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[k1ssuu]

SADDLE UP, COWGIRL 𐚁₊⊹

bull rider!abby x farmer’s daughter // word count : 1,086 // not proof read

Abigail ‘Abby’ Anderson, otherwise known as the best damn bull rider in the West. She’d been in the rodeo as a bull rider since she was old enough to do so. She was decent enough at first, but within a few seasons she managed to dominate all the other competition in town, and even in the state. She was the top rider in the women’s division, but managed to effortlessly beat the scores of the top ranking men as well.

Before you and Abby had gotten together you would admire her silently from the stands. You would drag your friends with you every Saturday just so you could see that girl ride. You never left disappointed. Now that you are together you continue to show up every weekend, supporting your girlfriend loudly from the bleachers.

There she was now, on the back of the bucking steer, her face furrowed in concentration. The way she moved her hips and the sight of her muscles flexing through her slightly too tight button up shirt had you captivated. Her skill was both impressive and so, so hot. Her dirty blonde hair shone in the afternoon sun, tied back in its usual neat braid. Counting down the timer in her head, you could see her look of concentration turn to one of triumph. The stands cheered loudly as the eight second timer buzzed, signifying that she had done it once again.

“Another incredible run for Abby with a score of 90 points! Each and every day she gets closer to a perfect score! Will next Saturday be the day she finally hits that big 100!?” The announcers said excitedly over the speakers, and the crowd only grew louder after hearing her score. You, of course, cheered along with them.

You watched as the bullfighters helped her off the bull, her smile wide as she waved to the stands. Quickly making your way down to the side of the arena, you met her as soon as she walked out. You met her halfway and wrapped your arms around her, burying your nose into her hair.

“That was incredible.” You pulled away, taking a second to admire her. A bead of sweat ran down her temple and her freckled cheeks were flushed a rosy pink. The smile that you loved so much had not left her face, and likely would not for the rest of the night.

“What, you surprised?” She asked sarcastically, her eyes wandering across your frame.

With a scoff you replied. “Obviously not.” To which she laughed and pulled you in for a quick kiss. Her lips were always soft and tonight she tasted like coffee and a hint of chewing tobacco. She always tasted like chewing tobacco after the rodeo. You both pulled away, stupid smiles on each of your faces.

She took a step back and wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to her. “Come on, let’s watch the rest of the rodeo.” She said as she steered you into the direction of the stands.

You stayed for the remainder of the night, watching all the other bull riders (none of which were as impressive as Abby) and the barrel racers. The sun started to sink behind the mountainous horizon, painting the sky various hues of pinks, purples, and blues. Abby was a constant presence of warmth next to you, an additional layer of heat in the already humid air.

By the time the rodeo was over, Abby had maintained the highest score in the bull riding division, not that anyone was surprised to hear. She walked away from that arena with her chin held highly and you tucked under her arm. You walked amongst the crowd of people back to Abby’s car. Many offered their congratulations to your girlfriend as they passed, saying things along the lines of “you did it again!” and “nobody has a chance with you as their competition”.

She thanked each of them, her smile growing just a little bit bigger each time. Her arm tightened around you just slightly, keeping you close to her.

Everyone was covered in the reddish dirt, blue jeans and button ups were covered in it, which was normal after a night at the rodeo. The sound of everyone’s footsteps on the soft ground sounded like a herd of cattle traveling down the path. By now the sun had set and the stars had begun to twinkle up above.

Abby led you to her beat up old truck and opened the passenger door for you, ever the polite lady. Her truck was unmistakable. It was an old, worn down Ford that had rusted bumpers and holes in the seats. It smelled like her, too. All in all it was rough around the edges but comfortable enough.

Once you were situated in the passenger seat she joined you, sitting in the driver’s seat. However instead of turning the car on she just sat there and gave you a dopey smile.

“You did really great tonight, I’m proud of you, Abs.” You said, giving her a smile in return.

“Thanks. I love that you’re always there to cheer me on.” She said as she grabbed your left hand, holding it in both of hers. Your smile only grew wider at the gentle touch.

“What happened to that ego of yours? I was expecting some smart ass response.” You laughed.

“Well,” She laughed, not being able to come up with an excuse, which only made you laugh more. She laughed along with you and she cupped your face gently. She pulled you in for a kiss that started out gentle, your lips barely touching. It soon grew heavier and more passionate, her hand slipping to the back of your neck. You were practically over the center console by now, but you pulled away before she managed to pull you completely into the driver’s seat.

Her freckled cheeks were flushed, her lips were still parted, and her eyes were searching for your lips again. Her hair that was usually neatly braided was now messy, strands falling out and onto her forehead.

“Want to… head into the backseat?” You asked with a smile, motioning your head to the backseat of her truck.

She smiled back, and nodded. The both of you climbed into the backseat and you ended up on top of her, quickly ended up in a heated kiss once again.

Pulling away just slightly she mumbled against your lips “I think it’s your turn to ride, cowgirl.”

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©k1ssuu’24

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Summary: Tired of being trapped in the suffocation and monotony of your life, you make the hair triggered decision to abandon it all and escape to an eccentric town in California.

You never expected to get spirited away by a charming man one night on the boardwalk. But you should have known from the look in his eyes that he was nothing but bad luck.

Warnings: Fem bodied reader, fem pronouns. 18+ MDI. Oral (F!Receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, sex outdoors, mild gore (blood drinking). Reader is dodging red flags like it's a profession. Not proofread.

Notes: 14k words. I rewatched The Lost Boys a few nights ago and couldn't resist writing for one of my favorites.

Santa Carla is almost jarring to witness. Even in the day, when the mid sun is bright and blunt on the shifting scape of graffiti and grimy corners and sidewalks marred with old gum, it's unabashed in its abnormality. It's entirely unlike the hushed, quaint little streets of your hometown, with its lush lawns and the little elderly ladies in their Sunday best, speaking amongst each other in gossip that's quiet and passive aggressive. A complete one-eighty of the punks that skulk down these avenues with black smeared around their eyes and worn cigarettes dangling between their pierced lips while they lug old boom boxes over their shoulders, spitting out metal and rock and roll. 

Just the sight of them would have been enough to send the old committee in your town into a conniption, banding together to drive the demonic filth from the city limits. But here, no one bats an eye to this sort of thing. It isn't shocking to the locals to see a man who's old enough to be your grandfather gliding down the pavement in hot pink booty shorts that are tight enough to show what he's packing. 

Your own mother had nearly been sent into a spiral when she had heard about you wearing a crop top - she hadn't even seen you herself. Someone had snitched to her apparently. Your best bet is Audrey. She's always bored on her shifts at the market, sitting at her register with a glazed overlook in her eyes until she manages to find something worth blabbering about. You're sure she had all but flown over to the phone on her lunchbreak to snitch and warn your mother that she had spied you perusing over the ice cream freezers with your stomach shamelessly bared for the entire world to see. 

It's pretty embarrassing to have your mother barrel her way into your kitchenette at the middle of 10 p.m. to scold you for "acting like a harlot." 

But here it's normal. People are dressed in so many different styles. Sporting hair dyed from fried bleach blonde to bright neon green; decked out in leather, ripped jeans; women and men alike strolling around in tight swimwear that leaves little to the imagination with diamond bellybutton jewelry that glints in the sun. Tattoos on tanned skin and manicured nails with leopard print. 

Your mind still hasn't caught up with it all yet. It's like you've stepped into a music video, or another world entirely. It's like the air is permanently charged. Electric and humming, pulsing like something alive. Fluttering in your stomach like a flock of nervous butterflies. But that's probably just the anxiety. You've dangled between pure excitement and tension for the past few days that you've been here. Forcefully fixed there by the stubborn ball of apprehension that's tucked itself behind your sternum like a heavy rock. It's almost makes you nauseous. So caught up in your nerves to truly let go and enjoy the moment. To revel in the reality that you've finally escaped. That you've finally managed to wrangle yourself free of shitty little town in the middle of nowhere and have run off to a place where no one will notice you. Where you can blend into the masses and disappear without the worry of judgement. 

It's just not that easy though. It never is. There's guilt behind your panic. The dread that you've just abandoned her. Left her without little more than a letter tapped to her front door before you shoved most of your belongings into a couple of suitcases, took up all of the money you've saved up over the past three summers and vanished in the early morning without a trace. 

It was dumb maybe. But you prefer desperate. You had to get out. You had to do it while you still had a chance, while you're still young and hopeful. Before Gallatan could eat you up of all your worth and turn you into one of those judgmental ladies perched out in front of one of its buildings with a mean scowl on your face. You had to do something before you lost sight of yourself or became the woman your mother wanted you to be. All barefoot and pregnant with another baby on your hip while your husband - probably Oliver Palmer if she could have a say so - was busy at work. 

The idea to run had snuck into your head, all forbidden and frenzied. You had shunned it for as long as you could, ignoring it while you droned away at your job, pouring the same grouchy bastards' hot coffees and running the same sunny side up eggs and suspiciously damp pancakes in trade for measly tips. And then one day, for no particular reason at all, it had all just become too much. Too stagnant. Too gray. You had to go before you'd suffocate, and that's how you found yourself cruising down the highway with the window rolled down to let the crisp air in, still damp and fresh with morning dew. 

You couldn't look back now. You wouldn't. Still, that wouldn't keep the guilt from biting at you. From nipping at your heart, a little bit at a time. It stung. It twisted in your chest like a knife, your selfishness. But you'd been selfless your entire life. Dating the man she had wanted you to date, taking the ballet classes that she had wanted you to take, wearing your hair up the way she wanted. For once you were going to put yourself first, even if it was a tad foolish. 

Your newfound liberation didn't banish the anxiety away completely though. The first night here once the high had finally worn off, you had been forced to face reality. And the unfamiliar walls of the dingy hotel didn't help, with its shabby wallpaper and linens that smelt faintly of generic detergent and cigarette smoke. It was alien. Unnatural almost, the chirp of crickets traded in for the rhythmic thumping of music pouring out from the bar across the street. You had stayed inside, hidden away by the locked door, trying desperately to tune out the noise of your own scattered thoughts with the audio of the TV. Using the soft, watery light that spilled out from the screen as a nightlight to try and ward off the confusion and unease in the pit of your gut. 

Your sleep had been difficult. Spent tossing and turning on the mattress, its springs creaking lightly with each shift as you tried in vain to ignore your own guilt. Helplessly fighting off the images of your mother pacing about her living room, wearing a pathway into the blush-colored carpet, nipping at the edges of her polished nails with tears in her eyes. The urge to reach over for the landline on the nightstand had nudged at you so insistently that you had to unplug it to keep from dialing her number. You knew that if she answered, if you heard the sound of her voice drifting out in that worried, angry stream that you'd be unable to keep yourself from packing yourself into your car and driving all those miles back to Gallatan. 

The morning after you had been unable to resist the allure of the call from outside. Like a slave to your impulses, you had allowed yourself to get caught up in the magnetism of it all. It's as though the scent of the sea had coiled around your throat, salt and wind taking ahold of you to usher you into the wonder of it all. You had spent the entire day exploring all of the shops that Santa Carla had to offer. Everything from quaint little outlets full of sage sticks and minerals that claimed feats such as granting fortune or banishing negativity, to music shops, and boutiques with lingerie and toys that you'd only ever seen in Playgirl magazines and cheesy sex tapes hidden in the back of your town's video store. 

It was a wonder in every corner. Everything in the imagination placed to draw your attention. To lure you in. And it had succeeded, stringing you along. Like a moth drawn to dazzling lights you had let it take you. Santa Carla is always a spectacle, but at night is when it truly comes alive, and the boardwalk is the pentacle. It's as though the entire town is lit up in a thousand individual pyres, burning and flickering, a kaleidoscope of neon and thrills. 

It sounds dramatic, but your first night on the boardwalk had nearly left you breathless. It was a place that's likeness you've witnessed in movies, or maybe the pathetic little county fair Gallatan throws each year. But the tiny kiosk of buttered corn-on-the-cobs and the pony rides are nothing in comparison. 

You had felt like a kid in a candy store despite your initial apprehension. Once you had seen it in all of its glory, wooden pathways swarming with chaotic masses, and carnival games and seedy stores adorned along the streets; sugar and salt and the musk of weed tainting the air in a distinct brand all cultivate to create a unique kind of charm, you had been unable resist.  

Like thousands before you, you had fallen for Santa Carla, like a mouse falling into a vat of honey. 

And it doesn't take you long for you to give in a splurge a little, ignoring your limited funds in favor of spoiling yourself. It's only something small, like finally trading out the pair of corduroy pants that you'd worn for years in favor of a couple skirts. Your favorite is lightyears away from anything you would have been able to wear before. Tight, dark, buttery leather that molds smoothly to your hips. Just low enough that you don't feel exposed but still skimming up past your knees. It's beyond any of the clothes that you had allowed yourself to purchase, but it feels nice to wear. Even though you still find yourself subconsciously tugging the hem down every once in a while, there's something undeniable freeing about wearing it. Like some kind of middle finger to all of the people who had kept you stunted and trapped. And as a final fuck you, you had immediately tossed your old pants in one of the trashcans settled outside the shop. 

You've been out here every night since, basking in the energy and the buzz that prickles over the boardwalk. A sort of treat for yourself after spending all of the hours in the day job searching, walking into all of the vintage themed diners and hole-in-the-wall thrift shops to turn in your applications. You don't have a long-term plan as of now. If you're planning on staying here. If that's even a possibility for you. But it'd be nice to have some extra cash while you try and figure that out. Something to keep you afloat while you try to course your future. 

Tonight is just as charged as last night. Shifting and alive with the bodies of tourists and locals alike, all looking for entertainment. You wander aimlessly, people-watching as you go, admiring the different kinds of groups as they all meander around in search of excitement. Children clutching onto the stuffies that their parents have won at carnival games; a gaggle of girls laughing happily as they cling onto each other as they navigate through the crowd; a couple walked by you in a rush earlier, the boyfriend spilling out what sounded like desperate apologies that were going completely unheard. 

Despite the speed of everything else around you, you're content to take your time, strolling around while you idlily drink your soda from the cherry-colored straw. You aren't in any particular rush to get anywhere. The dusk is still visible, occasionally peeking past the buildings and the horizon above the sea, all thin and dusty in a rich blue. You have all the time in the world to enjoy yourself, at least for now. You have no desire to go and hold yourself up in your dingy hotel room, clicking through basic cable to try and find something worth watching while you hopelessly chew through another cheap delivery pizza. 

The excitement is contagious out here, and you're in the mood to indulge. You let your feet carry into a record shop, a quick glance at the magenta neon sign above declaring it as one of the many music shops displayed along the boardwalk. The cashier posted behind the front desk shoots you a lazy nod before quickly returning to the porn mag boldly held in his hands. You grimace when you see it, but it doesn't keep you from drifting further into the dimly lit depths of the store, glancing over the many aisles of records as you go. 

You've burnt yourself through most of your music, playing them ceaselessly in favor to listening to spotty radio stations that turned to static whenever you drove through mountains. If you hear another song off of Like a Virgin you might actually lose your mind. 

It takes you a moment of searching the place before you find the cassette tapes, most of them organized in the back of the shop in shelves secured to the walls. The variety is a little overwhelming and the flimsy laminated signs taped above the racks did little to help. Either people have just been shoving tapes back wherever they fit, or the employees have been doing a lousy job of organizing the shelves, because despite claiming to be arranged by genre, you've found Metallica mixed in with Duran Duran, and Def Leopard and Anthrax placed with Prince. 

It doesn't bother you much though, and you keep searching over the massive collection of music, stepping around other customers and squinting through the dim golden lighting to read the album names properly. You barely notice it at first. A light brush along the back of your neck. A pressure that prickles and skips down your spine. It's so soft that you almost mistaken it for the press of your shirt nudging at your back, but it feels different. 

Like the weight of a stare. Warm and insistent. It has buried animal instincts welling up to the surface. It's kneejerk when you sweep a searching glance over the few people dotted around the shop, skipping over faces that don't meet your stare. They're all caught up in their own personal bubbles to notice your discomfort. 

Somehow, it only makes you feel more on edge. Viewed by a potential danger that you can't see. You don't know why it makes your breath snag, but it does. Someone is watching you. But no matter where you look, you can't find them. It has your mouth running dry, even while you assure yourself that it's nothing, nervously tapping at the straw in your soda to distract yourself. Something electric is trembling down your spine, magnetic and alien. It grips ahold of your neck, looping around your throat like static fingers, catching you on a string to tug you around on your feet. Your focus shifts somewhat frantically, with the hope to reassure yourself that no one might be sneaking glances at you, and then, your stare is suddenly moving all on its own. When you notice him and you have to wonder how you missed him in the first place. 

He's standing off on the other side of the store, separated by rows of music. You notice his fingers calmly flipping through vinyl's, the silver rings banding his fingers winking softly in the red neon spilling out from behind him. Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own as they continue in their sweep up to admire more of him. He looks like a rockstar. Like he had leapt out from an album cover, with fluffy long blond hair. It's messy, spilled out like a lion's mane, wild tips glinting in shades of gold and the cherry red that's projected from the neon. 

The first thought you have is dumbstruck and a little captivated: He's gorgeous. He looks like the type of guy that would be spotted making out with models at some exclusive Hollywood club, not here in some dingy shop with a blow-up doll and random movie posters taped to the ceiling. 

His eyes shift up then, sudden and unwavering as they land directly on you. It's shocking as they pin you down, prompting a tight gasp from your lungs. His stare is firm but playful, shooting through your body like an electric current. You turn back around like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, latching you attention back onto the cassette tapes like they're some sort of lifeline all while your cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

You didn't miss the amused smirk that had nudged at his lips before you looked away. Almost as though he was expecting you to have been admiring him, all cocky. Self-assured. The hazy air seems too thick now, the ting of cigarette smoke stinging at your lungs is all acrid and heavy. You could choke on it, but you're determined to remain in place. You keep still, secure in your spot as you search the disorganized tapes. Seeing but not really noticing them anymore, the letters and titles all melting into nonsense as you tap at the sweating paper cup clutched in your palm with your fingertips. 

You don't know why you feel so nervous. You haven't been like this since your first crush on Christian Bakely. It's bashful. Almost timid like a juvenile, fickle attraction that you have when you're young. It makes you want to scold yourself for developing some sort of superficial, puppy love for the first hot guy you've seen since you've left home.

You will yourself to move down the aisle a little more, going slowly to at least try to appear unbothered while you've become horrendously aware of yourself. A part of you entertains the idea of leaving. There are a million other stores just like this posted along the edges of the boardwalk, but you're quick to squash down your unease. You aren't going to run out over something so stupid. He's probably already forgotten your blatant staring anyway, traded in his amusement in favor of flipping through records and forgot that you even exist. 

You try to do the same. 

Your attention perks up when you notice a tape that gets your focus and you're quick to pluck it free from its place wedged between the rest. You listen to the song pumping softly from the overhead speakers, falling back into the gentle lull of it all. The delicate hum of the crowd shifting just outside, the chill of the hard plastic casing in your palm, the sweet syrup of the soda on your tongue as you take another sip. It's gentle. Calm in a way that isn't curated. 

"Nice choice."

The voice drifts from over your shoulder, but before you fully register it, you're already jumping. You think your heart skips when you do, fluttering briefly as you jolt on your feet. 

"Jesus Christ," you hiss through your teeth. You can't hide the glare on your face when you turn to look at the figure standing beside you, but your mind just about falls silent when you realize that it's the pretty blonde that you had been gawking at. 

"Shit. Sorry, that was my fault." He holds one of his hands up in a placating gesture, like you're some cornered animal that might startle otherwise. Except he doesn't look all the apologetic. He's smirking, almost like he's pleased. Eyes all bright with mirth like you've done something funny. "Didn't mean to make you jump." 

You don't believe him. 

"It's fine." You offer a weak smile, torn from your nerves which are frayed between adrenaline and the warm flutter in your chest. Somehow, he's even prettier up close. His features are sharp with a strong, a straight nose that connects to high, pronounced cheekbones like you've seen on old statues. His lips are plump. Rosy and pink. But it's his eyes that really get you, glittering faintly under the light in a blue that's too soft for the mischief lurking around the edges. It takes you a moment to remember what he had initially said, and you have to all but wrangle the delicate thank you out from your throat. All while you know that there's no way in hell that someone like him is listening to Cindi Lauper in his free time. 

