#cowboy lovers rise up!!!!!!!!!!!!

[forsworned]

That Keegan post you made had me clutching my PEARLS! Your use of words was so masterfully done! I really loved the new vocab I learned while reading your work.

Your depiction of the relationship was also so so nice. Very loving and attentive and just so sweet. I could tell they loved one another and had already established boundaries that they knew they shouldn’t cross. The ending was lovely as well, a great way to tie things up.

Thank you for writing it! I’m excited to see what else your lovely brain comes up with!

-🧢

Whispers in the Woods: A Stranger's Shelter ft. OfftheGridCowboy!Keegan Russ

Sypnosis: When Keegan finds you petrified, running for your life from creatures unknown to you in the Haunted Appalachia trails after sundown, he takes you in for the night. Things get a bit crazy...

Warning(s): Mentions of Sexual Content, Violence, Petnames (?), Blood, Supernatural Horror (?), Eventual Smut, Barely Proofread, Reader is 28 and Keegan is 30, Reader is also AFAB

Word Count: 7.5k (enjoy keegan lovers ;)

Author's note: Blue cap anon thank you so much for inspiring me to write for Keegan. Honestly, I really love how this fic turned out and I hope you do too. I am so sorry I took so long to reply to you but you seriously warmed my heart so sosososo much when I read your message. I did not mean to put you on the back burner for this long/ Just know I have put so much effort into this to provide you a solid work so I hope that is a good enough excuse to have such a delayed response. Also so glad that you learned some new words LOL that really tickles me tbh, but I want to work more with the relationship that reader builds with Keegan in general or with any character x reader I write. So please enjoy this :)

edit: i think it's lowkey not living up to my expectations but ummm fuck it we ball

Sparks fly as the firewood in the pit crackles, casting an orange ember over you and the stranger sitting in front of you. His eyes, reminiscent of the cool, blueness of winter are lingering on you, and his heavy, leather jacket drapes over your shoulders to shield you from the chilliness of the early April evening. With his black cowboy hat slightly tilted upward, you note the black bandana covering most of his face, adding an air of mystery to his appearance.

"You really shouldn't be out here." His voice edges a precarious tone, though you cannot determine if it's toward you or whatever lurks in the abysmal woods. Maybe it was both. Your fingers curl around the distressed tanned hide, fiddling with the stitching of the material. A shudder careens through the columns of your spine, goosebumps trail over your skin, and the fuzz across your neck rises briefly.

"Don't look. Don't even acknowledge it." He instructs, steadying his gaze on you as he tinkers with the butterfly knife in his gloved hand. "W-what?" You gasp out, eyes reaming as your quivering vision sets on the embers of the pyre. A sinister presence harks over your convulsing body, heart palpitating out of your tightening sternum. But as soon as it arrives it departs and you're left heaving for the oxygen that was stripped from your lungs.

"I'm not gonna ask you again, what are you doin' walkin' around aimlessly in these mountains?" He repeatedly latches and unlatches the metal object in his hands, his gaze fixates on you. Truthfully, you were lost. When the engine of the old Dodge that you inherited from your grandfather abruptly cut out as you passed through a dead zone, it was all hauling ass from there on out. Classic damsel in distress situation.

Your father and he had both warned you about the Appalachian mountains. How apex predators inhabited the woods, preying on the innocent, ripping flesh apart on sight, or disappearing into the ghastly woods to never return. But, of course, you wrote it off as fearmongering. Never had you experienced the soul-crushing, harrowing existence of unidentified, cryptids lurking within the lacunas of the evergreens.

"My truck it—" You start to say, but the sound of him exhaling loudly cuts you off and you glance up at him with misery strewn across your features. Doe-eyes glimmering from the wetness that was welling in your oculars as your lips tremble. He outstretches his arm to the lantern on the perched log, "I've heard enough."

He begins to get up, extinguishing the flame, smothering it with what seemed to be a bag of salt and you felt fear creeping back into your system.

"Come on." As the pyre's embers fade, the lantern's switch emits a squeak, coaxing the oil flame to life, while the blood-curdling shrieks send shivers down your spine, ringing in your ears. And as if on cue, you cling to his side and he lets out a soft huff, feeling your arm coil around his.

The inferno acts as a bulwark from whatever is skulking around the both of you in the obscurity of the night as you move through the forest. You catch glimpses of shadows trekking about, seemingly running away from you now. A stark contrast from the previous frantic sprint through the woods in your petite, white frilly prairie dress that was now tattered at the edges and puffy sleeves. Now, you were safe. At least you certainly hope so.

A tiny light enters your line of sight in the distance, and you can only assume that that is his home. But you were still heeding the noises and images being molded in front of human eyes. It was as if the veil was lifted here, a supernatural existence in the vast mountains and woods of the Appalachia. You don't know whether to be terrified or fascinated, but you keep quiet as he silently leads you down the desire path to his home that is etching itself a little more into the horizon.

Approaching the home, you begin to notice the clandestine features of the house. A zephyr sweeps past you and the distinct smell of lavender and sage gently brims into your senses. You visibly shudder as the steps creak under your weight, your arm remains tucked into his own as he fishes out his keys and unlocks the door. Like a gentleman, he gestures to allow you in first and he follows closely behind, shutting it behind him.

"Shoes off at the door." He directs, treading past you as he tosses another piece of firewood into the lit fireplace.

What the fuck?

Is he just not going to acknowledge the paranormal manifestation that incurred upon them just now? The shadows of unearthly skinwalkers who infest the woods, who are prowling out there now as they barricade themselves from the outside? What is stopping them from forcefully intruding into his home?

You finally catch your breath for a moment, still feeling your heart hammering against your chest before you speak. "Are we not going to talk about what we just saw?"

"Nope." He simply replies, from another room and you blink back in surprise. Then it sinks in.

Of course, how could you forget? How can you forget the rules of the Appalachia, that were engrained into you as a child?

If you see something strange in the wilderness, no, you didn't.

If you hear something call your name, no, you didn't.

If you hear screaming in the Appalachian mountains, especially a woman's scream, no, you didn't. 

If you feel something stalking you, do not run.

Never, ever, whistle at night. 

Never go into the woods at night.

Never leave your windows open at night, even in the summer and honestly, the list dragged on and on and on.

Most of it falls on deaf ears never believing in the legends, and yet, here you are shaken up by things you never thought existed in a stranger's home who found it in his heart to shelter you until what you suppose would be dawn.

A wavering breath escapes you as you take a long gander at the well-maintained colonial home. The timeless and heirloom quality of the home becomes evident upon analyzing the vast array of paintings and framed photographs adorning the walls, each depicting individuals with strikingly similar features—dark brows, thick lashes, and mesmerizing steely blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your soul. You can't quite make out the framed artwork through your muzzy vision, but it's eerie the way you can't quite pinpoint why the face was so recognizable to you.

Exposed wooden ceiling beams motion your eyes to the inherited items and the mounted deer skull above the hearth. The warmth emanating from it felt different, soothing, lulling your quivery limbs. You oblige and kick off your boots, padding behind him as he draws out his gun from his holster and places it on the mahogany table. He removes his cowboy hat, hanging it on the horseshoe hat rack adjacent to the fireplace revealing his tousled short black locks. As he begins to unmask himself, a small gasp leaves your lips, fixating on his newly exposed features. And he was goddamn handsome and unusually reminiscent of someone from your childhood embarked into the backlogs of your memory, but of course, you brush it off.

And although he hears it, he does not acknowledge it as one hand grips the wooden chair and the other runs over his dark stubble. He's pensive. The last thing he needed was some heretic woman living under his roof for Lord knows how long. At this point, he decides that you are his responsibility and he cannot shirk from that for that would be unbecoming of a man like himself and he was raised better than that.

He glances up at the painting of his father above the hearth and you take note of the reflective state. His daddy was the embodiment of a Cowboy. Gentlemanly, charming, nifty, and always genial, providing the best hospitality a person could provide. No way, he'd accept Keegan kicking you to the curb, leaving you out for those creatures to rip you apart. Plus, his father would simply rise from his grave and kick his ass.

"You hungry?" He pays no mind to your lingering, bewitched eyes as he moves to the kitchen and you like a lost puppy trailing behind him. "Got some leftover potato leek soup."

And as if on cue, your stomach growls and he glances at your hand over your tummy. You flush from the embarrassment of your stomach being that raucous. He cocks a brow at you and you can't tell if he's amused or annoyed. Probably both. "Go sit." He points his chin to the table by the fireplace and you pad back to the living room, the tempering sensation of the flames causes you to become drowsy. You loll your head to analyze his stature. His figure towers over all of the antique appliances in the kitchen, muscles flexing as he prepares to reheat the soup on the stove. Rolling up his sleeves to reveal his taut, tanned forearms to open the cabinet and pull out the loaf of handmade sourdough, slicing it evenly and efficiently before tossing it in the toaster.

His form becomes a bit hazy as you lay your head against the top rail of the chair, mesmerized by the allure of his broadened shoulders, and soft pink lips that all by hide the peeking tongue indicating his concentration in preparing you a homecooked meal. Keegan never has guests over, in fact, no one is ever daft enough to come running around this way anyways because locals know better and tourists are too scared shitless to even enter this part of the Appalachia. He likes it like that, away from everything and everyone, being able to maintain his family's ranch that was inherited by him at the ripening age of 18.

His mother moved out to the suburbs because the death of his father was far too devasting on her already weary soul to continue living her days out on the farm. But Keegan doesn't mind it. He handles the livestock with ease, providing care to the birthing cattle, and maintaining the operations of the facilities as a whole to keep his honest living thriving. It's all in a good day's work for him. So caring after you shouldn't be too much of a hassle right?

You're suddenly awoken to the soft clatter of the bowl being set on the wooden table, the savory aroma of potato leek soup, and freshly toasted sourdough bread. He sets a glass of water beside you before he pulls his seat adjacent to you with his food.

"Eat." He orders, waiting for you to take a spoonful of thick soup. You hesitantly lift the spoon before glancing up at him. He blinks back at you, realizing the weight of his indiscretion, and whisks the soup with his spoon before noshing on it as if to tell you that is not poisoned nor drugged. Your other hand takes the bread in between your fingers and he mirrors your actions, claiming a bite from his own and you visibly relax.

The soup is scalding to the touch, but you welcome the sensation when you get a taste of the heavenly whipped soup. Not a single lump, just the smoothest, most savory supping of such a simple hearty soup instantly heartening your disconcerting body right down to your unsteady hand.

"I'll fix your truck as soon as dawn breaks." He flashes a glance before breaking his bread and scooping it into his soup. "Make yourself comfortable in the guest bedroom." He gestures with his hand to the upstairs.

"Oh, I couldn't—" You begin to say, but he will have none of it.

"You're not going out there until the sun's out." He replies simply, as he lifts his glass of water and sips from it. You observe the way his Adam's apple oscillates under his stubbly throat and you swallow thickly when you realize he's gazing at you keenly.

Warmth spreads to your cheeks and your eyes are now following the pattern of the wood grain. "That's…very kind of you."

"'s just the human thing to do." And there is an emphasis on the word 'human'.

You begin to play with your soup, scooping it up and letting it fall back into the bowl. "Right." Your voice is soft as you try to block out the memory just moments ago.

He narrows his eyes as if to study you. "What's your name?"

You glance up at him, and you're almost a bit hesitant to tell him. You almost want to lie, but you decide otherwise. "[Name], and yours?"

"Keegan."

"Keegan what?" You press. He raises a brow at you as he chews on his bread.

"Russ."

Russ. An esteemed surname that was echoed throughout your household during your adolescence. Presley Russ was a handsome and genial man who appeared at your father's porch steps every so often, tipping his hat at you with that charming smile and those glacial hues that made your heart jump. He'd invite your daddy out for nights at the rodeo or sipping on Highland Gaelic Ales on the porch from the afternoon til midnight, biding his time between Maryland and North Carolina.

You never quite caught glimpses of his son when you were living out on the ranch before you moved out for college, but you did remember a time when you ventured out past sunset in the abandoned village in the Black Hills you knew better than to be in when your daddy had to travel to Wheaton for the grand opening of his old buddy, Presley's restaurant accompanied by his reclusive son who you never remembered the name of. But for God's sake, who was stupid enough to go treading alone around the same location as the filming of the Blair Witch Project?

But you were a skeptic at best until you heard the unrelenting repetition of your name being called which led you astray, causing you to stumble over your own feet and ultimately collide with a rock that rendered you unconscious. Soon enough, you felt yourself being carried back to your home in the arms of the Russ boy with the hardened steely gaze that intently stared down at the knot forming on your forehead. You had never shut your eyes so quickly and the sound of his soft chuckle, caused you to be even more embarrassed as you were being handed off to your worried parents who were more than relieved and thankful to have retrieved you.

Of course, you had to act like you were unconscious. It was already humiliating enough that you were old enough to know better, but being ferried by a cute boy like you were some helpless damsel in distress was just mortifying.

But that was long forgotten by you in hazy summer days during your teen years before you went off to college and moved out into the city. In reality, you had written it off as a dream, a hallucination concocted by that vivid and graphic imagination of yours. That was always the case with you and the Appalachia. Always the non-believer.

But part of you was hoping that maybe he didn't recognize you after all this time, and yet the way he is staring you down is beginning to feel like otherwise.

"Blair." He suddenly says matter-of-factly as he taps his finger at the table and nods again. "Blair." A small toothy grin creeps on his lips before he chuckles.

Your eyes reaming as your heart drops to your stomach. "What?"

"Black Hills, you're the daughter of the farmer right up in Garrett County."

You feel the warmth blooming on your cheeks. He knew. "I—How do you remember that?"

"Knew you looked familiar." He dives back into his steaming soup. "Was tryin' to figure out where I'd seen that necklace of yours." He juts his chin, pointing to the family heirloom that kisses your clavicle. It had been passed down for generations to the women in your family as a symbol of health, wisdom and longetivity. You feel for the 20k gold pendant with lilac and sage engraved into the soft metal.

He looks as if he's stifling another snicker. "Think you pissed yourself a little when I found you unconscious."

Now that gets you real flared up. The abrupt change in mood was beginning to wrack your nerves. You sigh knowing that at the very least you were in good hands. Familiarity begins to set in as he breaks the ice, creating a more comfortable atmosphere between you two.

"I did not!" You puff your cheeks out at him and he's tickled pink by your endearing, agitated reactions.

His gleeful grin only grows to his eyes. "Now, who willing goes into the woods by themselves when they know damn well what kind of activity breeds over there, hm? Gotta death wish if you ask me, kid."

You open your mouth to say something, but it clamps shut. You don't know whether to be abashed by the way his face lights up like the stars in the heavens above, or by the fact that he remembers that you pissed yourself a little through your favorite pair of khaki parachute shorts in a known marked area where people have gone missing. The stark realization of it being a tangible memory was mussing at your trepidation towards him. But he's teasing you now and it stirs a strange kind of desire in your lower belly as you uncomfortably shift in your creaky wooden seat.

Pushing your bowl away, you avoid responding by guzzling down your water and then calmly placing it back down.

"I'd like to get ready for bed now, if you don't mind."

He jovially raises his eyebrows as he munches on the last of his bread. The smirk still curled up on the corners of his pinkened lips.

He wipes the crumbs off his hands and thumbs either side of his mouth before he gets up, gesturing to you. " 'Course not."

You stand up and politely push your chair in as you track behind him up the croaking staircase. Your body is practically heaving with every step and by the top of it, you're feeling a bit winded. Keegan decides to keep his comments to himself as he ushers you down the grandiose hallway. The walls are painted ivory, and wall sconces are tapered candles on held-up aged tin nailed into the parapet. Hardwood floors are well kept, but the small divots in between the grain quickly reveal the age.

He jingles the knob to what you suppose is the guest bedroom, but it seems to be locked. His fingers fish into his pocket and you watch as he phalanges through the set and then finally picks out the antiquated rusty skeleton key. It's honestly a bit jarring that it requires a key to fasten the door, but at this point, if you're being kept away from the monsters lurking outside you'd be happy to be his little prisoner for now.

He pushes the door and it moans open, though much to your surprise it's polished and orderly. In the middle of the room is a wooden four-poster queen-sized bed, with a princess-like sheer white canopy that surreptitiously envelops the bed. The furniture is a bit more romantic with detailed carved patterns on the bookshelves that line up against the wall to the vanity that sat adjacent to the bed. The carmine curtains that drape over the large window, easily maneuver you to the balcony, and the soft calling of your name beckons you to open it…

A sturdy hand clasps over your shoulder and you jolt as you turn to him. He's shaking his head as he towers over you and you look so goddamn feeble with those damn bambi eyes of yours shimmering in the tiny sliver of moonlight that peeks out from the window. He tears his gaze away to tread over to the window, squeezing it shut with the velcro he sewed into the fabric and reinforces the window shut.

A sharp exhale leaves his nostrils and his eyes are on you again. "I totally can see why you ended up the way you did." He glimpses over your dirtied and frayed dress, skinned, bloodstained knees, and contusions running up and down your legs. God, he makes it so easy to feel self-conscious.

He licks his lips as he hovers his hand over the knob to his right, and signals you over. You begrudgingly stride over and you're just as impressed at the bathroom. From the massive mirror above the traditional wooden undermount double sink vanity to the wine-red clawfoot freestanding bathtub. Little golden trinkets pinstripe the rosy walls with the soft warm lighting of the hanging flowery ceiling light fixtures. You squint your eyes when he adjusts the radiance to a white glow with the dimmer light switch before he opens the drawers one by one.

"Towels, robes, spare clothes, toiletries. Gimme a shout if you need anything else."

You open your mouth to say something and his eyes playfully narrow at you. "—within reason, missy."

Your bottom lip reflexively juts out. You hate to admit it, but you were quite the spoiled child. Never receiving more than a gentle chide from your parents and always silver-spooned to the nines by your grandparents. The truck was an exception. More of a parting gift from your grandfather that was left to you for the sole purpose of memorabilia scored into every inch of the tarnished vehicle. You hope that Keegan is capable of fixing it since most parts were made by discontinued distributors and they were definitely not easy to come by as they were expensive.

"Christ, spoiled rotten, weren't ya?" He ribs, nudging you a bit and you frown at him.

"Was not." You childlessly retort, but the small smile on your face betrays your feeble attempt at contempt.

Fuck, she is so cute. Keegan thinks as he assimilates your hilly yet winsome appearance. Just as cute as he remembers when he was seventeen, ignorant of the malignancy that poisoned his father's lungs.

"Not as much as your daddy spoiled you." You shoot back and cover your mouth with your hands as his brows lift in half surprise and half revelry.

"Blair's got jokes now, huh?" The elicitive nickname indicative of your former years sends another rushing warmth to your face and you begin to shoo him out.

"I'd really like to be clean now, thank you." You cast a scowl his way and he's putting his hands up in surrender as he backs out of the bathroom followed by the bedroom.

"I take it that the lady needs her privacy now." He leans against the doorframe with his hands stuffed into his denim jean pockets that are dusty and darkened with wood ash and the smell of the campfire lingers on his skin.

"And her beauty sleep." You add on, folding your arms. His jacket is still resting over your shoulders and he chuckles at your Hello Kitty print socks. The way your hair was mussed up in the soft glow of the lantern lamp on the night table was starting to arouse him a bit.

Fuckkkkkk, you were so adorable. It might have taken every atom in his body not to bend you over the mattress and spank you for being such a dotty woman before pressing his cock past your velvety folds as he makes you apologize in the form of incoherent, dirty little whimpers.

But the thought is quickly dismissed as it's formed in the sullied cogitations of his mind.

"Good night, [name]." He murmurs in his husky voice yet there is a hint of mischief in his tone that sends a frisson up your spinal column.

"Good night, Keegan." You susurrate, as you slowly shut the door and his expression remains the same as your view of him narrows until it disappears behind the threshold.

"Christ." You mutter to yourself as you begin to get ready for bed, as you feel the rush of collywobbles in your stomach start to well up a craving for the cowboy. The time on your cracked phone screen reads 2:03 AM and a wave of exhaustion crashes over you at the realization. Had you really been out there for seven hours?

The warm water soothes your aching bones and forming scabs scattered across your body as you gently exfoliate your skin. Thankfully, Keegan had enough sense to drop off a first aid kit by your door before you slipped into the bath. You weren't looking forward to the sting of the antiseptic, but you were more than grateful to be alive and have all your limbs attached. As you close your eyes and let the sudsy bath take away your worries, a coaxing voice is entrancing you. At first, it begins as a hushed lull intermingled with what sounds like your name and a bit of white noise that makes your brain all fuzzy and warm, but it becomes audible. Forming coherent luring words that resemble Keegan's deep, raspy voice.

Drown, drown, drown.

And you promptly find yourself submerging into the tub and the stillness of the water is subduing, but something is instigating you to open your eyes. You push away the thought, taking in the tranquility, settling into the comforting sensation of weightlessness. And yet, the feeling is not leaving you. You internally sigh as you move your body to the surface, but you remain dormant. Your eyes shoot open and your blood runs cold.

Above is one of the most fear-inducing creatures that you have ever laid your eyes upon holding you down on either side of your shoulders with slender claws digging into your flesh. It resembles a caribou skull with elongated antlers but its eyes were a violent vermillion that penetrates your soul. Its body was dark, rickety, and harrowing. Bones astute against the matted onyx fur and its tongue hanging out of his jaw like it was ready to devour you. Panic surges through your veins as you thrash about but it drives its talons further into your skin and you shriek out in pain. Water enters your lungs, your heart is stammering at cardiac arrest speed and you're choking out for dear life. This is it. This is how you die and the worst part about it is, you couldn't even call out for hope from the man who saved you just moments ago.

But just as you're accepting your fate, the muffled sound of a gunshot pierces through the air and within seconds the skinwalker is incapacitated and then dead. Soon enough, you're being hoisted out by Keegan's strong hands, as you cling onto him naked, wet, and heaving for oxygen.

Water expels out from your esophagus and you're trembling even harder than you were before when he found you, grasping to him and he's immediately talking you down.

"It's alright, you're okay. You're okay." He soothes, one hand tenderly caressing your soddened hair and the other is gripping your body tight as he pulls you out of the tub. He wastes no time unplugging the drain and wrapping you in a large towel to cover your naked body. In all seriousness, Keegan didn't even take a second to gander at your naked form when he was gathering you out of the tub and he makes that clear that his sole objective was to eliminate the wendigo that trespassed into your sanctuary.

He could've sworn that he had locked up every single opening in the house as he does every single night. It was like clockwork to him ever since his father had shown him the ropes to the place.

"…Kee-keegan." You splutter out as you continue to clutch onto him and your body is saturating him with water. He doesn't care though, that was the least of his worries. Your eyes are reaming and glossy as you dare to peek down at the creature that was seconds away from letting you meet your maker, but there's nothing but ash on the tiled floor.

"It was—" You begin, peering up at his harking steely eyes and his jaw tightens.

"It's gone."

"I don't understand." You shake your head, trying to make sense of what just happened, but the soft clatter of the rifle hitting the bathroom counter delineates your scattered mind. "Oh. But—"

"Get dressed." He softly prompts and you shakily let go of his t-shirt and he hands you an eggshell-colored peignoir as he averts his gaze. He's cognizant of the post-distress and panic you're in, so makes no indication of reallocating himself away from you as you slip on the fabric nor does he provide an explanation for what just occurred.

