#for once forever doesn't look impossible; it looks exciting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

painted-bees · 10 months

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Haha! Okay..! [[deep inhale]]

So, back before Magritte moved in with Raf, when they were first just meeting up for weekly jam sessions at the recording studio, Raf had kinda…only agreed to jam with her on the conditions that nothing would be recorded, no photos or social media posts about it, none of that. Magritte didn't care, she just wanted to play music with someone who was fun to play music with and wouldn't get bored of her after only an hour of it. She never pushed it. It never even came up in conversation. Total non-issue.

Eventually, once Magritte moved in and Raf started getting more confident/comfortable about her, he found that he very enjoyed collaborating with her on compositions, and had found himself wishing he could hear recordings of it. And so, it was him who suggested that they record some of the stuff they played, and–allowed her to post it to YouTube and such, so long as he was left uncredited or given a pseudonym.

Magritte wasn't comfortable leaving him uncredited, and so consistently credited him as "Albatross" whenever his contributions were present in the work and recordings she posted. Raf knew about this, she never uploaded anything without permission. Her online presence/audience was very small and humble, it was fine.

They began playing at very small venues together, their "band" being named something totally different, and increasingly silly with each new gig. For Raf, this was his deliberate, careful, slow crawl out of a decade of extreme burnout. He promised himself that if it became at all stressful or stopped being fun, then he'd stop--plain and simple.

His hard, fast rule with Magritte was "no contracts". If something required his signature, it wasn't gonna happen. He wasn't interested in getting dragged back into the "business" of music and showmanship, but he was very cautiously keen on rediscovering his joy for playing violin, and of playing to an audience. Magritte was, genuinely, the perfect accompaniment to help him ease back into it on his own terms. Though she wanted to make a living with her music, the money wasn't her goal--it was simply a thing that would allow her to keep playing music. If she didn't need the money to live, she'd have been content just playing music for fun every day for whoever would wanna listen to it. There were no dreams of "making it big" just dreams of "doing this forever, without anything else getting in the way of it".

It's hard to say if it was due to one of Magritte's "Albatross" uploads, or if it was an audience recording from one of their small venue shows, or something else that put them on the radar, but one afternoon, Magritte received a very exciting email from the A&R division of a major record label--and experienced that ADHD bone-rattling excitement that only an impossible dream-come-true email inquiry could provide lmao.

She and Raf stop by a local coffee shop after work most days, and this was when Magritte decided to hand Raf her phone, asking if the email looked legit. He seemed to be in a pretty good mood, and she intended for the question to serve as a barometer as to whether she should suggest giving the label a chance or not. She figured, if he seemed uncomfy just assessing whether the inquiry was real and not a scam, then she wouldn't push it further than that.

But honestly, with a label this big, if it was legit, he'd at least be a little curious to know more about the offer, right?

No.

It's doubtful that Raf had even read past the first line of the email before his "pretty good mood" became stiff and cold as stone. Magritte felt the chances of a receptive outcome drop below zero as she watched the muscles of his jaw tense up.

His response was to ask, "Why are you bringing this to me? It doesn't matter if it's a scam or not, we had an agreement."

Taken aback by his hard, almost hostile tone, Magritte stammered that she thought he'd at least find the inquiry somewhat amusing, but "you're not even going to consider it, just for a second?" Raf repeated to her again that he had already told her contract and such were out of the question. She had been fine with it, she had assured him, even, that it was a non-issue. “Yeah, but–this one’s kind of a big deal.” To which Raf balked, “You thought I’d just change my mind if a ‘big enough’ company reached out to us?” And Magritte, defensively, blurted, “No, because it didn’t even cross my mind as a possibility!”

Raf pushed the phone over the table to her, and leaned back in his seat, stunned for a moment by the onslaught of his own racing thoughts and really, all he was able to say was "Why are you doing this to me? Why you?"

Recognizing that 1) she really stepped in it, and 2) she was too excited about this stupid email to abandon the pursuit of its possible offer as suddenly as the situation was demanding her to, Magritte stood to her feet suddenly, muttering apologies, saying something in frazzled tones about needing to get her thoughts straight before she said something stupid. She took her abrupt leave, but not before telling Raf that she'll meet him at home because she needs to settle her brain over a walk before she can talk reasonably with him about it. A quick “I love you” and she was out.

Genuinely, it was the best thing she could think to do in order to avoid stubbornly, injuriously digging into the subject deeper while her ears and face flushed hot with both shame and disappointment. It wasn't going to be a productive conversation while her vision danced with black splotches under the intensity of her emotions.

Unfortunately, removing herself from the situation as suddenly as she had created it meant that she had left Raf to sit and plummet into dread, with no voice to counter the incomprehensibly catastrophic flurry of his thoughts.

As he had grown more and more comfortable with her, there had been a louder and louder alarm in his consciousness that told him the other shoe was gonna drop, that he had to back off if he wanted to avoid the devastating affirmation that Magritte, too, had only ever intended to use him. God, she played him so brilliantly, too. How had she managed to convince him to let her record? To post their sessions? To play in venues. How had she managed to get him to suggest it, like it had been his idea. It felt crazy to him that he somehow didn't realise it was all leading to exactly this situation. He had considered it, the notion was always there tickling the back of his mind like a persistent rash…but he really, really thought he was just being paranoid. He wanted so badly to believe he was…just being paranoid. Like a fucking idiot.

He got himself home, it was past dinner time, he didn't wait for Magritte to get back. Slammed back some sleeping meds and slam dunked himself into bed in order to avoid losing his goddamned mind.

Magritte's evening was…considerably more productive. The walk back home began with her mulling over all the ways Raf was being unreasonable and unfair for not at least entertaining the email. If the offer turned out to be no good, then it was no good! They should at least be able to discuss and consider it in a calm and mature manner, right? While it was true that he already had (and ended) an extremely successful musical career, she herself had yet to even get her foot in the door. She wasn’t anywhere near close to being able to make ends meet with her music, and her parents would never take her hard work and passion for it seriously until she was able to prove to them that it was actually worth something; that it was a sustainable, reliable path to pursue. It shouldn’t have mattered to her what they thought, but for some reason, she couldn’t help but make their approval/recognition/validation a core motivating factor in proving herself as a ‘competent’ musician. That competency, unfortunately, was measured by income and the willingness of a well known company to invest in her work. Being able to tell her parents that she was signed under something like Universal or such would have definitely turned their opinion around, and maybe…MAYBE they’d even see the value in helping her afford to study music at a university..! And shit, she’d finally be able to contribute to paying rent and utilities without breaking a sweat about it…she might even have gained an expendable income, she could finally start repaying Raf for all those little gifts and surprises he’d treat her with. Imagine.

Even before she had attempted to approach Raf about the email, she already had the picture of their life making music together as they have been–but with a more tangible goal/purpose, and without any outside obligations taking them away from just waking up and jamming every day. Playing music that just…paid for itself. Stress free!

But Raf couldn’t even entertain it. He was so upset that she’d even bring it up at all. Did he even read the email? Or did he see just the subject line and shut down?

She elected to read the email again, an effort to soothe herself by finding any reason to believe it was just a scam; that all her excitement and fanciful thoughts of the future were just her getting childishly ahead of herself. She didn't find what she was looking for. The name of the scouting agent was legit, there was no mention of money nor a fee, the email was clear, straightforward, and without any hype-y language. But what Magritte did notice–that she had somehow missed the previous fifty times she had read the email–was that the email didn’t refer Raf by his ‘Albatross’ pseudonym. It had named him in full; Rafael Ephrem. Somehow, -somehow-, the person who sent the email had been able to identify him. And–if they knew who he was… Magritte considered…The inquiry was sent to her email but the offer, specifically, was likely much more interested in him. It made sense. Magritte herself was untrained and unproven; a literal nobody. But, she was the only person Raf was making music with, and his name was very provenly bankable; a safe bet. Magritte had been so flattered and excited by the notion that she was being noticed and contacted by a label, it had been such an uplifting validation–but… The simple fact was that they likely would not have given Magritte the time of day had they not, somehow, recognized Rafael’s involvement in her work.

The offer was about him, not her. She was simply easier to get in touch with.

When she considered the situation from that angle, other aspects became apparent. Raf had, in no uncertain terms, been very clear from the beginning that he would not be signing anything with her. She knew that he was recovering from burnout, that he was wholly disinterested in pursuing music in any kind of professional capacity. Even if he had gone along with indulging Magritte’s excitement for her sake, would he have been sacrificing the joy of making music with her, and surrendering himself to the labor of it, instead? Would it have slowly soured their relationship? If he felt obliged and pressured to create and play, would that have leached the joy out of it?

By ignoring the inquiry, Magritte wasn’t actually losing anything, herself. There was much to gain, potentially, by pursuing it–but she lost nothing in ignoring it. Things were already really good. She liked the relationship she had with Raf, as it was. He had given her a place to stay, and encouraged her near single-minded focus on music, allowed her to compose and play music as much as she wanted without pressuring her to divide her focus on other, more ‘important’ things. He didn’t take offence or feel ignored when she’d spend an entire weekend in her room just doin’ music stuff. He’d never even startle her out of the productive flow by shouting her name from the kitchen, in annoyance, to tell her for the upteenth time that she needed to clean the dishes right now. He let her pursue her joy and, often, he’d delight in joining in on it as well. This was the happiest, most comfortable she had ever felt in her life. In her mind, signing onto a label would have just let her continue doing that, but more securely.

For Raf, though…signing onto a label, being forced to take the work ‘seriously’, it likely felt like a tremendous loss to him. And–she had put him in an unfair position. If he signed on, he’d be surrendering himself to the work he did not wish to do, and would be inching ever closer to the life he had worked so hard to escape and recover from. But–by defending his own desires, comforts, and boundaries, and shutting down this whole label thing without giving it any space to sink roots as a tree of possibility, he risked planting the seeds of resentment into their relationship by denying her a potentially life-changing opportunity that he, no doubt, knew was of tremendous significance to her. From his perspective, it must have looked like a lose-lose situation. A situation that he had foreseen and took fair measures to avoid long, long in advance. He had already told her from the very beginning that this was something he would not do. But she had to test it anyway. Because she got too excited. Because of course she did.

Nah, she decided. She’d just get back home, tell Raf she was suffering excite-brained tunnel vision, wasn’t thinking realistically, and that she had therefore agreed with him that they’re much better off to just keep doing what they’ve already been doing–because that’s been working out just fine and she’d rather not introduce anything that could ruin it for them. She shouldn’t have brought it up. Even just the fact that she felt she needed to ease him into the conversation as softly as possible–by asking about the legitimacy of the email instead of diving into the meat of the matter–should have been enough to tell her that she was pushing it. She had known she was–but she bulldozed ahead with her excitement, anyways. And it had upset him. Hopefully not too much, since she felt she had taken some care with her approach, but yanno. He was clearly upset–and after going through such clear, careful measures to avoid this kinda thing, he kinda had a right to be. She needed to apologise.

By the time she got home, Raf had already put himself to bed–which worried Magritte somewhat. She never liked going to sleep without closure. But, she resolved to tell him her conclusions in the morning and hoped for an otherwise normal day.

And so, when the morning rolled around and she found Raf making coffee in the kitchen, she began with a “good morning”, an apology for not getting back home before he fell asleep, and then she simply unloaded the entire content of her thoughts and conclusions from the previous evening. She felt proud of herself for being able to reassess things with as much fairness and objectivity as she could manage, and she was confident in her choice to completely ignore the whole ‘email inquiry’ thing. More than that, she was beyond apologetic for even asking him to consider it, admitting to him that she realised it kinda put him between a rock and a hard place. She then suggested it’d be best just to assume the email was a scam anyways, “is that ok?”

Raf, who listened to her whole spiel without a single interruption, watched her for a silent moment with half-lidded disinterest (or was he just tired?) before replying with a flat, “mmhm.”

“Okay.” Magritte had been hoping for some assurance that her reasoning, her apology, and her resolution were…yanno…adequate or somthing. But, as Raf sipped his coffee with an unconversational, chilly demeanour, Magritte wasn’t feeling assured by any measure. And so, to find an emotional baseline, Magritte offered a mousey, but genuine little “I love you.” To which Raf replied with a slight twitch of a smirk and an avoiding gaze, “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.”

Immediately, Magritte felt as though she had been tossed whole-bodily off a cliff, and didn’t pursue the conversation further. Shut right up, and spent the rest of the morning very quiet and withdrawn. Too uncomfortable and ashamed to take up space in Raf’s apartment for very long, she headed out to find a quiet, isolated park bench or something to cry on lmao, ‘cuz whuff.

Raf, who had fully expected that his snipey reply would coerce Magritte to trade out the ‘timid sad mouse’ act for something a lot more angry and defensive, was largely unsure of what to do with a Magritte–that instead–seemed to have completely shut down. Before she left, while maintaining his defensive coldness, Raf bothered to measure her vitriol by way of asking Magritte if she needed a ride anywhere. As delicately and sweetly as she could–Magritte declined, telling him it was ok, not to worry about it. And that was really the only additional dialogue they had together that morning. She should have been mad at him. She went through all the trouble of explaining things, apologising, and capitulating to him–and he deliberately stonewalled her in an attempt to get her to unmask. He had called out her bluff; she wanted something from him, he refused to give it to her, she attempted to take the higher ground, putting him in the position where the kindly, good response would have been to capitulate in kind–at least by confirming that the email wasn’t a scam after all, and reopening that dialogue for a more ‘level-headed’ conversation. But he identified the manoeuvre and deliberately shut it down. And then–out of pure spite–he refused to provide her the simple reassurance that a half hearted ‘I love you, too’ might have provided. Because he had spent the entire night and the whole morning fretting, and questioning, and dreading everything–and being the source of it, she deserved to feel it, too. But then her response had been to … ???? ????????? She left, but she didn’t take anything with her, she didn’t pack her belongings or make a show of wanting to move out, none of that kind of thing. She didn’t tell him he was being unreasonable or unfair, or that he needed to think things over. She just sorta–disintegrated in front of him. Just completely wilted. Wtf did that even mean??? Was she trying to guilt him? What else was she going to do? Likely, she intended on just avoiding him until he was ready to apologise or something. Like–if he phoned her right now, she wouldn’t answer. Right? To test his “punishment by avoidance” theory, he called her number–only to hear her answer on the second ring. And–after he hesitated for a moment too long, she asked if he was okay–if there was anything she could get him while she was out. Not having planned to actually say anything, Raf grasped for something believable to ask, landing on “Do you have your keys with you? I’m going to be at my uncle’s so the door will be locked.” To which Magritte assured him that yes she’s got keys, no worries. Say hi to uncle Bill for her.

