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eccentricallygothic · 10 months ago

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|| Triumph Of The Beast ||

Description: Captain Syverson learnt that the only way to have her was to ask her hand in marriage. So he did just that. And she was all his now, both to hold and to possess.

Pairing: Soft-Dark!Captain Syverson | Sheikha!Reader.

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own Captain Syverson. This is a mature story with dark undertones so kindly browse at your own discretion. Please note that this piece is only a work of fiction that in no way aims to reinforce or propose any stereotypes to any ethnicity or race. Minors do not interact.

Warning(s): Soft-Dark!Syverson, he is lowkey messed up, smut with plot (I am sorry), possessive behavior, his obsession with her chastity, naive!reader, size kink, biting (it's Henry and his canines ffs), boob play, manhandling, power imbalance, arranged marriage, fingering, handjob, dirty talk, m!dom, f!sub, he's a man, misogyny, age gap (reader is 20's, Sy is early 40's fight me), he's lowkey intimidating, slight spanking, allusion to bondage, manipulation, slow burn-ish, maybe more dialogue than necessary, p-in-v penetration, corruption kink, no use of 'Y/n'.

Note: Her father is not the mean Sheikh from the movie lmfao. Reader doesn't even have to be Iraqi, just Eastern that you can TOTALLY imagine yourself as because it's a frickin' story for God's sake! Ps, This blocked me so hard mid-write I nearly abandoned it lmfao, I need a break!

Captain Syverson had always thought the notion of the first touch buzz to be foolish. To quote him in his own words, the electric touch that people claimed their beloved aroused within them was nothing more than a steaming pile of horseshit.

Until now.

As his thick and coarse battle hardened hands cupped the side of the tender face of his dear wife, the Captain's thumb darted out to quickly glide across the perfect arch of her cheekbone before it moved down to the bow of her lips, his body combusting into a thousand flames of raw desire.

Her skin was so tender he feared it may come off if he pressed on it too hard. The structure of her body that adorned her traditional wedding attire seemed so fragile in this moment next to him and in his big old bed that the thought of ever manhandling a thing as delicate as her terrified him. The contrast of her usually confident and intelligent countenance was striking in quality to the humility with which she now offered her submission to him.

His suspicions against his body and strength increased by the passing minute; he felt petrified to even breathe too easily near her. The fear that it may damage her in some way haunted him and filled his lungs with dread. It was not that she was the most petite thing that he had ever seen or she held resemblance to an adolescent in terms of size or any of that weird shit, no.

It was instead the way in which her head bowed in just the perfect way so it indicated respect and submission; not so high that it would seem that she was trying to deny him his station but not so low that it became off-putting. It was an acknowledgement to his power in their dynamic; an agreement of a lifetime.

The man could swear he was going crazy.

There was simply no way he was going to make it through the night with his sanity intact.

It was just the effect she had on him.

If there was anyone to blame it was her.

Because even though he wanted to hide this girl so safely in his arms for the rest of his days that not even a harsh breeze would be allowed to touch her, the erratic way in which his boiling blood sizzled its way through his veins, The Captain wanted nothing more than to just turn her around, press her breathtaking face into the mattress and take her over and over until she was swell with his litter.

Or press his bigger body against hers and take her deep and raw until her mind gave up on consciousness

Perhaps place her between his own legs and feel her mouth around him until his seed spilled from her nose.

Maybe make her mount him and slap her ass that he just knew would be perfect over and over to keep her going even when she didn't want to.

The possibilities were endless from where Syverson was standing.

And he was determined to try his hand at all of them, and more.

His eyebrows furrowed just a little when she awkwardly pecked his lips for the fifth time in a straight row and refused to give him more, cringing away when he attempted to deepen the kiss. The girl that giggled and covered her mouth on which her red lipstick had already smudged was a dead leaf echo of the confident and liberal sheikha -prized daughter of the sheikh supreme- that critically watched the foreign Captain everytime he was around with her bright and vigilant brown eyes so full of scrutiny that it made him, a grown man, blush. It wasn't his fault, really. Her eyes had the most attractive gleam of intelligence to them and the black khol that lined them only accentuated their beauty more.

She had always been so elegant Syverson knew he was a goner the first time his eyes had been granted the pleasure of looking at her. Sat aside her father basking in her confidence, silk scarf draped around her head and body in the most perfect way, a form he could only describe as agreeable always clad in decent clothes, fingers adorning rings with colorful stones and modesty dripping off of every single mannerism of hers.

How could a man not look twice?

And then not consider looking away utterly blasphemous on account of being unappreciative of such godly beauty?

"I- I do not know how to…" Her accent turned his gears just right. "K- Kiss, Captain" oh.

Of course.

Blood rushed to his cock that hadn't throbbed like this in a long time. That was, if it ever had.

And then his sweet, chaste wife just had to call him Captain.

Fuck.

He was going to tear her apart.

And she had no idea.

The obedient daughter, who was never afraid to voice her thoughts and outsmart every man who dared stand against her with inadequate knowledge of the debate at hand, had happily bowed down to her father's wish that she marry the charming and noble Captain -to them a warrior who was not afraid to fight for his country; a man truly admirable- after said Captain had asked for her hand in marriage when he had realized that that was the only way to have her.

Mind, body, soul… heart.

Sure, it had taken Syverson and his rather daft attempts at impressing her some quick-witted answers and astute responses by a rather critical her to realize it.

But she was his bride now.

And that was all that mattered.

"Well, ain't that just dandy?" Syverson realizes just how heavy his breathing really is when his words come out gravelly and almost forced. She is unable to hold his eyes for very long so she stares at his chest instead, a most remarkable coy smile across her lips. The fact that she looks every other man with a taught unaffected sternness but has blushed everytime their eyes have met after the wedding just drives him all the more insane.

Her dark eyebrows furrow as she lightly tilts her head to the side. He has noticed that she has some trouble understanding his dialect. So he caresses her cheek again, this time in a reassuring manner;

"I know you'll figure it out soon. You're a clever lil' thing, ain'tcha?" She looks up just long enough to nod with a meeting of their eyes.

"Yes, Captain" god, even her way of speaking has softened.

The knowledge that he was the only man in this whole wide world whom she treated like this made him want to worship her with his love and devotion in every way possible.

Because The Captain was naturally a very possessive man who did not appreciate ran through goods.

"Alright now, just trust your husband and sit back like a good lil' bride, alright?" It was taking him all of his focus to not just push her back and have his depraved ways with her all night long.

"Y- Yes, Captain."

"Atta girl," before he leaned back in and brushed his lips against hers just long enough to whisper, "now hush and don'tcha try to keep them pretty lips shut on me" he felt her going breathless against him when his mouth fit against the slot of her parted one perfectly; as though it had been created just for him.

She did her best to keep up with as much obedience as her modesty would allow her to muster but the sensation of his mouth against hers, the scratch of his coarse beard across her delicate skin, the wetness of his tongue that took its time swiping against her bottom lip and the way that he didn't have to break the kiss to know that she had extended her had in his direction to take a hold of him to deal with the intensity of it all, the sheer desperation with which he reached out his fingers and clutched hers in an affectionate way that also had a territorial tinge to it was all too much for her to handle.

An unfamiliar thrill that she had been a stranger to until this moment began to patter through her bloodstream. Her heart pounded, her sweat glands soaked, her face burnt and her stomach fluttered.

"Captain" was all she was allowed to whisper in the two second interval the man allowed them to recover their breathing.

"Well, I'll be damned, darlin'" Syverson husked through rushed kisses as he hurriedly helped her lay down with her attire still intact, both too desperate to strip her and wanting to take her as she was, for tonight she looked the most stunning he had ever seen her. "You're so dang pretty I can't even fathom stayin' off ya now that you're mine" a hush of cold breath rushed past her flush lips as her thick eyebrows drooped upwards in reaction to him dipping his face in the curve of her neck.

"I am all yours to do with whatever you please, my C- Captain" her soft hands flew to grab at his shirt as the foreign sensation of a man's body against her skin sent an electric bolt down her spine.

His body was heavy above hers as he groaned at her response and grinded his bulge against her covered sex, peppering kisses all over her skin. "God damn, baby. Your mama sure raised you up right, didn't she?" A loud squeak resonated in the air when the new husband simply could not hold back his passion anymore and bit down on the inviting flesh of her shoulder, letting out a stomach churning moan at her taste and squeezing her sides as the smell of her fragrance oils hit his nose.

"Fuck, baby" it took him all of his willpower and the promise that he could go back for more only easier to part from her. "I can't–" sitting up to kneel over her, Syverson pulled his shirt over his head before tossing it somewhere in the room. "I can't hold back no more" as he leaned back down and placed one hand beside her head to keep himself from suffocating her, the way she looked up at him with wonder, timidity, need, sent a pang of pain to his cock. "Talk to me, darlin'" he gathered her wrists in one hand before placing them above her head, now reaching for the clothed bump on her chest. "You feelin' anything?" A soundless breath left her and she shuddered in such a way that her boobs trembled feverishly.

"S- Strange… a- and… oh my God!" She had to shut her eyes and turn her head to the side when he suddenly manhandled one of her breasts out of the deep neckline of her wedding night dress. Her hands rushed to cover her chest by instinct but her husband's authoritative swat was much quicker and stronger.

Syverson chuckled at the defensive gasp she let out, a crazed darkness floating in his eyes as he pinnned her feverish hands out of his way, coarse palm now feeling up her other breast that was freed as he spoke. "Ain't no God 'round these parts tonight, baby. Just me…" His lips enveloped hers in a right and hungry kiss. "'N you" the way she nervously gulped when he pulled back to stare into her eyes only added to the fire in his body. "Say, baby" he trailed gentle kisses down her chin, along her throat and then down to the fluffy cushions of soft flesh dotted with flush, erect nipples in the middle. A surprised cry jutted out of her mouth and her fingernails tried to claw at his hand that confined them above her when he pressed one wet kiss on each nub. "Ain't this just somethin' else?"

The girl had no idea what possessed her to say what she did, but her hips moved faster than her brain could catch on and her lips worked before reticence could hinder her communication. "I- It is, Captain. T- Thank you" of course she had felt arousal before. Of course she had been wet before. Some of those times she had a certain handsome American Captain to thank for, not that she would ever willingly admit it. But she had never known how to relieve herself of it other than a cold shower.

Her mother had warned her that not every feeling that transpires in one in times of idleness should be chased and she had listened.

But this was not solitary boredom, this was not a devilish lure, her mother wasn't here and it was her wedding night with a man she was slowly becoming sure she would be able to call her dear husband one day.

If her husband was kind enough to be considerate about what made her feel what she could only identify as exciting, she deemed it a stupidity to refuse the treatment.

"Aw, baby" Syverson's hands only part from her breasts so his mouth can greedily latch onto them, his bearded lips pressing all over them before his hand nearly snatches her skirts out of his way since the layers seem to be never ending. "To think that I ain't even begun with ya and you're already thankin' me like a sweet little lady" now his mouth traveled to her stomach and the only word he had for its appearance was perfect. A shudder set in her shoulders when his beard scratched her navel before his teeth softly nibbled away on her skin.

"W- Would you like me to get up and t- take my clothes off, dear?" God damn.

He really had hit the fucking jackpot.

"Hold on now, darlin'" he husked as his fingers caressed her nubs, his hot mouth littering its kisses over her skin further down south. "I wanna take you like this first" the readied rise in the middle of her shoulder blades smoothed out and she settled back into the mattress again wordlessly. "Well now, are you gonna be good and keep them arms up high like a good lil' thing or am I gonna have to tie 'em up?" A drawn out moan sounded from deep within her throat when his chin deliberately brushed against her clothed sex, coarse fingers twirling her nipple between them.

Syverson felt an unconscious clench in the muscles of her thighs upon his words finally registering in her clouded mind. "N- No, I- I'll be good, husband. I promise."

"Atta girl" he praised in a satisfied tone before letting go of her wrists.

It was after that that his hands roamed free and wild all over her form. The Captain kissed, sucked, nibbled, pinched, groped, licked and bit all to his desire, the growing moans of his bride only encouraging him further.

"God damn, if these ain't the sweetest damn legs I've ever seen" Syverson licked away the thread of spit that previously connected his mouth to her now bruised hiphone that he had successfully marked as his territory. The fact that no man had ever seen them and the plan that he made to never let anyone do so either was making his ears hot. His sides were becoming sore with need like he was the virgin.

"And this– fuck, c'mere" he couldn't hold it back anymore. The Captain had always been an ass man and the fact that he was yet to see his wife's backside was making him mad now. Her yelp morphed into a confused giggle when he bundled her ankles in one of his rough hands, having already rid her of her panties, and easily raised both her legs up until her lower half dangling by his hold on her. "Hmmm, I just knew you had a perfect lil' rump stashed in there" his free hand felt her soft cheeks up before he traced his index finger down her crack, cursing at the way they clenched in defense. Then his depravity got the best of him and he wound his hand back and gave a handful of strong blows to her poor behind that started blushing in an instant.

"Oh– ouch!" Her next nervous giggle made him raise an eyebrow as he divided an ankle between each hand and parted her legs to look down at her.

"Think this is funny, do you?" The girl quickly stopped herself nervously. "You know who that's for?" He didn't even mind the giggles, if anything they were rather endearing to him. But the timidity in her eyes was way too sweet for him to pass up. She shook her head no. "Bad little girls who make fun of their fellas, that's who." It was the cock hardening way in which her bottom lip wobbled sensitively that dried his throat.

A young woman once so strong, all commanding and authorative now exposed in such a submissive manner and completely at his mercy.

"S- Sorry, dear" he hummed, reaching for the mound between her legs to roughly feel her pussy up in blunt gropes.

"You can consider those as payback for all them times you thought you could get slick with me in front of my boys just 'cause you were the Sheikh's daughter" her eyes widened and she blushed harder than before.

"I- I–"

"Yes, you" though Syverson's words were crisp, his kiss on her nether lips was tender and perhaps that was the sole reason why she didn't tear up from being reprimanded when she was so vulnerable and hypersensitive like this. "Thought I'd just forget all that brattin' of yours?"

She had to hurriedly sit up for that one and reach for his hands affectionately. "Oh, no" the pure care in her eyes made his melting heart feel as though it had risen into the sky. "It was only that you were not my husband back then, dear," she tried to make him understand, aware that there were cultural differences that needed overcoming, "mother said good girls owe it to their husbands to treat every other man with a serious attitude and indifference!"

She was breaking his fucking heart.

It was officially official.

Abel Ford Syverson was in love.

Soul crushing, earth shattering, sky tearing love.

With a woman who was not only intelligent and gorgeous way past his league but one that respected herself with an unwavering devotion towards her spouse.

"Well, I'll be damned!" He exclaimed with faux surprise that she did not catch up on, much to his expectation. "So that's what it was all about?" Of course he knew.

He just liked her to say it.

It boosted his depraved ego just right.

She apologetically nodded with sincerity. "I swear, my heart." The translation of the endearment caused for his blood to pump through his ears only harder.

