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johannestevans · 2 months

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Addressing Common Arguments Against “Consuming Harmful Content”

Challenging purity culture in online spaces and their fears of “problematic media”.

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Photo by Ethan Will via Pexels.

Constant and continuous arguments endure on social media about the dreaded and frightening spectre of problematic media — from television shows that supposedly “glorify” unhealthy relationships or “sexualise” and “excuse” abusive relationships; to erotica, adult books, and 18+ fanfiction that supposedly teach teenagers bad life lessons and impact their ethics; to anime and manga that surely must be the cause of child abuse the world over.

I wrote an in-depth essay about the intellectual flaws in these reactionary assumptions, delving into their roots in lacking media literacy and rising anti-sex attitudes here:

The above essay discusses at length many of the fears and anxieties that lead to this reactionary thinking, but does not challenge or explore the echo chambers that can arise in online spaces, particularly in aggressive environments such as Twitter/X, and for young or isolated individuals who are particularly vulnerable to peer pressure and fears of ostracisation if they admit to the “wrong” opinions.

Many of these arguments are used by “anti-shippers” within fandom and online spaces, the term commonly shortened as “antis” — if you’re unfamiliar with the term, these are people who define themselves as opposing one or more specific ships, fandoms, tropes, or kinks, often due to what they perceive to be their “problematic” or inherently “harmful” elements when engaged with or portrayed in various forms of media and art. Because of the virulent and highly aggressive nature of these online communities, these people — many of them young or isolated, often marginalised and disenfranchised from in-person, supportive environments — can become radicalised, and can experience great fear and anxiety at the premise of others holding different opinions or perspectives from the ones these online communities have impressed upon them should be held immutably by all.

In this piece I’m going to be addressing common arguments and assumptions seen on social media one by one — it is not really intended to convert the above, often radicalised individuals, but to provide support and guidance in understanding why their perspectives can be flawed, and how to engage with and deconstruct those arguments.

It is also intended to provide support and structure to begin to engage with and potentially challenge or affirm your own beliefs and ideas about fiction, art, and other forms of media, and the extent of the impact it can have on you or others — this piece is me addressing these arguments with my own perspective, but I would encourage people to disagree with and critique my rebuttals!

The goal here is always more critical thought, analysis, and understanding, and that doesn’t come from automatically following another person’s line of thought or argument just because it’s well-poised or you particularly respect or like them — no matter who that person or people may be.

“Depicting [a theme] in media is the same as glorifying it!”

Let’s first engage with what people might be discussing when they panic about “harmful content” and “problematic” ships or pieces of fiction.

They might worry about people reading or watching works that discuss or depict anything from violence, incest, sexual assault, age gaps, BDSM, kinky sex, child sexual abuse, trauma recovery, rape, rape recovery, drug use, bestiality, to abusive relationships or anything else, will encourage people to think positively about those acts, those traumas, and those experiences.

You might look at the list of things I just wrote there and go, “Um, there are big differences between some of those things and the others!”

And yet the same consideration still applies.

Just because a theme or idea is present in a work, or is depicted in it implicitly or explicitly, doesn’t mean it’s being “glorified” and portrayed as overwhelmingly positive — and even if a theme or aspect is being glorified, this does not mean we shall simply unthinkingly absorb that perspective.

Reading a story that contains something doesn’t mean I’ll automatically think that thing is good or bad, regardless of how it’s portrayed in fiction — the media and art we engage with doesn’t wholly change and adjust our own ethics and morals as soon as we’ve interacted with it.

We might play a videogame and disagree with the way some themes are presented, have criticisms of them, whilst enjoying and appreciating others; we might read a piece of erotica and find some parts about it very hot, but find others disturbing and a little uncomfortable; we might watch a TV show and just think it’s in very poor taste, despite theoretically being up for the premise.

Engaging with media does not turn off and on switches in our brains that make us completely “pro” or completely “anti” one premise or other.

People are more complicated than that.

We have complex and layered feelings about every argument and perspective there is, every experience there is, because human beings are social animals, and we experience very few things through an uncomplicated, binary lens.

For me personally, I often seek out works that cover the same traumas and harms I’ve experienced — why? Because seeking out those themes helps me process and better understand what has happened to me, and how I’ve felt about it, how I’ve responded.

“I don’t have a problem with people writing about certain harmful topics to show them as bad, but some people sexualise or fetishise them!”

I’m sure you’re right.

Some people might write about rape to work out a complex trauma recovery narrative — others might write about rape in a work as kink. An author might well write with both goals in mind in the same work.

A traumatic event doesn’t become less traumatic because it sexually aroused us or brought us physical pleasure — in fact, those feelings can add to the impact of a trauma and the inner conflict we experience in the aftermath.

Some people undercut victims of sexual abuse by saying they “enjoyed” it, pointing out that they orgasmed or showed signs of arousal as signs they “secretly” wanted it, and these feelings can contribute heavily to shame and fear as a victim.

Sexual arousal is a bodily response. It is not consent, and it’s not an excuse for assault or abuse. Moreover, some people might feel arousal or pleasure but not be fit to consent — for example, if someone is underage, or if someone is drugged or insensible with drink.

These people cannot give knowledgeable consent, but abusers might still say after an assault that they “enjoyed” it.

This is purity culture at work — anti-sex attitudes use people’s “enjoyment” of something to undercut their autonomy and right to consent, by implying they “deserve” that abuse — abuse is abuse whether it’s sexualised or not.

But the thing is, the obverse applies.

Just as someone’s mixed feelings or sensations of pleasure during a sexual assault does not mean they consented to the assault, or because someone’s feelings of happiness and love for their abuser does not mean they deserved the abusive treatment they experienced from them, a person writing sexually or erotically about a topic, or engaging with art and narratives about that topic, does not mean they actually want that thing to happen in real life, to real people, or to themselves.

Fiction is not real life.

We watch a horror film, and it doesn’t mean we want serial killers or demons to run amok, killing teenagers or possessing their victims — similarly, just because we engage with porn or erotica that sexualises certain topics doesn’t mean we’re pro- or in favour of those topics for real people.

Rape fantasies are incredibly common, despite being highly stigmatised, and just because someone fantasises about this sort of control fantasy does not mean they actually want to abuse someone or be abused.

“It’s harmful to depict abusive or immoral characters as sexy or desirable.”

If you have never experienced abuse, manipulation, or otherwise poor treatment from someone you thought was attractive, charming, or admirable, if you’ve never been groomed by someone with whom you were enamoured, I’m very glad.

I’m happy for you, honestly.

But many of us have.

People want to believe that all abusers are evil, are ugly, are obvious from a distance, are blatant from the out. People want to believe they can “tell” someone is abusive just from a glance, and write them off — and that anyone who would or might spend time with that person is therefore “asking for it”, or “letting themselves” be abused.

In actual fact, many abusers aren’t.

Many abusers are beautiful and charming — some of them draw you in, slowly bring you closer and closer until it’s very difficult to untangle yourself from your need and craving for their approval. They ruin lives, ruin psyches, and they cause unspeakable damage to their victims.

And yes, victims often feel conflicted in the aftermath of their abuse.

Many of us hero worship or greatly respect our abusers, love them very deeply, crave their good opinion, because we are carefully groomed and manipulated, over time, into relying on their praise and their attention. For victims isolated from other sources of care and support, and especially for young children and teenagers, it can be very difficult to recognise what is happening and has happened to us.

Even after we know and understand exactly what has happened to us, and also internalised that it was wrong, we can still feel conflicted.

We are not retroactively deserving of our abuse because we crave our abusers’ good opinion, or their love, still. This instinct does not excuse or justify the abuse we’ve experienced. Victims of abuse are still victims of abuse even if we go back to our abusers, even if we “accept” or attempt to justify our abuse to others, if we try to excuse it, if we don’t ask for help.

Abuse is never the victim’s fault, no matter how imperfect we are as victims.

“Writing queer characters as abusive is bad representation!”

If we exclusively write queer characters who are perfect and unimpeachable, we’re not letting ourselves write queer characters who are fully human, with all the flaws and complexities humanity comes with.

Queer people are not less deserving of this complex representation than cishet people are — and in any case, the purpose of art and media is not exclusively to provide good representation, or to show good moral examples for others.

We create to express ourselves, to reflect the world, to critique it, laugh at it, commiserate over it, to feel our feelings, to connect and communicate with others through shared stories.

If we only let ourselves do things that might be seen as “good rep”, we rob ourselves of the ability to express ourselves as completely as we might wish to.

“If you write abusive queer characters, you’re just contributing to homophobia and bigotry in art and media!”

Queer people writing queer stories with queer villains is not the same as cishet people including queer people or queer-coded characters just to be villains. The power dynamic is completely different.

Queer writers’ writing of queer villainy is often inspired by their own experiences, including of bigotry, and the harm they might do reflects harm by society, the ways harms might be felt more keenly by their victims.

Writing queer villains as villainous because their queerness makes them (or is used as a shorthand for them being) predatory, cruel, or callous, is homophobic and is often shitty, whether people intend that or not.

But just having queer villains, having queer characters do bad or abusive things, or just have flaws?

That’s as much a part of queer humanity as having queer heroes and having queer characters do good and helpful things.

Why would you read about rape when you could read consensual non-consent?

[Consensual non-consent being a kink wherein partners agree to roleplay a non-consensual situation.]

Rape in fiction is a form of consensual non-consent.

The fictional characters, who are not real and do not have real feelings, are not consenting, but the reader choosing to read is.

In the same way that two people playing a CNC roleplay game in the bedroom might be a safe and fun way of experiencing or re-experiencing the fear and trauma of assault with an escape clause (a safeword), a reader can do the same — they can stop reading.

If a television show, film, or videogame becomes upsetting, again, one can stop watching, stop playing. It is a person’s own responsibility to set safe boundaries for themselves and protect their own mental health.

“Why would someone write about trauma and abuse when they could write fluff?”

Why would someone watch a horror movie when they could watch a romcom? Why would someone eat cheese when chocolate is an option?

People do not have to choose one or the other — many people like both horror films and romcoms, cheese and chocolate, and reading about both horrible shit and positive things.

“You mentioned that people might engage with media about dark topics to work through their feelings from their own abuse. How do I know if someone’s actually been abused?”

Why do you think it’s your right to ask that?

Why are you prioritising your personal comfort and curiosity over that person’s privacy? If your instinct is to try to license who is and isn’t allowed to engage with a piece of art or media, why?

You are never entitled to the details of someone else’s abuse. Your validation is not important enough to potentially trade for someone’s private traumas and experiences.

“If you write or create about certain topics as a survivor, you’re just perpetuating abuse and you are as bad as your abuser!”

Creating works of art or fiction about people who are not real experiencing fictional harm that is also not real, is not in any way equivalent to real people doing real harm to others.

If your support of abuse survivors hinges on how palatable their reaction to their abuse is, and you believe that some abuse survivors “deserve” their abuse for depicting their abuse in art and fiction, you’re not actually supporting survivors.

If you believe that all abuse survivors do or should act the same way, or respond the same way, to their abuses, you are mistaken.

If you are effectively angry at someone for not looking enough like a victim, for being “impure”, and therefore the same as their abuser, that is a form of victim blaming.

Do you hold artists who create media about non-sexual trauma or violence to a different standard than those who write about sexual trauma or violence?

Why? What is the difference to you?

If someone writing about sexual abuse in media is equivalent to real life abuse, is a fictional murder?

“People shouldn’t write or engage with media about traumatic things, they should just go to therapy!”

Therapy is not a moral machine where bad people with bad thoughts go in and good people with good thoughts go in.

Good therapy and counselling provides us with the tools to manage our own mental health, our own emotional and psychological needs, heal from our traumas, and so forth.

Many therapists will actually recommend safe re-exposure to frightening or upsetting topics, and also encourage self-expression on the subject of one’s most impactful experiences, which might include creating art and media to explore and discuss their feelings.

With that said, therapy is as flawed as any other tools for emotional catharsis and healing — therapy and mental healthcare can be very expensive or inaccessible because of one’s working schedule; some therapists and mental health professionals are abusive or bigoted; some people may not be in the right place for MH care or therapy at this time, et cetera.

Therapy isn’t a catch-all for anything you disapprove of in someone else, and it’s also not a punishment to force someone to repent for their sins.

“It’s okay to write a story to cope, but you shouldn’t publish it in case it upsets others!”

So long as the work has appropriate content warnings and/or is published or screened in an appropriate space, it is not inherently harmful. In fact, reading narratives and engaging with those narratives can be valuable for us.

Engaging with media that bears similarity to our own lives, reflects our own experiences, written by other people who we know understand the complicated emotions of survivors — whilst still condemning the actions of abusers or not — can be extremely validating and offer a lot of assurance.

This is especially useful in regards to media that shows victims having a codependent relationship with or still loving their abusers, or where their abusers are shown as sympathetic, whilst the narrative still shows the toxicity and pain caused by the relationship.

Moreover, there can be a sense of reclamation and security in exploring stories about similar harm as we’ve experienced whilst knowing we are now in a place of safety and are free from those past experiences, or that other survivors have escaped and we can too.