He doesn't look like any of the men from your hometown. Most of them were just as clean cut and blue-collar as the rest, with worn steel toed boots and baseball caps smeared with grime and sweat. They were handsome in the well-mannered, country kind of way. Hats off at the dinner table sort of guys, even though more than half of them have wound up drunk and lost in someone else's field more than once. But this guy was the type that you've been a victim to fantasizing about more than once. Helpless daydreams about unobtainable rockers. 

You can smell his cologne with how close he's placed himself next you, rich and masculine and heavy with something that smells earthy. Damp like dark soil. It has your mouth going dry. It you want to lean in towards him to draw more of it into your lungs, but thankfully you snap out of it before you could actually act on the urge. It makes you horrendously aware of the face that you're staring at him again. 

You snap out of your daze, casting your attention back over the shelves to keep yourself from shamelessly ogling him any more than you already have. God, you're like some lovestruck middle schooler all of a sudden. 

"You're not from around here, are you?" He remains at your side, nearly brushing his arm with yours while he briefly pulls a tape from its shelf before poking it back in. Something tells you that he's pretending to inspect them just as much as you are now. 

"What gave it away?" You dare to shoot him a glance. The tension that had turned your muscles taught finally beginning to thaw. 

"Nothing," he shrugs. Then he's shooting you another lopsided grin. " I'd just figure that I'd remember seeing a babe like you walking around." 

It's undeniably corny, but there's something in the way that he delivers it, the way that he carries himself that sells its charm. You find a weak laugh bubbling from your chest, still nervous but also reluctantly content. You shift down the aisle a few feet and like a brand-new shadow he follows. 

"I bet you say that to all the tourists that come through here." You draw another sip from your drink, and you're a little disgruntled to find that it's almost empty. 

"I may have used it once or twice," he admits. There's no hesitation when he says it, still displaying as much ease and bravado as he has been. 

"And has it ever actually worked for you?"

"I'd like to say that I'll be successful for a second time, but I guess we'll see how tonight goes." 

The look you give him is playfully unimpressed, openly toying with him in a way that seems oddly natural. All of that pervious uncertainty shifting and melting down into something new but fluid. His eyebrows perk up in mock disbelief, an arm raising to flatten a palm to his chest as though he's shocked by your answer. 

"Damn, shot down already." 

"Afraid so." You mirror his shrug from earlier before slipping around the corner made by the edge of a rack, continuing in your search. It feels a little like a chase as he trails after you, all lazy in his pace but no less motivated to keep you in his sight. 

"So what brought you to Santa Carla?" he asks from behind. 

"Kind of just passing through, I guess. Needed a break, you know." 

He nods like he might understand. "Well you lucked out coming here. There's always something going on; parties, drugs." He pauses for a minute. When his voice dips out its right up against your ear, coiling low and dark to tremble down your spine. "Murder."  

You spin around to face him then, a gasp snagging in your throat. But when you see him, he isn't close behind you at all but a few feet off. He almost seems delighted to have your focus back on him. Confusion nestles in the back of your mind. You could have sworn that he was directly behind you. That you had felt the subtle weight of his chest on your back, the brush of his breath on the nape of your neck, but he would have had to have leapt back to be standing as far away from you as he is now. 

Odd. 

You clear your throat, trying to collect yourself as you latch back onto the memory of his voice. "Wai- Murder?" 

"Oh yeah, people die here all the time." It's almost bored how he says it, like his discussing some monotonous fact and not tragedies. "It's like a nightly thing." 

You wait for some kind of a punchline. Or some reassurances that he's only joking but it doesn't come. He must pick up that you're expecting some kind of explanation, but he must find it funny because that smile is back, just hinting at the corners of his mouth.  

"Murder capital." His eyes get a little big when he speaks, somehow entirely serious and teasing all at once. "There's been talk for years about anything from a reclusive serial killer hiding away in the hills to a black market, or maybe devil worshippers." 

Figures that in an attempt to escape from your old life that you'd manage to flee to a place where killings are apparently "a nightly thing." An extreme exaggeration you hope. You can practically imagine your mother laughing at you, all snark as she revels in your less than stellar luck. Like some kind of joke from the universe. But now that you think of it, this town would be a prime place for a black market or a cult or whatever. With the massive influx of visitors that rush through here in the summer, it must be easy to snatch people up off the streets without too many noticing. 

He laughs at your troubled expression. The silver-plated belt that he fashioned to the shoulder of his coat chimes softly as he shifts himself into your space with a grin, flashing teeth that look sharp. "Don't worry, I'll keep you safe." 

You still haven't entirely adjusted to his blatant flirting. Sure, you've encountered your fair share of horn dogs at your past job. Men who would leave their phone numbers on their checks or shamelessly stare at your tits and ass while ordering. Still, you never had someone approach you out in the open like this, apart from maybe at the bar when egos are high and liquored up.  

But he's clearly confident. Dripping with a roguish charm that's magnetic. You could almost call it intoxicating, the energy around him is palpable. The way he moves is rushed and light, like a puppy that's too hyper. 

"I think I'll manage on my own." But there's no snark in it. It's friendly. A warmth that he shares as you both exchange smiles. You pluck another cassette from its shelving, one you'd been eyeing during the conversation, but you can't manage to pry your attention entirely from him. "I mean, I don't even know your name. You could be a murderer or some cultist creeping around for his next sacrifice." 

"You found me out," he teases. Eyes shimmering and blue, all mischief. "There go my plans for the night." 

"Sorry about your luck." 

He shakes his head. "Nah, it's good. Besides, I think you might be too cute to cut up." 

"Oh, well thank you so much," you gush in a mimic of appreciation. 

"Of course," he jokes easily. He's holding a hand out then, his voice just a little bit more authentic as he waits for you to take it. "The name's Paul." 

You have to tuck your empty cup in the crook of your other arm to accept it. When you do it nearly shocks you how chilled his skin is. His fingers are cold, palm smooth and almost icy against the warmth of your own, but you don't pay it too much mind. Instead you give him your name, speaking it softly through a light smile. He repeats it under his breath, and you try to ignore the pleasant ripple of heat that runs through your body at the sound of it. How he cradles it on the tip of his tongue like he's testing it out and found that it tastes sweet. 

"So, are you still looking for some excitement?" 

You fall silent, eyeing him a little suspiciously. "It depends. What did you have in mind?" 

The grin that spreads across his face is much more puckish. Much more so than the ones before it. There's almost something dangerous there. A darker edge to his stare like you've lit a fire in him somehow. He nods down to the tapes clutched in your hand, and before you can realize it, he's taking them in his own. 

"These are the only ones you want?" he asks, backing away from you. It leaves you confused, watching him with your words lost in your throat. 

"Uh, yeah?" 

He hops back on his feet like an excited kid, jerking his chin like he wants you to follow him as he continues to walk backwards in the direction of the register. He doesn't pause for you to catch up, suddenly twisting on the heels of his boots. He acknowledges the cashier as he draws closer to the direction of the counter, but his lips have drawn up tight like he's repressing a laugh. Like he's in on a joke that you aren't. 

You feel like you're being guided by an invisible string as you urge yourself into a hesitant walk, squinting at him through a bewildered stare as you quicken your pace to keep up. But he doesn't switch gears to approach the register at all, instead he's making straight for the front door of the shop. The employee must come to the same conclusion as you do, because suddenly he's dropping his magazine to stand up from his chair with a jerk. A loud shout already raising up high to demand Paul to stop. 

Paul only tosses you a look over his shoulder, glancing back at you like he's confirming that you're still trailing after him, and when he sees you, he flashes an impish thousand-watt smile.

"C'mon! We gotta make a run for it."

And then he's bolting. Lurching towards the door with quickness of a high-strung dog let off its chain. A part of your brain stalls, and for a moment your body follows suit, freezing still for less than a split second but it feels like an hour as your mind splits down the middle between two decisions. The clerk is screaming, clammy skin flushed red with anger as he attempts to climb over the front counter like he means to body slam Paul in a tackle. But he's already shoving the glass door open, the bell above sounding his quick leave in a metallic cry. 

You should stay back. Keep far away from the random stranger that picked you out in the middle of a random store and is attempting to shop lift your cassette tapes, but before you can properly decide, your body is already in motion. You can hear your feet thumping across the carpet as you rush over to the door that's beginning to slip closed. 

"Oh, you fuckers!" The clerk yells so loudly that you're sure he's probably spitting. There's a violent clatter as the tray of lighters that were beside the register make contact with the ground in a messy thump. It has all the impact of a gunshot, and it's all it takes for your system to flood with a burst of adrenaline. You slip through the door before it can close in on you, escaping out into the chaos of the night like a bullet. 

Paul grips your arm once you're out, using it as leverage to guide and pull you through the oblivious crowd. He's cackling and howling into the air like a madman, practically skipping as he tugs you forward. You think that you might be laughing too, but it's hard to tell through the blur of it all. The world around you is a rush of colors, lights and sounds. Someone thumps against your shoulder as Paul ushers you through the sea of bodies, but his grip is firm, fixed tightly around your wrist like a cuff. 

The voice of reason chants in your head for you to jerk yourself from his hold. To vanish into the cover of the crowd and pretend that tonight never happened. But you don't do that. Against all common sense you allow yourself to be spirited away by some giggling maniac with a pretty face. 

His eyes are wild as he looks back over at you, the reflection from the lights of the nearby amusement park rides glinting bright in them. Everything about him might be a red flag, but like a fool you find yourself chasing after him. Running towards the rush; the excitement sparking under your skin and turning your blood white hot. He lifts the cassette's up, still secure in his hand as he waves them in the air like trophies. 

You aren't sure how long you two keep running for, but eventually you both slow to walk. The even pace allowing you to catch your breath as he guides you to a set of motorcycles that have been parked along the edge of the boardwalk, the back wheels nearly pressed up against the wooden railing. He releases your arm only so he's able to circle around the one at the end of the line with red rims.  

He holds your stare as he swings a leg over to mount the seat, making himself comfortable on the bike. Only then does he hand you the cassette tapes back, and you take them with shaky fingers. A product of the adrenaline that still thrums through your limbs like an electric current. You make sure to tuck the tapes safely in your jacket pocket. It seems dangerous to accept them. It feels good too. 

"You know, if you were trying to impress me, you didn't have to all that." 

"No?" his eyebrows perk up. "I wish you would have told me sooner then, babe." 

"Oh, so it's my fault then." 

"Nah. I steal shit all the time." 

You can't help but to scoff. Still, there's a bit of a genuine laugh in there too. He hums lowly, leaning forward to hang his wrists over the support of the bike's handlebars, spreading his thighs to get comfortable. You almost hate how pretty he is. It isn't normal. There are bonfires burning on the beach down below. The pyres reaching high enough that the light casted by the fire spills over his hair like sunlight, gold and amber and red. He almost seems otherworldly. Like a spirit that's been raised to tempt you. To lead you astray. God, you think you could let him. 

"The question still stands." He tilts his head, watching you expectantly. "Still lookin' for a thrill?" 

Time pauses again, churning down into a placid stream. This is another moment when you should say no. And it's right there, held just at the base of your throat. A small puff of air and the word slip out, materialize out on the warm summer air with a punch of finality. That's all it would take to cut this night short. To put a cap on all of it, bottling it all up so you could let it collect dust and become a distant memory. 

The voice of reason, bearing a striking resemblance to the sound of your mother's, echos in your head. Chanting from the sidelines for you to back away from him before he drags you down into a pit of trouble that you can't crawl out of. But when has doing anything she's wanted you to do gotten you anywhere? 

"Yeah, I think I am." That's your answer. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

He scoots himself forward, straightening his posture a little and slipping his hands around the handlebars. It's a clear enough invite, and you don't let the air around you both stagnate. You grimace a little when you drop your empty soda cup on the ground, leaving it to drop while you move to lift an arm up to grip onto his shoulder. Using it for stability as you swing your leg over the seat of the motorcycle. He doesn't waste any time starting it, kickstarting it before you've even sat down on the seat. 

You try to be mindful of your skirt as you lower yourself down onto the leather cushion. Tugging it down as low as it'll sit while scrunched up around your spread thighs. 

The bike is loud. It's engine purring in a great roar, metallic and sharp in your ears. It thrums under your legs, almost like a living, breathing thing. Pulsing as the engine hums and spits. You're quick to slip your arms around his waist, ignoring the stubborn layer of hesitation lurking underneath the exhilaration of it all. You cling on to him, shamelessly tucking your chin over his shoulder as you drape yourself over his back. He doesn't seem to mind, passing you a joyful glance, turning his head just enough that his nose almost brushes over yours. 

"Don't be shy now. Better hold on tight." 

That's the warning you get before he revs the engine, sending the bike into a jarring lurch. You yelp when the bike blazes off like a rocket, squeezing your hold around his middle tighter to keep yourself from blowing off the seat as he swerves it down another strip of the boardwalk. 

He's laughing again. Sounding like a madman as he suddenly directs the motorcycle to the left, smoothly jerking the front wheel to dip it into a turn. Your heart falls down to your ass when a descending staircase drops down in front of the bike. It seems as sudden and daunting as a cliff, but you don't have time to shout. Your cry stays lodged in your lungs, and you only have enough time to tuck your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your face in his hair just as the bike speeds down the steps in a quick glide. The bumps are just barely felt by the speed that he's gunned the motorcycle into, but it doesn't stop your stomach from flipping. 

He might be laughing, but it's difficult to tell if the vibrations rattling his ribcage are from the engine or not. But based off of what little you know of him; you wouldn't put it past him in finding your panic funny. 

The tires meet the loose sand with a brief drag, spinning for a fleeting second as the bike darts off like a bat out of hell. Once you can feel the solid ground rushing beneath you, you're able to get yourself to lift your head up from the safety of his neck, peeling your eyes open to sweep a cursory glance around your surroundings. 

You see the bonfires first. Burning and twisting in the night like glowing spires, flickering in molten amber towers that reach at the sky. People are scattered around them, some holding beer bottles while they dance. You can't hear it over the howl of the wind in your ears but you're sure that they're all laughing. All barely holding in their mirth as they cavort around the fires. And you can smell the smoke in the air, spicy and pungent, melding with the salt of the beach. 

It all passes by in a blur, the ocean little more than a pale, twisting smear. Foam tumbling over sand. But the rest of the water - what lies beyond the waves, is a vast black. Stretching out farther than your eyes can perceive. You only get hints of it in the traces of moonlight crossing over the water like silver lace. 

The nervousness coiling in your gut finally begins to unwind, and the tight grip of your arms around his ribs follows, slackening just enough for you to slip your hands up to his chest instead, letting you sit up just a little straighter. It makes you extremely aware of how scant the tight fishnet shirt he's wearing truly is. You can feel his skin from between the mesh netting, trepid and soft on your palms. Your fingers flex, the urge to remove your hands bolting up as though you've touched something hot, but somehow you find yourself hesitating. You don't remove them. And he doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. Weaving the bike through the bonfires scattered around the beach and coasting it just a little too close to the people walking and dancing around on the sand. 

He just narrowly misses running over a few of them. Calling out an unworried, "Get out of the way!" when he nearly clips a guy in the shoulder and sends him diving on the ground to avoid being struck. The man's angry shouting trails after you both, a dim, warbling sound that's quick to die over the wind and heavy rumble of the motorcycle. But Paul's laughter almost sounds louder than all of it. Pitching high over the balmy night air like the cackle of a coyote out on a hunt. 

You feel a little guilty, but you can't keep yourself from answering with a similar laugh, all light and airy. Welling up from your chest with an ease that makes you feel alive. It's like you've shed a skin, almost. It's easy to pretend that you're flying. It feels like you are, with the wind pulling at your clothes, nudging at the shape of your face like the sweep of prodding fingers. You can't really remember a time when you've felt so far above the world, miles from your worries and insecurities, soaring past the anxieties that keep you awake at night.  

You twist back a little to look over your shoulder, emboldened by the rush in your veins to watch as the man clumsily scrambles up from the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt as he lifts an arm in the air to flip you both off. 

"Sorry!" you yell after him, but it doesn't keep you from smiling. 

Eventually Paul veers off of the beach, cutting through a parking lot that he uses to merge onto a vacant street. The boardwalk grows smaller and smaller behind you, the lights of the rollercoaster and rotating Ferris wheel growing dim until it's hardly more than a few faint dots in the distance, just barely peeking out over the roofs of buildings. He shoots through downtown, blowing past a redlight without any care. He doesn't slow a single time, ignoring the speed limit like it's merely a suggestion. The way he drives is insane, and it makes you wonder if he has a license at all. Probably not. 

Uncertainty unfurls when the houses making up the edges of town grow sparse, thinning out until you only pass a few odd little homes bordering the edges of the backroad he's taken you on. You ignore it when he turns his bike, veering off the worn asphalt and onto a dirt path. It looks well-traveled enough, thankfully. The headlight on his motorcycle spilling over the beaten dirt, highlighting the prints left by a vehicle's tread that seems fairly recent. 

Apprehension prickles at the nape of your neck, that old instinctual feeling again. It weighs a little in your gut like a physical thing. Your brush it off, telling yourself that you're only being paranoid. But a pair of animal eyes peek out from the field growing on the side of the road, glimmering in the passing headlight like a couple of coins; it seems like a bad omen. 

You keep your voice trapped in your mouth, letting your concerns fall silent as he guides the bike up an incline, driving it up a path where tree branches stretch out like reaching fingers. It's like you've been holding your breath, keeping yourself suffocated as the motorcycle eats up the ground, powering up the hill until it levels out into something flat. You see immediately why he brought you here. 

From this high up, you can see it all. The entirety of Santa Carla is laid like stars glimmering in the night. Streetlamps, porchlights, and the entire boardwalk flickering in the distance in shimmers of gold and silver. It looks so small from this perspective. Like the little model towns that your grandfather used to make in his basement. Like you could walk right up to it and place a building in your palm. It's a stunning view. One that makes you wish you were able to take a picture of for safe keeping. 

You've hardly noticed that he's parked the bike, stopped it close to the edge of the hill and killed the engine. But once you realize the silence it becomes heavy. But not necessarily in a way that's uncomfortable. It's a blanket draped over your shoulders, soft and inviting. You have to remind yourself to move, unmounting the bike to stand up on legs that have become weak from the heavy thrumming of the engine. 

Paul's quick to follow, shifting up with an ease that you're a little jealous of. Your muscles feel like Jello. It makes you quick to walk over to the picnic table positioned out in the center of the barren lot, settling yourself up on the weathered wood to shake some feeling back into your legs. Paul is fast to follow, practically skipping over, jewelry jangling as he jumps himself up on the tabletop. He begins absentmindedly picking at the chipping old paint, tearing it from the notches that have been carved into the wood, defaced to immortalize the initials of lovers.  

"What did you bring me all the way out here for?" you ask. 

"This is one of the nicer spots in Santa Carla. Figured I'd show you." 

"Oh, yeah?" you tilt your head, rotating a little in your perch on the bench. "What's the best?" 

A smile pushes at the corners of his mouth. It's another one of those amused, secretive little looks. Like he's in on something. "Maybe I'll show ya some time." 

"I'd like that," you agree. There's a small bout of silence then. You've gained the feeling back in your legs and it inspires you to sit up from the table, stretching out your limbs as you approach the rounded edge of the hill. A delicate breeze rolls up the slop, shuffling the leaves with a delicate hiss, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the hint of the ocean. It such a simple thing but it abates some that paranoia, loosening its talons, even if just a little bit. 

The weight of the cassette tapes in your pocket press against your stomach. Nudging there like a reminder. It has you glancing back over your shoulder, and you see that he's already watching you. The way he holds himself is relaxed, but there's something intense reflecting in his gaze, burning and hot. It makes your heart skip a beat, body flushing with warmth. It could be the shadows, but you think his smile grows. 

There's a flash of his teeth. "You'd have to stick around for that." 