Syverson gave her a small smile before sighing a little. "Well, you see, darlin', it did still hurt my feelings a tad" her eyebrows furrowed in regret so he added just to rub it in that much more; "got me a bit of pride to keep up, y'know?"

Now she pouted. "I am sorry, love…" Before a bulb went off in her head and she jumped a little to express her excitement, the action causing her naked boobs to jiggle. "Is there a way I can make it up to you?" There.

"Why, of course!" Fuck, he sounded more eager than a middle schooler. "You gonna have to show that you can make a good little wife" her cheeks flushed as she bit her bottom lip in embarrassment. He continued, aware she was as clueless as a virgin.

Because she was one.

Syverson loved the thought.

He wished there was a way to preserve it -her- all as it was.

"Anything you want, my dear" she replied sincerely as she earnestly pressed his hand that she held to her chest.

The man swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat as his eyes flickered down to where their fingers were intertwined; the valley of her perfect breasts.

"Good girl" his voice came out much deeper than usual. "Go on 'n' take it out, then" the bride's eyebrows raised to express her confusion as she tilted her head to the side.

His dick whimpered and spilled a thick drop.

"U- Um…"

Syverson was getting impatient. "That means my pants, darlin'." He chuckled to lighten the effect of the edge that his tone had held. "I mean, can't exactly make love to ya with 'em on, now can I?" Something pulled taught in her chest and she went to avoid his eyes out of embarrassment.

"Oh… yes" she was breathless as she reached for his fly, face angled downwards.

"Yeah…?" He drew it out on purpose teasingly, dipping his own head earthwards to try and meet her gaze cockily. "Yeah, yeah?" The man kept going unrelentlessly until she had no choice but to respond.

"Y- Yes…" Her nervous fingers slipped over the button of his pants many times but she managed to free him at last.

"Go on ahead now, sugar" he coaxed sweetly, tone in stark contrast to his intentions. "Take it out and let them pretty lil' hands get a feel" her legs instinctively tried to close due to the shame she felt but her husband's huge body hindered her attempt to somehow cover herself. "Well?"

Her eyes darted up to him from where her fingers gingerly rested against the waistband of his boxers and Syverson suspected that she was about to decline because of the way her mouth moved to let out some phantom words. But when he raised a questioning eyebrow in response, she seemed as though it had reminded her of her place against him and she quickly dipped her digits inside the undergarment to reach for his thumping cock.

The first feel of her fingertips connecting with his hard skin was… indescribable. It was as though time ceased, stilling everything else with it and he was enveloped into a cocoon of pure sensation. She was everywhere and inside. Her heat filled him to the brim. Each brush of her delicate skin against his rougher one felt like the stroke of the flesh of an outworldly nymph. Shivers of ecstacy cascaded down his lower back and he was floating already.

The girl nearly jumped out of her skin at the unfamiliar feeling, the moan that he let out along a whispered praise pulling her back in the moment and away from her recoil. The bride's mind reminded her of her duty to her husband and she used her other hand to hold his clothes away so she could uncover his impaler.

"Just like that, darlin'. Just like that" one of his hands went to tangle in her hair. "Go on and rub it for me, baby. You're doin' real good" his free hand reached for her own sex that had secreted its natural moisture in reaction to the sensations she was being subjected to. He groaned at the feeling of her warm pussy and squished his finger through her plump nether lips. "Tell me what you see" her own body was getting feverish by the second, hips and cunt trying to shrink in on themselves due to how violating his sense tingling touch was.

"I- It's…" She raked her mind for an appropriate answer. But it was all too much for her to handle; the pressure to impress her new husband, touching him the way he wanted properly, obeying him, submitting to his handling and then dealing with his intense gaze. "V- Very pretty, husband. Thank you" so she played it the safest she knew.

And the girl could swear she felt him twitch in her palm at that, a pang of pain rising in her wrist as she awkwardly pumped him in a vertical manner.

"Pretty, huh?" A cunning grin spread across his handsome features as he slipped one finger deep within her folds and being the retired playboy that he was, the Captain easily found her pure entrance. "'N' what about the size?" He could not help but moan at the feeling of her balmy walls clinging to his finger. "Ever seen anythin' like it?" Her thighs quivered as his thumb glided over her folds.

"N- No, husband" she answered timidly, afraid to bruise his pride with an inappropriate or unsatisfactory answer that may pose a threat to her chasteness.

"That's right" now he began to speed up his intrusion of her insides. "'Cause you're all mine, ain'tcha?" She quickly nodded, letting out a whine as her eyebrows furrowed at the ache his twisting of one of her nipples caused. "Now tell me," he leaned forward to reach for one of her nubs with his teeth, "did ya ever think you'd land yourself a fella with a cock this big?" He spoke through a mouthful before sinking down on her tender boobs, the tips of his sharp canines digging into the soft cushions of her flesh.

"N- No…" The girl was gasping as she struggled to keep up with his leaking and twitching cock. "T- Thank you, dear!" She added for good measure despite how overwhelmed she was becoming.

"Tell me, baby" the man loved how his naive wife's features scrunched in discomfort but she still sped up her fist that was wrapped around his cock because he prompted her to, hoisting himself further up next to capture her lips against his. "Do you think yourself lucky that you get to have this here cock all to yourself for the rest of your days?" He could not help but fuck into her hand at the sight of the spit string dangling by a corner of her bottom lip as it connected to the wad of spit that she had just released on his cock after being ordered to do so. He felt her cringe at the feeling of her fingers touching her own saliva as she spread it over his cock. But her resolve to obey him did not falter even once regardless of how shy or uneasy she felt.

And that was how Syverson knew he had found himself his perfect little homemaker.

"I- I do, husband" her voice nearly broke. "Thank you so much" the fact that all of this was visibly strange and even uncomfortable to her because she was not familiar with any of this…

The Captain could swear that alone was enough to finish him off.

She was his sacred lamb; a temple undefiled.

Nobody's leftovers; whole in every sense for the beast to take.

What could he say? Colonel Syverson's prized son always won, no matter what.

There was a brighter way of looking at his promiscuous dating history that was in stark contrast to his wife's nonexistent one; it could easily be considered as his physical sacrifice in order to realize and reach his full potential as a man for his future lady's well being as well as pleasure.

A lady that he had found at last.

"Say it" his command was heavy and the rough skin of his finger was like gravel against the buttery tissue of her slick walls. "Say that you're the luckiest lil' bride for landin' yourself the best damn dick you could have ever hoped for" she began to subconsciously move her thumb out of sync with the rest of her digits to swipe it over his tip each time her hand rose to his apex and he couldn't believe just how close he was already.

The Captain was usually a man of stamina and endurance.

But then again it was impossible for the beast to resist his tempting lamb for very long, wasn't it?

"I- I am the luckiest…" She licked her parched lips needily. "L- Little bride for l- landing myself the best d- dick…" Embarrassment burnt her cheeks but pleasing him was more important a priority to her. "T- That I could've ever hoped for…"

He deeply moaned in satisfaction. "My good girl" a quick peck was given to the tip of her nose. "Now tell me, baby. How ya feelin'?" As if on cue, she clenched around his finger with a moan.

Fuck, Syverson had never really preferred a clueless woman until now.

He could literally demand whatever he wanted from her and she would believe him out of her naivety.

His perfect pretzel Princess that he could twist into whatever shape that he pleased.

Or make her do as he desired, for that matter.

With no one, not even his wife herself, to question him or his ways.

He loved the thought.

"... S- Strange… P- Pain… but– hnnn!" Her back arched as she suddenly writhed, nearly going white at the feeling of getting her special spot getting tickled for the first time. It was an ability her husband took a lot of pride in; the renown that he had held in college for being able to find gspots with his fingers alone.

"Feels real good too, don't it?" The Captain snickered heavily as he began to rock his hips into her hand, feeling himself nearing the brink.

"Mmh!" She did her best to respond despite the sensory overload, groaning softly when he forces her band of muscles to expand further by adding another finger to her pussy and repeatedly jabbing her sensitive nerves with their blunt tips, the sound of his skin fucking in and out of her liquids getting louder by the minute. "W- Weird… but…" A drop of sweat trickled down the side of her face as she gasped, eyes widening when her spine jolted at a particular wave of pleasure. "M- More, please."

In the blink of an eye, Syverson had pushed her on her back before crawling up her body like a predator. Before her body could process his fingers leaving her into an orgasm denial, his eager cock was pushing into her. The pained moan that escaped her as her body twisted under his was muffled by his mouth clamping over hers. The Captain grunted as his cock struggled to push its way inside her virgin entrance despite the preparation that he had done. The girl's bottom lip pulled away from the rest of her mouth due to the way he bit down on it to withstand the overwhelming pleasure that sparked everywhere within him.

"Your wish is my command, my darlin' sheikha."

Syverson found himself praying for the first time to any god, deity or entity that may be listening; to freeze time right here in this very moment and never set it free again.

For he could stay like this for eternities and beyond; buried inside his dear wife and protectively enveloped in her loving arms that had never held another like she did him and never would whilst she moaned below him in a pained ecstasy, clenching and nearly knocking out as she experienced her first ever orgasm.

Reblogs and feedback are much appreciated <3

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netherfeildren · 8 months ago

Text

FABLE OF THE DOG : 2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol Use; Allusions to Attempted Suicide; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Past Teenage Crush; Yearning and Longing Galore; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: This is a deeply, deeply unserious chapter, and I make no apologies—I was taken away by whimsy!!!!

Apologies however, for the French people slander, I went on a truly heinous date with a oui oui baguette loser last month. I’m still working through my anger.

Word Count: 13.4K

Read on AO3

2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

They appear at the break of dawn, the young man and the boy.

“How many heads’ve you got total?”

Joel appraises him, the fresh-faced look, a boy just crossed over into the cusp of manhood—though he’s large and strong and earnest in the eyes. He’d be a good hire, if not for—

He glances over at the young boy sitting on the bunk’s couch, snickering quietly with Ellie as his brother tries to barter a place for the two of them.

“Near to thirty large about now. We’re fixin’ to breed, but we’re pushin’ our limitations.”

“So you need hands,” he says eagerly.

“We do,” Joel returns slowly, chewing on the mint he’d plucked from out front. His stomach is in knots, has been since—days and days and days ago, last night, and so much worse now. There’s a sick heat settled deep that he doesn’t know how he’ll scourge out and quick.

“Listen, I know it’s unconventional, but—”

“Where’s his parents?” He tips his chin at the boy, and Ellie peers slyly over her shoulder at him. He’ll get hell for this later, he knows, she knows.

“Our momma’s down south—by way of Odessa. She cowboys during the summer too, and—”

Joel sits up in his seat. “Texas?”

“Come on, Texas,” Tommy slinks behind him, sneaking an arm over his shoulder to thump Joel roughly on the chest. “Just say yes.” He lets out a gruff sound masking a cough, fucking Tommy, and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ellie rise from the sofa and leave the bunk quietly with a parting pat on the boy's head.

“You’re from Texas, too?” The young man asks brightly, that look of hope in his eyes that Joel’s about to quash.

“We’re from Austin,” Tommy says from the coffee pot, his mustache spreading wide over a shit-eating grin. “Southerners way up here, we gotta stay united amongst all these Yanks’,” his brother puts on the drawl heavy, and Joel rolls his eyes. Clown.

“Listen, Henry,” he says, trying to turn the conversation back to business. He looks at the boy again, the back of the small head bent and silent and something that could, perhaps, be thought of as guilt pulses through him, but to be honest, there’s so much of that moving about Joel’s system right about now, that it’s just one more drop of poison filling his cup. It doesn’t matter. He needs to do what’s right.

For who? He can’t very well tell yet.

“I’m sure you’re a hard worker, son, and I’d not hesitate to give you a place were we in different circumstances, but I just don’t see how this would work—”

Henry leans forward in his chair too, ready to plead his case, fight for his brother and the generously paying jobs the Kelly’s are famous for. There’s something about the boy newly turned man that reminds Joel of himself. Perhaps during that young and fragile youth of his twenties, when he’d been alone with a newborn baby, trying to figure out the whole world and himself.

“I know it’s unconventional, but he’s a good kid. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, and it’d only be for the summer, sir. We head back down for the start of the school year. It’s difficult, but it’s harder for my momma to get work with a kid than it is for me.” He trips over his words with the speed at which he’s spitting them at Joel, trying to convince him, and he knows that the fair thing would be to take them in. To give this man a chance the way Joel had been given one so many years ago, the mercy of safe harbor. But he’s got a finite amount of goodness in him now, he’s got to save it all for only one person. There’s none left for anyone else. And Joel doesn't want trouble, he’s got enough of that around here right about now. “He’s got his books and his summer worksheets, and he knows how to manage on his own while I work. I swear, he won’t be in any sort of way. You can—”

And then, amidst the young strangers' rambling plea, Joel's heart falls through his stomach. Here comes that trouble anyways.

“What’s going on here?” In that soft, lovely voice that haunted his dreams last night.

All the cowboys rise from their seats at the sound of your presence.

From over your shoulder, Joel sees Ellie’s face twisted in a grimace at him, the flash of her middle finger and then her tongue.

“Goddamnit, Ellie,” he growls low.

You look exhausted, eyes red rimmed and swollen—as if you’d been crying all night, and Joel’s tongue is a swollen, poisoned thing in his mouth—a husk of guilt is all he is. He swallows convulsively, trying to find his words, trying to not scream at the thought of being what’s made you cry, trying not to look down the length of you and failing. Silky sleep shorts end way too high up on the long length of those too pretty thighs, an oversized pullover with Yale emblazoned across the front, a little hole at the neck and a large dark stain marr the front of it. You’ve got on a too big robe, dark and plaid, draped over your shoulders with your hair all a mess. He can see Ellie’s trying to pull it into some semblance of a braid behind your back discreetly while you stare at him with those eyes that, and he’s being damn honest now, fucking terrify him. Those puffy, ridiculous tan boots women wear, the impractical ones that become a sogging mess in the snow or wet despite the fact he understands they’re supposed to be worn in winter, are on your feet, two mismatched socks peek out above the tops.

He’s pretty sure one of them has bombs with a capital ‘F’ in the tiny centers printed over it. The other, some sort of Easter bunny carrot print. Absolutely ridiculous, and he can’t help it, he notices it all.

And worst of all, in your grip is that World’s Best Dad mug you’d sent the old fucker for Christmas several years ago, a little holiday fuck you from his best daughter. It’d been one of the years he hadn’t let you come home for the winter break, forced you to spend the holiday alone at that boarding school of yours. The whole ranch had known and whispered about it, and he’d felt embarrassed and offended on your behalf, that they’d all gossiped about the girl you were behind your back when they should’ve respected you for the woman you’d become one day, the one that’d eventually pay all of their earnings.

And the jackass had the audacity to use the mug all the time afterwards. Joel was pretty sure it’d been his favorite.

