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chaotic-tired-bastard · 1 year

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Anyways here's a thingey I did and really like

I turned the corridor, my knees creaking and whirring as I walked, and finally found him. He was sitting at the window with his beaten-up hat in hand, staring off into the void speckled with stars. His grey-streaked hair was pulled back in a simple bun, the hair band barely containing the volume but somehow not breaking. I walked over and sat down, some small amount of steam hissing from my joints as I did so. My repairs were not yet complete- my chassis was bound to do things it shouldn't until I was completely fixed. He must have heard me, but he did not react.

I studied his face, which was partially blocked by shadow. In the darkness of space, there was nothing for light to bounce off of, so the only source of light in the room was a flickering overhead light near the door. His face, as much as I could see, was calm. The scars from countless machinery accidents and the life of a vagabond stretched across his face and neck like strokes of paint- like I could wipe them off with a wet rag and reveal unblemished skin.

"What are you doing?" I asked, looking out of the window.

There was nothing other than the coldness of space. I didn't know what cold was, as I didn't have any temperature receptors that allowed me to feel changes in temperature, but I've seen bodies crystallize into blocks of icy flesh after an incident with the sealing of hatches and the like. If space was hot, people would just burn up.

"I'm looking," He replied, his voice rough with age and whiskey.

I looked out again, surveying each individual star and charting them in my head. It was nothing new or of importance- just the same star system we had been floating about the past few days. I scanned them again for any other ships, any possible reasons to be so interested in what was out there, and found nothing.

"What are you looking at?" I asked, tilting my head toward him with a small whirr of gears, some steam hissing from my neck joint.

He looked out at the darkness, the stars and the void contrasting with his dark, warm skin, and I couldn't help but think how alien he looked, his features both familiar and foreign. Was it possible or proper for a robot to consider other life, even its creator, alien? He spoke, his face still turned away from me but his words carrying the emotions of a thousand years. "The Vast and Free Frontier."

#twas a warmup where I had to work in a lyric from a song I liked #Obvs I chose The Vast Frontier from the Steamworld Heist album bcs I was feeling the Space Cowboy Vibes™#anyways have this *throws it at you*#Original Work #Robot #Space #Unnamed Narrator #Unnamed Character #OHH MY GODS I LOVE THIS #I should write like this more often

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teapartyprincess4two · 2 months

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I need a jealous matt fic from you. like actuallyyyy

Urban Cowboy- M. Sturniolo

pairing: Cowgirl!reader x CityBoy!Matt

classification: fluff, angst

warnings: use of y/n, mentions of jealousy, slight cursing, mentions of alcohol and alcohol use, set in the county/ a ranch

inspiration: request^^, Urban Cowboy (the movie) but with a twist & none of the abuse. Also, we’re taking a different route with jealousy hehehe

summary: Matt, a city boy, tries one upping you, the best bull rider in town, only to be met with a painful outcome.

—

Every summer the triplets were shipped away to their grandparents ranch out in the country. For a couple of months, they left their busy city life behind in favor of days plowing the field, tending to livestock, and helping their grandparents out.

Since they were kids, Matt and his brothers have always loved summers out in the country. They spent their days swimming in the river, attending the state fair, running across acres of land, and riding their bikes down dirt roads. So many of their core memories were made during these summer trips, the change of pace allowing them to unwind and relax.

But, as the boys grew older, they began practicing less innocent hobbies. Days playing in the sun were replaced with long, drunk nights at local bars. They danced with attractive people, got into bar fights, and most importantly, they traded in their bikes for mechanical bulls.

Nick and Chris were experts on the mechanical bull, easily outlasting everyone else, but everyone knew that they were just the warmup. The real show started once Matt mounted that bull, his firm grip on the leather rope enough to hold him for longer than anyone else. He had an unmatched strength that helped him too, and he quickly became cocky about it.

Crowds of drunk people would gather just to watch Matt, cheering him on with each passing minute. They would bet on how long he’d last, each time surprised that he was able to hang on for so long. The mechanical bull thrashed and bucked, but Matt’s firm grip held him steadily in place.