He doesn't wait for your response as he shoves off of the table, bounding from it with a jump that rattles the silver on his chest. It's like you're both magnetized to each other, unable to stray far now that you've crossed paths. A part of it is almost frightening. You've had crushes of course. A couple random fling before, and a relationship - as complicated and fleeting as it had been, but you can honestly say that you've never been so swept away by a guy. Never enough to that'd be willing to become an accomplice in theft; never enough that you'd get on the bike of stranger and let them carry you off to spot in the middle of nowhere. It's as though all of your common sense has been picked up and dumped out on the ocean tide. Even worse is that you really don't care. 

Maybe you're just caught in the whirlwind of it all. Spun up by the excitement of finally being able to do things on your own terms without the worry of hundreds of people watching. Or maybe you're just addicted to the discovery; when you look at him, all of those concerns seem to melt away. Thinning and evaporating like snow in the summer sun. It's terrifying. It's thrilling. 

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't." 

It's almost as though he takes it as a challenge, stepping into your space like it's where he belongs. His cologne sweeps back over you again, bold and muddled with the spice of tobacco. Combined with his proximity it makes you a little dizzy, fingertips prickling with warmth as he fixes you with a stare that seems the seize you, burrowing down like he's cradling some delicate, wild piece of your soul. 

You just barely notice when his hand slips into your coat pocket to grasp the tapes tucked inside, like he's confirming that you still have them. He seems pleased when his fingertips slide over the hard plastic covers, as though it means something to him. His face hovers just a little above yours, noses nearly brushing. With the glow of the moon emitting from above, it makes it easy to see how his gaze flickers down to your lips. Like he's considering if he should try kissing you or not. You don't think you'd mind if he did. 

"At least you'll have something to me remember me by," he muses softy. 

"I haven't known you for very long but believe me when I say that there's a very slim chance of me forgetting you." 

Emboldened by your response, he cocks his head, daring to lean forward just enough that you can feel the faint press of his lips on yours. Not kissing, but just enough to tease the possibility. It's a little pathetic how something so simple has heat licking through your veins. The line you're treading on feels dangerous. Like you're dangling on the edge of some unknown territory. And you are. But what makes it so particularly daunting is the uncertainty of where this might go. 

Something about Paul is already addictive. Like a shot of liquor after a long week. You've always been the type to keep yourself from getting too attached, but he's like an adrenaline rush. It'd be so easy to get hung up on a guy like him, and the last thing you want to be is one of those women lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling while they fantasize about the one that could have been. Spending the remainder of their years living back in the memory of that one night in the past. 

He's a temptation that you've never had to face before. Bursting into your life with all the subtly of a firecracker, abrupt, explosive and invigorating. You want to hold onto that. Grip it tight with greedy fingers and enjoy this - whatever this is - for all it's worth. 

He speaks then, his voice has dipped into something low and hushed. Almost like a secret being exchanged, a promise being made. "I'm happy to hear it, but I like to be thorough." 

You think he's the one who kisses you first, but you really can't be sure. It a little daunting, how it completely sweeps you up. There isn't any of that dramatic stuff, like explosions, or fireworks, but something about it just feels right. It already makes you breathless. Time stretching out and yawning, heat draping over your body like you've been dipped in warm honey. 

The way he kisses you is starved. Passionate and fast like he's trying to have all of you at once. His teeth nip at your lips, a sting that he soothes with the tip of his tongue when you gasp. There's hardly any build up. He approaches it like he seemingly does everything else; just pure intensity as he reaches for you with eager hands that seem to be everywhere all at once. Squeezing at your hips, pressing down at the base of your spine to mold you close to him, and then he's cradling your jaw with chilled fingers. 

You can't help moaning into his mouth, a quiet noise that's still definitely heard if the way he smiles into the kiss is any indication. You aren't bothered by his smugness though, only encouraged by it. You slip a hand over his stomach, feeling the lithe muscle under cool skin. It's cute when his abdomen twitches under your palm. He reprimands you by biting at your lip again, only enough for a slight sting, but you really think that it was only an excuse for him to dip his tongue into your mouth, letting you fully taste each other. 

There's the subtle sugar of something sweet on his lips. Probably some kind of treat from back on the boardwalk. It mixes with the distinct rich pepper of tobacco, all warmth and cream on his tongue, but there's the edge of something almost metallic lurking beneath it all, almost as though he's been sucking on pennies. It isn't enough to be distracting, and you can't be bothered to pay it any mind as he turns you around without breaking the kiss to blindly back you up until your lower back nudges into the rough lip of the picnic table. 

He practically mauls you once he has you pinned, consuming you with a hunger that's infectious. It has you tugging at his hair, clawing your nails through the thick of his soft waves, dragging them along his scalp and it rewards you with a throaty groan that has sparks shooting up your spine. He must enjoy it because he's breaking his mouth away from your and immediately latches it onto your throat. The scratch of his stubble as you arching into his body, your head lolling back to bare more of your throat which he quickly takes advantage of. His tongue laps out at your skin like he's drinking up the subtle salt there, sucking softly like he wants to brand you with the shape of his mouth. 

The gasp that leaves you is wrangled when he wedges a thigh between your legs, bending his knee to press it flush against your cunt. Your grip on his hair squeezes tight. Holding on like it might help keep you grounded. Like it might keep you from float up to the heavens. The weight of his leg on you makes you cruelly aware of the wet patch that's dampened the center of your underwear. It's a little embarrassing, already being this worked up by a little making out, but he lights you on fire with a frustrating ease. It's unfair how he's already taking you apart piece by molten piece. 

He licks up the base of your throat, sucking at the edge of your jaw before he speaks against your skin like he doesn't want to pull away. "Can I eat you out?" 

You swear the question could have knocked you out. He says it casually, but his words are slurred. Almost like he's drunk. It's all moving so fast. Your head is spinning, and your heart is racing, chugging blood through the same artery that he traces with his tongue. It's hard to remember how you've gotten here, curled up in a stranger's arms while he grinds his thigh between your legs. This night has gone completely off the rails. Hurtled far past a simple night out to a haze of chaos and heat. It doesn't really make any sense to be here right now. 

But when Paul manages to tear himself away from your neck to meet your stare something seems to fall into place. You don't think you'd want this night to have gone any other way. 

There's a desperation glimmering in the blue of his eyes, bright and hungry. It has you contained in place. Swallowed up by the fervor in his expression, the gluttony in how he holds onto you. 

At this point you don't think it needs to be said, but you find yourself nodding anyway. "Yeah - yes. Fuck, please." 

He flashes you a grin before he's dropping down onto his knees without any fanfare. You decide to help him out a little, planting your hands onto the tabletop to heave yourself up on the surface, spreading your legs open to make room for him. It's brazen, the short length of your skirt scrunching and riding up high on your thighs, flashing the pale fabric of your underwear. His attention zeros in there immediately, stuck between your legs with an intensity that's almost concerning. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meat. All splayed out. It's a compromising that almost has embarrassment creeping beneath it all, but there's a perverted brand of delight on his face, and it's mixed with a strange kind of sincerity that has that shame fizzling out. 

He slips a hand up to cup the back of your knee, lifting it up to hook it over his shoulder so he can trail kisses up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It's much slower than the starved bites and licks that he had given you earlier, the ones that you can still feel on your neck, aching dully from where he had sucked. It's like he's teasing you now. Too caught up in his own desire to indulge you yet and it feels like torture. Just the weight of his head parting your legs open, the brush of his wild hair against your skin has you flushing with heat. 

Your hips rock on their own, rolling in an effort to seek out friction that isn't there. The press of your underwear on your cunt is like a taunt, applying a barely there pressure that has your lungs skipping with a silent gasp. 

You don't expect the smack that he cracks down on the outside of your leg. It's more surprising than painful, but you jerk anyway, subconsciously trying to escape the smarting that fizzles across your nerves. The look that you shoot him is one of shock, but he doesn't look the least bit apologetic. Expression all smug as he presses his lips down on the crook where your leg joins your pelvis. Slipping his tongue out to lick at the tender skin there, running it along the seam of your underwear. 

"Feelin' greedy?" he smirks up at you, looking so smug that it nearly irritates you. "There's no need to flip out babe, I'll give you what you want." He kisses you over your underwear, gripping both of your knees to spread you open wider, giving him the room to nose at your cunt from over the damp fabric. There's something so vulgar about the way that he mouths at you while you're still wearing panties, circling your clit with the point of his tongue before flattening it to suck through your underwear. 

It makes your spine bow, fire and smoke blazing up your back and smoldering beneath your skin. There's a plea right there, just at the base of your throat but thankfully you don't have to voice it. He slips both of his hands under your underwear and tugs it down roughly, giving away his own impatience as he moves back just enough to be able to rip them down past the heels of your shoes. 

You're pretty sure that he pockets them, bunching them up and stuffing them inside his coat. But you don't get a chance to scold him - not that you would if you were able - because he's dropping his mouth open to lick a stripe up your bare cunt, splitting you open on his tongue. It has your fingers flexing, dragging your nails over the edge of the wood in a wild claw to have something to keep you anchored. It doesn't do much though. Not the chipped, textured paint under your palms, not the faint chill of Paul's hands clamping down on your skin, it fades out into a meaningless blur. Distorted to the sidelines as your brain blocks everything out, banishing it all into a muted background noise as the sensation of his mouth commands all of your focus. 

It's mindless how your body chases after its pleasure, your hips attempting to thrust under the unforgiving hold of Paul's hands to build the pressure coiling hotly in the base your abdomen. His grip is practically steel bands, vices around your skin to hold you open and immobilized while he torments you with the ceaseless drag and curl of his tongue. 

"Paul, come on, please," you beg. Panting out into the sultry summer air. It's stupid how easily he's pulling noises from you. Tense, breathless moans that drift over the hilltop in a shameless stream. It almost makes you a little thankful that he drove you both out here in the private little lookout, far away from potential witnesses. Based on the joined initials etched and written into the wood, presumably with pocketknives and permanent markers, you'd wager that this is a popular date spot. A cute little place for couples to admire the town lights and take advantage of the privacy while they hookup. You definitely aren't the first person to be splayed out here on this table. A part of you wonders if you aren't the first person that he's brought out here. 

You try to ignore the flickering of something stinging and unwelcome that lashes its way through your chest. It's obscure and startling, blinking in and out like a ghost, and you're quick to snuff it out. To turn it over and ignore it entirely. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that it felt suspiciously close to jealousy, but that's a route that you aren't going to dare to go down - a load of baggage that you have no desire to unpack. Not for a stranger, no less. 

Your hand pries itself from the edge of the table to grip onto his hair, fingers slipping down through his roots to thread through in the way you think he likes. You're almost instantly gifted with a pleased groan and his tongue dips inside of you, lapping up your taste like he's starved for it. 

You nearly sob when he pulls himself back from you, parting his lips from your cunt just enough to mumble out something; his voice slurs, thrumming against your clit as he speaks. "Don't worry about being rough, pull harder if you want." And then he's smothering himself back between your thighs. You do as he says, mostly out of reflex as he traces over you in tight circles that has your nerves running hot, your muscles burning as though you've been submerged in steaming water. 

A finger prods at your cunt, running up just along his mouth to get it slick enough and then he's thrusting it inside without little warning, filling you up with a smooth stroke. You moan out raggedly when he suckles at your clit just as he crooks his finger, brushing it in deft swipes. Your grip locks on tight in his hair, digging in through long, golden strands while he practically turns you inside out. Your grasp has to be painful, but he doesn't seem affected by it in the slightest. His effort actually seems to double each time your fingers tug and claw, like he might like the sting. 

You don't know why you enjoy the thought of that, but you do. Your hips jerk sharply at the idea of it. Of how he might react from your nails slashing down his back, leaving red cuts behind. Reminders of you on his body. How he'd sound while you bite bruises on his neck and shoulders; the bursts of red and plum placed where they would peek out from the worn collar of his shirt.  

"Oh, my god - Paul." 

You can already feel your orgasm rising up, winding up your body in an almost violent twist. It's eating at you rapidly. Climbing up at a rate that you can hardly track. You can feel yourself tensing; each individual muscle drawing up. Your lungs squeeze in your ribcage, rendering you breathless. You turn into a broken record, a stream of words and his name spilling out of your like a chant. It hits you like a freight train. Searing and rippling up your body in a splashing of stars that leaves you keening into the open air. 

He doesn't part from you, coasting you through the remnants of your orgasm with the stroke of his fingers and tongue, sucking steadily at your clit until your thighs shake. You have to tug him away by the grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to give yourself relief before the pleasure could become too much. He yields to you reluctantly, nipping pointed bites up the tender flesh of your legs as you drag him to stand. 

You feel almost outside of yourself as you grip onto his shoulders, clutching onto his coat while he crawls himself over you, notching his hips against your own like he belongs there. You're still floaty from your orgasm, pleasure thrumming and hopping along your nerves in a pleasant buzz but somehow you still want more. It burns and burrows deep in the pit of your stomach, lighting a fire in your veins that you haven't felt in a long time. Not like this, at least. 

His lips crash against yours in a meeting of teeth and tongue. It's almost animalistic, how you both reach for each other. His hands are all over you again, grabbing at everything he can like he's trying to commit the shape of your body to memory, like he wants to brand the warmth of your skin on his palms. And you're just as desperate. Your own slip down as a pair, reaching with trembling, frantic fingers for the buckle of his belt. You struggle blindly with it for a minute, fingertips slipping uselessly over the smooth metal from the way they tremble. You'd swear if your mouth wasn't occupied.

You can taste yourself on him, just subtly sweet and smearing on your own lips. It's dirty. Filthy, but it only makes it hotter; the very idea of breaking the kiss seems like torture, so when he huffs a laugh in your mouth and tries to pull away to help you with his belt, your other hand moves on its own to cradle the back of his skull. Keeping him pressed to your lips with an annoyed groan. 

"Don't." You demand into the kiss, nipping lightly at his pout to draw him back in. He complies easily, but that doesn't stop him from laughing a little. 

Finally, you manage to slip the leather free from buckle, tugging it loose from over the prong to pull it open. And then you're fumbling with the zipper, tracing over the metal teeth to find it, tugging it down like it's molten on your fingertips once you do. You're almost delirious with a single goal, slipping your hand down inside to feel him, and you don't hesitate to take him within your palm. He hisses lowly when you grip him, thrusting up in an uneven grind to chase after his own pleasure. 

He pants into your mouth when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing a drop of precum to aid in your glide and it makes the clutch of his fingers around your hips squeeze. Bordering close to almost painful, but the ache of it ebbs into an afterthought. He's thick in your hand, so hard that it has to be uncomfortable. You take pity on him, unable to string either of you out any longer than you already have and take him out of his pants. 

He moves like a man possessed now, slipping of his hands down lower to hitch your thighs high around the trim length of his waist, and then he's reaching down between the thin gap of your bodies to bat you hand out of the way, taking ahold of himself. Gripping the base of his cock to slide it between your legs, grinding the head against your clit in teasing strokes. It makes you whine, the sensitivity from your orgasm lights over you like small bolts of electricity and yet you find yourself raising your hips to chase after the feeling. 

"Gonna let me fuck you?" He scatters kisses along the corner of your mouth and the edge of your jaw, much too tender and saccharine for what this is. Cradling you like a lover would despite the ardor and desire saturating the air like the perfume of whisky. It makes a pathetic little piece of you melt, turning syrupy and pliant like a strip of wax held over an open flame. 

You find yourself nodding, swallowing thickly as you try to find your worn voice again. "Yes - just stop teasing." You lock your legs tighter around him, drawing him in closer, aiding his cock in grinding over your pussy like it'd help urge him along, and luckily for you it seems to snap through the rest of his restraint. There's no warning as he guides himself down to your entrance and drives himself inside in a single stroke. 

He punches the air free from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt, the both of you groaning in relief through the stretch. He's so deep, holding you open around his girth, and you know that you're going to feel him for a few days after this. You hope that you do. You want this night to be vivid in your memory for as long as possible. You want it tattooed into your skin, stained behind your eyes like watercolors, sunk bone deep. 

You can't remember the last time you've been able to exist beyond the pressures and judgement of the world. A thousand miles above prying eyes, confiscated within the hushed intimacy of your own bubble - except for the first time in what might be forever, you aren't alone in it. It's a shard space, gone from quiet and lonely to fiery and scorching. Howling in the dark. You think it's too late. You really are going to be one of those women staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing about that one perfect night from a decade ago. But right now, you really don't give a damn about that. 

All of the thoughts rattling around in your brain are turning into mush, liquifying like hot sugar on stove. It's like you've been engulfed. Ate up by the wet bite of his mouth on your throat, the persistent weight of his hands clumsily tugging up at your shirt and bra to ruck it them over your breasts. He doesn't take his lips off of your neck once; it's like he's been captivated by the smooth stretch of skin, lapping the flat of his tongue over the column of it like he wants to stain the taste of you on his mouth. But it doesn't keep his hands from taking greedy handfuls of your breasts. 

You gasp when his chilled fingertips squeeze around the shape of them, the frigid rings around his fingers force you to gasp and arch into his palms. He plucks at your nipples, circling around them in tight circles that has your voice pitching as he drives his cock into you. The way he fucks you is unrestrained but no less practiced, burying himself into you with calculated strokes that have you tearing at the seams. 

You don't know if you've ever felt so full, so spread out in your entire life. Granted you aren't the most experienced person. A lot of your practice coming from an ex that frequently left you high and dry and a couple of flings you met from the bar. One of which wasn't the most satisfying affair considering that his roommate had burst in before things could really get good. But Paul has to be the first guy that's ever really taken your pleasure into any real regard. All the others were quick to get you off with a sense of obligation, as though your pleasure was transactional so they wouldn't feel too much guilt for using you to get themselves off afterwards. 

He fucks you like he wants to. Like he's hellbent on making you cum as quickly as possible. Like he needs your pleasure to satisfy his own. 

"You're so hot," he groans. His teeth clamp down on the muscle in your neck like he might tear flesh, inspiring a muted ache up your neck but he lets go before it becomes too violent. His voice is all gutted, like he's growing drunk on the bliss cutting though his body. "Fucking squeezing me." 

He sounds just as wrecked, and it you can't help how your cunt clenches down tight around his cock, strangling another rough groan from the base of his chest. The small silver plates of the ornamental belt he has fixed to his coat dig into your exposed skin, pinching at your abdomen from how closely he pins your bodies together. It's like he's trying to join the two of you together, pressing into you until you live in the same body. 

You tear uselessly at his shoulders, digging your nails into the thick material of his jacket so wildly that you think you'd probably be able to rip it. You pant into his hair as he laps at your jugular, breathing in the fresh, chemical fragrance of the hairspray that styles the soft gold in selfish gulps. All of it cumulates, tiny little elements stacking on top of the other until the ecstasy starts to raise again. Maybe it's just riding off the afterglow of the first orgasm, but somehow, this feels like it's going to be stronger. More devastating than the one that still hums under your skin. 

You almost mourn that you're so close already, and a part of you tries to shun off the thick rapture building between your thighs entirely. You don't want this night to end yet. You aren't prepared for the awkward silence that will inevitably come next. You don't want to live through the silent ride back into town, where he'll drop you off at your ramshackle hotel room and presumably drive out of your life forever, leaving you to stand outside on the balcony outside your door while you listen to engine of his bike fade out and grow silent like a dying pulse. 

But he seems bound and determined to have you reach your high. One of his hands strays down from your chest, sweeping low until his knuckles are dragging over your clit in firm figure eights. A moan shudders through you, your ribcage wracking from what almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't let up though, driving you directly towards a yawning precipice that promises to swallow you up whole, and you can't do much else but cling onto him like he's a buoy in a storm. 

"Paul - I - " 

"Let me feel it. You're so close, baby, just let go." He bites at the shape of your ear; voice low and rich as he fucks himself into you like he wants to watch you black out. "I want to feel you cum all over me. You can take it." 