“We were just wrapping up,” Joel says, clearing his throat, finally finding his voice. It’s almost physically painful to look at you directly in the eyes, and the heat of shame and regret claws its way up his throat at the hollow look he sees there. You’re so angry at him, and he deserves it.

“This is the new Kelly,” Ellie tells Henry, cutting him off, pressing you forward with her hands wrapped around your shoulders. Your shorts are way too short to be in here right now, and Joel feels something else, even hotter than shame, stirring inside him. “If you want work here, this is who you need to talk to. The big boss.”

“Miss Kelly,” Henry says reverently, pulling his cap off to press against his chest. “It’s a mighty fine honor gettin’ to meet you. I was just telling your foreman here,” he motions the cap towards Joel, and he feels like a bear who’s about to rip it out of his grip and stuff it down his throat. Fucking Ellie going and snitching on him. “How me and my brother Henry travel for the summer. I’ve got letters here, I’ve worked at the King before, and have a number your man can call if he needs more references. I’ve got lots of experience and—”

“What will you do with him?” Your gaze is on the little boy, has been the entire time. Joel steps forward and over the back of the couch he sees the kid, Sam, has a comic book in his lap he’s been reading this whole time, while adults who should have no bearing on his life decide what will and will not be for him. “While you work—”

Joel looks back at you, and he knows already what it’ll be.

Henry’s smile is wide and gleaming, putting on the charm. What he doesn’t see, what Joel does, is that bleak sadness in your gaze that he’d put there himself last night. He needs to speak with you, to explain, to make it right between the two of you.

“He’s good at entertaining himself. I promise he won’t be in the way or nothin’. He’s got books and summer work, and he’s learning to play the guitar. He won’t be in the way,” Henry says again.

“What about school?”

“We only travel during the summer. We’re back in Texas for the school year.” And at that, you finally look back at Joel, and his heart shoots from his belly to his throat, ready to be spit up at your feet.

You watch him for a long searing moment, and there's such sadness there. He doesn’t know what would have been better, what would have been the correct recourse, how to make that look go away. To give you what you want? To do what he thinks is right or what should be right? He’d never thought, never considered anything like this. It’s all too much too fast, and he feels suddenly lost and childlike in the face of you and all you stand for.

“They stay,” you say only for Joel.

Henry lets out a whoop of victory, rushing forward to thank you profusely, but Jesse, who’s standing by the door, blocks his rush forward with a hand to his chest before he can get too close to the new boss. You’re for protecting now, above all else, it’s the unspoken word they all suddenly understand keenly.

You stare solemnly at Joel for only a second longer, those sleep sloped doe eyes, before you’re turning without another word.

“He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.”

The cricket song is a symphony of sound around the two of you, and you’re suspended for a second, he sees it come on—a rose hued haze, and then blink-of-an-eye donning a look that spells nothing but disaster. He’s thrown off course by it for a single second, that girl fantasy glow, before you’re launching yourself at him, and then it’s nothing but a soft wet mouth, smoked fruit and fired oak, the slick of your tongue against his bottom lip as you kiss him.

You’re kissing him.

He’s a frozen solid husk, eyes wide open as he stares down at the look on your face—something like agony. The tiny frown between your eyebrows, concentration, and a single diamond tear caught in the web of your lashes, and he can’t help but notice the soft press of your breasts against his chest, you’re not wearing a bra, before he’s shoving you back by the shoulders, scrambling to get as far away from you as quickly as he can.

His back hits the railing before he can get far enough. “What the fuck are you doing?” He spits, but can’t help but lick his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting where you’ve just been.

His stomach is suddenly hot.

You swallow convulsively, bleary eyed look turning to hurt, pressing your palm to your belly, twisting your fingers in the fabric of your sweater there. “I don’t— I didn’t—” Your eyelashes flutter shut, closing the hurt, confused look away from him for one blessed second. You press your other palm to your forehead, gripping yourself as if you’re trying to hold your very skin together.

What do you think you’re doing? He enunciates each word like the lash of a whip, and then licks his lips again to soften those same blows for himself.

Something is about to go inexplicably wrong here. Something already has. A tragedy worse than the death of a father

“I just thought that—” You blink your eyes open and they’re wet, and he’s about to bark at you to not fucking cry or he’ll lose it completely, but he swallows it or loses the thought to madness. He feels incomprehensibly insane, inconceivably triggered.

This is like nothing he’d ever imagined, and it tilts him on his axis, skews his vision, headlights blinding you in a dead-on collision.

What are you doing—thinking?

“I— I watched you grow up. I watched you—” You take an anxious step towards him, some word on your lips he can’t even make out because his hearing has gone out, and now he’s all of a sudden deaf in both ears instead of just one. He hardens his voice further. He makes sure you understand. “This is fucking wrong, and you need to get away from me right now,” reversing his movements, taking a threatening step forward, stomping his heavy boot against the floorboards beneath so that you’re jumping, skittering backwards like a frightened little rabbit.

And Joel, the beast, crushing her beneath his foot.

You wrap both of your hands around the delicate column of your throat; he imagines you’re holding in your hurt sounds, and it makes him even angrier.

“Listen to me—” he starts again.

But you cut him off, shaking your head, the confused sleep-look being blinked away so that now it’s spitting fire that is awake and angry in your gaze. “But you didn’t,” you say. “You barely know me. We’re almost strangers.” A scoff, and then switching again to soft, to girl-like, to hurt: “And I’m all grown up now, Joel.”

“I don’t know what you reckon is happenin’ here between us. Or what you think— what you—” He looks away, can’t bear the sight of it, you, fuck, he spits, again, fuck. “If I gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry, but—”

Then in a broken little voice grasping for straws, “But we were born on the same day,” and you say it like a question. Like it should mean more. Like, and he realizes it now, like it means the world.

He turns back to look at you, and he feels full of everything but mercy—too much regret. “And what? What do you think that means? That we’re connected—meant to be?” His voice sounds full of cruelty. “Don’t be delusional. It’s also the day my daughter died. D’you know that?”

A blink. “What?”

“She died on my thirty-fourth birthday.”

Again. “But… Wh—at?” Broken up word, and your chin does a little wobbling dance, jutting this way and that, and you have a dimple in your cheek that comes out when you’re happy, but also when you’re sad. When you’re about to cry. He sees it now, and starkly.

He’s ruining something sacred.

Joel steels himself. “Whatever it is you’ve made up in your mind about us, it’s a fantasy. Something not real that you need to let go of. Are you hearin’ me?”

“I— I think…” You won’t stop blinking, your hands look like they’re about to strangle you, and he steps forward as if to stop you or save you from yourself. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

But instead of saving, “Why would I? Why would I ever tell you that?” He does not want to hurt you, and yet he cannot help it, and Joel wonders if this is how your father felt every time he failed you—like a lesser man. “Wasn’t for you to know—it doesn’t mean the same thing to us.” That day. He makes himself clear: “Whatever child’s fantasy you’re still holding onto, you need to let it go.”

He rushes out of the bunk after you, a growled, you little shit, at Ellie as he passes her.

“Man, what’d you fuckin’ do?” She calls after him in that tone that tells him that of course she knows what’s happened. You two’ve never been able to keep a single thing from each other. Asshole! She shouts at his back as he catches up to your slowly retreating form. Your movements are sluggish, exhausted.

He calls your name and tries to moderate his tone from being as aggressive as he feels right now. “We gotta talk.” He follows after you, hot on your heels and then jumping back like a scared mut when you spin around on your ridiculous boot to face him.

“Speak.” It’s a high-handed tone, that one. One that says he’s the grunt here, and you the queen, that you’d both forgotten it last night, but the battlelines are clearly drawn now. There’ll be no more forgetting.

And it’s all his fault.

“You can’t—” His heart thumps and thumps and thumps like a pitiful thing. “You can’t undermine me in front of the boys like that. There’s a reason I was saying no.”

“Which is?”

“That the kid’ll be in the way.”

And you flinch and Joel prays for a gun to the back of the skull. Fucking Christ, but this is difficult.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he gruffs. “You know what I mean. This is hard work we do here. I don’t want the kid gettin’ hurt, I don’t want to be responsible for that. What goes on here is on me. The people who get hurt, it’s all on me, and I take that responsibility damn serious.”

You tilt your head at him in that queer, inspecting way of yours. The one he’d watched you pull like a weapon against your father so many times. He finds he hates it now, detests it, being wielded against himself. You ignore his words, “What was your arrangement here—with him? How did this work with the ranch?”

There has been that thought always, and obviously, of you as something higher, that symbol of the family or the safe haven this place has been for Joel. The not-respect he had for your father, but surely the understanding—you've always been all wrapped up in that. He's at times felt grateful for your existence, perhaps, in ways. That something as good, as better, as you could exist in the same world Joel exists in. Perhaps he’d admired you in ways, even as a young girl, for your goodness, your sincerity. But he finds now, at this look of disdain you’re wearing against him, that he hates the feeling of being less than you, of not being good enough to even stand in your presence.

He’s done wrong, marred it all in ugliness. He’s put himself in this position somehow, by hurting you, by confusing you, by wanting—

“I do what I need to, what the ranch needs. Whatever decision I need to make, I call it and it’s on me. Monthly reports to him and that was it. He understood that what happens out here is different to what can be told and sometimes you can’t plan for certain shit. He focused on the business, I focus on the ranch.”

By wanting what?

Bringing the mug to your lips, you take a long sip, humming. It’s all a taunt. Joel realizes, suddenly, and with painful clarity, that this has all been a grave miscalculation on his part.

As uncomfortable as it is for even him to admit, you are, and undeservedly, a person used to not being wanted, used to rejection. Joel understands this with the quick fire blink of an eye. And he has, in his shock, or— or… he doesn't know—instantaneous awakening—unintentionally alienated you, made an enemy.

I see, you murmur quietly coupled with a bitter cough of laughter that doesn’t sound anything like the sweet sound he’s used to hearing from you. Yes, a very bad mistake has been made indeed. “Well, you’re practically king here, aren’t you then? Quite the partnership the two of you had.” You smile wide, all bright teeth.

The coffee sloshes in the mug held in your unsteady hand, and he worries there’s something stronger in there too.

“Not at all. I’m just good at what I do.” He shoves fisted hands into his pockets, trying to keep patient. Trying not to throttle you, check your drink for himself.

“And is this how you’d like to continue going forward? I mind my own business, and you do as you please?”

He shakes his head slow, grinds the pulverized mint between his molars, “I want whatever you think’s best. You’re the Kelly now, after all.” You get a look on your face like you don’t like the sound of that at all, and he turns to spit the greens between his teeth, coughing roughly.

“Yeah, I’m sure of that,” you say with teeth bared, and then whipping your head away from him as if you can’t bear the sight of him a second longer. The coffee sloshes the other way, splashing against your wrist. He hopes it’s not burning you. “You know, you’ve got some fucking nerve, Joel. You—”

The robe—all of a sudden, saturated by the dark liquid, it grabs his attention. It’s in a plaid print, expensive looking, like something you’d see an older man wearing. A man’s robe? He cocks his head, “Whose robe is that?” Cutting your tirade short.

What? You spit, all sass, his stomach burns, turning to look back at him as if he’s gone idiotic, grown a second head. He feels a little bit like he’s in the process of doing so—wracked with growing pains. “It’s my ex-boyfriend’s. Can you focus, please? I’m trying to have a fight with you right now.” And you scrunch your nose too adorably for him to find anything besides endearing. Certainly not intimidating.

He grunts, displeased.

“I know you don’t want to hear it—”

“Then keep it to yourself.” You turn, continuing on your way up to the house, coffee flies with your spin, boyfriend’s robe whipping out in your wake as he follows like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

A little desperately, like a dog, too. A begging for scraps imitation game he hadn’t intended to play but feels obligated to now, and by his own doing.

“But I want to say—about last night…”

You turn on your heel out of nowhere again, and he stumbles to not rush head first into you, to not touch you.

The look on your face is all heartbreak. “Do you remember—when I was away at school—and I fell off the horse? When I came home with that broken arm and couldn’t get back on and you helped me? Do you remember that, Joel? How you reminded me how I was supposed to do it—”

He coughs, uncomfortable, shifting like that same scared dog. “You remember these things different than I do.” The words feel cowardly spilling from his tongue, but he should be honest. Shouldn’t he?

This is what he should be doing, isn’t it?

“I remember that you were kind. That you cared. That’s what I remember.” Your eyes are glossed again, and now it’s Joel that has to look away.

“I didn’t care. It was my job to serve your father. To do as he’d want me to. It was a responsibility.”

It’s happening again. A tale like any other you’ve too often heard. You know he’s not lying, and yet everything he says feels precariously close to it.

“Why are you being like this?” And you ask it very practically, like you really want to know, like you’ve asked the same sort of question to the same sort of figure before, and so now you’re extremely well practiced, an expert even.

“You remember these things differently. Wrong—That’s not how I meant any of it—whatever you’re thinkin’. It was just a kindness.”

“No, but I— but you…” That’s the point, you want to say, a kindness, but the words stick. You look away again, colored in shame, can’t bear the sight of him. “Maybe you’re right,” you whisper with that very remembered kindness of your lonely childhood thrown back in your face now. “Maybe I do.”

“Listen to me—I’d like for things between us to be— I’m not… I don’t now what to fuckin’ say to you.”

“Honey—” Dina calls from the porch, your father’s assistant, now yours by inheritance, you suppose. “We gotta go soon—gotta get you ready.”

“I have things to do with Dina. I don’t have time for you—for this. Do what you want, run it how you like,” the ranch, “But the kid stays. That’s final.”

You won’t look at him again, you decide. You’ll learn to want a new thing. You’ll learn to love a new thing.

If you had it in you, you’d laugh in his face.

Have you been in love with him? Probably not in any way that could’ve been called mature, it was the girl-fantasy of a neglected child latching on to a man who’d always seemed nothing but steady and kind.

So you’ll learn to grow up now, no choice left in the matter, let the fantasy go.

Despite your desire for debauchery and the three days of bad behavior you’d promised yourself, you’ve got shit to do.

An hour after your ridiculous non-conversation with the ridiculous man, you and Dina are stepping back out into the summer sunshine when your phone rings with a call from another ridiculous man for what promises to surely be another even more ridiculous conversation.

Jacopo.

You’d met through the friend of a friend at the party of someone or another in Monaco. Come from an Italian mother and a French father, you should’ve known he was going to be an arrogant asshole from the get go, but he’d been beautiful and momentarily distracting—things you knew you didn’t really want but told yourself would suffice. Really, all he was, was boring, the same as everyone else, wanting something from you without having to truly return anything in full.

Jacopo the jockey—sounds like a goddamn cartoon.

You liked to call him Jack, like he were the same sort of plebeian he saw all Americans as, and which he absolutely loathed with the sort of passion only an uppity French man could possess.

In the distance, you can see Joel, Frank and Bill propped up against the corral watching as Jesse runs Ellie atop a gorgeous chestnut Quarter. Sometimes she likes to compete, when she can get Joel to stop complaining about it for a second.