No one could ever outlast Matt, until you came along at least. Unlike Matt, you weren’t a city transplant. No, you were born and raised in the country, spending more than just summers doing manual labor. So, where he had natural strength, you had muscles built from years of hard work. There was also another distinguishable difference; he was bull riding as a serious hobby, but you were only doing it for fun.

Bull riding is a past time you’ve practiced your whole life, you didn’t see the point in showing off, but the second you mounted that bull and beat Matt’s time, he couldn’t help but feel like you were. It felt like you were kicking dirt in his face.

Matt, Nick, and Chris watch from the bar. They’re sitting on the stools, facing the crowd that has piled up around you. The conductor, who sits just behind the bull setup, is jolting the remote aggressively from side to side, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t knock you off. Matt feels the jealousy stir in his stomach as the crowd cheers for you, they were only supposed to cheer for him!

“Who the fuck is that?” Matt grumbles mostly to his brothers, but loud enough for the bartender to hear.

Nick and Chris shrug, how were they supposed to know who you were? Chris calls the bartender over with a tilt of his head, silently ordering three beers with his hands.

The bartender immediately fills up three glasses, the alcohol fizzing and frothing at the top. “That’s Y/n… Her dad owns the mill on the outskirts of town, biggest flour company in the west. I heard they made enough money to buy another ranch last year… Shit, they own just about every business this side of town. Pretty sure they own this damn bar,” the bartender chimes in his deep country accent catching the boys off guard as he slides the glasses to them.

Matt, who’s leaning against the bar counter, crooks his neck to look at the bartender, looking him up and down before quickly averting his gaze back to you.

Matt can’t believe anyone could ever outlast his record time of 10 minutes, but as he watches the clock he notices that you were nearing 15. “She’s fucking beating you, dude,” Chris laughs, taking a sip of his beer before slapping Matt’s chest enthusiastically. The neon clock numbers are taunting Matt, causing him to clench his jaw as his pride gets the best of him.

His whole shtick was that he was the city boy who easily outlasted all these country kids, what good did that do if he was beat by a girl?

The mechanical bull thrashes violently as the conductor tries knocking you off, but you’re using your momentum to push you past the 15 minute mark. You don’t even look like you’re struggling either, a big smile plastered on your face as you grip onto the leather rope with one hand and your hat with the other. Everyone is watching excitedly, suddenly erupting into a loud cheer as you create a new record.

“I’ve never seen anyone last that long,” Nick comments, a look of awe and shock on his face. “Then you must not be from ‘round here. That girl is a natural on that thing, she wins the bull riding contest at the state fair every year,” the bartender replies, butting into the conversation once again before shaking his head and walking away.

Matt waits until he’s out of earshot to say, “What the fuck does that mean? ‘You must not be from ‘round here?’” He puts on a dramatic, exaggerated country accent as he says the last part, an annoyed look written all over his face.

You’re standing on the bull now, riding it like a surfer rides a wave. The crowd is going crazy, cheering you on as you continue putting on a show. A smile is spread across your face as you gently sit back down, laying on your back and propping your feet on the horns, your hands weaved between your thighs as you hold onto the leather rope. Everything about your performance was effortless, and it angered Matt.

Matt decides he’s seen enough when you throw both legs to one side, casually holding yourself up with your hands on either side of your hips. He snatches his beer from the bar violently, practically chugging it before throwing it back in the counter. He sucks in through his teeth shortly after at the strong sensation, following it with a burp before throwing his hat back on and stomping over to the crowd.

“I’ll show you who ain’t from ‘round here,” Matt mutters, pushing his way through the crowd until he’s directly in front of the inflatable foundation of the bull machine. You walk right past him as you dismount, making brief eye contact as you drunkenly giggle and laugh your way to your friends. He watches as you stumble, dizzy steps guiding you through the crowd. For some reason this only further upsets Matt, causing him to mount the bull haphazardly.

He sends the conductor a look, signifying that he’s ready to start, before gripping the leather rope so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The machine starts off slowly, rocking back and forth at a pace that gives Matt enough time to properly adjust himself.

But, before he knows it, the bull is gyrating, twisting, and turning so aggressively that he’s struggling to hold on. Matt’s mind is racing with thoughts, the fear of embarrassment causing the anxiety to build up. It feels like the conductor is purposefully trying to knock him off with enough force to hurt him, and it doesn’t help that no one in the crowd is cheering.