“If children read this work or watch this show or play this game, they might think that the things depicted in it are okay!”

Is the work rated G or PG?

Is it shown on a children’s TV channel, or appear in a section that is marked for children? Is it put on a children’s website, where the primary audience is children?

In short, is the work aimed at kids?

If no, then it’s not for kids.

Particularly if a work is marked for adult audiences only, if it’s labelled erotica, if it’s marked M or E or NC-17, if it says it’s for adults or asks people to check a box agreeing that they’re an adult, then the work in question is most definitely not for children.

Everything in the world doesn’t have to be child-safe just because children exist.

It is the responsibility of parents and guardians to appropriately supervise their children’s online use, and to teach children and teenagers internet safety, some of which includes setting appropriate boundaries for themselves and not seeking out content that might distress them, or to know what to do if they stumble across content that does distress them — namely, to speak with a trusted adult about their feelings and what they can do to manage them and look after themselves, and be looked after.

It’s not the responsibility of random other adults in the world not to make horror movies or watch porn or play adult videogames or anything else, just because a child could potentially learn of their existence.

“But someone else engaging with that work might think the things depicted in it are okay!”

You’re right, they might do.

They might also engage with the work and think things depicted in it are bad. Fiction does not exclusively exist for our moral education.

“It makes me feel uncomfortable or unsafe that people are writing about [a topic] with a tone or in a manner that seems wrong to me!”

Yes, many of us feel uncomfortable with some topics being depicted in fiction, and might find them viscerally disgusting or triggering, consider them to be in poor taste, badly considered, or similar.

This is normal and okay.

It’s perfectly natural to have limits on what one can handle in fiction, or to find your ethical considerations don’t match up with the things other people make.

But it’s our job, as responsible adults who look after our own mental health and consider our own boundaries, to avoid that content.

You cannot control what other people think about, feel about certain topics, or how they portray them in fiction. You cannot control other people.

You can only control your environment, your boundaries, and the works you choose to engage with.

You can limit your time on social media, mute tags or keywords, block particular users or sites, or simply look away or leave the room / close the tab.

“What about rampant problematic works on Ao3!?”

Works on Ao3 are not a real issue.

They are not representation. Fanworks and original works on Ao3 are not the mainstream. They are being read exclusively by members of various internet subcultures who read fanfiction in those specific fandoms, after reading the tags.

This doesn’t mean we can’t or shouldn’t discuss certain tropes and norms in various fandoms — we might address our own biases around race, sexuality, religion, disability, and other characteristics, and how these biases and bigotries can come across in people’s approaches to fandom, the characters and ships they concentrate on, their headcanons, et cetera.

The same can be said of people’s original creations.

Ao3 has a robust tagging system, and allows people to mute and block tags they might be upset or triggered by — and in the event one clicks on an explicit work, a window will come up asking people to consent explicitly to moving through to read the work.

It is people’s own responsibility to set their own limits as to what they can handle in reading fiction — and not to obsess over what other people might or might not be reading, which we cannot control, and is also none of our business.

“What about loli and shotacon? Isn’t that the same as child pornography?”

“Child pornography” is generally not in use as a term — many people who have been victimised find that terms like “child porn” and CP grate, because “pornography” is work made with willing, adult participants.

Videos and images produced of children are instead referred to either as CSAM — child sexual abuse materials — or CSEM — child sexual exploitation materials. CSEM is evil because it involves the unspeakable and agonising victimisation of a real life child or children, being abused and manipulated by adults around them, and worse than that initial victimisation, the recording their abuse is another victimisation in itself.

With every share of a piece of this material, that child or children are victimised another time, made vulnerable to more people, and the creation of this material can create more market desire, meaning that other abusers will encourage further abuse and recording of these children’s victimisation, or for the recording abusers to seek out other children to abuse.

Victims of this sort of exploitation live in terror of the pictures or videos of their worst moments being shared to those they know, of being found by their loved ones, shared to workplaces, disseminated in any community they try to live in and be happy with — it is difficult enough to recover from one’s own abuse without the spectre of it constantly hanging over one’s head.

People’s cartoons or art of fictional children is not equivalent to CSEM, because there are no real children depicted in it.

It’s understandable to find these works disgusting or upsetting, triggering, unsettling — but to say that underage art or fiction is the same as or counts as CSEM is patently untrue. As a victim of CSA, it is galling to be told that choices my abuser made to harm and exploit me are equivalent to an abuser choosing to draw or read a comic about a victim that doesn’t actually exist.

Some final questions to ask yourself:

None of the above rebuttals are intended to imply people shouldn’t critique or criticise different media or their depictions.

As well as the initial essay I linked, I actually wrote a big guide on how to approach close reading of text, and I’m working on another about analysing television and film.

In my opinion, it’s really important to be aware of different tropes and themes that you feel are harmful in fiction and art — racist tropes, sexist ones, homophobic ones, and all the rest.

It’s worth considering how works are harmful, and what you actually want to be done about it.

I personally have criticisms of various tropes in media — I have particular dislike, for example, for the ways in which teacher/student relationships in TV shows and films are portrayed as “forbidden love”, with issue of their positions of power being depicted as one of bureaucracy or technical rules rather than a real power imbalance — I don’t care for the “sexy schoolgirl” trope, and the “barely legal” porn genre unsettles me.

All of the above three tropes often coincide with people’s thinking of teenage girls, especially those in school uniforms, as sex objects, and portraying school uniforms themselves as sexual or deserving of this sort of sexual attention.

Not all depictions are the same — some works subvert the sexy schoolgirl trope by having those schoolgirls be secret monsters than punish abusers, and some works exist that critique teacher/student dynamics.

It’s also important to note audience and outreach — a work that’s put on mainstream television channels or put in movie theatres by huge studios have a very different range of impact than an indie published novella, or one person’s fanfic on Ao3.

Note where you’re holding individual or small studio creators — especially those who are in some way marginalised and are already facing adversity in their work — to higher account than large studios, or fixating on imagined harm their work could potentially cause.

Is a work harmful, or is it just uncomfortable? Is it harmful, or is it just personally triggering to you?

Can the work you’re concerned about do as much harm as you’re envisaging? Is it actually reaching the individuals you are worried might be vulnerable to harm as a result of it? Does the work intend to do that harm or hold those harmful views, and are the authors or creators working to address or apologise for that harm?

Is the work discussing, critiquing, or exploring the emotional impact of the dark themes within it? Does it have warnings or disclaimers before the work begins?

If you’re worried about a work “normalising” or “glorifying” a troubling subject — does the work actually do that? What is your evidence for this, having engaged with the text? Is that thing discussed in the text, argued, explored in-depth, or merely mentioned? Do characters show inner conflict and interpersonal conflict over it? Is it actually portrayed as good or normal? Is your concern the characters’ perspectives within the text, or the authors or creators’ opinions?

Does the work carry ideas that are bigoted or feel like it includes apologism for some shitty ideas or ideology? Is the work a piece of propaganda, or function as propaganda? Do you feel the work is being advertised or pushed to an inappropriate audience for its subject matter?

If you do consider the work to be either likely to be personally distressing or upsetting to you, or potentially harmful because of its troubling or bigoted or just shitty ideas, how do you want to respond?

If it’s the former, you should set your own boundaries — you should use your mute and block functions, you should avoid the work, you should seek out things that will comfort you, and perhaps discuss the distressing topics with someone you trust, whether that’s a friend or partner, a loved one, or a counsellor or therapist.

If it’s the latter, you should absolutely deconstruct the piece in question and analyse the ways in which it’s shitty or harmful, or read essays by those who’ve done that work. You can maybe warn your friends about it, or if it’s a work of political concern — if the harm is being done because the work provides financial support to a hate group or a bigoted public persona, for example, you might perform a boycott, or involve yourself in acts of protest in response to the work or its creators.

If it’s important enough to you and your beliefs that you feel urged to do those things, perhaps you should — if all you feel urged to do is to harass or shout at people online, though, it might be better for your own mental health to take a step back and do something more positive for yourself.

Sometimes, a piece of work or media will be shitty, and shitty people will love it, and that will kinda suck — God knows I’ll see work that’s really transphobic or homophobic or antisemitic, and it’ll upset me that people I otherwise love and respect seem to be enjoying it so much.

I can talk to my friends and my family about it, and I’ll do that — and I can mute and block the topic, and critique it in the right circles, or write essays if I’m really inspired to, responding to the work and what I feel its impact is…

But if my instinct becomes to just snipe at people for enjoying it when they really don’t know what the problem is, or have a go at them when they’re doing so unthinkingly, that’s not really helpful to them or to myself. It’s not addressing the harm I feel is being done, and nor is it really constructive.

I’m an adult, after all — as I’ve said a few times already, it’s our own responsibility to set our own boundaries and consider what we’re doing to safeguard ourselves, and if in setting those boundaries and personal safeguarding limits, whether they’re in line with our own ethics and morality.

We cannot control other people and their feelings, or the works they create, but we can take care of ourselves, including breaking ourselves out of obsessive moral spirals or anxieties about other people’s thoughts — and personally, I think that’s actually a very revolutionary thing to do given that we exist in a world that constantly tries to encourage (and monetise) that sort of aimless outrage.

#musings #proship #antiship #purity culture #purity wank

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cupcakeslushie · 6 months

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Ayup! So, question about Donnie's view of his brothers:

He's never met Raph, only seen him once, hasn't actually met Mikey but has kinda stalked him, and talking to Leo was like talking to a filing cabinet. He loves them, but he also hallucinates them, and does he just have kind of made up personalities for them in his head, based off of so little?

“Talking to a filing cabinet” (wheeze) sorry I just gotta take a sec…(ﾟ∀ﾟ)

So before actually meeting them all, and forming a real bond with his brothers, Three is obsessed with comparing himself to them. Not necessarily in a bad, resentful way, but in a sadly unachievable desperate way. He (by way of listening to Draxum) puts them all on pedestals without actually knowing their skills. He just assumes they would be perfect, strong specimens, and never really thinks much of what their personalities are like. While the hallucinations that constantly plague him are convincing enough to fool him in the moment. Three is still able to remind himself in the after, that they are not his brothers. Most days he talks more to those shadows, than Draxum, the goyles, or even Vee. They almost never leave him, especially in the last year, when, as far as he knows, Vee has just up and disappeared on him.

Through the footage he can get his hands on, he sees Mikey’s resilience in battle, and is curious about the mystical acumen there. Vee tells him about how The Oni spares more lives than Big Mama demands he take, all while still managing to make an entertaining enough performance that he avoids being punished for his mercy. Mickey doesn’t even realize he’s doing it in those battles, but he’s mimicking the theatrical Leo from his memories, when they would all play together, and his big brother would weave these bright and lively stories for them act out. Donnie is very protective of Mikey, as Draxum has always held Four over Three’s head. When they meet, Donnie is really thrown off by how happy and bright Michelangelo is.

For Raph, Three is baffled by the kind expression he sees on One’s face. Three has always assumed he would be an absolute power house monster, based solely off his species and the size he must be. When Three watches Raph rescuing Mickey from Big Mama—a scenario Three could only dream of completing—there’s a kindness and type of strength, Three had never even considered. Three grows desperate to experience that safe feeling, but it also brings a sort of hopelessness. Subconsciously he begins waiting for a similar kind of rescue. When he meets Raph, Donnie is on his best behavior. Raph is a sweet and caring blanket of comfort, but he’s still huge and a possible threat. If Donnie makes Raph unhappy in any way, he could be kicked out, and sent back to Draxum.

For Leo, yes, it is sometimes like talking to a brick wall. Three gets almost nothing from him, except a feeling of failure. Draxum is expecting Three to convert Leonardo to their cause, or at the very least gain some inside knowledge that they can exploit at the right time. But Leo is so unyielding, Three is almost more scared to talk to him than anything, because can never make any headway. But Draxum doesn’t accept failure, so Three goes all in every single time. When he meets Leo again, it’s like being reunited with a stranger. Leo is guilty and overcompensating for his cold attitude towards Three, but he still has some moments where his anger is scary.

#rottmnt #ask slushie #separated au #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt separated au #rise donnie #rise leo #rise raph #rise mikey #ew au #sep!au infodump #Empyrean Weeping Au

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ghostfacd · 8 months

Text

the sun to my moon. QH43

au masterlist

warnings: mention of underage drinking + peer pressuring, cursing, a tiny tiny hint of angst, not proofread so there might be mistakes, someone’s mean to sunny </3

It wasn’t a shocker that Quinn Hughes was a very grumpy person. He was fairly quiet, eyes calculating as they scan every corner of the room.

If you didn’t know him well, you’d probably think Quinn was just plain mean. He wasn’t, or maybe, not that mean, he just didn’t like talking to people—or people at all, for the matter.

It was pretty cold that December in New Jersey, but the lake house was warm and the waters were a fairly nice dark blue. He had gone home to visit his parents, as well as Jack and Luke. It was nice to be back in America, a change from Vancouver.