And to be honest, you didn't want to know. There was nothing more disturbing than the encounter with death in the form of a mutated caribou that leaves you shaken up. Everything just seemed too difficult to wrap your little head around, so let him take care of you.

A fresh towel is on your head, soaking up the wetness tangled into your hair and you relax at his balmy touch.

"Thank you." You mutter as your eyes are cast downward, eyeing the imbued, darkened spots on his nightshirt.

He delicately hooks his index finger and thumb between your chin and lifts it upward as he dabs at your features with the towel. And then it lingers. His intense yet pensive gaze, his stout calloused thumb that is now brushing against your jaw shortly followed by your quivering bottom lip. His jaw ticks.

"I'll sleep in here tonight."

Your heart jumps rampantly against your chest. "What?"

"You almost died if it weren't for me."

"Yes, but it's not—!" You fall short of words yet again and you're tearing your gaze away from him. As dire as the situation was (and it was), Keegan cannot help himself from being just the tiniest bit entertained by your endearing little mannerisms.

"I'm not gonna sleep next to you in bed." He deadpans. Normally, he would let you stumble over your words, but exhaustion is seeping into his bones and even as a noceur himself he was in desperate need of some z's. "The armchair over there quite comfy."

You follow his eyes to the brown leather recliner that was beside the bed and then back to him.

"I'm tired, Keegan." You profess, leaning your head against his chest and he's absentmindedly rubbing circles into the small of your back.

"I know."

Typically, you wouldn't be this comfortable with a stranger but given the unusual circumstances that were currently trying to slaughter your ass, you found yourself seeking solace in him.

"Let's get you into bed."

And soon he's leading you back to the bedroom, his hand is still on the small of your back as you walk on wobbly legs. He peels off the comforter and you sink into the mattress feeling like royalty in your crisp, clean nightgown, in your large princess-like bed, surrounded by plush pillows as the light in the lantern flickers. It casts shadows over his dashing features. The flame turns his glacial eyes into a soft apricot and an expression flickers over his visage—concern.

He's harping over your safety and the intruder that happened to bypass his heavily guarded home. No tripped wires, no movement detected on his cameras, and not to mention not a single sound was made until he heard your thrashing in his room across the hall. If he hadn't been there in time—

"You saved me, though." You drone, shutting your eyes as you tuck yourself into the cotton sheets.

His hardened glare softens at your words and how you look at ease now. A testament to your full, unshakeable faith in him. God, you were so quick to trust, it honestly scared him a little for you.

He scoffs. "How can you be so sure that I wouldn't hurt you?"

"Because your father would resurrect and beat the absolute shit out of you if you even dared to think about harming me." You state with a sly smirk on your face.

Keegan's expression briefly falters before he lets out a snicker, acknowledging the truth in your bold proclamation. "Crafty little critter, aren't ya?"

You giggle as shift under the sheets. It's almost a bit disturbing how you are seemingly fine and brushing off the situation. "Maybe."

He peers down at you for a moment and the welcoming feeling of your radiance starts to crawl into his chest. Almost like you were right where you needed to be, in his home, in his bed under his safeguarding. He wants nothing more than that. It's almost a bit perturbing how you are seemingly fine.

"Go to sleep." You mumble.

"You go to sleep."

"No, you first,"

"Who else is going to shield you against creatures of the night?"

You pause for a moment. "Good point."

He smiles as he walks over to the armchair, gun propped up against his left leg as he sits to face you. You're already curling up in a ball, and your chest rises and falls at a tranquil pace.

"Good night, Blair." He feels his eyes drooping as his vision becomes bleary.

You chuckle at the idiotic nickname. "Good night, Cowboy."

The remnants of tiny, foolish smiles are left on your faces as you drift off to sleep in your respective spaces. The last passing thought that crosses your mind is Keegan's tender gaze and his fingers brushing against your lips. Keegan wonders what is making you so giddy before the world around him fades out.

As morning breaks, sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on the room. The spring breeze wafts into the wisps of your hair and your eyes flutter open. The seat in front of you is now empty and the balcony door is wide open, and yet you're calm as you rise out of bed. Birds are chirping and the incessant droning of cicadas buzzing loudly against your eardrums is merely white noise when you recognize the low rumble of your truck's engine pulling up. There is an urgency that surges within you and soon you're sprinting out the door, and the heat of the cobblestone stings at the soles of your feet but you don't care.

The engine cuts and Keegan climbs out of the truck, sleeves rolled up in his army green henley, and he's wearing a clean pair of relaxed, light-wash jeans that skim the leather of his Tecovas. He peers up at you with wintry hues, tipping his hat, and in that instant, you're transported back to your childhood—Mr. Russ, tipping his hat with those same eyes and that glorious smile that always made your heart race.

The resemblance was both striking and uncanny, but damn, you were totally not complaining.

"Mornin', little lady. You're up quite early." He puts his hands on his hips and he's no longer the stone-faced, vendetta-filled Cowboy that you met last night. He's your friendly Appalachian Cowboy who provides you the sweet, sweet southern hospitality with a charming smile and a bit of a North Carolinian twang that sets your groins on fire.

"Mornin', Cowboy. Fixed my truck, did you?" You lean against the French iron wrought railing with your ruffled hair and white nightgown, rippling in the slight draft that carries the healing scent of sage and lavender. The fabric forms around your body and Keegan notices how it traces the outline of your curves and how the sun is hitting you just perfect enough for you to look like a literal angel.

But it's still the unrelenting, disconcerting feeling that creeps up on him when he looks up at you so unbothered, airheaded with that buoyant grin on your face. Was it really just a facade?

"Fixed it good enough for you to get back on your way." He turns from you to the truck and then back to you. "By the way, where were you headed?"

"Back to the old man." You cross your leg over the other, waiting for his response. He watches as the skin of your legs peeks out from under the peignoir and it's a bit enticing.

"I didn't contact him if that's what you're askin'" His hand acts like a sun visor to block the light out of his sensitive eyes to take a good gander at you.

"I would hope not. Don't need to send him into cardiac arrest." You joke and you see his shoulders shaking a bit, suggesting a chuckle.

"Made you breakfast."

"Yeah?" You simper, leaning a little more against the railing.

He can't help the way his grin broadens as he peers up at your flirty form. "Careful now, can't have you comin' back home with a broken neck, can we?"

Shit. Shit. Shiiiiit.

Goddamn him and his pretty face. He's already heading inside as you're locking in on him, but Keegan isn't one to give you the satisfaction. He'll play the long game and he'll enjoy every minute of it. From the way you're sitting next to him at the table with your dress bunched up to your thighs to the way you sensually lick your spoon covered with cream and he's internally chuckling at the mess you've made on the corners of your lips, feigning gullibility to get a rise out of him. Admittedly, it's hot. He wants nothing more than to lick your fingers clean and sloppily kiss your sweet cream-laden lips.

Mmmm.

He doesn't say anything. Just enjoys his breakfast and keeps his gaze lowered like a gentleman. The company of a beautiful woman is enough for him on a fine Sunday morning like this.

You can only wonder what he's thinking as you act like a giddy schoolgirl who's trying to get the attention of her professor. Not that you had a significant age gap with Keegan, but in his original line of work there was a massive lapse. Being a retired Marine had probably mentally aged him over give or take 10 years would have been your best guess. And leaving the farm to his cousins in his absence probably impacted him even more, well, according to your gossip girl of a father at least.

He made trips down to NC every so often to check on his favorite, reclusive cowboy, sometimes tending to his facilities when need be. You never tagged along though. In your mind, you were a city girl who didn't mind dressing up as a cowgirl if she saw fit. So coming down from your city job, in the comfort of your sweet loft that overlooked the NOVA skyline didn't exactly make you miss the Appalachia trails.

Still, it is nice being back here with a somewhat familiar stranger in a home you had only seen the outside of because, for the majority of your life, you had so desperately tried to force out the rural in you. Call it toxic, but leaving the mountains always felt like the haze had lifted from your brain. It was unsettling to be here for too long.

"You're nervous."

You glance up from the runny eggs that you have been working on for the past twenty minutes. You give him a sheepish grin. "This place makes me nervous."

"Itching to go back to the city, huh?"

That elicits a small chuckle from you. "And what do you know about me?"

"Well, according to your father," He says in a knowing tone and you narrow your eyes at him as he gives you a coy smile. "you love the city too much to move back."

"I don't think I'm too good for it. Here, I mean."

"Didn't say that. The Appalachia isn't for everyone." He butters his toast and then munches on it and soon it vanishes into his mouth. The night before is washed away from your memory, but Keegan loses track of his thoughts as he stares at the leftover jagged lines embedded into your skin from a creature that he knew you wanted to forget. A glance at his watch and he's up, wiping his hands and mouth with the serviette that was on his lap before he places it on the table. "You ready?"

"You got somewhere to be?" You raise your brows, not quite ready to leave yet.

"Matter o'fact I gotta date with an employee from Tractor Supply Co in about an hour, and it's thirty minutes out."

"New livestock?" You sip at your coffee.

A sad smile graces his lips. "Yeah, my last eldest cattle just passed away a few weeks ago."

You frown. "I'm sorry."

For a moment you swear you saw him get teary-eyed, but he quickly shakes himself out of the grief, grabbing his keys as he downs his glass of ice water. He stops himself for a moment as you get up to push your chair in and he can't help himself from tracing his fingers over the claw marks on either side of your shoulders. You shudder from the remembrance and his touch.

"[name]," He starts to express but your mood sours.

"Stop."

His expression falters and so does his hand as he lets it drop to his side. You didn't want to remember any of it. He notices how you clutch onto your necklace and he drops the subject.

"Your trucks waiting." He takes your hand and deposits the keys into your palm.

You give him a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you."

You begin to approach your truck and you feel relief washing over you as you run your hand over the tarnished, rusted hood of the Dodge before you open the driver door. As you climb in you notice that all your belongings remain untouched. Scattered cassette tapes, polaroids, and the little Hawaiian girl that swayed with every movement still plastered onto the dash. The leather seats seem to have abrasions, revealing the cushion beneath, but you write it off as a bear maybe deciding to try and access your vehicle after you had abandoned it.

"…[name], ….[name]….!"

You're snapped out of your stupor, recollecting your thoughts as you glance over at him leaning his body against your truck. "I checked the vehicle, it's all clear for you to go. Should make it back alright."

"Why wouldn't it be if you fixed the engine?"

The look you give him is blank, free from concern and any worry that may have been left on your face from last night.

He nods, pushing his hands into his jean pockets. "Right, well, it was nice seeing you all grown up."

That provokes a reaction. Heat is rising to your cheeks and Keegan is standing there looking cool as ever as he takes off his hat and wipes the sweat off his brow before putting it back on.

"Thank you." You say with more feeling, only your eyes acknowledging the horrors of last night. And that's enough for Keegan.

"You take care now." He tips his hat with a good-natured grin and you snicker at his little cowboy bit.

He waves to you as you back out of his driveway and you glance over from your rearview mirror as his towering figure disappears and so does any anamnesis from the evening prior. Or at least, you told yourself that.

And that was April. Months have gone by and Keegan doesn't exactly expect you to keep in contact. He's even surprised to hear a, '[name], says hello, by the way.' from your father during their weekly check-in.

And he definitely does not expect to see your truck in his driveway when he's coming back from milking his cows for the day with his new set of eyes that's in dog form, wagging her tail in anticipation as she sits.

"German Shepherd, eh? Suits you." You simper at him, leaning against the pillar of his home with glossy lips, and a cutesy red paisley swing dress that just barely covers your thighs. Your boots are hardly broken in as they dig into the grassy field and your hair is a little disheveled in an endearing way.

"Name's Miley." He peels off his gloves, shoving them into his back pocket. He's completely taken aback by your sudden presence, though he's not one to complain about a pretty lady showing up at his door.

"Hey, Miley." You coo, holding your hand to her and she's immediately reciprocating your energy tenfold as she jumps up and down, causing you to giggle and pet her soft fur.

Keegan doesn't even need to say anything as he glances down at the German Shepherd and she's already sitting on the ground between you two.

"Miss me?" You ask, coyly.

"Could ask you the same thing, Blair." He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you suspiciously. Something was off.

"I was just in town."

"Uh huh."

It doesn't take long before the act drops and distress is carving into your features. Lips are trembling in fear as your eyes begin to water.

"Something's been following me, Keegan." Your body naturally falls against his chest and his breath hitches a bit at your contact and the smell of your perfume wafts into his senses.

Fuck.

mini taglist: @keegansshark @soapsgf @milkteaarttime

#call of duty #call of duty imagines #keegan p russ #keegan p russ x reader #keegan russ x reader #keegan russ smut #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod ghosts #call of duty ghosts #call of duty smut #keegan x reader #cod keegan #keegan russ #keegan smut #eventual smut #alternate universe #cod au

[starry-eyed-adam]

panic attack writing prompts :)

“My chest hurts. It hurts.”

“I can’t!”

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

“Don’t touch me—don’t touch me!”

“Is it okay if I hold your hand?”

tw: gunshots, trauma, panic attack

takes place a year or so after chapter 21 of Head Over Boots, they’re on their camping trip :)

The gunshot seemed to scream through the air, some hunter’s nearby attempt at murder of an animal, the sound rattling against Yuichi’s skull as it penetrated his ears. Faintly, the logs in his arms tumbled and hit the soft forest floor, and Yuichi fell similarly, shaking hands over his ears as he curled up tightly, defensively.

Another shot, and Yuichi yelped as his chest constricted, heart thudding erratically as he felt an icy grip around him.

Boots on the dirt, towards him, barrel of a shotgun between his eyes.

“You’ve ruined everything.”

“Honeybunny?” Leo glanced over his shoulder at the absence of footsteps behind him. The slider dropped his own firewood and hurried back, brow furrowed at the sight of his husband crouched low, shaking on the ground. “Yuichi, hey, what happened?”

Yuichi didn’t answer, barely heard a word. The world bled in and out of focus, his ears still rang, from the day his stallion threw him from the saddle and he lay there to die.

To die.

Cold metal against his jaw. A threat, and not an empty one.

Pump.

Click.

BANG!

Leo’s hand reached to gently rub his lover’s back, an attempt to ground him, bring him back.

“Don’t touch me!” Yuichi shrieked, and the cowboy instantly drew back. “Don’t touch me!”

“Darlin’, hey, you’re safe,” whispered his worried husband, kneeling before him. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

“M-My chest,” Yuichi gasped, removing one hand from his ears to clutch at the front of his shirt. Tears spilled down his cheeks, left clean streaks against the dust and dirt. “It hurts, it—it hurts.”

He was going to die. He was going to die he was going to die he was going to—

“Honeybunny,” spoke Leo, slow and soothing, “I need you to take a deep breath, okay? It hurts ‘cause you ain’t breathin’ enough.”

Gasping, chest rising and falling so rapidly and shallowly, Yuichi tried to remember how to breathe. Sucking in air too fast, he choked and coughed. “I—I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Yuichi, honey, nobody’s gonna hurt you. I’m right here, okay? Deep breaths, darlin’. Watch me.” Hesitantly, reluctantly, Yuichi cracked his wild, glistening eyes open, found Leo’s calm blue ones. “Good, good,” whispered the slider with a smile. “Take a deep breath in, through your nose. Slow.” Watching his husband breathe in, so slow and easy, Yuichi closed his mouth to copy him.

“There ya go! Good. Now out through your mouth.” Leo blew out a breath, and, shakily, Yuichi did the same. “Good job, honeybunny. Take another breath in.”

The guided breathing went on for what felt like ages as Yuichi’s chest loosened, and the frigid feeling slipped away, melted into the forest floor with his terror. “There you go,” whispered Leo with a small, proud smile. “Is it okay if I hold your hand, honeybunny?”

Yuichi wiped at his eyes with a sniff and nodded after a moment. The familiar feeling of the rough, calloused palm in his own, the sensation of Leo’s thumb rubbing little circles against the back of his hand, was an instant comfort, and Yuichi closed his eyes to breathe deeply again. “Good job,” praised his husband again, smiling warmly at him. “You wanna tell me what happened, there?”

Swallowing, rubbing at his eye again, Yuichi made a face. “It was, um. It was stupid,” he mumbled. “I heard a gunshot. And I got scared.”

“Mm.” Leo continued to rub his hand, still breathing so slow and calm. “That ain’t stupid. Gunshots are scary. Especially after what Don’s put ya through.” He shifted to sit beside Yuichi, guiding his husband to lean into his side, rest his head on his shoulder. Yuichi closed his eyes with the soothing comfort of Leo’s body, the smell of pine and hay and the cologne that always stayed on his clothes.

“Think you can make it back to camp, honey?” whispered Leo, rubbing his back. Yuichi sniffed again and nodded, moving to stand but wincing at the burning pain that radiated through his knees. Dammit.

“It’s okay, I got ya.” Leo grinned as he wrapped his arm around Yuichi’s waist, lifting him to stand like he weighed nothing. “Wanna grab your firewood? We’ll head back to camp an’ take a nap, okay? Panic attacks are exhaustin’.” He kissed Yuichi’s cheek with a small smile, and the rabbit yokai returned it, lingering for a moment. Yuichi watched with a grin of his own as Leo started back on the trail, going to gather the wood he’d dropped.

Damn, he was lucky to have someone who loved him so much.

prompts below! from @unboundprompts

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt leo #rise leo #rottmnt head over boots #head over boots #rottmnt yuichi usagi #rottmnt leosagi #leosagi #leoichi #panic attack #rottmnt angst #angst with a happy ending #panic attacks #writing prompt #writing prompts

[two-white-butterflies]

house of the dragons masterlist

Daemon Targaryen

We Raise Our Cups to Them - Daemon gifts you a necklace.

The Last Dragon - You thought that you were the last dragon. That was until you met him.

You Taste Like Wine - The story of how Daemon gained his thorns. (Tyrell!Reader) ➺ pt.2

A Little Life - Short drabble on Daemon and your son.

Wanton Desires - Daemon speaks to his wife while you give him head.

Orange and Tangerines - You and Daemon visit a brothel.

Ingenue - Daemon falls in love with a wolf. ➺ part two. (Stark!Reader) 

in the land of gods and monsters - You were the Queen, but you loved the prince. (Tyrell!Reader)

A Heaven I Can’t Reach - You were left by the Rogue Prince. You find out that you are pregnant, and he returns.

The Prince of Flea-Bottom - (Hightower!Reader)

Ghost of You - Your soul consumes Daemon with avarice.

Fuck the Rich. Fucks the Rich. - Threesome with Harwin.

Maroon -  It is the night of your wedding, and instead of making love. You both decide on playing chess.

Anti-Hero - You are the first-daughter of Viserys and Aemma, as she realizes what war is about to begin. She marries her uncle.

Midnight Rain - You used to be Daemon Targaryen’s fiancee, until he is forced to marry Laena Velaryon. You fall in love with Aemond. years later, Daemon returns.

Labyrinth - The reader is the daughter of Viserys and Alicent. Daemon almost gets the entire court high with weed brownies. The reader spreads a malicious rumor about Daemon.

Poison From the Same Vine - (Hightower!Reader)

Bigger than the Whole Sky - You become a glorified hostage for the Blacks. Your husband refuses to show his love. (Hightower!Reader)

The Smallest Coffins are the Heaviest - Daemon comforts you after a miscarriage.

Arms Length - Daemon swears to corrupt you. ➺ part two ➺ part three

Mob Wife - mafia au

White Sword - angst with smut.

The Sun Rises from the West - angst poc!reader

i’m a m*therfucking starboy - you meet the infamous prince of dragonstone. [enemies to lovers trope]

fence - he’s your dad’s best friend.

therese ➺milk matches her underwear ➺horses, cars and cowboys do  - in where, your private life becomes public. [secret relationship trope]

two white butterflies ➺ how to disappear ➺ miss american pie - daemon begins dating a singer who hates the spotlight.

i shouldn’t cry - prince daemon in love with a rich girl.

false god - you are forced to choose between family and ambition.

Fresh Out The Slammer - daemon targaryen always found himself running to you after his failed marriages.

good riddance - daemon is forced to choose between love and duty.

Viserys I and Aemond Targaryen

His Real Ambition - being a matriarch to a family was has hard, watching the love of your life marry someone else is harder.

in the land of gods and monsters - You were the Queen, but you loved the prince. (Tyrell!Reader)

Midnight Rain - You used to be Daemon Targaryen’s fiancee, until he is forced to marry Laena Velaryon. You fall in love with Aemond. years later, Daemon returns.

The Alcott - You are Rhaenyra’s oldest daughter. You meet your uncle in Winterfell, and you heart feels like jumping off your chest. 

Peaches - your stepson’s swimming instructor can’t stop staring at your ass. introducing, jealous aemond. | mafia au 

Let the light in - you fall for your father’s right hand man | mafia au 

This is me trying - a late night phone call after your team falls short on the podium. aemond comforts you, and provides you some comforting. some phone loving.

Fucking in my BMW Sedan - exactly what the title states.

I want your heart - vampire aemond

the winner takes it all - you are engaged to another. (angst)

my way, back home - aemond wants to have a big family.

A Man Who Knows - (angst)

Hands of Gold - Aemond meets an older woman. (smut)

Thranduil as Aemond's Dad - (headcanon)

Aemond Reacting to You Wanting to Break Up with him - (headcanon)

you’re losing me - after a gruesome breakup with jace - his billionaire uncle offers you a proposal that you can’t resist. [fake dating trope]

illicit affairs - it was forbidden to date a man like him. but still, you choose to fall. [cheating trope]

cats and dogs - you meet him in the animal shelter. 

emma falls in love - fake dating trope for taylor swift tickets.

Rhaenyra, Helaena and Aegon Targaryen

me and the devil - rhaenyra targaryen seduces otto hightower.

exotic flower - rhaenyra garden date. 

don’t you - you meet your ex-girlfriend in a party while wrapped around the arm of your brand new fling. a fight begins. messy sex.

Wanting Was Enough - Aegon falls for his father's caretaker.

extended masterlist

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #daemon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfic

[fishsticksloser]

If it's alright - And if it's not then i understand if you're going to delete this - to request about Rise! Future! Leonardo x Rabbit yokai!fem!Reader? (NSFW S3x), where Leonardo and reader get into roleplaying as cowboy Shierff and an outlaw female criminal. Leonardo is the dominating one while reader is the submit side.

And yes it would involve things like; ropes tying, rough S3x, Leonardo getting to cowboy accent (?)

/ 🐔 Anon reader /

If You Can't Be Good, Be Bad With Me

f!Leo x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut with a tiny plot, p in v, rough sex, light bondage (handcuffs), ear and tail pulling, spanking, slight Sir kink, Leo has a country accent, Leo calls you a good/bad girl (sue me...), rabbit yo'kai!reader, FAKE guns, swearing, enemies to lovers if you squint really really hard

A/N: I've spent like 2 months writing this because I was just sitting there looking at it and going "wtf do I do?" But here you are, so sorry for the wait. I actually threw out the first draft because I hated it so much... This is a little different than the prompt and I apologize, my brain couldn't do it. :/

"My, my, my... What have we here?" Leonardo's voice was deep, soothing, and with a faint drawl that spoke of Texas. His words were slow and measured, just before he'd bring the hammer down with that thunderous attention. Leo squinted at you, narrowing his gaze before slowly walking towards you. "You look like you're on the wrong side of the law there, doll." Leo stops in front of you, hands on his hips just above his holsters. "What're you doin' on this here land, Miss?"