Like a slave to his voice your body draws up tight, muscles bunching up to strip you down of all you're worth. You kind of hate him for hurtling you towards the edge already, but you can't keep yourself from chasing after it. It's dirty, the cum between your thighs squelching lewdly each time he plunges into you, his skin meeting yours in damp smacks. And yet he cradles your cheek like you're something delicate, running the print of his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone in a gentle brush. It's all a juxtaposition of the other, and it has you crumbling. 

"You'll taste so good, just let go for me." The fires burn a little higher, white-hot and lashing, turned into an inferno that uses your bones as kindling. His teeth drag over your skin, sharp points gliding over flesh. You don't remember them feeling so lethal, like they could rip you open with a single touch, but it's hard to focus through the haze of it all. He bites deep and you swear that skin gives under the pressure, nerves lighting up light they've been doused in fire, parting like butter under a serrated knife, and the world erupts in a flurry of embers.  

This must be what it's like to be struck by lightning, static curling your toes and fingers, cosmos bursting in your eyes. You think you might scream. A chorus of his name that sounds like a prayer and a plea for help all at once as rapture's injected directly into your veins. It's almost brutal as pleasure rolls its way through you, seizing you up and stripping you to piece like a burst of dynamite. Just like before he fucks you all the way through it, pumping himself deep inside until he shudders, cock twitching inside of your cunt as he spills over into his own orgasm. 

It's almost abrupt how he drops you both back down onto the support of the table, leaning his body over yours like he's gone boneless. Crowding you in with his weight while he continues to grind himself against you without pulling out, drawing his pelvis on your overstimulated clit. You moan at the static searing through you, writhing under his body as he guides out your pleasure until it stings. 

But you can't find the strength to stop him, staring past his shoulder and up at the sky while your thoughts spin and flatline. You feel like you're floating, admiring the way the stars above twinkle and shift in an iridescent sheen with a drunken kind of fascination. You've felt good after sex before, but you've never been reduced to a state like this. It's like you're no longer in your body, tethered to it only by a thin, pulsing string, almost giddy from the pleasure. 

It's like you've been cocooned in warmth, something alcoholic tingling at your fingertips as he sucks and laps at your throat. Groaning softly while he cradles your skull, just barely thrusting himself into you like he doesn't want to stop. And despite how sensitive you've become; you don't think you want him too either. You're sense of time has gone all fuzzy, turned sluggish and pleasantly warm as you drift on your high, all loose limbed and heavy. 

It could be seconds or hours before he finally parts his mouth from you, a hollow sting digging into your neck as canines slip free. It's strange. Far from the bites that he had scattered over your throat before. It feels deep. Like he'd broken skin and pierced deep. He still hasn't pulled his face from the crook of your neck, licking up your throat like it's layered in sugar. Your skin is warm. A starling sensation against the weird chill of his tongue. Damp and hot. For a moment you think that it might be his spit, but it's not cold enough for that, trickling lazily down your throat like a slow leak. 

You're face pinches in confusion and will yourself to remove your arm from around his shoulder. An almost herculean task considering that your limbs have turned to lead from the dopey effects of your orgasm, but you force yourself to move. Years have passed by the time your fingers curl around your neck, dragging over your damp flesh to collect the liquid that's smearing over it. 

You blink sluggishly when you raise your hand up over your face, trying to focus past the blur that smudges around the edges of your vision. For a moment you think that you're hallucinating it. That the dark liquid staining your fingertips, glittering in the dark, tinged red and running hot from your body heat isn't real. You're trapped as you stare at it dumbly, horribly transfixed by the thick of it dripping down the crook of a finger in a single rivulet. 

You think your heart stops, a wild panic setting in as you scramble beneath him to try and slip free. But suddenly the comforting weight of him is now as unyielding as a snare. A cry locks in your throat, snagged behind the catch of your quivering lungs. 

A hand catches your wrist as you struggle, silver jewelry winking in the dark like a warning, horrible talons sprouting from its fingertips. It paralyzes you in place, the ice pumping through your frantic heart, turning your lethargic limbs into heavy stone. 

It's then that he chooses to lift his head from the vulnerable stretch of the throat that you had offered so foolishly, placing a kiss to the ache that you now know is bitten flesh. Your thoughts run into scattered cries, a litany of voices rattling around in your skull like taunts and yells. Shrieks that chant, told you so, over and over again in a bitter, acidic stream. And then you hear the echo of his voice. 

It's like a nightly thing. 

God, he had been toying with you this entire time. 

You can't escape. Too weak to move. Too overcome with fear - drained and so wrung dry that the adrenaline singing throughout your system falls useless. Your bones tremble with a broken cry, tears tainting your waterline, but even that isn't enough to keep you from seeing him as he is now. The logical part of your brain scrambles to find reason, but there is none as flashes of burning amber pin you down - the eyes of an animal's, peering from a face that's gone bestial. Inhuman. A demon's face stretched over a human skull; jaw smeared with a rich red like a feral dog that's been feeding on a fresh corpse. The smile that you had once loved is now tainted. Ruined by the blood that soaks his mouth; lips peeled back into a grin. But that charm is ruined, stretching into something sadistic and sharp, violent teeth baring in the dark. 

It's cruel when he guides the hand that he has caught within his own up to his mouth, easily bending your limb, overpowering you as though you aren't resisting him; made instead out of weakened clay and not muscle and bone. He snickers when you try to jerk your arm from his hold, like you're a mean kitten that he's picked up by the scruff. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." 

You don't believe him. And suddenly the conversation you had back in the record store seems like a twisted joke. You think back on all the smiles he had passed you then. Like he was in on a joke that you weren't. But now you are and it's like the universe is laughing at you too for being so dumb, digging the knife in deeper for being so naive. The cassette tapes in your pocket are now as weighted and crushing as stones. 

His tongue slips out past his mouth, lips parting as he takes your fingers into his mouth, licking up the blood there like it's something precious. A drug in short supply. Despite the amusement glinting in his eyes, there's an unmistakable fringe of something intense and determined peeking through it all, as though you've made a bargain that you didn't know you were signing. Etched out your name in blood and written over your soul for the taking. 

"I think you're too sweet to part with, babe. " He places nauseatingly tender kiss to the palm of your hand - a mockery, and dead in the center, where you'd maybe slice your hand for a blood pact, and you know now that you aren't going to escape. At least not with your life intact. His eyes gleam like gold. Like two roaring fire pits. Hellmouths opening wide to consume you, bones, blood and all. 

"I think I might keep you."  

[chimivx]

home;run -> fem!reader x mlb!mingyu, mlb!vernon, mlb!dk

College didn't work out, so you're stuck with the next best thing. Living with your superstar brother, traveling with his championship winning team, haunted by your past and heavily influenced by your present.

wc; {part seven} 3.6k warnings; 18+, sexual content, alcohol consumption/abuse, bad influences around her, manipulation, her name gets taken advantage of in public media, if i missed anything please let me know!! notes; peese n lurv. <3

Cheers could be heard down every street in Iloa, the Lions stadium alive, living, breathing, exploding full of love and support, every voice showering down onto the field of ten or so men stretching, throwing around baseballs, or sprinting across the grass.

In the bullpen, the smack of DK’s hundred mile per hour baseball hitting the leather of Woozi’s glove echoed against the walls and carried up to the kids in their matching jerseys dangling their heads over the railings to watch them, calling down for them to throw a baseball up into the stands. Standing on the sidelines, coaches, other starting and backup pitchers, they’d grab whichever ball DK discarded and tossed it up to the boys and girls, watching their faces light up with joy.

A sweet smell lingered in the air, one mixing with that of the savoriness of the comfort foods the boys on the team indulged in after a victory, one they hoped would happen today. Pretzels, soft chewy cinnamon bites, ice cream stands around every turn, every corner of the stadium. Women and men wandered about with bright red shirts on, carrying bins of ice cold drinks, beers, and water bottles, their voices booming through and over the crowds eager to get their buzz on. Fans waiting in line at the stores, full of Lions merchandise, were calling them over, swiping their cards without checking the price, and chugging the can as best as they could before they were allowed to walk through the door. An excellent ploy, get them tipsy and they won’t care what they’re picking up off the shelves.

Bouncing in your black boots, skinny jeans on your legs and a silky custom Lions bomber jacket on top of a bodysuit, you held a water bottle in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. Grooving to the music radiating the walls of the stadium, a pop beat from a music group that prided themselves on being the biggest fans of your brother, the cutest group of seven talented boys the Lions were now partners with, you pulled on the elbow linked with yours, accidentally rocking them with you. Sunglasses low on your nose, you turned and smiled. Latched to you tight, elbows locked, Ryujin licked her ice cream and raised a brow.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, letting you rock her to your heart's content as the two of you strolled through the first floor pavilion. “Is this that group DK likes?” 

“The group that DK is friends with?” Correcting her, she smiled and rolled her eyes. “We had a few of them over in the off season while I was home with him, they’re cool.”

Ryujin dodged a man barreling toward the seats carrying one of his kids in his arms while the other ran behind him. “Jesus,” she muttered. “This place is crazier than last season.” Catching the drips of ice cream down the side of your cone with your tongue, you winked to a group of girls around your age staring at you and Ryujin and gave them a wave as you passed by them.

“They need them to win,” you said.

“They need to use manners,” she countered, giving you a look.

Shaking your head, waving to some other people who actually called out your name and greeted you properly, you said, “Then we need them to win. You don’t wanna see these people when they lose.”

Ryujin, having been on guard for your sake since she arrived three days ago, gave the people a stare, not caring what they thought of her. She overanalyzed them all. Back in February, a little over a month ago, when the Mingyu story broke the internet, your name was drug through the mud. You weren’t so innocent either, though you were, you knew what you did, what had happened, but to the media you were a drunken mess homie hopper. 

The photos of Vernon safely placing you into his passenger seat couldn’t even compare to the photos of Mingyu and Daya, taken from far away, not up close like people would do to you when you were dating him. That thought alone disgusted you, that you weren’t worthy of certain boundaries like Daya apparently was, that you could have cameras shoved in your face while you were kissing your boyfriend in a public space, but there she was, on his lap, tongue in his cheek, and the photos and videos were grainy as fuck. 

He couldn’t defend himself. It took about twenty four hours for you to be able to face him, even at the training games they had played the following day you ignored him, sat in the stands with your sunglasses on, arms folded, legs crossed, only cheering and clapping when ‘Now batting, first basemen, Chwe Hansol’ was announced through the stadium. Simply to piss him off, of course. Videos of that hit the internet to no one's surprise, everyone was way too involved in the scandal that almost took down Vernon’s name as well.

The two of you spoke that night, the day after the story nearly imploded your lives, with DK and Vernon on standby, the two waiting in the hallway outside of your hotel room to Mingyu’s demise. Your precious, golden hunk of a boyfriend couldn’t say two words to come back from what he’d done. With grace, somehow, he listened to your telling of how the night went, how he’d acted in front of your brother, and what he’d said to Vernon.

His only reasoning, that wasn’t an excuse to how he ended up with Daya on top of him, was that she came onto him. Loosely believing it, that he didn’t realize what she’d been doing, you let him go with a hug and his thousands of soft apologies for everything he’d been putting you through without realizing. 

That was the Mingyu you used to know, before the money, before the fame got to his head, before he was one of the stars on the team, a huge name in baseball. The nice Mingyu, the one who’d catch onto the things your parents would say and give you a silly look with a roll of his eyes, the Mingyu who once upon time said he wanted to take care of you one day, wanted to give you a life you deserved. 

But, he was all talk. A hug, whispers of I’m sorry, it was as simple as that.

All the mentions of realization seemed to withstand the pressure of the media cracking down on him in interviews, the way people would run into him on the street and bombard him with questions of you, of Vernon, of the scandal, of what he’d done. Every single time he would own up to it. Left within him, though you broke his heart, wouldn’t forgive him, told him that you two did not work together, was the care he held for you. The love he said he had, which out of everything, was the one thing you wholeheartedly believed in.

Protecting your name, defending you, speaking about you with a softness in his eyes only when asked, he at least kept one of his promises. Giving you a life you deserved, a safe one. He gave you your space, he didn’t try to come back, he didn’t fight to hold onto anything, he respected what you had to say, what you wanted, which would’ve driven you mad if Vernon weren’t standing in the hallway, if you didn’t have history clinging to him, love for him. A boy that podcasts and drama influencers alike were calling stupid for involving himself with you, for getting between you and Mingyu, that if you two were to get together after this it’d be a shorter relationship than the one you’ve just come out of.

All the more reason for Mingyu to come out and admit to what he’d done, which in turn, destroyed Daya and Hoshi’s marriage.

Desperately clinging to whatever she possibly could, sloppily throwing stories together, making absolute dogshit up about you, about Mingyu, about your brother, she scrambled miserably to hold onto her husband and the beautiful, wonderful life he’d given her. 

You and Hoshi spent some time together in the days following the break up, bonding in a way you’d never expect. Across dinner tables after days of baseball, he’d sip his beer and tell you story after story about what a witch his soon-to-be ex-wife was. He never meant to marry her, which didn’t make him out to be partner of the year, but when they found out she was pregnant with their daughter he put a ring on her finger and owned up to the new life he was bound to live.

He wasn’t looking for an excuse to divorce her, to escape her, to get rid of her, but he wouldn’t say he wasn’t grateful that this ended up happening. As for his daughter, he wouldn’t give her up for the world, when he spoke on Daya their daughter never came up. It was all her, his now ex-wife, or in the process of becoming ex-wife. He’d always shower Tora with love, would show up for her, and give her the world whether he was with her mother or not. And that’s who Daya became to him, the mother of his daughter, nothing more.

She was the curse of last season after all, the fans had no problem discarding her after Hoshi made the one and only public post to announce his divorce.

In doing so, combined with Mingyu’s unspoken compliance, Hoshi aided in the repairing of your name, of Vernon’s name, and within weeks things started to turn around.

“I don’t like the way some of these people are looking at you,” Ryujin said, holding onto you a little tighter each time someone's eyes spent more than two seconds on you. 

Tugging her out of the way of a family staring at their phones then pointing to the signs above their heads, confused as to where they were going, you yanked her toward the row of stairs leading to the first base line. “Most are fine,” you assured her, pausing at the top of the steps. The man working the row gave you a smile and a nod. “How are you?” Returning the smile, you watched his cheeks blush.

“Fine, Miss Isla, and you?” he asked with another nod of his head.

Looking at Ryujin, then back at him, you nodded as well. “Fantastic. There’s three more behind us, they should-”

“ISLA!”

The high pitched scratchy scream struck your heart. Eyes wide, head snapping to look down at your seats in the first row, you couldn’t help the obnoxious screech that came out of you involuntarily, simply triggered by a glimpse of their beautiful faces. Ryujin slipped her elbow out of yours, accepted the ice cream cone you slapped into her hand, and let you go, discarding the sweets before leisurely following you down the stairs, not running like you were. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed, skipping a few steps at a time, “Oh my god!” Heads were turned from the seats slowly filling the sections, you and your sisters shrieks gathering attention like clockwork. Even if you weren’t actively causing a scene, when the five of you were together people paid attention. 

Jumping off the last step into the row, you didn’t even have a second to look at any of them, to mess with the adorable outfits they’d thrown together, you were in their arms and their arms were around you, squeezing you, the four of you lost in whispers and Tori’s teary eyes. When Ryujin made it down the steps she wiggled herself into the middle, her hands grabbing onto three different parts of two different girls.

Aurora, Tori, Yuna, Ryujin, they were here. Once you found out they were coming to opening day you upgraded their tickets, you grouped them in with yourself and made sure they’d be down here on the field with you. It’d been months, and after the last few weeks, you needed your sisters. Partially the reason why Ryujin came days earlier after she’d gotten clearance from a few of her classes. Like DK promised, she stayed in his house with you, she hung out with your brother and actually got to know him for him and not the almighty baseball superstar he was made out to be.

She liked him as your brother more, and DK took to her in the same way. Within three days it felt like you were trapped with a big sister as well as a big brother with how they both ganged up on you, teaming together to tease you like big siblings should while whipping you into shape at the same time. The other three were set to come back to the house with you tonight, staying for the length of the three game series the Lions were opening their season with, and you couldn’t wait for them to spend time with the brother you spent so much time telling them about at Nasara.

“Tor,” you whined first as the group hug dispersed, reaching for her bronzed cheeks glowing in the March sun. Her glossy pout worsened, making you giggle, forcing your thumbs to her bottom lashes to keep her makeup in place. Tori came close to Ryujin in your heart, another trustworthy sister to share some secrets with, to open up to, she matched your try anything once energy, your party loving twin.

Grabbing your wrists, her red nails brushing your skin, she shook her head. “It is so good to see you, Isla,” she said, her voice quiet, half broken. “You have no idea what the hell we went through after you left, what we thought happened to you, it was so scary.”

A smile pricked your lips. “Ryujin throwing a sneaker at Yeji’s head?” Giggles sounded around you. “I heard all about it.” Wiping her eyes, you took her hands in yours and squeezed them, giving Aurora a glance. “I heard about everything.”

“How did you know?” Aurora asked, her observant eyes intriguing your own, the girl always on some mission to know. “You said something to me, do you remember?” Truthfully, no, you did not, and you weren’t at a point yet where you had the balls to admit it. Aurora seemed to catch on quick. “Before any of us knew anything… Caught onto anything, which, we didn’t, you knew.”

“And it cost you,” Yuna chimed in, laying a hand on your shoulder. Giving her and her chocolate curls a smile, you shrugged.

“I’ll be honest,” you whispered. “I thought it was obvious.” The laughter that broke out warmed your heart, thank god.

“Let’s not get stuck on this right now,” Ryujin pulled you out the girl's hands and moved you in front of a seat that looked straight out to first base. “We have a game to watch, we can talk about this later.”

Shuffling around the chairs, deciding who was going to sit where around you, an insane amount of questions were thrown your way, every single one involving Vernon.

“Are you guys dating?” Yuna asked from beside you on your right.

“Were you guys dating before? At Nasara?” Tori asked from your left.

Aurora poked her head forward. “Just so everyone knows, he told me about her first!”

“Shut up, let her speak,” Tori elbowed her leather jacket that so obviously belonged to Wooyoung. 

Ryujin threw her hands up, her eyebrows furrowed, the crease in her forehead deep. “I knew the whole time?!”

“Shut up, let her speak,” Aurora said to her, the two breaking out into giggles, throwing playful hands at each other. 

Tori rolled her eyes, her fluffy lashes fluttering as she looked between you and Yuna. “These two, I swear they’re on each other more than anything I’ve ever seen.”

Perking a brow, a smirk lighting up your lips, you leaned forward to witness them swatting at each other's hands, giggling like little kids. Yeah, you knew that one. “Ror,” you caught her attention, and Ryujin’s, “You and Wooyoung? Finally?”

She blinked, many times. Tori took her bottom lip between her teeth, her face going blank. “I mean,” she started, shrugging, gaze flickering out onto the empty field. “Something like that.” Confusion filled your face and she smiled, a breathy laugh escaping her. “We’re not putting pressure on anything,” she clarified. “So many big things have happened this year, we just want to… Be.”

You knew that one.

Letting her know you understood her with a smile, you shifted to Tori who just finished taking a deep breath, her eyes fixed forward. “What about you?” you asked her, letting the other two go back to giggling with one another. Yuna listened in to them, paying no mind to the quiet way Tori spoke back to you.

“What do you mean?” she questioned within a whisper.

“You know what I mean,” you laughed, “How’s Mingi? Mr Loverman? I miss seeing you guys be you,” you nudged her arm, “Your relationship is my favorite, I yearn to have what you two have.”

“Yearn?” She smirked.

“I know words, Tor,” you said, sitting up straight. Gesturing to yourself, you said, “Haven’t drank in two weeks, I’m remembering words I used to know when I was good at school, I’m tryna use them all, one word a day.”

Her eyes began to shine. “Two weeks,” she whispered. You nodded, feeling proud, keeping your anxiety locked away for the time being. “Isla, that’s great.”

“Thanks,” you sighed, accepting her hand she offered you. “It’s hard.”

“But you’re doing it,” she smiled.

“Longest streak yet,” you whispered, and she squeezed your fingers. “This doesn’t get you out of the Mingi question.”

Her face fell. “Damn it.”