“Hi Quinn sweetie!” Ellen greets her son happily, engulfing him in a hug that he returns with a small smile. He had only really smiled to his mom, appreciating her constant support and encouragement. “Oh! Jack brought home his girlfriend! You should meet her,”

Quinn raises his eyebrows at this, never hearing Jack mention a girlfriend in any of their family calls. Was the boy finally settling down?

He walked into the living room, surprised to see two brunette girls along with Jack. Brunette? Now this got Quinn’s attention. He’d always thought his brother would go for.. blondes.

“Hi! I’m Jack’s girlfriend, you must be his older brother!” The girl smiles brightly, making Quinn almost grimace. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Jack has told me so much!”

“I’m sure he has,” Quinn chuckles awkwardly, shaking the hand she had extended to him earlier.

Jack smiles at his favorite people interacting with another. “This is my girl’s best friend, Sunny Damount.” He points to the other brunette girl who almost takes Quinn’s breath away.

Jesus, was she an angel in disguise?

“Sunny?” Quinn questions. He’s never met anyone named Sunny, so his voice almost sounds confused.

“I’m Y/N, but everyone just calls me Sunny because they say I remind them of a ray of sunshine!” Her face converts into the most beautiful smile Quinn’s ever seen in his life—aside from his mom—and he can’t help but feel his knees grow weak.

“Nice to meet you Sunny,” Quinn smiles, and Jack and Luke throw a glance at each other in amusement.

“Hey Q, why don’t you show her around?” Jack suggests. “I mean, you know the lake house like the back of your hand.”

Quinn rolls his eyes slightly, noticing what his brother was trying to do. “So do you and Luke.”

“Yeah but cmon Quinn! Don’t be rude to our guest!”

Quinn finally agrees, not like he didn’t want to tour the cute girl anyways. He slides open the backyard door, signaling Sunny to go out first. When Sunny’s back is turned, Quinn slides out his tongue at both Jack and Luke, to which they responded with a mischievous grin on their faces.

“So you go to Umich?” Quinn asks as he closes the sliding door. He noticed her sweater from earlier, the dark blue fabric with a M stitched to its front.

“I do!” The girl giggles, even though there’s nothing funny. If it had been anyone else, Quinn would’ve cringed internally. But he doesn’t. “I’m a junior this year, crazy how time flies.”

“Yeah, really crazy.”

The two are silent for a while, Quinn’s nervousness and overthinking causes him to just go mute while Sunny smiles at practically everything that catches her eyes.

“You’ll be staying here until Jack’s girlfriend leaves?” He questions.

“Yeah! She invited me here because she said I needed to get out the dorm more now that it’s Christmas break. I guess she’s right,”

Quinn looks down at the ground, smiling to himself. Even though he barely knew Sunny, he was glad she was staying at the lake house.

A few days pass by without much interaction from the two, Jack’s girlfriend always managing to take Sunny away before Quinn could even utter out a word. He was slightly annoyed, but he knew he couldn’t tell Jack or Luke. They’d tease them endlessly.

That night, Jack had brought home some beers, all of them, minus Luke, went outside and sat on the dock, bringing the cans out with them.

“Do you want one?” Quinn whispers to Sunny.

Jack and his girlfriend were in another world, busy cuddling up to one another and taking slow sips from their cans.

“Oh no—it’s okay. I don’t drink, I’d rather wait till I’m 21,”

Quinn had almost forgotten Sunny was only 20. It was a surprise to him that she’d actually wait that long; everybody he knew had started drinking in high school, not caring about the legal age.

“That’s alright, you can have fun while being sober too.” Quinn almost cringes at his words, but luckily, Sunny nods with a bright smile on her face.

“You really are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Quinn whispers.

“What was that Quinn?”

“Oh,” Quinn smiles sheepishly, not expecting Sunny to have heard him. “Nothing.”

The next weekend, Jack once again came up with another one of his crazy ideas—this one being throwing a party since Jim and Ellen were going away for a few days to stay at a fancy resort.

Quinn didn’t like social outings, in fact, he wants desperately to sneak away into his room and blast music in his airpods. But he decides to stay downstairs, sitting right next to Sunny who only has fruit punch in her cup.

“Hey, is that Sunny Damount?!” A random guy comes up to them, getting a bit too close to Sunny for Quinn’s liking. “Sunnyyyyy!”

He’s clearly drunk, and Quinn wants to rip him away from the girl.

“Have a drink Sun! It’s so good!” The guy almost spills his cup of alcohol on Sunny, making the girl’s smile falter. It was the first time Quinn didn’t see such a bright smile on her face.

“I’m okay Kyle, I don’t drink,”

The guy, who Quinn can only guess is named Kyle, gets even closer to Sunny, making her slowly back up into the kitchen island.

“You don’t drink? You’re like twenty Sunny, it’s a party. You have to drink.”

Quinn pushes Kyle slightly off Sunny, throwing the boy a glare. “Sunny says she doesn’t drink, Kyle. So why don’t you turn around and leave?”

Kyle scoffs, throwing a glare towards Quinn’s way. “Whatever, I was going to leave anyway!”

Sunny sighs in relief when she sees the boy leave. “Thank you Quinn,” she shyly mumbles.

“It’s alright Sunny,” he reassures her. “No guy should be pressuring you to drink when you clearly don’t want to.”

And by the end of the party, Quinn realizes he’s fucked.

He’s inlove with Sunny Damount.

And he’s never been inlove. Well not seriously. He has had a few girlfriends then and there, but it was silly and it surely wasn’t love.

So what does Quinn Hughes do when he’s in such a dilemma? He pivots. He does what most considers a fucked up and idiotic thing to do. He ignores her.

What better way to dig his feelings in a hole and bury them than ignoring the girl he was inlove with?

Sunny is clearly confused when Quinn gives her one worded answers, and she almost wants to cry when he barely even acknowledges her presence.

What did she do wrong? Everybody loved her, so why was Quinn ignoring her?

It didn’t make her feel any better when she went to the market and bumped into a really mean girl she knew who said some not so nice things about her.

That, along with Quinn not talking to her, leads Sunny to have a breakdown on the dock, knees against her chest as she buries her face into them.

Even though Quinn tries to put away his worries, he can’t help but feel bugged that he hadn’t seen Sunny the entire afternoon. He spots the familiar brunette sitting on the dock, and even though his head tells him no, his heart begged him to say yes.

Quinn Hughes listened to his heart.

He walks up to Sunny, sitting beside her close enough that lets her know he’s there but not so close that she’s uncomfortable.

“Are you okay Suns?”

Sunny sniffles, lifting her head to see Quinn. Suddenly, her cries intensify, making the poor boy panic in worry.

“Shh, it’s okay Sunny.” He mumbles, patting her back.

“It’s not!” She sobs, “first, the boy I like ignores me for no reason, and then this really really mean girl says that I put on this fake nice act and that I’m just some loser who doesn’t drink!”

Quinn’s heart skips a beat when Sunny practically confesses her feelings to him. He can’t help but feel incredibly guilty at ignoring her for so long.

“I’m sorry Suns, I never meant to hurt you.” Quinn pulls her body into his chest, placing his chin on head. “The truth was, I’m inlove with you and I didn’t know how to handle that so I figured ignoring you would make my feelings away?”

Sunny stops crying for a second, slightly giggling at Quinn’s words. “Are you stupid Quintin?!”

Quinn grimaces. “I know, I know. But I was just scared. You made my heart beat faster, and before I knew it, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I never felt so inlove with anyone before—and I felt like I couldn’t breathe with you not near me. You’re like the sun to my moon, Sunny. You brighten up my day with the most prettiest smile I’ve ever seen, and your giggles bring me the most happiness I’ve ever experienced in my life. I just… I just didn’t know how to express that to you without scaring you off.”

Sunny wipes away her tears, placing a small tender kiss on Quinn’s jaw. “You could’ve just said so, Quinn. I’m inlove with you as much as you are inlove with me.”

Quinn finally decides to push away all his nervousness and lean down to give Sunny a kiss, one that he’s been dying to do since the day he met her at the lake house.

And just like that, Sunny Damount had became the sun in Quinn Hughes’ life.

#[ sunny!yn x quinn ]#quinn hughes #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes angst #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes au #hughes brothers #nhl fanfiction #nhl au

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creadigol · 7 months

Text

*This one also contains and bit of a creepy villain. Mentions of stalking.

Detective knew they had made a wrong turn the moment the light overhead went out.

There was something initially creepy about an alleyway in the middle of the night, but when the one and only light source burned out…that was another level. Perhaps they should call the city planners about having dark allies…not that they thought they would have the chance now.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” came the ice cold voice from behind them. “You’ve been annoyingly persistent my dear detective.”

Detective knew that voice, it haunted the dreams of almost everyone in the city…but Supervillain wasn’t supposed to be here. Detective had only been following a small lead…an informant who said they had information about the drug ring. God, they should have known it was too easy; Police-Partner was going to be so mad when he heard about this!

“Supervillain,” Detective said it conversationally despite the fear in their soul. “What brings scum like you out on a beautiful night like this?”

Detective tried to be discrete as they placed their hand on their holster and turned.

Well, attempted to turn.

Supervillian was on them in an instant. Not allowing them to turn all the way before a strong arm was cinched around their neck and a super powered hand was squeezing their wrist, making it impossible to control their hand as it went limp.

“Now, now, there’s no need for name calling; and after all the attention I’ve graced you will too.” Detective felt the air pulse with each word against their ear.

“Attention?” they gasped, he had tried to sound strong, but with Supervillain holding them like this they knew their death could come at any second, they also knew Supervillain felt every fearful shake of their body.

Supervillain practically purred into their hair.

“Of course attention!” Supervillain spoke. “Afterall, I make a habit of keeping tabs on the smart ones. And you, my dear, are the most intelligent of them all. I must say, watching your day to day, everyday, has been most entertaining.”

Detective felt themself drain of all color. Everyday? Oh god, had Supervillain been stalking them and they never knew?

“But alas, all good things must come to an end.”

Detective jerked against Supervillain to no success. “What’s coming to an end?” They asked. Was Supervillain going to kill them? Here? Now? In a dark ally? Who would find their mutilated body? Some bum? An innocent bystander? Or worst of all…Police-Partner?

“Why, your day to day routine. Not that I wish to cause Police-Partner worry, I know he’s the more responsible of the two of you; but detective, you personally have got a bit too close my dear. Can’t have you going back on the track you were on,” Supervillain squeezed Detective's wrist harder, earning a cry of pain.

“So..” Detective hated how their voice shook. Honestly, it wasn’t death itself that they feared, it was death by Supervillain. They had seen what Supervillain does to someone they don’t like…it was…there wasn’t a word for the horror Supervillain produced when they decided to kill someone.

“That’s it then?” Detective spoke. “I got too close so now I’m destined to be smeared across the bricks?”

Supervillain chuckled.

“Of course not Detective!”

What?

“I already said you’re one of the smart ones. I can’t have my best form of entertainment die in such a pathetic way.”

Supervillain let go of their neck just long enough to reach over and dispose of Detective's gun and cell phone.

“You’ll love your new place. It’s beautiful. I set it all up just for you!”

What?!

“At least it will be beautiful as long as you answer my questions…if not…well I can convert your stay from five stars to hell in an instant.”

“You’re…You’re..” Detective searched for the words as they were manhandled, arms wrenched behind their back, tied, and Supervillain’s arm wrapped around their torso. “You’re..Kidnapping me?”

“An archaic term, but yes.” Supervillain picked up their own phone in their other hand and texted something.

“You..” You what? Detective thought. What were they going to say? You can’t do that? How could you? Supervillain could essentially do whatever they wanted. That’s the whole reason Detective was so active in trying to stop them. “Hero will find out,” they blurted.

“Hah!” Supervillain seemed legitly amused at that. They started walking toward the entrance of the alleyway, taking Detective easily with them.

Curse their damn superpowers! And curse Detective’s lack of them!

“Hero’s too busy with Villain at the moment.”

They arrived at the street and were waiting for a car, Detective assumed.

“You could say that Police-Partner will find out, because that would be a more accurate statement,” Supervillain continued.

Detective felt ice in their veins, “No! You leave him out of this! I didn’t tell him anything…”

“Oh calm down!” Supervillain chuckled. “I already know. Your office has been bugged for months. Though, I must say your friendship is simply adorable. He knows what kind of food to order that coincides with your stomach problems, you remember that he likes putting pickles on his pizza, he knows the names of every one of your many cousins, and you remember that his mother likes those silly little ceramic cats…I could go on all night. Simply adorable. ”

Detective felt like throwing up.

“I’ll leave him alone of course,” Supervillain said. Detective felt a little lighter at those words. A long black car pulled up next to them on the empty street.

“But if he proves an inconvenience in all of this, I will have to intervene.” Supervillain forced Detective into the back of the car. On the outside it would have appeared gentle if not for Supervillain’s bruising grip and exceptional strength.

Supervillian reached over Detective and buckled the seatbelt. “He won’t prove to be an inconvenience will he?” Supervillain was so close Detective had to lean their head back to avoid knocking foreheads. It exposed their throat and left them feeling vulnerable.

“Of course not. Who could ever prove to be an inconvenience to you?”

Supervillain laughed and patted their cheek.