"Doin' what I can to survive, sheriff." You answer, continuing to stuff your pockets and bag with whatever was in reach. You seemed completely unbothered that the sheriff was standing over and watching you. "Is that a crime?"

"Well yes, it is." Leo responds cooly, his stance loose and relaxed despite you obviously committing a crime. His hands hover over his holsters, his tone becomes more intimidating. "The punishment for those crimes tends to be less uh... agreeable. And yet... I could be lenient with you." Leo's face softens as he looks down at the small, humanoid rabbit. He kneels down to get a better look. "And what exactly is in your pockets, little one? Come now, let's have a look."

You open your bag and empty your pockets. Its not like you were stealing much of anything really. Some bread and not so valuable things like knick knacks and trinkets. Nothing that's really worth anything.

"No guns?" He mutters, eyeing you up and down with a sly, teasing smirk. "That makes things so much sweeter." Leo's eyes twinkle in the sunlight as he stand up. His gaze seems to study every little crevice in your face, taking note of your expressions, trying to figure out everything about you. "You're not from these parts, are ya, darlin'? What's your pretty face doin' so far down south?"

"Got kicked outta town for not marryin' my suitor. Left with nothin'." You repond, repacking your bag and pockets. "Train only took me this far..."

"Not bein' married? Why, now that's a crime against the holy union of man and woman, darlin', 'specially out here." Leo shakes his head placing a hand on his face, feigning disgust. His other hand still rests on his holster. "Can't just leave you out here in this hot dust storm." Leo's eyes flicker up to your face and he grins widely.

"I've got nowhere to go." You say, pleading. "Please just let me go, I'll... I'll go find a place to settle down and be law abiding."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't let that happen, darlin'," Leo responds, his tone slowly becoming slightly more forceful. "The folks 'round these parts say you've done some unsavory and illegal things. I can't just let a law-breaker roam free like that." Leo seems to enjoy your pleas, leaning in more. He leans his body close to yours, whispering close to your ear. "Unless you want to do something for me..."

"And what would that be, sir?" You ask quietly, a shiver running down your spine as his breath fans over your ear. Leo grins as he leans in, his lips inches from your ear.

"You could do all sorts of things for me. It's such a shame for a pretty little thing like you to be caught for crimes you definitely didn't do. But, I'm feeling generous today, and, as the local lawman, I can definitely overlook your sins, darlin'." The corner of his lips curl into a smug grin. "All for a few private favors from you."

"You catch my drift?" He asks, his voice talking on a more predatory tone as his fingers graze down your waist and back. His hot breath caresses down the back of your neck, his eyes burning into your form before glancing back at your own. "Such a delicate, pretty thing..."

"Yes, sir. I understand." You mutter, your ears standing tall and twitching slightly.

"Good girl." He whispers as he leans in close. "And you know if you do well, maybe I could be generous and let you off of that punishment." Leo's voice comes out low and smooth, almost sultry as he leans back just enough to let his fingers stroke along the side of your face. "All you have to do is play nice, understand?"

"Yes, sir." You nod firmly, his eyes seem to study you once more. His fingers slide down and grasp your chin, gently tilting your face upwards as his other hand reaches for your waist.

"Good girl." He says, his eyes burn like hot coals as he bring your face inches from his. "And you know, when I get back to town, I have to write a report. And if I see my girl following through with our little arrangement, I'll make sure they know what a good girl you've been. If you're a good girl. Got it, darlin'?"

Who knew you'd end up here?

"Yes, sir."

"Mm... That's a good girl." Leo whisper as he closes the last few inches between you and him, pushing his lips against yours in a quick but firm kiss. He pulls back slowly before speaking. "You don't mind if I let these hands wander now, do you, darlin'?"

"No, sir." You mumble as he kisses you again, eyes fluttering closed and your hands move to cup the back of his head. Leo grins as he continues to kiss you, his body slightly tilting to get a better grip on you. HIs right hand wraps around your waist and pulls you closer as his left searches through his pocket for something. He fumbles around for a bit more before pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

"Oh, and I almost forgot. Can't be letting my pretty, lawbreaker darlin' roam free... 'specially after getting caught." He chuckles and beings to fasten your arms behind your back with the cuffs. You don't protest, letting him fit the cuffs on your wrist comfortably. "Good girl. Now, I have just the punishment in mind." He says with a smirk, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. His other hand grips your chin as he kisses your neck softly. "Maybe I could show you what being a good girl for me would get you, darlin'. If you play your cards just right, I might be feeling generous with another reward."

You let out a small whine, basically having no other option and really not in the mood to say no. You give him a small nod and tilt your head to the side to give him better access. His lips meet your neck again, travelling upwards to finally find those sweet, soft lips of yours.

"That's an obedient girl... You know, you're lucky I like good girls. I mean, you could be in big trouble if you had been a bad girl." He whispers, his hands massaging your hips, slowly sliding them upwards. Leo decides that his lips are not the only way of satisfying the desires, sliding his hand under your dress, his fingers running over that soft, silky skin. His eyes are burning with hunger, the heat of the desert finally getting to him. The heat of his breath blowing across your body, breath mingling, your lips coming together in a hungry kiss.

꒦꒷⚔️꒷꒦

Everything's a blur, but you find yourself in the sheriff's station. Leonardo laughs a little at all that nonsense before pulling your head up enough for another kiss. He holds you by the ears, he smacks his hand harder on your ass with your tail twitching with every hit. Your dress bunched up around your waist as you bend over his desk, your legs spread wide apart, offering yourself to him completely.

The desk creaks under both of you, his lips on your neck as he rocks into you, your bodies meeting with a wet slapping sound. You're open for him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, your mouth left hanging open, moans echoing throughout the room.

"Oh yeah, take that, darlin'!" He whispers, his voice thick with a low purr as he grabs on to your hips. "You're my good girl." He moves down to your ear, his lips nuzzling against it.

You moan, standing in your toes so he hits a better angle. You moan loudly as he hits that soft spot inside you. Your legs shake and you ball my fists in the part of your dress you could reach, you arms still cuffed. You feel his hand connect with your ass with a loud smack and you squeak, jolting at the sting. "Good girl," he breathes, his voice low and husky as he rocks into you harder, going a little faster. He bites on the side of your neck before whispering to you ear. "Such a good girl, darlin'.. you'll get it good.." He lets off a low hum to match the pace of his thrusts.

He brings his free hand down to your tail before giving it a light tug, laughing as you squirm and whine. "Aww, such a good, sweet thing," he sighs, his tone low and husky before biting on your neck again. "I love the way you take it so well, darlin'.. you're so good for me, such a sweet darlin'," he whispers to you, pulling you closer so he can kiss the side of your face.

He spanks you hard one final time before moving his hands over to tug on your ears, holding them tightly in his fists as he goes even harder and faster, his hips bucking aggressively to meet your thighs. "Such a good girl!" He whispers, his voice turning low and throaty as his eyes bore into yours. "Take it all, darlin'.. such a good girl!"

"C-Close, sir!" You whimper, tears falling down your cheeks. He tilts your head up to look at him, but makes sure to keep your body against the desk for him. It puts you into an uncomfortable arch.

Leonardo moans loudly, his expression turning more feral with every thrust as he rocks into you. His hips moving as forcefully as he could, he pushes harder and harder like he was trying to drive you through the desk, his free hand still holding onto your ears. Finally, his climax is about to peak and he lets out an, "Ahhhh… such a good girl, darlin'.."

At your releases, Leo lets out a groan and lets his thrusts die down a bit, pressing against your back with his chest as he slowly rocks into you. His face is buried deep into your neck, "Shhh... be a good girl.. be my good girl for me," he whispers to you, his voice low and husky. His free hand is playing with your tail, rubbing it up and down before giving it another tug for good measure and he slowly pulls out. "Such a good girl..." He murmurs, letting go of your ears and giving you a light tap on your ass.

#{fish answers•°} #{🐔 anon•°} #rise of the tmnt #rise leo #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rise of the tmnt #rise of the turtles #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #future leo x reader #future leonardo #future leo #rottmnt peepaw leo #peepaw leo x reader #peepaw leo #save rottmnt #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt #unpause rise of the tmnt #unpause rottmnt #tmnt smut #smut #unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #leonardo teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo x reader #rottmnt leo #tmnt leonardo #leonardo x you #leonardo x reader #tmnt 2018 #tmnt

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

TWO: G & G.

You know that there are those in the world who strike fear into people’s hearts and souls.

But you’ve never seen anyone react to a single human being the way they do the duo that struts into the bar in their leather cowboy boots. 

You’ve never seen the saloon so quiet and still before then when the duo steps into the scene. A tumbleweed could blow by with how silent it is.

Everyone’s eyes stay planted on the tall, handsome men oozing with confidence and intimidation standing among the swinging doors, appearing like sexy phantoms in the night.

There stands Geto Suguru, the 6’4 long-haired gunslinger with the perfect, black locks that cascade down his broad shoulders and back, seductive eyes, and skillful hands that he hides behind two riding gloves.

He usually is seen riding a black Bronco that is just as big as him and sporting a black cape with black riding pants, boots, and a low-brim cowboy hat. Black fits him so damn well. The only thing that isn’t black on him is the red vest that is so low-cut that you can see the outline of his pecs. 

Beside him is his partner (and lover as it’s rumored) Gojo Satoru, the lean, confident, cocky, blindfolded bandit standing at 6’3 with snow-white hair, a sly smile, leather gloves that hide some skillful and deadly hands, and a blindfold covering his eyes that have never been seen but are said to make a man go cold with fear where he stands.

In contrast to Geto, the white-haired cowboy is doused in colors: a denim jacket that matches his slacks where a star-shaped belt buckle hangs from his crotch; brown boots with spurs; a red bandana wrapped around his neck; and a white cowboy hat sits low on his head. He, too, has his own horse: a brown Bronco that is recognizable from its hooves clicking across the ground.  

They are a match made in heaven and hell. Handsome, skillful, and deadly. They are known for their impressive yet terrifying speed when it comes to cocking and shooting their pistols. You’ve heard of them killing all kinds of wanted criminals and even other gunslingers in other counties.

Everyone knows them and so do you. 

If a record was playing, the damn thing would be scratching by now with the way the saloon reacts to seeing the gunslingers in the flesh. Whispers begin to rise from the silence, including from Yuki, Mai, and Maki who have wandered over. “Oh, my God,” Mai gasps. “It’s the Gunslingers!” 

“What the hell are they doin’ here?” Maki wonders aloud, peering at them from behind her spectacles. “Are they lookin’ for someone? I thought they had been arrested!” 

And they did, last year. At some point, the articles of gunslingers, corporation owners, and high rollers found dead with bullets in them and a note from “G & G” left at the scene stopped when they were arrested after that train heist. And you know it has everything to do with their connection to your boss. 

“Who cares?” Yuki dreamily sighs as she stares at the gunslingers with heart eyes. “I get to admire them in person now! Aren’t they delicious?” 

“Keep it in your pants, Yuki,” Choso grumbles, tugging on a lock of the blonde’s hair as she giggles. “They ain’t even all that.” 

“Of course not,” Yuki purrs, making Choso blush. “Not above you, Chosi, but a cowboy hat would do you so well!”

Even you will admit that the “wanted dead or alive” posters don’t do them justice: they are fine as all hell, straight out of a woman’s wet dreams. But they are also outlaws. And you despise outlaws…for personal reasons. 

The duo begins to look around the silent saloon, Gojo’s head slowly turning despite his blindfold. When his head turns toward you, you feel as if the air has been stolen from your very lungs. Despite the fabric covering his eyes, you feel as if he sees you. All of you. 

Gojo nudges Geto with his elbow before waltzing over to the bar, his boots thudding across the hardwood floor. Geto follows, ignoring the whispers and stares in their wake. The piano has begun to pick up again, but it does nothing to ease the tension swimming in the air. Quickly, you turn to face your drink while the girls scatter to work, leaving you to fend for yourself. 

Geto sits on the stool beside you while Gojo takes the one beside him. You feel the air around you become stiff and tense as the cowboys settle into their seats. “So what’s a cowboy gotta do to get a drink round here?” Gojo asks with a smirk. “Can ya help a guy out, miss?”

He gives Shoko a flirty look, not knowing that this girl is gay as hell. “I could damn sure try,” she replies, barely giving him a smile. “What will you fellas have?” 

“I’ll take a Long Island iced tea,” Gojo says then laughs. “Just kiddin’! A beer, please.”

Geto takes a moment to examine the shelves of alcohol behind Shoko. He then looks at your pretty drink. “I’ll take what the lady is havin’,” he answers. “Actually, what is that you got there, miss?” 

His dark, enchanting eyes meet yours and you ignore the butterflies they invoke inside of you. “Whiskey smash,” you blandly reply.

He hums thoughtfully at the name. “Hm…is it good?” You tick your eyes at him briefly, secretly admiring his features. “If you like your whiskey with some sweetness to it, sure.”

A slow smirk appears on his face. “Oh, I definitely do,” he drawls. “I like sweetness with my everything.” 

You swallow hard, so sure you have a cherry pit in your throat. Gojo chuckles from beside his partner, flashing you a white-toothed smile. “Oooh, me too. I’ll third that order, ma’am!” Shoko nods and shoots you a look before wandering off to fix the drinks. 

You do your best to keep calm and act normal, sipping your drink and trying to relax. At some point, the silence becomes thicker, prompting one of the gunslingers to speak on it. “Welcomin’ place,” Gojo sniggers. “I feel so at home.”

Geto quietly chuckles from between you and Gojo. “Let’s just settle, Satoru. We won’t be here long.” 

‘Settle what?’ you wonder, but you know that they are here for Kento. Shoko comes back with the frothy, red drinks, lowering them in front of the gunslingers. 

“Thank you kindly,” Gojo chirps before taking a sip. Geto nods his thanks but doesn’t drink his right away. Instead, he goes into his pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and slides it across the bar to Shoko. “I don’t suppose you know who this guy is,” he says. 

You peek down at the paper, finding it to be a “Wanted” poster with your BF and boss looking back at you. Kenzo aka “Valentine” looks much different than when you met him. On the poster, he is clean and shaven, has longer, shaggier hair, and has a distinguished scar on his left eye.

But of course, this is the gunslinger who robbed people blind and just pulled a train heist and massacre in the town of Cherrywood a year before with his crew, Geto, and Gojo. The man who takes his place now is Kenzo, a humble saloon owner who sometimes dabbles in illegal activity to fund his saloon.  

Valentine, a criminal on the lamb and your outlaw boyfriend, is known for using his looks, charm, and violence to get what he wants. He is a man who loves money, women, and jewels. As a notorious criminal and outlaw, he has bounced from place to place, county to county, robbing folks and then laying low before starting again. 

He was arrested for robbing the Cherrywood regional train and having his crew massacre all of its employees and riders before you met him. Originally, he was given a fifty-year sentence but escaped after serving five weeks just by seducing a male prison guard and then knocking him out to steal the cell keys. 

You were hot on his trails when he showed up Blackwater a year later and met you in a whorehouse that you purposely took a job in since he frequented those. He took one look at you and immediately fell in love with you (and your body), proposing you a job at his saloon. “You could be mine,” he told you. “My girl.” You agreed and the rest is history. 

“I’ve heard of him, yes,” Shoko replies as she cleans a glass. 

“Is it possible you’ve seen him around?” Geto ponders aloud. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but he escaped Cherrywood a year ago after robbin’ a train and massacrin’ everyone in it. He’s wanted in about nine different counties.”

Shoko takes another brief look at the poster before someone flags her down from down at the bar. Saved by the bell. “I can’t say I have seen him, fellas,” she apologetically says. “‘Scuse me.” 

She hurries off, leaving you with the two cowboys. “How about you, ma’am?” Geto asks, passing the poster to you. “You recognize this face by any chance?” You look down, studying Valentine’s face.

You have, but first, you need to read these guys. “I’ve seen him in the posters, but not in person. May I ask why you two are here?” 

You keep it casual and curious, making sure you don’t sound too suspicious. “We were paid by a private source to track down Valentine for his crimes,” Geto vaguely explains. 

“And for personal business,” Gojo adds with a smirk. “You see, we were in, uh…business with Valentine some time ago and never got our cut.”

He doesn’t need to go any more into detail than that. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “We don’t like bein’ played with,” he says, his voice dipping an octave, sending a chill down your spine. “Or when someone’s money is funny, so we came here to exchange words with him.” 

‘Words or bullet?’ you want to ask, but you instead bite your tongue and sip your drink. 

“We’ve been told he was last seen in this town,” Geto explains. “We figured everyone comes to saloons so why not check here?” He slides the poster away from you, a kind yet flirty smile crossing his beautiful face. “But even if he isn’t, we can still enjoy a drink with a pretty lady.” 

You roll your eyes, having heard that line before. “Does that line work with all the girls?” you scoff. Gojo coughs up his whiskey as he laughs, but Geto doesn’t take it to heart. In fact, he chuckles.  “I see not with you,” he replies. 

“I like that,” Gojo states once he’s recovered, his blindfolded eyes set dead on you. “You’ve gotta be the first person who isn’t scared of us or tryin’ to jump in bed with us.”

You passively shrug, twirling your tongue around the rim of the glass. “I’ve been around gunslingers in my time.” 

At this, the duo share a look unbeknownst to you, quite interested in the pretty thing sitting with them at the bar. “Oh, really?” Gojo drawls and you realize your mistake. “Any of these encounters you’d care to share, little lady? I’m quite interested.”

Geto nods, his gaze like molten fire. “I am too.” 

You suddenly feel your mouth grow dry and your cheeks become hot. Your body reacts in a way it never has with any man you’ve been with, not even your first love! The way they continue to stare at you, giving you their undivided and unwanted attention, is even worse.

What is wrong with you?

Luckily, your boss comes to the rescue, barreling up to the bar like he wasn’t watching the duo from afar and shaking in his boots. 

“Oh, gentlemen!” he shouts, giving them both a hard, eager handshake. “Welcome, welcome! Can I offer you two another drink or a dance free of charge?”

Gojo ignores him like he isn’t even talking, leaving Geto to handle this. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, plastering on a kind smile. “We’re here for some information about him.” 

He passes Kenzo the poster and you watch in real time as the color in your boyfriend’s face drains. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?” Geto asks, squinting at him.

Gojo peers at him from under his hat, his stare intense even with the blindfold covering his eyes. Kenzo clears his throat and leans in to whisper to Geto. You pretend to ignore them though you secretly strain to hear. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers. “Even the walls have ears, I’m afraid.” 

Geto nods and nudges to Gojo who sighs and downs the rest of his drink. To your shock, Geto puts a hand out to you for a shake. Though hesitantly, you take his hand and feel the room grow hotter than a sauna when he places a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It was a pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am,” he softly says. “Hopefully, we’ll cross paths again.” 

His eyes gleam as he tips his hat at you, leaving Gojo to follow Kenzo upstairs. Gojo doesn’t follow right away, instead digging into his pocket for some coins and placing them on the bar in front of you. “For your drinks and yours,” he says with a crooked smile. “Have a good night, little miss.” 

Then, just like Geto, he leaves as if he didn’t just steal the air you breathe with it. It takes a moment to get your head back, but once you do, you down the rest of your drink and get up from your seat. Shoko catches your eye and gives you a look, her eyes telling you a message: 

“Don’t get caught,” she warns you. “And don’t get killed.” 

You nod, blowing her a kiss, before following your boss and the duo upstairs.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #my fic shit #black writers #jjk smut #cowboy gojo #cowboy geto #satosugu #satoru gojo x black!reader #suguru geto x black!reader #cowboy!au #cowboy!geto #cowboy!gojo #poly smut #poly love

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Joel (41) / F!reader (25) | 4.7k | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak

Ranch hand Joel doesn’t know how to handle the return of his bosses prodigy daughter, her snarky attitude or her sinfully tight jeans.

a/n: hi guys!! I’m fresh off finishing east side of sorrow and couldn’t wait to hop into this work. I can not thank everyone enough for the fun we had with esos, but i am beyond stoked to meet this joel because i am ferallllll for him all dirty on a ranch with a cowboy hat on a horse ughhhh, give it to me already. anyways, let me know if you like it 🤍 thank you to @sawymredfox for letting me idea dump on you and give me all kinda of ideas! i love you to pieces! this ones for you my dear!

A03 Link | Spotify Link | Masterlink

Pt. 1: Oklahoma Smokeshow

Half a mile from the turnpike, two miles from home, along the winding and twisting asphalt of Cold Creek road, Joel Miller rasps his gloved hand against the steering wheel of the Rising Sun Ranch’s newly bought—second (maybe fifth?) hand old pickup truck. A beat up nineties chevy with rust on the floorboard and a new-car tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Beside him, his brother Tommy bounces his knee while he takes a long drag off his second cigarette since this drive started. The smoke plumes through the window, then back inside when the chill outside pushes the hot smoke back into the cab, whirling around Joel's senses like it belongs there. The smell is insufferable and makes Joel’s skin crawl, takes him to a time before ropers scars and belt buckles.

“Know that shit’s gon’ kill you, right?” He doesn’t need to look over at his brother's form beside him to know the younger man is anxious, like he usually is on long car rides. “You used to do it too, big brother.” Joel scuffs at him, keeps his one gloved hand on the wheel as he keeps on driving. He’s not wrong, if he wants to talk about the Joel of ten years ago, a distant, ragged and angry version of himself. “Don’t remind me.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the snow coated road ahead of him. He’s cautious at this time of the year, the winter storms usually leave them stranded on the ranch for a few weeks, but he’s lucky enough to have caught the dark clouds before they started to let down too much. The salt on the roads seem to do the trick for the time being, so long as he stays away from the embankment and keeps his eyes on the dimming road ahead.

It was mid day, but the sun sets early in the winter, so it hangs low in the sky amongst the cold abyss, like it’s desperately reaching out for the horizon—like it wants to run from this place too. He looks ahead and silently wishes to himself that he could follow those last rays of sunshine into tomorrow, like maybe he would find something there.

He shakes the thought and sets his mind back on track, why they were out here. “When we get back to the ranch, you need to find a way to apologize to Miss Lou. She really was just tryin’ to be helpful, Tommy. She ain’t wrong for that.” Louise had always been more than welcoming and kind to them, she’s saved their asses more than once and she feeds them more than she needs to, but his brother can never seem to let a good thing be, always biting the hand that attempted to feed him.

“Don’t like it when people go through my shit, man, you know that.” He’s nearly done with his cigarette, thank fuck because Joel wants to grab it from his hand himself and chuck it out the window. “She wasn’t goin’ through your stuff, dipshit, she was doin’ your laundry! Doesn’t give you any right to snap at someone like that. Especially a nice lady who’s husband give’s us a dollar in our pocket and a roof over our heads. Do you have any Idea where we’d be without that?”

