on it. Hashbrowns and cholesterol will change the funny feeling in her chest. No carefully planned meals here.

The eggs benedict are tried, despite Tom's warning. It has their nose wrinkling in something close to defeat before she distracts them with another dish and finishes off the plate herself. She was never picky about food, couldn't afford to be, but now with free time and Lasky's paycheck, she could agree it was a little weird. Wouldn’t stop her from cleaning her plate.

They start digging into a grapefruit and making faces at the tartness. Fresh fruit was a treat aboard a starship, and most of Roland's secondhand exposure had been so processed or refined, it's no wonder the preconceptions he had were a bit off. She and Tom were having fun forgetting to warn Roland about certain sensations. Sarah was waiting til they switched who had Roland to introduce him to the wonders of capsaicin.

Still, seeing Tom's face squinched up made her chuckle and lean over, cloth napkin wiping the juice dribbling from their chin.

She's in rare form, so she doesn't insult them. Maybe she's getting soft. Instead, she offers the fruit platter up as a better option.

"Here. Try these, they're sweet." She holds up a grape, round and cool and much nicer than the ones she's had in the past. So much sweeter and real, no chemical aftertaste or electric purple dye clinging to her tongue. Leaning forward she takes their chin in her hand and feeds it to them, thumb brushing their lip as she waits for their judgment.

They chew and brighten, eyes darting towards the plate in front of her and her face as a blush forms. She leans closer, chin on her hand. "Well, did you like it?"

Tom-and-Roland swallow and nod, and grab a glass of water to wash away the lingering tartness. Their eyes flicker from plate to plate and back to her face. A hand sneaks forward and wraps around the delicate flute of mimosa and she rolls her eyes.

“I want to try it! You’re both making a big deal out of nothing.” Roland says, eyeing it with burning curiosity.

Three glasses later, they’re giggling as Tom mentions there might be more champagne than orange juice in there.

“I hadn’t noticed.” She says smoothly, stabbing a waffle off their plate and stealing it before they can respond. The pitcher is on her side of the table, out of their reach, next to her own empty glasses. “Drink some water.”

They smile broadly at her and dutifully sip some water. She can’t take her eyes off them, it’s how she knows they haven’t stopped smiling since they woke up.

Roland reports he likes the mimosas more than scotch. He also reports he wants to order Irish coffee but she and Tom shoot that down.

“It’s not like we’re driving!” Roland pouts with Tom’s face, but the furrowed brow is all Tom.

Sarah swallows a half chewed bite of food and it goes down jagged and prickling. “I’m driving, you two can argue who gets to navigate.”

Their eyes light up and Tom’s mouth struggles to hold two different smiles.

It’s not a long drive, but traffic and checkpoints to get out of the city delay them long enough for Tom to relax again. She’s glad to see his posture relax and his eyes turn from her to their surroundings. Mare Erythraeum still sported wounds from recent battles. Dotting its landscape like bite marks were great gouges in the ground from ordnance and Jiralhanae ships.

It was more of the same. Signs of war everywhere they went. Signs of the UNSC and its progress were everywhere too. The choking miasma of fuel and engines from the shipyard stunk up their warthog’s cabin for the first few minutes of the drive.

Eventually gray gave way to green gave way to brown. Mars’ red brown soil had been carefully cultivated to support terraforming and human industry before nature had taken its own course back and flourished in an unproductive manner a few kliks out.

Past the old rundown towns that orbited big shipyards where the old hands used to live. It reminded her of Luna in a way. The atmosphere was nice, no fear of failure there, but the signs of age and neglect on old homes next to poorly maintained roads with bright new billboards showing off the latest ads and propaganda. Same everywhere she went. Sad and comforting in a way, as long as you stay useful, you stayed fed, and your home wouldn’t end up boarded up and abandoned.

Now she was overthinking things and being morose, what the hell?

Sarah eases the ‘hog out of the slower speed zone of the small town and back out onto the open highway towards their destination. Few others were on the road this way so she looks over at Tom-and-Roland with a smile, rolls down the windows, and guns the engine.

It takes off with a delayed roar and the wind greets them with its own roar in return.

Her passenger whoops as the warthog shudders and revs under her demanding hands. She wouldn’t push it too hard, not when they had the drive back to the hotel ahead of them. Sarah took care of her equipment and it took care of her - she just expected performance out of the damn thing for the price it cost. That’s what you get with a rental, she thinks with a sigh.

Tom’s hand rests on her thigh while he and Roland watch the road disappear under them. There’s a strange pause in their body language she can see out of the corner of her eye and then they’re sticking Tom’s head out the window.