“How right you are, Detective. See? I said you were the smart one.”

Supervillain shut the door and walked to the other side of car. They got in next to Detective.

Yes, I am the smart one. Detective thought. But Police-Partner is the determined one and there’s no farce on heaven or earth that will protect you from them now that you’ve crossed the line.

Supervillain never noticed that Detective had dropped a small silver disk in the alleyway.

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myfanfic-urfantrash · 2 months

Note

I have the sudden epiphany for moar Friendship thoughts and like, the Boys™ (yes, March 7th is now part of the Boys™) having that spontaneous friend who just likes to burst in at least once a day while yelling (because they're very very excited) to show their bestie something or because they got their bestie something that reminded Friendo of them and they just had to get it for 'em.

A normal day for the Boys™ must always have at least one moment of Friendo just making one (1) loud entry (they got used to Friendo's weirdness and loudness) or else they just sense something is off about their day.

(Bonus food that the thing Friendo brought was friendship bracelets that they made for them. Because truly, I cannot imagine a world where friendship exists without friendship bracelets.)

You shall be named The Boys™ Anon :D

Since this wasn't hinted at as A/B/O I'm writing this without that in mind. I also left out Sampo cause I couldn't figure out what to write for him.

-------

Blade

Has pointed his sword at his friends loud entrances before because he was on edge so anything set him off. His friend never gets harmed though once he realizes who it is and they've gotten good at dodging any strike that comes their way so it's all good. He gets used to their nonsense so at this point he just does it to mess with them.

Kafka and Silver Wolf tease him regularly about how his friend is loud and friendly while he's quiet and brooding. He ignores them but he does worry sometimes because he knows he's not good company. But with their next loud entrance and having them hang off of him with some new trinket they thought reminded them of him his worries are put to rest, they aren't the type to lie to him anyways. If at any point his friend doesn't pop into his life like they usually do he's already on his way to find them no hesitation.

When they present him with a friendship bracelet he's actually touched and wants to make one himself for them but his hand gives him trouble halfway through the process. Once his friend figures out his desires they convert whatever he was able to make into a neat charm to carry with them where ever they go.

Jing Yuan

His friend is always bursting through the doors of his workplace just to tell him the latest news of their day. Before they used to be dragged or kicked out when he was just a cloud knight but now they can come and go as they please much to the annoyance of Fu Xuan. Yanqing thinks they're rather loud but kind so he doesn't fuss too much as they know when and where it's appropriate to be their bubbly self.

Jing Yuan honestly welcomes their loudness in his life it's comforting to hear them alive and well...loud. They at least know not to disturb him while he naps so he gets plenty of good sleep if they're around especially if they guard the door to let him nap. If his friend doesn't show up he won't immediately freak out but he will feel like something is missing so he texts them to check if they're alright before going to search for them himself.

If his friend gave him a friendship bracelet he'll do his best to make one in return. What better way to celebrate ones bond than with match accessories right?

Welt

He doesn't mind that his friend is weird or loud, though he does ask them to tone down the loudness before he develops a headache. He's also grateful he can ramble about animation and robots with them, he feels so young whenever he's with them. Is always intrigued by what new item they'll bring that reminded them of him and loses it when it's some rare mecha figurine for him to put together.

Does get worried if his friend doesn't come bug him like usual and will text or call them to ask if they're alright. If they don't respond he'll ask the other Astral Express crew members if they know where they are since it's likely they're a Nameless too.

When he's given a friendship bracelet he doesn't know what to do but he's grateful for it he's just never gotten one before. If his friend is willing he'll ask them to teach him how to make one for them too.

Luocha

Teases his friend by asking if they've missed him so much or if they're stalking him if he meets them on a foreign planet. He doesn't mind his friends loudness or weirdness, he's seen plenty of odd things on his travels across the universe so he's not exactly surprised. Does get a bit startled if his friend just bursts in whatever space he's in to share something they've seen with him, he's partially convinced they are stalking him how else would they have found him?

Appreciates whatever items they bring for him that remind them of him. It's sweet to be thought of so much and he finds himself doing the same thing while he's out and about. If for any reason he doesn't see his friend at least once per day he might brush it off as them being busy or because he simply didn't tell them where he was going but eventually he settles to text them to ask if they're alright. If he doesn't receive an answer he's calling and if he doesn't receive one he's heading their way if possible.

If he's given a friendship bracelet he gifts them something in return. It could be a friendship bracelet or a brooche he found on his travels, just something to remind them that he's there for them.

Dr. Ratio

Definitely throws chalk at his friend if they're being too loud while he's doing something important. They've burst into his class room a couple of times and though they've learned not to just burst in it doesn't stop them from visiting him to show him some cool new object they've found. He does like the stimulation of observing new objects but he does wish his friend would stop interrupting his lessons, the students appreciate however as it gives them time to write notes.

If his friend doesn't visit him he's curious but ultimately grateful for the peaceful moment. He does check up on them however if they don't show up to interrupt him as usual, he's got their exact moments they'll interrupt him down to the second. Will text and call his friend but if he gets no response he's tracking them down to get an explanation and it better be good for wasting his time.

Accepts the friendship bracelet with little issue and passes them something small he's crochet in exchange. The bracelet is a little clumsy but at least it matches his aesthetic and favorite colors.

Dan Heng

He's so tired he already has to deal with March and the Traiblazers nonsense on the daily how did he attract someone who's both weird and loud? He loves his friend of course he just misses having peace a quiet. But if his friend were to never show up one day he'd freak out texting, calling until they show themselves.

He's either touched or just plain confused by whatever items they bring him that remind them of him. Did this piece of sea glass really remind them of him? How nice. At least it's not some weird looking dragon plush, which he kept by the way.

He's touched to receive a friendship bracelets. He's read all about them and sort of unconsciously wanted one so he's really happy to receive one from his friend. Does some studies on how to make them on his own in order to make one for them.

Caelus

Doesn't mind his loud and weird friend bursting through the doors to come see him at all, in fact he might burst through doors to come see them as well. He loves seeing what little items they find to show him it's tons of fun for him and helps build his massive collection of items he has.

If his friend doesn't visit him like they normally do he'll be a little worried but wouldn't jump to conclusions too quickly but if they don't respond to his texts he's going to head there way ASAP. He just wants to make sure they're ok.

For him? Truly? He wants to cry and he might do so. He's never really had a friend of his own before until he met the other Nameless but to have one that think he's they're worthy of a friendship bracelet? He asks them to teach him how to make one for them right away.

March 7th

The loud friend so she has a rival in them. Takes at least one photo a day with her friend and the weird items they find to show her. Doesn't get how half the stuff reminds them of her but she keeps whatever they give her on a special shelf in her room. Her favorites are of course the stuff animals.

If she doesn't see her friend for a bit she's already texting them. Doesn't get too worried but with how crazy her life can get her mind might wander a bit before she's calling them to make sure they're alright. Asks everyone she knows if they've seen her friend before searching for them herself.

Made her friend a friendship phone strap but adores the friendship bracelet. The two spend an afternoon making matching phone straps and bracelets for each other.

Edited: 03/30/2024

#honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan x reader #blade x reader #welt x reader #luocha x reader #dr. ratio x reader #dan heng x reader #caelus x reader #march 7th x reader #edit: not my ass forgetting to finish Luocha's

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blackopals-world · 8 months

Text

Little Imp Delivery Service

Delivery person!Yuu and Sam (platonic)

Ace x Yuu (a little bit)

Sam sends his worker out to deliver to Octavinelle.

@somany-fandoms-solittle-time

Yuu had just set out their latest pair of skates down to dry. They had just finished painting a cool skeleton foot design on them with glow-in-the-dark paint. They would match their glowing skeleton hoodie perfectly. Just until after dark it's going to look so cool.

Yuu grinned maniacally as a buzzer went off. They glared at the red light as they dusted themselves off.

They spent downtime in the storage room they had converted into an "office" at the shop. The buzzer meant that they had a delivery to make.

They stretched as they grabbed a different set of roller blades off the rack. It was an impressive collection of customized skates Yuu had made.

Sam waited behind the counter as Yuu closed the door.

"Theirs my little Imp. I have a order straight from here to Octavinelle. Azul needs new glassware." Sam had a smile like a cat who ate a fat pigeon. He must have got a good deal.

Yuu cringed. They knew this delivery was going to be a problem. Azul doesn't make orders like this unless Floyd caused a mess and was having a mood swing. Second, since Jade wasn't picking it up it meant both twins were on the loose. Which meant that they needed to avoid the twins at all costs because the glass was fragile.

Sam boxed up the glasses and handed it to Yuu so they could put them in the carrier bag.

"Now before you go. Uniform," Sam said holding out the apron.

Yuu hated the apron.

It was a black apron with purple lettering "Little Imp Delivery" with a devil tail in the back. Yuu had personalized it with buttons and stickers but it was still embarrassing.

Yuu reluctantly put it on as a shadow fussed with their hair.

"You dyed it again I see." Sam smirked.

"I'm sure your friends on the other side already told you," Yuu said with their eyes.

"Use your words," Sam said shrugging.

Yuu rolled their eyes and signed instead. It's not like they couldn't speak it's just that signing was easier. But not sighing was the easiest. It's not like they had anything to say.

"Good Imp!" Sam said ushering Yuu out.

Yuu took a sucker from the shelf on the way out.

Grape flavor. Yum. Doesn't taste like grape but it sure tastes like purple.

Just as Yuu sat to put on their blades Sam returned, placing a helmet on Yuu's head and dropping their arm and knee pads on the ground.

"Safety first!" He said before going back inside.

Yuu stuck out their tongue as they put on their gear.

And they were off zipping through campus. Ducking and dodging students.

Yuu picked up speed as they neared a staircase. Yuu jumped and grinded down holding the railing. I was amazing until they realized they were going too fast and flying down.

Fortunately they were caught before eating ground. By Ace.

"Woah! Watch out!" He said clumsy holding Yuu up as their feet scrambled to get footing while on wheels.

Yuu sighed in relief as they righted themselves.

Ace really saved their ass. Oh shit the glass?!

Yuu immediately checked the delivery witch was thankfully safe. Yuu sighed again as the ecstaticly kissed Ace's cheek before skating off again.

Ace flushed pink.

"Oh, okay. Thanks. I mean you're welcome. I man be careful!"

Yuu didn't hear him, too busy.

Yuu took a deep breath as they entered Octavinelle. They need to be careful. The eels were still on the loose somewhere. If they were lucky they would be taking a swim and if they were unlucky (which they were known to be) then they'd find Yuu.

Yuu had to make it to the lounge quickly and find Azul. Once Azul signed for the delivery everything was out of Yuu's hands. But getting past the guard dogs was the only issue.

It was like they sensed Yuu entering the threshold.

"Black Bee Shrimp~"

Yuu needed to skate faster. They could hear him. Damn, Floyd's parents for making him so fucking tall!

"Come on Shrimpy! I just wanna play!" Floyd yelled running after Yuu.

Yuu turned a corner and almost ran into Jade who smiled creepily.

Now they were sandwiched between two eels who both getting closer. Yuu had no choice as they skated towards Jade before ducking and sliding under him and continuing towards the lounge.

They could hear Floyd loudly complaining that they got away.

Yuu escaped being fish food today.

Yuu confidently entered the lounge and putting down the package as they ignored the glass shards everywhere.

"Delivery for Azul" Yuu said stiffly, voice scratchy.

Azul came out, his hair messy and eyebrows furrowed.

Yuu held out the table for signing.

As Azul sighed Yuu typed something out on their phone.

"You have mess on your hands. Looks like the eels aren't going to be much help. I brought along a premium Magic Vac 7500. It could do the cleaning for you." Yuu smiled pleasantly taking out the vacuum.

"How much is it going to cost me?" Azul rolled his eyes already knowing this shtick.

"Just for you since you are in such need, 8500 modles. 10% off." Yuu smirked.

"You really are just like that shop keeper. 8000, and you've got a deal." Azul said sliding the table back.

"You've got a deal, Ashengrotto. It been a pleasure and thank you again for using Little Imp Delivery Service." Yuu said taking the money and bowing.

(You gotta upsell baby! Make your father proud!)

#delivery person!Yuu #ace trapolla x yuu #twst ace #ace trappola x reader #ace trappola #tweels #jade leech #twst jade #floyd twisted wonderland #twst floyd #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #twisted wonderland azul #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #twst azul #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst yuu

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tnsophiaonly · 8 months

Text

"Depths of Despair, will soon come rooting out."

A warning that shan't be ignored. For it's far too dangerous.

Deja vu

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

—n—i—a—t—r—e—c—n—U—

Primogems is the most voted!

Ability: Charming Fate★

With this current ability, you are able to charm people rather easily. And if you're talking with your awakened acolytes, you'll charm them in no time! But be wary, because the more you talk to people with visions or delusions or any element, the more you lose yourself. You'll lose your mind in hysteria. It'll give you a new life!

It felt so unreal. So painfully true.

You see yourself, mourning a beloved.

They died from war. Correction. He died from war.