It cuts deep because Tommy flicks his butt out the window and sinks down in his seat, he knows Joel is right because they are incredibly lucky to be where they are now. They would probably never find somewhere as appealing as their little shared hunting cabin a half mile from the main house. “Hank ain’t happy,” he adds, like Tommy doesn’t already know that after the argument that led to them leaving. “We wouldn’t be out in a goddamned snow storm for fuckin’ flowers if Hank was happy.”

Joel finally glances over, but when he does, it’s at the bouquet of flowers sitting beside him on the bench seat. “Doesn’t matter, you still need to apologize—to both of them. We wouldn’t have shit if it weren’t for them—“ they wouldn’t, they were on their last leg, hitchhiking across half the country when they found an ad outside of the feed store in Jackson looking for a ranch hand in exchange for room and board. Joel gave them two for the price of one and the rest was history. Tommy makes an annoyed sound and interrupts. “Joel, what's that?” Directly in front of them, on the side of the road caught in an embankment is a little blue car sunk all the way down to the lug nuts. It doesn’t look like the person lost control, but they just drove into the embankment.

This road isn’t frequented and the cell service is spotty, but the taillights on the car tell him there's someone inside. “I’m stoppin’ to help,'' Joel informs him, but Tommy shifts and rolls his eyes—he’s never been the humanitarian type. “Why? I’m sure they can pay for a tow truck. Besides, if they are stupid enough to get stuck in an embankment, they can suffer.” Usually, Joel would agree, but the closer they get to Christmas, the more that iced over heart of his starts to thaw out.

Joel stops the truck on the road and leaves it running while he looks over at his brother. “Ain’t leavin’ nobody stuck out here in this storm, even if they’re stupid. They won't make it through the night.” He shuts the door behind him and stuffs his hands into his pockets. An agitated gust of air leaves his lungs in the form of cloudy condensation amongst the snowfall. He walks up to the car, leaning down so he can glance inside without getting too close. Through the fogged window, he can make out the figure of a woman leaned against the steering wheel, her face casted by her hair hanging all around while she slumps her head against the wheel. Stupid—stupid girl. What the hell is she doing way out here?

He rasps against the window and she jolts just as Tommy comes up behind him, finally having left the comfort of the truck cab. “S’a girl, should have guessed.” Tommy interjects with a crude tone, thankfully before she rolls the window down. She looks a little scared and a lot embarrassed, her eyes are red like she’s been crying her heart out. It doesn’t make Joel sad, it makes him uncomfortable. Emotions make his skin crawl, make him uneasy. He doesn’t handle people crying well, he doesn’t know how to react to it, what he should say or do.

“You need someone to pull you out?” He asks, trying his best to sound mellow tempered and helpful. He’s not, but he won't be able to sleep tonight if he has to drive by the coroner unsticking her frozen body from the seats in the morning. “I’m so sorry—I was checking my phone because my mom texted me and I didn’t see the corner—“ stuck in the snow because she was on her fucking phone? “You hit a snow embankment because you were textin’? You dim or somethin’, girl?” She gives him a hard glance, eyebrows pulled together tightly. “I’m not dim, but I can tell you’re dense.”

Tommy scuffs from beside him and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll grab the chain,” he tells his brother as he heads towards the truck. “I’m gonna pull you out, but after that you’re on your own, kid. This storm is just starin’, might be smart if you headed back to whatever city you blew in from.”

She’s the furthest thing from appreciative when Joel hooks a chain to the frame of her car and the hitch on the front of the old red chevy. When she gets out of the little blue car, Joel gets the full extent of how unprepared she is for a full on impending whiteout snowstorm. Her pants have rips and holes, like they are meant to be there, no way they are offering any kind of protection from the chill. Her boots have a three inch heel like she’s walking along some new york sidewalk with a tiny dog in her arms. She has a jacket, fur lining the hood and yet she’s still shaking like it all does nothing to protect her from the snow.

“Thank you for doing this, but I really could have called a tow truck or something. They probably would have been a lot nicer about it.” Her voice is dripping with disdain when he stands upright again. “You want nice, or you want to be dead? Because there ain’t no company sending a driver out here when were forecasted to get two feet overnight.”

She puts her hands on her hips in an attempted threatening manner, like that might scare Joel into an apology when she looks like an angry child who didn’t get their way. Joel hated people like this, too good for the world with their nose up in the air. He turns around to head back to the truck when he spots the piles of boxes in her back seat. Great—another fuckin’ know it all who think’s living out here is romantic and rustic. “You movin’ out here somewhere? You know there ain’t a mall for like, a hundred and fifty miles, right?”

She’s irritated now, with all the rude comments Joel is throwing her way—but he doesn’t care because the last thing this place needs is more city people thinking they can tame this untouched land. It shouldn’t bother him, because how long could she really last out here anyways? With those three inch heels and clothes fit for a concrete jungle, not muddy plains and cattle. She won't make it a month out here in the dead of winter.

“Just pull my car out, or leave me be, because the last thing I need right now is to get harassed by some old dumb fuck cowboy.” Dumb cowboy? Old? Like he’s the fucking moron out here in the middle of a blizzard in a car with bald ass tires and pants with holes in them. Maybe he should fucking leave, let her strand around trying to find a signal to call a tow company that wont come. “You know what?” Teach her a lesson, maybe then she’ll learn this place isn’t for people like her. With her done up hair and makeup—she’s pretty, unnaturally so—like she’s trying to damn hard to look that good—god damnit—“walk around in those stupid fucking shoes and see if you can find your own way out,” he leans down and undoes the hook under her car roughly. “Come on Tommy, were out of here.” She stomps her foot in the snow and starts to pace back to her car.

Joel makes his way back to the truck and unhooks the chain from the front. He’s had a long fucking day of taking care of his idiot bothers problems and he doesn’t have the patience to help some girl who doesn’t know what’s good for her.

“Hey, big brother.” It’s Tommy’s voice in his ears when he finally closes the door behind himself, huffing in discontent as he puts it in gear. “What.” He snaps, backing away from the stuck car and those sinfully tight jeans on that tight little—mother fucking son of a bitch, stop it!—he cant stand people like her, fucking with his head and getting under his skin. The type of girls who have looked him up and down and laughed in his face at the thought of someone like him being up to standard for someone like them. That snot nosed brat can sit in the snow, for all he cares.

“No need to get all hostile at me, man—I’m just checkin’ on ya. You’re all red and pissy, and nothin’ gets you all worked up like that.” He shrugs beside him with a cocky sort of snort. “I mean, unless—“ Joel jerks on the wheel and sneers over at his brother. “Drop it. Not another fucking word or I’ll leave you here too.”

Tommy’s jaw snaps shut and he looks out the passenger window, the radio playing quietly while the storm picks up, and the road carries on. Joel doesn’t think about what he’s done, only how his knee bounces and his hands flex the whole way back to the ranch. How his heart pounds and his blood rushes and it makes his head throb.

When they pull into the muddy drive, he shuts off the truck and turns towards his brother and the bouquet of flowers. “You really need to mean it when you talk to them, I’m serious. They are nice people who’ve looked out for us for two years. We owe them that, at least.” His little brother seems serious when he nods, so Joel passes him the flowers and heads inside. They have sacrificed so much to help Joel and Tommy. They’d been through dark winters with them, when they lost half the herd to the cold and Joel spent the night in the barn with what was left to make sure they all stayed upright and dry. They’ve all had empty bellies at night, didn’t have two nickels to rub together between the four of them and they’ve stood by each others sides through it. They’ve seen Tommy lose his shit a few times, too—so they know he’s capable of coming back from it. He just hopes this time wasn’t too far—Tommy had yelled at her for simply washing his clothes for him.

When the door to the big white farm house creaks open, Joel steps inside to the warm scent of roast in the oven and potatoes on the stove, Hank in his recliner with the newspaper in his hand and his reading glasses on while the game plays in the background. Hank was a large man, kind of chubby in the joyous kind of way, kind eyes and balding on the top. He laughs a lot, but he takes no shit while he’s at it.

“Kitchen,” Joel directs Tommy, who makes his way to the conjoining room where Louise was probably busy cooking dinner. Joel makes his way over to the couch across from Hank, who drops his paper and gives Joel a long look. “You talk to him?” He nods his head and glances down at his snowy boots. “He’s been real anxious all day. Storm comin’ in is messin’ with him and he knows it's no excuse to snap at anyone. He’s in there apologizin’.”

The older man nods at him and glances over his shoulder where Joel can barely see Tommy handing her the bouquet. “She was really shaken up over it, I hate seeing her so upset. She’s been excited all day and trying to make the house looks nice. I think it was just a misunderstanding, but don’t give him any excuse to yell at her like that.”

Joel twists his hands around and looks up at Hank who wears a solemn expression. “I know, I’m real sorry, Hank.”

The man across from him sigh, then offers a faint smile as he stands from his chair. “It’s alright. You boys are like family, families fight—it happens. Lets get some dinner, forget about all this mess, alright?” Joel is thankful for the reason to drop the conversation and stands with the older man as they head towards the kitchen. Louise and Tommy are talking quietly, smiling at each other until she reaches out and embraces him in a soft looking hug. It's an ease on Joel’s wound tight mind, thinking Tommy had finally thrown a wrench in the only good thing they’ve had in ten years.

Dinner is delicious, savory roast that he can dip soft bread in, let is soak up all the juice that he tries and fails to not get all over his beard. When his bowl is empty and his stomach feels distended, he leans back in his chair and sighs contently. “That was amazing, Miss Lou—I don’t know how you do it.” The smile she gives him isn’t like one of her usuals, it’s slightly saddened and disheartened when she looks across the table at him. For a moment, he worries that Tommy’s words are getting to her again. “Everythin’ okay?” He sits up a little in his chair.

“I'm a little worried. Our daughter was on her way home from college today, she’s finally graduated and she called me this morning to tell me she’d be home before supper, so I made her favorite.” She looks towards the window. “The storm is getting worse, I’m worried her little car wont make it,” Joel’s whole stomach lurches into his throat and he nearly throws up in his hands. “I told you we should have gotten her a truck, Hank, you know she’s not the best driver in snow.”

Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck!—he’s such a fucking idiot. He knew she was coming home today, Lou has been talking about it for weeks, the impending return of the prodigy child, home with a degree to save the ranch—or whatever it is that she was doing. He’d heard them talk about her so many times, she was all brains and no know-how, Hank always talked about how clumsy and awkward she was, but how brilliant her mind was at the same time. He’d always questioned how uncoordinated she really was, based on the photos of her as a young woman roping in the rodeo. Fuck—he should have recognized her... “What’s her name again?” Tommy asks like he has no fucking clue Joel is losing his ever loving shit right now. They left her stranded on the side of the road in the middle of this damn snow storm. He hears Louise say her name but it doesn’t register because he feels like he’s on fire and drownings at the same time. “But everyone’s always called her Honey. Since she was a little little thing. She was always so ornery and stubborn until one day she got into a bee box and got covered in bee stings. Ever since that day she was so sweet, so we started calling her Honey.” Lou has this soft smile and all Joel can think about is how he’d told her to crawl back to whatever city she came from in her stupid fucking shoes. “She’s got a real mouth on her till something puts her straight.” Hank chuckles and Joel abruptly stands from his seat.

“I’m finished, I can go out and have a look incase she got stuck somewhere.” He slings on his jacket, but Tommy is still eating and doesn’t think much of it—dumb ass. “Are you sure? She’s probably fine, she knows better than to get caught out in these storms, she probably got a hotel in town.” Joel shakes his head at them and throws on his thick Carhartt jacket that Hank gave him his first winter here after watching him shiver in the fields. “I’m sure, it’s gettin’ bad, just gonna make sure she ain’t stuck somewhere.” Joel makes his way out the door quickly, grabbing the keys to the truck that they had given to him—“how are you supposed to manage a ranch if you don’t have a way to get around?”

He starts up the old chevy and it fires to life despite the snow coming down in heaps now. He’s worried about the road back to her car, about the probably eight inches lining the long driveway, but he throws it in four wheel drive and tries his damndest to get through it because despite all the things stacking up against him, his biggest worry is the police finding her frozen to death in the morning and her parents faces when they find out it was Joel who abandoned her there to die. God—he’s such a prick.

The road is slippery and tricky, a winding snow covered path along the hillside leading towards Jackson. It takes him twenty minutes in this blizzard to get there, all he can think about the entire time is the half freezing girl hiding in her car and the warm food in his belly that was meant for her. He stops the truck when he gets to the car, the lights are off and it looks abandoned—his gut lurches again, what if he’s already too late? Two hours have passed since he left her stranded and the sun has set now, real cold is creeping in.

He jumps out of the truck and walks up to the window. He can't see inside because the glass is fogged, so she has to be alive in there. He knocks on the window and the door jerks against the cold. “Hey,” he pulls the door open more, she’s sitting in the driver seat, pale and shaking with a small blanket pulled around her to keep in some warmth. The look she gives him could kill a man if he didn’t feel like he was already going to die the second you tell your parents that he left you there.

“Y-Your conscious f-finally get to y-you, asshole?” She’s absolutely shaking, her fingers look purple. “I’m so sorry—C’mon, it’s warm in the truck.” He reaches for her hand, but she snaps it away from him like he might burn her. “I c-can get o-out on my own.” She can and does, wobbles on her too tall heels and starts to head towards the running truck. Joel grabs the door for her and she sneers at him—yeah, yeah—he deserves that. He closes the door behind her and runs over to the other side. When he jumps in, she’s got her hands pressed against the heater while she relishes in the welcomed heat.

He pulls away from her trapped car, he’ll come back for it when the snow has cleared up a little bit, but for now—it’s too dangerous to try and yank it out just for it to get stuck in the road because it has no traction. It's ten agonizing minutes of silence while Joel taps his fingers against the steering wheel, trying his damndest to keep a close eye on the woman beside him. She’s warming herself up and thawing out that burning rage Joel knows is inside of her. When they get closer to the driveway, she starts to fire off. “You takin’ me to some backwoods shack to tie me up and keep me?” He scoffs and looks out the windshield, trying to keep the truck steady in the snow.

“If I was going to tie up and keep some girl, I’d make sure she was less bitchy.” She growls at him, growls lowly and it actually does the job, makes his skin prick in goosebumps while he drives. “Wouldn’t be so bitchy if you didn’t leave me on the side of the road. You know I could have died, right?” He is painfully, agonizingly aware of that fact. “I came back, didn’t I?” The driveway is in view, a long fenced path up to the old farm house. “How’d you know I was comin’ here?” Her voice is a tad quieter now, less abrasive on his ears.

“Cus’ I’m comin’ here too.” He says quietly, halfway hoping it won't reach her ears, but her mom was right—she is quick, smart too. “You’re Joel, aren’t you?” She laughs menacingly, crossing her arms across her body and her left leg over her right with a scoff. “You know, my parents said it was Tommy I wouldn’t like. Said you were this big southern gentlemen.” She laughs a little harder, looking over at Joel. “They were half worried they’d have to chase me out of your bed, that you were right up my alley. My daddy said you were the type to charm any woman’s pants off. Guess they don’t know you like they thought they do, huh? Under all that chivalrous facade is just another self centered, selfish cowboy.”

Joel shuts off the truck and glances over at her. “Look, I’m real sorry. First impressions aren’t my strong suit, got a thing for people who don’t belong out here. Didn’t know you were their kid. Would’ve pulled your car out if I’d known.” She opens the door of the cab and steps out into the snow. “So you’re only a good person when someone’s lookin’, I’ll keep that in mind, dickhead.”

She slams the door and storms off towards the house while Joel slumps against the wheel with his head in his hands. Fuck…if it’s not Tommy risking their welcome, their jobs, then it was him, making an absolute ass of himself in-front of the bosses daughter. The bosses fiery, too good—too good looking—

“Son of a bitch!”

—

He gets into the house ten minutes after she does, his hands stuffed in his pockets and half expecting her parents to kick him out right then and there. He pretty much told her to fuck off and left her to freeze to death. There’s no doubt in his mind that they would have found her dead in the morning, the temperature was below freezing already.

To his surprise, it's quiet when he gets inside. Hank and Louise are in the dining room with their daughter, laughing and smiling and surprised to see her, to see her with Joel. “And he just found you there?” She looks so…so..chipper standing there beside her dad with her arm on his shoulder while he sits at the table. “Yep, got my car stuck because I was texting, I know—not bright.” She sounds so fucking fake and dramatic in her tone, Joel’s hands flex and unflex. “And I couldn’t get out and find a signal because of my stupid fucking shoes. I probably would have died there if not for…good ol’ Joel.” She cocks her head with this shit eating grin on her face that makes Joel's gut clench up and his heart pound.

This fucking bitch—is she blackmailing him right now? In those stupid fucking pants and that top he’s finally getting a glimpse at—and then…shit…

Look at you…just—his brain is going haywire right now. He hates your fucking guts right about now but his brain makes other notes about your guts and its desire to be in them—and that tight ass shirt with your tits just pourin’ out of it—Jesus CHRIST, Joel, get it together here.

He shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek and meets your eyes, everyone else is looking at you, but you’re looking at him, fully aware of the way his eyes just ate your body up for dessert until he was stuffed. “Real winner you guys have here, mom and dad…real winner.”

If there’s one thing Joel is certain of, it’s that he is in big, big fucking trouble.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #the last of us #archive of our own #joel the last of us #joel tlou #rancher joel #joel miller moodboard #cowboy joel miller

[delopsia]

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never each other. 

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

A horn blares. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

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

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

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

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

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

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

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

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

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

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

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

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

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

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

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

"You alright there?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he's...

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

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

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

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

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

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

It's both of them. 

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

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

Flower petals burst into the air. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

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

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

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

"Hey!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Rhett. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defiant, his head shakes. 

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

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

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

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

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

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

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

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

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

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

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

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

Time itself might have stopped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are y—"

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

You wake to an empty bed. 

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

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

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

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

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

...and the marker is once again missing.

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

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

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

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

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

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No dice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know that cowboy. 

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

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

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

"Are you in line?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your marker. 

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

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

His eyes dart away. 

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

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

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

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

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

You could have been the perfect story, too.

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

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

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

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

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

It will never match Rhett's. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cruel is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, he hasn't moved at all.

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

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

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

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips buck forward. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all a blur. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, that's...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jesus, Rhett."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

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

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

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he's sinking back in and—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you've got an idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're close. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They've always been his favorite. 

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

His head shakes. "Never." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

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

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

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

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

...oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[roanniom]

eddie saying i love you during soft, kissy, missionary sex 🥹

Gonna do this as a short HC so I hope that's okay!

Surprising - Soft!Eddie Munson HCs

Eddie is a wild card. Everything he does is perfectly crafted to get a rise out of people. He likes catching them off guard - shocking them into reactions that they might not have otherwise.

He's like that with you sometimes. Or rather, he likes making you a party to his wicked deeds. He'll grab you in the cafeteria and loop you into sweeping statements as an accomplice.

He'll lay some sickening PDA on you during Hellfire meetings, yelling at the boys when they gag and cover their eyes - "yeah that's right. Look away kids. You can't have any of this anyway. She's all mine," he adds on with a wink.

But when you're alone, sometimes the most surprising thing Eddie Munson is capable of is his softness. You'd imagined the metal head 'freak' of Hawkins would be wild in the sheets. And he can be.

But more often than not, Eddie Munson likes taking you out to Lover's Lake, lying out under the stars, and kissing you for hours. With nothing but a blanket, a blunt, and all the time in the world.

And on nights when you end up back at his trailer - when his uncle is gone and you're both buzzed on cheap beer and each other - he'll slowly press you down into his worn, faded sheets. Careful to make sure you're comfortable on the extra pillows he'd snagged from Goodwill when you first started seeing each other and he'd worried you wouldn't want to stay with him if he still only had the one raggedy cushion.

He'll settle between your thighs and pull your legs up around him to hitch over his hips.

He'll kiss you till you're whimpering beneath him, wordlessly begging for the thing you know he'll give you. The thing he'd never deny you.

Eddie will pull your clothes off gently. Reverently, even. Kissing exposed skin as it is revealed to him.

He'll sink into you and let out a sighing exhale. Almost sounding relieved. Like he's been waiting for this all day. Like you're home and he's been desperate to return to you.

Most days he's talkative. He loves to make you laugh, loves saying silly dramatic things that has you giggling and writhing on his cock. Loves describing your body to you and watching you squirm at the attention, preening in spite of yourself.

But today he's quiet, save for his heavy breathing. He's listening to you. Taking in the way you react to him. Feeling you around him and mentally archiving the shifts in your body. The swell of your breath. The scrunch of your face.

Eddie doesn't believe himself to be a particularly smart man. He's failed school too many times to believe otherwise. But he does believe himself to be clever enough to recognize perfection when faced with it.

A perfectly crafted D&D campaign. A Metallica song played at top volume while driving too fast down main street in the middle of the night. Your body beneath his.

And as Eddie thrusts into you slowly, methodically, he hopes that you're happy. That it feels good and that you want him and that you'll continue to want him. Because he'll never stop wanting you.

"I love you, princess."

And you're surprised. But so deeply happy.

~*~ 

Teeny tiny tag list: @millenialcatlady @theoncrayjoy @cowboy-kylo

#this is a standalone thing separate from Show Me #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson hc #eddie munson #stranger things smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #fem!reader

[pricelessemotion]

sweet dreams, tennessee

summary: [4.5k] Upon visiting your grandma for the summer, you're greeted by more than one familiar face.

pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: references to alcohol and death of a parent, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn (?)

series masterlist | navigation

Chapter One: Welcome home, Honeybee

An hour or so outside of Nashville is a town called Sweet Dreams, too small to show up on any map. The ones who want to make it out, bask in the irony. They say this town is exactly the place where dreams go to die. 

Most people who have the privilege of leaving Sweet Dreams don’t come back. They watch the dust kick up in the rear-view mirror and say good riddance. But you’re not like most people. 

You tip the taxi driver extra, even though he’s dropping you off at the edge of the property and you have to tug two suitcases and a backpack through a quarter mile of dusty road. The walk gives you time to think. Time to breathe. The air is different here, fresher. You can’t remember the last time you got to walk outside in the middle of the day and only have birdsong to keep your thoughts company. You’d thought that the vast emptiness would be a good change of scenery. You’d thought that the neverending din of the city was clogging up your brain, making your thoughts scramble like eggs in a hot skillet on Sunday. Now, they echo back to you, sung back in the form of mockingbirds. You don’t know if it's better. It’s just different. 

By the time you make it to the paved driveway, your arms are aching and there’s a current of sweat making its way down your back. You’re barely twenty feet from the door when Nana appears in the open front doorway. Upon catching sight of you, she’s barreling down the porch steps, holding her sun hat to the top of her head so that it doesn’t fly off. Dropping the handles of your bags, you allow the woman who basically raised you to engulf you in the best hug this side of the Mississippi. She smells like fresh soil, powdery perfume, and everything that’s good about the world. 

“You’re here! I told you that I’d pick you up at the airport! You didn’t have to call a cab,” She admonishes, before smacking kisses all over your face. “I missed you sweet pea.”