This kinda sent Raf’s thoughts scattering. She was upset, she was -clearly- upset, he gave her reason to be upset and then he gave her more reasons to be upset. She had spent the whole morning looking downright miserable. She WAS upset, but she wasn’t…putting him through it. She wasn’t punishing him or reasoning with him or trying to position him. She wasn’t worried about him talking to his uncle, which means she hadn’t gone to him herself to get him on her side of this whole thing. What the fuck did she have on him? If she–worse case scenario–decided to get back at him by getting in contact with his mother, then she’d have to–

“Oh. I’m being crazy.” It was almost like a record skip. Any time ‘his mother’ popped up as part of a ‘logical course of action’ in what ever the fuck he was freaking out about, it served as a blaring alarm signaling that he had left grounded reality behind. No matter how much fucking sense it made to him, or no matter how careful his thoughts were in framing it as ‘unlikely’ or ‘worst case scenario’, any, ANY consideration of ‘his mother’ as a thing that could happen to him was a signpost that he had left the realm of reasonability. He made it a deliberate rule that the moment she popped up in his brain, he needed to assume he was thinking irrationally–until he could get a second opinion (and maybe a third, if he didn’t like the second). At least in this way, ‘his mother’ served as a helpful guiding figure in his life. Christ. Alright, alright. At what point did he fall off the rails, though? Magritte DID come to him about a…fucking A&R inquiry of all things. That was real, that happened. She got upset that he wouldn’t entertain it. That was also real, that also happened. How was he supposed to take that? She knew, she knew–it was something he would not do. He had told her, he had told her more than once–he was so clear about it. The rest made no sense to him, if his assumptions from that point forward were in fact…ungrounded.

And so, while he hadn’t actually planned to visit his uncle that day, Raf showed up at his door anyway. Sat down with him, and walked him through the events; the actual, physically observable things that happened, and the things that were said out loud. And Uncle Bill kinda made the “yikes” face, because…yikes.

So, uncle Bill attempted to recount from his perspective; Magritte pushed a boundary, no question. But–the assumption regarding why she did that needed to be challenged. Was it something she had been actively planning for and waiting on? Did she manipulate Raf into feeling safe enough to shed his boundaries? Did she use Raf as bait to reel in offers and interests she wouldn’t have been able to get otherwise? Well…What do we know about Magritte? We know that she’s excitable, impulsive, she projects and assumes the best case scenarios and constantly counts her chickens before they hatch. She can’t keep a secret to save her life. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, which makes her a terrible liar... Bill recites that, according to Raf, Magritte cited excitement, impulsiveness, and the thought of being able to make more music with the added benefit of financial security as her reason for bringing the email to him in the first place. She liked the idea of being able to help pay his rent, she wanted money to buy him gifts the same way he had bought gifts for her. Bill suggested that, if they were to read her motivations in a manner consistent with what they know and have seen about Magritte as a person, the future she was projecting on this inquiry email didn’t exclude him as a beneficiary, he was very much included in her happy little fantasy as someone she wanted to share the experience with. Magritte’s excitement had given her this same kind of tunnel vision before, preventing her from seeing other perspectives or outcomes of a captivating situation. And–they’ve seen that go both ways for her. It’s worked out before, but more often, it really doesn’t, and the fallout usually hurts her more than it hurts anyone else.

So–what’s more possible? That Raf has now found himself in the splash zone of this kind of…hypomanic/giddy impulsive behaviour they’ve seen from Magritte a few times already? Or is Magritte finally showing a more selfishly machiavellian side of herself that she was so good at hiding, it was barely comprehensible? “Okay, but…” Raf asks if his uncle had any explanation for why Magritte, despite being obviously upset, was putting an effort to act as though he wasn’t the reason for it? To which Bill was like, “well, have you asked her?” before, maybe a bit foolishly, offering up his best guess of “She already told you she knew she was in the wrong. She apologised. You didn’t accept her apology. My guess? She’s just gonna do what you want her to do. Stop making music with you? End the relationship? Get her to move out? I don’t recommend testing it unless it’s what you actually want.” Bill offered his honest opinion to Raf, that Magritte’s a good one. A very good one. And Raf needs to talk to her–about all of this. They’re both good kids, they’ll figure it out.

When Raf returned home, the door was unlocked and Magritte’s shoes were on the boot rack. He didn’t see her in the kitchen nor the living room, and so knocked on her bedroom door, asking her to sit with him on the couch when she had a moment to do so.

He had barely sat down before he heard the door to Magritte’s room creak open. Soon after, she sat curled into herself on the opposite end of the couch from him, eyes and nose peeking out from behind her knees. Small.

There was a moment of silence between them before Raf asked, “Honestly, now; are you pissed off at me?”

Magritte answered, “No, but you are, at me.”

He elected to make no platitudes about it, “I was. I’m trying not to be. What are you expecting me to say?” To which Magritte replied, muffled into her knees, “I don’t know…don’t make me answer that. I don’t know.”

And so Raf asks instead, “What are you hoping for?”

“I don’t know, I love you. You don’t even gotta love me back but I wanna play music with you and I want us to keep having fun together and I want to delete the whole past twenty-four hours from my brain. That’s all.” And, while Raf paused to weigh that in his mind, Magritte hesitantly added, “I think there’s something wrong with me.” “With you?” Raf was taken a bit aback by this.

Magritte continued, “How does anyone get so excited and eager about something that it ruins everything? It didn’t even exist, it wasn’t real, there was no deal. They could have come back with an offer that was like ‘we want all ur music for zero monies’, ‘we want full, exclusive rights to your name, likeness, and social security number’, ‘we will provide you a $2 advance in exchange for your first born child’. Like–it could have been total garbage–I don’t know, it didn’t exist. But in my mind, it did exist, it was gonna be great, and–we were gonna be able to make so much music together, just like we are already, but without any of the stress. That wasn’t real, either. There’d have been so much more stress.” As she sunk further into herself, she concluded, “This is real. This sucks. I put us here.”

At this, Raf couldn’t help but let a genuine laugh escape through his nose as a little snort. “Actually…This isn’t so bad.” It wasn’t meant to be an insensitive snort, the irony had simply struck him. While Magritte had been carried away by dream situations, Raf had been consumed by nightmare scenarios. For him, the reality of sitting on the couch with Magritte, trying to come to grips with the fact that she hadn’t been trying to manipulate him like a tool, that she had been operating on the pure puppy-like head-empty jovial excitement that he was usually so fond and protective of–was a huge upgrade from the situation he had been imagining in his head. For Magritte, sitting on the couch with him, trying to come to grips with the fact that she may have negatively impacted a relationship and living situation that she had enjoyed dearly–was most certainly a gut-wrenching downgrade from the rosy “make music, get money, laugh and play” dream she had been imagining in her head. Raf had to be honest with her; he was still entirely firm on his stance of no contracts, no labels…and now–probably no live shows nor online media posts featuring him in any capacity. At least, not for a while. It would be too much of a raw nerve for him, and not something he wanted to stress over. They could still jam, and record–for themselves, privately. And sincerely, this was all it took for Magritte to uncurl her knees from under her chin, and perk up with hopeful gratitude. That she didn’t look as though she were being punished by Raf’s backsliding into old restrictions, and instead appeared genuinely surprised and happy that they could still just make music together–convinced Raf that Uncle Bill’s assessment had been, as usual, spot on. Magritte was a good one. A very good one.

He couldn’t stop himself from asking though, “If I said no more music, full stop–?” “Could I still play music?” “Well–yeah.”

“Would you let me make you listen to it??”

“I like your music, Magritte–”

Her big, happy grin said plenty, before it dissolved into big, blobby tears and wet sniffles.

She admitted that she was so scared he was gonna tell her the whole thing was over, but he didn’t and she’s so relieved, and she loves him so much and she’s so sorry.

Struck a bit numb by the notion that ‘ah, I’ve been a complete asshole’, Raf pulled her into a big ol’ hug, buried his face into her hair, and apologised in kind for his deliberate callousness in the morning–and more than that, for allowing his fear and suspicion convince him in the first place that she was something she wasn’t. It wasn’t right of him, it wasn’t fair to her, and this whole situation could have been resolved over breakfast if he had just…believed what she was saying at face value. Or at least he could have tried not to be a dick about it until he talked it over with his uncle. He couldn’t promise that he’d never fuck up like this again, just like she couldn’t promise that she wouldn’t get carried away either–but he promised to always return her statements of affection, especially in moments when he’s mired in panic and suspicion… to serve as a reminder to himself as much as to reassure her.

Because, in truth–though he’d never saddle her with the knowledge of this–she’s the closest he’s ever felt (outside of guilt-motivated blood relatives) to believing that someone could afford him genuinely unconditional love. A great deal of his fear is rooted in the understanding that–if she was proven to be playing him, there was absolutely no hope–zero chance that he’d ever be able to convince himself that he could just be–loved like a normal human being.And that’s not a state of mind he thinks he could confidently survive. For Magritte’s part, any music or career-related thing that requires his involvement–she just doesn’t entertain unless he’s the one bringing it to her. Raf has never stopped her from pursuing music in a professional capacity where it didn’t involve him–in fact, he has always been extremely eager and supportive from the side-lines. She is literally, without any question, his favourite musical artist. Most of her equipment these days is bought and paid for by him, any opportunity he can find for her, he brings to her–and he is only able to comfortably, confidently do so because she never asks or expects it of him.

Her favorite music is the music she makes with him, and eventually…eventually…they do end up performing shows together again (along with Cortes). But their music is theirs first and foremost. For themselves, before anything else. And it is a gift more precious to her than anything.

#Cortes #long post #LOONG post lmao sry #Hi-Note #rafael #magritte

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delopsia · 9 months

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Two Little Rings | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 10,400 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader. Blood, bodily injury, scarring, food, Rhett gets hurt a lot, proposals, blow jobs, unprotected sex, Perry Abbott. Contains a special blink-and-you-miss-it introduction to a future reoccurring character, Archie ❤ Brief Summary: Bob keeps trying to ask you and Rhett to marry him, but he keeps picking the worst possible times to pop the question.

These rings might as well be boulders.

Heavy, weighing down his pocket with their big, "look at me!" attitudes and distinct, round shapes that Bob swears are leaving massive indents in his back pocket. Their unmistakable appearance begs someone, anyone, to look and realize what he's planning before he's even tried to pop the question.

Try being the keyword here.

They're too heavy to even sit in his palm. Wavering, about to drop them at any given moment. Sweat beading on his forehead. Heart hammering against his chest so hard he's surprised it hasn't broken out.

"Bobby!" Comes your voice from across this big, unfamiliar house, "Did you notice that there's a deck in the second bedroom?"

"No?" It's only one little word, and yet his lie feels as obvious as the sun in the sky. He'd noticed it when the realtor showed the blueprints, but he's not about to ruin your excitement.

Once again, he drops the little rings into his pocket, allowing them to resume taunting him with their barely there outlines. Walking to the bedroom should be easy, but these little hunks of metal are threatening to jump out and ask you and Rhett the question themselves. Even the sound of them would be unmistakable.

And the echo in this house is horrible.

Given it's entirely empty. Every house the three of you have toured so far has suffered with it. Every little sound jumps off the hardwood, ricochets off the too-white walls, and bounces down the hall. Even from here, he can hear the soft pitter-patter of your tennis shoes and the heavy clunk of Rhett's work boots.

And the clicks of the realtor's shiny black heels. Following loosely behind him. Grinning down at the phone in her hand because those damned rings have garnered her attention, and she can't miss the chance to catch a proposal on camera. What's worse, confronting her on it would ruin the whole damn surprise.

He wonders if his smile looks as forced as it feels.

She's got to put her phone away eventually...right?

"What did you find?" He's asking as he passes the threshold; doesn't know what to say, but it feels like something he should say.

Rhett jabs his index finger toward the open door on the other side of the room, "deck." That's all he says. Not another word needed. Those deep blue eyes glitter with what Bob can only place as hesitant excitement. This is the best house the three of you have viewed yet, but it's hard to get hopes up when the past house fell through.

And the house before that. And the house before that one. And the house before that house...

Heels click up behind him, overapplied, floral perfume meeting his nose. It's impossible to have a third eye on the back of his head, but he can feel the lens of the realtor's camera trained on his back. Burning a little hole through his t-shirt and into his skin.

"And you said how many offers were made on this house today?" Clearing his throat, Bob turns, and maybe, just maybe, she'll have to scamper back to the kitchen to review her notes before she can give him a clear answer.

"Four." Short. Sweet. Straight to the point. But at least now she's shyly pocketing her phone. Caught in the act and unsure of where to go from here. "The owners have until midnight to decide whether they'd like to accept or reject them."

Four?

Hell, maybe this isn't going to be your forever home, either.

In his peripheral, Bob can see you emerge from the deck, quietly shutting the door behind yourself. You've got that same starry look in your eyes that Rhett carries; this is it, this is the one.

But it seems four other parties have had the same thought. And Bob hasn't the slightest clue what their bid is or if the three of you are even capable of topping the offers.

"Can we have a moment to talk about the house by ourselves?" You ask, your shoulder brushing against Bob's as you come to stand next to him, intent on being close.

Mere moments ago, Bob was looking for a way to get her to leave, hoping to find a chance to pull those two little rings out of his pocket. But now, as he listens to her heels click down the hallway, he can't bring himself to reach for them. Four offers. There are four offers.

Maybe proposing here isn't such a good idea.

Knuckles gently knock against his forehead.

"Hello?" Rhett chirps, "Anyone home up there?"

Blinking, Bob picks his gaze up off the floor, can't quite recall when it dropped. "Huh?"

You and Rhett giggle, a soft noise that dances around Bob's ears in this gentle sort of fashion, probably the only reason he doesn't turn beet red on the spot.

"We asked about your opinions on the house," you repeat, the corners of your lips wavering, fighting off the laugh that's trying to bubble out of you. "Do you still want to make an offer on it?"

He's trying to think. The sunroom by the entryway is adorable, but the garage is a two-car rather than three. Oh, but then there's the loft outside of the upstairs master bedroom. The basement has carpet that needs to be pulled up, but there's an adorable little office down there...

"Yeah." It shoots out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Rhett's eyebrows raise. "Yeah?"

Why did he have to say that, of all things?

"Yeah," licking his lips as he fights for words, mouth dry as the damn Sahara, "I...I still like it."

He's just digging his own grave at this point.

Fortunately, discussing the house seems to be more important than mulling over his unusual choice of words. Favorite points and the things you'd want to change. Rhett's fine with the two-car garage because his work truck is too dirty to go in the garage, to begin with. But you aren't a fan of the countertops in the bathrooms, finding the material tacky, and Rhett isn't so sure about the carpet in the kitchen. The basement walls are painted moss green, a few doors need to be replaced, and there's a cracked window upstairs.

But it's still the best house you've viewed in weeks.

A deep part of Bob wishes that it was the opposite. That the house was horrible, the kind of thing that sends the three of you back home, ready to find the next one. At least the feeling of disappointment would be immediate, as compared to making an offer and thrusting yourselves into darkness, unknowing of whether disappointment or excitement awaits you in the future.