Was it your father? No. It can't be. You don't live in Teyvat. You never did. You have no memories of this world. You didn't belong here. You were never here. Never ever.

But who was he? It was child you. Child you was hoping he was still alive and when we found out they're not we were mourning. The place looks a lot like Inazuma.

For some odd reason, the nameless man who the child you is mourning, feels like they were important to you. You felt your heart tighten at the sight. It just felt like it just had happened in your life.

But that's not true. You were never in Teyvat. You never had a life here. You were never meant to be here. You don't belong here.

A thunder strikes you down.

—d—e—t—n—a—w—n—W—

You gaped for a breath of air. Electrifying yet fresh air fills your lungs. And you exhale. You recognize where you are currently. I'm at the Kujou Encampment. The headquarters of the Shogun's Army under the control of Tenryou Commision.

Despite winning against the argument whether you stay to get patched up or you just patch yourself, you still ended up getting patched up by her.

Why did it feel like this was an order? It must have been just you. Cause no way Kujou Sara would do this without it being an order. I think.

Well either way, you were still patched. So you were thankful. Right now, you're thinking what to give back to her, just so that you can ease that one feeling deep inside you of her using that one tiny thing against you. Maybe you could activate her C6?

You look around, you find no one around, you open the screen menu, open the wish menu and see all of the banners are there! It's just like Silly Wisher... you look at your primogems amount and wow that made your jaw drop.

2,684,290 primogems... And it's continuously going up! You convert 300,000 primogems to an interwined fate. And went to a banner that has Kujou Sara in it and pulled 10x.

It turns purple and ah, you hear something outside. You look outside and oh that's so pretty. It was your wishes in the sky!

It's like shooting stars! No it is shooting stars! You see the purple star falling down and the screen appears and it gives you a Kujou Sara constellation. (PS. I still don't have her C6...) A commotion happens because of what you just did..

And for some reason they all thanked (S/M) for it. Oh, she happened to be praying for Kujou Sara's sixth constellation. It was a coincidence.

Well, that's great? No no no it's bad. It's giving more proof that she's an oracle. It should be you, who acts as the oracle. You don't even feel any connection to the oracle! No nothing! You don't even know who she is! She is no oracle, she's a fraud.

You sighed and went back to sleep in the comfortable futon prepared for you.

—n—i—a—t—r—e—c—n—U—

You woke up in cold sweat, another nightmare... It's making me lose my mind.

The way it started off as dark, dull, saturated then with no warning it explodes with solid and flashing colors, hurting your eyes, your brain! It was hypnotizing. It was driving you insane.

You held out a hand and oh. It was, fake.

You walked around, it was heavenly. The more you walk, the more you notice that it drips like water.

How ethereal... How mesmerizing.. don't you just want to stay here forever? In heaven.

The more you stay the more people that'll love you. Stay. Stay for the sake of your beloved followers. Stay like a good creator.

For them.

—s—e—i—r—o—m—e—M—

#genshin impact #genshin sagau #sagau #sagau x reader #sagau cult au #sagau creator #genshin impact sagau #yandere genshin x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #reader #female reader #sagau impostor au #yandere genshin impact #genshin

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anonymous-dentist · 8 months

Text

In my head, the Evil Dead au would go a little something like:

When Roier finally pulls himself out of the shower, the cabin is silent save for the faint scratching of the record player from the other room. The record itself must have run out while he was distracted, whoops. He hopes Cellbit isn't too annoyed at him.

So Roier is quick to dress, and he's up to his shirt when he realizes, oh no! It's Cellbit's shirt! Just a bit small on him, small enough to make Roier's muscles really pop out. Just the way Cellbit likes.

He winks at himself in the mirror before unlocking the bathroom door and opening it. He shivers at the sudden cold- Cellbit must've finally found the air conditioning panel. Fucking finally, it was hot in the bedroom earlier.

"Gatinhoooo!" Roier moans, throwing his head back dramatically. "Dónde estás?"

He walks into the cabin's main room, and-

"May the blood of the plenty fuel the forsaken souls of us few," the record abruptly says.

Roier jumps and swears, pressing his hand to his chest. He stares at the record- now silent again.

Slowly, he relaxes, shoulders slumping as he looks about the room.

"Cellbit?" he calls.

He frowns. It's a one-room cabin, what the fuck? Where did he go? Back to the car?

The record skips. "When the oceans ran red with blood, the world was full of what we now call the living dead."

Roier shivers. Ugh, creepy much? Maybe it's a good thing he missed out on the whole 'listen to the supposedly-cursed audiobook of the damned' thing. He loves his boyfriend, but this is a bit much.

Suddenly much less happy than he was a second ago, Roier huffs and turns the record player off.

"Cellbit," he says, "this isn't funny. Where are you?"

The room is still empty. There's no other room in the cabin- it's just this one big huge room and the crummy bathroom, and that's it. And with the car stuck in the mud down the road, there's nowhere Cellbit could be besides that creepy-ass basement or the toolshed out in the woods. And Roier does not want to go out there, not this late at night.

It's as he's sulking his way to their bed that he notices the curtains fluttering over one of the windows, the one closest to the record player and the chair Cellbit was sitting on when Roier had gone in to shower. But the windows were all boarded up when they arrived. For the weather.

Confusedly, Roier makes his way to the curtain. He pulls it back and sees... nothing. Just the woods outside.

And a big, splintered hole in the center of the window, bloody glass shards sticking out from behind the equally-bloody remains of the wooden boards.

Roier yelps and drops the curtain, skittering backwards and slipping on-

"And when the dead shall return, they will go for the wicked first, for they shall be the easiest to convert to their cause."

Roier's head snaps towards the record player as he tries to catch his balance. Its static is loud, almost as loud as the beating of his own heart. What the fuck?

Swallowing a growing lump in his throat, Roier looks down to see what he had slipped on, and he sees...

"Oh," he weakly say.

He crouches and picks up Cellbit's glasses. He holds them in both hands, biting his lip nervously as he takes in the cracks in the glass and the... and the blood across one of the lenses.

"The second to go shall be the mortal, for they shall be the easiest to kill. The dead's ranks will swell like the rising tide, and it shall be glorious."

And then he hears it from outside, a quiet whisper. A whimper, even, pained and pitiful and all too unpleasantly familiar.

"Guapito?"

Roier's eyes snap to the window. The curtain has been blown aside by the wind, and there he is. Cellbit. Right in the window with his hair plastered to his head pathetically like a cat stuck in the rain.

But it isn't raining.

But this is Cellbit.

So Roier carefully approaches, clearly hesitant, and that's fine, okay?

"I think I want to go home," Roier says.

Cellbit pouts. "What? Why? We just got here!"

Oh, why does he have to be so cute?

This is. Weird. Bad. Weird.

The record skips. And then it says, "The end of days will not come in a storm. It will come as gently as a lover through the window..."

Cellbit glares at the record player. "Shut up!"

The record stops.

With a cheesy grin, Cellbit slumps against the window, his arm propped up on the sharpened edges without a care. He leans his cheek against his arm, pleasantly ignoring the fresh blood dripping down his arm.

Roier, frankly, stares. His grip on Cellbit's glasses tightens, and he backs up a step.

"Ignore them." Cellbit rolls his eyes. "Come here, guapito, they don't know what they're talking about."

"I don't knooow, it sounded pretty sure..." Roier awkwardly says. He laughs, unsure, and he stops completely when Cellbit laughs with him in a voice that probably isn't his. Probably?

He glances at the record player, and then back to Cellbit, and then back to the room when he hears a sudden crashing noise from the bathroom.

"Will you marry me?" Cellbit asks.

"What?" Roier faces him incredulously. "Now?"

Cellbit shrugs. "Why not?"

"I mean, yeah, but-"

"Yes?"

Cellbit's eyes light up... literally. Bright blue, and in a way that's probably beautiful to, like, a moth, but not a Roier because what the fuck what the fuck what the fu-

Roier can't help the little scream that escapes him as Cellbit pulls himself up and drags himself through the window, bringing him into the light for the first time since- since he-

"What's wrong?" Cellbit asks, head cocked at a dangerous angle. It's hanging off of his head, barely hanging on by a literal thread. His legs are mangled- his jeans shredded and his skin red and slick and wet and his bones and his-

Roier covers his mouth with a hand to keep himself from vomiting. Because one of Cellbit's arms is turned backwards, and that arm has a hand turned the right way around, and that hand is holding a little white ring, and that ring is the same color as the bone sticking out of Cellbit's knee awkwardly.

He skitters backwards, tripping over the rug and falling right onto his ass. Fuck.

"Guapito?" Cellbit frowns. "What's wrong?"

Only he doesn't speak it. His mouth doesn't move.

The record player skips and repeats the question, this time in a much less concerned tone of voice.

"Ooooh," Cellbit gasps, this time with his mouth. He raises both hands and sets his head on straight, wiggling it slightly for grip.

Seemingly happy with himself, he grins- sharp teeth stained black with his own blood. "That better?"

"What the fuck, Cellbit?" Roier chokes out. He likes to think of himself as a badass, but this?

Cellbit shambles closer, and then he crouches next to Roier and takes his hand gently in both of his.

"I promise it won't hurt," he promises, and Roier only has half a second to wonder what the fuck that's supposed to mean before Cellbit laughs with a dozen voices in one and he grabs Roier by the throat and he squeezes.

Roier drops Cellbit's glasses to the floor in his panic, his hands scrambling to try and push his dead boyfriend away but he can't see and he can't breathe and there are lips on his and there are teeth and they're biting and-

"No!" he screeches, and he manages to grab Cellbit's head by the hair and he fucking rips it off.

Cellbit's body goes limp, collapsing over Roier oozing blood onto his- Cellbit's shirt.

Roier looks up at Cellbit's head, out of breath and wide-eyed and crying sobbing panicking confused-

Cellbit frowns. "What the fuck, man?"

Roier screams and throws his boyfriend's head across the cabin. He cringes as he hears Cellbit swear in Portuguese. He watches Cellbit's body push itself up off of him and crawl its way blindly to its head.

He stands, and he slams the cabin door open, and he fucking runs.

#tw gore #a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#i'm really bad at writing horror sorry lol #brain worm though!#spiderbit horror au #i have such a soft spot for this au

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chastitywifeguide · 4 months

Text

troubleshooting your chastity lifestyle - part 1/2

i will often get messages from followers about problems that they are having in their chastity relationship. lets start the new year by trying to fix some of these problems. instead of responding to everyone individually ill be spending the next few posts answering some of the common problems people are having.

many keyholders have expressed frustration that they aren’t quite getting the submission and/or the loving attentive and affection husband that is promised by chastity. or they are getting it for a little while and then it goes away. i’ve noticed some common mistakes that people are making…

1, avoid the “lock it and leave it” mistake. chastity is NOT something that can be passive! keyholders must play an active part in the game being played. the surest way to fail to achieve all the benefits of chastity is to just lock your partner up and ignore him. in fact, this will likely have the opposite effect causing frustration (the bad kind) and resentment.

you should be doing something every single day that engages him with reguard to his chastity. this can be fun exciting things that take time and effort or this can be as simple as a comment about his cage, a joke or a tease about it, grabbing his cage in the kitchen, or demanding a picture of his cage when he is out of the house. for the love of god though, you need to do at something!

2, avoid what i’ve heard people describe as “traffic jam chastity”. this is when you don’t keep him locked, teased, and denied long enough. understand that in order to get to the sweet spot of chastity you need to have a minimum amount of lock up time (plus constant teasing). this will vary by each couple but it is certain that only having him locked for a few days at a time will result in failure. i suggest at least 4 weeks at a time. ideally more! it takes time for him to build up sexual tension and frustration and to convert that into constructive emotions and actions. if you’re unlocking him too often then you will never reach the promised land and every time you unlock him, you’ll have to start over.

some keyholders are worried about being “too strict” and keeping him locked for too long but you should remember that if you’re already in a chastity relationship then he wants to be locked up! unlocking him is likely the opposite of what he wants. still, if you are worried about how long you keep him looked and denied then play this fun game: chose a number of weeks that you think is reasonable to keep him locked for. maybe like 6 weeks to start. write it down. tell him that you’ve chosen a period of time for his next chastity sentence. tell him that he has to also choose a period of time and write it down but if he chooses a time period less than what you chose then you will double the your number! (ie if you chose 6 weeks and he chose 3 weeks then he will be locked for 12 weeks! oof…) but if he chooses more than what you’ve chosen, then that will be his new sentence (ie if you chose 6 weeks and he chose 7 weeks then he will be locked for 7 weeks). this is a fun game that also let’s you know exactly how long he thinks is appropriate.

3, As the keyholder, you must set clear rules and expectation. you have to make and enforce your will. do you want nightly back rubs? make it a rule. want him to clean the house? make it a rule. want him to give you and orgasm. demand one. i’ve been giving many examples of things you could do to keep chastity spicy. pick a few and do them on your terms. he is probably starved for this kind of attention and if youre not giving it then no wonder he is acting out! chastity is a give and take and the more effort and energy you put into it, the more benefits you will receive from it.

more FAQs and trouble shooting to come.