She laughs, loud and clear at the moment. It’s a good day, beautiful even. They sit back in the seat after about a minute and Sarah smiles at the state of Tom’s hair. She ruffles it with her hand, pleased with the chilled feeling and their sunwarmed face and that she can touch them without looking over her shoulder.

They arrive at their destination with enough time before sunset. The Martian day was nearly identical to an Earth one, and she and Roland had researched their options when Tom had told them about his upcoming trip. Though it seemed Roland kept his thoughts quiet because Tom looks around in quiet awe as they clamber out of the warthog. Their boots crunch on the gravel parking lot and he takes in the trail signs and information boards.

“The Olympus Highlands Nature Reserve?” He says in a quiet voice. “I’ve never been. Never really left New Harmony until…”

“I always knew you were a city boy.” Sarah says with a nudge. “And we don’t get enough time planet-side. Love the atrium, but I thought we might like something a little more real. Don’t worry, I’ll still go slow.” She smirks at him and swallows her own uncomfortableness at Tom’s emotional display.

“Thank you, Sarah, Roland, I mean it. I-” His eyes shift and he swallows. Sarah allows him and Roland this brief mental scuffle while she unloads the packs.

“You won’t be so grateful after I make you hoof it up the trail. You’re pulling your weight here. The both of you.”

“Yes, Commander.” They say together. She turns on them, glowering at their wry smile and warm eye contact.

She scoffs and slaps the pack into Tom’s hands. “Maybe I’ll lose you on the trail, be free of this. Officer types never listen to me.”

“But then you’d be in charge.” They say, tilting Tom’s head to look at her with his stupid brown eyes wide and pleading.

She looks away from them playing dirty. “Damn, you’re right. I need you two around to do all the boring work. I guess you’ll survive the trip.”

“You always say the sweetest things.” They say as they put on the pack with a huff.

“Shut up and get walking. Roland needs to see how plants fix our monkey brains so he stops bothering the crew.”

“I ask a few questions and everyone gets so offended!” Roland whines, throwing Tom’s hands up before crossing his arms.

“Come on, I want to get moving.” She calls over her shoulder, three strides ahead of them and already ducking into the tree lined path.

They follow without complaint. The trees swallow the road noise and then they are left with only the soft orchestra of the park. Wind rustling the leaves as the sun dapples them with faint light, bird and bug calls echoing from all angles, and the sound of flowing water from somewhere down the path. There’s a low call from the valley where the Reserve houses its animals and information center. A strange baying noise that sounds like the braying of cattle crossed with an elk’s eerie keening voice. They stop and listen. The wind blows an answer that whips their hair and clothes around. Sarah and Tom inhale in unison and release the breath before turning back to their path.

Roland chuckles with Tom’s voice. “I think I get it.”

Sarah takes their hand and they climb.

The path snakes up the incline, grasses and tree roots anchoring the loose red brown soil while they slowly turn the whole hillside green. Rocks rounded by water and time glisten on the creek bank while dark shapes dart just below the waterline. Dragonflies and other insects flit around in an unknowable dance while larger wildlife scurries into their holes and hiding places amongst the decaying logs and nest-heavy tree branches.

Sunlight dims as time marches on, but it has been time well spent. Tom-and-Roland still feel the ache at the reminder, but the sadness is no match for the warmth of Sarah’s hand in theirs.

The path leads them to the treeline and beyond. A few more steps up the ridge has them standing on the precipice of one of Mars’ many craters-turned-valleys. They sway in the last of the sunlight as their star edges ever closer to the horizon, dyeing the skyline a cool blue.

Dust particles and Martian atmosphere, Roland thinks, but the scene is all too familiar to Tom. It hurts less than he thinks it would. Being on Mars, seeing the same sunset he watched disappear into darkness when he was left alone. Time passes, but it doesn’t have to hurt. At least, not all of it.

He-and-Roland inhale and exhale, a deep lung-filling breath that nearly escapes them without shuddering. The wind is chillier up this high, but Sarah’s there. Her hand is warm, and so is her arm as she draws them in close to watch the horizon.

They look up at her face and smile.

It’s her first Martian sunset, they’d missed yesterday’s at the house. Her eyes are clear and her shoulders lower in the most relaxed body language they’ve seen all trip. She needed this too.

“You know,” She swallows, uncharacteristically quiet. She mulls over her words even as she doesn’t take her eyes off the sky. “I could get used to this.” She says with a squeeze of her arm around them. The wind is chilly and night will be too, but it’s not so bad. He’s not alone.

“Me too.”

#my writing #Sarah Palmer #Thomas Lasky #Roland the AI #Halo fanfic #Look at my prose boy #palmsky

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