Dina makes her way towards them, “Tell them we’ll take the Ghibli,” you call after her to which she throws a thumbs up. At the sound of your voice he peers over his shoulder, finding your eyes immediately, catching there—fish on a burning hook. And then turns full around, leaning back to rest his elbows on the iron grate as you take French boys call, settling in to watch you.

“Hi, Jack, sweetie. How’s it hangin’?”

“I do not know what this means.”

Bore. “What do you want, Jacopo? I’m busy.”

“My love, we must speak. I have heard of your father. You should have call me, I will come to be with you now. Tell me where you are.”

“Why the hell would I want you to come be with me? We broke up. Remember?”

Joel watches you as the French idiot prattles on about how he loves you and how you need him and how the two of you belong together, blah blah. Odious man, you don’t know how you ever let him inside of you.

Across the lawn, he isn’t looking away, and his gaze burns where it touches. You feel—humiliated, hurt, rejected, so angry it’s a physical ache.

Not surprised.

Perhaps in some way, his rejection was what you’d wanted, had been looking for. Perhaps, it was your subconscious search for the easy way out. Because, and really, what else had you thought would happen when you’d thrown yourself at him half drunk? That he’d suddenly stop seeing you as the child he’d known you for always, take you as a woman, want you, fuck you right there on your newly dead father’s front deck?

Ridiculous.

You can’t even think about the birthday—about her. It’s a snipped lifeline, a crushed tether.

“Cherie, I must tell you I am feeling very neglected now by you. You don’t call. You do not love me no longer, or what is the problem?” More nonsense and really, this fuckin’ guy needs a boot in his ass pronto.

And the one still watching you—something even worse. He’s got his mangy brown cowboy hat pulled low over his brow, the one for the ranch, not the lovely dark one for escorting orphans to the funerals of dead fathers, and his jaw works the mint leaves you know he’s got between his teeth, slow and steady. You should hiss at him. Instead, your tummy smolders with heat and butterflies.

Stop looking at me, you horrible man, you want to shout.

Humming and hawing at the annoying voice coming through the phone, you smooth your palm over the silk of your dress. You’d wanted to look nice today, your first Kelly meeting. You wanted to look better than you feel, which is like shit, quite frankly.

There are tiny green paisleys patterned over the deep blue of the dress, a shock of dark red maroon for the cashmere knit of the cardigan tied over your shoulders, and a little silken kerchief wrapped around your throat, something from your mother’s things you’d gone through last night after Joel had ordered you to bed with your tail tucked between your legs and tears in your throat.

Twenty four years later, and your father still had all her things preserved in their bedroom as if she’d only stepped out for the afternoon. A veritable mausoleum right there in your house-not-home.

You’d never even stood a chance.

He watches you begin to pace across the deck, but the look on your face tells him you aren’t quite listening to whatever it is the person on the phone’s saying to you.

The gold and silver bangles that slide around your fine boned wrists jingle a song of temptation. Siren song, bird song, death march, something he’d follow with blind eyes, recognize deaf. And heavy gold and jeweled rings along your fingers that shine almost as bright as the spilled silk of your hair. Swathed in shades of jewel, you’re all woman, done up and ready to go out and devastate.

He doesn’t know how any man could ever look at you and not want you.

He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be the same from here on out.

“Who’s she talkin’ to?” He asks Dina, tipping his chin over at you. He can hear you raising your voice, something about you fucking French moron, and he doesn’t like the hunch he’s got about who it is.

“Boyfriend,” Dina says while she watches Ellie work the horse with hearts in her eyes.

“Thought he was an ex.”

She peers up at him suspiciously at that, a queer little smile tipping the corners of her mouth upwards. “Well maybe now that he knows how much she’s worth he’ll be coming back, huh?”

Joel swears all these fuckin’ women are conspiring against him, trying to send him to an early grave. “He steps foot on this ranch, and I’ll shoot him in the goddamn ass.”

She laughs, throwing her head back which inevitably draws Ellie’s attention. “You are literally so dramatic.”

“What’s he bein’ dramatic about now?” Ellie calls from behind, trotting up to the corral edge.

“Ohhh, nothin’. Just Joel being Joel. Right, old man?” Dina bumps her hip against his and he grunts, refusing to be goaded. He’s not being dramatic, it’s his responsibility to take care of you now, to watch over you.

That’s all.

“I’m never dramatic,” he tells them very seriously.

On the porch, the spat reaches a crescendo and they all turn to watch the show.

Why don’t you shove the whole Eiffel Tower up your ass, you fucking dipshit. And don’t you ever call me again!

“Little girl’s got a mouth on her,” Bill murmurs.

Ellie lets out a long whistle. Deserved, Dina adds. On the porch, you let out a strangled little screech, stomping the high heel of your boot as if you’ve got half a mind to throw a fit.

Joel feels hypnotized, speared through the gut.

He wants to know what the ex-boyfriend said. What his name is. Where he’s from and who he is and what he does and how he is and every single thing about him and how it was between the two of you.

He is suddenly desperate to know everything there is to know about you in a way that makes his throat feel swollen with guilt. In a way he didn’t ever think he’d want from you.

All the things you keep close, all the small intimacies that make you this person you are now, that’s what he wants.

You stomp down the steps, making your way towards them, eyes directly on his, and you’re too fucking beautiful for his own good, watching you feels like a sin.

Makes him feel in danger, like prey.

“All men should die,” you yell over.

See.

“I agree,” Dina says cheerfully.

“You know you can have a baby with the junk in your bones from another woman now,” Ellie adds helpfully.

“The junk in your bones?” Joel says.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Yeah, like really we don’t even need you for shit anymore.”

“They should all be put in a hole in the ground in the middle of Nebraska and only be let out when a girl wants to bone.”

“To bone—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ellie.”

“I love that idea,” you say, finally coming to stand right before Joel. He swallows hard, stays silent—feels like the cat’s finally caught his tongue.

“Why Nebraska?” Franks asks, puzzled.

He’s got to stop looking at you, he’s got to get away from the sight of your eyes, feels like the colors of you seem to pulse brighter, and he feels it all like a touch against his skin. He turns to look at Ellie over his shoulder and with a huge, shit-eating grin she says, “Cause who the fuck knows where fuckin’ Nebraska is, huh?” Her eyes flash to you and then quickly back to Joel, winking, cheeky, knowing. He feels the noose tighten.

They’re definitely conspiring against him.

The three of you cackle—at his expense.

“Where’re you two headed?” Bill asks with a frown when the three little hyenas settle.

“She’s got a meeting in Jackson,” Dina tells him. “First part’ll be quick—she’s just gotta kick some pushy jackass to the curb and tell him we’re not leasing mineral rights to him no matter how hard he begs or how much money he throws at us. Then…” she trails off, throwing you a worried glance, but your eyes are on the far off mountains now, and Joel watches a shaky swallow pass through your throat.

“Then we’ve got the will reading,” you say.

A sharp ache starts up behind Joel’s left eye, all the easygoing laughter of a few moments ago sucked away with a few words and a single reminder. That you’re not the girl you used to be, laughing and playing with Ellie, that your father is dead, that you have a world of responsibility to face now.

“You shouldn’t have to go all the way into town. They should be comin’ to you here.”

“I want to get out—see his office.”

“S’only been a few days, honey,” Frank says gently. “You should take it easy.”

“Thanks, Frank,” you reach out to squeeze his arm, flush of emotion across the bridge of your nose. “I’m okay, promise.”

Joel takes you in, in full. You’ve got something shimmery swept across the highs of your cheekbones and glossy lips, the fine grain of your skin—pristine like you're made of sugar and everything good in the world. The silky wisps of baby hair at your temples that look softer than anything he’s probably ever touched in his whole life. And you’re so beautiful it almost hurts the eye to look at you, beautiful in a way that makes men cower at the sight, like you’d be the strongest thing in the whole world. But he sees all the rest too. The delicate curves of your shoulders, the fine swoop of your collarbone and the quick-fire beat of your pulse beneath the fragile skin of your throat. There’s fear all around you in a way, a desperate sort of sadness.

He wishes there was more he could do for you, that he could bear the burden of all this entirely in your stead, that he could be all you need and want him to be without having to sacrifice his soul to give it to you.

Your eyes flash back to his, and he worries for a second that you can read his mind.

Behind you, Jesse pulls up with the sleek black of your father’s favorite car. Of course you’d choose this for today, bets you’ll find a way to turn it into a pretzel before the days end.

“Take Jesse with you,” he says low at your back as you turn for the car.

You look over your shoulder at him and his spine throbs. “No.”

Following you around the front of the car, he pulls the door open for you. “You’re not moving around alone anymore. He’s going. Jesse—” he whistles, “You’re going into town with Miss Kelly.”

“Yezzir,” he smiles with the sunny easiness only he possesses.

“Excuse me,” you turn to frown up at him, stomping your foot again, and you’re a little bit of a brat, he’s realizing. “There’s no room in the car for him. He can’t come.”

“He’ll take a truck,” he says, leaving no room for discussion, but then gentles his voice again, “Things are gonna be different now. You’re the Kelly, you can’t go on all gung ho about your new reality. You need taking care of. Can you not fight me on this, please?”

“What I need—”

“Is to be protected.”

You give a delicate little huff through your nose that he finds to be just about the cutest damn thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. “Then it’ll be my choice how and who.”

“It’s easier if you just do as I say.” Grasping, grasping, praying for patience.

“You overbearing d—”

“You’ll be okay meeting this jackoff? Don’t need me to come with you?”

You glower at him.

“I’m bein’ serious with you. I know you’re capable,” he puts his hands out, palms up in a conceding gesture, “But this is new, and there’s no shame in asking for support.”

At that, you get a confused little pinch between your brows, softest rose shaped mouth he’s ever seen—felt—all pursed up, and he thinks it’s wrong now, trying to be sweet to you after last night, looking at you this way and seeing the things he’s seeing. He should stay away, go away forever, find a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere to bury himself in like you’d said, but he worries now, and quite desperately really, that he won’t ever be able to leave your side again after all this.

“I have Dina.”

“I know, but—”

“Can you please just… not. I think— I think it’s better if we just steer clear of each other. If I need something,” you look away now, hazy look from last night back in your gaze again, like you’re remembering, like you’re wanting something else he’s not willing, not capable of giving, “I’ll ask for it. Otherwise you can focus on what’s important to you.”

Gut punch.

He soldiers on, can’t help it.

“You feelin’ alright?”

Your eyes flit back to him for a fleeting second and there’s honesty in your gaze now, maybe something extremely vulnerable too, and then shuttering again, looking away again. He’d demand your gaze if he had the right, insist you tell him everything there is to know with just your eyes if you were his.

But really, he’s got no right to ask anything.

So instead, “Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs, praying you don’t say him.

What’s wrong? A laugh and—nothing. Like your father isn’t dead, like he hadn’t hurt you as he had last night, like you’re looking for answers etched into the mountains or the sky. You bring your thumb to your right temple and his own aches in response, digging there for some unseen pain to be gouged out. “Tired—was having bad dreams.” Your voice sounds full of air, and you’ve got a huge emerald on your ring finger, an even larger turquoise stone beside it, other hand is covered in a row of opals—you’re a treasure of a girl, all the way inside and out, and it’s like he’s staring at a work of art, knowing that if he were to touch, it’d all be ruined. Your voice full of air floats in his bad ear and booms out the good one full of forlorn want.

It feels like you’re the only two people left in the whole of Wyoming, standing here together under the sweet sun, maybe the whole world, and he’s ridden in guilt, wants to tell you he’s sorry again, beg or something, and thinks that God should give you the chance to rewind time when you’ve made someone feel this bad without meaning to.

You whisper at the Tetons, and he’s all but forgotten, “I feel a little bit like I’m the real nightmare.”

“You couldn’t ever be, sweetheart,” he tells you and means it with his whole heart.

It’s all agony swimming in your eyes, and if you don’t stop him, he’s going to take you into his arms right here in front of everyone. You need more than protecting, it’s clear, you need caring for, you need loving—the sort of something he can tell you’ve never had in your whole life.

“Ready to go, honey?” Dina calls from the other side of the car, her canoodling with Ellie finally come to a pause.

You’re snapped out of your reverie, looking down at your feet, impractical boots again, these ones sexy and tall and not for his admiring, blinking away the wash of heat that’s bloomed across the bridge of your freckled little nose.

“Did she eat?” He asks Dina over your head.

“Ehhhhh, but I brought a smoothie,” she pulls out a thermos from her large bag and smiles all beaming and large.

“A smoothie ain’t food. Get something else in town.”

“You're so prepared,” Ellie sighs dreamily beside her.

“You’re annoying me,” you grouch at him, tossing your bag into the backseat, sliding into the luxuriously leathered interior as he shuts the door gently behind you, bending down to brace his palms against the open window.

“Drive careful. Call me if you need anything.”

“You’re kinda a helicopter mom. You know that, Joel?” Dina tells him with that sweet smile of hers.

“Do not entertain his nonsense,” you snap.

“She’s just grumpy because Vogue France posted a piece on her and the funeral—the heiress to watch, they’ve called her.”

“I don’t know who they think I am—Kendall fucking Roy? This isn’t HBO, it’s my goddamn life.”

“It’s fine, drink your smoothie, here,” Dina soothes.

“I don’t got a clue what any of that means,” Joel says. “And do up your belt,” frowning at you and pulling away just in time when you speed off with half the admonishment still on his tongue

The bar is loud and sweaty and crowded enough there’s room for your spite, which he knows, is all this night out is.

The day had gone from terrible to horrible to heinous, and he’s officially reached his limit now. You’d returned from your late morning in Jackson toting a gray cloud that’d settled over the entire ranch and everyone in it. All work had come to a slow and grinding halt, the mood morose, knowing that the lady of the manor was grieving and angry.

And then a few hours into the evening, you, Ellie, and Dina had spun into the bunk, already giggling on drinks he was certain were too sugary and way too strong to end in anything good. Looking to rile up the boys into heading back to Jackson and finding a bar to terrorize.

And so here he now finds himself, stepping through the door of The Mushroom, ridiculous name for a bar if anyone asked him, eyes searching for the gleam of your hair, that tiny fucking outfit you’d draped yourself in. You were hunting for trouble, to aggravate him, trying to hurt him with your, you’re not invited, Joel—no one wants you to come.

Angry, angry as a spitting fire.

He’d felt like shit about himself and your upset for a second, and then had thought: Well, are you going to cowboy up, Joel? Or just lay here and bleed?

Now, there’s something sick in him that wants more of it, to take everything you’ve got to give, to see how far you can go, to push you just a little bit further too.

A masochist, is what he reckons he might actually be.

He finds Ellie’s bent head whispering into Dina’s ear, giggling and dragging her fingertips up the other girls bare arm, and he feels a thump of fondness for the two—happier than he can say that they’ve finally worked it all out after months of their will-they-won’t-they struggle.