She looks older now, and the thought tugs at your chest. Her hair is more silver than anything and the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than in your memory. It’s only been a few years, but your grandmother wears an entire new lifetime lived without you on her face.

“I missed you too.” You let out a laugh but there’s a melancholy feeling to your words. You know that if you stir on them just a little bit more tears will start flowing out and never stop. You bury your face into the collar of her blouse, willing yourself not to cry.

“Well,” She says, taking a step back and putting her calloused hands on your shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you.” 

You smile, doing a little spin for her amusement. 

“Just like I thought. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks in response. You never quite knew how to take her constant compliments. Not only about your beauty, but your intelligence. 

“How’s your daddy doin’?” Her words are casual but her tone is clipped. Her lips curl in and she busies herself with brushing imaginary dust off your bare shoulders, looking at you like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory. 

You breathe out a sigh, “As good as he’s ever doing.” Which is usually not good, you think but don’t say. 

Nana only purses her lips, nodding in agreement. 

Both of you know that your dad hasn’t been the same since Mama died. Mama was a realist. That’s why she left Sweet Dreams in the first place. Your dad was a dreamer. Without your mom to anchor him to this world he was adrift. He was careless with what he had when he had it. Now, he doesn’t know what to do now that it’s gone. 

You fiddle with the strap of your backpack, feeling the weight of everything you brought with you digging into your shoulders. You should probably call him to let him know that you got here safely. 

“You must be exhausted after traveling,” Nana says, breaking you out of your reverie. “Let me just put my gardening stuff aside real quick, you can go ahead into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”

You nod and step inside the house, taking your baggage with you.

—

The fridge, or as Nana likes to call it the frigidaire, looks exactly the same as you remember it. Magnetic alphabet letters are used to hang up reminders and photos. She still has the same drawing that you gave her for Mother’s Day all those years ago, the crude crayon stick figures of the two of you standing side by side in a wide-open field. Now, there are signs of aging, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges. 

Aside from your childhood art, there are wedding announcements and Christmas cards a plenty. You recognize one of the faces. James wasn’t related to you but that didn’t matter. In Sweet Dreams, everyone was family. He was getting married to a woman named Elizabeth at the end of the summer. You can’t help but smile at the picture of him, his future wife, and his daughter. 

The last time you saw Winnie, James’ daughter, her mother had still been alive. The news of her untimely demise and James’ sudden status as not only a young widower but a single father had caused aftershocks that made their way all the way out to you in California. It was nice to see how happy the three of them looked together. You remind yourself to let Nana know that you want to see them soon. 

“Miss Mellie? I’m done with the car. There was something wrong with the fuel tank.” A man comes into the kitchen through the back door, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag.

He stops, eyeing you curiously. “You’re not Miss Mellie.” 

“I’m not,” You say, dropping your backpack onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 

Just then the screen on the kitchen door bursts open. The bottom has been busted for years and never repaired, for the benefit of the four-legged basset hound that’s bounding towards you. You light up at the sight of him, but your joy is cut short by the comment of the strange man who has yet to introduce himself.

“Careful. Jackson gets nervous around strangers.”

Jackson only pants in response to the man’s statement, gleefully sniffing your shoes before licking the exposed skin of your calves. 

“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.” You mutter leaning down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have to tell me about my dog, I was there the day he was born.” 

Jackson was the runt of the litter. You had picked him out, seeing how he was weaker and smaller, being trampled over by his brothers and sisters. Your father had given you a funny look when you pointed at the weak little thing and said that one! The look quickly went away once Nana gave him a look of her own.

“No shit.” The man leans back on the counter with all of the comforts of someone who knows this house like the back of his hand. He puts down the greasy rag, running a now clean hand along the sharp line of his jaw, his expression a mixture of disbelief and recognition. 

“Now,” You huff, standing straight again much to the chagrin of the dog still panting at your feet. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

Your snippy attitude doesn’t seem to have the desired effect because he only looks right back at you with an easy smile. 

“Y’know, I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me, Honeybee.” 

Despite the heat of the Tennessee summer, you’re frozen. Only a handful of people have ever called you that. One of them bursts through the kitchen doors, holding a stack of mail in her hands. 

“Steven!” Nana exclaims, confirming your suspicions. “You all done with the car?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Oh please Steven, you know you don’t need to call me that.” Her tone is lightly scolding but from the curl of her lips, you can tell that she likes it. Nana has always been a stickler for good manners. “I see you’ve found my grandbaby. Isn’t she a beauty?”

His smirk only grows deeper as he tips his head. “Must run in the family.” 

She turns her attention to you. “You remember Steven, don’t you sweet pea? The truck was making a noise that was something awful. He offered to fix it up for me.” 

Steve looks decidedly bashful, shaking his head and casting his gaze down to the floor. “It was nothing.” 

Nana doesn’t even take into account his modesty, instead barreling through the rest of the conversation like she always does. It’s a wonder that she’s thrived in such a slow and peaceful town all her life when she constantly lives and talks at twice the speed of everyone around her. Everyone else is left trying desperately to keep up. “The two of you used to be thick as thieves, I swear. Could never find one without the other.” 

“I remember,” You murmur, only chancing a glance at the boy across the room who seems to have turned into a man overnight. You guess that’s what six years apart will get you.  

You remember Steve’s mother. She was a sweet woman when she wanted to be, if a little self-absorbed. Every summer they spent in Sweet Dreams her accent would fall into its natural rhythm and syncopation, annoying the hell out of Mr. Harrington. He always had a sneer on his face, screwed up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon and was waiting for the sting to subside. He only showed up for the first and last week of the season, to usher his family in and out of his wife’s hometown. 

Steve always acted a bit tougher with his father around, puffed out his chest, and forced his voice to go deeper. You once pointed this out to him and he gave you a nasty look and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about. 

You apologized and Steve forgave you in the way that kids do, over brown lunch bag trading sessions, with plastic-wrapped treats being exchanged between sticky fingers. You never brought up his father again. For all of his father’s watchful eyes, his mother was the complete opposite. She was one of those people who believed that children shouldn’t be seen or heard. So, she pawned Steve off to the dusty streets of Sweet Dreams, knowing that whatever trouble he could possibly amount to was limited by the fact that the town was so small. 

But Sweet Dreams didn’t always feel so small. In fact, when you were a kid the entire world seemed only to exist in a twenty-mile radius. 

Steve clears his throat. “Well, if that’s everything I’ll go get cleaned up.” 

“Oh! Actually, could you be a dear and take the luggage that’s by the front door into the guest room?” Nana asks. 

Steve flashes an award-winning smile. “Anything for you, Miss Mellie.”

Nana shoos him out of the kitchen with promises of a good dinner and even more thanks. You’re still stuck on the fact that Steve Harrington is in Sweet Dreams and apparently has been for a while if the way your grandmother was interacting with him was any indication. 

“He’s staying in the old shed.” She explains, sensing your confusion. She’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of iced tea that immediately starts sweating in the Tennessee heat. Your mind is stuck on the soft thudding of heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sixth step still creaks after all this time. “Fixed it up and everything. It already had a bathroom and a waterline, so all he had to do was make it livable.”

You can only think of offering a hum in response, grabbing one of the floral glasses from the cabinet, and pouring yourself a cup. It tastes like home. 

“I’ve got you all set up in your Mama’s old room. Figured you’d like the sunlight. I pulled out the yellow bedspread, I remember that one being your favorite.”

Tears collect in your eyes. It’s been a while since anyone has paid attention to you long enough to remember anything insignificant about you. Nana collects every small detail like they’re precious, saving them for a rainy day so she can show you just how much you mean to her. 

“Thank you, Nana.” You manage to choke out. You want to say more. You want to give her an explanation for why you dropped everything and showed up at her door. You’re not ready for any of that. 

“Of course, darlin’.” She says simply, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you home.” 

“It’s good to be home.”

—

Nana tells you to go upstairs and unpack–she purposefully set today aside for you to relax and unwind, knowing that you would probably be exhausted after traveling for so long. The reprieve is temporary, though. She’s assured you that the entire town has been informed of your stay and that her birthday party will also serve as a welcome home party for you.

Despite your insistence that you don’t want to take away the spotlight from her, she only winked and told you no one can take the spotlight from me, sweetie. Everything’s been prepared for the party tomorrow night. You’re already dreading the questions that you don’t have the answers to. 

You make your way upstairs, avoiding that creaky sixth step. The walk to the room is daunting. The bedroom door has been left slightly ajar, and rays of sun are peeking through the crack, the only source of light in the dark hallway. 

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. It looks exactly as you remember it. The curtains are drawn, allowing the north-facing windows to showcase the wide-open fields and dusty roads that you know and love. 

The yellow bedspread is there, just like Nana said it would be. It’s sunbleached after so many years, but it still feels soft and comforting. 

Your mother’s painting is still in the same spot. Looking at it, you can tell it’s never been moved the way the corners of the wallpaper around it give it away. Anyone with a keen eye can see how the pale sage green walls were once deep and rich, having faded away like so many other things in Sweet Dreams do. By sitting right where it always was.

Taking a deep breath, you move to unpack everything. The drawers in the vanity are all empty, except the one in the very center. It’s locked, and despite your best efforts, remains that way. 

On the vanity, there’s an old picture frame. The photograph inside is of a memory you cannot believe you’d forgotten. You’re sitting cuddled up next to your mom. It was the day that you’d gotten Jackson, and he was so small you could still hold him in your little eight-year-old hands. 

You’d refrained from smiling for weeks at that point, utterly mortified at the gaps in your mouth from losing your two front teeth at the same time. In that moment, though, you were smiling so wide. Jackson had gone from sitting quietly in your lap, to jumping up to lick you on the chin. The shock and subsequent squeal of laughter had been captured and kept. 

You move the frame to the bedside table. It’s good to be home, you tell yourself. For the first time today, you’re not quite sure if you mean it.

—

“Is James coming tonight?” You ask in between bites of fresh strawberries and buttered toast.

The temperature in the kitchen is nothing less than sweltering. You’d been spoiled out in California, living near the bay and rarely having to worry about the weather climbing above seventy-five degrees. The room is in a state of organized chaos, with all of the food being prepared and cooked for the party. Nana stands at the back end of the kitchen, her back to you. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, placating your insistence to help her with food and conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey. He called this morning. Winnie’s got a toothache and he and Betty decided to stay home with her. I know you were looking forward to seeing them.”

“It’s okay,” You assure her. “Just would’ve been nice to see a friendly face.” 

She turns the dough on the counter before folding it over and kneading it. There’s flour all up and down her forearms and most likely butter under her fingernails. “Steven’s coming,” She reminds you as if that fact is supposed to be reassuring.

“Right, of course.” You try to keep the apprehension out of your voice. “Steven.”

The truth is that you don’t know where you stand with him. You’d heard his voice from the top of the stairs last night, all full of polite regret that something had come up and he couldn’t attend dinner. The next sight you caught of him was his back as he rode off into the distance.

“He’s single, y’know,” Nana says, punching circles into the dough and setting them onto a baking tray. “He’s been working on the farm for about a year now. Real helpful.” 

You know the farm isn’t what it used to be. After the passing of your grandfather, a lot of the acreage was sliced up and sold off to neighboring farms. They give your Nana tiny cuts of the profit, something to do with southern hospitality and it being a widow’s homestead. She’s still gardening, though she probably shouldn’t given her old age. Trying to take gardening gloves from Nana Monroe is like trying to wrangle a wild horse. Still, Steve’s wage must be meager, all things considered. No wonder why he’s living in a shed. 

“Nana, I didn’t come here to date.”

“Well, what did you come here for?” She says, turning around and crossing her arms. Then, realizing the harshness of her words, she sighs. Dusting flour off of her palms and onto her worn apron, she rubs her thumb across your cheekbone. You can’t help but revel in the gesture. “You know I love having you around darlin’, but I know you didn’t decide to come spend the summer with your grandma just for kicks.”

The truth of the matter wasn’t easy. It was hard to swallow and tasted a lot like failure.

“I haven’t figured it out just yet, but when I do I’ll let you know.” 

—

Drinks have been poured, food has been served, and the birthday cake has been cut. It seems the entire population of Sweet Dreams has overtaken the living and dining rooms, and you wouldn’t be shocked if that ended up being the case. If you had to count the number of inane conversations where you repeated the same five facts about yourself to people who haven’t seen you since you were fifteen, you might combust.

Everyone assumes that just because you go to school in California, you must be living the high life. Beaches and parties and sunsets on the West Coast seemed like a dream to those who live and die in land-locked states, yearning for the smell of salt air and sand beneath their toes.

You know better. California does have all the glitz and glam and charm that they seem to think it does, but it also is an agricultural state. The cities that aren’t highly populated, with bustling nightlife and celebrity mansions, are mostly cow towns. You’ve seen these places while driving down the 5 highway. It doesn’t escape your notice that the exact places that remind you the most of home, are the same ones that people pass by in hopes of getting to somewhere better. They sit in their air-conditioned cars and breathe through their mouths, hoping to drown out the stench of cow manure. 

Never mind the fact that the curtains for your dorm were too sheer to block out the city lights, leaving you up for all hours of the night. Or the fact that, while you loved the beach, sometimes you longed for freshwater and mud between your toes rather than salt and sand. You still brought back pictures from when you and your friends decided to take a weekend trip, forking over small amounts of gas money and bartering meal plans in lieu of cash. The pictures spin a different story. One of a girl who knows what she’s doing and living her best life. Never mind that the thread being spun felt more like you were coming unraveled. 

The back porch has always been your refuge when parties get too loud and the temperature inside gets so hot that it seems like even the floral wallpaper has started wilting. You sneak out through the kitchen door, relieved that there’s no one there to catch you. Nana usually would have noticed your absence by now, but she’s distracted. Uncle Chuck brought out his acoustic guitar and your grandmother has never passed up an opportunity to perform for others. 

You sigh, taking one last bite of rhubarb pie before setting the paper plate down on the ground next to you. Testing the porch swing, you’re delighted to find that it’s still just as sturdy as ever. It used to be that you’d have to sit at the very edge of the seat in order to get it to swing without help, the tips of your sneakers barely grazing the ground. Now, you lean back and your feet are planted steady on the wooden planks below. 

You and Steve used to play pirates here, pretending that the sway of the swing was the rocking of the ocean against a mighty ship. You’ve never felt more unmoored.  

The screen door creaks as it swings open, and you brace yourself for Nana’s lilting voice, telling you to come inside and entertain guests. It doesn’t come. Instead, a deep timbre casts itself out into the night air. Despite the lingering warmth of the day’s heat and the lack of a night breeze, you feel goosebumps rise up on your arms. 

“Not having a good time?” Steve asks. His figure is backlit, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen.

“No, I am. Just–” You take a moment to think of an explanation that won’t give too much away. “Needed a breather, I guess.”

He hesitates. “Maybe I should go then.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told I take people’s breath away.” 

You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you can barely hide the smile that tugs at your lips. “You are insufferable, Steve Harrington.”

The smirk on his face grows into a full-blown grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.” 

Steve sidles up next to you, hand wrapped around a beer. It’s amazing to think that the last time you saw him, the two of you would have to bend backward to sneak the bitter liquor out of the coolers without anyone noticing. Now, you’re both of age to where nobody blinks an eye. The thought makes your chest feel tight. 

“So why are you out here?”

“Do you mean why am I in Tennessee? Or why am I on the porch?”

He shrugs. “Either one.”

You shrug your shoulders, sitting back and letting your feet swing and scrape across the wooden floorboards of the porch. “I just felt like I needed to come back. Remind myself of some things I felt like I was forgetting.”

Steve nods like he gets it, and opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. What instead comes out is an olive branch. 

“I’m sorry if I offended you with the whole Jackson thing yesterday.” He offers sincerely. “And about missing dinner. I was so busy working on the car yesterday that I forgot I had to fix the Tillman’s chicken coop.”

You put on an air of faux contemplation. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.” 

“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” He playfully puts his hand over his heart before letting it drop to his side, lingering in the limited space between you. “Took me a second to recognize you–you look so different.”

Steve looks different, too. Baby fat has melted away to reveal high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Once gangly limbs have filled out into broad shoulders and muscles that strain against the cotton of his t-shirt. He was always cute, you’d be remiss to pretend that he wasn’t. But the year in Sweet Dreams seems to have been treating him well because now he resides on this side of ruggedly handsome. 

“Good different or bad different?” There’s an underlying current of something in your question, but you’re not sure what. 

“Good different.” He casts a sidelong glance at you before looking out at the backyard, saying the next statement into the lip of his beer bottle. “Same bratty attitude though.” 

“Hey!” You squeal in mock offense, lightly smacking the back of your hand against his chest. The movement comes like a second nature, remnants from childhood squabbles. In the microseconds it takes for you to draw your hand away, you take notice of the solid mass of muscles hidden underneath his white t-shirt.

He’s full-on smirking now. “Nice to know some things never change.” 

“You’re one to talk,” You retort. He quirks a brow at you. “You’ve always been such a charmer. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the entire female population of Sweet Dreams wrapped around your finger.”

He gives you a meaningful look. “Not the entire female population.”

You have a sharp reply sitting at the tip of your tongue, pointing directly at Steve, when someone calls his name from inside. It’s Uncle Chuck, insisting that the man sitting next to you join him in a duet.

“Well,” He stands up, brushing his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I should probably head back inside.” 

You hum in acknowledgment, only ever so slightly disappointed, but make no move to leave your spot on the porch swing. “Don’t let me keep you.” 

Steve opens the screen door but props it open with his foot. The golden light from the kitchen is on his face now, and you can see the soft edges of the boy you once knew.

“Welcome home, honeybee,” He says simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

With that, he steps back inside and the screen door slams shut. You’re left alone on the back porch, breathless. 

—

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

taglist: @corrodedseraphine

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things #mimi wrote ✍️ #sweet dreams TN #cowboy!steve harrington

[mintsalsa]

relationship hcs — sam coe (starborn!mc)

a/n: this post may contain spoilers, please skip if you haven't completed starfield's main story and come back later!

sry fallout peeps im in space cowboy dreamland rn 🤒 if anyone's interested i'd be down to write a non-starborn mc version too, so if you'd like to see that lmk! now buckle in losers bc i am feral

(nsfw below cut!)

★ ! sfw

he's going to be somewhat wary of you at first

you don't divulge the nature of your relationship with "the original" sam coe at first, but he can tell there's something pulling at your heartstrings every time you look at him

so after a while and some getting to know each other, he decides to ask

he's a little wooden and awkward about it, but it still almost manages to make you tear up

when you admit to him that you and him were lovers in your universe, he's caught off guard

he doesn't really know how to react, so he just reaches out to touch your shoulder in comfort as you try not to cry

he liked you, of course - you were strong and dependable, and your dry sarcasm never failed to light up his eyes in amusement - but lovers?

you assure him that you don't expect anything from him

it's the strangest feeling for you as well - it's him, but at the same time it's not really him, after all

sam tries to ignore what you've told him as best he can

there's no obligation to make you feel comfortable, you've told him that much

then why could he not stop thinking about what it must've been like to kiss you?

he'd rather die than admit it, but he grows significantly more observant of your behavior, more attached

he thinks about this other sam, this other him, and that there must've been a reason why that guy ended up falling in love with you

if he did it once, surely it could happen again, right?

and before he even realizes, he's absolutely smitten - once again, he can't deny that his souls seems to yearn for yours

you're conflicted when he awkwardly stumbles over a confession one night

but then you think of the other sam, your sam - and all of a sudden you're convinced that he would've gone to find you again, too

it almost breaks your chest when he kisses you again for the first time

he's warm, safe, and he feels so, so much like home

that night he holds you in his arms as your tears soak the fabric of his shirt

dating sam coe is chaotic in the best way possible - not even the slightest chance of boredom

he loves to tease, and you're no exception

the way you are with cora makes his heart swell inside his chest - it makes him want to marry you right then and there, on the spot

he's always dreamt of a partner like you, and there's nothing he wants more than to explore the entire universe with you, all over again

yet, his favorite thing is to hold you in his arms at night after a slow evening at the lodge, feeling your chest rise and fall under his palms while you quietly poke fun at each other

his kisses taste like cherries and spice, and he's so, so good at it that you sometimes fear you might lose your head

now you know no matter when, no matter where, you'd always fall back into each other's arms

★ ! nsfw

this man is a tight bundle of unbridled passion and sweet words of affirmation

sometimes it's hard to catch a break from everything and find the time for intimacy, but that doesn't dwindle his burning desire for you

much like with kissing, he's definitely spent the odd night wondering about what sex with you must've been like, what you might look like underneath your clothes

and when he sees you and the tips of his fingers touch your skin for the first time, it almost feels like the revival of a distant memory

he loves being teased, but he might love being in control even more

it always feels like his hands are everywhere at once - your face, your hips, your neck

he goes absolutely crazy whenever you push your hands into his hair and pull him closer

i see a bit of breathplay with him

he just loves feeling your body whenever his chest is pressed against your back, with a gentle hand on your throat and sweet, filthy words spilling past his lips

if you submit to him fully you can expect a lot of praise, too

you make him the happiest man in the world, in the universe - and if you had to do it over and over again, then he knows he'd let you

© 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘢 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳

#starfield #sam coe #sam coe x reader #starfield x reader #starfield companions #f: starfield #c: sam coe #g: hcs #i cannot STRESS enough how brutally i need to smash

[rhettabbotts]

for your celly my love!! <33

shielding the other one with their body

with rhett please!!!! protect me cowboy!!!!!! <33

the great protector - rhett abbott

pairing: rhett abbott x reader

summary: when a guy won’t leave you alone at the rodeo, rhett steps in as your ‘boyfriend’.

w/c: 1.6k

warnings: mentions of a creepy guy at the rodeo. exes to lovers, kind of? protective rhett. some fluff. use of female pronouns. i believe that is all.

The last place you wanted to be was the Amelia County fair.

You were visiting your family and your parents insisted on attending the last night of the county’s biggest event. It had been a few years since you had attended, leaving Wabang right after high school and not coming back until you graduated college. You had to get out, the stuffiness of the small town was suffocating you. It was hard leaving behind your parents, but it was somehow even harder leaving Rhett.

Rhett was your best friend growing up and your high school sweetheart, dating all four years during a troubling time in your life. Everyone thought you were going to get married, settle down and have a couple of kids. It became apparent that neither you nor Rhett were on that path. He didn’t want to leave Wabang, and you couldn’t wait to escape. It was an amicable break-up but that didn’t stop you from crying nearly every night those first couple of months away.

You hadn’t spoken in years, the only thing you ever heard about him was updates from your mother or the occasional Facebook post made by Cecilia. You knew he was chasing his dream of riding bulls. You had even seen a picture of him and Maria Olivares a couple years back. Nothing could have stopped the way your heart constricted and the bile to rise in the back of your throat. Come to find out from your best friend, they crashed and burned just mere months after dating.

So, by coming back home for a few weeks, you were taking a risk in seeing Rhett. You tried to be strategic about it; going into town at odd hours, avoiding The Handsome Gambler at all costs, keeping interactions short and sweet with Cecilia when you saw her at the grocery store. You never once asked about Rhett although the question sat heavy on your tongue.