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harrywavycurly · 9 months

Note

Okay so… how did Eddie meet Barbie!Reader? Was he all of a sudden at the beach or did Barbie!Reader go to find the girls thats playing w her in Hawkins? How!

Hiii babes!! I will happily answer this, in my head Barbie took a wrong turn somewhere trying to get to the real world and ended up in Hawkins and just decided to never leave. So I hope you enjoy this little blurb about them meeting 💖

-find all things Eddie Munson x Barbie!Reader here✨

Eddie let’s out a sigh of pure exhaustion as he closes the driver’s side door of his van. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest of his seat and he honestly debates on taking a ten minute Power Nap before driving home to his small, lonely one bedroom apartment. His thoughts are interrupted by a loud squealing noise causing him to open his eyes and what he sees in front of him makes him question if he actually is asleep or not.

“Oh no.” Your voice is full of panic as your hot pink convertible begins to have black smoke billow from the engine. “No no no…don’t do that.” Eddie raises his eyebrow as he watches you talk to your car as if it’s actually going to fix the problem. “I knew I should’ve picked my bike.” You get out of your car and Eddie can’t help but feel his eyes goes wide as he sees your outfit, it’s a pink mini skirt with a white and pink crop t shirt and pink heels.

“This is clearly a dream.” He mumbles as he waits to see what you’re going to do, he knows he probably looks like a creep but he’s too tired to really care. He watches as you bend down and look at your tires and he has no clue as to why. “What the hell?” He’s unbuckling his seatbelt as he watches you walk towards your trunk and stare into it after you open it.

“Something in here must be wrong.” You state as you place a hand on your hip. “Oh maybe it’s you? You’re too heavy or something?” You ask yourself as you reach inside the trunk and pick up your hot pink suitcase that has most of your wardrobe in it.

“Uh I don’t think your suitcase is the reason your engine has smoke coming from it.” You turn your head and Eddie is taken back by how gorgeous you are, another reason he thinks he’s actually dreaming because no way someone looking like you decided to just take a trip through Hawkins. “I’m Eddie.” He adds making you smile.

“Hi! I’m Barbie!” You give him a little wave as he not so subtlety looks you up and down. “Do you like my outfit?” You ask when you see Eddie’s eyes land on your t shirt. Eddie’s cheeks go red as he clears his throat and takes a step around you so he can open the hood of your car.

“You’re overheated.” He explains as he looks at your engine, he hears the sound of your heels on the sidewalk and he’s not sure why it makes him nervous the closer it gets.

“Oh I’m fine I actually don’t even sweat.” You reassure him as you put on your pink heart shaped sunglasses. Eddie leans over so he can look at you to see if you’re just messing with him but he can tell by the smile you’re giving him that you’re being serious.

“Uh I was talking about the car.” He adds making you just tilt your head at him. “Just give me a few minutes and you should be good to go.” You smile and clap your hands together out of excitement as Eddie gets busy fixing your car.

“Do you happen to know where I’m at? I took a left turn on my snowmobile and somehow ended up back in my dream car but I think I was supposed to get in a boat.” Eddie decides right then and there that he really must be dreaming because none of that made sense minus the dream car because you had already told him you’re name is Barbie.

“You’re in Hawkins sweetheart.” You just smile as you look around and wave at the people who are looking at you as the drive by.

“It’s Barbie remember? Not sweetheart…that’s a cute name but it’s just not mine.” Eddie is happy he can hide his embarrassment behind your car’s hood. “Hawkins…I like it here.” You mumble to yourself as Eddie closes the hood making you jump a bit at the loud noise. “Can I see your dream house?” You ask making Eddie laugh and rub at the back of his neck as you look at him with big hopeful eyes.

“It’s called an apartment.” He explains as he hands you back your car keys. “You can uh follow me there if you’d like?” You take the keys and look from them back to Eddie who’s raising an eyebrow at you. “What’s wrong?” He asks as you look at your car.

“I don’t know how to drive…in the real world.” And with that Eddie just takes the keys from your hand and puts them in his pocket before turning and grabbing your suitcases from the trunk. “You’re so strong.” Eddie has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at your comment because he knows you actually mean it in a nice way and not a sarcastic way.

“Thanks Barbie.” Is all he says as you follow him across the street towards his van.

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delopsia · 5 months

Text

Sleigh Ride | Rhett Abbott x Reader

My cozy little submission for @lewmagoo's Christmas Celebration 🤍 Word Count: 7,500 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, brief food mention, vague mention of somnophilia, Christmas celebrations mentioned but no religious activity tied to it, snowball fights, riding, unprotected sex. A little slice of winter fluff. Brief Summary: Rhett's fixing up the family sleigh to take you on the ride he never got to give you, but not everything goes according to plan when it's finished...

It's the crash that gets your attention.

A harsh clatter of metal and a heaviness that booms when it hits the ground, thundering through the air like last night's storm. But despite its alarming appearance, you haven't the slightest clue where it came from, the noise bouncing from wall to wall and down to the cellar, never seeming to lose her vicious intensity.

But your feet must have grown ears of their own because they're carrying you out the door within a few seconds. Shoes thumping across hardwood older than you are and down the dirt driveway. On a one-way track to the barn where you last saw Rhett. He's the only person who could have caused such a—

...ruckus.

"Did the ghost of Christmas Past get ahold of you?" It's impossible to stifle the giggle that escapes you; not quite the sight you expected to find when you rounded the corner.

Rhett's eyes roll, hardly visible through the pile of Christmas lights that have fallen on top of him, "help me."

As much as you'd like to do that, you're not entirely sure where to begin. Stepping past clips and oddly shaped tools you don't know the name of, you bend down, grabbing a handful of the cables and pulling them away. Untangling them may take an entire day's worth of work, but at least the mass makes it easy to get them off of him, heavy as they are.

"I thought you weren't decorating the house this year?" Your hands daringly stroking through his hair as you work, tangled from the Wyoming wind and the slightest bit damp with sweat. Should be something you find gross by now, but that grimy cowboy charm has dug its roots in deep.

"'m not," despite being the one tangled up, he's not that much help. Moving a little too slowly, as you nimbly work to free him of his decorative confines.

His pause makes you wonder if that's your cue to speak."No?"

And it must have been what he was waiting for because his head shakes, "Was tryin' t' find that damn drivin' harness."

The last of the lights fall from his shoulders, laying in a heap around his ankles. A trap that he must deal with alone, lest you bend down and wind up on your knees for longer than planned. Instead, you savor the veins that bulge in his forearms as he reaches down to free himself, "Finally, see the wicked ways of big oil and convert back to old-fashioned horse and buggy?"

"Naw," he's peeking at you through the corner of his eye, seems to have caught on to the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, "d' you remember that ol' sleigh? The one my folks used for their weddin'?"

"The same one Perry cracked the frame of?" You still consider yourself fortunate that you weren't familiar with the Abbotts back then, far away from that first newlywed argument. Its hard telling if Rebecca will ever forgive Perry for making her walk through freezing snow that soaked her wedding dress on their special day.

"'ts the one," those spurs on his boots chime like Christmas bells as he steps out from the hoard. Closer to you. "'m tryin' to fix it before Christmas."

Your head tilts to the side. "...you're not planning on a second wedding, are you?" Because as far as you remember, that sleigh has been a wedding-exclusive tradition, carrying every Abbott newlywed through a winter wonderland with their partner. And despite the newness of the rings adorning your ring fingers, you don't count as newlyweds anymore.

Rhett just shakes his head. "Nah," leaning in to press his warm lips to your forehead before returning to the mess he's created, "but it ain't fair that I never got to give you a ride in it."

"I can think of other rides you've given me," and for once in your life, you're thankful he's not looking directly at you, or else he would have caught sight of the way your face dropped. How many more times will your inner thoughts dart off the tip of your tongue?

He sputters, lights falling out of his hands, "I'm tryin' t' be serious here!" But those cheeks of his are red as can be, rosy with something torn between surprise and fondness.

"But I'm fully serious," doubling down; there's no sense in going back now.

His index finger shakes at you, defiant, "I'm takin' you on a sleigh ride even if it's the last thing I do."

Your eyes trail over to Isabella, her fuzzy head poking out of her stall. There isn't a way in hell that she knows what is being said, but her gaze suggests she understands every word. Isn't pleased in the slightest about being downgraded from loyal ranch horse to novelty sleigh puller. But it can't be as bad as that parade sleigh she begrudgingly pulled back in January.

The voice in the back of your head openly wonders if he'll give up on it within a couple of days. You've never seen him quit that easily, but what are the chances that the sleigh is even fixable? The old red paint has long since chipped away to reveal decades' worth of rust and weathering and has long since lost parts of the metal underside. No longer capable of sliding across the snow, no, now its sharp ends dig into the frozen soil like a stubborn mule.

But you wake up the next morning to find Rhett jotting down a plan on the back of some junk mail, and the next, he's out working on it before lunch. When Cecelia approached you two with the idea of staying in the house while she and Royal visited Rebecca and Perry for a month, you'd never imagined this was how Rhett would spend his time.

"And here I'd thought you got lost in the barn," you chirp, only lifting your head to meet him for a kiss, frozen lips melting against your warmer ones like snowflakes.

"'m sorry," and for your troubles of waiting an extra hour, he quiets you with a second kiss. Longer. Lingering with the same fire that got you bent over the counter earlier. "I can't seem t' find them damn sleigh bell straps."

On its own, your head tilts to the side. "You're done with the sleigh?"

"Nah," he makes a face as he peels that hat off his head, seems to have glued itself there after a long day of sweating, his forehead still shimmering with it, "jus' realized there ain't no point in a sleigh ride if there are no sleigh bells."

But the bells...simply do not exist.

They're not in the shed, far out in one of the pastures. Nor are they in the cellar or the measly attic full of all the junk in the world. No matter where you two search, there isn't the slightest hint of a sleigh bell. Coincidentally, every person in Wyoming must be having the same problem because there are none when you venture into town. The bells, once sitting in the front of the tack shop, are now nothing but a memory, not to be restocked until next year.

"Hey, Rhett," you find yourself saying in the middle of the general store, "will this work?"

The corner of Rhett's lip wavers up and down, torn between amusement and mock annoyance at the tiny bell necklace in your hand. Red, green, and silver bells of various sizes, all crammed together to create a gaudy masterpiece with a built-in obnoxious soundtrack.

If his eyes could roll the way into the back of his head, they would have by now. "Yeah, if you're plannin' t' be the horse."

But he's still reaching out to give it an experimental shake as if he's considering it for the briefest of moments.

"I don't mind the idea of that," giggling, you move to set it back on the rack, returning to its equally festive companions.

You blink, and all of a sudden, it's sitting in the cart. Not a word is spoken as Rhett winks at you before disappearing into the next aisle over, boot spurs chiming their taunting chant.

It's only fair that you get him something obnoxious to wear, too—a reindeer antler headband with cheap golden bells on them. Enough to get you a funny look when they cross the scanner in the checkout, but not for him to mention anything about it.

The bells sit on the counter like a taunting reminder of what seems to have disappeared from the ranch entirely. Vibrantly colored metal catching in the morning sunlight when Rhett leans in to catch you with a goodbye kiss as if he's embarking on some lifelong journey and not walking a couple of yards to the barn.

One afternoon you catch him swearing to the high heavens over how much he can't stand that motherfucker, Perry, as he welds two pieces of metal together. Vaguely shaped, seems to match the missing piece beneath the rusty old sleigh. On another, he walks into the house, reeking of paint stripper.

"Did you take a bath in this stuff?" You ask, lathering your hands for a second time, working your way back through those freshly washed locks of hair. Silky soft to the touch, the peppermint of his shampoo nearly enough to drown out the overwhelming scent of chemicals.

"I even used gloves," his nose wrinkles, eyes scrunching shut at the stray bit of soap running down his forehead. Your finger swipes it away just in the nick of time before it can cross his eye and begin to sting.

You're fortunate that washing his hair has become a favorite winding down activity because it seems you spend half of your evening helping him scrub every crevice twice. Washing away the grime from under his nails and not resting until he smells like peppermint and the brisk winter breeze...at least that's what the bottle says. It's more of a dull mintiness that kisses your nose when you get close enough.

But it only marks the start of something else.

Red flecks of paint cling to his clothes and skin like a toddler who has gotten carried away with an unsupervised art project. Unlike the paint stripper, it doesn't carry a scent that makes you lightheaded, but you roll your eyes every time you see him. Red on the edges of his nails splattered up his forearms and reaching up to his cheeks. Ratty old jacket growing to look like it's been involved in a crime.

It reaches its worst on Christmas Eve. Days of paint piling up to join the remnants that stubbornly cling to his skin, making him to look like a Halloween decoration that was accidentally left out when the others were rounded up. But there he is hair decorated with flecks of white as he stomps his boots on the entry mat, shaking free of the clinging snow.

He looks ridiculous.

"Quit laughin' at me every time I come in the door," he chuckles, not an ounce of seriousness to his tone as he meanders up to you, rubbing his painted nose against your forehead whilst he draws you in. Some big hug that greedily steals away the heat your body has collected over your cozy day in the house, all for the sake of melting your favorite frosty cowboy.