Making his way over to them, he catches Frank in the distance, dancing to the countryfied Abba cover of Chiquitita the local band’s currently playing while Bill stands nearby, serious and menacing, keeping anyone from getting too close to his partner.

No sign of you, and the backs of his knees itch and burn.

“Where is she?” He demands when he reaches Ellie at their place against the bar.

“Oh, dude. She’s gonna be soooo pissed.”

“Where, Ellie?”

Get you anything to drink, sugar? The bartender calls and Joel shakes her away, panic thumping in his gut the longer he doesn’t have eyes on you.

Dina knocks her head towards the end of the L-shaped bar, closest to the throng of dancing patrons, and there in the last seat and partially obscured by someone’s shoulder and ridiculously feathered hat, you sit.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Can you please just leave her alone. She needs to blow some steam off.”

“Yeah, Joel, we’re watching her,” Dina adds, always the peacekeeper.

Or blow someone, Ellie adds in a snicker, and he gives her a death glare. “You need to quit the asshole act,” she tells him, purposefully thunking her beer hard enough on the bartop that some of it sloshes over the lip of the bottle onto his hand braced against the edge.

Real mature.

“Changed my mind,” he tells the bartender when she heads back their way, “Shot of Jameson.”

Beside him, Jesse appears, beer in hand as he leans against the bar to watch you also. “That might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my whole life, honest to God,” he sighs wistfully.

Joel sees red—this is just too much. “Quit fuckin’ lookin’ at her,” he snaps.

Ellie snickers knowingly, and Frank and Bill join the group, picking up on the topic of conversation.

“That little girl can drink a grown man under the goddamn table,” Bill says.

“And looks good as hell doing it too—”

“Eyes off, you little shit,” Joel sends a threatening glance at Jesse again.

Ellie ignores them both. “He’s a finance bro or some shit—from New York—here to play cowboy dress up with the group he’s with. Nothing I can’t handle, and you need to cool it and leave or have a drink and let her have fun.”

“She’s vulnerable right now, Ellie—”

“Yeah, you would know.”

Joel’s turn to do the ignoring, “And she needs someone to watch her back.”

“I’m fuckin’ watching it, man. You’re so annoying, and I’ll have you know that—” The fucker’s got a thick lock of your long hair trapped between his probably manicured fucking fingers, smoothing it between his thumb and index and then looping it around and around, drawing you in closer.

Joel’s about to start howling.

You’ve done something to him, knocked something askew inside him, and he needs you to set it back to rights. Let him out of this saw trap he’s been caught in.

The man says something that has you throwing your head back in an overly eager laugh, loud and melodic in the most hypnotizing sort of way, meant to draw the eye or seduce or send his gut to twisting and aching.

Ellie’s saying something about how you need to have fun, how you need to find yourself, and all Joel can think is that he can be the one to give you that, to help you do all that while still making sure you’re alright, taken care of.

Over the wannabe cowboy’s shoulder, he sees your eyes land on him, and you give him one of those serenely beautiful smiles he knows means he’s about to lose his fucking mind and cause a scene.

A provocation of a smile is what it is.

You cross one long leg over the other, a flash of hot pink his eyes can’t help but flash to beneath the obscene hem of your skirt and lean in to whisper something, glossy lips right at his ear, and a tick starts up below Joel’s left eye. The fuckwit pulls you in closer, and you tip into him, hand on his shoulder—your eyes never leave Joel’s, and then you’re pulling him off the barstool and leading him into the throng of dancing people. He’s desperate to know what the back of your hot pink underwear looks like—string of lace wedged between the cleft of your ass, or silk wrapping around the full cheek like a perfect present? The man pulls you into himself, spinning you around, and you’re made up of blues and purples and pinks, shimmering like something that shouldn’t exist here amongst all the rest of them. Slinky little top made of silk like water and sparkles, your cheeks, flushed with drink or heat, but he’ll tell himself it’s because of him, because you’re still angry at him, thinking of him, and it soothes the tempest that’s brewing in his gut.

He spins you towards himself, the man Joel’s about to beat senseless, shooting the Jameson without really tasting anything but the insane jealousy souring to irrational fury on his tongue, it pulses in his throat once, twice, and the fucker tugs you into himself again by a handful of your ass in that too short skirt and sticks his tongue in your mouth. Joel slams the glass on the bartop, not seeing red anymore, something like dark spots now, he’s so fucking pissed off.

Ellie yelps his name, her and Jesse scrambling after him, but they’re too late and he’s there already, pulling you away, and gently because he might be feeling a little bit like a demon right now, but he knows what you are and how to handle you no matter what—and slams his fist into the fuckers nose, the satisfying crunch of broken bone and a pathetic cry sounds as he hits the sticky bar floor. The people around peer over in nothing more than mild curiosity, this is a cowboy bar after all.

He watches the man for a second, making sure he stays down, and then turns to look at you and isn’t at all surprised when he finds that look of victory on your face.

“Ready to go?” Voice all sweet innocence.

You’re going to kill him.

Spinning around on the toe of your boot, the hem of your little skirt flutters with your movements and he catches a flash of cheek, mystery of your panties still unsolved.

“You’re a real dumbass, you know that?” Ellie snarks as they pass the group of them.

He chooses to ignore that observation. “Don’t stay out too late. And let Bill drive back.”

Following you out into the night, he tries to take control of himself, to lie away the heat he feels sitting heavy in his stomach.

He wishes he had a mint leaf to pulverize between his molars, he wishes he could pull you over his knee and spank your ass for being such a bad girl. And looming behind you, he knows you’re not even a little bit intimidated by his size as you dance and prance across the parking lot towards his truck.

“I know you’re ticked off because of last night and today, but you can’t lash out just because you’re angry with me.”

All he gets in response is that head-thrown-back wind chime laughter—the real one, which is something.

“You need to stop misbehaving,” he breathes down your neck.

“Hmm, I don’t think I will,” you singsong.

“Are you drunk?” Refusing to be distracted, he’s going to stand strictly on business, he promises himself.

You spin around again—always catching him off guard and pissing him off—hooking yourself on his shirtfront, pulling yourself into him like you’re trying to dance some fucked up dance he doesn’t know the steps to.

“Not at all.”

“You need to not be touching me right now,” he warns, the threads of his control dangerously close to snapping, walking you backwards without putting his hands on you. Chest to chest, he feels like he could breathe fire if he really set his mind to it.

“Yes, sir,” you say sweetly, dragging your palms down his chest and belly before letting him go, skipping ahead of him, humming an off-key rendition of whatever kitschy, poor excuse for a country song they’d been playing at the end in there.

The even poorer excuse for a skirt bounces along the curve of your ass, driving him fucking mad—he’s goig to have a heart attack, he’s middle aged, he can’t handle this shit anymore—you.

Stop that, he growls.

“God, you don’t like anything—you’re no fun,” you pout.

Coming to the truck, he yanks the door open for you. “Get in the damn truck.” And he makes sure to turn away and not ogle your ass as you hop in, his palm hovering in the vicinity of your elbow if you need him.

The prospect of an hour and a half of the dark drive and the scent of your musky sweet perfume and sweat soaked skin has his heart pounding. When he pulls his door open, you’re turned in your seat expectantly waiting for him, folded knees up on the seat and pink triangle right there to taunt him.

“Sit right—put on your seatbelt.”

“You’re so bossy.” An exaggerated sigh and your voice is so fucking sassy, a tiny bit of a needy whine threaded through it, he feels his patience snap.

Grabbing hold of your damp cheeks he squeezes hard enough to force your full mouth into a pout and giving your head a little shake he says, “And you need managing, little girl. Put your fucking belt on, or I’ll put it on for you.”

Eyes all pupil and gone blurry, you lick your lips and he can smell the sweet fruit scent of your breath. He groans, pushing you back—mistake, mistake, putting his hands on you at all—and peels out of the parking lot, and he is not hard in his jeans for you.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask after several moments of forced silence.

“No.”

“Not even for last night?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it either.”

“Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”

Jesus, he mutters. “There’s nothing to discuss—already told you what I think and how it’s going to be and that’s final. You need to let it go, you hear me?”

You give a little groaning screech through your clenched teeth, turning away from him, still not wearing your goddamn seatbelt, never doing as he says.

Toeing your boots off roughly, the little skirt hitches high enough on your thighs he catches a glimpse of the smooth glowing skin of your hip, eyes trying to watch the road and your thighs at the same time.

“You’re horrible,” you say through a grimace, but your voice cracks a little bit at the end, and you’ve still got your face turned away so that he can’t tell if he’s made you cry or not now.

“Are you cryin’?” He demands.

“No,” you sniffle, wiping your cheek on a lifted shoulder

“Yes you are, liar.” Fuck—fuck, fuck.

“Well you’re bein’ mean,” you whine, finally turning to look at him again, and you’re all rose glow, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, lips red as a cherry.

No man should be tested like this. It’s wrong—unnatural.

He tries to gentle his voice and steady the pounding of his heart, pressing down on the gas, wishing the road would disappear from beneath the tires of the truck and that he could have you home and away from him already. “Not bein’ mean, sweetheart. Just—just…” He sighs, “Goddamnit, just don’t how how to handle you,” he curses, losing the grasp on his gentleness.

“See—you are angry with me!” A tear slips down your cheek, and Joel’s mouth waters.

His heart kicks up another notch, hypnotized, “You make me fuckin’ crazy—is that what you wanna hear?”

“Yes.” You turn full in the seat to face him, bent knees against the center console block his view of the apex of your thighs. Fucking Christ.

“Sit right. You’re flashing your bits,” he tries and fails to focus on the road.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I want you to see them, stupid.”

Jesus. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Only one High Noon.”

“The hell is that? And quit lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Your knees shift against each other, and he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight he feels like he could rip it out of the dash.

“You fuckin’ know like what.”

“Well if you hadn’t been such a cock block earlier, I’d be looking at someone else like this right now.”

And the teasing is too much. The bare legs and the tiny skirt and the hair and the lips and the sound of your voice, the kiss last night replaying in his mind over and over and over again like some lovesick taunt, the look of hurt he’d put on your face and the idea of you bare and slick, taking some other man that isn’t him. It’s too much.

He jerks the truck roughly onto the road shoulder and into the grass, wheels spinning and gravel flying. Joel—you squeal, being jostled in your seat so that all he can see are soft thighs and pretty tits bouncing in his peripheral. He puts the truck in park, ripping his seat belt off, reaching over to tug you roughly forward by the nape, his fingers twisting in your hair in a hold he knows is too hard for something so delicate, his other hand grips below the bend of one knee squeezing hard.

“If you think I’m gonna let you spread your legs for anyone fucking else—” he growls.

“Anyone else?” You laugh in his face, eyes spinning with something a little maniacal.

He thought he’d been worried for his soul, that taking you would be the undoing of everything he’d tried so hard to mend back together after Sarah. And really, he had tried so hard—to be good, to be better, to atone for all he’d not done before her, all he’d done after her. He’d tried to make himself into something that was respectful of her memory and the second chance Kelly had given him.

But right here, and again because anytime he looks at you, is within a mile of your vicinity, it feels like you’re the only two people on the whole goddamn planet, he doesn’t think he really gives a fuck for being good or atoning or souls at all. Not even a little bit.

He follows your lead from last night and kisses you, is sure to take your tongue this time. Forcing his thumb and forefinger between the line of your molars, he presses down hard enough to hurt the baby soft skin, spreading your jaw open wide so that he can lick into your mouth deep and wet. He wants to scare you, cow you, intimidate you into behaving with this hunger that seems to swallow him whole—remind you that he’s let you have your fun thus far, but the both of you know who’s playing games and who’s not.

You let out a shocked little gasp onto his tongue, fingers twisting in the fabric over his shoulder, and he tightens his grip under your knee, tugging you just that little bit further forward, and when he pulls back to look at you, spit slick, swollen mouth and wide eyes, tits about to spill out of your top, you push his face away roughly, dragging your nails down the skin of his cheek with a tiny snarling growl.

Spoiled little brat.

“Don’t be fuckin’ childish,” he snarls back, and pulls you roughly over the console and into his lap.

“I can’t stand you,” you pant, settling above him, coming in to kiss him again, and he can’t deny it anymore. He’s hard as fuck for you.

You moan into his mouth, high and throaty at the same time, girlish little sigh at the end that has him gripping your hip tightly, trying to stop himself from thrusting up against you.

“Can you taste him?” You lick his tongue. “He kinda looked like you, didn’t he? That’s why I chose him.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s going to stop this now, at any moment. He’s going to push you away and tell you this is wrong and that the two of you can’t do this.

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your tits high against his chest and grinding your lace covered little cunt against his cock.

He groans into your mouth, pushed straight over the edge and free falling, cupping your ass to lift you off of himself a little bit, he just needs a second, before he takes a breath and presses you back down harder, rolling your hips against his lap. Little animal sounds, an ah, ah, ah and an oh, coupled with his mewled name. Cupping the soft of your ass in the palms of his hands, his calluses scrape against silken skin, and you fit him as if he’d dreamt you up just for himself; perfectly lush curves he can squeeze as hard as he wants because you’re not getting away from him now that he’s caught you in his snare. He drags his fingertips up the roundness of your asscheeks, and the mystery’s solved, it’s a thong. Catching the lace between his fingers he pulls the flimsy string upwards and tight against your pussy, a pained moan when he pulls even harder, making sure the fabric digs against your skin.

He knows if he cups you there you’ll be wet for him, for him, no one else but him. Knows he could bend you face first over the console, pull the soaked lace aside and suck on your wet little clit, make you come in his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans.

Joel, Joel, Joel, you hum in a dream voice.

He can feel two little dimples at the low of your back, imagines what they’d look like with his thumbs gripped there as your ass takes his cock.

He can’t say it enough—he feels fucking insane.

“Touch me,” you beg, sliding and pressing against him, long hair like water slipping all over and against him too.

Oh my God, he whisper moans when you spread your knees as wide as the seat allows, rocking your hips in short little hitches against the ridge of his cockhead. He knows your little clit is right there, cunt a knot of indescribable heat against him, and you pull your mouth away from his, letting your head fall back, hair a tangled curtain. He drags his nails back down your ass hard enough he hopes he’s leaving marks, leaning forward to lick along the salt tracks of your tears, watching you use him.

“Do not fucking come,” he orders. He can’t—he can’t watch you do it and not be inside you when it happens, and the two of you absolutely cannot take this that far.

He pulls your hips up again, forcing your movements still and you huff at him, whining.

“We gotta stop.”

Noooo. “No, Joel. Please,” you cry, trying to pull yourself towards him—your mouth is so swollen—trying to escape his hold and get what you want for yourself.

Grasping at the last vestiges of his sanity, “Fuck— No. No more.” He lifts you off his lap and back into your seat, sitting back to press himself against the door and adjusting the throbbing erection in his jeans, so hard it’s making him a little nauseous. If he doesn’t stop, he’s going to stuff his cock inside of you right here and now. He tucks the thick head up under his waistband, trying to find any sort of momentary relief.

There isn’t enough oxygen in this truck. He needs air, space, to taste you.

