I'm being very annoying about Sinners but I really find evil that in a movie with 99% poc cast the first thing you get when you search the movie is the white devils
Sammie's actor is less known so I get why he shows less, but Michael B. Jordan is 10 times more famous than Jack O'Connell and he's there TWICE, Jack is just fucking white
i got an anon a few days ago requesting a mid90s fic and while i have never written for that movie, i think i just might have to do it? idk :/ im a bit rusty BUT i wanna get back into writing, so i guess youâll just have to wait and see!
iâm back in my jack era (it was inevitable) and decided to finally watch The Instigators⌠side note; i need more scalvo fics pleeeeease!!
spoiler under the cut
WHY did no one tell me that Scalvo dies within the first 20 minutes of the movieđ§đžââď¸i turned that shit off immediately and took my ass to bed LMAOOO
It's easy to get distracted at the rodeo. At least, it should be, under the lights and in the crowded stands, but you've only got one thing on your mind. Champion bronco rider Abby Anderson could say the same.
Pairing: cowpoke!abby x reader (sort of)
Content: established relationship, fluff, poor attempts at depicting the rodeo, reader is barely described, i swear im not slut shaming i just think the term buckle bunny is funny, i don't think any warnings apply
A/N: wrote this last night in a haze. i hardly know anything about tlou and rodeos actually make me really sad but yk. the parasites. might make another part to this at some point. didn't tell my friends i was posting this so if you guys see this hello i love you thank you for hyping me up <3. also friendly reminder fuck neil druckmann and do not give that zionist your money!!!
WC: 1080
The blare of the announcerâs voice from the overhead speakers is deafening, but you havenât heard a word heâs said. The lights are blinding, but you wonât squint against their glare. The stadium is packed fullâroaring with the drunken cheers of thousands of strangers, glittering with the flash of every camera and belt buckle and rhinestone-studded hat suffocating in the standsâbut it may as well be empty save for the two of you.
The world is quiet. Eerily so, though maybe the ringing in your ears is playing a part in that. Itâs narrow. Itâs tinged by the black splotches at the edge of your vision and strained by the clench of your jaw.
The world is the cowpoke settling onto the bare back of the bronc in the chute only a few feet away from you. Itâs the wide-brimmed ten-gallon pressed firmly down over the dirty blonde braid hanging between her shoulders. The collared white shirt stretching over her back, quilted with Marlboro patches and brand logos. The crimson bandana youâd had in your hair an hour earlier, resting around her neck.
The world is Abby Anderson, from the freckles strewn over her scarred, sunburned face to the cold focus in her steely blue eyes that evaporates when her gaze settles on you. Ice turns to the warmth of Jack Danielâs, neat in its absence. To the gray of campfire smoke winding into the white-speckled sky, burning away the chill in the air. Warding off the spectators and the clamor and the awful, twisting feeling of waiting.
This is what itâs about, right?
The rush. The thrill.
The hitch in the air as her hand tightens on the rigging one last time.Â
A grin splits her features.
She winks.
And then sheâs gone. The gate swings open and the bucking mare takes off with her on its back and the world bursts back into a mess of color and noise. Eight seconds.
Youâre yellingâyouâre not sure what youâre yelling, but itâs loud enough to leave your throat raw and earn some sideways looks from the flock of buckle bunnies pressed up against the railing alongside you.Â
Seven.
Part of Pour Some Sugar on Me blasts from the staticky speakers, and Abby appears on the jumbotrons in perfect detail.Â
Six.
The bay mare thrashes into the air, but Abbyâs faster, stronger, the muscles in her arms pushing against the seams of her shirt as she holds her free hand held up in the air.Â
Five.
The snarling wolves engraved on her belt buckle flash under the lights.Â
Four.
Every kick whips the fringe along the edges of her shotgun chaps, but the timer ticks down anyway.Â
Three.
She holds on, anyway.
A closer shot brings her face into focus: grit teeth, a furrowed brow, a muscle ticking along the edge of her jaw.Â
Two.
Sweat runs down the side of her features and into the scar on her cheek beneath the shadow of her hatâs brim.Â
Sheâs in the middle of the arena now, gritty sand flying up around her.Â
One?
If you could tear your eyes off of her, youâd check the time to make sure youâre counting right.
The music stops. An airhorn sounds. Sheâs still the riderâsome distant, mythical thing up on a screen and down in the dirt.
Abbyâs mouth opens in a shout when the second set of floodlights kick in, raising her head only to lock eyes with the pair of wranglers who burst out of the chutes after her to rope the bronc back in. She rocks forward with the mareâs motion one more time before swinging herself off its back and bailing into the sand.Â
You finally get a breath out, resting your head against your forearm on the railing and heaving a sigh.
The announcerâs words retreat to the back of your thoughts again, but not before you catch her score. 95.
Ninetyâfuckingâfive. The dayâs record.
Just as the stadium begins to die down, the strangers beside you erupt into another round of cheers. Abbyâs on her feet again, dusting herself off and sweeping her hat off of her head to shake out the loose strands of hair framing her face. And sheâs walking. Jogging. Full-on running, back towards the chutes.
Or maybe not.Â
She vaults the rickety fencing at the edge of the ring like sheâs been practicing and hauls herself up into the stands. You canât bite back your smile at the sight of her, shoulders heaving, beaming, alive. The crooks of her boots expertly find the backs of the plastic stadium seats between spectatorsâ shoulders. As she makes her way over, the strangers along the railing surge towards her, arms outstretched over the sectionâs edge.Â
Abby doesnât even see them; her stare never leaves yours except to glance at the railing before stepping up on the platform and hooking an arm through the top metal rung.Â
Sheâs real again thenâthe world in flannel and denim and muddy boots, inches away.
Abby. Your Abby.
Youâre breathing it in. Smoke from the night before. Pine and sweat.
Then, youâre tasting it. Whiskey and winning.
Her hat settles atop your head. Calloused, resin-stuck fingers thread through your hair at the back of your neck and reel you in. Your lips are on hersâor maybe itâs the other way aroundâand you laugh against each other.
Heat creeps into your cheeks long before you pull away.
âYou shouldnât be up here,â you scold, but your smile chases off any thread of sternness your voice mightâve held.
âAgree to disagree.â She wipes her forehead on her sleeve and huffs, one brow arched. The rosy blush in her features lingers even when the sweat is gone.Â
The screens over her shoulder change to show two familiar shapes.Â
âWeâre on the jumbotron,â you say.Â
Abby doesnât bother looking back. Just laughs âGood,â then kisses you again. This one is quicker, lighter, but your stomach flutters all the same.
âGo.â You squeeze her arm. âIâm sure youâre gettinâ somethinâ good for a ride like that.â
She scoffs. âI do this for no damn awards,â she drawls.
âCanât all be adrenaline,â you murmur, tugging at her bandana.
That sly, smoky look creeps across her features again as the hat lifts from your head and sinks back down onto hers.. The corner of her mouth tugs upward. Her eyes dart over your face. Stepping down, she leaves you two more words and a pounding in your chest:
vaporwave
2087
discoholicmusic
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