Rhett always had you in the back of his mind. Ever since you left a cloud of dust in your rearview mirror six years ago, he regretted not going after you. He put all of his focus into working on the ranch, nearly breaking his back night and day to please his father but it was never good enough. He figured by getting on the back of a raging bull, following in Royal’s footsteps, that it would help their relationship. If anything, it just added salt to the preexisting wound. No matter how many arguments and screaming matches they had, Rhett still pursued bull riding. In those moments, he wished he could call you. He craved to hear your voice again, the voice that could talk him down from anything.

When you returned to Wabang, his mom would come home, brown paper bags in her arms from the day out on Main Street, talking about you. She would tell him how good you looked, how you were making it on your own in the city. Rhett would just nod along, smiling sadly at his mother’s bragging words. Of course you were doing good for yourself, he always knew you would. He was glad he didn’t hold you back. As the week dragged by, he was getting ready for his last ride at the fair. He couldn’t help but wonder if you would be there.

Friday night came in the blink of an eye. You were fussing with your hair for what felt like the tenth time in the past five minutes. You applied light makeup, a coat of mascara and a shiny gloss. You forwent your usual attire of sundresses, instead slipping on a pair of worn blue jeans and your cowboy boots that you hadn’t had on in years. Climbing in the backseat of your dad’s pickup truck brought back memories you had long forgotten about.

Going to the fair had been a yearly family tradition. You used to get so excited to go, to ride the rides and eat all of the sweet treats. Passing by the lit up town made your heart yearn, you felt a tug you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe you did miss this place. Maybe you missed the quietness, the laid back lifestyle as compared to the bustling pace of the city. You felt a calm wave wash over you as you pressed your temple to the cool glass of the window.

You were pulling into the gravel parking lot, the crunch of the rocks beneath the tires causing you an odd sense of anxiousness. You weren’t sure if it was the anticipation of seeing everyone again, or the nagging feeling that you were going to see Rhett. There was no avoiding it. Tonight was the big event, it seemed like everyone in Amelia County made their way out for it.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds before exhaling, you hopped out of the truck and made your way to the entrance. You walked arm-in-arm with your mother. You knew she was happy to have you back, you knew your father had been driving her crazy.

Martha Livingston was manning the ticket booth like she did every year since you were a little girl. She had more gray in her hair now but she was still the sweetest lady you remembered from your youth. As soon as she saw you, she busted out of the door and wrapped you up in a bone crushing hug.

“Sweet, little Y/N! Well, I guess you aren’t little anymore. My goodness, it’s been, what? Four years?” She had that high pitched voice that might annoy others, but it brought you a sense of comfort.

“Um, six actually. It’s good to see you Mrs. Livingston.”

“Honey, you know it’s Martha to you.” She gave your upper arm a firm squeeze before returning to her post, handing your parents the ticket stubs and sending you on your way.

The smells and sounds of the fair are never changing. The sickeningly sweet smell of funnel cakes and fried apple pies. The earthy smell of the animals and red dirt. The sound of hundreds of people holding different conversations. Bells dinging and children laughing. It all brought a smile to your face.

You said your hellos to familiar faces, telling the same story over and over. Yes, you’re in the city. Yes, it’s been years since you’ve been home for a longer period of time. Yes, you’re still single.

It’s been thirty minutes of exchanges and you were exhausted. You excused yourself to grab a drink, ordering a beer and making your way to the gates to watch the barrel racers. You picked at the label on the glass bottle, enjoying your few moments alone. That was until you felt someone press close into your side.

You looked to your left to see a tall man, clearly intoxicated, smiling down at you.

“Can I help you?” The question came out more snide than you had meant for it to. You couldn’t help it, especially because he was in your personal space.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing standing all alone?” His words were slurred, his breath reeked of liquor. His hand came up to rest on your shoulder and you jerked away like you had been burned.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Oh, c’mon. Let me buy you another beer,” he said, leaning closer to your face. It took everything in you to not gag at the smell of tequila.

“Hey, Duncan! You get your hands off my girl!”

That voice. It caused your heart to stop. A voice you could recognize anywhere. You turned to look over your shoulder to see Rhett stalking towards you. He was dressed in his riding gear, hands balled into fists.

“Your girl?”

“Yes, my girl. Now get the fuck out of here before I break your jaw,” Rhett spat. His hand landed on your waist, protectiveness radiating from his body. Duncan made no effort to move, instead he stepped forward but before he could get in your face, Rhett shielded you. He put his entire body in front of yours and tucked you behind him.

“I think it’s best that you leave, man. I’m serious.”

“Whatever. You know what, you’re not even worth it.” Those words stung even though they were coming from that lowlife.

Rhett turned to face you and all of the breath left your body. His blue eyes stared directly into yours and you knew he was saying something, saw his mouth moving, but the roaring in your ears drowned out the words.

“Hey- hey, you okay? I’m sorry for saying that but I just- I could see you were uncomfortable.” He sounded shy, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down to the ground.

“It’s okay… Thank you for- for protecting me. For stepping in.”

It felt awkward, years have passed but he was still handsome as ever. He looked up at you again from under the brim of his hat and he had that small smile on his face that you couldn’t help but match.

“You look good.” His eyes traveled the length of your body, taking you in. “Nice boots.”

That made you laugh, a genuine sound that bubbled out of your chest. You shoved at his shoulder and grinned at the way his tongue stuck out between his teeth.

You stood there and talked for a few minutes, catching up before he was called back to the trailers by one of his crew mates.

“I’ll uh- can we grab a drink after this? To talk some more?”

“I’d like that. I'd like that a lot actually.”

Your smile warmed his heart, dusting off the cobwebs that had settled there. Seeing you in the stands and cheering his name after his ride gave him hope. Hope that maybe there was something still there.

taglist 🤍: @nobody7102 @endofdays56 @bradleybeachbabe @daughterofthereaper02 @the-ms-mischief @basiccortez @auroralightsthesky @buckys-estrella @hangmanbrainrot @marvelousmermaid @withahappyrefrain @wildbornsiren @queenbbarnes @top-gun-rooster @topgun-imagines @mrstabbymcwolfy @lt-bradshaw @violyn20 @wishing-on-wildflowers @therebeccaw @wkndwlff @luxuryberzatto @a-reader-and-a-writer @t-nd-rfoot @odegaardsreds @mxgyver @goosterroose

#shelby’s 750 celebration! #rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott fanfiction #outer range #outer range fanfiction #rhett abbott fluff #seb <3 🐇

[nouies]

hello and welcome to the february fic rec featuring my favourite works from what i’ve read during the past weeks. as always, please check tags before reading. if you liked the fics please reblog their posts, leave kudos and write a nice comment. happy reading! rec tag | more rec lists

— harry/louis —  

໑ Time Stamp: Valentine's Day from Heart Beat by @allwaswell16 (E, 1.7k, established relationship, romantic trip, valentine’s day) A romantic weekend away for Valentine's Day

໑ i want real love baby (don't leave me waiting) by loulovep (NR, 2k, established relationship (or not?), farmer harry, city boy louis, fluff, valentine’s day) Harry thought of the perfect date for (his boyfriend?) Louis. Nothing goes to plan.

໑ a little bit of you by @lvinlou (T, 2.3k, strangers to lovers, a/b/o, fairy louis) Louis is a cute omega who loves autumn and baking cupcakes. However, when he goes to the supermarket to get the last ingredient for his recipe, strawberry jam, he meets Harry, a grumpy alpha who is unwilling to hand over the last jar.

໑ your face is like a melody by @meloummy (NR, 2.4k, alternate universe, friends to lovers, singer louis, stage fright) Where Louis is a singer who needs his boy in the most critical moments.

Or where Harry helps his superstar and shows him how much he loves him.

໑ I'm gonna love you forever and ever by houisminou (M, 3k, established relationship, a/b/o au) louis is independent, he is a free omega, except when he is with his alpha, then he just wants to be holded and taken care of

໑ the prints of your hands are still on my canvas by puppyvirginloui (NR, 4.5k, exes to lovers, a/b/o au, nesting, jealous harry) Harry and Louis broke up not long ago. Everything was fine until then, problems started with Louis’ heat just around the corner, an important presentation that he could not miss, and a very visible (or more like invisible) alpha that could help him go through his heat.

And then Harry shows up. (Again.)

໑ no one's gonna take my soul away by puppyvirginloui (spanish, NR, 6.7k, strangers to lovers, a/b/o au, dark fic, shapeshifting, read tags and author’s note) Nunca te metas con un omega en celo.

໑ and then, i wait there for you by punk_pillow_princess / @punkpillowprincess (M, 9k, established relationship, marriage proposal, valentine’s day, miscommunication) Harry has always dreamed of having his “happily ever after”, but hasn't found the right one yet. Suddenly, he meets Louis.

໑ Fortune cookies by DaxitaIsDaydreaming (spanish, T, 10.6k, friends to lovers, valentine’s day) Louis y Harry han sido amigos desde que tienen memoria. Catorce años, para ser justos. Están enamorados el uno del otro pero ninguno cree conveniente confesarlo por temor a perder la amistad que han construido durante todos estos años. Sin embargo, San Valentín les tiene preparado una sorpresa. Un pequeño empujón en forma de galletas de la fortuna. Depende de ellos el futuro de su relación.

໑ The Unsuccessful Promise by @trysomecats (T, 15k, enemies to lovers, a/b/o au, high school) At the end of the previous school year, Louis swore to everyone that he would return in the fall as an alpha. He made this promise especially to his arch-nemesis Harry Styles, who has already presented as an alpha himself. Unfortunately over summer break, the worst thing possible happens: Louis presents as an omega. Now school is back in session and he has to return and face the consequences of pre-determining his status.

Featuring Liam and Zayn as Louis' doting and exasperated parents.

໑ Gemini Rising by Speechless (E, 23.4k, roommates au, quirky harry, frustrated louis, angst and humour) Louis might as well give it a shot.

Maybe - just maybe - if he starts crossing boundaries in the same reckless way Harry does, that lunatic will get the message.

So he starts invading Harry's space any way he can think of.

໑ You Bring Blue Lights To Dreams by @starryhazelou (E, 30k, strangers to lovers, soulmates au, cowboy harry, veterinarian louis, light angst) Finding your soulmate had been described to Harry as, “finding the answers to the universe.” As the years passed, he would become restless trying to find his. Everyone was born with identical birthmarks on their bodies tying them together. With the combination of living in a small town, along with having a mark that was constantly obstructed by clothing, he was beginning to lose hope.

໑ the road not taken by teenytinytomlinson / @hs3lt2 (E, 35k, friends with benefits, famous harry, non-famous louis, holidays) The one where Harry returns back home for the holidays after a successful debut album, leaving Louis to unwrap gifts as well as old complicated feelings. Cue: hometown holiday hookups, overbearing siblings, and a disastrous New Year’s Eve party. A 'Tis’ the Damn Season' inspired au.

໑ give my love a four letter name by @levelofcharm (E, 46.6k, enemies to lovers, angel/demon relationship, angel louis, demon harry, supernatural elements) Louis hates Harry because he's a demon. Harry hates Louis because Louis hates him. Things change.

໑ Paradise is getting closer by louislovesh28 (M, 52.6k, friends with benefits, supernatural au, hunter louis, journalist harry, read tags) Louis hated his life, which consisted only of death and destruction. Despite the lives he had saved and continued to save, a part of him couldn't feel satisfied.He had been the one who gave up a normal life and although he knew what was to come, the loneliness had never left him in all these years, not even for a second. He felt it in his heart every time he approached a target, he felt it in the few minutes before falling asleep in his dingy car or while he allowed himself a few hours of sleep before setting off again, and he felt it every time he closed that door behind him.

— extra —  

i don’t usually self promo here but i’d like to invite all of you to read the smau my friend and i are working on. it updates daily in the morning (central time). please check it out, it’s called Running with the Wolves.

#28th appreciation #1dsource #hlcreators #hljournal #artistsof1d #1dficvillage #trackinghome #* #*rec

[morning-sun-brah]

Below is my TMNT Master List, but I have some thoughts I wanted to make sure were apparent since this post is pinned!

So! Thoughts/rules of engagement for this blog. 

- Saying hello is always great! And asks are fine too! That said, I cannot promise I will always respond, nor that I will write anything for an ask. It’s gonna have to really speak to me. 

-I write a lot of smut! I am a whole adult! Anything I write with explicit content is between consenting adults and will be tagged as such. PLEASE DO NOT FOLLOW ME IF YOU ARE A MINOR. THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG! If you are here for the Rise/HP Crossover, follow my secondary blog that is SFW, here!

- Pro BLM, LGBTQIA+, Woman/Feminism. 

-This blog is pro LGBTQIA+ and will not tolerate any homophobia or terf talk. Period. Easiest way in the world to get a block is if I see even a hint of terf leanings from a person engaging over here. I am currently in the midst of a Rise/HP Crossover and we are UNKIND to the original author. If you share any of JK's opinions concerning the validity of Trans Women and Men, this blog isn't for you! Anything HP related I highly recommend you steal. Do not give that monster any of your money.

🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢

TMNT Master List!

So, I'm not sure that I have *quite* enough works to justify this, but I'm gonna do it anyway and just keep adding to it! Fic's are linked under the cut!

*The turtles are all adults in the NSFW fics*

🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢

Rise TMNT:

When I Say Forever NSFW, Leo x Reader

Nothing to Say SFW, no romantic pairing, Leo and Casey, angst

Thick Thighs Save Lives- Part 1 NSFW, Donatello x Reader

Thick Thighs Ruin Lives- Part 2 NSFW, Donatello x Reader

Thick Thighs Attract Eyes- Part 3 PREQUEL! SFW(ish), Donatello x Reader

Thick Thighs No Lies- Part 4 NSFW, Donatello x Reader

Worth the Wait NSFW, Leo x Reader, fits into the Thick Thighs Storyline but can be read as a standalone

A Romantic Comedy, Starring Leo Splinterson SFW(ish)- (cursing, mild description of medical procedures, some angst), Leo x OC, any smut will be presented as one shots, multi-chaptered, ongoing

On a Scale from One to America NSFW(ish), Leo x Reader, Entry for the All 4-1 Challenge, I chose the prompt; Reader continually uses TERRIBLE pick up lines on your choice of turtle, trying to drop the hint.

Send it NSFW, Tactical!Donnie x Spotter! Reader, inspired by all of @donathan's tactical art- go and follow them!

Once More, With Feeling (Tactical Donnie Part 2!) NSFW Tactical!Donnie x Spotter! Reader

And They Were Thick Thighed Lab Partners NSFW, Donnie x Reader, A collab with the fantastic @buthowboutno! It... it might be an April Fool's fic. BUT, if you stick with the cringe, there's real smut towards the end lol. ALSO!! There is a podfic! You can listen to it here!

Silk NSFW, Mikey x Male OC, Long hair Mikey and his journey from enemies to lovers.

Marked NSFW, Donnie x Reader, A gift for @unknownfanartist. Eventually will have a second chapter. Hate sex with a little bit of feelings at the end.

Hunger Pains NSFW, Donnie x Reader, A gift for @unknownfanartist. Donnie enjoys his favorite meal.

Spare Change NSFW, Donnie x Kendra (Kendratello), Complete, 2 chapters.

RISE! COWBOY/WESTERN AU (ongoing);

This is a series that was SUPPOSED to be a two-chapter fic about Donnie robbing a train. It is... no longer that.

Flight of the Dove NSFW, Donnie x OC, COWBOY/OLD WEST AU. The series is currently ongoing. Companion art is done by the absolute gem that is @unknownfanartist

The Pigeon's Perch NSFW, Leo x OC, COWBOY/OLD WEST AU. The series is currently ongoing. Companion art is done by @gemini-forest

Of Starlings and Sparrows NSFW, Raph x OC (OC is owned by @beckerboopin), COWBOY/OLD WEST AU.

art by @unknownfanartist

RISE! HARRY POTTER CROSSOVER AU (ongoing);

Until I Reach You Again, a ROTTMNT/Harry Potter Crossover, Collaborative Work with @alycornz, and @stormy-nyx SFW- (cursing, mild canon typical violence, general unkindness for JK Rowling because she is a terrible human).

Bay! TMNT:

This will probably have ~more~ because I do love these boys.

Like You Mean It NSFW, Raphael x Reader, A gift for @turtle-babe83 and a "tumblr exclusive" Whoo!!

03 TMNT:

Aaaalllll the way back on 2007 I wrote a Reader x OC fic. It was finished, but since it's 16 years old the plan was to re-write it on AO3 and make it less terrible. It is a slow process and it may not even happen considering how fixated I am on the rise-verse atm, but if you wanted to cringe you could find it on ff net. Either way, the one I am updating is linked below!

A Light in the Dark NSFW (eventually), Raphael x OC

#rise of the tmnt fanfiction #leonardo x reader #rise leo x reader #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt x harry potter crossover #rise of the tmnt harry potter crossover #fanfiction #donatello x reader #03 tmnt #03 raphael x reader #raphael x reader #teenage mutant ninja turtles 2k3 #2k3 ninja turtles fanfiction #pwp #rottmnt fanfiction

[itsjusteds]

"This song is so Owen coded this" or "That song is so Owen coded that" NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT HOW OWEN CODED "How I'd Kill" BY COWBOY MALFOY IS OMG.

This song is so Owen post banana incident coded. The opening being darker and slower relating to him rising from the rubble after being abandoned by his lover, the blaming Curt for all of it and feeling like he was a fool for trusting him.

The build up to the time change is him getting recruited by Chimera and seeing a new dawn for himself.

The more upbeat part of the song is him thriving through Chimera working his way up in the organization. Him creating the character of DMA and killing all those people, thinking of Curt as something from his past that he needs to destroy

The ending being more mellow signifying him missing/seeing Curt again and falling back into old mentalities. AUGH ITS JUST SO HIM.

#as u can tell i am completely normal about the silly little gay spies #my sweet sweet boys you were doomed by the narrative #owen my poor poor owen #i want someone to write a post banana fic about Owens time at Chimera #i think it would be neat :D #owen carvour #spies are forever #tcb #tin can bros #tin can brothers #tinlightenment #saf #agent curt mega #curtwen

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Heeeeey, y'all!! I'm so, so, so excited to introduce this new story to everybody! I've been having a (horny) cowboy fixation for THE LONGEST time now after seeing a fanart of cowboy!Geto by the amazingly talented @sanjisblackasswife. Please go support a fellow black woman & go check out her work! I hope y'all enjoy the first two chapters! -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

SIX: FOR A SINNER’S EARS ONLY.

You awaken the next morning to the sun barely peeking over the horizon, just as Geto instructed you to do. 

It feels good to sleep in a comfy bed for once, especially after you made sure you patted it down with the bug powder you packed. You sit up in the bed, slightly clammy from the heat of the hot, dry air creeping into the motel room. It is quiet and relaxingly so. For once, you feel good despite the circumstances. 

You still can’t believe Geto and Gojo decided to pay for a room for you. They walked you to your room right next to theirs after getting a key from the lobby. “Just remember to get up before the sun rises,” Geto gently said, mostly to keep his voice down in the motel hallway. “It will take about five days to get on the Devil’s Trail since it’s outside the West. That works out well for us since we have a list of baddies to catch on our way there.” 

“And most of them are Benji’s accomplices,” Gojo stated as he handed you the key to your room. “Which means we’ll probably find him too if we play our cards right.”

You looked down at the key, clutching it. “You know, y’all didn’t have to get me a room.” You couldn’t help but be suspicious of this. Why were they being so kind? Were they tricking you in some way? 

‘Or maybe they’re just nice guys, you crazy girl,’ you thought. 

Gojo raised an eyebrow at you. “Well, where else were you gonna sleep? With us?” A smirk appeared on his face. “‘Cause if you want to–” 

You cut him off by moving to unlock the door, purposely stepping on his toe as you do. “Fuckin’ pervert,” you muttered under your breath as the motel door opened. It was identical to the duo’s though empty and clean. 

“Ignore him,” Geto chuckled while Gojo complained about you breaking his big toe. Just get some sleep and yell if you need anything. These walls are paper thin, so we’ll hear you.” He gave you a kind, warm smile, leaving you to your privacy. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.” 

Gojo gave you a wink as he held the doorknob, nodding at the bed. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” he teased. He then closed the door, still behind it. “I’m serious!” he called. “You might wanna lay down a towel or somethin'!” And then you were finally left alone to take a hot shower and get ready for bed. 

You lay here now, thinking to yourself how fast everything is happening. You still can’t believe you’re here with the most notorious outlaws in the West, about to go on a long journey with them that could either go really good or really bad. You think of Shoko, wondering if she read your letter. Is she looking for you? Does she miss you? And what about the others at the saloon? Are they okay? Are they safe? 

You suddenly hear a tiny chuckle from behind your headboard where a wall separates your bedroom from the duo’s. Gojo’s voice drifts through the wall, sugary sweet and seductive: “Sugu~” 

“What?” Geto sighs, sounding exhausted. There is a rustling sound like bedsheets shifting. “C’mon, Satoru, not now. I have to clean up before we leave.” The bedsprings creak as someone sits up––probably Geto. 

“Can I clean up with you?” Gojo purrs. “C’mon, I can help you clean all of those spots ya can’t each.” Then you hear it: a deep, soft moan that makes your face grow hot and your mouth part in shock. Are they…? 

Another one of Geto’s velvety moans makes it very clear that they’re not cuddling over there. “Shit,” he sighs. “C’mon now, stop it. I’m serious, you slut.” Gojo giggles–giggles–as he continues to do whatever he’s doing. “Oooh, I love it when you call me that, almost as much as you loving it when I call you my cock whore.” 

Your jaw goes slack. Are they that slutty? “No, I don’t,” Geto growls. “I’m not about to do this while Y/N is in the other room. These walls are thin as ice!” His words are cut off by another series of quiet moans and hums of pleasure. “The water will be on, so she won’t hear,” Gojo assures him. “And even if she does, I think she’d enjoy it. Especially when she hears how hot your moans are.” 

You would never admit it, even to yourself, but the sounds of Geto’s moans are getting you hot. They are so smooth yet syrupy; deep yet soft. Seductive. Sexy. They make your body tingle, especially one body part in particular. You can feel your pussy throb annoyingly so from beneath the sheets like it has a heartbeat. 

You can’t remember the last time a man-made you this aroused. Even the ones at the Blackwater saloon barely got you wet. And sex with Valentine was never a fun time. He did nothing to turn you on despite his pretty face. There was barely even a wiggle down there for you. But now? Now, you feel like you need a release or you’ll go insane. 

“Let’s get in the shower, baby,” Gojo seductively says. “We have no time to waste, remember?” And so they do. You hear the bedsprings as they get up from bed and their footsteps as they walk to the bathroom on the left side of their bed but still behind your bedroom wall. You can hear the rustling of their clothes as they strip; their breathless giggles and the soft, wet sounds of their lips meeting each other’s. 

Their soft moans and hums of ecstasy mingled with the sound of pounding water light your body on fire. You find yourself squirming uncomfortably in your bed, especially when Geto begins to moan. You begin to feel a tingle from down below that only grows the louder Geto’s velvety moans become. “Fuck, ‘Tarou,” he sighs. “You’re so fuckin’ good at that.” 