“Don’t tell me you guys broke up?” you asked, and she turned toward you, flustered, her cheeks flushing of color.

“No, no, no,” she whispered as fast as humanly possible, “Not that, we didn’t break up, it’s just…”

“Soul said that!” Aurora’s cackle cut her off, Ryujin and Yuna laughing with her.

Closing her eyes, Tori took a breath before looking at you. “I don’t know how to describe it. It sounds horrible in my head, I don’t think I can say it out loud, if I try I either look like a jealous bitch or a shitty girlfriend.”

Placing your other hand on top of the one you were already holding, you smiled something soft. “It’s okay,” you said. “Thoughts are one thing, actions are another.”

Tori frowned. “I love him, you know I do.”

“Tor, we all know that.”

She glanced away, collecting her thoughts. The booming voice of the sportscaster sounded over the speakers and the now full stands erupted into cheers. “We’ll talk later,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face as the Lions were called out onto the field, every person in the stadium leaping to their feet.

Adrenaline shot down your spine, your anxiety pushed aside by the excitement that buzzed within your heart. DK, the first to run out onto the field, shot a hand in the air, waving as the music blasted for their arrival, guiding them to their places on the field. Player after player, they ran out, hands in the air, greeting their fans, searching for their family in the stands, saying hello to cameras pointed their way. The field flooded with love from both players and fans.

Number seven hit the field, cleats in the grass, and your heart skipped a beat. This was it, the first game of the rest of his life. Brown curls popped out beneath his hat, curls you had your fingers in last night from the passenger seat of his car after Ryujin slammed her door shut and hurried up to your brother's house, Vernon dropping the two of you off after a shared dinner amongst friends. He took a second, pausing as the crowd went wild for him and his teammates. Tipping his chin backward, chocolate eyes wide, an absolute look of awe, he turned in a slow circle, attempting to look at every single person, until he found you.

The world went quiet around you, though everyone and your sisters still cheered with every ounce of power within them. A smile lit up his face, one he wouldn’t normally wear so publicly, too much emotion for people who didn’t know him. Watching him wear it now, taking in all the love the fans threw his way, you swore you could cry. 

He was meant to go to first base, everyone was taking their places on the field, the other team was on their way out, but once he found you he was stuck. Glued to you. Drawn to you. He couldn’t even say hi to your friends, his friends, he hurried over and grabbed onto the net separating the two of you, beckoning you closer. Stepping up to the ledge, grabbing onto his fingers that poked through the net, you smiled.

“Girlfriend,” he whispered, pressing his nose to the scratchy yarn.

Leaning into him, doing the same, your noses brushing, you whispered, “Boyfriend,” with a giggle.

“This is fucking crazy,” he said. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I’m so happy you’re here,” you said. “You made it.”

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“Remember to breathe,” you whispered. “You can do this.”

Sucking down a breath, he released it all too fast, whispering, “I love you,” before pressing his lips to yours, unafraid to let everyone in the stadium in on the secret you two have been keeping for two weeks now. A secret that you’d try to keep, that both of you wanted to keep, for yourselves, and yourselves only.

Though you knew, after this, #visla would be trending faster than anything.

home;run masterlist | talk to me | ao3

you do not have permission to copy or translate my works without my consent.

[harryforvogue]

something from a fic i'll never write. i've been reading way too much about faeries, changelings, and heirs

***

She spots him as soon as she enters through the threshold, eyes snagging with his. He looks away quickly though, and then glances over his shoulder to make sure the person he sees is just a trick in the light, and that her hair isn’t really billowing around her in white fans, and her eyes aren’t the color of obsidian rock found in the depths of the caves of their homeland. She knows it, however, that he’s seen her, because to the regular mortal eye, she’d subdued herself to have gentle brown eyes, hair with white highlights, and a figure that isn’t so sickly and thin.

Sauntering her way through the crowded bar, she’s sure he feels her approach. His back tenses, and his handsome face contorts into a look of dread. But he doesn’t move, showing the bravery of the prince of Faerieland that he is. She fixes her blouse as she sits down on the seat beside him, resting her elbows delicately on the bar. 

“Hello.”

The man looks at her for a second too long, noticeably looking at her shoulders to find her hidden wings, before returning to his amber drink. “Sprite.” His tone is cutting, abrupt. “I’d like to be left alone.”

“Worry not. I’m not here to gloat or embarrass you, changeling heir. I’m here to welcome you to the mortal lands and ask that you speak truthfully with me. Now that you’re no longer bound by the rules of Faerieland and are able to lie of course.”

She orders herself water with a lemon wedge.

His eyes rush over to hers, dark with anger. “Do not call me that.”

She shrugs, taking a sip of her water. “What do I call you then?”

“Nothing. You stay the hell away from me.”

She clicks her tongue. “Sure, I can do that. After you do something for me. And I’m not hard to please. All I need is a vow that you’ll leave these mortals alone, and I’ll never speak to you again.” Another sip. “That is, well, until you leave me a bloody mess to clean up. Then I leave you as a bloody mess for someone else to clean up.” She smiles at him.

The man, or rather the abandoned adult changeling that would have been a false king, doesn’t say anything for a moment. He observes her as she finishes her drink and orders another one from the bar. The bartender looks at her hazily, the fog over his eyes registering a young woman who happens to be pleasantly chatting with her date at the bar. 

She’s not so sure what the mortals see when they look at this new arrival though. How good is his glamor? Is it an intentional glamor, or whatever has remained on him from his journey to mortal lands?

What she sees, though, is a man likely in his late twenties, with dark curls tucked behind his ears, in casual dark jeans, and a white shirt. Around his neck is a pendant, an ancient one that shows his heritage and his lineage. He is incredibly beautiful, as all royal faeries are.

She sits in the presence of the heir. Or now, the exiled heir. Removed from the lineage after being humiliated before the court. She’d heard about it through her spies in Faerieland. She never would have expected him here though.

He stares back at her. Clearly he’s used to seeing various different faeries, trolls, nymphs, and other woodland creatures (which she is) because he doesn’t blink an eye at her appearance. She’s long come to terms that her haggard, wild, looks cannot come close to the beauty of mortal women, but it’s nice to be seen. The heir looks at her real features, and not the ones she’s applied with glamor to look like the rest of the women in the bar.

Finally, he looks away. Looks back at his drink. “I’m not here to kill anyone.”

“That’s a relief,” she answers brightly. “Now I don’t have to kill you.”

He doesn’t answer.

She barrels on. “They call me the Queen Sprite here. Because this land is so close to the land of Faerie, many exiles and defectors come here, but their nature gets the best of them. They terrorize the mortals, often killing them. My job here is to prevent that. I’ve grown quite sentimental of the mortals.”

“And who put you in charge of that?” the heir says icily. Clearly he doesn’t want to be bothered. She doesn’t care.

“I did,” she replies. “I’ve been here for 26 years. A changeling myself. Though only 9 of those years have I been called Queen Sprite.”

“By whom?”

The heir’s lingering authority remains in his voice. He must be used to ordering about faeries and servants. She feels the pull of his magic trying to draw out a truthful answer from her.

“There’s no need for glamor,” she says. “I’ll answer any question truthfully. You’ll find it’s possible to lie here, but I will not do so. Not for a fellow changeling.”

“I am not,” the heir hisses, catching the eyes of several bargoers, “one of those.”

“You are,” she answers calmly. “Just as I am.”

“I am not like you.”

She finishes her drink and holds a hand up kindly when the bartender approaches her again, signaling she’s done with drinks of the night. “I put myself in charge. And it’s gone quite swimmingly, and it will continue to do so as long as you don’t raise your voice at me or threaten me.”

The heir’s eyes are darkened. He looks down at her with a sneer, eyebrows dipped low. His hands are in fists on the bartop. “We will have no problem as long as you quit calling me that.”

“You must have known your whole life,” she presses. “How different you are. A man in Faerieland that is more mortal than fae. And a royal. One that looks different from his family, though his internal characteristics may be similar to the King.”

“Leave the hell alone, sprite.”

She ignores him, pressing on the bruise some more. “You must have known that your abilities were all learned. That the longer you stayed in Faerie, the less human you became, and maybe you were scared at first, waiting for you to be returned to your human parents in exchange for the other changeling, but it never happened.” She shakes her head sympathetically. “Really, it’s a tragedy. Instead of being sacrificed, you were made to believe you were truly a member of the royal family. That you could in fact rule your court.”

“That is enough!” the half man half fae shouts, slamming his hand down on the bar. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’d do best to walk away before I do something we’ll both regret.”

She glamors their conversation to make it look like a lover’s spat.

“I told you not to threaten me,” she answers, tapping her long fingers on the top. “I’m not your enemy. I’m like you–”

“You are nothing like me,” he seethes. She watches him throw back his drink. “And you’d do well to remember that.”

The anger lingers in the air like a dark cloud. Instead of leaving, he sits there, gripping his glass so tight, it cracks at the rim. 

“You can’t leave,” she says. “Physically, you’ve been unable to leave the bar. I’ve watched you for three days now. The drinks don’t affect you. The people don’t affect you. All you’ve done is sit here and feel sorry for yourself.”

“I’m not tearing mortals apart limb from limb so let that be solace for you, and proof that I don’t intend to harm,” he growls.

She sits up straighter in her seat. “How do I know that? You may as well be like a ticking bomb waiting for the right moment to explode.”

“And I supposed you think you’re the diffuser?”

“I am. I told you, I’m the Queen Sprite of these lands. I’ve sat with my council and we’ve talked about it. I need to deal with you personally. You’ve got to figure out if you’re going to stay here or if you’re going to barrel your way back to Faerieland. And if you do leave, you’ll return angrier.”

“So you say my only choice is to stay here.”

She shrugs. “If that’s what you got from what I’ve just said.”

He stares at her, enraged. “You live up to your name.”

A low blow, but she swallows it gracefully. “I live up to my nature. As do you.”

She leaves then, putting some bills on the counter to pay for both her drinks and his, giving him a once over before leaving. 

***

The next day, the heir is still in the bar. He avoids her by talking to a young woman beside him. By midnight, he’s kissing her, so the sprite leaves.

***

The day after, the heir is still at the bar, in a booth now. He nurses a couple shots, knocking them back one after the other. She watches from a distance, and then approaches when he’s taken at least ten or eleven.

“You know they won’t affect you,” she tells him.

He turns his head to look at her, eyes clear. “I can snap your neck right this very moment, sprite.”

She leaves, letting him lick his wounds.

***

The following day, he sits at the bar without a drink before him. His hair is unruly, falling into his eyes. His knuckles are red and raw, which alarms her, but she soothes herself with a reminder that men do many stupid things. He could have just punched the wall in anger.

He doesn’t look like he’s been to Faerieland because his magic seems to be slipping. When she looks at him, she sees him in his usual white shirt, but sometimes when she blinks, he’s in a black shirt. 

“Hello, prince.” She sits beside him.

He turns his head to look at her. His eyes are red and filled with sorrow. “Sprite,” he answers.

“How are we feeling tonight?”

“I need to go home.”

She orders herself a drink. “I’m afraid the court isn’t home for you anymore.”

He surprises her by putting his head down on the bartop, dropping his hands to his lap. He looks younger, though more ruffled, not longer with the air of royalty. He’s looking more human, more exiled. His shirt flickers in color. 

“I was the crowned heir,” he says, voice muffled. “I was the one they wanted.”

They stay silent for sometime.

Then, the prince says, “I tried to go back. They’ve locked all the doors. Some magic I don’t know. Magic I’ve never been shown.”

“I figured they would.”

“I feel like a child. Like my parents have abandoned me again.” He raises his head to look at her. “I remember it very well. When they took me. I think the fae part of me enhances those memories. I was barely 3 years old. Pretty old for a changeling, though. But after I got over it, I adjusted to palace life so well that I..I guess I just thought…” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes golden. She wonders what his real eye color is. 

“But clearly I’ve thought wrong.”

“What is your name?” she asks him. “We always have space for new exiles.”

At the last word, he shudders, but his shoulders fall with defeat. He stares down at her for some moments before he says, “Harry.”

A ripple of magic runs through her. Half human or not, his true name willingly rolling off his tongue makes her shiver. She stares back at him with largened eyes.

“Okay,” she says carefully.

“My true name holds no weight. And despite being an exiled prince, you cannot have control over me with that name. These limits, at least, can be upheld in the mortal world..” 

Harry stands up, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Show me where you hold council, sprite. And be prepared to be dethroned.”

She stands as well, fluttering to get ahead of him as they leave the bar together. She feels a warm glow in her chest at the sight of him in the dark night, face illuminated by a weak lamp on the street.

“Welcome,” she says earnestly, “to the mortal world, your highness.”

[sixpennydame]

Hey hey hey bestie, I’m here for #24 with Jean.

ありがとうございます✨

Dee, my lovely, it's all your doing that I'm having a Jean moment to begin with! 楽しんでください！

Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)

Cowboy!Jean x Fem!Reader

C/W: Slightly dom!reader, face sitting, NSFW, Minors Do Not Interact!!

You loved to hate Jean.

He was, without a doubt, the cockiest bronc rider on the pro rodeo circuit. And as much as you hated to admit it, it was for good reason. Jean almost made it look effortless; as the wild horse bounded out of the chute, kicking and bucking, Jean would hold on tight, leaning back and anchoring his feet into the stirrups. He would ride it out, the full eight seconds, every time. He knew he was the best, and he had no problem telling (and showing) everyone. It infuriated you.

As a barrel racer, you often saw him at the same rodeos, a gaggle of women always waiting for him. He'd take pictures of them and sign autographs - an arrogant smile on his face as one woman unbuttoned her shirt for him to sign her breasts.

God, you hated him.

But you also loved to fuck him.

The first time, the two of you were drunk and horny after both winning in your respective events. A group of you had ended up at a honky tonk joint in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and as he spun you around the dance floor, he pulled you close, his hand moving down to the small of your back as he asked to go back to your hotel room.

It just never stopped after that.

There's a knock at your door and you open it to see him there, an arm leaning on the door frame.

"Hey," is all he says before he saunters inside. The moment the door clicks closed, you're grabbing him by the shirt and pinning him to the wall. His hands start to unbutton your blouse as yours move down to his muscular ass that’s squeezed into his tight Wrangler jeans.

Clothes fly off and you push him onto the bed. "Please...sit on my face," he begs. His voice is soft and needy, and as you straddle his shoulders, moving slowly towards his face, he whimpers.

You hover just above his mouth and feel the heat of his breath on your intimate parts. "You want this?"

"Fuck yes," he responds, "I wanna taste you...wanna make you feel good." His rough hands wrap around your waist, resting at your hip bones, but he doesn't dare push you down on him because he knows..

..you're in control.

You lower onto his face and he immediately drags his tongue along your vulva. He’s precise - he knows your body by now and knows exactly the way to move to make you feel good. But that doesn’t mean you just sit there. You begin to slowly grind your hips back and forth and moans of pleasure from both of you fill the room. His hands grab at your breasts desperately as your hips move faster, then in a circular motion. The new movement causes his tongue to flirt around your clit, but when he finally latches on it, you stop. He sucks on your clit, switching between light and hard suction, and it causes you to grab onto his hair. You know that his cock is rock hard behind you, and a part of your wants so badly to reach back and touch him, but you and he both know that this is how the game is played.

Your pleasure is first and foremost.

Jean continues to suck on your clit and lap at your pussy until your legs start to shake and your climax washes over you. When you move back, his face is covered with your juices. “Shit, I love how you taste.” His hands move up and down your thighs. “What else do you want?”

You move further down and start rubbing your pussy on his cock, causing him to take in a deep breath. “Depends…is that the best you can do tonight?”

“My wild girl…I’ll let you do whatever you want. Use me all night long, if that’s what you want.”

You love it, watching Jean moan and writhe beneath you as you fuck him. Within the four walls of your hotel room, the cocky, arrogant bastard becomes your slave, willing to do whatever you want, for as long as you want it. You sit up and put your hands on his pecs, feeling his muscles tense, his body coated in a layer of sweat, his eyes watching your body as his cock disappears inside you again and again. He knows you won’t stop until he’s given you everything.

And both of you know this won’t be the last ride.

—//—

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[kaytheday]

Wild Woman at the Rodeo

Barrel racing used to be her escape. Cherry used to get on that horse right after her best friend Marcia had finished and ride as fast as she could. Her hair whipping behind her, all thoughts of school and boyfriends and not being good enough leaving as she put on those boots. 

That was before Dallas Winston started competing in the event after the barrel races. He would stand up on the fence next to his buddies. Laughing, talking loud, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth as he stomped around in his cowboy boots. 

Don’t get Cherry wrong. She didn’t get nervous in front of crowds and she was hardly opposed to yelling at a hood to leave her alone but Dallas was something else. He was interesting in the way that a firecracker was interesting. Moving so fast, dangerous and loud that it nearly blinded you. 

It was one rodeo after her and Marcia had finished riding. She was in her signature pink rodeo shirt with the two cherries on the pocket, cute flare jeans to go over her boots. She was talking to Marcia and smoking a rare cigarette. Things hadn’t been great at home lately and she knew her dad wouldn’t be able to distinguish the rodeo smell from cigarette smoke. 

“How you ladies doin?” Cherry ashed her smoke on the chain link fence before turning around to find none other than Dallas Winston. He was wearing worn levis over scuffed cowboy boots. He had an oversized flannel shirt thrown on, unbuttoned, exposing his flat stomach and a scar that ran from his rib to the top of his jeans. She huffed out a sigh, not really wanting to get into it with him. 

“What do you want?” She said in a no nonsense tone she’d heard her mother use plenty of times when she was younger.

“Woah, woah baby.” He smirked, putting his hands up in mock surrender while Cherry took another drag. “Just wanted to say that you guys are good riders, that’s all.” His New Yorker accent peeked through his words, twisting around his mouth playfully. She scoffed a little. 

“Thanks. Now don’t you have somewhere to be?” 

“I got a race to win if that’s what you mean.” The corner of his lips curled up into a small smile. “Why, you gonna come watch?” 

“Maybe, maybe not. You’ll just have to wait and see.” he smirked and left. Lighting a cigarette with a match on the bottom of his shoe as he walked away. 

Cherry would be lying if she said she didn’t like the compliment a little bit. The problem with her potential to fall in love with Dallas Winston was it could mess up everything she had worked so hard to build with the rodeo. 

Cherry was an entirely different girl at the rodeo. She was no longer her parents' little princess who went around in starched clean dresses and got good grades. In the rodeo ring, she was a wild woman. Her red hair whipping like the untamed winds of Oklahoma. She knew how to play a crowd like a lioness, rows of teeth looking like a smile but they still knew how much that bite could hurt. Here, she was more than a soc or her parents' money. 

More than anything else, the rodeo was Cherry’s escape. It was her escape from her sick mother at home and her emotionally absent father. An escape from the life of Socs and Greasers. An escape from everything that made her life rough in all those secret edges. 

She vowed then and there. She couldn’t fall in love with Dallas Winston here or anywhere. Despite his crooked smile and way he had complimented her, his flat stomach and the way he lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t risk giving up the one thing that was truly hers. The one thing in her life that reminded her she was alive. 

The rodeo reminded her of the blood that ran through her veins like fire. It reminded her of the stories of horse women ancestors. The wild women that no man could tame. She thought of herself as one of those wild women. Her feet thundering across the plains of Oklahoma loud shrieks erupting from her lips like fire from the mouth of the dragon. She only felt that at the Rodeo. At the rodeo, she was truly alive. At the rodeo, she was free. 

This is for day 5 of @outsidersweek!

[writingplotbunnies]

Best Served Cold (5/?)

Pairing: Jax Teller x OFC

Summary: Sophie shows up to her first SAMCRO party complete with fighting and a conversation with Gemma.

Word Count: ~4400

Warnings: angst, illegal activity, possessive behavior, sexual content, canon typical violence

A/N: This is my first SOA fic, so let me know what you think. This is a multipart fic, so let me know if you want added to the taglist.