"We shoulda ate before we got here," Rhett mutters on the way back to the truck, unusually pale in the face, "'cause now 'm nervous."

Those rings couldn't be any heavier.

Proposal attempt number two doesn't come until Bob finds himself stumbling into Wabang, Wyoming. Fresh off a plane, resisting the urge to cover his ears as the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, rattling off words that he can't understand. It's a necessary evil, being in this very spot; right next to the bleachers exit, as close as you can get to where Rhett is stationed, near the chutes.

"Is it still loud?" You're half yelling as you tilt your head up to look at him.

And oh, he's so happy that he chose to sit in the row behind you because this is something else. Your eyes soft as you look at him from upside down, lips parted the slightest bit. All he can do is shake his head no. There's no way you'll hear him, not with his hands over your ears, reducing all of the noise to a dull mumble.

He's not going to be able to hear out of his right ear for the rest of the night, but it's worth it for this.

Little do you know that your future ring rests mere inches away from your head, tucked safely away in his pocket. Well, technically, it's tucked in a plastic bag inside of his pocket because it kept clanging around against Rhett's and almost got him caught. Who could have thought that rings would be so difficult to carry around?

And how the hell do some guys get away with carrying the whole damn box in their pocket? He can't even get away with hiding it in his jacket for the two hours it takes for the rodeo to end.

"Alright, Amelia County!" The announcer yells through the speakers, "Let's hear it for last year's rodeo champion, Rhett Abbott."

Even you can pick up on the familiar tune of your cowboy's name, head shaping back toward the chutes. If your ears weren't covered, Bob's sure they would be perked, tuned in to every little sound.

There he is. Hands braced on either side of the railing, carefully settling onto the back of a fifteen-hundred-pound animal bred for this very event. That stubborn cowboy hat sits proudly atop his head. No helmet. No mask. Just a soft felt hat.

One of these days, Bob's gonna get through that dumb, thick skull and convince Rhett that taking safety precautions doesn't take away your cool points. A funny-looking helmet is worth it if it protects you from a blow to the noggin.

Today is not that day.

Tomorrow probably isn't, either.

But the hat is the only way to see Rhett's sharp nod of his head. Ready to go.

Bob blinks, and then Rhett's bursting out of the chute. Right hand held high. Left clutching at the strap around the bull's chest. The animal spins to the right. Back legs still coming down as the front ones lift from the ground. Never on more than two hooves at once. Dirt kicking into the air. Sharply turns left. So abrupt that the bull himself stumbles.

The buzzer sounds.

Rhett comes loose.

Falling to the ground. His arms rising to protect his face. Boots scrambling for purchase on the soft arena soil. And then he's up. Stumbling backward. Away from the still bucking bull. Fighting to get the flank strap off. Twisting. Turning.

Its back right hoof connects with Rhett's knee.

No warning. No indication of danger. Not even a sound. And yet Bob swears he heard the snap of hoof hitting bone.

You're darting out from the bleachers in the blink of an eye. Blindly reaching behind yourself to grab ahold of Bob's wrist. Tugging him behind you with a surprising force. Shoes scuttling across the slippery stairs. Pushing through the crowd. Darting around anyone who gets in the way.

He doesn't need to ask where the two of you need to go. Injuries are common in this sport, and even more so for anyone with the name Rhett Abbott.

One would think that the frequency of Rhett's injuries would mean a stop to the sweat beading at anxious foreheads. No more frantic beatings of the heart and bated breath as you and Bob tumble around the corner in search of the singular ambulance stationed for the event. That clasped hands wouldn't tremble, and the silence would become bearable.

But it never gets easier.

Rhett's stumbling through the dirt, his arms slung around one of his buddies, helping him walk with just one foot. Spurs chiming with every step.

"Long time no see!" Archie—or at least who Bob thinks is Archie—yells as you and Bob make your way through the clearing, "c'n y'do me a favor 'n tell yer idiot he can't bloomin' walk?"

Yeah, that's Archie.

"'m fine," Rhett grits through his teeth, left foot scratching at the ground as he tries to put weight on it. Searching for purchase that Archie won't let him find. "Y'don't need to worry 'bout me."

"Too fuckin' late for that, pal," Archie's not a small man by any means, but even he's struggling to keep hold of Rhett as he squirms and tries to stand on his own two feet. Stubborn to the goddamn end.

There are so many words jammed in Bob's dry throat. Full sentences tangling and creating a knot that he can't swallow down. Silent as he darts forward and slips beneath Rhett's open, flailing arm.

"Bobby, I said I'm—"

"I don't care," Bob's words come out a little too sharp. Bursting past the dam.

"Just until the medic takes a look at it?" Your voice floats through the air with all the softness of a cloud, unsure and wavering. "Please?"

Stillness.

For a moment, Bob thinks Rhett is still going to put up a fight. But whatever fight was in him seems to have fizzled out because he gives up almost immediately. Head hanging low as he allows his weight to settle onto Bob and Archie's shoulders. Has the audacity to look like a kicked puppy, big blue eyes pleading for you to let him have his way.

But he can't hide the way that he minds his leg. Gingerly placing his weight onto it. Jaw tightening as a hot spark of pain sizzles up his nerves. But he doesn't make a damn sound. Too stubborn to voice his hurt.

"'ve got it from here," he grunts, mere yards away from the quietly parked team of medics, already waiting for him. Bob hates that he knows most of them by name. "I said—"

"Rhett," and maybe it's the wind that causes Bob's voice to break on the vowel. Too fragile for even the slightest breeze.

Again, Rhett's quiet. Doesn't say another word as he's brought to the bench next to the ambulance and helped to sit down. There's a tear in his jeans, exposing a glimpse of dark red flesh, already beginning to turn deep shades of blue and purple. Blood stains the side, cut but not horribly so.

Knuckles bump against Bob's shoulder. Tapping.

"Hey man," Archie's whispering, "C'n I talk t'ya for a sec?"

It's more of a command than a request because he's already beginning to tug Bob around the side of the ambulance. His right fist clenched tight around something, looking over his shoulder as if he's expecting someone to be watching.

"Did something—"

"Y'dropped a lil' somethin'," his hand opens. Reveals a tiny, crumbled plastic bag, something shiny tucked inside.

Your ring.

"Jesus," is the only thing he knows to say, plucking the tiny thing from Archie's palm. His other hand dives into his pocket. Breath caught in his throat until his fingertips brush against cool metal. "Thank you."

"If it helps ya," Archie's quiet as he leans closer to Bob's ear, "I used t' hide my wife's ring in my wallet."

And so maybe tonight isn't the night for proposals, either.

Neither is the next day. The medic says Rhett should be fine, but he's practically dragging that left foot as he tries to walk, and proposing is the last thing on Bobby's mind. Preoccupied with improved ice packs and carefully managed dosages of painkillers that never seem to even take the edge off.

"Why're you handin' me a bag of corn?" That sleepy voice grumbles, one eye open as he turns the bag back and forth in his hand.

"For your knee," and maybe Bob should have wrapped it in one of the hotel towels before he handed it off to Rhett. Can already hear him quietly muttering about how they're wasting perfectly good food. "It's...the coldest thing I could find."

Neither is the day after that because Rhett may be walking, but he's not looking any better at all. Mutters that he's fine as he toes out of his pajama pants, about to take on the momentous task of taking a shower. Didn't take one yesterday, and now he's in desperate need of one.

"Rhett..." you say, your voice still groggy with sleep, "I...something is very wrong here."

Rhett's head lifts, curls bouncing low on the nape of his sweaty neck. "What do you mean?"

Your face twists as you bend down to get a better look. Eyebrows furrowing at the very sight of that vicious mottling of black and blue. "Your knee is twice the size of the other one."

It'll take four hours to find out that his kneecap is fractured.

And it'll take eight long, long weeks of rest and therapy for it to heal. Easy for some. Horrible for a cowboy who doesn't know how to spend more than a weekend in the house, too used to working outside and having a laundry list of things to do. Even worse, when that cowboy can't stand using crutches because Royal's raised him to think that accepting help is a sign of weakness.

There's an afternoon when Bob stumbles into the hotel room, fresh off an afternoon jog, to find Rhett stuck on the floor. Fell while walking without his crutches and couldn't get himself back up.

"Why didn't you call me?" Bob finds himself blurting, doesn't remember what happened to the bags he was carrying. All he knows is he's rushing across thin, cheap carpet, fearing the worst.

Rhett's got his head leaned against the side of the chair, laid back like he's long since accepted his fate. How long has he been down here? "Wasn't that big a deal," those broad shoulders rise and fall. "It ain't like I fell down the stairs."

"And you're sure this has nothing to do with your whole 'cowboys don't need help' shtick?" Bobby would be lying if he said he wasn't contemplating making Rhett try to get up on his own just to prove a point. But he's already halfway under Rhett's arm, acting as a crutch, all but dragging him to his feet.

"Ahh, come on," there's that weak chuckle of his, the one that comes out when he knows he's fighting a losing battle, "I could've gotten up if I wanted to."

That does nothing to stop Bob from wondering about what kind of charges he would receive if he were to tap Royal with the bumper of his truck. Going at about fifty miles an hour, of course.

All the while, those little rings sit tucked into the corners of his wallet. Collecting dust in the back of his mind for weeks. He damn near forgets that they're in between his five and ten-dollar bills. Almost hands you his wallet one afternoon. Even accidentally pulls them out while he's fishing for some quarters to give Amy to use on the toy vending machine.

"Is that one for Uncle Rhett?" She chirps, voice sparkling with all the wonder in the world.

It's too late for him to hide it. She's already taking the quarters out of his palm, eyes big as saucers, unable to look away from the tiny, round piece of metal. "Would you believe me if I told you it isn't?"

Her gum snaps. "Nope."

Bob is the last person that Cecelia expected to teach Amy how to lie. Sworn to secrecy with an ice cream cone and a lava lamp.

He doesn't think about those rings for the next six months.

Between the chaos of getting moved into the new house and the sudden new adjustment of having you and Rhett living with him, it falls from his thoughts. Too busy driving to Wabang with a trailer to help Rhett bring his beloved horse with him. Spends a good week trying to help you overcome your sudden spike of homesickness.

And then there's the incident with the pipe bursting in the downstairs bathroom and a six-month deployment that couldn't come at a worse time. He stumbles in just in time for Thanksgiving, and it feels like he's still finishing his turkey dinner when Rhett starts meekly asking to buy a Christmas tree. Then comes the rush of gathering gifts and putting up decor, and in the blink of an eye, its New Year's, and now that decor needs to come back down. Then the vacation planning starts.

All of a sudden, it's been a year and a half, and he's in Wabang again. Sitting on the back porch, fresh out of a shower, every muscle in his body aching, overworked from unfamiliar work on an even more unfamiliar pasture. Two hundred pushups for Maverick was a piece of cake compared to this hell.

"You haven't asked yet," Amy's voice cuts through the nighttime air like a knife.

He jolts, head snapping to look over his shoulder. "I'm sorry?"

She's standing by the door, a little bit taller than he remembers. Is that a scowl he spies on her sunburnt face? "You never proposed."

"We've been busy—"

"You forgot." She deadpans, lips pressed into a tight line. That must run in the family because Bob's seen that exact expression in Rhett more times than he can count.

"I..." his eyelashes flutter, turning back to gaze off the porch into the empty darkness of Wyoming. "Something like that."

Her house shoes patter across the old wooden floor as she comes to stand next to him. For a moment, Bob's found himself wondering if she's still young enough to accept ice cream and a toy in exchange for her silence or if she's moved on to harder forms of bribery. "Are you still going to?"

"Whenever the time is right, I will," he hums. There's still a perfectly good vacation ahead of him, plenty of opportunity to find that picture-perfect moment to pop the question.

As quickly as she came, Amy's feet patter back toward the door. "Well, you'd better make it fast," the screen door squeals as she opens it, "Uncle Rhett was on his phone looking at rings during breakfast."

And then she's gone. Disappearing into the house once more. Leaving him to soak in his thoughts, staring up at the vast night sky. So big that it seems moments away from swallowing him and the house up into the void. Stars twinkling like a tube of glitter spilled onto a black velvet blanket. So spectacular that his phone camera can never do it justice.

The perfect kind of night. Even the ache in his neck cannot ruin such a thing.

His feet move on their own accord, carrying him into the house and up the stairs. Where did he leave his wallet last, anyway? He's pretty sure it was in the back pocket of his jeans yesterday, but he doesn't know if he remembered to take it back out or not.

The floor squeals beneath his bare feet as he saunters past the shower and into Rhett's old bedroom. With its old, cowboy-esque decor and a brand new queen-size bed that definitely wasn't there when he helped Rhett move out. With its too-new bed frame, the matte black metal not quite matching the old wood scattered throughout the rest of the room.

Oh. There you are.

Curled up on the bed, back to the door, your cell phone yet to turn off, recently used. But you don't lift your head to greet him like you typically do; if anything, you hardly seem to realize he's in the room.

What's wrong?

You don't react when he sits on the edge of the bed, eyes still closed. Completely and utterly still, even as he moves to lay behind you. His arms slipping around your waist, nose nuzzling into the back of your neck, unsure of if you're awake or blatantly ignoring him.

Your shoulders stiffen.

"'s just me, sweetie," Bob murmurs, pulling you closer to him until your back is flush with his chest. You're not pushing him away, so mayhaps it isn't him who's upset you. "Do you want to talk about it?"

And in the blink of an eye, those little rings are on the back burner because you're his priority, and proposals can wait for when you're feeling better. Weighing heavily in his pocket as he follows you and Rhett to Walmart in search of snacks and an air mattress that'll fit into the back of Rhett's old GMC. All to lay back and watch the stars.

Wabang is one of those lucky little towns with little to no light pollution, and it shows.

But he's already spent part of the night gazing up at those glittering, faraway balls of gas. As breathtaking as it all is, there's no better picture than what lies next to him. Rhett's long since fallen asleep, his head leaning against Bob's thigh, dark hair cast across his pretty face. And there you lay, curled into Rhett's side, eyelashes fluttering, mouth slack, completely and utterly relaxed. The prettiest tangle of sleepy limbs he's ever seen.

Bob's not sure he'll ever understand how he's got both of you in his life.

Slow as not to wake either of you, he reaches into his jean pocket, unintentionally bumping his knuckles into the side of Rhett's head in the process. The cowboy doesn't so much as stir. No surprise there.

Rhett could sleep through the end of the world.

There they are.

Two little rings tucked into the corners of his wallet. They've left dents in the bills stored there, and could probably use a good clean, considering how improperly he's stored them. Not necessarily forgotten, but a thought burning in the back of his head during his every waking hour.

He could ask right now. It's perfect out here.

But waking you is the last thing he wants to do, so, again, he tucks those rings into his wallet and lets them slip his mind once more.