After the show you just gave, Matt’s performance was sub par in comparison. He was stiff as a board from the nerves, making it harder to keep his balance. By this point his his hat flew off, bouncing on the inflatable floor beneath him, and he was holding onto the rope for dear life.

“Look at this guy, showing off because he got beat by a girl,” someone snickers from the crowd, the comment being followed by a roar of laughter. That’s when the conductor bucks the machine forward, quickly knocking Matt onto his stomach before pulling the remote and forcing Matt to straighten his back to stay mounted.

Just as he’s gaining confidence in himself, the bull tilts to the right sharply enough to send Matt flying. The inflatable cushion beneath him does nothing to break his fall, the sheer force at which he was thrown being enough to break his arm. The crowd immediately groans as they watch Matt’s body ricochet when it comes in contact with the edge of the ring.

You were facing away from the crowd, engaged in a conversation with your friends, but as soon as you hear the crowd groaning and yelling you turn towards the scene. Matt is laying on the ground, clutching his arm as he tries to breathe through the pain. Everyone watches, but nobody helps, they just stand there either laughing or wincing at the idea of being in that much pain.

“Move!” you exclaim, pushing your way through the crowd and immediately walking into the ring. The spongy ground makes it harder to walk to Matt, who’s looking at you with wide eyes. This was the most embarrassing moment of his life.

You crouch in front of him, using all your force to pull him up from the ground while still being careful not to hurt him.

He lets you pick him up and guide him to a secluded area. His cheeks are burning hot with embarrassment and his eyes sting, the tears threatening to spill from the build up of anxiety and pain.

But he sucks it up and follows you, avoiding everyone’s wandering eyes.

—

“It don’t look broken, just sprained,” you comment, wrapping a bandage around Matt’s limp wrist. He hums in response, avoiding eye contact with you and you can’t figure out why.

“Sorry if I’m oversteppin’. just thought you could use some help,” your country accent is thick, and for the first time since the night started Matt isn’t completely jealous of you. He’s silently grateful that you evacuated him from the embarrassing situation, immediately feeling guilt for trying to one up you and show off.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, wincing as you accidentally pull his wrist. Once the pain subsides he continues, “you were pretty great out there.” The compliment hurts his ego, but you’re being so kind to him that he puts his own jealousies to the side. Matt’s sitting on a bar stool, the both of you in a secluded corner of the bar as you continue tending to his injury.

“Thanks, weren’t too bad yourself,” you offer him a genuine smile, gently placing his arm onto his lap. It was evident, just by looking at him, that Matt wasn’t from here and that made him more alluring. You stand in between his legs, the close proximity building a tension that neither of you know what to do with.

“Can I be honest?” he asks, once again avoiding eye contact and looking into the distance. His eyes train on the mechanical bull, watching as someone else takes a turn on it. You hum in response, trying to move in front of his line of vision to catch his attention.

“I only got on that bull because I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” His statement caught you off guard, what did he have to be jealous of?

“Yeah, jealous. It sounds childish, but I really wanted to beat your time… all I ended up with was a sprained wrist,” he chuckles, fiddling with his fingers. If he wasn’t being so vulnerable, and if he wasn’t injured, you might’ve gotten upset.

“Well, I’ve seen you ride before. You’re better than everyone here,” you reply, trying to keep the conversation uplifting.

“Not better than you.”

“Yeah, not better than me,” you reply seriously, waiting for him to face you before smiling. “I’m kidding,” you laugh, punching his shoulder slightly. He winces before joining you with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry. I can teach you a few moves,” you continue, your eyes wrinkling from how hard you were smiling. Matt’s smiling too, he felt silly for feeling jealous earlier.

“I’d like that,” he chuckles, opening his legs wider for you to scoot in closer. You take the invitation, your hats bumping together slightly. The smile on your face is engulfed by Matt’s lips as he moves in for a kiss, his uninjured wrist resting on your waist.

“Easy there, cowboy,” you murmur as you feel his hands inch down towards your ass. He laughs in response, going in for another kiss.

—

MASTERLIST

a/n:

Cowboy Matt is my favorite. I might make a part two that’s much more angsty bc we need that full Urban Cowboy moment, but for now enjoy this 😋

-L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

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