Later, Sophie stood in front of her bed, hands on her hips, glaring down at the rather small pile of clothes scattered across the mattress. She’d never been good at picking an outfit, doing her hair, finding out if her complexion allowed for warm or cool tones in her makeup. That had been Olivia's job. Over the years, she’d simply do whatever it was her sister had told her. Like adding layers to her hair, and texturizing the ends - whatever the hell that meant. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to look good because she did, especially tonight, it was that the Corps didn’t care, and anytime she’d been forced to dress up, well they provided a uniform for that, too. Raking her hands through her hair, Sophie wished she knew someone in this town she could call for help. Jax would likely make some suggestion about not wearing anything, which, while flattering, wouldn’t exactly be a practical solution to her current dilemma. 

“Maybe if I close my eyes and point…” 

She needed a dog. At least then talking to herself wouldn’t make her feel quite as crazy. But, she talked to herself a lot. Wasn’t anything else to do when she was staked out in the middle of nowhere waiting for her target to finally decide to show up. 

Growling in frustration, she snagged a pair of skinny jeans Olivia had given her for Christmas a couple of years ago, and a burgundy racerback tank top with a screen-printed dandelion on it. Once dressed, she slid on her well-worn black, low-heel ankle boots. Glancing at herself in the bathroom mirror, she figured it looked good enough. Never quite the smoky eye her sister always managed to paint on her face with perfection, but she didn’t look like she’d just been sucker punched either, so she took the win. 

Stopping at the couch, Sophie pulled her ankle holster from her duffel before lifting her foot onto the arm of the couch and attaching it. She didn’t want a repeat of earlier if one of the other Sons or whoever else she met at the party hugged the wrong side of her body. Tucking her phone and ID into her back pocket, she grabbed her keys and locked up behind her. 

Sliding into her car, Sophie took a deep breath. She wanted to make a good impression. After Jax had dropped her back at the station, she’d done a lot of thinking. Maybe it wasn’t forever, this thing with Jax, but she wanted to do her part to make it last - see what it could be. Just because she’d never had roots, at least, not as an adult, didn’t mean she didn’t want some. 

Pulling into the TM lot, Sophie took a moment to take in the whole scene. A far cry from the quiet, but busy auto shop, the place had transformed into a veritable den of debauchery. It kinda reminded her of a few mid-deployment parties she and the teams had set up when they needed to blow off some steam. Excitement thrummed through her veins at the prospect of letting off some steam and having a good time. It had been this part of the MC life that she found most surprising when it came to Olivia. They’d done their share of partying together, but her sister had always been the more reserved of the two. Not a wallflower, but not the cannonball into the swimming pool with a Roman candle in her hand type either. Hers had been a quieter chaos. Maybe that’s why Olivia had been drawn to Drifter - the balance. 

Shaking herself from thoughts of the past, she slid from the car, tucked her keys into her front pocket and walked towards the madness. Fire-filled drum barrels were scattered around outside. Women half naked stood, or sat, with a court of men around them. One leggy blonde had her arms wrapped around a young man who seemed content to do nothing more than suck her tits while she ground herself against him. Off to the left, shirtless men threw punches at each other inside a boxing ring while some of the others, beer bottles dangling from their fingers cheered them on from the sidelines. She noticed some money exchanging hands. 

Glancing around, she tried to locate Jax. She spied who she thought were Tig and Chibs sitting over at some picnic tables. Since they were the only other two faces she recognized, she moved towards them, careful to weave through the small packs of bodies. 

“Hiya, love,” Chibs called when he caught sight of her. 

Tig grinned up at her. “Hello, beautiful.” 

Sophie smiled, but looked behind her. “I kept my car parked far away from your perv eyes, Tig. No more flirting with my baby. She’s too young for you.” 

Chibs laughed and knocked his shoulder against Tig’s. “Got you by the balls.” 

“I wish,” Tig mumbled under his breath. 

She sat on the table next to Tig and gave a friendly pat on his shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint you.” 

He gave her a flirty look. “I’m sure you can find a way to make it up to me.” 

Sophie laughed. “Keep dreaming, man.” 

“Aye,” Chibs said, voice a bit sharp as he glanced down at Tig. “You know how this works.” 

Tig nodded. “Yeah, man. I got it.” 

Chibs shook his head before necking his beer and taking a long swallow. “Not me you’ve gotta be worrying about now is it?” 

Clearly looking for a way to change the mood, Tig looked at a young blond man sitting near them. “Prospect, get the lady a drink and be quick about it.” 

The blond looked at her shyly and offered her a smile. “What’s your poison?” 

“Rum and coke, or a beer.” 

“Go on,” Chibs called as the prospect stood from the table. “Be quick about it.” 

She laughed as he scurried into the clubhouse. “I’d say be nice to the poor boy, but something tells me he’s used to a little hazing around here.” 

“It’s good for them.” 

They all turned to watch the fight, and the kid brought her a drink more quickly than she expected. Taking a sip, she nearly coughed. Sophie had expected a strong drink, but it was like they’d filled the Dixie cup with rum and walked a can of Coke next to it. Rum with an essence of Coke. Now that she knew, she took a smaller sip from her cup as she continued to watch the two in the ring duke it out. The bald one had decent form. He had a wildness in his eyes that commanded her attention. 

Sophie slid from the table, and wandered through the crowd to get a closer look at the fight. She’d always enjoyed the boxing matches the Navy boys engaged in during cruising days. For a few moments, she stood among the other spectators sipping her rum with a splash of Coke and watching the exchange of punches. Both men had grins on their faces. 

“Hey, sexy,” a voice slurred in her ear. His hand wrapped around her waist, fingers inching up her torso, just shy of her breast. “Run inside and get me another beer.” 

Ignoring him, Sophie moved out of his grip, figuring he’d wander off to easier, more willing entertainment. She continued to watch the fight. Not taking the hint, the drunk guy behind her reached out, grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. 

“Listen, bitch, go get me another beer or get lost.” 

Looking him over, she noticed the kutte, but there weren’t any patches on it. He had dark hair and a stupid-looking face, or maybe that was just the expression on it. The kutte looked the same as the one the blond guy, the prospect, who’d been sent off to get her a drink wore. Seemed prospects were lower in the chain than guys like Chibs and Tig. Not that it would make any difference for her personally, but she wanted to avoid making Jax’s life more difficult if it could be avoided. 

Shaking his grip loose, she moved through the crowd back towards the table. Just as it came within view, the majority of the crowd behind them, the idiot grabbed Sophie’s ass.

“Don’t walk away from me, sweetheart. I wanna have a good time tonight.” 

Eyes at her hairline, Sophie spun around to face him. “The fuck did you just say to me, asshole?” 

“You heard me. Croweaters do as they’re fucking told around here.” 

Sophie rolled her shoulders. “Look, go find someone willing. No isn’t exactly a complicated word - means no.” 

When he reached forward again, Sophie’s patience was shot. She landed a right hook across his cheek, feeling her knuckle split on one of his teeth. Sucking a breath in through her teeth, she cursed. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but seeing the way the idiot’s face snapped to the side made it worth it.

“Go find Jax,” she heard Chibs tell someone. 

Her moment of distraction cost her. The guy backhanded her with enough force for her head to whip to the side. 

“Bastard!” 

Sophie spat on the ground. What kind of an idiot slapped someone in the middle of a fistfight?

Before she could return the favor, arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her back. Across from her, a lumberjack-looking guy with a beanie on his head had his arms wrapped around the idiot who thought no meant please touch me more. 

“Alright, lass, leave him be.” 

Thrashing in his hold, Sophie wanted nothing more than to cover her hands in his blood. “Let me go. Bastard needs to be taught a fucking lesson about respecting boundaries.” 

“Aye,” Chibs agreed. “That he does, but not by you. You got your shot.” 

She stopped struggling only to whirl around and poke her finger into his chest.

“That love tap I gave him?” 

Sophie knew she was screaming, knew she was likely making a scene, but she couldn’t stop herself. 

“Bastard grabbed my arm, then my ass, and took a grab at my breast all without my permission. He’s lucky I haven’t ripped his fucking balls off and shoved them up his ass.” 

She watched Chibs’ face darken the more she spoke, but before either of them could say anything else Jax, closely followed by Tig, came jogging up to the group.

“What the fuck?” Jax asked, eyes moving between Sophie and the guy. 

“Don’t know exactly what happened, man,” the lumberjack-looking man spoke. “But, your girl landed one hell of a punch on Shepard’s face before he backhanded her.” 

She watched Jax’s jaw work as he closed in on the guy who’d slapped her. “That right? You do that to her face?” 

“Never seen her around here before. Wanted a new piece of ass tonight.” 

Sophie started struggling in Chib’s arms again, and managed to slip his grip. Faster than Jax could stop her, she’d lunged forward and punched Shepard in the face and then the kidney. 

“Sophie!” Jax pulled her back. “Come on, stop.” 

He pulled her a few feet from the group, pressed her back against the wall and glared at her. 

“I’m not apologizing for beating the shit out of that fucking creep.” 

Jax shook his head, small grin on his face. “No one’s asking you to.” 

Sophie opened her mouth, but closed it. It hadn’t been the response she expected. 

Jax grabbed her chin and tilted her head to the side, noting the red mark on her cheek. 

“He do that to your face?” 

She nodded. “Asshole didn’t even have the decency to punch me. Little bitch slaps like a fucking girl.” 

Jax pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. 

Sophie released a deep breath. “Look, I know there are rules or whatever for the girls at these things, and I tried to get him to stop. If he’d just been drunk and handsy and left when I said no, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But he followed me. I moved away, walked back to where Chibs and Tig were sitting, but he kept following me. No one touches me without my permission, Jax. No one.” 

He nodded. “No one should be touching you. I’m gonna go deal with that, and you’re going to stay with Chibs and Opie while I deal with it.” 

“Jax - ”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m gonna deal with it, Sophie.” 

Searching his face, she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw ticked. She nodded. “Make him bleed.” 

With a smile, Jax pulled back from where he’d crowded Sophie into the wall. “As you wish, darlin’.” 

Taking her hand, Jax led them back over to the table. By now, the boxers in the ring had stopped, and a large crowd gathered to where Opie still had Shepard restrained. 

“Jax?” Tig asked, a hopeful expression on his face.

Jax pulled Sophie closer to him, arm wrapped around her in a clearly possessive gesture. 

“He’s gonna pay for that bruise on my girl’s face.” 

“You’re choosing some croweater over me?” Shepard asked, voice incredulous. 

Jax tightened his grip on Sophie in warning. She forced herself to relax knowing he needed to handle this himself. Later, she’d have him explain the hierarchy of this whole thing to her. 

“She look like a croweater to you?” Tig asked, sounding actually curious. “Does she act like one? Use your brain, man.” 

Shaking his head, Jax glanced up at Opie. “Tape him up.” Turning to Tig, he grinned. “Take bets, boys.” 

Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Tig placed a hand on his chest. “Love you, man.” 

Chibs handed Sophie a roll of tape. “Get him ready, lass.” 

Nodding, she turned to Jax and pointed to the picnic table. “Sit.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She swatted at his arm. “I’m not an officer, but I might let you salute me later.” 

As Jax tugged his shirt over his head, she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. He caught her watching and winked. 

“What the hell’s going on?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw an older man with a gray beard and a cigar in his mouth walking over to them. “I’m teaching the prospect a lesson about touching things that don’t belong to him.”  

Sophie wanted to snort because honestly, who the fuck said shit like that? Still, she enjoyed the way Jax’s voice went low and deep. She focused on wrapping his hands, making sure the tape would do its job to protect his hands. 

“Clay, this is Sophie, Sophie, this is Clay.” 

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’d shake your hand, but they’re a bit busy at the moment, but it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

She heard Clay’s deep chuckle behind her. “Likewise.” 

“What’s going on?”

Sophie recognized Gemma’s voice. 

“Jax is gonna teach the prospects a little bit of a lesson tonight.” 

Even with her back to the woman, Sophie could feel the deep frown on Gemma’s face. Sophie finished wrapping Jax’s hands. Pulling back a bit she motioned for him to hold his hands out. 

“Test it.” 

She watched the way his hands moved as he flexed his hands. Nodding, she smoothed her fingers across the edges of the tape. 

“Looks good.” 

“You’ve done this before.” 

Sophie winked. “Once or twice.” 

Standing from the table, he walked over to the ring, Sophie on his heels. Before entering the ring, he turned and wrapped Sophie into his arms and kissed her like it was his dying wish. When he released her, she staggered back a couple of steps before she felt a gentle hand against her back. 

Glazing over her shoulder she smiled at Opie as he steadied her. 

“He likes you.” 

Sophie nodded. “You got that impression, too?”

“Yeah, it’s good to see him happy.”

The bald guy who’d been fighting earlier in the night entered the ring and gestured for both fighters to approach. 

“Let the ass-kicking begin.” 

He’d barely moved out of the way before Jax lunged at Shepard. She wanted to wince at the sound his fist made against the man’s face, but she couldn’t muster enough sympathy for it. Jax fought like a man possessed. Unlike the earlier fight, this was clearly not for entertainment. Seemed as though Jax decided to work out a few of his demons on Shepard. After a brutal combination of hits, Shepard managed to knock Jax back with a lucky southpaw. Sophie saw the grin on Jax’s face. Watched the sweat slide down his torso, noted the small cut on his eyebrow. Most of Shepard’s face was littered with bruising, and small cuts. Both men had blood on the tape on their hands. When Jax had Shepard on the mats, she grew concerned. He’d clearly won the fight, but if he kept going - 

“He’s gonna kill him.” 

“Happy won’t let that happen,” Opie responded. 

Sophie startled, not realizing she’d spoken out loud. Instead, she nodded dumbly, eyes fixed on the fight. It wasn’t that she held Shepard’s life as sacred or anything, but she didn't want Jax to commit murder in front of this many witnesses. Just when she was going to step in and put an end to it, she saw Happy pull Jax off the now unmoving body beneath him. She couldn't make out what he said, but he whispered something in Jax’s ear that had him relaxing. 

Around her, the crowd went wild with cheers, and many slapped Jax on the back as he left the ring, swagger in his step. She grinned as he closed in on her. 

“Hey, champ.” 

He smiled at her before turning to Clay, face serious. “He’s out. I’ll never vote that piece of shit into my club.” 

Clay took a puff from the cigar in his mouth before nodding, a pleased sort of pride in his eyes as he looked at Jax. “Whatever you say, VP.” 

Jax nodded. 

Clay looked at Sophie, something unreadable in his eyes. “Get him cleaned up.” 

Sophie nodded, knowing something important had just transpired, but without understanding the rules, she didn’t know exactly what. Whatever it was, she thought it was good. Jax swung his arm across Sophie’s shoulders and led them into the clubhouse. They maneuvered around couples in various states of sex before moving down a hallway in the back. He led her into a room that smelled like him, and looked as though no one had ever taught him how to clean. 

“Sit.” 

“You like giving me orders.” 

Sophie grinned. “Occupational habit.” 

She walked into the adjoining bathroom and soaked a washcloth in warm water before coming back into the room. As she’d asked, Jax sat on the bed, eyes hooded as he watched her move towards him. He spread his knees in invitation. Grinning, she moved to stand in front of him, and he brought his hands to rest on her hips. Letting him enjoy the feel of her body beneath his hands, she began to wipe the blood from his face. He hissed when she pressed against the cut at his eyebrow, but didn’t make a move to stop her. Quickly clearing the rest of the blood and the sweat from his face, she threw the towel to the ground before sinking her hands into his hair and tilting his head back. Unsure who moved first, their lips crashed together as his hands moved to lift her onto his lap. 

Sophie moaned into his mouth, loving the way his arms felt wrapped around her. Again, she thought this was all too fast, but when his fingers snuck under the hem of her shirt and began to lift it from her body, she quickly pushed the thought from her mind. Even if it was too fast, too soon - it was also too late. Might as well enjoy it before the other shoe dropped. Breaking apart so Jax could pull her shirt over her head, Sophie looked down at him, loved knowing she’d put that look on his face - the one that told her she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him in that moment. Before he could pull her bra off, she took his hands in hers. 

Kissing his tape-covered knuckles, she met his eyes. “Let me.” 

He nodded. Keeping her eyes on his, she slid from the bed onto the floor to kneel in front of him. She saw the way Jax’s throat worked as he swallowed, eyes dark with desire. Carefully, Sophie began to unwind the tape from his left hand. When it was free of tape, Jax moved to touch her, but she held a hand out, mock frown on her face. He pouted but offered her his right hand. She removed the tape more quickly this time. 

“You should ice them. Tape did a good job, but you really went to town on his face. Nothing’s gonna keep you from swelling and being sore tomorrow.” 

“Later.” 

“Jax - ”

“Later.” 

He hauled her up onto the bed and moved them towards the headboard, settling her against his body. Jax’s fingers teased up the exposed skin of her spine.

“Not packing?”

Sophie chuckled. “Always. Ankle holster. I was kinda hoping this blonde biker would want to wrap his arms around me. Didn’t want anything getting in the way.” 

Jax kissed her. She reveled in the feel of his skin against hers. The sweat on his torso cool between their bodies as she writhed on top of him. As his fingers once more reached for the clasp on her bra, a knock at the door drew them apart. 

“Zip it up,” Opie called through the door. “Bobby’s here. Clay wants you outside.” 

She felt Jax’s sigh as he threw his head back against the pillow. She muffled a laugh against his chest before pressing a kiss to his skin. 

“Gotta do what the boss says.” 

“Clay can fuck off.” 

Sophie laughed. “Come on. You and I both know they’ll just send someone else, and Tig doesn’t seem like the knock politely type.” 

Jax groaned. “Picked up on that?” 

Sophie slanted him a look. “Yeah, he’s real subtle.” 

Figuring he’d not get up on his own, she rolled from the bed and looked around for her shirt. Glancing over at Jax, he stood from the bed and ran a hand through his hair as he walked into the bathroom. She realized he didn’t have a shirt with him. 

“You keep spare clothes here?” 

“Yeah. Should be a clean shirt in the dresser.” 

She opened the drawers until she found the right one; she pulled out a white shirt with SAMCRO screen printed on it. Pulling it to her nose, she sniffed it just to be sure. It smelled like him, and, thankfully, it also smelled clean. When he came out, she tossed it at him and ignored how domestic the whole moment felt. Too much. Too soon. Too easy. 

“You coming?” Jax asked as he stood at the door. 

Sophie picked up her shirt. “I’ll meet you out there.” She paused and pointed at him. “Someone got blood on my shirt.” 

“Just grab one of mine, babe.” 

“Thanks. I’m still gonna see if I can get the blood out of this one. Go on. I’ll be fine.” 

Jax nodded. He stepped to her and kissed her gently before leaving the room. Sophie sighed and shook her head. Had Olivia felt like this? In the early days with Michael, had she been this overwhelmed? They’d met while Sophie had been deployed, and when she made it home, they were already pretty established. Even though Michael understood Olivia had been holding back, waiting for Sophie to meet him. He’d joked about being more nervous meeting her than he had been their parents. She’d just grinned because while her parents could be intimidating, Sophie could’ve killed him and he’d never have heard the bullet. 

Making her way into the bathroom, she glanced down at the shirt. It was a lost cause, and she hated washing blood out of things. Better just to burn it and move on, but she also hated shopping for clothes - especially without Olivia here to go with her, or more specifically to make her go at all. 

“Fuck it.” 

Sophie tossed the shirt in the trash can she saw under the sink before walking back to the dresser. She pulled another one of Jax’s shirts from the drawer. This one was dark blue with SONS screen printed across the front. Sliding it over her head, she sucked in a deep breath, loving the way the shirt smelled. After all the posturing outside, she should feel something she thought. Some sort of feminist bullshit about belonging to a man, but she didn’t because the feeling didn’t suck. 

Closing the door behind her, she walked down the hallway towards the main room of the clubhouse. She saw Gemma at the bar. Sophie watched her eyes widen ever so slightly before her lips pursed into a thin line. Maybe wearing Jax’s shirt wasn’t such a good idea. It wouldn't have been the first time she’d wandered around with someone else’s blood staining her clothes.

“Still haven’t worked out what you’re doing here,” Gemma began as she pulled the tops off of two beers. 