Your hand slides down your stomach to wedge between your thighs. You know that this is wrong. You know that you’ll regret this later, but fuck, they sound too hot to resist. And it’s only natural, right? You just need some release. They’ll never know. So you begin to slowly rub your tingling, needy clit in time with Geto’s deep moans and swears. 

It doesn’t take a village idiot to figure out what Gojo is doing, but when you hear the soft, sucking sounds and the sloppy noises of his tongue swirling around Geto’s dick, you get your answer. “Yeah?” he chuckles. “You wanna give me a reward, Sugu?” 

You hear more lewd sounds that take you to unholy places and bring colorful visuals to your head: Gojo on his knees gagging on dick with Geto’s hands in his wet, white hair, his hips bumping into Gojo’s mouth as he fucks his pretty face. “Just make sure you keep it down,” Geto instructs. “You don’t wanna wake the whole hallway, do you?” 

Gojo giggles and there is only the sound of water until both men moan in unison. The sound nearly makes you gasp, your back arching as your fingers work faster on your now slippery clit.

“Oh, fuck!” Gojo moans. His language has become nothing but slutty moans and whimpers while Geto lets out soft grunts and gasps. “Soon as I’m inside you, you’re singin’ like a little songbird,” Geto chuckles. “What am I gonna do with you, Satoru, huh?” 

You close your eyes, picturing the long-haired outlaw pressing Gojo against the wall, grinding his hips into the white-haired outlaw from behind. You see Geto’s cock, long, thick, and gorgeous, sliding in and out of Gojo’s taught and firm yet soft asscheeks, stretching out his hole. 

“Sugu, please,” Gojo begs. “Don’t stop! Keep goin’ just like that!” 

“Just like what?” Geto teases. “Like…this?” He must do something with his hips or his cock because Gojo is moaning uncontrollably, slutty gasps and whines leaving his pink lips. The sound of wet, slapping, of skin against skin, emits from the wall. “C’mon, babe, shhh,” Geto shushes him. “You’ve gotta keep it down.” 

But Gojo is too far gone just as you are as you rub your pussy in time to Geto’s thrusts. “C-Can’t help it!” he stutteringly, pathetically says. “You’re fuckin’ me too good!” 

“Cover that slutty mouth then,” Geto demands in a voice that has your clit throbbing increasingly so. “Yes, that’s it, my love. Let’s see how quiet you can be filled with all this dick.” 

You imagine him saying the same thing to you, his cock stretching you out while Gojo tweaks your hardened nipples that one of your hands has begun to do for you. Briefly, you imagine yourself sandwiched between them, nothing but stolen kisses and breaths between you. You can almost feel their muscles and warm skin under your hands. You can almost taste them on your tongue. 

As their moans and the lewd slapping grows louder, your hand grows a mind of its own and works your clit faster, harder, wanting to peak with them. You picture yourself doing the same thing while Geto fucks you from behind while Gojo fucks your throat, both cocks filling you up the way you want to be. The way you need to be. 

“Fuck, Sugu, I’m gonna cum!” Gojo warns, high-pitched and needy. Geto responds with a grunt, loud and so unlike him, that nearly sends you over the edge. “Me too,” he growls. “Cum with me, ‘Tarou, c’mon. Don’t you wanna be my good boy?” 

‘Do you wanna be my good girl, Y/N?’ he asks in your head. ‘Don’t you wanna be our good girl?’ You want to say yes. You’ll do absolutely anything to feel like this all of time, even be theirs. 

“Cumming!” Gojo suddenly gasps. “I’m cummin’, Suguru, fuck!” ‘Me too,’ you think. ‘I’m cummin’ too!’ And you do. As a series of slutty, loud moans and groans of release drift through your wall and into your bedroom, you let out a whimper and cum all over yourself. For a moment, you’re soaring through the clouds, covering your mouth to muffle your moans as Geto and Gojo cum together. 

Then as soon as it happens, it’s over. The sounds die down and the pleasure fades, leaving you feeling icky and your fingers coated in your cum. You can’t believe you just did that. 

You can’t think about it for long though because three loud, terrifying knocks on the duo’s motel door next to yours nearly make you jump out of bed. “Oh, shit!” Gojo gasps. “What the fuck was that?” 

You think the same thing before you hear the knocks again. “You sure this is the door, sir?” a rough-sounding voice asks. 

“Yes!” a high-pitched voice replies. The shower immediately shuts off and the pitter-patter of feet stomping around behind your wall makes you jump out of bed and grab your clothes set out for today. “Th-This is the front desk clerk with security!” the same man calls through the door. “We know you’re in there, gunslingers! You’re not gonna get away with not paying for these rooms! That’s a crime!” 

‘What the fuck?!’ you think. ‘Those mother–’ 

Four more demanding knocks silence your thoughts and make you hurry to get dressed. “Gunslingers!” the guard barks. “Either come to the door and surrender to us now or we’ll break down this goddamn door and take you into custody. Don’t think we won’t do it!” 

You toss on your clothes, pull on your riding boots, and tie your bandana around your mouth. You begin to look around for an escape route as the knocks become more agitated. The door is out of the question, so you look at the window which is about twelve feet above ground. 

‘I’ve gotta get out of here,’ you panickingly think as you hurry to the window, only to see Gojo already there and waving at you from outside. He is fully dressed with his hat, gloves, and blinfold on as if nothing happened before. You throw open the window, allowing him to climb inside with ease. “Hi there, little miss,” he greets you, tipping his hat. “You’re up early.” 

“You bastard!” you hiss, wanting to punch him. “You ain’t pay for the rooms?!” 

“Well…not exactly,” he sheepishly confesses. “We paid for half for this one, but inflation is a bitch and these rooms are expensive! I ended up havin’ to steal away one of the keys to this room while the clerk wasn’t around. Can ya blame a guy for tryin’ to help?” He shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile. 

You want to cuss him out, but before you can, another bang on the door next to yours stops you. “Open the fuck up!” the guard yells. “You’ve got ten seconds to come out or we’re breakin’ down the door!” 

“Get me out of here,” you demand, glowering at Gojo. He only gives you a tiresome look as he snatches the drapes off of your window. “That’s what I’m here for,” he scoffs. “Just get your things together and follow my head. Geto is roundin’ up the horses. By the way, is that black one with the braided mane yours? She’s such a pretty thing!” 

You could’ve kicked him out the window, but instead, you hurry about and gather your shit. Luckily, your bag is already packed with toiletries and everything else you’ll need on your journey, so you toss it onto your body and put on your cowgirl hat. The sound of a large bang from the next door makes you gasp in fear. “Gojo!” you snap. “Hurry!” 

Gojo is currently tying the drapes together into a makeshift rope, taking his sweet time doing so. 

“Alright, alright,” he sighs. “And…finished!” 

He then tosses the rope outside the window, tying the end to the leg of a chair. Next, he climbs out onto the ledge, grasping the rope. “Stick your feet out first and grab hold,” he instructs you. “All you have to do is climb down. Don’t worry; I’ll meetcha at the bottom and catch ya if you fall. See ya at the bottom!” 

“Wait!” you hiss, but he’s already inching down the makeshift rope. You watch him as he climbs down the rope with ease and precision, his upper strength doing all the work until he finally meets the ground. Obviously, he’s done this many times before, but you haven’t. Even just looking down makes you want to throw up. 

You grip the window ledge, suddenly dizzy. ‘I can’t do this,’ you think, the words repeating like a mantra. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t–’ 

BANG! The door to the motel room next to yours busts open and the sound of stomping footsteps makes you jump out of your skin. “They ain’t in here!” one of the guards angrily growls. More footsteps, this time out in the hallway. “Try the other one,” the clerk says. “I know someone is in there!” 

When you hear them at the door, now you know you have no choice. You look down again, finding Gojo standing there with his arms waiting for you and a smile on his face. You don’t think––you just do. 

You turn around, put your hat between your teeth, and stick your legs out the window first before grasping onto the rope and gently, carefully, edging yourself down. The wind hits your face, the sun warm against your cheek. Its warm rays and the promise of the ground below are the only things that keep you from looking down. 

“You’ve got it, little miss!” Gojo calls up to you. “Keep goin’!” His words help somewhat though the feeling of your feet dangling in midair and the burn of your arms are all starting to get to you. You’re about halfway down the rope when you hear the sound of a bang and the guards and the clerk now in your room: “Where are they?!” the guard demands. 

“The window!” the clerk shouts. “Hurry before they get away!” Fear leaps into your heart and before you can rethink your decision, you release the rope and leave it all up to God. You feel nothing but the wind in your hands, slipping through your fingertips, as you soar through the air. 

You expect to feel the hard ground below, but you don’t. Instead, you feel muscular arms and a solid chest. You look up into the blindfold and smile of Gojo. “Told ya I’d catch ya,” he chuckles. For a moment, you feel secure and safe in his arms, hating that you do. 

Luckily, the moment is ruined when Geto comes running up with your horses and the guards come to the window. “There they are!” he shouts, pointing down at you. “Shoot ‘em!” The glint of the sun off of metal frightens you even before you realize that his partner has a pistol. 

The first bullet zips past you and Gojo, scaring the horses. You begin to squirm in Gojo’s arms, enough for him to put you on your horse himself before jumping on his own. 

“Hurry!” you yelp, snapping your horse’s reins. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!” The second and third bullets hit the dirt as you three begin riding like hell away from the motel, your horses’ hooves thudding against the dirt. 

“Don’t come back here ever again!” the clerk yells at you. “You hear me?! I’ll make sure you’re all behind bars if I see you again!” 

‘Don’t worry,’ you think. ‘You won’t.’ 

******** 

When you’re finally out of Blackwater, you feel like you can finally breathe and relax.

The shops, homes, and all signs of civilian life have since disappeared, replaced with a dusty trail, trees, and mountains dusted with snow in the distance. Blackwater is but a blip in your memory, nothing but nature there now as you travel alongside the gunslinging duo. You feel Reneigh’s body move underneath you as she slowly walks up the road, the sun’s rays turning her black hair golden. 

You sense a presence beside you and turn, finding Geto riding his horse with one hand. You try not to think about how good he and Gojo look on top of their horses. “Sorry about earlier,” he says, actually sounding guilty about it. “I would’ve preferred us to be gone earlier than we did to avoid that, but I ran into some…complications.” He coughs into his gloved hand. 

‘Yeah, I know,’ you bitterly think, but then feel a pang of guilt due to the fact that you willingly flicked your bean and came to the sound of these “complications”.

You still feel weird and guilty like you invaded on something you shouldn’t have. But then again, they’d have to have known you’d hear them since the walls were so thin…did they want you to hear them? 

“Long as we’re alive and not behind bars, I’m good,” you sigh, looking away from Geto. “Thanks though. So where to first?”  You hear the sound of him unraveling something and look back to see him taking a map out of his pocket. 

“Bull’s Creek, which is only five miles from here,” he answers, reading the map. “We’ve got a gang of wanted outlaws to catch that are residin’ there who robbed a town in another county. A woman there wrote to ask us for help because apparently, these four are terrorizin’ their town too.” 

Gojo hums in acknowledgment from in front of you, a weed in his mouth. “Not only that, but these four are old accomplices of Benji’s that we worked with: Zankoku, Makima Murakami, Angelface, and Arata Katana. We plan on shakin’ ‘em down and askin’ either one of them where Benji is without resorting to too much violence.” 

Geto rolls his brown eyes from beneath his hat. “Too much violence,” he parrots. Gojo looks back at him with a smirk. “Excludin’ killin’!” he cackles, wagging a finger at him. “If we wanna stay outta prison.” 

“Sounds good to me,” you reply, and it does. Anything to get your hands on your target. A peaceful silence falls over you three as you totter up the road, the breeze cool and sweet. Suddenly, Gojo speaks: “Y/N, where are you from? You’ve got a distinct accent on ya that I’m just now noticin’.” 

You wonder why the fuck he cares, but curiosity couldn’t have killed the cat that badly. “The South,” you vaguely reply. “Born an’ raised.” The white-haired gunslinger looks back at you in awe. “Really?!” he excitedly asks. “I’ve got friends from the South! What town ya from?!” 

“Why?” you ask, more harshly than you intended. The silence becomes awkward almost immediately. “C’mon, Gojo, don’t make her feel weird,” Geto calmly criticizes his partner and gives you an apologetic smile to ease the tension. “I think he’s just tryin’ to make conversation. It makes these long travels easier.” 

You don’t know why, but you feel guilty about being so harsh. You don’t like being asked about your past. It’s just too painful. But if they can tell you about your past, you can at least answer Gojo about where you’re from. “Pinewood,” you answer. “It’s a small town in the Southwest county.” Gojo hums thoughtfully, not missing a beat. “Hm…haven’t been there before.” 

‘And you never will,’ you think. 

“So how did y’all meet?” you curiously ask, quickly changing the subject. “I mean, since we makin’ conversation or whatever.” 

The duo share a smile you can’t decipher as they look at each other. “We were childhood friends,” Geto explains. “We both lived in a small town with about a couple hundred people. One day, we were playin’ by the lake after a bad rainstorm and I slipped on the mud by the bankside. I nearly drowned that day, but Gojo saved my life. That day was it was for us: we fell in love instantly.” 

Even as cold as you are, you feel yourself thaw at such a cute story. It’s like a fairytale romance for them.

“But we didn’t start dating until we were older,” he continues. “As kids, we both had tragedies we helped each other deal with. Gojo’s mother died in childbirth and his father was pretty much absent. And I came from a family of alcoholics who never accepted me. So we became each other’s family.” 

Gojo looks back at you, the weed still in his mouth. “Didn’t think two of the most notorious gunslingers in the West had tragic backstories, huh?” he sarcastically asks. “It’s a damn cliche.” 

You don’t say anything, letting their stories and honesty wash over you. 

“So what about you?” Geto asks. “What’s your story? You got anyone waitin’ for you back at home?” 

“Like a lover?” Gojo adds. “He or she is a lucky bastard…or bitch.” Geto shoots him a sharp look.

“Shut up,” you mutter. “And no. I ain’t never been with nobody before…well, nothing that was real anyways.” All the “lovers” you’ve had were either hook-ups or false relationships on your part, like yours with Valentine. 

“So you’ve never been in love?” Geto asks, and he sounds almost saddened by this prospect. That irks you and you don’t know why it does. How is it that two of the most notorious and dangerous gunslingers managed to find love in such a harsh world and you haven’t? Maybe you’re just meant to be alone. 

So you give them both the realest answer you can as you stare ahead at the rocky road: “Love ain’t never done nothin’ but get me in trouble and cause me pain.” 

And just like that, the conversation ends.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #my fic shit #black writers #jjk smut #cowboy gojo #cowboy geto #satosugu #satoru gojo x black!reader #suguru geto x black!reader #cowboy!au #cowboy!geto #cowboy!gojo #poly smut #poly love

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 22.8k | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak

After four years away at collage, you’re finally home with the tools and knowledge to save your family ranch. That is, if their ranch hand would stay out of your way.

Or: Ranch hand Joel doesn’t know how to handle the return of his bosses prodigy daughter, her snarky little attitude, or her sinfully tight jeans.

a/n: Howdy Ya’ll! The song for this chapter is Shake the Frost by Tyler Childers! Im not going to lie, after three chapters writing from Joels POV, this chapter was hard to get into at first. Ive always had a vision for the different ways they perceive each other and it was realllly fun to paint two different pictures of the same people from each others POV. So without further ado, the moment we’ve alllll been waiting for, I give you honeys POV.

Masterlink

ao3 link | spotify link

4. Shake The Frost

Your life in a nutshell has been…uneventful. Your parents had you into their late thirties, you were their last shot at the child they had always wanted and that was a lot to live up to, being the only surviving member of your family when they are gone and the sole proprietor of the Rising Sun Ranch. It was a lot for one awkward, clumsy girl to take on, but you packed up your bags and moved to the city for just long enough to get a real education in keeping your family's dream alive. When you left this place, you had twenty dollars and a full tank of gas. You had horrible hormonal acne, the same damn braces you’ve had for the past six years and you were the furthest thing from desirable a person could ever get.

You were never very popular in school, but considering your graduating class was a whole eight people, you understood why. Everyone around these parts kept to themselves, passed judgment too quickly and all they ever saw in you was an inelegant, unskilled, ugly little duckling.

Four years away earned you a new outlook on life, the discovery of skincare and a little bit of confidence in yourself, but not nearly enough to hoof it in this cruel world. That's why you found so much comfort in the thought of running home, as much as you would miss your friends from college. Here you weren’t gangly and clueless—you could just be yourself.

Yourself with just…a little bit of alteration. Because two years ago, your mom called you to tell you about the new ranch hands that started working, how much weight it took off their plate. A few weeks later, she told you as much about them as she could, about Joel who was charming and gruff. Tommy, who was kind of strange but a nice boy, how Joel takes care of him and watches out for him. A month after that, your mother calls to tell you how much of a gentleman he is.

Two months later, you call your mom and tell her about the date that stood you up and she tells you how handsome Joel is, how kind his eyes are and how she thinks you would really like him, how much you would hit it off and she wished you’d find someone a little more like that—someone who could appreciate you.

Two years pass the same way, your mom calls you all the time just to talk about Joel and Tommy—you understand it's the most exciting thing that's happened around the ranch in the last twenty years, but the more you talk about it with her, the more you build up this impossible dream about a man you’ve never even laid eyes on. You daydream about going home and meeting him, hitting it off like two old flames. You imagine his eyes in the middle of class and miss half your lecture, you think about the way his voice sounds the few times you accidentally overheard him in the background of your moms calls.

Your best friend and roommate, Melly, tells you that's you’re delusional to make up fake scenarios in your head about a relationship you don’t have with a man you’ve never met, but you’ve already hyper focused on it long before that conversation happens, so getting it out of your head is already out the window by then.

All that build up, all the imaginary things you thought up, the way you’d meet—what you would say to him to catch his attention from the moment he sets eyes on you. All of it is for nothing, because he’s not prince charming like you’d imagined, he’s rude and he left you in the fucking snow to die, when you’d spent so long falling in love with a man that didn’t exist. He avoids you like the plague, like it hurts him to be in the same room with you, thinks you’re this stuck up too good city girl, when you’d been so proud to have your shit together. You’d been so fucking excited to get home and finally put a face to two years worth of ghost like fantasies of a person you didn’t know.

And god did it make you so angry at him, when you’d spent so long wanting to meet him, and he was nothing like you’d expected him to be. What is it about you that repulses him? Every time you leave anything exposed, he’s running away with his tail tucked. You look at him from across the dinner table and he takes his food and leaves. Sometimes you can't help the way your anger gets the best of you, starting arguments just so he’ll talk to you, trying to do things that might impress him even though he thinks you’re the most incapable person in the whole world, apparently.

You help your mom with dinner because you remember her telling you that her chili was Joel’s favorite, so you spent half of the afternoon making it, maybe then you could both move on—something, anything. You watch him from the fridge while he fills his bowl with Tommy and they head off to the dining room. By the time you’ve made your own bowl, hatching a plan to tell him you made this, his spot sits empty and his food is untouched for the rest of the evening.

That night, your dad shows you the statement from the bank, the mortgage is two months behind and they don’t have two nickels to rub together. You cry at the kitchen table for an hour, wondering what you did in a past life to struggle so badly in this one. Of course Joel would catch you there, tear stained cheeks and a desperate desire to curl into that broad chest and sob.

He hightails it out of the house before the real water works come down.

Theres a ache in your chest that doesn’t leave you for days—when you spot him in the stable on Christmas eve, it pounds in your chest worse than ever, it hurts so fucking bad to look at him in that brown coat, that long curly hair and scruffy beard. You want to run out the door across the yard and jump into those strong arms, have him twirl you around in the snowfall and kiss you silly. But that's not plausible, so you turn away from the window and make yourself some hot cocoa to starve off the cold, eating you up from the inside.

On Christmas morning, you watch him shovel from the window of your bedroom, hiding behind the curtain while you think about how much he hates to be around you, he must think you’re so unpleasant and hard to look at, because he never even meets your eyes. It bubbles up so much emotion, you cry angry tears before you can make it out of your room. You wash your face in the bathroom to rid yourself of the evidence and make your way down the stairs.

You’re halfway down the steps when you spot him at the bottom, smiling at himself in the vanity mirror, wearing a goddamned cowboy hat like all your wild fantasies about slipping his hat on your head and riding him until he’s a mumbling mess. You would have changed if you knew he was here—would have put on some clothes so he doesn’t go running out on you again. He takes one look up the stairs at you and your brain goes fuzzy and angry, how dare he look so good when you know you can’t touch, how dare he flaunt it right in your face just to take it away again. Who does he think he is, smiling at you like that when he abandoned the dinner you’d made him at the table the night before?

He tells you Merry Christmas and you want to sock him in the mouth.

You chase him off all on your own this time and the guilt eats you up when you watch him work from the window. He doesn’t stop for a second, just keeps going and going and going while you sit on the couch and listen to Tommy’s insufferable rambling about things you don’t care about. He doesn’t come to dinner, so you make him a plate in the kitchen when your mom comes in behind you. “What are you doing, dear?” You wrap tin foil over the hefty plate and give her a look. “I thought I should bring him dinner…no one deserves to be hungry on christmas.”

Your mom squeezes your shoulder and smiles brightly, waves you off when you head out into the storm with his dinner in your hand.

When you meet him on the porch, sleepy look in his eyes with messy hair, you almost invite yourself inside—hardly fighting off the urge to set that plate down and offer yourself for his Christmas dinner instead.

You're halfway thankful for the half mile walk tugging a one ton heifer behind you, at least this way the cold wills away the throbbing between your legs.

That night, you wrap two fingers in the necklace chain, burry your face in the pillows while you fuck yourself on three fingers wishing they were the man sleeping on your couch instead of your own. You try not to whimper his name when you cum, but it slips right out with a rush of air.

Wanting him—is absolutely killing you.

You want to call it a turning point, finally he can see you as capable of something. By the end of the following two weeks, he’s right back to the way he acted before, but it’s like it’s worse somehow. You come down the stairs with a chipper smile in your favorite pair of Levi’s one morning and he nearly falls out of his chair trying to get away from you. You show up in the stable with your old white straw hat on and he hides in the bathroom for a half hour until you leave, like he’s repulsed by you, like he can’t stand to be around you. Is it something you’re doing? Something you’re wearing? He gets so uncomfortable when you have any skin exposed, you can tell based on the way his eyes will bounce to you then away in a hurry, trying to find something—anything else to keep himself busy. Is it because you're his boss's daughter? Because you’re ugly? Because you’re too young and too inexperienced?

By the end of January, you’ve successfully chased him back to his cabin in the evenings unless you aren’t in attendance. He’s avoiding you again, but at least now you have Tommy, who you would consider a friend, a friend who flirts with you too damn much and drinks way too much alcohol. He’s also lazy and doesn’t take much initiative, Joel does most of the work around here, you’ve noticed. But Tommy listens to you when you talk and he doesn’t run away from you any time you try to make conversation.