The Grand Tetons are the next stop on your trip, or the Grand Talons, as Bob's been calling them. A simple pronunciation mistake that he'd made during the early stages of planning that has become something he intentionally plays upon. If only to see Rhett roll his eyes and to hear you giggle.

The cabin is smaller than it looked in the pictures, but the unusually wide bed makes up for all of that. Settled into the far corner of the forest, with a private porch and an up-close view of the Tetons.

In the back of Rhett's mind, he's found himself wondering about how he never considered the sheer size of these mountain ranges. They've been looming in the background for as far as he can remember, visible from miles and miles away. Witness to his every waking moment spent in Wabang.

They don't look so small when he's standing right in front of them.

"Hey cowboy," your voice rings across the trail, a little further down than he is, "you coming?"

"'m right behind ya," there's an ache in his left knee as he starts to move again, difficult to ignore as he takes step after agonizing step. Almost to the end of this trail. Almost there.

Just another fifteen minutes. He can do that.

His pocket buzzes. Phone alight with another text message from Perry.

U seriously cant spare a few fucking days 2 help us?

Texting one-handed has never been his forte. A barely there skill that's worsened by the stones that slip out from his unsure feet, treading over an unfamiliar, winding path. Fortunately, he's got a short response.

Nope.

Can't wait to hear the lecture from Ma whenever she calls next. It's hard telling exactly what she'll say, but he already knows that it will be something along the lines of, "But your brother has been through so much!"

Burning warmth blossoms in his knee, loose petals of stabbing pain drifting through his nerves.

"Shit," grinding to a halt. Pawing at the side of it. Too sensitive to squeeze but unsure of what else to do.

A big hand glides up his sweaty back, smoothing over his shoulders. "Is your knee buggin' you again?" Bobby asks, his voice quieter than the breeze that rustles through the trees.

The pain is only there for a moment. Fading away into a distant, nagging sensation of invisible pins and needles poking at his flesh. "Will you believe me if I say no?"

"No." Blunt. Straight to the point.

A 'maybe' would have been nice.

Your shoes appear in front of him, still remarkably clean compared to his. "Maybe we shouldn't take that hike tomorrow morning," your fingertips tickle as they reach to brush a strand of hair behind his ear.

"'m alright," his phone buzzes as he straights up, vibrating incessantly with a phone call that he doesn't plan to answer. Hesitant feet beginning to move once more. One. Two. Three baby steps. "Jus' a little slow, 's all."

The moment the call is sent to voicemail, his phone alights again. And again. And again. Stubbornly buzzing away in his pocket. Demanding to be heard. Call after call, continuing long after he's made it to the end of the trail.

"Is your phone going off?" You ask, looking over your shoulder.

"Spam call," and that's that on that.

But unlike his phone, his knee doesn't fall quiet within the hour. Nerves quietly screaming their grievances with every goddamn step. Bugging him all throughout his shower. Doesn't bother to stop stinging when he sits down and gets off of it.

He'd have a better experience walking barefoot over lava.

Fortunately, he's found himself a hell of a distraction. A half-naked Bobby wandering back and forth across the cabin bedroom. Fresh out of a shower, beads of water rolling across his pale, freckled back as he searches for a very specific blanket he bought the other day. Towel hanging low around his waist, loosening each time he bends down to root through his suitcase.

"We can hold off on the picnic if it's too much stress," you offer; your eyes may be closed, but it seems you can detect Bobby's every move. "It doesn't have to be tonight."

"No, no, no, I've got it," Bob blurts, squinting. So focused that he hasn't thought to put his glasses on. "I've been planning...tonight was supposed to be special..." Falling back into those old mutterings of his, scrambling to look beneath the bed for the umpteenth time.

Rhett's fighting the urge to reach over and yank that towel off.

All of a sudden, that wet mop of light brown hair pokes up from the edge of the bed. Blue eyes wide. "I may have left it in the truck."

Rhett's sitting up at that, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Already regretting his decision the moment he stands. "I'll go check." Purposefully leaving out the fact that he forgot to bring in the jars of homemade jam that you bought earlier.

Is jam hot car proof?

He's about to find out.

There's no point in tugging on his boots; tugging on his socks would take too damn long. Heading out onto the porch barefoot is the easiest option, calloused feet thumping heavily across the old wood, uncaring of where they land. So worn and used to going without shoes that even the gravel doesn't bug him. Those sharp edges of rock are nothing compared to the stabbing sensation in his knee.

In the corner of his eye, there's movement.

A familiar ranch truck speeding up the driveway. Tires kicking up dirt and rock in their wake.

"Shit." Pulling open the door to the backseat, he reaches in to grab the stray jars of jam perched on top of the picnic blanket Bob's been hunting for. Classic red and white plaid.

What in the world is this picnic so special for, anyway?

"Hey," of all the voices he could be hearing right now, why does it have to be Perry's? That truck door slams. Boots marching across the driveway. "Hey." A little louder now.

Ignore him, and he'll go away. Ignore him, and he'll go away. Ignore him, and he'll go away.

A heavy palm strikes the side of the truck. "Rhett."

"Are you—" tossing the glass jar back onto the seat, voice tight, "what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Perry's shoving him with both hands. Knocking him into the side of the open door. "You've been ignorin' me all fuckin' afternoon!"

Rhett can already feel the way his jaw clenches. Teeth grit together. "'m not givin' up my vacation t'help the fuckin' ranch, Perry."

"You can't sacrifice a little vacation?" And Rhett doesn't know how many times he's heard those exact words come out of Perry's mouth this week. Repeated over and over. Like he'll up and change his mind if he's badgered enough. "Come on, Rhett, we need help."

This is ridiculous.

"We already sacrificed a couple days," turning his attention back to the blanket. Tucking it beneath his arm. "Y'all had plenty of time t'get your shit in order."

"What's going on out here?" Bob's stumbled out onto the porch. Has had enough time to dress himself before coming out here. Even from several feet away, Rhett can see how his eyes widen. Lashes fluttering. "Perry?"

That should be the end of the argument.

But it's not.

It never is.

"Can't you see that I'm tryin' to have a fuckin' private conversation with my brother?" Perry's tone rises.

"Don't you start talkin' to him like that," words snapping off of Rhett's tongue. Knuckles white as he grasps this jar of jam a little too tightly.

Up go Perry's eyebrows. The whites of his eyes wide. Rhett can already see the metaphorical steam coming out of his ears. "I'll say whatever the hell I want, Rhett."

One of the jars slips from his grasp. Hits the gravel with an unceremonious clank. Shaking the raspberry-flavored contents, but the glass never breaks. Perry beats him to picking it up. Bending down and snatching it out of his grasp.

But he's not offering to hand it back.

Gravel shifts as Bob steps across it, soft blue eyes flickering between both Abbott brothers. Moving slowly. Like he's approaching two tigers. Poised and ready to strike.

"I don't...I don't mean for this to come off as rude," his empty palms rise, means no harm, "but maybe you should leave."

There Perry goes. Face turning crimson. Jaw clenched so tightly that it begins to shiver. "I sure hope you ain't tellin' me what to do, four eyes." And he's surging forward.

"Perry." Rhett's barking. Reaching out. Shoving him back by his shoulders. "Cut it—"

The world explodes with red.

Then black.

He's stumbling. A pressure screwing into the side of his head. Drilling straight into his skull. Somethings stinging at his eyes. Hot and thick. Coating his palms as he paws at his face. Can't see. Nothing but a wall of darkness that he can't claw past. His hands are fluttering. Scrambling to grab ahold of something. Anything.

Gravel sprays, audibly ricocheting off the side of the truck. Someone's swearing but he can't place the voice. Doesn't sound like Perry. But it doesn't sound like you either.

Something collides with his jaw.

Teeth crashing together. Metallic fluid filling his mouth. Thick. Warm. Ears ringing with the wail of a dull siren.

"Rhett!" That's not the same voice from before.

Hands appear on his face. Gripping his jaw. Forcing him still as something rough rubs against his eyes. Fuck, that stings. Tiny teeth bite into the left side of his head. Tearing at his skin. He's pulling back. Squirming away. But that hand on his jaw has an iron grip that he can't wriggle out of.

A car horn blares.

Light burns at his retinas as they burst open. Flickering weakly, unable to keep them open for longer than a second at a time. Opening and closing involuntarily. Red and wipe cloth dabs at his cheek. Soaking up a bright crimson liquid that he can't place.

"Rhett," you repeat, a little louder now. How long have you been in front of him? "Rhett!"

"What?" He'd say you're being too loud, but his own voice is too much for his ears to handle.

Behind your head, he thinks he can see Perry's truck disappearing down the driveway. Cascaded behind a plume of black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe. What's he in such a hurry for?

"What happened?" He breathes; Bob's several yards away, his gaze trained on those clouds of black. That same shade of red waterfalls from his pale, trembling arms. Dripping from his fingertips. Looks something like lightning flickering across the sky. "Why's he bleedin'?"

Your lips don't move. Not a word leaving your mouth.

"Bobby?" Raising his voice louder, pushing forward.

Your hands are on his shoulders, pushing back, saying something about needing to stay still, but he can't hear it. Doesn't recall falling, but he's crawling to his feet. Legs swaying. Red clouding his left eye. Stinging again. Won't go away, even as he tries to wipe it away. Pouring from a cut that he doesn't remember acquiring.

Bob twists, looking over his shoulder and—

"What happened?" Rhett tries again. Why's the right side of Bobby's jaw cut open? Where did that gash trailing down the side of his neck come from? But nobody's answering. You're silent. Bobby's not talking. Can't hear him. "What happened?" Saying it louder. Words shivering.

"Rhett," it's the only thing you can say. Why is that the only thing you can say?

"What?" Voice cracking. "Why won't—why won't y'say anythin'?"

Your mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Fighting for words. For an explanation of something that you don't truly know yourself. "I don't know."

Gravel crunches as Bob steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's walking across shards of glass that can cut through his boots at any time. His hands raise. Bloody palms curling around Rhett's equally bloody, sticky cheeks.

"Perry hit you in the head with the jar," he whispers after a moment. Because speaking too loud might break something.

But that doesn't follow. No. No, Rhett would remember if he was hit in the head with a jar. The jar wasn't even that big—

but his face is sticky.

"But...but..." There's a cloud that's settled in the forefront of his mind. Clogging up his thoughts. Separating words so far apart that he can't seem to string them into a sentence. "But...you?"

"I..." Bob's gaze falls off to the side. Fixating on something past Rhett's shoulder. "He got me with a shard of glass, is all."

But he's missing a triangular chunk of flesh along his jaw. Leading down through the gash in his neck, ending just above his collarbone. White shirt ripped and stained with red.

Can glass do that?

He can't seem to look away from it. Following even as you cart him and Bob off to the emergency room, won't take no for an answer.

"You both need stitches," you insist, Bob's truck keys jingling in your hand. Rhett's mouth opens. He knows how to give stitches. Has been doing them on himself for half his damn life. "And you're not giving homemade ones, cowboy."

He'd pout if his face didn't hurt so damn bad.

And so what if he does ultimately need a handful of stitches? Nurses fuss over him, dragging him into a separate room from Bobby because of some dumb protocol. Cleaning his face with a fluid that smells like cheap vodka and burns like a goddamn branding iron. He sits there for a damn century before they turn him loose.

By turning him loose, the nurse is only moving him to a different area, but he can hardly pay attention to her. Because Bobby is sitting in a lone chair, the side of his neck freshly closed up, looking down at something in his palm.

"Mr. Abbott," this poor nurse has been repeating herself for who knows how long, but this is the first time Rhett's heard her. "Please."

Bob's head snaps up, shoving something into his pocket. His lips curling at the sight of this half-stunned cowboy standing in the middle of the hallway like a fool. "Baby, please don't give her a hard time."

"But I—"

Soft hands are tugging on Rhett's bicep. Pulling him along. And he doesn't know where you came from, but you're here now. "Come on," your voice the lightest it's been all afternoon, "we'll come with you."

What was the shiny thing that Bobby was holding?

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Even if your every attempt is thwarted moment before you can put your plan into action.

Or...something like that.

The picnic blanket may be blood-stained, and the restaurant Bob was planning to order food from may be closed for the rest of the week, but that's okay. He's crafty. Plans are meant to be deviated from.

And so what if you're still in the shower, and Rhett's half asleep on the bed? Proposals don't take that long. Yeah. This'll work. If he can just find where he put his damn wallet...

"I want your dick in my mouth."

"I'm sorry?" Did he hear that right?

Rhett's eyes are still closed. Brown locks fanned out beneath his head, forming a loose halo. Face as peaceful as it has ever been, like he's perfectly asleep. "I said," those thin lips wrapping around his words, "I want your dick in my mouth."

And maybe Bob's not hearing things because Rhett's eyes flutter open, head tilting to look at him. Expectant. Looks something like a spoiled prince waiting to get what he wants.

"Funny." Shit, what was Bob looking for again? A towel? Socks? Yeah, where are his socks? They were just in his hand a minute ago. Where did he put—

they're on his feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rhett sitting up. Hair falling into his face, concealing the scattering of thin cuts that surround his left temple. From here, they almost look like his only injury.

It would be easier if Rhett threw a verbal fit. Whining and fussing until he gets what he wants. Because at least that would be easy to understand, not quite as heart-stopping as the sight of him silently standing, slowly treading across the floor. Have his shoulders always looked so broad? Biceps straining against the thin, tight confines of his t-shirt.

Bob's T-shirt. Actually. Some dark-gray, beat-up thing from his early days in the Navy.

Tips of noses bump into each other. So close that it's hard to see the chunk of flesh missing from the corner of Rhett's left eye. Wound still so new that it's hard to tell if it will scar or not.

Lips brush. Timidly pressing into a fleeting peck. Like too much contact will break this unspoken silence. Rhett's mouth is bitten and chapped, but it's so, so soft. Molding against Bobby's like silk.

Knees hit the floor. Deep thunk bouncing off the walls.

"Rhett..." Bob's uttering beneath his breath. Fuck, it's hard to think, with Rhett rubbing his cheek up against his thigh, ocean blue gaze peering up through thick lashes. Downright shameless in how his big, burning palm rises to rub at the growing tent in Bob's jeans. "Did you...did you get into somethin' again?"

Rhett looks pretty damn lucid. Thumbing open his button and pulling down the zipper, smiling to himself all the while. Downright pleased with himself.

Something thunks in the shower. Sounds like you've accidentally knocked over a bottle of body wash again. How long have you been in there, anyway?

Thick fingers twist through the front of his boxers, wrapping around his half-hard length without ceremony. Pulling him out into the cool cabin air, lightly thumbing at his tip. Dry. Never has been the type to drip all that much.

But that's alright because that short, pink tongue of Rhett's is poking out. Eager to let Bob's plush head rest against it like a damn welcome mat. Burning hot breath fanning out against him.