"You would be laughing too if you saw yourself," your thumb squishes his cheek, feeling the soft prickle of his facial hair as you wipe away a few red flecks. Only to spot more above his brow, and in his hair, and clinging to the side of his neck.

No, no, no, you have to look away, or else you'll catch yourself scrubbing him down with the sink sponge. Already in your free hand and drenched in dishwater that you've just run, hadn't quite been expecting him to come in so soon.

You suppose there's the reason why he's here an hour earlier than usual, because he's hooking his thumb into your belt loop and pleading for you to step away from the sink for just a moment. And who are you to deny him when he's grinning at you with paint-freckled cheeks? Soft blue eyes glittering with an excitement that only appears when he's proud of himself.

So off you go. Stumbling down the dirt driveway in your pajama pants and the winter coat you'd snatched off the hook when you were halfway out the door. Not dressed warm enough to escape the wind nipping at your exposed cheeks, squeezing between the fabrics of your clothes and wrapping you up in a full-body chill. Snowflakes drift past like tiny fairies, melting on your skin and clinging to Rhett's hair.

Then you see it.

A bright red sleigh pokes out from around the barn door, paint so pristine that it shimmers. Not a hint of how it once rusted to the brink no return doesn't bear its scars of Perry's fateful wedding joy ride. No, it's wrapped up in a big silver bow, like it's brand new. Brought home from the shop, fresh out of the factory, and certainly not a fifty-year-old family heirloom.

You can see exactly where he painted it earlier; the color a little darker where it's still wet, but it's...perfect.

"Are you sure this is the same sleigh?" Blinking once. Twice.

It's still there. Real as you are.

"Y' can't tell where I welded it?" His shivering hand points to a space in the underside of it, but quite frankly, it all looks the same to you. He could have tricked you into believing that this is a different sleigh entirely.

Your head shakes, a movement that dissolves into a full-bodied shiver, "Not a bit."

It's perfect. The color. The repair. The timing. Only Rhett Abbott can pull together a monumental task at the last moment, all for the sake of a special day. The necklace of bells catches your eye when you meander back inside, dashing for the blankets that have been warming by the space heater. The necklace won't fit Isabella, but they'll certainly fit you.

Who cares where the jingle is coming from? As long as it's there, then you can't bring yourself to utter a single complaint.

Rhett's heated glare at the reindeer antlers resting menacingly on the couch suggests that he could definitely complain, though.

The Christmas tree twinkles in Cecelia's office, just a couple of feet away from the living room, a pleasant golden hue that warms the room with its presence. A tiny addition to the movie playing on the television, only serving to make you nuzzle into Rhett a little closer. His heart beating gently against your ear, scruffy cheek resting against your forehead.

You're snuggled up in bed when you realize you forgot to finish washing the dishes and now soaking in frigid water with nothing but a memory of soap left. But you can't bring yourself to slip out of Rhett's arms to clean up a few measly dishes. It can be left for the morning. Before Rhett gets up to fetch Isabella and works away with all of the mechanics that go into pulling a sleigh.

They're the first thing on your mind when you slip out of bed in the morning.

Well...that and bringing Rhett a piece of butter toast that he so politely held you hostage for, refusing to let you free of his arms until you paid his tax of kisses and treats. The downside of marrying a cowboy too strong for his own good.

But you don't make it to the sink before you see it.

White.

A winter wonderland so bright that it hurts your eyes to look at it. Reaching as far as the eye can see, toppling high in the trees, and coating everything with a thick winter blanket until you can no longer recognize the Abbott property. But that's not the problem. No, the problem is how much of it there is.

At least a foot and a half deep, not enough to block you in but definitely enough to warrant breaking out the plow. Piled up outside the barn doors, packed tight by the squealing wind, and stacked high on the roof of Rhett's truck.

"Rhett!" You call out, voice echoing all across the house. Distantly, you think you catch a grumble that sounds like a response. "Can you take a look outside for me?"

Feet thunk across the floor overhead.

And then you hear it.

A muttered, "Shit." Clear as day, traveling through the paper-thin walls, down the stairs, and straight to your ears.

He's out the door before the toast pops out, swearing under his breath as he yanks his coat over his shoulders; you're surprised he even remembers to lean in and kiss your cheek before he heads out into the world of white.

There's no way that the sleigh can go through that much snow, but one way or another, you find yourself fiddling with the edges of your gloves, walking towards the barn, bell necklace jingling every step of the way. Despite the added protection of all these layers, the wind still works its way in. Biting at every centimeter of exposed skin that can be found, heckling you even when you step into the safety of the barn.

"Rhett?" Calling out into the empty room. He isn't here, and the sleigh still sits where you last saw it, completely untouched. In fact, the only other living creatures in this barn are the horses. Isabella's head pokes out of her stall as if she's confused about this whole thing herself.

Her ears prick forward. Suddenly interested.

Something cold splatters against your back.

"Rhett!" You're squealing. Spinning on your heels. Just in time for a second ball of white to explode against your chest.

Snowballs.

A third whizzes past your head. Smashing into something that goes crashing to the floor. Spooks a noise out of the horses. You'd check. But you're already diving behind the safety of a barn door. Scrambling to scoop up some snow into a crudely formed ball.

...where did he go?

One moment he was darting toward you. The next, he's virtually vanished.

But he's left footprints. Little tracks that cross yours and venture toward the corner of the barn. You see him now. The tip of his hat poking around the corner. Wavering. Like he's about to burst out and pelt you with another ball.

Except you're quicker. Bursting out from your hiding spot. Nailing him in the shoulder with a ball that splatters up into his face.

"Shit!" He's pawing at his icy cheek. Snowflakes sparkling, clinging to his stubble.

"A snowball fight, really?" You giggle, reaching for more snow. Packing it together as quickly as you can. Racing to beat Rhett's quicker hands.

The sound of your necklace jingling washes over his laugh, "scared yer fixin' t' lose?"

This isn't a fight you started, but it is certainly one that you will finish.

Except your shot misses Rhett by a mile. His retaliation narrowly brushes past your leg. He's reaching for another, and so are you. Futilely gathering up bits of ammunition. Scrambling to step away from each other. Fearing the other will charge at any moment. Snow crunching heavily beneath your feet. Powdery and kicking up to cling to your pants.

Again, you're taking an aim at him. And this time, you don't miss. White scattering about Rhett's messy curls. A perfect headshot.

"You little—" He's making a break toward you like a bull out of a chute. So suddenly that your foot slips out from under you in your efforts to escape. Fighting against your pounding heart and the wicked brace of the wind. Snow still clutched in your gloved hand as he yells. "Come here!"

Shit. Shit. Shit. You've nowhere to go.

You're darting into the barn. Boots scuffing against the old pavement floor as you veer left into the tack room. Spurs jingle behind you. Overjoyed laughter like a haunting squeal that adds a little more fire to your step. Bee lining straight for the hay, past the saddle racks, and out the half-open side door.

Turning. Throwing the snowball right into Rhett's chest. But it's only adding fuel to the already open blaze.

"That ain't fair!" He hollers. In the corner of your eye you can see him bending down, scooping up snow. Not even bothering to ball it up before he throws it at you. Tiny snowflakes stabbing at your eyes and cheeks.

You yelp, pawing at your face with the back of your hand. "You don't play fair!"

Where are you going? You have no idea because you're back in front of the barn again. Racing for the house. As if the safety of the mud room will thwart this evil attack from your husband. Feet falling into your old footprints, vying for a quicker escape.

Weight hits your back.

"Rhett!"

The world spins.

"Quit yellin' at me!"

Your bodies are twisting in the snow. Tumbling like two children. The fall cushioned by the frosty ground but melting, seeping through your clothes with an icy vengeance. All of a sudden, you're flat on your back. Chest heaving. Gasping for frozen air as you peek up at the broad frame above.

Rhett's hair hangs in front of his face, puffs of foggy breath falling from his open mouth. Forearms shivering where they rest on either side of your head. Not quite as strong and indomitable as he was just a moment ago.

"Fine," you pant, blinking back up at him, "you win."

The corner of his lip rises. Pearly white teeth glint in the light reflecting off the snow, growing brighter as he leans down. You can see it even as your eyes fall shut; this bright presence that rivals the blinding sun, warming you with the way his lips melt against your own.

Perfection is what it is.

His soft inhale never grows old, has been making you dizzy from day one. Delicate at first, a gentle pressure that deepens the moment your gloved hand curls around the back of his neck. Hardly expect him to be the one who gasps into your mouth with this barely-there grunt that the wind carries to your ears.

His body is lowering atop yours with this wonderfully comforting weight that feels the equivalent of a blanket sent straight from the heavens. Your hands gliding down his chest, pressing against rippling muscle, on their way to wrapping around his waist. Pulling him closer, urging him to settle between your parted legs until there isn't a centimeter of space between you.

For a moment, you're somewhere else. Cozied up in bed or nestled in front of a roaring fireplace.

But then the wind is squealing in your ears, and a violent shiver is raking down your back. Suddenly aware of the melting snow, seeping through protective layers and stinging at your skin. One of your hands drops, gathering a loose handful of the powder that has seemingly swallowed up Wabang in its entirety.

"So much for that sleigh ride," Rhett murmurs against your lips, his voice a soft vibration that warms you like sunshine.

Your noses bump together as you lean up, so close you can almost hear the thoughts filtering through his head, "I can think of something else that may suffice."

This close, it's easy to catch the way his eyes flicker, meeting with yours, a hint darker than they were beforehand. He's not on the same page as you, but he's certainly on the right chapter.

Almost makes you feel bad for smacking that palm-full of snow into the side of his head.

He yelps, pawing at his frozen cheek. Opening up space for you to roll and scramble to your feet. Darting for the ice-covered porch and through the front door. Uncaring of where your shoes land as you kick them off.

The door squeals open. But it's not loud enough to wash over the outright giggle that bubbles out of your cowboy.

"That!" Rhett's kicking at the heel of his boot, shoving them off his feet as quickly as he can manage. "Was mean!"

Your feet have glued themselves to the floor. Unable to move or cover up the grin etching its way across your wind-bitten face as he steps up behind you. "But you're laughing."

From over your shoulder, his gaze meets yours. Darker than the first time.

"Yeah," he mutters, in that deep, grumbly fashion that makes your knees weak, "'Cause 'm 'bout to do this." And before he can so much as finish his sentence, his frozen hands dart beneath your shirt. Palms pressing against your warm belly. Firm, even as you yelp. Trapped between his arms, unable to jump anywhere but back into his chest.

"Rhett!" But you can't get away. Squirming, stumbling in his grasp. Strong enough to force your bodies to stumble forward. Not enough to break free of the frigid fingers danging up your sides.

"Jesus, why're y' so fuckin' strong?" The only disadvantage Rhett has is the socks clinging to his feet. Unable to gain a hint of traction on this hardwood floor. Slipping, sliding around. "Y' little bull."

Speaking is beyond you. Breathless as your feet dig into the scratched wood. Pushing yourself backward, Rhett's back thunking into the wall.

He's laughing.

You're at the end of your rope, and he's laughing.

Scowling, you push back a little further. The soft curve of your ass pressing into his jeans, drawing those chuckles into a guttural groan that tickles down your spine. Weakening the slightest bit at the way you wriggle against him, feeling the way he twitches, hardening until he's straining against the material.

Your name falls off his lips. Hardened arms, now soft, hugging you against him, powerless to do anything else. The brim of his hat bumps against your head as he leans into you, putty in your hands.

He doesn't say a word, but the hot breath on your neck tells everything you need to hear.

Slow, you spin, twisting in his arms until you're nose to nose. Your hand free to reach down and slip between his legs, cupping him through his jeans. Drinking in that shaky breath, the way he pushes into it, and how his eyes flutter. A pretty show, all for you.

You know that you shouldn't be tugging on his zipper; Cecelia's van is bound to roll up the snowy driveway at any moment, with food ready to head into the oven and gifts to be opened by the tree, fresh home from their California ventures. There is no time for this, and yet your thumb is popping open his button, too-cold fingers venturing inside.

That pretty mouth falls open. Jolting as your hand wraps around him, remaining still in that helpless sort of way while you draw him out. Until his cock is fully out, in the middle of this hallway, right by the front door. Growing harder in your grasp, only takes two slow pumps of your fist to get him all the way there. Aching. Yearning.

"Why're you so quiet all of a sudden, cowboy?" You whisper a taunt uttered so quietly that it ought to be poetry.

His Adam's apple bobs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. But he doesn't say anything.

No, he's quiet.

Even as you take a fistful of his jacket, haul him off the wall, and back him into the living room. A wordless dance that bumps your noses together but never lets your needy mouths meet. His hands on your hips and yours on his chest, the only sound in the room that of your necklace jingling, an echo of the sleigh ride you were supposed to have.

Fortunately, you can think of a much, much better ride.

The backs of his knees bump into the couch, falling backward with an unceremonious thump. Springs squealing, something nameless popping in a fashion that can't mean anything good.

You don't care.