This morning, you were in the kitchen when Joel came in, cowboy hat and wranglers that hugged his ass. You walked out of the kitchen in an apron with a bowl of preserved raspberries ready to can. “Mornin’, Joel.” You greeted him with a smile and picked the spoon up out of the bowl. “Want to try some? I’m making jam.” You were about to wash the spoon anyways.

“Uh, no, thank you—I ate this morning.” You shrug and lick the spoon clean with one stripe. Five seconds later, Joel is out the front door with a hurried step, like he can't wait to get away from you. Did your breath stink? Was there something on your face, in your tone? By the time Joel is gone, Tommy comes in like there's a rotating door on the house, constantly filtering out one Miller for another.

“He’s in a hurry.” Tommy laughs, pointing behind him with his thumb. “I think I said something.” You roll your eyes at him and finish off the spoon. “Dang girl, how come you don’t ever lick me like that?” It's a light hearted joke, you know that, but you still slug him in the arm for good measure. “Oh, fuck off, Tommy.” You make your way back to the kitchen to can up the preserves and he follows right behind you. “So I was thinking, Joel is heading into town this mornin’, what do you say we scrounge up some change and grab a bottle of something strong?” You used to drink heavily when you were in college, lots of parties and Friday nights out with friends, but now it's closer to once a month if you’re lucky and you can't remember the last time you were good and drunk. “You know what, lets do it. But you have to ask him.” Tommy makes a pained face and shakes his head. “No, I asked last time—it’s your turn.”

“He’s already pissed at me for no reason, and I don’t even know where he is!” Tommy laughs at you and takes the bowl from your hands. “And besides, I have to pee—why can't you go?”

He pulls the jars out and starts to fill them. “Go ask him and then go pee—I saw him go into the stable.” You huff dramatically and turn on your heel, removing your apron, trying to get rid of your nerves as you head towards the door. What’s he going to do, shout at you? Get angry? Say no? You can handle all of that, you’ve handled it up until now.

When you reach the barn, you search around the stalls with no sign of Joel. Wherever he is, he’s long gone. Whatever you did to him, it was enough to send him running all over again. For the millionth time, you find yourself wishing you could just read his mind, know what it is about you that has him running for the hills any time to approach him.

You pet a few muzzles on your way towards the door, wishing it was spring already so you could ride like you’ve longed to do for the last four years. There's less of a chill today, there hasn’t been a storm in a week, but that’s going to change soon. You could stay out here until Joel shows up, but christ do you need to pee right now, so you take a quick detour to the small bathroom in the corner of the barn. The door doesn’t have a working latch, so it pushes open easily.

You just needed to pee, that's it—just needed to pee but it’s too late by the time the artificial light inside mixes with the sunlight filtering into the barn. Lent over the sink with his hand pressed to the mirror, his other on his cock, stands Joel—his balled up fist working up and back down, those huge hands that look tiny on his dick—holy shit, it’s massive, bigger than you’ve ever seen in real life, bigger than most exaggerated porn videos you’ve watched—he could probably fit both hands around that thing, has to be at least ten inches of just Joel. He must hear your tight gasp, because his hand stills and he whips his head around to look at you, his face flushed with shock and shame. You step away quickly and the door slams shut behind you.

You aren’t sure what it is bubbling up inside of you—anxiety, desire, a bit of curiosity and a whole lot of confusion. You saw him not five minutes ago and he was fine, but now you can hear him scrambling in the bathroom across from where your feet have glued themselves to the floor.

“Fuck! Fuck, Honey, hold on.”

Joel Miller is the most hung man you’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s also the most annoying and hard headed—but all of that flies straight to the back of your mind when he pulls the small door open, having stuffed himself back in his jeans, jesus christ it goes half way down his leg, how does he have any room in there? His chest is absolutely heaving and his face is beat red from embarrassment. “I…I’m sorry, I just needed to use the bathroom.”

His hand reaches down and you follow the movement, how he stuffs it into his pants and adjusts himself. “I can explain—“ you shake your head quickly, eyes bouncing back up to meet his. Fuck, he looks like he’s going to cry right now. “Please spare me the details, I should have…knocked, that's my fault.” What was he doing in the first place? He ran away from you because…because he needed to jerk off? Is that where he’s been going every time he runs away from you?

Did you make him do that? But no—of course not, because Joel hates you, hates you enough to actively avoid you even after buying you the same damn necklace you clutch every night when you sink your hand between your thighs, bite your pillow and attempt to muffle his name on your lips.

Joel doesn’t want you, when you’ve been thrown around every corner trying to hang on to him. He left you in that damn snow and all your mind could think about was how sharp his jaw was, how big his hands were, how angry you were that he robbed you of your fantasy of him.

“I just—I…don’t know what came over me, I didn’t mean for you to see that.” Well of course he didn’t mean for you to see that. “Yeah, no I assumed—I’m the last person you want seeing you—like that. I’m sorry, again.” There's something in his eyes, a deep sorrow woven into his features. “How…how much did you see?”

God, does he really have to go there, when your thighs are pressed as tightly together as you can get them, when heat is pooling between your thighs and you have the urge to run up stairs and lock your door behind you. You reach up for your necklace out of instinct, run your fingers along the chain for an absent sensory input, thinking about the way it feels in your hand when you clutch it for dear life.

“I mean—about all ten inches, I’d say.” Its an easy joke you're hoping will ease the stress of the encounter, but Joel leans back against the walk and his head flops against the wood, eyes closing tight. You take the opportunity to drink your fill, let your eyes really roam over the softening bulge in his jeans. “Nine and a half—I…It’s nothing to…boast about or anything like that. I try not to…let anyone see that.”

See that? The biggest dick you’ve ever laid eyes on? He’s just walking around, hiding it from the world? “Why?” You don’t mean to ask, but how could Joel just walk around all day with a third fucking leg and not tell anyone about it?

“It’s embarrassin’. No one wants anything to do with that, nobody wants to deal with what it entails—I sure as hell don’t. Look, can we please just—please forget this happened? Don’t…tell anyone, please.”

Don’t tell anyone? You can't keep this to yourself? Joel miller, every daydream and fantasy you’ve had for the last two years—you can’t just keep that in if you tried—you have to tell someone. “Yeah, no of course not. This was traumatizing enough for both of us.”

His face drops further and he turns himself away, running his hand over his face—the same hand he just had on his dick—oh, fuck, you have to get out of here before you offer to finish him off, just to see how heavy it would feel in your hands, your mouth, your pussy—“I gotta go—“ you start to head for the door, but you remember why you came in the barn in the first place. “Can me and Tommy come with you to town later?”

He only turns for a moment to gaze at you. His eyes look shinny, his lip is drawn between his teeth because its shaking. Had you really embarrassed him that much?

When he speaks, his voice is tight and wobbly. “Yeah, that's fine.”

You leave as quickly as you came, already pulling out your phone and pulling up your best friend's number. When you get into the house, you make a bee-line for your room, slamming the door behind you while the call goes through. When she picks up on the other end, you’re already rambling. “Girl—hold on, I can't hear you. You’re talking too fast, slow down.”

You take a deep breath, clutch your necklace and try to calm yourself down. “I just walked in on Joel—it was an accident, but dude—dude it was huge.” There's a sharp gasp and a laugh on the other end of the phone. “Wait like, you walked in on him and someone?”

“No—I walked in on him jerkin’ off in the bathroom, he…ran away from me again this morning and Tommy came in right after, asked me to ask Joel if we could go to town with him and when I went to look for him, he was in the bathroom with his hand on literally the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.” Melly, on the other end, is laughing her ass off at you, trying her best not to snort at your bad luck. “This isn’t funny! He was so embarrassed, Mel—he said he doesn’t show it to people!”

She huffs on the other end of the phone. “Then how does he fuck anyone?”

And—well… “I never thought about that. Maybe he just…doesn’t? He seemed so ashamed, I don’t know what on earth there is to be ashamed of.” Ashamed of being blessed? Ashamed you walked in on him? Maybe it was because it’s you and you’re the last person he wants seeing him naked.

“Alright, let me get this straight—he ran away from you and five minutes later you found him beating his meat in the bathroom?” For lack of better words, well, yeah.

“Yes—that’s basically what happened, but it was more like three minutes? Because I wasn't far behind him.”

The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening, then Melly clears her throat. “Have you considered the idea that he runs away from you because you turn him on?”

You? You turn him on? You with your awkward posture and too gangly features? You can't even turn a car on half the time, let alone a grown man like Joel Miller. “Not a chance—he hates me, Mel, we’ve been over this.”

“You’ve been over this—you say he hates you all the time when maybe this whole time he thinks its you that hates him.” But that can't be true, because Joel can’t stand being around you. He hated you from the moment he saw you, hated your stupid fucking shoes you don’t wear anymore, hates that you went to college and lived in a big city and don’t let people walk on you. He hates you because you wanted to look pretty for him and he told you to crawl back to whatever place you came from, not even knowing that place was filled with longing to meet him. “No, you have to see it for yourself. You’re still coming down here for my birthday, right?” It’s in the middle of February, when the snow starts to subside.

She tells you that she is, but that she has to get back to work, so you hang up the phone and let yourself sink into the mattress. Its a lot to process—Joel running away from you to…masterbate, catching him in the act—that dick, Christ, even if you want to fuck him, you aren’t even sure if you’d be able to take him. A little deep dive into the internet tells you that you absolutely can—if you work up to it. With ample time and stretching, you’d be able to work up to that, and should it ever happen, you want it to be easy for him, after all, he seemed so ashamed that you’d seen him like that. He said he doesn’t show people, so that must mean it’s been a while since he’s had sex. That in and of itself, makes your heart ache from him—no matter how much he pisses you off, no one deserves to have the ability to receive pleasure stripped from them for merely having a larger—uh, tool. It’s not his fault he was born that way.

A few wrong turns on amazon and you find a (within your budget) toy that's, you guessed it—nine and a half inches and by the looks of it, the same girth as Joel. There is no other option for you but to purchase it—express mail straight to your doorstep.

And even if you never stand a chance with a six-foot towering cowboy, you can at least pretend for the rest of your life. Maybe that will finally starve off your want, fill that void you’ve had for the last two years longing for a made up man and this version of Joel wearing his skin.

It’s a few more agonizing minutes of thinking about the way he’d looked at you in the mirror when you’d spotted him in that bathroom, before you can actually track back to the before, how into it he was—working himself over quickly with a rough calloused hand and his ragged pant.

Fuck it—you have time, lots of time—Joel is probably going to avoid you for half the day before he heads to town, that is—if he even tells you he’s leaving. So you do what you're best at, roll yourself over to bury your face in the pillow while you sink your hand past your waistband and get to work. Its easy to picture something still so fresh in your mind, the way his shoulders heaved when he drew in a breath, how he would probably feel in your hand, your mouth, you’ll have to practice that too, how he’d probably hold you down and tell you to take it. He’d probably be ravenous if he could get past the hatred part. How long has it been since he’s been inside of someone?

You sink your teeth into the pillow and try to retain the sharp whine in your throat, but when you picture his disdain for you morphing into desire, the way the two would clash together in the most impossible way—it’s easy to bring yourself right to the edge. Easy to let yourself drift into that full bodied bliss that shoots up your spine and blooms at the base of your skull. God, the things he would probably say—the filthy fucking words that were made for that accent—the way he’d call you—

“Honey?”

“Amph-“ your eyes shoot open but its too damn late, that twangy southern draw sounds so fucking good saying your name like that and it’s the final straw, deep shadows of your relief robbing the vision from your eyes as they roll back, hand stilling with just the faintest of muffled whimpers to follow it. Yeah—he’d say your name just like that—just like he did on the other side of your locked door while you get off to the sound of it.

Your first big draws of air when you start to come down are into the pillow, trying your best to stifle the ragged way your lungs fill with oxygen until you’ve caught back up with yourself.

“We’re headin’ out in a few, if you're comin’.”

You pull your hand away and jump off your bed, trying to fix your hair and pull yourself together. One glance in the mirror tells you that this is as good as its going to get. You pull the door open and he’s already trying to find anywhere to else to put his eyes than on you, on your tight workout leggings and crew neck sweater—you aren’t anything special and you just saw his dick a half hour ago, so you understand why he wouldn’t want to look. “I was just, uhm—doing a workout zoom with my friend, you ever done one of those?”

God, did you just say that out loud? A fucking workout zoom, its no wonder this man wants nothing to do with you. “A…zoom workout? No—I get my cardio in before the sun's up. Real fuckin’ weird world you come from.” He turns his body slightly, like he’s trying to make his way out of this conversation but he doesn’t quite know how, so you lead the way. “I’ll just get my shoes on and I’ll be right down.”

He turns back and this time he does look at you, but it's at your feet, then a swift bounce up to your eyes. “You’re wearing shoes.”

One glance down and what do you fucking know—you are wearing shoes—stupid fucking shoes you suddenly hate. You hate that you can't get a single thought through your head when it's swimming in dopamine and adrenaline. Hate that he’s taken up so much space in your brain you can't think straight anymore. “If you don’t want to go because you’re…uncomfortable, you don’t have to stall so that I’ll leave. You can say it.” He holds his chin up bravely, you have to give him props for that. Thirty minutes and he can still hold his head up with dignity when he feels like he needs to stand up to you, but does he have to do it so accusingly? When did you give him the impression that you wanted to stay behind? When you’d asked him if you could go not two minutes after seeing him white knuckling it in the bathroom? When he knocked on your door and talked you through an orgasm without even knowing?

“Why do you always do that?” You cross your arms and feel that attitude creeping up on you. “Do what? Spare myself the humiliation?” The humiliation like he’s not staring you down fresh off a mind boggling orgasm. “No, decide what I’m feeling for me—what the fuck gives you the right to make up my mind for me?”

This bastard, who can pull an argument out of you in an instant—when you’d just been thinking nice things about him. “I’m coming with. Tommy’s promise of hard booze is sounding better and better by the minute.”

He huffs at you and it's all you get for a response. You follow him down the stairs and out to the truck, Tommy is waiting down stairs with a confused look, but you shake your head at him and he tails behind you on the way out the door. Joel moves fast across the snow covered yard, climbing in the already running truck with a slam of the drivers door. “What’s his problem?” Tommy makes a face at you when you stop at the tailgate of the truck. “He’s not in a good mood.” Tommy nods his head and walks over to the passenger door. “Course he isn’t, why would he be?” There's a laugh and he opens the door for you, but he doesn’t get in first—he makes you sit beside Joel, with his knee bouncing and his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He won't look at you, but you can tell he’s riddled with anxiety right now. When Tommy squeezes in beside you, you find yourself pressed up against Joel, from shoulder to his solid thigh.

The drive is uneventful because Joel turns on the radio and he doesn’t say anything. Not for the whole twenty five minute drive, Joel doesn’t make a sound, so you and Tommy sit in the uncomfortable silence and try to ignore the way his fingers tap and flex against the steering wheel. When you get into town, you give Tommy all the money you were able to scrounge up and he runs into the liquor store close to the feed store. You were going to sit in the truck and wait, but Joel leans against the door frame with his hands perched on the roof and his cowboy hat blocking the run from your eyes. “Since Tommy’s preoccupied, you’re gonna have to help me.”

Help him? You? “I have three hundred pounds of feed to load, unless you're afraid you’ll break a nail.” Does he have any idea how that works, that you don’t have long fake nails anymore like you did in college? “Well, I guess it's a good thing they are already busted then.”

Helping Joel load the truck means you get to watch him work, carrying two feed bags to your one, but his shoulders bulge when he lifts and you nearly have to cross your legs to push away the nagging thought. He probably looks so damn built under all those layers, beneath that Carhartt. By the time the truck is loaded, Tommy is back with a half gallon of bottom shelf whiskey that looks like a hangover just waiting to happen.

Joel doesn’t give the bottle a second look, but the ride home is just as quiet as the drive there.

It isn’t until later that night when you and Tommy crack open the bottle. It’s dark, but Joel is nowhere to be seen when Tommy makes a fire in the pit out front of the cabin. Your parents went to bed early and the last thing you wanted to do was keep them up, so you took the long walk to the cabin with a few blankets to keep you warm until the whiskey kicks in.

Thirty minutes of having your feet propped up by the fire while you pass the bottle back and forth and Joel finally comes into view, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he tries to walk straight past the two of you. “Come on man, can’t you join us? Sit by the fire with your brother?”

The older man shoots him a look, one you can't read but Tommy obviously does. “Come on, Joel—Tommy’s going to make me drink all of this by myself.” He steps onto the porch with his back turned, wiping the snow off his boots. “I don’t drink anymore.” Is the only response he gives. Like you hadn’t seen him drunk off his ass before.

Another hour passes before you see Joel again and by that time the half gallon is half empty, sitting between the two of you while you giggle and laugh about stupid humor Joel would probably huff at. Can someone remind you why it's the broody brother you want? Not the slightly asshole-ish one who knows how to take a joke? Tommy doesn’t exactly do it for you—not your type, no drive, no motivation—but he is Joel's brother, the closest thing you ever get to having the real thing.

You wonder if he’d fuck you like Joel would—they are brothers, so Tommy has to be just as well endowed at Joel, right?

Right on que, like he could hear you thinking about him, Joel comes out and stands behind your chairs. “Think you guys have had enough. Last thing I need is to be up all night because Tommy’s pukin’.”

He gives the emptying bottle a tap with his foot and you glance up at him. “Oh, come on, Joel—why are you always such a fun sucker? You just hate seeing people smile, is that it? Is it bad for maintaining your shitty mood?” Tommy laughs beside you and you ride off that chuckle, but not for long. “And here I thought alcohol would make you plaint, but I guess it just makes you more of a bitch.”

If your head wasn’t swimming in booze right now, you’d probably swing at him, but you aren’t coordinated enough for that right now, so you settle on a hard glare. “I don’t know man, I think I have a good idea of how she gets when she’s drunk.”

Joel's eyes shoot over to him like he already knows exactly where this is going. “Bet you get real feisty, huh? Whiskey always makes girls want it—get’s um horny.” When he talks, he’s looking straight at you—if Joel wasn’t standing right beside you, you probably couldn’t have the courage to hold his younger brother's gaze like that. You want it right now, god you do, but not from the brother that's asking.

“You’ve got no idea,” you tell him and Tommy smirks at you, then up at his brother who’s gone stiff. “Is it me or him? Because this one doesn’t look too willing to give you any kind of sugar.”

Joel downright growls at his brother. “Knock it the fuck off, Tommy—she’s a lady.” A lady that wants him to bend her in half and stuff her full right now—no matter how much it might hurt. “No she ain’t! A lady doesn’t drink half a bottle and want to fuck.”

There's a hard thud behind you and when you look at Tommy, he’s holding the back of his head where Joel smacked him. “I’m walkin’ her home.” He tells his brother, but doesn’t once ask what you want. It’s been too long, been way too long since someone touched you—and it might be the alcohol in your system or the desperation for a Miller that sends you down this path, but both directions lead you to the same destruction.

“Like fuck you are! You aren’t my dad, Joel—you don’t get to decide what I want all the time. If I want to drink half a bottle and fuck your brother, then you’re going to have to suck it up and listen through the damn wall.”

Joel’s look of anger quickly morphs into something you’ve never seen on Joel Miller—fear. Oh—yeah, you struck a nerve on that one. What does he think? You’re going to soil his baby brother? Does he really look down on you that much, that he’s afraid of you sinking your claws into Tommy? You don’t want Tommy, you want Joel, but you’ll never have that—so you grab Tommy by the hand, yank him up until he’s standing on equally wobbly feet before pulling him down to meet your mouth. He tastes like whiskey and it's nothing to write home about. There's no electricity, no real desire on your part. But you know you hit your mark when there's hard footsteps headed towards the house and a hard slam of the front door.

Tommy gets into it fast, his hands on your hips and his teeth nipping at your lips like he’s as desperate for you as you are for his brother. “Let’s go inside,” he hums and you agree—you’re already this far and you want to make Joel feel what you’ve felt for the past twos months, all this anger and bitterness, why the fuck doesn’t he want you like you want him.

“Do you think he’ll hear us, through the wall?” Tommy pulls away and makes a face of confusion. “Do you want him to?”

Do you? Want him to hear the way you could moan and gasp for him? The way you could beg him for more, deeper, harder? Absolutely. “Yeah—I want him to hear it.”

It's a rough and awkward tumble to his room, you fall against the wall and Tommy does his best to keep you up straight. The door beside Tommy’s room is closed and the light is off, but you can't hear anything inside.

You try not to think—try your hardest not to imagine Joel instead of his brother, but it's a futile attempt. All you can see right now is Joel with his cock in his hand lent over the bathroom sink and how much you wanted to get on your knees for him right then and there. “Can I suck your dick?” Tommy groans from where he stands at the end of the bed, you propped against his pillows, both of you in the midst of discarding your clothes. You get down to your panties and underwear by the time Tommy is left in just his briefs. “Yeah-fuck yeah, you can.”

It’s good, it’s working for you—until he drops his underwear and you’re left…underwhelmed. “You aren’t as big as him?” If it wasn’t for the alcohol in your system, you probably wouldn’t have said it in the first place—but how could you not? He’s half the size of his brother, if you’re being generous. He’s still decent sized, you’ve had bigger, but you cant help the pang of disappointment that you won't be able to pretend just for now.

“I—no, wait you saw it?” You wince and Tommy pulls his boxers back up, suddenly the room is filled with something other than desire. “It was an accident—I didn’t mean to, but I just thought…you’re brothers and all.”

Tommy sighs, turns himself and sits down at the end of the bed with his head in his hands. “You don’t want to do this with me.” He says. “I didn’t say that—“ he shakes his head at you and turns enough to look at you. “You’re disappointed that my dick isn’t as big as his—you don’t want this with me. I don’t want to fuck you while you’re imagining my brother.”

Okay—ouch, that one stung. But you can't argue a point because you have no truth behind it even if you tried. You were going to imagine him—press your hands to the wall and imagine you were on the other side of it. “I’m sorry, Tommy…It’s not you, I promise…you’re a good friend and you’re a nice guy, I just…”

He smiles at you and it eases some of your anxiety. Tommy might not be Joel, but he is a good friend. “It’s okay, I can see it…Don’t think I could take somethin’ that's already his.” But you aren’t, his, after all. He doesn’t look at you like that, doesn’t want you—doesn’t want to touch you like this when he’s so busy despising you.

“He doesn’t want me like that, Tommy.”

Doesn’t want to see you like this in his bed, half naked and begging for him. “How do you know that?” You fiddle your hands with the band of your underwear, where a string is fraying on the edge. “He hates me…can’t even stand to look at me, he’s made that pretty clear.”

Tommy chuckles slowly and tosses you his shirt. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Honey. Try, you might surprise yourself.”

You pull the shirt on and curl up on the pillow, letting your head swim in the whiskey that's starting to take its toll on you now. “Sleep in here tonight, won't try anything—I promise.”

He takes the spot beside you and you smile sleepily, pulling the blanket over the top of you. “Thanks Tommy.”

Sleep comes easy when you’ve drank as much as you have tonight and you try not to think about the other side of this wall.

In the next room, Joel sits fully clothed at the end of his bed with his head in his hands, trying his damndest to stop the tears burning his eyes and tracking down his face.

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