Rhett's hand loosely strokes him. Can't do much more without some form of lubricant. "You're still soft," he complains as if anyone can possibly go from soft to hard within the blink of a damn eye.

"'Cause you sprung on me in under a minute, sugar," Bob's fingers run through those dark strands, diligently avoiding the three-inch-long wound hidden beneath. "Gonna have to give me a minute."

It goes in one ear and out the other.

And it's hard to keep talking because Rhett's opening his mouth, wrapping those thin lips around his tip. So pleased with himself that he hums, the sound vibrating all the way up Bob's spine. It hasn't been more than two weeks since he last felt Rhett sink down his cock, taking him in bit by bit, but his thighs quiver like it's the first time all over again.

"Don't..." his chest is already heaving. Seeking a breath he can't find. "Don't push yourself."

That pretty little mouth smiles. Rhett's watery eyes closing as he finds his favorite rhythm. Tongue stroking the underside, cheeks hollowed. So delighted to have his way that he doesn't complain when Bob collects his hair into a loose ponytail, gripping it tight. But having his mouth busy doesn't mean that he's not done.

Hands wander. One loosely stroking the few inches he can't get to yet, the other falling between his own legs. Pressing the heel of his palm into his groin. Hips kicking up into his own touch.

Bob might faint.

Head seconds away from spinning off of his shoulders. Vision blurring, even with his glasses perched high on his nose. "Fuck, just like that."

That gets Rhett sinking a little deeper. Silky, hot throat rubbing against that sensitive tip, no longer needs to use his hand to stroke the little bit that he can't suck into his mouth. Instead reaching past layers of clothing to massage his balls. Knows just how to fucking do it. Touch firm but giving. Shit, shit, shit.

"'m gonna cum." Too quick. Too quick. Too quick. "Rhett. Rhett, wait—"

Hinges squeal. Bathroom door opening.

There you are. Stepping out in nothing but a towel, reaching for the neatly folded clothes that you forgot to bring in with you. Skin still damp, little beads of water rolling down your arms. It's dark, but the bobbing of Rhett's head grabs your attention, sleepy eyes darting.

You're lips break into a smile. "I leave you two for fifteen minutes, and this is what you get into."

Rhett sucks hard and pulls off with a loud, wet 'pop.' Spit-slicked lips shining in the poor lighting. Silent as he peers over his shoulder.

A part of you wishes that you'd stayed quiet and enjoyed the show because there's something about watching Bob's head roll back and forth against the wall that has a heat pooling between your legs. Heat that you're too tired to be tending to.

Rhett looks like he's about to eat you alive.

"Don't you look at me like that," your voice rising, "Rhett...!"

You must fall asleep standing up because the next time you open your eyes, you're across the room. Chest against the mattress, cheek resting against your lazily folded arms. Bob's shaky palms smooth down your shoulders, angrily flushed cock resting against his thigh. Too heavy to stand on its own.

The slick head of Rhett's cock slides between your thighs, dripping head nudging into your sensitive clit. Slow thrusts that push against your entrance before drifting past. Don't know where Rhett found the lube or where your towel went, but you can't bring yourself to voice any complaints. Tongue too tired to lift itself.

But your hips are squirming on their own accord. Pushing back against him with all the energy you have left.

"Didn't" your thoughts are spinning in a whirlpool, reaching up to rake your nails up Bob's meaty thigh, "didn't you have...something planned?"

His cock twitches before you can even get to it. "I did...at some point."

Rhett chuckles. The first noise you've heard him make. "Oops." Still so preoccupied with the way his cock slips between your folds, each stroke teasing the idea of pushing into you but never following through. Pressure blooming, only to fade away.

Until you push back against him. Blunt head slipping inside without warning.

A gasp pierces the air.

Did you make that noise? Did Rhett? Or was it Bob?

Calloused hands wrap around your hips, holding you still as he gingerly fucks into you. Just the tip. Lazy ins and outs that sink a little further in each time. Pushing air from your lungs on every push. Rubbing just shy of your g-spot, neglected and untouched. So unlike his usual routine that you don't know what's coming next. Your thighs tremble, feeling him push a little further, earnest now.

"Come on, darlin'," there's that deep drawl you've been missing, "give me your pussy."

Bob's palm slides down your back, smoothing down to your ass. Don't realize you've been clenching until your muscles are relaxing, letting Rhett properly push into you. Inch by slow, careful inch, splitting you open. Your lips part, openly panting into the bed sheets. It's been so long since you felt his hips come flush against yours, heavy balls resting against you. Stretching you so wide that your pussy aches.

"There y'go," Rhett's fingertips swirl against your shivering thighs, "so good for me."

Your hand rises, wrapping loosely around Bob's forgotten cock. He jolts.

"Careful, careful," he rushes, "sensitive."

Behind you, Rhett's not moving. Holding himself there, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you. But God, you don't think you're ever gonna get used to this. Even if you do have the sweet sound of Bobby's labored breaths to distract you. Panting to the high heavens, all from the slow stroke of your fist along his length.

On their own, Rhett's hips writhe. Moving backward by an inch, pushing back in just as slowly. Once. Twice. Testing. "'s this okay?"

Your head nods. "Uhuh."

Hands tighten around your hips, holding you still as he draws out of you halfway. Doesn't let you squirm away when he abruptly pushes back in, balls smacking against your cunt. Dragging against the sensitive nerves along your walls, hitting them without effort. Bounces your hand around Bobby's dick.

"That's it," Rhett's grunting, repeating it. Doesn't let you meet him halfway. Forced to stay still and take what he has to give you. "Jerk 'em off while I ruin this pretty pussy of yours, baby."

You're trying to talk, babble whatever nonsense rests on your tongue, but you can't speak. Nothing but whimpers punched out of your throat, sounds dancing with the lewd wetness squelching between your thighs. Hand struggling to stroke Robby, grip fluttering, jerky. Too light to get him off, but it pulls a gasp out of him anyway.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, did Rhett just twitch in you?

Your cheek presses into the mattress, free hand clawing at the sheets. Rhett's finding his pace, bouncing you up against the bed with a heavy thrust that he puts his weight into. Dizzying sound of skin meeting skin, bouncing off the walls.

The hands on your hips are the only things keeping you standing, knees wobbly, knocking into each other. Rhett's fat cock head dragging against your walls. Right up against that little bundle of nerves, over and over and over. Gives you no chance to recover before he's massaging against it again.

"Jesus," Bobby's hand is swiping over your lips, wiping away a string of drool, "look at you."

Someone's doused you in gasoline and lit a match. Sweaty skin burning, back arching as you try to rise and meet each heavy thrust into your dripping pussy. Keening high in your throat, fluttering around Rhett's cock. Arm jerking without rhythm, stroking Bob as best as you can.

"Hold on, baby," His hand covers yours entirely, loosely guiding it up and down. Helping rather than batting you away completely. A shaky breath bursting past his lips.

Rhett's letting go of your hips, firm, sweaty chest settling against your back. Cheek resting against your shoulder as one of his palms brace his weight next to your head, thick bicep flexing.

Now you can hear him. Soft, pitchy noises falling out of his mouth, the sounds kissing your ears. Nowhere near as loud as the whine that soars out of Bobby's throat, his hips jerking up into your hand.

"No, no," Rhett coos into your ear, just loud enough for Bob to hear him. "Don't let him cum."

But he doesn't stop you. Instead reaching down between your legs, calloused fingertips pressing to your clit. Forgotten up until now. Throbbing, heat pooling as those fingers begin to swirl in tune with his thrusts.

Your hand falls off Bob's cock. Clutching at the sheets.

"Hang on, doll," Rhett gasps, like you have a choice in the matter.

Your legs spasming beneath you as he rams into that soft spot inside your pussy over and over and over. Rubbing over your clit. So much happening at once that you can't focus on a damn thing. Skin ablaze. Prickling. Embers of something more heating to life in your lower belly.

"'m gonna cum," he warns, "come on baby, come with me—fuck."

His hips stall. Slamming into yours. Cock twitching, heat filling you as his orgasm rolls through his sweaty body. Filling you up until you're certain that you can feel it beginning to leak out of you already. His fingers are still working your clit. Tremoring, feather-light one moment and pressing roughly the next. Spiraling and spiraling and spiraling.

"Sen—" he's whimpering into your ear, "sensitive."

Your eyes may be closed, but you can feel them go unfocused. Body going taut. Stone still as you clamp down around him, head spinning like a top. Muscles beginning to shiver. Babbling someone's name, but you don't know who's.

Just past your head, Rhett reaches over, wrapping his hand around Bob's flushed length. Stroking roughly like he's only got a few seconds to spare. Working up and down, a damn blur that your sleepy eyes can hardly keep up with.

All of a sudden, Bob's hips snap upward. Cumming with a silent cry. Ropes of white painting Rhett's slowing hand, some spiking up to hit Bob's own chest. Staining his t-shirt.

You think you might fall asleep right here and now.

"Christ," Bob shudders from head to toe, batting Rhett's teasing hand away from his spent length.

With nothing to occupy himself with, Rhett rests against your backside. Weight teetering against yours, threatening to send both of you crumbling to the floor at any moment. "'re we still..." his labored breath tickles your neck, "we still doin' somethin' t'night?"

And that is a resounding fucking, no.

You don't think you could move, even if you wanted to. Legs anchored to the ground by invisible weights, numb. Can hardly feel Rhett pulling his softening cock out of you, cum already beginning to run down the inside of your leg.

Gingerly, he guides you forward, urging you to settle up on the bed. Your back aching as you finally, finally change positions, head settling into Bob's warm, open lap. His jeans may be rough against your cheek, but his thigh is the perfect pillow.

"We need to clean up before we go gettin' comfortable," Bob says through a yawn, "and I need to find my wallet."

Rhett's clearly heard what Bob said, but he's curling up next you anyway. Sweaty forehead pressing against your shoulder. "You've been looking for your wallet a lot lately."

"Because my money is in it, dummy."

"Are you sure you don't want a blueberry jam biscuit?" You singsong, holding your half of the treat out for him to take.

"Absolutely fuckin' not." It looks good, but Rhett can smell the raspberry flavoring just by looking at it.

He's never going to fully scrub this damn scent out of his hair.

But Robert Floyd is a menace to society whose love for food cannot be deterred. Wiggling fingers reaching out. He doesn't speak, but you can hear his silent, "I'll eat it!" loud and clear.

Your arm strains as you reach to place the biscuit into Bob's eager palm. Crumbs falling onto the bed of the truck as he bites into it. So pleased that his eyes close.

"I don't care what you say," Bob's speaking with his mouthful; you haven't a doubt in your mind that he's doing his utmost best to drive your cowboy up the wall. "It still tastes as good as before."

"Try havin' it stuck in your hair," Rhett scowls. Dramatically tilting his hat to block Bobby out of his sight. Hiding away the mottling of thin pink scars that have begun to settle into his face. Some may fade with time, but you're not so sure about the chunk of flesh missing from the corner of his eye.

Your legs swing. Dangling off the edge of the truck bed, lifted even further by the trailer that Rhett's truck is parked on. Probably not the best place for a picnic. Certainly not what you had envisioned when Bob originally suggested it, but it works.

Rhett's hand darts out, stealing a singular strawberry from Bob's plate. "This place sure doesn't look the same when it's empty."

A part of you thinks to argue that the same can be said for any area, but you get what he means. The only time you've ever seen these festival grounds has been when they're packed with booths, tents, and people. Have been here so many times now, but even so, you don't think you can identify the spot where you met them. Where Rhett accidentally ran into you, and Bob hunted you down to return the wallet you'd lost.

"Maybe it'll look more familiar if we walk through it," you suggest, as if you're wearing the right shoes for such a thing. But they seem to think that's a great idea. Shoes hitting the ground without a word.

There's a soreness in your legs as you follow suit. Cramped from two days' worth of driving and being packed into Bob's truck. Even for a modern, comfortable vehicle, it's clearly not designed for trips longer than a few hours.

Next time, a rental car is being added to the trip budget.

Bob lags behind you all the way, his hands shoved into his pockets as he ambles along. Gazing off at the treeline, pale face glowing with the golden sunset. Up in his own head again, like he has been all afternoon. Exhausted from driving, you suppose.

There's a small paved area in the center of the field, and you don't recall exactly where, but you know that you sat down for a drink with Rhett around here. Left your wallet sitting on the bench, head filled with thoughts of a wild-eyed cowboy and nothing else.

"If I run into you again, will you get another drink with me?" Rhett chirps, bumping his shoulder against yours.

"Unfortunately, that was a one-time deal," the answer is yes, but you'd rather not be knocked over again. It's hard to forget the way your bones rattled when you hit the ground. Funny how that all worked out in the end.

Your memory of that day so vivid that you don't notice what Bob is doing. So distracted by recollections of Bob and Rhett laughing as they found their odd similarities that you don't see the way Robert Floyd is settling down onto one knee. Fishing through his pocket, producing two little rings. Glinting in the light, his hands shaking like leaves in the autumn breeze. His tongue heavy as he searches for the words he's been rehearsing for so, so long.

Like leaves, the rings fall.

Chiming as they bounce off the pavement, rolling away like it's what they've been waiting to do all of this time. One shoots off between Rhett's legs, bouncing off of his shoe. The other rolls even further, not stopping until gravity takes hold, falling onto its side.

You don't know what you're looking at.

Did a ring just roll up and set itself down in front of you?

Rhett bends down, picking up the ring resting between his feet. Rolls it between his fingers, shiny and new, looks the perfect size to fit around his finger. And as you reach to scoop up the one that's fallen before your feet, you catch glimpse of something.

Bob.

Down on one knee. Reddened face hidden behind one of his trembling hands, reluctantly looking back at the two of you. "I promise I...I had something I was gonna say first, but—but I uh..."

Next to you, Rhett sucks in a breath.

You can feel yourself doing much of the same. Twisting the little ring over your finger.

It fits like a glove.

"Will..." Bob's hand falls from his face, revealing an equally shivering jaw, "Will you marry me?"

Time just about stops. Breeze no longer rustling through the trees. Orange and red sun pausing, peeking over the horizon.

Is it you who utters a soft "yes," or is it a whispering of the wind?

But Rhett is silent, still rolling that ring between his thumb and forefinger. Doesn't react as Bob approaches, too fixated on what he holds, to look up and acknowledge what's going on around him. His eyes flicker up. Glittering gaze settling on you, then moving over to Bobby.

He smiles.

And that's enough.

"Yeah?" Bobby's laugh soars through the evening air, and the world begins to turn again. "You not gonna give me an answer, cowboy?"

Rhett can't speak. Struggling to get past a single syllable, as you reach out and nudge the ring down his finger. You've never seen him wear a ring before now. Yet, you can't remember what his hand looked like without one.

Foreheads knock together as Bob pulls you both in. Squeezing tight, uncaring of how awkwardly the three of you knock into one another. A pile of limbs and racing hearts that mesh together like puzzle pieces. A little tattered on the ends, some missing bigger pieces than others, but fitting together anyway.