Neither does he. Too busy leaning forward and hooking his fingers in your waistband, gently tugging your pants down your thighs. All the while, you're unzipping your jacket, dropping it to the floor just as your legs escape the confines of all those layers. Suddenly, all too exposed in this not-so-warm house.

"C'mere," he breathes.

And oh, you do. Knees settling on either side of his hips, his lap the perfect cushion that you settle into, his hard cock squishing between your bodies, the fabric of your sweatshirt rubbing against it. Soft mouths collide. Hungry. All taking. Rough stubble brushing against your chin, with a kind of tingling burn that you've become all too familiar with. A dizzying clash intensified by the jingling of the cheap bells around your neck.

Blindly, your hand reaches off to the side, feeling about the cushion until the texture changes, suddenly running over smooth fabric and cold bells. Light in your gasp, so nonchalant that Rhett doesn't notice what you're doing until you've slid the headband behind his ears.

"Did you just stick them damn antlers on me?" His eyes remain defiantly shut as if it will help him avoid the festive decor now perched on his head.

"I told you I had something else in mind," your reminder doesn't go without one of his grunts, bordering amusement.

That pretty mouth opens, tongue lifting with the beginnings of a word that never makes it out of his throat. Silenced into a gasp, all at the way your hand wraps around him again. Thumb massaging directly under his flushed tip, exactly how he likes it.

"Shouldn't the one wearin' the bells be the deer?" His complaint so weak that it hardly sounds like one at all. Head tilting back to rest against the cushion, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His hands running between your bare thighs, not stopping until his palm cups your sex through your underwear.

For a moment, your resolve wavers, "Do you want to wear the bells, too?" Taunt shaky. Struggling to keep that same tone.

The glint in his eye suggests a strong, absolutely not.

You're rapidly losing ground here. For every stroke of your hand on his cock, his fingers stroke the meet of your folds, separated by that tiny bit of fabric. So close to pushing inside, fucking you nice and slow on them until you whimper for him to stop.

The rational part of your brain expected him to pull the fabric down your legs, much like he had with your sweatpants. But that's not what he does. No, he's dipping a finger into the band and pulling it off to the side, bearing your wetness to the not-so-warm house.

"Fuckin' drippin'," he muses, all to himself, thick fingertips stroking up to your clit, swirling gently, "'n I ain't even done nothin' to ya."

It's hard to think. Thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Only able to focus on the hammer of your heart and the delicious drag of his fingers as they nudge into your entrance. Two sliding in with surprising ease, still open and stretched from how he woke you in the middle of the night. Cock sliding between your thighs until you had reached down to ease him in, drifting in and out of sleep as he fucked you nice and soft.

The memory is as fuzzy as a dream, the soreness your only indicator of it ever happening. Did you ever hit your peak? Did he? You don't remember.

"Fuck," he grumbles, fingers bottoming out so easily that your vision sparkles at the edges, "did I stretch ya out that much, baby?"

"Don't get too full of yourself, cowboy," but your threat is empty, not a shred of seriousness to be found. Even your hand can't muster the strength to squeeze him tighter than necessary, a little warning that would make him jolt.

Instead, you're stuck lazily stroking him, some repetitive movement that hardly keeps your mind off the devilish fingertips running along the inside of your dripping cunt, searching for where you're more sensitive. His thumb lazily pushing between your folds, nonchalantly nudging against your clit.

Your breath catches.

"There it is," Rhett's grinning, rubbing against that soft bundle of nerves in loose circles that damn near make your eyes cross, "'s that feel nice?"

The wriggling of your hips is enough of an answer. Grinding down into him, chasing more of those deliciously thick fingers, can't think about anything else. Just him and the sickly, wet sound he's drawing out of you with every thrust. Thumb working your clit in loose tandem, so good that you can't even move your hand over his cock anymore.

"Wanna," gulping, you try again, "wanna ride you."

His smile widens, already beginning to draw his hand away, "All y' had t' do was ask, darlin'."

Your knees ache as you move to sit up, digging into the broken-down cushion of the couch, a poor cushioning that's remedied by the nudge of Rhett's cock against your cunt. Blunt, dripping tip dragging through your wet folds, kissing your weeping entrance.

His palms settle on your hips, fingers tracing loose circles into your chilly skin, a soft guide that leads you down onto him. An ache blossoming as you stretch to take him. Can never seem to grow used to how thick he is. Engorged veins and dripping like a goddamn faucet, so good that you don't mind the waddle this will surely put in your step.

"Fuck," his breathing growing heavy, squeezing on your sides. Sweat already beads at his forehead, loose strands of hair sticking, a beautiful sight that ought to make you faint.

That fat tip finally slips inside, dragging against your walls as you sink down onto his lap. Has you pulsing and fluttering around him from the fullness alone. Filling you until your chest feels too tight, panting for breath that you can't hold onto for more than a second. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, head dropping down until it knocks against his.

Eye to eye, panting into each other's mouths in the golden light of the Christmas tree. Sinking lower and lower until your ass meets his thighs, pussy so full of him that it's almost too much to handle.

"God," he grunts, "y' take me so goddamn good."

The bells on his antlers jingle as he shifts his weight, leaning back to get a better look at where he disappears into you. Two thick fingers dip between your shivering thighs, feeling the space he's spread you the widest. Absolutely enthused.

Your first movement is marked by the sharp jingle of bells. Chiming their song as you lift your body about halfway, only to sink back down. Eager to feel the caress of his cock against those spasming nerves, so good that you have to remember to shut your mouth before you begin to drool.

It's not quite as rhythmic, but it sounds like the bells Isabella was meant to wear. Punctuating the motion of your body as you work up a comfortable pace. Leaning forward into Rhett's warm chest, your arms still looped around his neck, mouths clashing in a too-messy kiss that leaves your lips shiny.

"My cock feel that good in you?" He's speaking into your mouth in between wet kisses. Already a thin trail of saliva connecting your tongues before they can even meet, tangling with a lewdness that ought to make a sinner blush. "Talk to me, doll."

You're not even thinking about what he's saying. Already have an answer resting at the forefront of your mind. "Always."

The cushions are digging painfully into your knees. Hasn't been meant for this kind of activity since the early 2000's. But you're powering through, desperately chasing the fullness of every meet of your hips. Sucking in your own sounds in favor of drinking in Rhett's sharp inhales, faint little noises that send a wave of heat between your legs.

So good, so good, so good. You want more, but your thighs can't keep up. Aching worse than your overstretched sex, protesting the rise and fall that you can't get enough of.

"Look at you," he marvels, nose bumping into yours, nudging impossibly closer to your bouncing frame. "Already outta breath 'n ya just started."

You don't know if it's his voice or the twitch of his cock that sends a shiver up your spine, spasming involuntarily around him. Rips any shred of annoyance from your words as you pant, "Riding you isn't a walk in the park, cowboy."

His hips jerk up. Snapping into your pussy with a wet smack, downright smug as he drinks in your cry. Too sinful of a noise to echo through the halls of his childhood home.

"'s that better?" God, you could wipe that wicked smirk right off his face. But he's doing it again. And you're helpless but to shudder and take it. Sucking in a breath just before he punches it out of your lungs. Bells jingling like a proper fucking sleigh ride.

Your head feels too heavy for your shoulders to carry, falling into the space between his neck and collar, weakly hanging on as he fucks up into you. Running your burning tongue across the protruding vein there, drinking in his breathy moan.

But just the slight shift in your position has him striking something new. The kind of thing that makes your vision sparkle and your body spasm.

"Right there," whimpering into his ear, barely audible over your necklace, "please—Rhett!"

"Yeah?" He's trying it again, but he barely misses. Feet slipping across the wooden floor, struggling for the leverage he needs to buck up into you. Falling into weakened rolls that grind his cock in your pussy. Gentle rolling of hips that leave your nails biting into his shoulder.

All of a sudden, the room is spinning. Rhett's weight surging up to swing you to the left, your back bouncing against the ratty old couch. Impossibly remaining deep inside of you, his hips never once slipping from between your warm thighs. Necklace singing its shrill tune in your ears as he refinds his rhythm.

Now, he can hit those frazzled nerves. Drilling into it with a fervor that makes you worry about how you'll get up the stairs later. A price you're so, so willing to pay. Back arching off the cushion, legs squeezing those muscular hips as he fucks you deep. Long strokes that squelch with every inward thrust.

"Oughta ruin this lil pussy," he's growling into your ear, a threat he's certain to follow through on if the squealing springs are anything to go by, "fuckin' droolin' 'round my dick."

Drooling is an understatement. You're drenched. A slick mess that has run down your shivering thighs, staining the front of his jeans and glistening on his cock. An obscene sight for every withdrawal of his hips, and that alone is enough to have your skin prickling. Crying high in your throat as your head thumps back against the couch, nails biting into his shoulders until you're certain the material may rip.

You're close. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you're close, but it's not enough. No, it's not, it's not—

Rhett's rough thump presses against your throbbing clit. It's hardly even moving, and yet your mouth is falling open with a stuttered moan. You're right there. So close to the edge that your heart stutters in your chest, and your head is beginning to spin.

"This what you need, hm?" Rhett's egging you on, no doubt, can feel the way your pussy pulses around him, fluttering like a butterfly as he works you closer and closer. "Come on, sweetheart, cum 'round my cock for me."

You don't need any further coaxing. Orgasm hitting you so hard that you've barely got time to register it. Spine arching off the couch, heels digging into Rhett's ass, squeezing him so close that he can hardly draw out of you.

"That's it, baby, that's it," he's talking you through it, lips brushing against your cheek, but you can hardly feel it. Too wrapped up in a spiral of bliss. "Just like that, shit."

Weak, your legs loosen, freeing him to start moving again. Jerkily thrusting into your pulsing heat, moaning low in your ear as he works himself closer and closer, and all you can do is hang on. Biting down overstimulated squeals in favor of gasping into his ear.

"Cum in me, Rhett," you coax, shaking fingers clutching the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. "Please."

Those deep noises spur up an octave, pitchy as he whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. He's almost there, so close that he's begun to shiver from head to toe, erratic breath fanning out against your skin. Weak, you clamp down around him.

And that's all it takes.

Hips snapping into you one last time, cumming in you with a fractured nose, torn between a grunt and a desperate cry. Twitching deeper inside, punctuated by short little groans that nearly make your eyes roll into the back of your head. His spasming cock filling your pussy until you become vaguely aware of the new wetness. Marked from the inside out, sure to run down your thighs like a symbol of what belongs to him.

For a moment, the room is quiet—nothing but heaving breaths and indescribably faint noises, your cheeks squished against each other. Until you find the strength to tilt your head and press a kiss to his jaw.

Even this close, it's hard to miss Rhett's smile as he leans over to reciprocate the peck, "I love you."

"I love you more," you giggle, squeezing him a little closer now as if the centimeters of space between your chests is too much.

He could argue with you. Hell, you're certainly expecting for him to, and it seems that he gives it a moment of thought, before surrendering to the after-glow and letting you get away with it. He'll surely get you back for it soon. Start a contest you're rarely able to win.

But for right now, all you can do is snuggle into each other, his comforting weight settled on top of you. With wordless kisses and nuzzles of cold noses, his big hands roaming beneath your shirt to stroke the soft skin there, stubble scratching your cheek in the softest fashion he can manage. There's an ache blooming in your legs from being wrapped around his hips for so long, but the idea of him pulling out feels even worse.

"'m still takin' you on a proper sleigh ride," he grumbles into your ear, some soft-spoken promise that fills your belly with frosty butterflies.

But you don't get to formulate a response because all of a sudden, his phone is ringing. Cecelia, ten minutes out from the house, her careful voice backdropped by Royal's snoring from the passenger seat. She's wrangled a friend into plowing the quiet strip of road leading to the house, making room for the old car to crawl past.

You're cleaned up and on the porch, before the drive is even plowed. Snug under Rhett's arm, feigning clinginess to disguise the wobble in your knees, sore between the legs, and waddling like a festive penguin.

Nobody notices, too thrilled with the idea of presents and warm dinner to look into the finer details. Except for Rhett, that is. A smug, irritating grin plastered upon his pale face for the entire afternoon. Proud of his handiwork.

The sleigh bells were in Cecelia's trunk. Had accidentally landed there when she had taken the harness to the tack repair shop back in October, and in her rush to get everything packed for the trip, she forgot to take them out.

As the sun begins to set and you're helping Cecelia put away the dishes, Rhett's head pops around the corner. Snowflakes clinging to his hair, nose red as can be, asking to steal you away for the rest of the afternoon.

And outside the house stands his beloved mare. Her mane was braided, and her bells chiming proudly in that festive fashion exclusive to Christmas. She's rusty at first, taking a moment to remember what Rhett's asking of her, but she's perfect. Content to make her way down the snow-white driveway, jet black tail swishing from side to side.

"Is this the sleigh ride you've been dying to take me on?" You giggle. Your chin propped on his shoulder, peering over at his grinning, wind-bitten face.

"Mhm," his head tilts to rest against yours, "but I think I liked your idea a little better."

It takes an hour longer than usual for you two to return from the barn that night.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #oneshot #outer range #x reader #a lew magoo christmas

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