Sophie took the hint and moved to the counter. Taking the offered beer, she saluted with the neck before taking a swallow. 

“You’re clearly not one of them - ” Gemma gestured to the various women scattered around the room having what appeared to be a good time with the available men. “Even without his crow you act like his Old Lady and you don’t even know it.” 

Setting the beer down, Sophie met Gemma’s gaze. “I’m not gonna sit here and insult you by pretending I understood the details of what you just told me, but I know a hierarchy when I see one. Regardless of what position I do or don’t hold on it - no one has a free pass to my body unless I want them to. That’s not what I came here for.”

“Seemed just fine with my son having a free pass to your body.” 

Sophie smirked. “He’s got good hands.” 

Gemma smirked. “I think you’ll be just fine, but you might want to avoid punching any more guys in kuttes.”

Sophie held her hands out. “So long as they keep their hands to themselves, we have no problems.” 

“This club,” Gemma said. “It’s Jackson’s life. It’s in his blood.” 

Sophie frowned. “I know. But, it’s been like a week. Don’t be picking out China patterns just yet. What I feel for him it’s intense, but it’s also new.”

Gemma lit a cigarette. “Does it scare you?” 

“Of course it does. Scares the shit out of me,” Sophie answered. “It’s real.”

Part 6

Master List

[magdaclaire]

claire feels out of control after ladies drink free and can't get the ground back beneath her feet again, constantly feeling like she's running on a hamster wheel, getting nowhere. she talks to magda about it because they always text anyway, and it's easier to talk that way. like how the front seat of a car can be its own confessional, so too can hearted messages and typed out promises. she tells magda about it with both eyes open.

she still doesn't expect it to go anywhere. then she sees magda again. magda, with her trustless childhood, with betrayal thicker behind her teeth than anybody claire's ever met, magda who has no reason to trust her besides the fact that she was there and she always tells the truth. she won't lie to her own people. magda is hers. there's so few things claire gets to claim in this world and magda is the trump card in her back pocket, the best in her deck.

magda loads a gun and hands it to claire, and taking both her hands around claire's to make sure she takes it and kneels before claire, she moves their hands to rest the end of the barrel against her own forehead. claire, who has seen her hands move without her permission before, allows it. magda presses the gun to her head and tells claire i know you wouldn't. and claire, who has seen her hands move without her permission before, flips the safety back on and tosses the gun in the grass a body's length away from where magda kneels in the grass. i couldn't, she says, and they both know she's lying, but magda pulls her to the ground with her anyway, settling claire against her chest to let her sob and sob, to saturate her in the knowledge that she cannot lash her way out of this.

that magda won't let her go just because holding onto claire will make her bleed sometimes. that magda will simply adjust her grip.

they're both covered in grass stains by the time they make it back inside, but for once, jody doesn't have anything to say about the knees of her jeans - maybe because this time, it's spring green, and not the maroon of blood springing eternal, or whatever. either way, she looks at magda with new approval and magda hides behind claire anyway, so often scared of women but trusting claire. trusting claire to take care of her.

[henrioakley]

❝ i guess that's just the way them wild horses run ❞

Age: 35

Gender identification: Cis woman, she/her

Residential area: Downtown

Occupation: pharmacist, part-time roper & barrel racer

Two positive traits: Passionate & adventurous

Two negative traits: Headstrong & hot-tempered

Length of time in Briar Ridge: 35 years

Faceclaim: Kylie Bunbury

haunted eyes and vacant stares, mismatched furniture, leaving texts on read and not answering the phone, well worn jeans and boots, a fridge full of beer, shiny buckles displayed on a disorganized mantle, burning off secrets in hot baths, a longing to be anywhere but here, disassociation with the family name

parental neglect tw, drug dealing tw

Born and raised in Briar Ridge she turned out to be everything her mother didn't want her to be. Half the time she would criticize Henri for being more like a boy rather than the daughter she'd always hoped for.

The house she grew up in Briar Ridge Hills had always been too big and empty for her tastes. Too well put together and always kept immaculately clean. Nothing felt real in her childhood home. Like it was an image rather than a life.

With her mother a politician Henri always had to be on her best behavior because whatever she did reflected on her mother. For the most part as a child she abided by that. It wasn't until she hit her teens and when her father skipped out on the family that Henri rebelled.

She'd always been jealous of her school friends and neighborhood friends who got to play and have fun while she had either piano lessons or dance class. She also had extra school work because her mother wanted her to take on more because she was meant for some big ivy league.

What she wanted the most was a horse and to work at a stable so that she could learn her way about what Henri was obsessed with.

She'd been drawn to horses and the rodeo since she was a small child. One of her childhood friends had invited her to come along to a rodeo event and from then on she'd been hooked.

There were hardly any women in any of the events and that had only motivated her more. She was tough, strong, and incredibly athletic with all her training so she knew she could do it.

When she was sixteen her mother went off to the state capital and left local politics behind. For some reason her mother thought it was fine to leave her own child behind. An aunt moved in but what little control Henri's mother had on her soon evaporated.

Not only did she get herself in with some of the cowboy crews, they also taught her to ride and the ways around the lifestyle.

Henri began traveling with them and helping out. Even before she was fully good enough to give competing a go she tried anyway, thinking it was the best and quickest way to learn.

Turned out to be the hardest and most brutal but she wouldn't have changed it for anything.

When her mother found out what Henri was doing the threats came that she would cut her off if she didn't straighten out and the fear of being further abandoned hanging over her head sent Henri to university where over time she worked to become a pharmacist.

Aside from her uni work, pharmacy tech job, Henri continued to rodeo whenever she could. There was something wild in her heart that couldn't be contained.

Once Henri finally became a pharmacist after extensive schooling she found herself a lucrative side business of selling medication on the side. It's all going into a savings to eventually buy herself a ranch and support her real passion in life.

potential connections:

childhood friends — anyone within age range that she could've grown up with. either they got along or didn't but would love to have some historic connections!

side hustle customers — anyone that would buy prescription meds off of her. she doesn't judge and can keep a secret if they can.

uni buddies — easy one here! people she met through the local uni.

rodeo family — whether they're apart of the scene as a fan and supporter or a competitor as well gimmie all of this!

neighbors — unfortunately until she can buy her dream property for her ranch she's suck in a townhouse downtown.

fwb/flings/hookups — a casual thing here as she has no real interest in a serious relationship. it's pretty much stuck in her head that all relationships/connections are fleeting and that everyone will eventually leave at some point.

don't come near me at all — the person she's in love with but she's kind of an asshole to them to keep them at a distance. last thing she wants is to become vulnerable and get herself disappointed and hurt. something to be plotted out!

more to come! this is just a jump off point!

[cleverhottubmiracle]

If there is one staple piece of clothing that’s a must-have for your wardrobe, it’s a good ol’ pair of jeans. A reliable pair of denim that makes you look good, and more importantly feel good and confident, makes it easy to put together an outfit for just about any occasion. But with so many different styles of jeans out there, from skinny to barrel and wide-leg jeans, it can be hard knowing what the best jeans are for you—especially if you’re over 50. That’s why we did the digging to find the best jeans for women over 50 that look stylish and feel comfortable all day long. What are the most popular styles of jeans for women over 50? As the trend cycle is constantly changing, different styles of jeans are too. For example, in the ‘80s, mom jeans and acid-wash were all the rage. In the ‘90s, we saw the continuation of mom jeans, as well as baggy jeans and flare jeans. Then in the early 2000s, low-rise jeans and bootcut styles stole the show before skinny jeans entered the picture. Now, in 2025, the most popular jean styles seem to be straight-leg, ‘90s style jeans, barrel-leg jeans, bootcut and flare jeans, wide-leg jeans and skinny jeans. While the latter seemed to taper off in recent years, they never completely went away—and they seem to be gaining momentum again as of late. These styles work great for any age, including women over 50. And better yet, they’re offered in a range of washes and lengths, and even come with different embellishments like embroidery and beading. It’s smart to have a few pairs of jeans in different styles and washes you can turn to, giving you the option to choose the best one for a given occasion. Dark wash jeans typically look dressier than light wash jeans, making them good for the office (if your office dress code allows denim), a dinner date or a night out. Light-wash jeans usually look more casual, making them perfect for lunch with friends, running errands or a daytime outing. As far as inseam lengths go, it’s fun to mix up floor-length jeans and ankle and cropped jeans. Similar to how different washes work for different occasions, so do lengths. Ankle and cropped jeans typically lean on the more casual side, whereas floor-length styles are nice for the office, dinner and other more formal occasions. 16 best jeans for women over 50 Keep reading to see our favorite jeans for women over 50 that are comfortable, chic and on-trend. Abercrombie Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean A classic pair of everyday jeans is never a bad idea and Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean is just that. They’re simple and minimalistic and have a straight leg, relaxed design, making them super comfortable. Plus, the curve love fit is great for those of us who need extra room in the hips while still keeping our regular waist size. These jeans are made from a more rigid, thicker denim fabric, which means they keep their shape very well as opposed to stretchy jeans. Gap Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans Gap has been one of the leading denim brands for decades, so it’s no surprise they made our list. Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans are a great skinny jean pick and look very modern. We particularly like the dark wash color as they look a bit dressier, and they look extra chic with the length hitting right at the ankle. H&M H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans Barrel-leg jeans are a major trend at the moment and seem to continue to be gaining momentum. The style can be described as fitted at the waist, wider and curved throughout the hips, thighs and calves and then tapered in at the ankles. H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans are not just stylish, but affordable too. They ring up at $40 and feel comfortable all day. Chico’s Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans If only slipping into a pair of jeans could be as easy as sliding into a pair of sweatpants. Well, with Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans, it can be! With the pull-on style waist, there’s no annoying buttoning or zipping involved. The material is stretchy and comfy making them easy to walk and sit in. Rag and Bone/TJ Maxx Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans These jeans, Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans, are a cross between skinny jeans and bootcut jeans. They’re fitted through the hips and thighs and then come straight down around the ankles. They’re the perfect medium wash, too, able to be dressed up and down. Quince Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans A stretchy pair of straight-leg jeans, like Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans, look and feel amazing. They’re available in medium wash, dark wash and black, and are made from organic cotton making them feel oh-so-soft. Levi’s Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women's Jeans We couldn’t make this list without including one of the most iconic jean brands of all time, Levi’s. And one of our favorite pairs from the brand is Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women’s Jeans. As their name suggests, these jeans are shaping and have both medium and high-stretch options available. They’ll feel comfortable all day long without losing their shape. Lane Bryant Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean For the best plus-size jeans, we love Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean. They have incredible size options, ranging from size 12 to size 38/40, as well as four different length options including regular, petite, short and long. This pair features a Magic Flex Waistband, which means the waistband has no gap and ultra stretch. Loft Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans These aren’t your regular straight-leg jeans. Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans feature an elegant and chic pleat down the middle front, making them instantly look more elevated with little effort. They hit right at the ankles and come in a gorgeous dark wash. Ann Taylor Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean What we love about Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean is that they have so much room and mobility throughout the whole leg. They have a wide-leg, trouser-like design while still having the look and feel of denim. Plus, they don’t come in your typical jean shades; Instead, they come in a faded, dark green hue and a light, rose pink shade. Old Navy Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans For a classic pair of black jeans, we like Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans since they’re both affordable and stylish. They cost less than $40 and come in a wide range of sizes and lengths. Wide-leg jeans have been huge the past couple of years and still continue to be. Pair it with a simple tee and a belt for a go-to look. Dynamite Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans are such a great pair of work jeans since they look dressy and office-appropriate. They have a straight-leg style and high-rise waist, and the dark wash is stunning. Top it off with a blazer and belt and you’re good to go. American Eagle American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean Mom jeans of the ‘80s are back and better than ever. A great pick in this category is American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean. What does “strigid” mean, you may be wondering? It means they’re rigid in the front, aka they look higher quality and more like denim, but stretchy in the back so they’re still comfortable. NYDJ NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans NYDJ has a cult following, and for good reason. They’re high quality, stylish and comfortable, and have tons of styles to choose from. We like NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans in particular. They’re not super flared or too straight down—they have just the right amount of width at the bottoms. White Fox White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans Find high-rise styles uncomfortable? Go for mid-rise instead. White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans are one of my favorite mid-rise styles. The washed black hue offers a vintage look that still looks modern, along with the front pockets. Maurices Maurices Everflex No Gap High Rise Slim Boot Jean Source link

[norajworld]

If there is one staple piece of clothing that’s a must-have for your wardrobe, it’s a good ol’ pair of jeans. A reliable pair of denim that makes you look good, and more importantly feel good and confident, makes it easy to put together an outfit for just about any occasion. But with so many different styles of jeans out there, from skinny to barrel and wide-leg jeans, it can be hard knowing what the best jeans are for you—especially if you’re over 50. That’s why we did the digging to find the best jeans for women over 50 that look stylish and feel comfortable all day long. What are the most popular styles of jeans for women over 50? As the trend cycle is constantly changing, different styles of jeans are too. For example, in the ‘80s, mom jeans and acid-wash were all the rage. In the ‘90s, we saw the continuation of mom jeans, as well as baggy jeans and flare jeans. Then in the early 2000s, low-rise jeans and bootcut styles stole the show before skinny jeans entered the picture. Now, in 2025, the most popular jean styles seem to be straight-leg, ‘90s style jeans, barrel-leg jeans, bootcut and flare jeans, wide-leg jeans and skinny jeans. While the latter seemed to taper off in recent years, they never completely went away—and they seem to be gaining momentum again as of late. These styles work great for any age, including women over 50. And better yet, they’re offered in a range of washes and lengths, and even come with different embellishments like embroidery and beading. It’s smart to have a few pairs of jeans in different styles and washes you can turn to, giving you the option to choose the best one for a given occasion. Dark wash jeans typically look dressier than light wash jeans, making them good for the office (if your office dress code allows denim), a dinner date or a night out. Light-wash jeans usually look more casual, making them perfect for lunch with friends, running errands or a daytime outing. As far as inseam lengths go, it’s fun to mix up floor-length jeans and ankle and cropped jeans. Similar to how different washes work for different occasions, so do lengths. Ankle and cropped jeans typically lean on the more casual side, whereas floor-length styles are nice for the office, dinner and other more formal occasions. 16 best jeans for women over 50 Keep reading to see our favorite jeans for women over 50 that are comfortable, chic and on-trend. Abercrombie Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean A classic pair of everyday jeans is never a bad idea and Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean is just that. They’re simple and minimalistic and have a straight leg, relaxed design, making them super comfortable. Plus, the curve love fit is great for those of us who need extra room in the hips while still keeping our regular waist size. These jeans are made from a more rigid, thicker denim fabric, which means they keep their shape very well as opposed to stretchy jeans. Gap Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans Gap has been one of the leading denim brands for decades, so it’s no surprise they made our list. Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans are a great skinny jean pick and look very modern. We particularly like the dark wash color as they look a bit dressier, and they look extra chic with the length hitting right at the ankle. H&M H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans Barrel-leg jeans are a major trend at the moment and seem to continue to be gaining momentum. The style can be described as fitted at the waist, wider and curved throughout the hips, thighs and calves and then tapered in at the ankles. H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans are not just stylish, but affordable too. They ring up at $40 and feel comfortable all day. Chico’s Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans If only slipping into a pair of jeans could be as easy as sliding into a pair of sweatpants. Well, with Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans, it can be! With the pull-on style waist, there’s no annoying buttoning or zipping involved. The material is stretchy and comfy making them easy to walk and sit in. Rag and Bone/TJ Maxx Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans These jeans, Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans, are a cross between skinny jeans and bootcut jeans. They’re fitted through the hips and thighs and then come straight down around the ankles. They’re the perfect medium wash, too, able to be dressed up and down. Quince Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans A stretchy pair of straight-leg jeans, like Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans, look and feel amazing. They’re available in medium wash, dark wash and black, and are made from organic cotton making them feel oh-so-soft. Levi’s Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women's Jeans We couldn’t make this list without including one of the most iconic jean brands of all time, Levi’s. And one of our favorite pairs from the brand is Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women’s Jeans. As their name suggests, these jeans are shaping and have both medium and high-stretch options available. They’ll feel comfortable all day long without losing their shape. Lane Bryant Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean For the best plus-size jeans, we love Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean. They have incredible size options, ranging from size 12 to size 38/40, as well as four different length options including regular, petite, short and long. This pair features a Magic Flex Waistband, which means the waistband has no gap and ultra stretch. Loft Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans These aren’t your regular straight-leg jeans. Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans feature an elegant and chic pleat down the middle front, making them instantly look more elevated with little effort. They hit right at the ankles and come in a gorgeous dark wash. Ann Taylor Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean What we love about Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean is that they have so much room and mobility throughout the whole leg. They have a wide-leg, trouser-like design while still having the look and feel of denim. Plus, they don’t come in your typical jean shades; Instead, they come in a faded, dark green hue and a light, rose pink shade. Old Navy Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans For a classic pair of black jeans, we like Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans since they’re both affordable and stylish. They cost less than $40 and come in a wide range of sizes and lengths. Wide-leg jeans have been huge the past couple of years and still continue to be. Pair it with a simple tee and a belt for a go-to look. Dynamite Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans are such a great pair of work jeans since they look dressy and office-appropriate. They have a straight-leg style and high-rise waist, and the dark wash is stunning. Top it off with a blazer and belt and you’re good to go. American Eagle American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean Mom jeans of the ‘80s are back and better than ever. A great pick in this category is American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean. What does “strigid” mean, you may be wondering? It means they’re rigid in the front, aka they look higher quality and more like denim, but stretchy in the back so they’re still comfortable. NYDJ NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans NYDJ has a cult following, and for good reason. They’re high quality, stylish and comfortable, and have tons of styles to choose from. We like NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans in particular. They’re not super flared or too straight down—they have just the right amount of width at the bottoms. White Fox White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans Find high-rise styles uncomfortable? Go for mid-rise instead. White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans are one of my favorite mid-rise styles. The washed black hue offers a vintage look that still looks modern, along with the front pockets. Maurices Maurices Everflex No Gap High Rise Slim Boot Jean Source link

[ellajme0]