Rhett's nudging his scarred cheek against yours, rubbing three days worth of unshaven scruff against your soft skin, "'s this why y'keep tryin' to take us on picnics?"

Bob groans. This loud, guttural noise that devolves into a breathless chuckle, "Oh, you have no idea."

#rhett abbott #bob floyd #robert floyd #robert bob floyd #robert floyd x reader #rhett abbott x reader #bob floyd x reader x rhett abbot #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #rhett abbott x you #outer range #outer range fic #tw: perry abbott #oneshot #x reader #tw: food #tw: injury

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yes-i-write-fanfiction · 8 days

Note

About that Barbie bot ask which I love! Can we get the reactions of the tfa bots and cons helping her out and her getting so excited and grateful she unexpectedly gives them a brief kiss before skipping off waving another thank you.

Barbie-bot is called Millisecond (or Millie for short) as suggested by @curespectra

-Optimus' processor comes to a screeching halt, unable to quite fathom what just happened. He makes it all back to base on autopilot, back into his private room, and it's only then that it finally sinks in. He covers his face with his servos as his face turns a brilliant blue as he blushes. Oh stars. He only now realizes just what a massive crush he's got on Millisecond. How is he supposed to look her in the optics now without thinking about that kiss? Impossible. He'll just have to hide away forever.

-Ratchet sputters, takes a step back, stares at Millie's retreating back, touches his lips and finally just loudly exclaims "WHAT". Look, kissing is a human thing but he knows what it means. He knows that it's meant to be something intimate, something done between lovers. And for the first time in millennia, Ratchet feels like he's a young newframe again, experiencing his first crush.

-It takes a few seconds for Bumblebee to compute what is happening. When it finally dawns on him, Millie is already leaving. Of course, he's going to follow because ok, wow, that was- that was GREAT. Greater than great, AMAZING. Bumblebee is trying so hard to come up with something smooth and suave to say but instead he stumbles over his pick up lines, acting like the flustered fool he is.

-Bulkhead's jaw drops. Literally. He stands there, frozen as he watches her Millisecond away and it's only when one of his friends intervene that he remembers that he has a body. The biggest, goofiest smile appears on his face and he practically skips back to base, immediately preparing a new canvas and starts painting because love is inspiring and he's got to express his feelings with art. If it turns out good then maybe he'll even give his crush the painting.

-As someone who prides himself with rarely being caught off guard, Prowl is, admittedly, caught off guard by the kiss. He gently touches his lips before retreating somewhere more private, somewhere where he can consider his feelings regarding what just happened. As cold as he might appear, Prowl is actually quite in tune with his own emotions and so he doesn't feel flustered or at a loss, simply befuddled. Befuddled and very, very happy.

-It takes a moment but then Megatron is smiling, well, more like smirking. He had originally only helped her out because he wanted to manipulate Millisecond, make her think that she can trust him, but this just made things much easier. He's familiar with the human gesture and its implications and so his mind is already conjuring up ideas on how to turn this into his favor. It doesn't hurt that Millisecond is also an incredibly attractive bot.

-Similar to Ratchet, Starscream freezes before letting out a loud "WHAT" that shatters windows, triggers car alarms and sends birds flying. He's not upset, just caught off guard. People don't feel grateful towards him, they just don't, and they especially don't express that gratefulness through physical intimacy! Once he's calmed down however, Starscream feels incredibly smug about it. Of course she would reward him with a kiss, he's such a gentleman after all. It goes straight to his ego.

-Blitzwing is swapping faces so fast it makes him dizzy. The face that got the kiss is immediately attacked by the other two because they are jealous and petty even at themself. Hothead is the worst affected because now he can't stop thinking about those soft lips on his and how it would feel like to actually kiss back and oh dear, he's got it bad. Meanwhile, Random wants Millie to take it a step further and actually eat his face. Icy is the only one even remotely normal about it all.

-Lugnut straight up screeches and trips over his own pedes as he scrambles backwards. Begone, temptress! He's happily conjuxed and faithful to his one true love! Secretly though, he can't stop his spark from spinning out of control because he's got a crush on Millie and it makes him feel so fucking guilty.

-Initially unfamiliar with this gesture, Shockwave does some research on what it means and when he does, oh boy. He's got to kill her now. It's the only way. Because his frame should not be burning so hot with an emotion that he can only call a crush. He does not know how to deal with this. This is, this is- lord Megatron, HELP!

-Blackarachnia is used to being the one doing the seducing so being on the other side of things throws all of her into a flustered mess. And it wasn't even meant to be seductive! It was just a token of appreciation, a way to show how grateful Millie felt. But somehow that only makes it worse! Blackarachnia is so out of depth, she doesn't know what to do.

#transformers imagine #transformers animated #optimus prime #ratchet #bumblebee #bulkhead #prowl #megatron #starscream #blitzwing #lugnut #shockwave #blackarachnia #OC

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maaarshieee · 1 year

Note

HEYYYY HOW ARE UU??

scaramouche for COMING HOME AHAJAJSH imagine his annoyance

-weekly anon

✩‧₊˚ COMING HOME ✧.*

𓆩✧𓆪 Kunikuzushi/Scaramouche/Wanderer x Gn!Reader ࿐

𓆩✧𓆪 1.ok words ┊ Reverse hurt/comfort ࿐

𓆩✧𓆪 Event post | Event Masterlist ࿐

message from the stars ☆༉

WEEKLY ANON OMG HI!! TY FOR PARTICIPATING! missing you <333 ive been doing great!! im very excited for his event ^^ you're the first to send a request AHHAHSHSA,,not me thinking what to write when i have exams AGAIN next week <3 hope you like this!! have a good day/night! also this... went on a diff direction than i intended... manifesting for everyone who wants wanderer to get him!! good luck <33

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ cw: brief mentions of being stuck in a void so kuni panics a bit and gets rlly angry

To reach beyond the stars, past Celestia, was impossible for the Wanderer.

He may have received an Anemo Vision, but it is not enough to break the barrier that separates him from the world that resides behind it, a world where you existed. Every time he looks above the skies at times when you were idle, murmuring softly to his ears yet your will for him to do anything, such as fighting Hilichurls or completing commissions, doesn't take over, allowing him to do whatever he'd like, he would be thinking about you.

What do you look like? Are you perhaps taller? Or shorter than him? What is the complexion of your skin? The colors of your eyes? The length of your hair? He yearns for answers to questions that will never be heard, all because his voice could never reach above the stars. Just who is the person that owns the soothing voice that only speaks to him?

The voice that comes and goes like him, like the wind. A gentle breeze that makes his hair flutter, kissing his skin and slipping past his fingertips. A voice that one day appeared during his endeavors in Mondstadt, which was odd since it was during his first meeting with the Honorary Knight of the Knights of Favonious, the Traveler, and hasn't left him ever since.

Then, when he awoke from his slumber after being defeated by the Traveler and was finally free from the restraint of his past, your voice grew louder. And oh, how melodious it was to his ears. You sang nothing but praises and encouragement as he used Anemo to take down his enemies, spoiling him with luck and guidance to achieve greater strengths he could have never acquired before without you.

With a hand outstretched toward the stars he once admired, forever twinkling in the vast and infinite darkness of space, forming shapes to lead those who are lost back into the path they strayed from, he wishes upon a shooting star; to give him a chance.

A chance to get to know you, to see your face... or at least know the name of the person who spoke nothing but promises of loyalty and adoration. If only...

Closing his hand into a fist, Kunikuzushi continued on his path, figures of the little fae named Paimon, and the Traveler, not too far away from him. Both waved at him, yelling at him to hurry up.

He scoffed, but he can't bring himself to stop the growing smile on his lips.

As Scaramouche, he would've loathed you more. For being so damn unreachable, for making him crave a feeling he's only felt from you, for not hearing his words. But now, as the Wanderer? A free man?

Well, he could only hope. Hope that one day, in his travels around Teyvat as his new self, he could reach you.

The last thing the Wanderer could remember was a bright, empty flash of white.

His memories were blurry beforehand, but he was definitely sure that he, the Traveler, and Paimon visited Nahida before moving onwards to Fontaine.

Now, he was stuck in an empty void of white. No sound could be heard, nor feel a molecule of air. Gravity, time, space— it was as if everything that existed ceased to exist.

But what scared him the most? You disappeared. The sense of serenity that would follow him no matter where he went had vanished, as if the string that tied you both together has been severed.

So he shed tears like never before. Tears wet his clothing, streaming down his cheeks, all the way to his chin. He wailed though there was no one to hear his misery.

Yet another betrayal.

How foolish of him to trust you— a mere faceless, disembodied voice that appeared out of nowhere and clung to him like a bothersome insect that refused to drift away.

Lies. Your words were nothing but lies, pouring into his hollow body and waiting to topple over, just waiting for him to realize that it was nothing but filth that came from your invisible lips.

Yet try as he might, tears endlessly flowed. No matter how hard he wiped them away, or quiet himself from screaming once more, he continued to lament the loss of everything he knew of. Stuck in a void, he grits his teeth as he began to choke on his own cries, clutching his hat so hard it almost breaks.

He was too caught up in his grief that he hadn't realized that his surroundings gradually formed. What once an empty space of nothingness, turned into a... room? Filled with foreign objects, never to be seen in Teyvat.

Only when he heard a silent call of his name, accompanied by a breathless gasp and the loud shattering of a glass object, splashes of water reaching his porcelain skin, was he snapped out of his pain-stricken stupor.

"Scaramouche?"

Similar to the first time he's heard your voice, something in his chest thrummed, as if he had a heart. Though his vision was blurry from his tears, he couldn't help but let out another sob as he finally laid his eyes on you.

So, it wasn't betrayal, wasn't it?

Even in a confused state, you were quick to respond. Getting down on your knees whilst he crumpled to the ground, you brushed your fingers against his cheek, wiping away his tears, but then flinched back. Perhaps you've realized who he was, for he was sure that you knew him a lot, maybe even more than himself.

Scaramouche. Kunikuzushi. Wanderer. The person you've guided in countless adventures, cheered him on in numerous battles and favored him even if he was stained with unsightly vile. A puppet.

When Scaramouche grabbed your wrist, gentle and cautious not to hurt you, he let out a desperate whimper for your touch. He couldn't bring himself to speak, voice broken from hours and hours of cries that were swallowed in the void. But he pulled you close, to feel more of your serene presence, to finally experience the warmth you gave from your voice up close.

And it only felt natural when you wrapped your arms around him, stroking his hair and cooing in his ear. He wept for god knows how long on your shoulder, but you hadn't minded. You never did, you always cared for him so much.

Even if you're mere strangers, even if this was your first meeting... Being in each other's arms only felt natural.

Not when you've yearned for one another across the barrier that separated you.

If you want to be tagged for future updates on this event, please fill out this form! Remember that usernames are only lowercase and have no spaces!

Taglist: @louise-rosita-leroux

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛❛ If you like this a lot, consider reblogging! I'll appreciate it very very much! Don't repost and/or translate my work anywhere. ❜❜ ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

#yaepublishinghouse #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #:;marshie.writes #:;requested #:;event.writing #:;kunikuzushi.scaramouche.wanderer #:;marshie's.events:sagau.event #:;weekly.anon #LY WEEKLY ANON /P #honestly ive got writer blues again but !!! scaramouche :)

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merbear25 · 3 months

Text

What I truly want

The horrors of Law's childhood will forever be present. No matter how much time passes, they still lurk in the dark corners of his mind. Hope is hard to find, though not impossible.

CW: angst, happy ending

After having experienced hell on earth, there was no savior to come for them. When the ones he cared about were being hunted in the streets, hope hid behind the ominous heavens.

The streets were set ablaze and the flames engulfing the buildings, which were once called home, used them as kindling. Rooms whose walls were still cluttered with framed photos, nurseries with empty bassinets, and kitchens with overturned chairs and left out food: they would temporarily represent ghosts of their previous occupants as the misplaced hatred ate away at this formerly lively country.

His screams of anguish called out to no one in particular, yet were answered only by the rushing footsteps of soldiers with fingers itching to pull the trigger.

Run, run, run. Keeping running. How long can you run for? It doesn't matter―they'll find you regardless. Is that so? Run, run, run. Run until you fall into the grace of hope that Sister was talking about. Where is it? I don't know but keep running.

What does hope feel like? Hope has no physical touch. Well, then what does it feel like to have hope? Uplifting.

...

"Can you see him?" A voice from behind the door murmured, causing Law to stir in his seat.

"Let's check in here," the door inched open. An excited Bepo exclaimed, "Found him!"

Rubbing his eyes, Law looked up to see Bepo accompanied by Shachi and Penguin, who were wearing worried, yet relieved, expressions.

"What is it?" Their captain asked cooly.

"You disappeared after supper. You aren't feeling ill, are you?"

Shaking his head, he started, "Just needed a lie down." He decided against telling them about his dream, predicting it would open a can of worms―a bombardment of questions he was not in the mood to answer.

With satisfied grins, they left Law to rest. When closing the door, he heard one of them say, "You see? I told you my cooking didn't make him sick!"

Rubbing his temple, a chuckle passed through his lips which were curling at the corners.

Uplifting: He mulled it over. Smiling to himself, he eased out of his seat and made his way to join the rest of the crew.

#one piece #one piece angst #one piece law #heart pirates #bepo one piece #law trafalgar #law one piece #op #trafalgar law #trafalgar d. water law #tw angst #one piece penguin #op bepo #op penguin #shachi one piece

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ladynicte · 1 year

Text

Nico who has been deified after his death. Nico who's sure, after all this time, he's finally managed to let go of his older sister's death, of course, it still hurts, and of course, he will never forget her, but that fiery hatred and overtaking sadness, has finally been put to rest.

Nico knows and understands that his sister chose to move on without him, and that's okay, no it's never gonna be okay but he's made his peace with that too, and now, that he's an inmortal himself he never expects to see Bianca again.

Nico lives easy. He works for his father, he sleeps for a couple decades at a time, sometimes he goes back to Camp, takes care of some kids during their quests here and there, but for the most part, he's a chain-free roaming God.

And then, one day at Camp Nico meets her, a tiny little girl, with how long he has lived, time has become almost impossible for Nico to really track down anymore, but he's sure this girl can't be more than 10.

And something about her eyes, her dark, void-like eyes, and her long black hair, and her proud stance. It really reminds him of somebody else.

The girl is all alone, no little brother or older sister of her own, no parents either, apparently, she's a child of Hekate, but that really doesn't matter.

Something about the girl's every move, about the way she approaches the darkness without fear, about the way she approaches him, like she's known him all his life, the way she uses her whole body when talking.

It reminds Nico of Bianca. This girl's soul is just like Bianca's.

And Nico supposes it's no longer a fatal flaw, but he still doesn't know how to let go.