“Fine,” prim little nose in the air. You stretch one leg out across the console to dangle over his groin and let the other drop to the cab floor. “That’s fine—I’ll just take care of it myself then,” you tease provocatively, fingertips dragging up the inside of your thigh.

He shoots forward to stop your movement, gripping your wrist in a vice—baby bird bones beneath his fist, and you moan at his touch like the little wanton he’s coming to realize you are, writhing in your seat. “Don’t you fucking dare. I swear to God I’ll put you over my knee.”

“Jokes on you, I’d like that shit,” you sass back, ripping your wrist out of his hold, little socked foot kicking towards his face. He catches it, holding it in his grip and squeezing. “And I don’t really care if you’re not mad at me because I’m mad at you.”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” and the mood changes, smolders into something more serious, more honest.

“Why didn’t you go today? The lawyer asked you to—” You’d wanted to find him as soon as you’d gotten home earlier, demand he give you an explanation. Cowardice had won over that desire, and going out to find a drink and a replacement man had seemed the easier alternative.

“Wasn’t my place.” Spreading his thighs wider in his seat to accommodate himself, he presses his hips forward, and you can make out the heft of his cock beneath his jeans—your belly twists all full of heat and bubbles.

“Did you know he was leaving you something?”

He laughs a bitter bark of a laugh. “No—never thought—” the words die in his throat and he stares out the window, lost to the memory of your father. “No, I didn’t think he was leaving me anything before I got the call.”

“It’ll make a good nest egg.”

“Don’t want it.”

He won’t turn to look at you now, and you know that this conversation in the aftermath of touching you shames him.

“You’re taking it. You don’t have a choice.” His eyes flash fire at you and then flit away. “He had all your banking information, it’s probably already there.”

Fucking Christ, he spits the murmured curse, bracing his elbow against the curve of the steering wheel, cupping his palm over his mouth as if to keep his anger and frustration in. The bulge of his bicep beneath his dark hoodie distracts you for a moment.

You’d spent enough time watching him over the years that you’d learned all the things you knew he tried to hide in plain sight. That gentleness, that patience, that heart—that he is an inconceivably good and honest man. Things that are ultimately impossible to hide.

Your eyes flash to the temple where a gristle of scar tissues is slashed across his skin. The meaning behind a scar like that, coupled with his bad ear and his green eyed photograph—it’s hard to hide. People can always tell when you’ve tried to kill yourself, you know.

Which all goes to say—and you’re quite certain of this—that yes, the two of you are strangers, in ways, but in others, or in your own way, you know this man. You understand his nature. You know he wouldn’t have ever wanted it—that he does not want it and never will. He isn’t the sort of man who’d ever look a million dollars in the eye and feel moved by them.

His humanity means more to him than his life, you’d heard Tommy say about him once to your father when you’d been an eavesdropping little girl. You hadn’t understood at the time, but now you do.

The dark pullover and jeans, incongruously boyish, the scuffed boots—he’s so himself and so fucking hot and you want him so, so badly, and looking at him sitting here now, gorgeous, hair mused by your fingers, and your slick smeared across his jeans—you look down at your own twisted fingers in your lap, a little ashamed now too—and you can’t fathom why or how he’d ever look at you and feel moved by the likes of you either.

You’re ashamed that you’re even angry at him for it at all, resentful of this gift your father has given him when really it is not only resentment, maybe not even truly that at all. More so, it’s a complicated mixing pot of feelings that these two men seem to have always been twisted up into knots together inside of you. Resentful, not because you don’t want him to have it. You want him to have everything he deserves or could ever think to want and more, but perhaps, because this was the final nail in the coffin scrap of proof that your father had cared about him in a very real way that you’d never experienced—in a way that was entirely Oswald Kelly’s own choice and not because of dead mothers or obligation or legacy.

“It’s good he left it for you,” you say gently and mean it.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes, looks away, from under the cover of his palm says, “S’not fair to you.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me. This is about you and you deserving this, and I’m glad he gave you your due. He should’ve left more.”

His eyes flutter shut, sighing deeply and shakes his head. “You’ve made me into something I’m not. You need to see that.”

“You’re not some sort of cautionary tale, Joel.”

“You don’t know a thing about it,” voice like he could he angry but is being very careful to remain not. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, the reasons why I came here. You should look at me and see nothin’ worthwhile.”

“My father saw something,” you argue. “You let my father see that something. And I do too, no matter what you say, no matter what you do or how hard you push me away; I’m used to it, and you won’t change my mind.”

He gives you a look like you’re hurting him, like your truths hurt him. “We’re goin’ home. This is enough,” he gruffs, pulling the truck into drive again and peeling out of the grassy knoll.

Fight dying in your throat, you feel suddenly exhausted, shivering coldly, belly an ember of unsated lust, your orgasm is tight and wet between your legs and you don’t want to argue or impose yourself on him anymore. You don’t want to feel like you’re imposing yourself now when he’d never made you feel like that before.

The night is a pitch dark blur falling away behind your glazed over eyes, and huddling into yourself against the door, you hide your face away in your shoulder, belly swooping with nausea.

“You drive too fast, I’m dizzy,” you mumble, and he immediately slows, foot easing off the gas.

“You gonna puke?”

“Yes, all over your face.”

“I’m serious, darlin’. Need me to stop?”

“No. I just want to be home,” said in as small a voice as you can manage, hoping he won’t catch your words, and soon he’s turning off into the long drive to the house.

When he pulls to a stop, you scramble to grab your boots before he can say anything else, but he’s unnaturally quick for such a large man, out the door and around the nose of the truck, pulling your own door open before you can even get a single boot on. He pulls them from your grasp, and then tugs you bodily out of your seat, slinging you over his shoulder as if you were some sack of nuisance prone potatoes. You screech, flailing, trying to knee him in the gut, but he bands a strong arm across the backs of your thighs, pinning you in obedient place. “Quit.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” You howl, hitting him repeatedly on the ass, trying to wriggle and make his life as difficult as you possibly can.

This man has absolutely no consideration or respect or sense of personal space!

Technically, neither do you—but that’s neither here nor there.

You scream like a hyena, shrill and long and he pinches your ass hard, right at the inner crease of your thigh and ass cheek, too close to your still wet pussy for comfort. “I said quit.”

“Everything alright out here?” You hear Jesse’s voice call from the direction of the bunk, they must’ve beat you two here while you’d been trying to seduce Joel into making you come.

The snap of Joel’s fingers and then, “Mind your own fucking business.”

“You are so rude.”

He bumps you on his shoulder, jostling you on the soft of your belly and making your cunt go even tighter. You hate him. “Quiet, you.”

Letting himself in the dark of your house, he makes his way up the stairs while you hang quietly upside down now, a little astounded, a lot turned on by how strong he is, lugging you all the way upstairs without even a change in his breathing.

But as soon as he steps foot into your bedroom, now set to rights from yesterday’s disaster, you feel the change come on him. The shift and deepening of his breaths, the expanse of his ribs going wide and winglike as he sucks in a big gulp of air. You press your palm flat to the center of his back, feeling the whistle of his breath go in and out of him until he’s slipping you off his shoulder to bounce gently backwards onto your soft bed.

He stands above you for a quiet moment, and you take in the broad shape of him backlit by the moonlight of your open drapes. He’s huge and imposing cast in this darkness, something out of a dream.

Literally—out of your own teenage fantasy dreams.

Has anyone in all the world ever wanted someone as badly as you want him?

You can feel the press of his left knee against the inside of your right one, and you wish he’d put it between your thighs, join you on the bed.

“Can I ask you something?” You reach your fingers out and he tangles his hand with yours and it’s a small victory.

“Yeah.”

“Would you come to my funeral?”

His fingers jolt— “What?”

“If I died.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“Tell me that you would—” You tug him forward and he lets himself come, bending over your prone form, braced on one arm and still holding onto your fingers with the other. “—That I wouldn't be alone even there.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Would you?”

“Makes me angry when you say shit like this—as if you don’t believe I’m going to take care of you.”

“Please tell me, Joel. Promise me—” and you reach up to gently touch the scar across his temple.

He goes frozen and understanding. “I’d come,” and you know it costs him something to give in to such an imagining and it makes you all the more grateful for it.

Fingers sliding back into the curls at his temple, silver speckled, you know, you pull him further towards you until he’s close enough to press a softly hot kiss to his mouth. The two of you hold there for a moment, another, another, you can feel the wash of his heavy breathing through his nose, the flutter of his long lashes tangling with yours—you hope he’s searching for you in the dark—and you lift your knee up onto the bed, bending to open yourself to him.

He pulls back, hand shooting to your jaw to grip you tightly in place, breath ragged, animal being hunted.

You smile.

“Not gonna fuck you,” he says low.

“Why not?” It’s what you want, you deserve to have what you want. He squeezes your face once, presses another hard, too quick kiss to your mouth and then flips you over onto your belly, turning your skirt up over your ass to expose you. He tugs once on the string of your thong, drawing his finger along the lace wedged between your ass cheeks and then pulls his hand away for a moment before he’s spanking you hard and quick.

Owwww, you whine, hitching your rump towards him, wanting more despite the sting. He bends his head and bites you even harder at the inner corner of your asscheek, teeth digging hard and long enough to leave a mark. You whine again, high and mewling, trying to escape his meanness and he smacks you again on the other cheek.

“Go to bed, little girl. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

And he’s leaving you, broad shouldered form slipping out your bedroom door and leaving you aching and angry to scream into your pillow.

You’re pretty sure you hear his deep laugh before the slam of the door sounds below, and you’re slipping your greedy fingers into the ruined wet of your panties, petting away the ache he’s left.

The late May night is cool, despite the daytime heat, and Ellie shivers in her Carhartt, watching as Joel slips out the back kitchen door of the big house.

“The hell is going on with those two?” Jesse says beside her, pulling long on his beer. The litter of yellow cans around them speaks to his mullish whining that he’d not been able to pull tonight. Sometimes he annoys her, but in that sort of endearing little brother way that makes her want to kick his ass and protect him at the same time.

“Nothin’, they’re fine—just gotta fuck it out.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Naw—just smarter than you, man.”

“They like each other?”

“God, Jesse, you wouldn’t see an obvious thing if it were a tipsy bison barrelin’ towards you full speed in the middle of the day.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says a little pathetically. Moping men—Ellie really can’t be assed to deal with them all.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to understand. I do—I see all, I know all. You mere mortals wouldn’t understand.”

“S’kinda weird, no? Them two—him bein’ so much older, her bein’…well, you know— her.”

“Nope. Makes perfect sense—they need each other, you see.”

He shrugs, I guess—“You’re fuckin’ weird, too. You know that?”

She takes a swig of her beer now also, hoping the two idiots she loves most in the world, after Dina of course, figure each other out before the whole ranch has to suffer for it too.

“Wrong again, Jesse. Wrong again.”

Chapter 3; Little Freak

Netherfeildren’s Masterlist

Updates Blog

#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller x FMC #joel miller #joel miller smut #the last of us au #joel miller fanfiction

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petew21-blog · 4 months ago

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Make him a REAL man

It's hard for me to admit it, but I hate my son. There, I said it. I used to love him like a real father should have. But now, I just can't stand to look at him, wasting away his life being a f... choosing a different lifestyle. Fuck, I can't call it like that, he just became a fag and I can't accept that.

He used to be such a sweet boy. Always good, obedient. Maybe I should have been more strict. I was too liberal while raising him with my wife and now look at him

These are the photos he normally posts on social media

Him, spreading out in the leather clothes on my bike. Yeah, I have to admit he takes care of his body pretty well. But I hate to think about all the things he does with some other men. It's not NORMAL. I wanted to raise a straight good son, who will give a grandchild. Not a queer, childless piece of shit

Fuck, look at this photo. He even looks as if he's enjoying being observed. God knows where his hand is on this photo.

I have to stop this. No more of this fag stuff

Maybe I was a bit irrational. But I do think that this will be a good thing for our relationship. i will put his life in order and he will get to see how good a life of a heterosexual man is.

Yes, I swapped our bodies. He is in my obese 53 year old body, while I have to make him straight.

It might seem gay, for what I'm gonna say right now, but god damn I love his body. I have never been this fit in my entire life. And also, I get to have sex in his body tonight. Not only masturbate, which is also great, because my son seems to be a big shooter. I couldn't believe how far it got yesterday

I got out of the bathroom, walking shirtless back to my room, where my son's friend Ashley was waiting.

In the hallway my body stood with arms crossed

Henry:"What the hell you think you're doing?"

Me:"Just taking a shower. Is that forbidden?"

Henry:"Dad, I thought we agreed to respect our lives. No you brought Quinn here for god knows what"

I laughed and replied:"We're only gonna do what God wants, DAD. And don't forget that tonight is your anniversary with MOM. So you better get ready, that woman is a beast in bed"

I knew the idea of sex in my body with his mother would shatter him and I was right. He didn't even let out a single word a sI walked past him.

Ashley was sitting on the bed, watching me lift in the doorframe.

Ashley:"Henry? You forgetting something?"

I lowered myself down, wiping away the sweat from my forehead

Me:"Oh sorry, miss. I should have payed more attention to you and not to myself" I approached her seductively, making her nervous

Ashley:"No, I meant the homework. Henry, what has been up with you lately? You seem different. And not gay. Is everything ok?"

Me:"Everything is just fine. I have a pretty girl on my bed and just realized how much time I wasted not giving you more attention"

I lowered myself on top off her and started making out with her passionately.

Ashley:"I think we can let the homework be for a while"

Me:"Great idea"

I'm gonna have sex for the first time in my sons body with a proper woman. Not with a dude as my son did. I wonder how different anal sex is?

As we both got naked I inserted my hard dick into her. Fuck yeah

I knew that Ashley would love to have her first time with me. Over the years I had some tricks in my sleeve and knew just how to use them.

As I was fingering her, I noticed someone peeping through the window, jerking himself off. My body stood there, enjoying the show.

I got down to lick Ashley's pussy and as I did, I was still watching my body at the window, hoping he would enjoy the show

Ashley:"Henry, I need you inside of me!"

I smiled and winked at my body behind the window. This is gonna be a very long night for both of us.

#body swap #body switch #gay to straight #straight to gay #father son body swap #son father body swap #family body swap #body swapping #body switching #straight sex

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pretty-little-mind33 · 1 year ago

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Christmas Special

dad!James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: James wants to make his family's Christmas special.

Genre: Fluff <3

Warnings: pure happiness, implied sexual relationship

James's family was never one for decorating for Christmas. Or rather, decorate in ways younger James dreamed of. He knew his parents loved him dearly, but while money could buy many things, it could never buy him the time with his parents he so desperately craved.

Often, he would spend Christmas alone with the housekeepers and although he'd pretend he didn't mind so he wouldn't disappoint his parents, or hurt his housekeepers' feelings, when he lay alone in his room he couldn't help but feel lonely.

So, considering this was James's very first Christmas with you and your one-year-old son, you knew he was overly determined to make this evening special.