If there is one staple piece of clothing that’s a must-have for your wardrobe, it’s a good ol’ pair of jeans. A reliable pair of denim that makes you look good, and more importantly feel good and confident, makes it easy to put together an outfit for just about any occasion. But with so many different styles of jeans out there, from skinny to barrel and wide-leg jeans, it can be hard knowing what the best jeans are for you—especially if you’re over 50. That’s why we did the digging to find the best jeans for women over 50 that look stylish and feel comfortable all day long. What are the most popular styles of jeans for women over 50? As the trend cycle is constantly changing, different styles of jeans are too. For example, in the ‘80s, mom jeans and acid-wash were all the rage. In the ‘90s, we saw the continuation of mom jeans, as well as baggy jeans and flare jeans. Then in the early 2000s, low-rise jeans and bootcut styles stole the show before skinny jeans entered the picture. Now, in 2025, the most popular jean styles seem to be straight-leg, ‘90s style jeans, barrel-leg jeans, bootcut and flare jeans, wide-leg jeans and skinny jeans. While the latter seemed to taper off in recent years, they never completely went away—and they seem to be gaining momentum again as of late. These styles work great for any age, including women over 50. And better yet, they’re offered in a range of washes and lengths, and even come with different embellishments like embroidery and beading. It’s smart to have a few pairs of jeans in different styles and washes you can turn to, giving you the option to choose the best one for a given occasion. Dark wash jeans typically look dressier than light wash jeans, making them good for the office (if your office dress code allows denim), a dinner date or a night out. Light-wash jeans usually look more casual, making them perfect for lunch with friends, running errands or a daytime outing. As far as inseam lengths go, it’s fun to mix up floor-length jeans and ankle and cropped jeans. Similar to how different washes work for different occasions, so do lengths. Ankle and cropped jeans typically lean on the more casual side, whereas floor-length styles are nice for the office, dinner and other more formal occasions. 16 best jeans for women over 50 Keep reading to see our favorite jeans for women over 50 that are comfortable, chic and on-trend. Abercrombie Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean A classic pair of everyday jeans is never a bad idea and Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean is just that. They’re simple and minimalistic and have a straight leg, relaxed design, making them super comfortable. Plus, the curve love fit is great for those of us who need extra room in the hips while still keeping our regular waist size. These jeans are made from a more rigid, thicker denim fabric, which means they keep their shape very well as opposed to stretchy jeans. Gap Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans Gap has been one of the leading denim brands for decades, so it’s no surprise they made our list. Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans are a great skinny jean pick and look very modern. We particularly like the dark wash color as they look a bit dressier, and they look extra chic with the length hitting right at the ankle. H&M H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans Barrel-leg jeans are a major trend at the moment and seem to continue to be gaining momentum. The style can be described as fitted at the waist, wider and curved throughout the hips, thighs and calves and then tapered in at the ankles. H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans are not just stylish, but affordable too. They ring up at $40 and feel comfortable all day. Chico’s Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans If only slipping into a pair of jeans could be as easy as sliding into a pair of sweatpants. Well, with Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans, it can be! With the pull-on style waist, there’s no annoying buttoning or zipping involved. The material is stretchy and comfy making them easy to walk and sit in. Rag and Bone/TJ Maxx Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans These jeans, Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans, are a cross between skinny jeans and bootcut jeans. They’re fitted through the hips and thighs and then come straight down around the ankles. They’re the perfect medium wash, too, able to be dressed up and down. Quince Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans A stretchy pair of straight-leg jeans, like Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans, look and feel amazing. They’re available in medium wash, dark wash and black, and are made from organic cotton making them feel oh-so-soft. Levi’s Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women's Jeans We couldn’t make this list without including one of the most iconic jean brands of all time, Levi’s. And one of our favorite pairs from the brand is Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women’s Jeans. As their name suggests, these jeans are shaping and have both medium and high-stretch options available. They’ll feel comfortable all day long without losing their shape. Lane Bryant Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean For the best plus-size jeans, we love Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean. They have incredible size options, ranging from size 12 to size 38/40, as well as four different length options including regular, petite, short and long. This pair features a Magic Flex Waistband, which means the waistband has no gap and ultra stretch. Loft Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans These aren’t your regular straight-leg jeans. Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans feature an elegant and chic pleat down the middle front, making them instantly look more elevated with little effort. They hit right at the ankles and come in a gorgeous dark wash. Ann Taylor Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean What we love about Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean is that they have so much room and mobility throughout the whole leg. They have a wide-leg, trouser-like design while still having the look and feel of denim. Plus, they don’t come in your typical jean shades; Instead, they come in a faded, dark green hue and a light, rose pink shade. Old Navy Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans For a classic pair of black jeans, we like Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans since they’re both affordable and stylish. They cost less than $40 and come in a wide range of sizes and lengths. Wide-leg jeans have been huge the past couple of years and still continue to be. Pair it with a simple tee and a belt for a go-to look. Dynamite Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans are such a great pair of work jeans since they look dressy and office-appropriate. They have a straight-leg style and high-rise waist, and the dark wash is stunning. Top it off with a blazer and belt and you’re good to go. American Eagle American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean Mom jeans of the ‘80s are back and better than ever. A great pick in this category is American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean. What does “strigid” mean, you may be wondering? It means they’re rigid in the front, aka they look higher quality and more like denim, but stretchy in the back so they’re still comfortable. NYDJ NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans NYDJ has a cult following, and for good reason. They’re high quality, stylish and comfortable, and have tons of styles to choose from. We like NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans in particular. They’re not super flared or too straight down—they have just the right amount of width at the bottoms. White Fox White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans Find high-rise styles uncomfortable? Go for mid-rise instead. White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans are one of my favorite mid-rise styles. The washed black hue offers a vintage look that still looks modern, along with the front pockets. Maurices Maurices Everflex No Gap High Rise Slim Boot Jean Source link

[chilimili212]

If there is one staple piece of clothing that’s a must-have for your wardrobe, it’s a good ol’ pair of jeans. A reliable pair of denim that makes you look good, and more importantly feel good and confident, makes it easy to put together an outfit for just about any occasion. But with so many different styles of jeans out there, from skinny to barrel and wide-leg jeans, it can be hard knowing what the best jeans are for you—especially if you’re over 50. That’s why we did the digging to find the best jeans for women over 50 that look stylish and feel comfortable all day long. What are the most popular styles of jeans for women over 50? As the trend cycle is constantly changing, different styles of jeans are too. For example, in the ‘80s, mom jeans and acid-wash were all the rage. In the ‘90s, we saw the continuation of mom jeans, as well as baggy jeans and flare jeans. Then in the early 2000s, low-rise jeans and bootcut styles stole the show before skinny jeans entered the picture. Now, in 2025, the most popular jean styles seem to be straight-leg, ‘90s style jeans, barrel-leg jeans, bootcut and flare jeans, wide-leg jeans and skinny jeans. While the latter seemed to taper off in recent years, they never completely went away—and they seem to be gaining momentum again as of late. These styles work great for any age, including women over 50. And better yet, they’re offered in a range of washes and lengths, and even come with different embellishments like embroidery and beading. It’s smart to have a few pairs of jeans in different styles and washes you can turn to, giving you the option to choose the best one for a given occasion. Dark wash jeans typically look dressier than light wash jeans, making them good for the office (if your office dress code allows denim), a dinner date or a night out. Light-wash jeans usually look more casual, making them perfect for lunch with friends, running errands or a daytime outing. As far as inseam lengths go, it’s fun to mix up floor-length jeans and ankle and cropped jeans. Similar to how different washes work for different occasions, so do lengths. Ankle and cropped jeans typically lean on the more casual side, whereas floor-length styles are nice for the office, dinner and other more formal occasions. 16 best jeans for women over 50 Keep reading to see our favorite jeans for women over 50 that are comfortable, chic and on-trend. Abercrombie Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean A classic pair of everyday jeans is never a bad idea and Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean is just that. They’re simple and minimalistic and have a straight leg, relaxed design, making them super comfortable. Plus, the curve love fit is great for those of us who need extra room in the hips while still keeping our regular waist size. These jeans are made from a more rigid, thicker denim fabric, which means they keep their shape very well as opposed to stretchy jeans. Gap Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans Gap has been one of the leading denim brands for decades, so it’s no surprise they made our list. Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans are a great skinny jean pick and look very modern. We particularly like the dark wash color as they look a bit dressier, and they look extra chic with the length hitting right at the ankle. H&M H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans Barrel-leg jeans are a major trend at the moment and seem to continue to be gaining momentum. The style can be described as fitted at the waist, wider and curved throughout the hips, thighs and calves and then tapered in at the ankles. H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans are not just stylish, but affordable too. They ring up at $40 and feel comfortable all day. Chico’s Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans If only slipping into a pair of jeans could be as easy as sliding into a pair of sweatpants. Well, with Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans, it can be! With the pull-on style waist, there’s no annoying buttoning or zipping involved. The material is stretchy and comfy making them easy to walk and sit in. Rag and Bone/TJ Maxx Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans These jeans, Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans, are a cross between skinny jeans and bootcut jeans. They’re fitted through the hips and thighs and then come straight down around the ankles. They’re the perfect medium wash, too, able to be dressed up and down. Quince Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans A stretchy pair of straight-leg jeans, like Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans, look and feel amazing. They’re available in medium wash, dark wash and black, and are made from organic cotton making them feel oh-so-soft. Levi’s Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women's Jeans We couldn’t make this list without including one of the most iconic jean brands of all time, Levi’s. And one of our favorite pairs from the brand is Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women’s Jeans. As their name suggests, these jeans are shaping and have both medium and high-stretch options available. They’ll feel comfortable all day long without losing their shape. Lane Bryant Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean For the best plus-size jeans, we love Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean. They have incredible size options, ranging from size 12 to size 38/40, as well as four different length options including regular, petite, short and long. This pair features a Magic Flex Waistband, which means the waistband has no gap and ultra stretch. Loft Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans These aren’t your regular straight-leg jeans. Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans feature an elegant and chic pleat down the middle front, making them instantly look more elevated with little effort. They hit right at the ankles and come in a gorgeous dark wash. Ann Taylor Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean What we love about Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean is that they have so much room and mobility throughout the whole leg. They have a wide-leg, trouser-like design while still having the look and feel of denim. Plus, they don’t come in your typical jean shades; Instead, they come in a faded, dark green hue and a light, rose pink shade. Old Navy Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans For a classic pair of black jeans, we like Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans since they’re both affordable and stylish. They cost less than $40 and come in a wide range of sizes and lengths. Wide-leg jeans have been huge the past couple of years and still continue to be. Pair it with a simple tee and a belt for a go-to look. Dynamite Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans are such a great pair of work jeans since they look dressy and office-appropriate. They have a straight-leg style and high-rise waist, and the dark wash is stunning. Top it off with a blazer and belt and you’re good to go. American Eagle American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean Mom jeans of the ‘80s are back and better than ever. A great pick in this category is American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean. What does “strigid” mean, you may be wondering? It means they’re rigid in the front, aka they look higher quality and more like denim, but stretchy in the back so they’re still comfortable. NYDJ NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans NYDJ has a cult following, and for good reason. They’re high quality, stylish and comfortable, and have tons of styles to choose from. We like NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans in particular. They’re not super flared or too straight down—they have just the right amount of width at the bottoms. White Fox White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans Find high-rise styles uncomfortable? Go for mid-rise instead. White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans are one of my favorite mid-rise styles. The washed black hue offers a vintage look that still looks modern, along with the front pockets. Maurices Maurices Everflex No Gap High Rise Slim Boot Jean Source link

[oliviajoyice21]

If there is one staple piece of clothing that’s a must-have for your wardrobe, it’s a good ol’ pair of jeans. A reliable pair of denim that makes you look good, and more importantly feel good and confident, makes it easy to put together an outfit for just about any occasion. But with so many different styles of jeans out there, from skinny to barrel and wide-leg jeans, it can be hard knowing what the best jeans are for you—especially if you’re over 50. That’s why we did the digging to find the best jeans for women over 50 that look stylish and feel comfortable all day long. What are the most popular styles of jeans for women over 50? As the trend cycle is constantly changing, different styles of jeans are too. For example, in the ‘80s, mom jeans and acid-wash were all the rage. In the ‘90s, we saw the continuation of mom jeans, as well as baggy jeans and flare jeans. Then in the early 2000s, low-rise jeans and bootcut styles stole the show before skinny jeans entered the picture. Now, in 2025, the most popular jean styles seem to be straight-leg, ‘90s style jeans, barrel-leg jeans, bootcut and flare jeans, wide-leg jeans and skinny jeans. While the latter seemed to taper off in recent years, they never completely went away—and they seem to be gaining momentum again as of late. These styles work great for any age, including women over 50. And better yet, they’re offered in a range of washes and lengths, and even come with different embellishments like embroidery and beading. It’s smart to have a few pairs of jeans in different styles and washes you can turn to, giving you the option to choose the best one for a given occasion. Dark wash jeans typically look dressier than light wash jeans, making them good for the office (if your office dress code allows denim), a dinner date or a night out. Light-wash jeans usually look more casual, making them perfect for lunch with friends, running errands or a daytime outing. As far as inseam lengths go, it’s fun to mix up floor-length jeans and ankle and cropped jeans. Similar to how different washes work for different occasions, so do lengths. Ankle and cropped jeans typically lean on the more casual side, whereas floor-length styles are nice for the office, dinner and other more formal occasions. 16 best jeans for women over 50 Keep reading to see our favorite jeans for women over 50 that are comfortable, chic and on-trend. Abercrombie Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean A classic pair of everyday jeans is never a bad idea and Abercrombie Curve Love High Rise 90s Relaxed Jean is just that. They’re simple and minimalistic and have a straight leg, relaxed design, making them super comfortable. Plus, the curve love fit is great for those of us who need extra room in the hips while still keeping our regular waist size. These jeans are made from a more rigid, thicker denim fabric, which means they keep their shape very well as opposed to stretchy jeans. Gap Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans Gap has been one of the leading denim brands for decades, so it’s no surprise they made our list. Gap High Rise True Skinny Jeans are a great skinny jean pick and look very modern. We particularly like the dark wash color as they look a bit dressier, and they look extra chic with the length hitting right at the ankle. H&M H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans Barrel-leg jeans are a major trend at the moment and seem to continue to be gaining momentum. The style can be described as fitted at the waist, wider and curved throughout the hips, thighs and calves and then tapered in at the ankles. H&M High Rise Barrel Leg Jeans are not just stylish, but affordable too. They ring up at $40 and feel comfortable all day. Chico’s Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans If only slipping into a pair of jeans could be as easy as sliding into a pair of sweatpants. Well, with Chico’s Pull-On Wide Leg Jeans, it can be! With the pull-on style waist, there’s no annoying buttoning or zipping involved. The material is stretchy and comfy making them easy to walk and sit in. Rag and Bone/TJ Maxx Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans These jeans, Rag and Bone Harlow Full Length Jeans, are a cross between skinny jeans and bootcut jeans. They’re fitted through the hips and thighs and then come straight down around the ankles. They’re the perfect medium wash, too, able to be dressed up and down. Quince Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans A stretchy pair of straight-leg jeans, like Quince Stretch High Rise Straight Jeans, look and feel amazing. They’re available in medium wash, dark wash and black, and are made from organic cotton making them feel oh-so-soft. Levi’s Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women's Jeans We couldn’t make this list without including one of the most iconic jean brands of all time, Levi’s. And one of our favorite pairs from the brand is Levi’s 315 Shaping Bootcut Women’s Jeans. As their name suggests, these jeans are shaping and have both medium and high-stretch options available. They’ll feel comfortable all day long without losing their shape. Lane Bryant Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean For the best plus-size jeans, we love Lane Bryant Curvy Fit High-Rise Sateen Skinny Jean. They have incredible size options, ranging from size 12 to size 38/40, as well as four different length options including regular, petite, short and long. This pair features a Magic Flex Waistband, which means the waistband has no gap and ultra stretch. Loft Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans These aren’t your regular straight-leg jeans. Loft Curvy Pintucked High Rise Straight Jeans feature an elegant and chic pleat down the middle front, making them instantly look more elevated with little effort. They hit right at the ankles and come in a gorgeous dark wash. Ann Taylor Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean What we love about Ann Taylor The Relaxed Trouser Jean is that they have so much room and mobility throughout the whole leg. They have a wide-leg, trouser-like design while still having the look and feel of denim. Plus, they don’t come in your typical jean shades; Instead, they come in a faded, dark green hue and a light, rose pink shade. Old Navy Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans For a classic pair of black jeans, we like Old Navy High-Waisted Wow Wide-Leg Jeans since they’re both affordable and stylish. They cost less than $40 and come in a wide range of sizes and lengths. Wide-leg jeans have been huge the past couple of years and still continue to be. Pair it with a simple tee and a belt for a go-to look. Dynamite Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans Dynamite Cara High Rise Straight Jeans are such a great pair of work jeans since they look dressy and office-appropriate. They have a straight-leg style and high-rise waist, and the dark wash is stunning. Top it off with a blazer and belt and you’re good to go. American Eagle American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean Mom jeans of the ‘80s are back and better than ever. A great pick in this category is American Eagle Strigid Curvy Mom Jean. What does “strigid” mean, you may be wondering? It means they’re rigid in the front, aka they look higher quality and more like denim, but stretchy in the back so they’re still comfortable. NYDJ NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans NYDJ has a cult following, and for good reason. They’re high quality, stylish and comfortable, and have tons of styles to choose from. We like NYDJ Barbara Bootcut Jeans in particular. They’re not super flared or too straight down—they have just the right amount of width at the bottoms. White Fox White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans Find high-rise styles uncomfortable? Go for mid-rise instead. White Fox Kayla Mid Rise Flare Jeans are one of my favorite mid-rise styles. The washed black hue offers a vintage look that still looks modern, along with the front pockets. Maurices Maurices Everflex No Gap High Rise Slim Boot Jean Source link

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Here are four ways to revamp your wardrobe in the New Year. As the new year approaches, focus on refreshing your wardrobe. Where will you begin the transformation? From forming a signature style to creating your fashion mantra – fashion tycoons share their no-brainer fashion resolutions for 2025. Master the layering game. One of the best style resolutions for the new year is to streamline your wardrobe, a goal we surely revisit often. With that comes the art of mixing and matching to try and cut down on pointless wardrobe pieces. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Caroline Cook (@carolinesstylehacks) "It's all about unexpected combinations," says Boohoo's head of product, Sarah Heaton, who suggests mixing relaxed bottoms with elevated tops – such as the trending barrel-leg jeans with a chiffon or ruffled blouse. Luckily, layering always relies on classic and timeless pieces. "We'll see people leaning into the nostalgic British aesthetic – like trench coats layered over structured blazers and rugby shirts," says Lounge's head of product, Emily Blount. Layering isn't just for function—it's a way to create looks seamlessly transitioning from day to night. Mixing contrasting pieces is a great way to spice up your outfits in 2025. Find your signature silhouette. Like in 2024, timeless silhouettes will reign supreme in 2025, but it's all about tailoring one uniquely to you this year. "We've always championed tailoring," explains British fashion designer and founder of Holland Cooper, Jade Holland Cooper. "The perfect blazer, impeccably cut trousers and a timeless trench coat are wardrobe workhorses." To identify your signature silhouette, it's essential to explore styles beyond traditional gender norms. Holland Cooper noted that more masculine designs have been resurgent, with the three-piece suit experiencing a notable revival. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Classic menswear by women (@women_in_tailoring) This trend may be attributed to the current resurgence of 1980s fashion. "It's sharp, sophisticated and chic – great for the office, but also an empowering ensemble for women in their day-to-day lives." Tailoring is also an excellent opportunity to experiment and find your true style. "With tailoring being such a key trend, focus on how it works with your body and coloring," suggests Blount. "A structured dress or waistcoat can bring elegance along with individuality." So, whether you're adopting power dressing or a more fluid style, finding your signature silhouette will help make curating outfits much more manageable in 2025. Oversized Blazer -Zara Sheer Ruffel blouse - &Other Stories High-waist balloon jeans- Mango Nod to trends When a trend you love comes about, it can be tempting to go all in and revamp your whole wardrobe. However, with overconsumption high on everyone's radar, 2025 may be the year to nod to a trend through more subtle style statements. "I tend to opt for classics that will remain in fashion whilst also being the perfect staple to style the key trends of the season," explains Holland Cooper, who uses the example of a trench coat. Regarding trends, "fashion is always subjective," notes Blount, "and everyone has their interpretation of the fad. "The key with any fashion trend is to ensure you're staying true to your personal style, what you feel comfortable in, and what makes you happy." The easiest way to nod to trends is to look at those that already encompass items in your wardrobe – such as favorite colors, specific cuts, or particular accessories. Red hat -Gap Animal print bucket bag -Zara Adopt a fashion mantra. All the fashion greats have one thing in common: their fashion mantra. For fashion designer and podcaster Amanda Wakeley OBE, the motto is 'Don't save for the best; dress your best every day.' "We all have those incredible pieces that have been in our wardrobe hardly worn that we keep for 'special occasions' and then often the moment passes and we wished we had worn them more," says Wakeley. "My view is clothes and accessories, for that matter, are not there to hang in a cupboard, they are there to be worn and loved and lived in. Your wardrobe should be a reflection of you, your values, and your joy. Style isn't just about looking good – it's about feeling good in your skin. Wear your best and you'll likely feel it too." "Don't be afraid to be bold," says Holland Cooper. "I love bright fabrics and am not scared to mix tweeds. "Power dressing isn't going anywhere; it's more than a trend – it's a movement. The right outfit can change how you feel, as fashion is all about confidence, so wear what makes you feel empowered." View this post on Instagram A post shared by Holland Cooper (@hollandcooperclothing) When forming your own, focus on what fashion means to you. Whether that's sustainability, elegance, or individuality, make these associations into a memorable soundbite you repeat every time you put an outfit together. A favorite is 'dress to express – not impress' – which applies to everything from leggings and a jumper to showstopping evening gowns. Read the full article