Nico immediately claims her on the spot, lets her sleep on the Hades Cabin, helps her out with everything, takes care of her for years and years.

It's the first time in centuries, that Nico as a God feels connected to his mortal side.

When the little girl cuddles against him, because she's had yet another nightmare about manticores and huge robots, while Nico quietly tries to hug her, and reassure her she's going to be fine, he even starts thinking that maybe his family has grown, yet again.

And then, she's send off on a Quest, Nico loudly protests against it, because he knows how those end.

Because, he still remembers waking up screaming and trashing, in the middle of the night, inside the Hermes Cabin, surrounded by strangers and shadows, as he felt Bianca's soul perish away.

But it's no use, the Oracle of her time had already issued her prophecy, this new girl, Rachel having long since passed away, who Nico feels almost comfortable cursing in the spot, just like his father had done so many centuries ago.

The little girl leaves, and Nico now has nobody to swear to keep her protected. Nico knows it's useless to try to convince her to stay, but he still does, it doesn't work, it never has worked

But truth is, she doesn't even look scared.

She's excited, and ready, and determined, and Nico has to wonder if this is how Bianca looked like, during her last week on Earth, too.

The girl leaves and she doesn't come back.

Nico thinks, it should be easier by now. It isn't, it's never gonna be it

Hades catches Nico roaming mindlessly around Elysium, after noticing his absence from The House, for what's either days, or years.

Hades mournfully reassures Nico that Bianca is not there anymore. No, not this time, not last time, not next time either.

After that, Nico chooses to abandon Camp fully, once again, he doesn't come back for another few centuries, until Hermes asks him for help getting his children to satefy at Camp.

Nico swallows the bile, that he's sure a Godly body like his own, shouldn't be able to produce anymore, shakes Hermes's hands, and tells his cousin his children will make it through, just fine.

Nico rescues the kids, regretfully send them off to live all cramped up together at their Father's Cabin forever, but one of the boys of the bunch, just has such dark eyes, like a black hole consuming souls.

And he stands so proud, and Nico just knows once more, and all at once, because he would recognize Bianca's soul anywhere.

In life, in death, at the end of the world, in a Hekate's daughter, in an Hermes's son, it doesn't matter, the person standing in front of him, is simply Bianca in another skin.

Bianca, being a wild hero once more, and Nico has to wonder if she can see him as clearly as he can see her.

Bianca is the only one after all, who has known him all his life, Bianca knew his name before it was even his own. Nico was born knowing her.

If she can see him, or if she can't, Nico doesn't even know which one would hurt more.

Time passes, and if Nico let's the boy sleep at the Hades Cabin, because the nightmares about manticores, giant robots, and magic are too much to bear, and he can't even scream in peace inside the Hermes Cabin, well, that's only Nico's own business to know about.

Nico realizes, after a few ages of Godhood, that The Fates like repeating their own stories.

Nico knows he hates all of them, deeply and purposefully.

The Oracle comes up to the boy, Nico is sure she must be a new girl, but all the girls Apollo chooses all look the same, and she is the same, she gives the hero the prophecy that will bury him.

And, it doesn't even take Nico a glance to know, that this is where that boy's life thread is cut.

Nico wants to sneer, this would be Bianca's third death, and if a hero dies three times they get the special prize, and yet.

Nico begs the boy to not go, because they both know he's not gonna make it back.

Bianca never has. Bianca never does. This is Bianca's fate. She was already dead before the story even began.

But the boy doesn't even break eye contact with Nico, as he tells Nico that he's very kind, and that he loves him too, but no way.

He's gonna go, and so, the boy does.

The boy leaves and he doesn't come back, and Nico has to crawl at his Godly skin, and remember the sensations, of back when there was human flesh, and blood running through his veins.

And that's just the thing isn't it, that Bianca is never going to stay by his side, because she doesn't want to.

#you ever think about the fact that bianca preferred to stop completely existing before waiting for Nico and nico knows it #nico di angelo #Bianca di Angelo #pjo #god nico #luna writes #<- i mean this is halfway a fic already so yeah #this is about Bianca's reincarnations and how difficult Nico's and hers relationship really is like she loves him hes her little brother #but also she wants another family she was never gonna stay not because shes forced to but simply because that's not the choice she wanted #to make and all his life what nico wanted was for her to choose to stay and she just didn't #she never waited around she never showed up she left at once and asked for no opinions she took her life in her own hands #well that's all kinda messed up by the Riordan blog post just randomly having her in Elysium but whatever those arent canon #luna's headcanons #also nico taking care of kids is everything to me so yeah he would love and cherish the hell out of those kids even if sometimes they #behave even older than him and they all would still abandon him he supposes he should be fine with but he isnt #he will never find their souls or their corpses anywhere he already knows this

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vamossainz55 · 2 years

Text

The Fight (Carlos Sainz Jr. x Reader) - Part 1

a/n: hey everybody!! so this was requested by anon (as seen above). i did not fully follow the req as the fight wasn't before leaving the GP but the GP is thrown there somewhere. i actually really liked the prompt since its a bit more challenging and i rarely ever write angsty. i have divided it into two parts, so part 2 coming soon! (@ anon pls send another request for part 2 if you want a notif and i will reply to that, but if not i will tag part 2 here). i hope you enjoy bc i had a lot of fun writing this one. hoping to have part 2 up next week! excited to watch zandvoort this weekend, gutted to be in NL and not be able to see it in person. THE FACT THAT I AM MISSING OUT ON SEEING CARLOS IN PERSON? ON HIS BDAY WEEKEND? robbed. very vamossainz55phobic. anyways.. you didn't hear it from me but putting out a danny ric req out soon <3

summary: carlos and you fight for the first time. it doesn't end well.

tw: dickhead carlos, swearing, and honestly kinda sad? it will get better part 2 tho.

enjoy <3<3<3

The Fight (3.2k words) - part 1

The thing is, you didn’t expect it to be this hard when it started. Looking back though, you should've seen it coming.

It had already been five months since you started dating Carlos and the five months felt both like five minutes and five years. It was crazy how fast time had passed since you had met him and although five months wasn’t that long, you really did feel like you had known him for forever. The memory of you two meeting still made you both laugh because of how random it had been.

You had been visiting Singapore with some of your friends, around the same time as the Singapore GP, and sure you knew a bit about F1 but not much apart from the basics. You had followed the sport a bit with your dad when you were younger, so you were pretty familiar with the classic names of Lewis Hamilton, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, but you had no clue about any of the new and younger drivers.

The only thing you knew now about F1 was that it was driving you crazy. Every single area in Singapore was crowded, from clubs, to touristy destinations, to restaurants. You had scattered around the city trying your best to get some peace and quiet but the flood of F1 fans practically made it impossible. It’s not like you didn’t want them having fun, but it was frustrating you that it was at the expense of your own vacation.

To top it all off, it had been rumored that several of the drivers were staying at your hotel which made it practically impossible to get in without being tagged as a fan trying to crash the hotel.

You quietly waited for the elevator, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at the numbers slowly switching. You were tired and frustrated, having had to argue with the security once again, trying to remind him that you had been staying in the hotel a good two days before the F1 drivers had arrived. Your friends had decided to go out to a club that evening but you were too tired to tag along so there you were, ready to go to bed and sleep in the next morning.

You hear footsteps coming towards you, assuming that another guest was trying to get to their room too so you give them a quick smile before looking back at the elevator doors. You don’t even realize how frustrated you look with your arms crossed against your chest and your foot gently tapping the floor. You only snap out of it when you hear the stranger speak up.

“Rough day?” He asks, and you can’t help but give him a brief glance, seeing that he was by himself. You also don’t miss that he was kind of attractive. He had big doe eyes and thick lips along with a nice stubble.

“Do I look that annoyed?” You ask him, and you notice the slight concern in his eyes and you can’t help but let out a light hearted laugh. “It’s really not that deep,” You say, shaking your head. “This whole Formula One thing has just been a bit of a nuisance.” You explain, taking another glance at him.

You look over at him a bit and notice that he is wearing gym attire from top to bottom and a backward facing cap on his head to hide his hair. “Sorry, are you a fan? Like are you here for the race?” You ask and there is a clear apologetic look on your face.

This makes the stranger laugh and you can’t help but furrow your brows. “Yeah- You could say I am here for the race, but don’t worry, I get what you mean. It’s a bit too much sometimes, yeah?” He chuckles just as the elevator door rings. You nod along as you both go inside and you follow along with the conversation when he asks you for any recommendations.

And that’s how you had met Carlos. You had ranted to him all the way up the elevator, and he had listened and nodded, still wearing an amused smile on his face. “Trust me I like Formula One, I get it, it's fun, but I wanted to enjoy my holiday without a crowd.” You remember telling him and the poor guy had just nodded along. It was only the next day when you were leaving with your friends for brunch that you had spotted him again, still no clue of his name.

He was wearing a red shirt- or what looked like a jersey, black pants, and he was sporting the same cap as the night before, this time facing forward. The black horse with the yellow emblem with the logo being clear as daylight. As soon as he spotted you he walked over, giving you a small wave.

You look over his outfit the closer he gets and your eyes slightly drift to the people he was with and although you first thought they were fans it was loud and clear that it was a team. By the time he comes up to you you’re flushed red, completely embarrassed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you worked for the team? I am so sorry. Oh my god.” You blurt out as soon as he’s near enough and the cackle he lets out only makes your face burn more.

“Hey, I told you I came for the race. It’s not my fault you didn’t ask if I was racing or not,” He says with a grin before looking over at your friends and giving them a smile.

“Excuse me? You’re racing?” You ask already covering your face. “I am so sorry, seriously. It’s cool that you do all of this.” You try your best to cover up. From your conversation from the night before you were sure he wasn’t offended but what he says next completely takes you by surprise.

“I mean, you could make it up to me by giving me your number?” He offers with a smile. His tongue is poking out slightly between his lips and you find yourself blushing for a completely different reason. He’s taking out his phone to hand it to you, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. You look at him stunned before your eyes drop to his phone. “I need to give F1 a better rep, you know?” He says before moving his phone closer to you. You take his phone before putting your number in before the others are calling for him and before you properly catch his name he is already running off.

You had chatted a bit the first few months but because of Carlos’ schedule you both did not get to properly start seeing each other until the end of the season. But here you were, seven months later and you both had been properly together for almost five months. The Christmas holiday and pre-season was easy, both of you managing to find time with each other. Luckily you were also living in Spain, having secured a job there a little over a year ago, and it was a dream really. You both indulged in each other’s time and got to know each other quite well. It was all perfect until the next season had started.

It was fine at first, the first few races were fun, and it was thrilling to see your boyfriend on TV, but after the first few races you realized the excitement of seeing him on TV stopped outweighing the slight pang in your chest from him not being next to you.

The tension had been building the first few races of the season, and you both knew it. Carlos was starting to get stressed, it was his second year in Ferrari and the pressure had grown tenfold. You tried your best to also be there for him, but as the season progressed you were beginning to feel like every single race was pushing you guys another step further from each other.

Carlos had just ended his streak of finished races, DNFing in Australia, and as hard as you tried to be there to support him there was only so much you could do through the phone. You kept on telling yourself that it was going to be okay though, you were going to see him for the next race. After some heavy planning and insisting, your manager had finally given you a green light. You had contacted Charles for some help, wanting to surprise your boyfriend and luckily the Monegasque driver had sent you a thumbs up with the photo of your printed out lanyard.

You had arrived at the hotel the Thursday night, tired but excited to see Carlos after not seeing him for a little over a month. The lanyard was hanging over your neck, Charles having snuck to the lobby to hand it to you. You knock the door nervously, holding the handle of your luggage. There is a faint sound of shuffling before the door opens and you smile widely once you see Carlos. He looks tired and sleepy, his feathery hair fuzzed out, your heart grows two sizes at the sight of him.

“Surprise,” You say softly with a smile, looking over his face for a reaction. His eyes widen for a bit before a smile is pulling at his lips.

“No way. What?” He asks before he’s pulling you into a hug. You tuck your head easily under his chin. You wrap your arm around his waist and nuzzle your face into his chest. “What are you doing here?” Carlos asks, slowly pulling away to look at you. He barely gives you a moment to look at him before he’s kissing you.

“God, I did not expect to see you,” He breathes out, beginning to pull you in the room. You drag your luggage in with you, letting go of it only once you’re inside. Carlos shuts the door before he is kissing you again, this time trailing kisses down your neck. You let out a soft sigh, holding onto his arms.

“Wanted to surprise you,” You say softly, smiling once Carlos pulls away. He gently squeezes your waist before pecking your lips again.

“Well you did,” He says smiling. For a moment you thought everything was fine, but the rest of the weekend proved otherwise.

Friday was rough. You were excited that your first race weekend watching Carlos in person followed the sprint format, you were going to watch him in two races over the weekend and you honestly could not wait to see him drive his heart out. You lingered around for a bit around the paddock in the morning, getting to meet a few other drivers and their girlfriends, and it was nice. Practice was intense, and although Carlos did not top the chart your heart still swole to see him up there.

Qualifying was a different story though, you could feel the tension to a point where it was almost nauseating and you could feel your own nerves crawl up your throat. Q1 looked good, and Q2 was looking promising. Up until you saw a yellow flag flashing across the screen and the team in the garage groan. The moment you realized Carlos had crashed you felt your heart sink. It was clear that he was okay, but you already knew he had been stressed from the previous race. You nervously pinched your bottom lip, stopping yourself from wanting to just walk to the track to go to Carlos yourself no matter how long it would take.

Instead you waited patiently, standing in the back of the garage as the screen flashed Carlos getting out of the car. You let out a deep breath, deciding to calm yourself down before Carlos saw you.

When he came back to the garage you let out a breath of relief, just glad to be able to see him. You wait for him to go around the garage, apologizing to the team. Once he had done a round around the garage you see him walk towards you. You give him a small smile, ready to go for a hug but his words practically push you back.

“You should head back to the hotel yeah?” He asks, not even looking you in the eye. You frown at this and shake your head.

“No it’s fine, I can stay.” You say, knowing that he probably would have a long debrief that evening. “I don’t mind.” You promise, but you’re met with a cold response.

“Just head back yeah?” He says before he’s turning his back to you to go to the pitwall. You chew the inside of your cheek, watching him walk off. The last thing you wanted was to make a scene in front of his team.

Call it stubborn but you wait until qualifying is over, you loiter around the garage, and then wait in the hospitality room. You don’t mind really, you just wanted to be there for Carlos. You hadn’t seen him since he had headed to the meeting room to talk, and five hours later you catch him walking with the rest of the team to another room. You give him a soft smile before resting your chin on your hand.

It’s almost a whole five minutes later when you get a text.

‘Go to the hotel y/n. I’ll see you there.’

That time you chose to listen.

You fall asleep before Carlos gets back, both physically and emotionally exhausted from the day so the next time you talk to Carlos is when you’re both up to get ready to go for free practice 2 and the sprint race.