You wake to a loud crash coming from the kitchen, accompanied by an even louder hiss of pain and curses, as well as a shrill scream of a baby. You sit up abruptly, fear washing over you until you hear James shout from downstairs. "Ah, shit, fuck, shhh, I got it, baby! Stay in bed, please!" Another crash is accompanied by the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs and a small smile curls at your lips.

You don't listen to your husband as you pull yourself away from the warmth of your covers and make your way downstairs. It smells like burnt cinnamon cookies when you enter the kitchen and your eyes round. An array of pots and utensils, in various degrees of cleanliness, are scattered across the counters. Your frown deepens as you feel overwhelmed by the mess.

"Darling?" James's voice pops the bubble in your mind and you look at him. He's standing in the doorway with Henry, your son, sitting on his hip. His messy curls are messier than usual and the brown is sprinkled with white specks of flour to match the patch on his cheek. He sends you a weary smile.

"What happened?" you ask, looking at the faint tears in your son's little eyes from being woken up much too early. His small hands have found home in James's messy hair and he's smiling now, happy to be in his father's arms. When you walk over and scoop Henry into your arms, he makes a small sound of disapproval but nuzzles into you anyway. James looks a little guilty.

Holding Henry with one arm under him, you move closer to your husband and swipe your other hand over the dust of flour on James's nose. "You're a mess, honey," you say, hiding a small smile with a playfully annoyed frown.

James clasp his hands together to remove the flour and then runs a hand in his hair. "I didn't mean to wake you or Henry," he says solemnly and looks around at the mess. "I wanted to surprise you with some Christmas cookies."

You laugh. "Well, I'm certainly surprised – just with a lack of cookies," you joke.

Hearing your laughter, Henry giggles and squirms as his hands find themselves at the ends of your hair and he pulls happily. "Oww," you groan, tilting your head in the direction he's pulling so the pain will hurt less. James moves in closer and gently unclasps Henry's little fists around your hair.

"No, bud. It hurts Mummy when you do that," he coos and holds Henry's hands instead.

You pass him to James, going to fix your hair. "Thanks," you sigh.

James smiles and holds Henry, mouthing and mumbling things as he tickles his son’s sides. "Do you think I should put him back to bed? It's only 7am," James asks in a baby-voice and he follows you around the kitchen as you access the mess.

You turn to him and tickle Henry's stomach, which earns you a little squirm and giggle. "If you think Henry is going back to sleep after this, you're mistaken."

James nods and then brings Henry to his high-chair and sets him down. After a kiss on the forehead, James turns around and Henry reaches for the wand in his back pocket of his jeans. As he holds it in his hand, you leap up and take your husband's wand from your son and throw it to James.

"You have to be more careful with this, Henry could hurt himself," you reprimand as James sheepishly twirls his wand around his finger.

"I'm sorry," he says and then raises his wand and mutters as a spell that makes the clutter float around the room and clean themselves until the kitchen is sparkly clean. You walk over to him, sliding a hand up his bare arm and press a kiss to his cheek.

"Come on," You whisper with a smile and pat his arm, "Henry must be hungry, I'll get him some applesauce and you can start those cookies again, hmm?"

* * *

Once the evening rolls around, James seems to have calmed down a little. His nerves don't seem as on high-alert as he adjusts his hair in the mirror and you smile at how happy his reflection looks. You stand, adjusting the reindeer antlers on your head and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You press your nose to his back and inhale. "You smell like Christmas," you smirk, catching his eye in the reflection, "New cologne?"

James touches your hands and turns around to twirl you. Your green dress swirls and he grins at your wide smile. "Mmhmh, you look stunning," he whispers, pulling you in and kissing your cheek. You giggle.

You hear the doorbell and James's eyes light up like a child. "They're here!" he exclaims and with quick nervous movements he positions your antlers to his liking and kisses your forehead. "Go say hi and I'll wake Henry from his nap."

You laugh at his antics, calling after him as he scrambles to your son's room. "Hurry!"

When you make your way downstairs and open the door, Remus and Sirius stand in front of the others. Remus is dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweater and Sirius, who hangs on his arm, has a matching one. Equally as ugly on him and they look adorably stupid. Sirius seems ecstatic to see you as he is practically jumping up and down with excitement.

"Where is he?"

Clearly, his excitement is for someone else. You open the door a little wider. "James? Oh - he's upstairs with – "

Suddenly, Sirius brushes past you and opens his arm wide as he sees your husband and son. Henry is rubbing his eyes sleepily but he's dressed in his reindeer costume, the soft headband fit around his ears and James had drawn on a little reindeer nose with some of your cherry-blast lipstick. Sirius happily crushes them both in a hug as he exclaims, "There's my boy!"

You're not sure if he means James or Henry, but you aren't even sure Sirius knows the answer to that as he pokes Henry's little red nose and tousles James's hair, just below his own pair of Christmas antlers. The ones that match yours. "Look at you and your little deer-ling family," Sirius smirks, happy with his pun.

Remus touches your arm and, returning into the world of adults, you turn and he leans down to kiss your cheeks. "You look well, Moony," You say, searching his face for any scars you haven't seen but find none.

Remus just smiles timidly. "Sirius has been taking excellent care of me," he assures you with a smile and you can tell the smile is meant for himself instead of you. "Seems like Jamie has been doing the same?" Remus teases as he looks behind you at your husbands.

You look at them too. James and Sirius are cooing at Henry, and the latter is laughing happily as Sirius tickles under his fuzzy-sock covered feet. You grin, nodding. "Oh yeah, we've all been well. Jamie was so antsy for your arrival, he woke us up at 7am to bake cookies." you laugh.

James pipes up, "Objection your honor. Those cookies were for you and Henry, no one else," he insists and you can hear the pout in his voice.

"Well, those cookies were non-existent but we did make some other ones for everyone. I bet Henry would want to show you all inside, hmm?" You hum, watching Henry's look of excitement at the mention of cookies.

James puts Henry down on the floor, holding up his hands, and passes him to Sirius, "Here bud, why don't you and Uncle Sirius find the cookies in the kitchen, ok?"

Henry seems more than happy to have Sirius walk with him to the kitchen, and judging by Sirius's wide grin, he doesn't seem to mind spending time with Henry either. James pats Henry's head one last time before Henry and Sirius disappear towards the kitchens.

James walks over and hugs Remus hello, his arm then twisting around my waist as he stares into my side and looks at me, "Isn't my lovely wife just so pretty with her little antlers?" James flicks one and you laugh.

"She's lovely, Prongs. Your entire family is," Remus compliments.

James stands prouder and kisses your temple. Then, he looks at Remus, "Are you and Sirius thinking about kids yet?"

Remus rolls his eyes. "Ask Sirius, he's still a child himself."

You put your hand on Remus's arm comfortantly. "Give him time, Remmy. I promise he'll be ready sooner than you think and when he is, I know Henry will be over the moon to have a playmate!"

"Henry will have a playmate way sooner than when those two dimwits finally decide to have kids, my lovely," James suddenly whispers into your ear and adds with a wink, "If you know what I mean." You feel heat creep up your cheeks.

Remus doesn't catch on as he hears Sirius laugh from the living room and you lead him and James into the room, where Sirius has found the plate of cookies and Henry sits happily on his lap, munching on a cookie comically large compared to his small hand.

The living room is decorated with hollies, christmas lights, and you're burning a candle so it smells like cinnamon and vanilla. A small mistletoe hangs in the corner of the room: mostly for decoration but James has pulled you under it a few times. Which, no matter how many times you tell him that's not how a mistletoe works, he still pressed his lips to yours with a love sick smile.

"Mummy," Henry shrieks upon seeing you and the little antlers on his head slip over his eyes.

Sirius bounces him on his knee, adjusting the antlers, which makes Henry laugh but he still holds out his arms for you as the cookie in his hand falls to the floor near Sirius's shoe. Sirius looks at the mess and pouts, "Whoopsies, here ya' go Harry." You smile at the nickname and walk over, taking Henry from Sirius's knee and into your arms.

Sirius dusts crumbs from his pants as he stands next to you. He runs a thumb under Henry's lip to catch a crumb, and then Henry hides his face in the crook of your neck. His nose rubs near your collarbone and you laugh at the sensation and smooth a hand down Henry's back.

"I don't know how you do it, Y/n/n," Sirius says with a smile, his eyes trained on Henry.

You look at him, a low laugh threatening to escape your throat. "I have help," you say and look behind you as James and Remus chat near the fire.

Sirius rolls his eyes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans in to whisper in your ear, "Help dressing up your baby like a forest animal maybe," Sirius jokes and you pretend to cover Henry's little reindeer ears that come with his antlers. Sirius chuckles at the gesture and quickly kisses your cheek before joining Remus and James.

Another hour passes as guests multiply and cookies turn into dinner, and then the low hum of Christmas music plays in the background as bowls of pudding sit on the table counter. Marlene and Lily play with Henry on the couch and people chat, only slightly buzzed from the champagne.

One of James's arms is wrapped around your waist, his other hand holding yours up as he holds you close. You giggle as he twirls you around and when you come back into his chest, he leans in head against your shoulder and you let out a breathy, "It's late, James. I should put Henry to bed."

James frowns and makes a small tuts sound as he kisses your collarbone where a lipstick stain remains from Henry's nose. "I'll put him to bed later, darlin'. Don't you worry. Just focus on having fun with our friends. Plus," James spins your bodies around so his back is to the couch. You can see Henry is grinning happily as Lily plays peek-a-boo with him. "Henry looks fine."

You hide a smile and whisper as you hold James, "His little eyes are droopy, Jamie."

James pouts and pulls you in closer. "Just a little longer? I feel like I haven't seen you all day."

"You have seen me all day," you kiss his cheek, which James gingerly turns into a full kiss as he angles your head. You laugh and wrap your arms around his shoulder as his hands slide down your sides to hold your ass.

"Not in the way I want," he whispers gruffly and you pull away and slap his chest.

"We're in public!" you hiss with a smile.

"Unfortunately."

"This party was your idea," you stare into his eyes as James's hands move to the small of your back and he grins.

"I have really stupid ideas sometimes," he admits and kisses you quickly. It's not long enough to warrant attention from your friends, but just enough to leave you craving more. Your head follows him as he leans away and he smirks. James turns to your friends and says, "Alright, where's my little reindeer?"

Gently you take your husband's arm before he can fully finish his sentence and move away from you. You pull him back and whisper in his ear, "If you get them out of here quickly, I'll let you fill my stocking once Henry is asleep," your voice is smooth and it sends a shiver up James's spine as you wink.

The blush on his cheek remains crimson when he claps his hand, getting everyone's attention. "Okay," he strides over, looking for Henry as Henry's small form is hidden behind Lily again. "Someone find me my son so he can be put to bed or I swear," he says in a mutter and you can't help but laugh.

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stevesbabysittingservice · 1 year ago

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MIDNIGHT LOVE ✨;✩°𓏲⋆💤.*

steve harrington x fem!reader [4.2K] steve didn’t expect to have fallen madly in love with you, much less for his confession to be whispered in the dead of night after another nightmare renders him sleepless. (16+)

Sleeping was a privilege Steve Harrington lost a long time ago.

Finding himself sitting in his kitchen at half past two, his bruised knuckles tap against the marble countertop in time with the faint ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. It’s a steady sound, one that still lingers with an uneasy sense of worry thanks to a man named Henry Creel, but Steve still tries to keep in time to catch his lost breath.

Steve woke up in a sweat, chest heaving and heart racing after yet another collage of gruesome, disturbing images infiltrated his dreams. The sound of your piercing screams, one so loud that it could shatter glass, the amount of crimson pooling at your stomach and seeping through his fingers, the pain rattling in his chest, the light draining from your pretty eyes.

Even now, after being awake and stumbling aimlessly through his expectantly empty home, Steve’s still not really sure how much of it was real. In any other circumstance, Steve would like to say he’s pretty good at handling the aftermath of the catastrophes in his head, but something about this time felt different.

Steve can’t seem to decide what’s worse; the fact that his dream felt so real because, in some way, there was a significant level of truth to it, or because it hurts him that little — a lot — more since he’s almost certain he’s fallen in love with you.

He wasn’t prepared for that. He isn’t prepared for that.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, his voice shot and rugged from what little sleep he managed to get. His hands, ones covered in calluses and surface-level cuts, shake a little as he runs them through his bed-messed hair and down his face. “Fuck.”

Hot and cold flashes shock his body like a lightning strike, goosebumps rising on his uncovered legs and his chest rising with heat beneath his old Hawkins High Phys. Ed sweatshirt. Everything aches. The muscles in his arms and his legs, his head, the gashes and torsions littering his waist.

It’s only been a few days since the world fell apart and got stitched back together and Steve can’t seem to find any peace of mind, can’t even seem to relax for just one, measly second.

The weight of the world crushing his shoulders for the past three years, the physical toll his body has had to endure time and time again, all whilst trying to balance the necessity to protect the people he cherishes like family. It’s a lot to bear at 19. He’s almost certain he’s destined for every good thing in his life to turn to ruins.

“Baby?”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve swivels on the kitchen stool at the sound of your voice, warm and doe-eyed. The light of his life, the one thing keeping him sane, his version of heaven. Steve was starting to wonder if tonight would be the first time you didn’t notice the absence of his figure beside you in bed.

What a stupid, stupid fool he is to think you wouldn’t notice.

Steve’s features soften at the sight of you, groggy and sleepy and far too adorable for someone who’d have just woken up. Even though he’s bone-deep tired and still a little shaken up from his nightmare, the boy finds himself smiling faintly at your arrival, anyway. You always manage to make him grin, even without trying.

You're in his shirt, like always, the fabric light against your skin and the hem of it stops just short of your hips. Your sleep shorts are barely visible beneath, the only proof of them being the satin ribbon glinting in the moonlight, the once-tied bow now hanging, unravelled, at your thigh.

Like oxidized copper, day-old bruises stain your skin, shades of yellow and moss-green replacing the once burgundy and deep purple splotches that painted your knees. Scabbed cuts in the shape of a Demobat’s jaw litter the expanse of your calf like a fucked up puzzle, and the no-doubt scars waiting to form make Steve feel terrible all over again.

You’re alive, thank God, but that’s yet to be enough to ease the pain of wishing he could’ve done more.

Shades of blue and indigo paint over you like an oceanic kaleidoscope, a capsize of darkness making your cheekbones, your jaw, the muscles on your biceps and your thighs nothing short of a Goddess-like vision. As you further step into the kitchen, your presence alone makes Steve feel like the entire world has been set on fire and glittered sunshine and warmth.

Fuck. He really might be in love with you.

“Hey, baby.” Steve says a little guiltily and his voice is an octave or two lower than normal, almost like he’s afraid that breaking the silence that once accompanied him might ruin the heavenly sight of you.

“Steve, it’s.. it’s two in the morning,” you chide softly, voice a little raspy but Steve can still hear the worry seeping between your words. Your knuckles rub at your eyes, a weak attempt at knocking away the evidence of sleep and waking yourself up simultaneously. “What’re you doing up?”