The car ride is a bit silent again and you rest your head against the window as you watch the cars pass by. “How are you feeling about the qualifying?” You ask after a bit, finally mustering the courage to ask for it.

Carlos shrugs a bit, fixing his sunglasses. “It happened, it was a mistake but it’s okay, we have the sprint to fix it.” Carlos says and you give him a small smile.

“Yeah, yeah. I can’t wait to see you drive today. It’s not a full race but its the first time I’ll see you race in person.” You smile. Carlos glances over you with a smile before reaching to give your knee a squeeze.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He promises.

The spint makes things better. Carlos manages to climb up from P10 to P4 and the moment he comes back to the garage you are engulfed in a tight hug.

“That was amazing!” You say, smiling from ear to ear. He lets out a soft laugh.

“Could do better but I will definitely be taking P4. after yesterday” He chuckles before giving you a quick peck.

The evening is a bit nicer this time, you decide to go to the hotel first, a bit grateful that Carlos had given you a rough estimate of when he was going to get back. You wait for him, ready to order room service but when he arrives he’s holding a bag of take out for you along with his own meal prep.

You both talked over dinner, and although today was better there was a little voice in the back of your head, nagging a bit about the night before, but you decided to bite your tongue back. That was a problem for another day. Unfortunately though, Sunday decided otherwise.

One thing was to see Carlos crash during Q2, but another thing was to see him end a race before it even started. When you spotted Carlos’ and Daniel’s collision you physically had to hold back a scream, balling up your fist in frustration. By the time Carlos got into the garage the tension was airtight. Nobody thought it was Carlos’ fault, but that didn’t mean the frustration wasn’t there.

“Just go home,” Carlos murmurs once he gets to you, after making his second round of apologies that weekend. You look over at him and shake your head.

“I don’t mind waiting here today. I have nothing to do in the hotel anyways Carlos,” You say, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay,” You say but Carlos is soon pulling his hand away.

“I don’t mean the hotel. I mean you can go home if you want to.” Carlos says and your face instantly falls.

“What?” You ask and he’s walking to the back to his driver's room and you follow behind him. “Why would you even offer that?” You ask, shutting the door behind you once you’re both inside.

“Look, I just, I think you should go home. It doesn’t make sense for you to stay.” Carlos says, looking at his hands.

“Why wouldn’t it make sense for me to stay? I want to be there for you Carlos.” You say, looking over him incredulously. “That’s the whole reason I’m here, I want to support you.” You’re trying to find his eyes but he can’t bring himself to look at you.

“I don’t need your support y/n. I’m fine.” He says and you know it’s his emotions talking but the words sink into your chest.

“But we still had our plan for tomorrow and Tuesday still, Charles told me he booked you for those days so I could have some extra time for the race.” You murmur.

“I don’t have time for that y/n. I need to train and work on the car and talk to engineers. We need to prepare for Miami.” He says, slowly unzipping his suit.

“Carlos, Miami is in 2 weeks. I know you’re upset but you don’t need to be unreasonable.” You say, starting to feel frustrated. You had tried your best to meet Carlos half way the whole weekend but at this point it felt like you were grasping at straws.

“I’m not upset y/n. I told you I’m fine.” He says, back facing you.

“You’ve been upset since Australia. I have been trying to seriously talk to you about this. You barely tell me anything through the phone and I was hoping being here in person would help you open up. Carlos, you need to tell me how you’re feeling. How many times do I need to tell you this?” You ask, finally getting some edge in your voice. The frustration had been building for weeks from all the worrying you had done and you were sick of holding it back.

“How many times do I need to tell you y/n. I’m fine.” He says and his back is still facing you, and you never thought you would hate seeing the number 55 in front of your face ever.

“Then look at me when you say that.” You snap. There’s a lull of silence and you go to say something but Carlos cuts you off before you can.

“I didn’t ask you to come here for the race.” He says and this time the words cut a whole through your chest.

“Seriously?” You murmur, still only facing his back. You give him time to answer and every second only makes the hole in your chest bigger.

He finally turns around after what feels like hours, giving you a nod.

“I need to go to the pitwall.” He says, and if there is regret on his face you can’t see it since he’s already walking past you and opening the door. You feel tears well up in your eyes and you can’t bring yourself to turn around.

By the time he gets back to the hotel the only thing left there is his suitcase and your lanyard hanging on the coat rack.

fin.

part 2 linked here

a/n: very angsty and carlos is a dickhead but part 2 is coming !! let me know if you want to be tagged in the comments (or if you want to be tagged in my general f1 taglist <3

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waltwhitmansbeard · 1 year

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go on, claim my heart: chapter fourteen

see my masterpost for what came before this.

Every morning, when Vax wakes up, for the briefest moment, he swears he can hear an infant's cries, just barely in earshot. It takes a single breath, slow in, slow out, to remember. Today, he awakens in a room he does not recognize in a house he hates, and once he understands that he does not hear his child just on the other side of the wall, he turns his head to see empty sheets beside him. Terror grips his heart, and he launches out of bed, throwing on clothes haphazardly in a matter of seconds before stumbling into the hall. The doors leading to the others' bedrooms are still closed, so Vax goes first to the parlor they'd spent most of the previous day, hoping to find her in there. Instead, all he sees is Grog, sprawled out in front of the dead fire and snoring loud enough to shake the walls.

Cursing under his breath, Vax flies through the halls, head on a swivel in the hopes of catching her out of the corner of his eye. She's not in the main foyer, nor the dining room, nor the music room where his father lets all manner of expensive instruments collect dust. With each empty room he searches, the hole in his chest only grows bigger; surely she was not taken, surely he did not once more sleep through the abduction of one of the most important people in his world, surely he has not failed to protect his family again—

He screeches to a halt in the middle of the hall leading toward his father's study. The grounds. Keyleth has always found the natural world comforting in times of emotional turmoil. He spins around and barrels outside into the cold, scanning the rolling hills of the estate in the low pre-dawn light until he just barely makes out a familiar speck of red beneath a mighty oak on the far edge of the property.

He nearly topples over with relief, jogging across the lawns as calmly as his heart allows until he believes himself to be within earshot. "Kiki?"

Her head pops up, having been bowed low, and as he approaches she asks, "What are you doing up?"

Panicking, is what he doesn't say. Instead he falls to his knees in front of her, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her until his already faltering breath fails him. "Do not ever," he pants, "do that to me again."

She smiles sheepishly, not needing elaboration. "I apologize. I didn't think..."

He kisses her forehead this time, simply elated to be holding her and no longer frantically searching his father's home. "It is fine, I just..." He sighs. "What are you doing out here anyway? It's dark and freezing."

"I had a dream." For the first time in days, there is a hint of hope in Keyleth's voice. "I dreamt of the cherry tree back in Zephrah, and how whether we are in our cottage or the castle, that tree will always be home to me. And then I was beneath the soil, following the tree's roots as they stretched out, farther and farther, impossibly far, until they touched the roots of another tree, and I followed those, and then I was above the earth again, this time at the base of a tree so large I could not see around to the other side of it. And I knew this tree to be the Sun Tree."

Vax frowns, confused. "I...am not following."

Keyleth grips his hands in excitement. "Percy has told me of the Sun Tree, an enormous tree in the center of Whitestone that Pelor planted there forever ago. It is an important part of his city's history, a symbol of the Dawnfather's protection of the place. But it is also just a tree, a part of the natural world, connected in the way that all living things are."

He's trying not to look as baffled as he feels, but it is becoming harder to trace the thread of her excitement. "My love, I don't understand. What does this have to do with you sitting beneath this tree in the dark?"

She chews her lip nervously. "You know that my understanding of my...gifts is tenuous at best."

"I do, not that I think that is any condemnation of your abilities."

"Well, thank you, but what I mean to say is that I do not fully comprehend how I can do the things I can do, nor how I know I can do them in the first place." She heaves a big breath. "And yet well I know that if I place my hand upon this tree behind me, I can open a door in its trunk that leads us straight through to the Sun Tree in the center of Whitestone."

Vax blinks. He tries to envision it, a doorway opening in the tree in front of him and the city of Whitestone waiting on the other side. It makes no sense to him, but he nods all the same. "Alright. Sure. I won't pretend that I understand what that means, but I have seen you pull lightning from above and shake the floors in rage, so if you say you can do this, then I believe you."

She sighs in relief. "If I am right, we will be able to get to Vilya a full week earlier than we'd originally planned."

He presses his lips to her forehead again. "Then let us pray that you are. Come." He stands, pulling her to his feet with him. "We will eat and prepare for our journey, whether it be by horse or tree. Let's wake the others; I know my father is eager to see the backs of us."

Keyleth grumbles her disapproval under her breath as they head back toward the house. Once inside, they are met with the house's butler, who informs them that a breakfast has been prepared. They're led to the dining room, where the rest of their groggy party is already eating. Vax settles in next to his sister, Keyleth on his other side, and he's just about to tell them the interesting development when another person skitters into the room, dressed in a frilly nightgown and clutching a stuffed owlbear in one arm.

Velora zooms over to the twins, poking her head between them. "Are you really leaving?" she pouts, swiveling to look at both of them. "Mama says you're leaving today."

Vax exchanges a look with his sister, whose heartbreak is apparent on her face. Vax is still in disbelief that this little girl exists, that his father would keep such a wondrous thing from them. He bends down and tucks her wild bedhead behind one ear. "Did your mother tell you why we came to visit yesterday?"

She shakes her head. "Something important and boring, I think." Vax huffs out a little laugh at that. "But can't you stay? I haven't even shown you my tree house!"

From across the table, Grog's eyes light up. "Tree house?"

Ignoring him, Vax crooks a smile at his little sister and says, "I would love nothing more than to see your tree house, Velora. But..." And as desperate as he is to get moving, to walk through his wife's strange plant door and go to his daughter, he cannot bring himself to break this girl's heart, this girl with whom he is already hopelessly enchanted. She reminds him so much of Vex, of the even wilder spirit she was as a young girl, and if he could he would sweep her away from this house and his father's austere tempers, take her to Zephrah where she can tumble across the castle grounds and dig her hands into the earth.

Vex rescues him. "Velora, darling, did you know that you and I have a niece?" Eyes wide, Velora shakes her head. "It's true! Her name is Vilya, and Vax is her father. And...well, right now, Vilya is in some trouble, and we are all on our way to help her."

"Oh." She hugs her owlbear contemplatively for a moment before turning and throwing her arms around Vax. "I hope you can help her and that you come back soon."

Vax's throat is suddenly thick, and he collects Velora in a hug. "So do I." He doesn't say that he will never come back here again, that her father has demanded his absence forever. If he must, he will be the villain who crushes her hopes so that she may still believe her father is a good man.

When he releases Velora, who sullenly trudges away to properly dress for the day, he turns back to the table, and in his periphery he sees a tear rolling down Keyleth's cheek. He places his hand atop hers and squeezes it. He does not need her to recount her pain in this moment; he, too, feels the exquisite ache of Vilya's absence when confronted with Velora's childlike spirit.

Over breakfast, Vax explains Keyleth's plan to expedite their travel to Whitestone, and even though he's met largely with doubtful stares, no one objects to at least attempting travel via tree. They eat quickly and pack up their belongings before gathering in the foyer. Syldor does not come to see them off, though Devana does, Velora sulking on the grand spiral staircase leading to higher floors. Vax thanks her profusely for her hospitality, but Devana waves him off. "I am sorry we could not do more." The phrase is said bitterly, and they both know all too well that they could have done more, if only Syldor had been willing.

Vex kneels before Velora and plucks a feather from her own hair to tuck behind the girl's ear. "I will send you lots of presents," Vex promises, "to remind you that Vax and I are very fond of you and will be missing you terribly."

"Can I come visit your castle?" Velora asks, lip trembling.

Vex hesitates, but then Keyleth is there, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are always welcome in Zephrah, Velora. I am sure..." She takes a deep breath. "I am sure you and Vilya will get along magnificently."

Velora beams and hugs onto Keyleth's leg, and Vax watches a flood of emotions pass across his wife's face. Vax tears his eyes away from the scene to briefly detail their planned means of travel, and Devana, saint that she is, promises to bring their boarded horses to their own stables to look after until they can be sent for. As they all head for the door, Vax spies Keyleth murmuring something to Devana before passing her a sealed envelope. Devana nods and says something low back, and then Keyleth is joining them at the exit. With that, the Ashari group sets off across the grounds toward the large oak, Keyleth at the very front.

As they walk, Vax whispers, "What was that you gave to Devana?"

Her shoulders slump forward. "A letter to be sent to my father. I wrote it this morning, when I could not go back to sleep. I...I do not regret leaving, but I do regret the manner in which I left. I hope he can forgive me for doing what I needed to do."

Vax folds her arm into his. "I highly doubt there is a crime you could commit for which your father would not forgive you." Keyleth sighs and leans into his side.

When they've reached the tree, Keyleth places her hand upon the trunk and closes her eyes. "I think...we should have only a brief window to make it through," she says, and Vax must admit he is not made confident by her tone. "I suggest hurrying. I'll have to be the last one through, as I must keep the door open from this side."

Looking at each other nervously, the party falls into something resembling a line. Vax stands just beside Keyleth, not wanting to go through until the absolute last moment. Keyleth bows her head and concentrates, gripping Vax's hand tightly. For a long minute, nothing happens, and Vax worries that perhaps his wife, gifted as she is, has overestimated the extent of her talents. Then, with a creaking snap, the bark of the oak's trunk begins to split open, a black gap appearing in the wood. This gap widens, and the black is flooded with light. The light grows and grows with the groaning, cracking wood until an opening just a bit smaller than Grog is clearly visible in the tree, through which, Vax can hardly believe, they see a city, one with which Vax is wholly unfamiliar.

"Go!" Keyleth shouts, and Percy, who was standing stunned just a foot or so from the tree, jolts into action. He runs through the tree, quickly followed by Vex, the gnomes, and Grog, who must duck to make it through. Vax squeezes her hand once more before joining them, and the moment he has passed through the portal, which feels as physically mundane as stepping through any doorway, he turns and beckons Keyleth to come. She does, releasing her grasp on the tree and stepping through just as the doorway shrinks rapidly behind her.

Once they're all through, Vax wraps his wife up in a hug. "You are brilliant," he breathes in her ear.

"Um, Vax?" At Scanlan's question, Vax releases Keyleth and turns. His eyes go wide.

The party stands in a town square, edged on all sides by quaint cottages and brick buildings, with various streets and avenues branching off between them. Right before them, they face a large thoroughfare leading deep into town, and shambling up that thoroughfare, innumerable and terrifying, is a horde of what Vax can only assume is the undead, hunched and decaying and clearly heading straight for them.

#critcal role #critical role fic #cr fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vaxleth au #vox machina #vox machina fic #vox machina au #tlovm #tlovm fic #my fair lady #go on claim my heart #my fic

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