It’s closer to three than it is two, and Steve’s been up for much longer than that. But he won’t tell you that. Not when he knows it’d get you even more worried.

“Thirsty,” he says, and the word comes out tougher than he meant it to. His throat honestly feels like sandpaper. “Needed a drink, s’all.”

Steve tilts his head towards the cup of water he’d poured that sits on the counter. However, in retrospect, the boy wishes he hadn’t given it much attention at all because the glass he motioned to is obviously untouched, condensation dripping down the sides and there’s a lack of lip or finger marks.

Your eyes flit between the glass and your tired boyfriend, an unconvinced look lacing your features, and it’s not long before you silently tread towards him. Steve knew it was a weak attempt at getting you back to bed. He knew you wouldn’t. Not without him, anyway.

“What’s wrong?”

Your question comes out more of a grumble than anything, but the concern is still there, still genuine. You know him all too well, and Steve was an absolute idiot in thinking he could get away with such a pathetic lie.

It’s like he’s in a hypnotic state whenever you’re with him because Steve isn’t quick enough to come up with another lie. He just watches you in awe. You draw close like a magnetic force, and the boy’s legs part automatically. In all honesty, he’d be a liar to say he didn’t expect that you’d crowd his space sooner rather than later.

Your hands find his in the dark and your fingers run across the bumps of his knuckles. The glitter in your nail polish catches the light peeking in through the window above the sink and it makes it seem like shooting stars are dancing across his bruises.

You’re so tender with him, he’s come to notice. Like he’s an expensive China doll, or a glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. You always stare at him like you're admiring him, too, even when Steve feels exceptionally unattractive, and you always make him like a teenager all over again.

“Bad dream?” you eventually answer the question Steve had forgotten about after a few moments of comfortable silence, mumbling against his temple.

Earlier on in your relationship, Steve felt nothing short of a burden. He’d keep you up at night, come stumbling upon your front door bloodied and bruised and in need of help, and drag you along on adventures you’d have never signed up for if you knew what they’d entail.

But, even amongst the terror, you never complained, not once, and Steve often thanks the God he doesn’t believe in to have found somebody as patient and understanding as you.

So, Steve can’t see a point in lying anymore. Not when you know him so well— not when you’ve seen him at his worst and stayed.

“Yeah,” Steve admits through a shallow breath, his lungs still constricting themselves even after he’d steadied his breathing maybe ten minutes ago. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Much to his delight, you wrap your arms around his shoulders before pressing yourself into him. Steve returns the favor instantaneously, your body still lingering with warmth from his bed as he slides his hands beneath your shirt and around your torso. If he died in this position, he’d die a happy, grateful man.

Steve basks in your company, his eyes closing briefly, and part of him thinks he could fall asleep like this if you’d let him. His face presses against your collarbone and he lets out a faint, satisfied hum when he feels you place a soft kiss on the top of his head. You’re so soft and warm and Steve practically melts against you.

Another kiss from you, a wordless I’m sorry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Steve barely shakes his head, but it’s enough for you to notice. “Don’t wanna keep you up.” he says.

You pull away, then — not far, but there’s just enough distance between you both that Steve can glance up at you with ease. You give him a look, one he’s become far too familiar with after being with you for so long; eyes soft, but narrowed.

“I’m already awake, Steve,” you dismiss the boy gently, hand moving to card through his dark locks. You push them out of his face, forcing Steve to meet your intense, but kind gaze. “What happened this time?”

In any other circumstance, Steve would persist in his refusal to talk about his nightmares. He knows that any time somebody had asked, it was out of pure concern, which he appreciates, but it’s just hard. Sometimes Steve thinks talking about it might make it more real, more plausible.

Robin, when he’d shown up with dark circles under his eyes at work and she’d nagged him in her Robin-esque way; Eddie, during their weekly smoke sessions at his trailer in a lazy, off-handed way in hopes to come off as carefree as he’s known to be; Nancy, because once upon a time, she knew him better than anybody.

It’s difficult for Steve to open up to them, because, in his mind, they still harbor this idea that he’s the strong knight in shining armor they expect him to be. Admitting that he’s weak, troubled, and unable to move past the shit he’s dealt with in the last few years would break that façade, and Steve isn’t sure he can handle that kind of disappointment.

But you? You’ve seen it all, even despite his trying to conceal it from you out of everyone, and it’s never phased you. His weakness has slipped through the cracks of his porcelain walls, and you still like him, he thinks. He’ll never understand what he did to deserve your kindness.

“We were at the lake again,” Steve starts reluctantly. It honest to God feels like he’s tugging at an open wound. “You got pulled down, and I chased after you, but the bats..” he exhales sharply and he runs a hand through his already distressed hair, a telltale sign that he’s been restless for a while now. “I didn’t get there in time.”

The thought of you not being here with him stings, and it’s the kind of hurt that’s far worse than any real pain he’s ever endured in his life— though, Steve considers the idea of losing you to be as real as pain could possibly be.

In reality, Steve knows your getting gravely injured couldn’t have happened with the way things went at Lover’s Lake. Not when he insisted on diving for the group, not when he refused to let you go down with him, not when he made Eddie swear on his life to keep you safe if things went sideways. It wasn’t foolproof, not by any margin, but it was enough.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still scare him shitless, though.

“I’m sorry, baby.” you say as you press another kiss to his head, but it’s a little longer than the one you’d given him earlier.

“It’s okay,” Steve dismisses, and when your eyes meet again he tries to force a smile. It’s unconvincing, like always, but you don’t further pry about the nightmare, which he’s ultimately grateful for. He doesn’t want to relive it any more than he already has. “It’s just— shit, I don’t know.. annoying. It’s like my brain loves torturing me, or something. Never wants me to get any fuckin’ sleep.”

“They’re just nightmares, you know,” you remind him with a frown, and Steve wonders if you’ll ever get tired of sounding like a broken record. The amount of times you’ve had to piece him back together after he’d woken up a panicked, broken version of himself is probably in the hundreds, thousands. “They aren’t real. Henry can’t trick you anymore.”

He likes that you call him Henry instead of Vecna. It somehow manages to make his mythical, supernatural powers.. smaller than they seem. Like you aren’t scared of him. Steve wishes he has that kind of confidence.

But they are real, in some way or another. There are hints of truth mixed within the already existing storm of terror causing a riot in his head. Because, regardless of the outcome, Steve’s brain consistently morphs his reality into something far more sinister and tragic.

Sometimes he finds himself so deep within the jungle of contorted memories that he can’t decipher whether you're really sleeping beside him or if it’s another one of Vecna’s tricks.

“Feels pretty goddamn real.” he huffs out an exhausted laugh, one so humorless it’s almost as sharp as a knife’s edge. God, he’s exhausted.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize for what feels like the millionth time, and Steve feels guilty you need to fix something you didn’t break. “I wish I could make it better.”

You do. In ways Steve could never replicate. The feeling of your heartbeat rattling against his, the warmth your body provides, the lingering remnants of your floral perfume, the taste of your mint toothpaste against his lips, the sound of your voice and the purity in your laugh; it provides Steve sanctum within a place that hasn’t had any peace or grace in a long, long time.

“We’re okay, you know,” Steve knows you’re not necessarily asking him for an answer, even if it’s framed like a question. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. So are the kids, and Robin, Eddie, Nance.. it’s just your brain’s way of trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Pretty shitty of it to make me relive all that crap.” says Steve, another humorless laugh sneaking past his tongue.

“I know, but they’ll stop eventually,” you murmur, and Steve knows it’s more wishful thinking than anything, but it warms his chest anyway. “It’ll just take time.”

Steve’s grip tightens around your waist and he shudders at the image flashing behind his eyelids. “It’s just scary, y’know?” he breathes out. “Thinkin’ about what.. what could’ve happened because we weren’t careful.”

“We were as careful as we could’ve been, baby,” you tell the boy, and Steve knows that’s somewhat true. It wasn’t like you guys had days to sit and think of the perfect way to defeat an evil, child-murdering guy with tentacles, but it was enough. “You just.. you can’t get stuck on the what-ifs, Steve. It won’t do you any good.”

Steve hums, then, because you’re right, but he doesn’t say much else. He still feels deflated, even in the comfort of your presence.

“Besides,” you start with a little shrug, your body more energized than it had been when you initially found Steve drowning in his own dread. “There are things that are way scarier than what ifs, anyway.”

Yeah, Steve thinks, like how I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead, the boy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Mumbling against the material of your — his — shirt, he asks, “Yeah? Like what?”

When living in a shithole like Hawkins, a handful of supernatural things come to mind. The Demogorgon he saved you from in 1983, the Demodogs he was almost eaten by in ‘84, the Russians who almost beat him to a pulp in July of last year, the herd of Demobats you managed to beat up like Sigourney Goddamn Weaver—

“Taxes.” you blurt, and Steve doesn’t even have the chance to register what you’d said before a surprised laugh rumbles from his chest.

Fuck.

Steve's eyes snap up at you, and with wrinkled brows, he manages to half force out, half laugh, “What?”

Fuck.

“Any paperwork, really. Or me trying to cook,” you hum softly, the apples of your cheeks swelling as you let yourself drift back into the countless memories of kitchen mishaps you, and Steve, have shared in this very room. “I mean, you remember how Thanksgiving went. It was a total shitshow.”

One undercooked turkey, a load of burnt potatoes because you forgot to turn the oven down, and pumpkin pie that, oddly enough, had no pumpkin in it. It was a hot mess, really, but it’s probably one of Steve’s fondest memories— even if that's totally and utterly lame to admit.

He’s definitely in love with you.

“That..” Steve’s breath is shaky all of a sudden, and his voice wavers. “Yeah, you trying to cook is pretty scary.”

“Clowns are scary, too,” you add, almost for good measure. Your nose crinkles and Steve feels his chest bloom with heat at the sight of it. “They’re always smiling. It’s.. I mean, what’s scarier than that?”

Steve doesn’t mean to blurt it out, not really, but the compulsion to spill his flourishing feelings for you was far too burdening to ignore. Your hands were twisting in his hair, nails softly scraping at his scalp and you were staring down at him with your God-given smile like he’s a national fucking treasure or something.

If there’s one thing to know about Steve, it’s that he feels a lot. He’s passionate about a lot of things, and a lot of people, and trying to smother and conceal that part of himself only amplifies his emotions until he’s fit to burst. He throws his heart out on the line and lets it teeter like a trapeze artist and hopes that someone, somewhere, is ready and willing to catch it when it falls.

Most of the time it ends in tragedy and heartbreak, but Steve thinks that this time, you could be that someone to pick up the broken pieces with fragile hands and stitch them back together. He really hopes you’re that someone.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your body stills and your features contort into something Steve can’t decipher. You blink once, twice, before quietly muttering, “What?”

For a long, long time, home was just an idea that Steve was never quite able to grasp. A figure of his wildest, incapable dreams. His house, one that only seemed filled because of the old photos on the mantle and from the light bouncing off the chandelier, was never home. Hell— Hawkins as a whole isn’t home, either. Not anymore.

Steve hadn't known that home could be a person. Not until you.

“I think I love you.” Steve repeats, all his attempts at keeping his composure slowly wilting away with every second that passes.

Your gaze flickers across the expanse of his face, eyes soaking in every scar and every mark, every freckle and mole that litters his sun-kissed skin. One of your hands gently moves to cup the side of his face and your thumb slides almost methodically against his cheek, feather-like grazes across a silver scar he’d gained back in July 1985.

Steve can feel the warmth blooming beneath your angelic touch, a match to his body of flames, and barely above a whisper, you ask, “You think?”

His heartbeat begins to ricochet from his chest and into his now trembling fingertips. Steve’s veins feel like they’re pumping with acid, a new wave of anxiousness coursing through him like he’d been burnt from the inside out. It’s painful, in a way, but it’s a good kind of hurt. The kind he never wants to stop feeling.

So it takes Steve a moment, but he eventually shakes his head, his dark brown eyes flitting down at your lips before meeting your gaze again. He can’t help but notice the aquatic pools filling your lash line.

“I know,” Steve corrects himself, his tongue moving to wet his now dry lips. “I know I love you.”

Your breath hitches, then, and if the world hadn’t become a muted track in Steve’s ears, he might’ve missed it. You’re so, so quiet, all of a sudden, and there’s a large part of Steve that can’t help but start panicking because he’s convinced he’s already fucked this up.

“And that’s scary?” you ask him with a crack in your voice, words wobbling.

in a low voice, he admits, “Terrifying.”

Steve’s driven through heartbreak avenue so many times that his heart is probably more scar tissue than muscle, been dealt a bad set of cards after gambling his love away and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the ghost of his ex-lover clawing at his chest.

He was black and blue most days, the haunting of what he could’ve done better always following him around like a fucked up shadow when he’d finally move on, only for him to just fall back into that same pit of regret he’d become oh so acquainted with.

It sucked, because getting his heart ripped out and stomped on time and time again was worse than any other pain he’s ever experienced in his 20 years of living.

But, what’s so scary, in Steve’s mind, is the fact that he’d do it all over again in a blink of an eye. He would take every punch and every jab, every insult and every ounce of hurt ten times over if he knew it meant that he’d find his way back to you.

Steve isn’t expecting you to say anything, much less do anything, so you can imagine his surprise when your hand is gentle as it cups the side of his face. He can’t help but lean further into your palm, his chocolate brown eyes unable to break away from your glassy ones.

In a soft, almost shaky voice, you tell the boy, “I don’t think you should be scared about that.”

Steve’s heart stops. “You don’t?” he asks, almost unsure because the uncertainty of your answer hangs heavy in the air.

“No. Because I..” you shake your head and lick your lips, too, pretty dream-like eyes darting across his features. And, with a faint, tired smile, you confess, “I love you, too, Steve. More than anything.”

Steve’s heart starts up again, quicker than ever before, because shit, that'd be enough for him.

Then, with unwavering confidence, Steve surges forward and captures you in a hurried kiss. Mouths slotting together in a heavenly disarray, the boy’s hands tighten around your frame and his mind goes entirely blank on everything that isn’t you because you’re his world he’d die orbiting around.

Steve’s kissing you with a level of fervid he didn’t know he had locked within him, and if the two of you were on display, it would seem like he’d been deprived of your admiration entirely. Your hand, the one splayed across his cheek, moves to his jaw and tilts his chin up ever so slightly and you deepen the kiss.

The boy can’t stop himself from trying to pull you impossibly closer, a new wave of determination washing over him as his desire to feel every ounce of you burns hotter. His tongue soothing over the accidental scrape of his teeth, Steve’s hunger only grows when you muffle out a faint moan against his lips.

You’re both panting when you pull away, a soft click sounding at the departure of your lips from Steve’s. Your forehead rests against his and Steve can’t help himself from trying to steal another kiss from you. You pull back, though, your eyelashes tickling his cheeks and Steve forgets entirely about the way the edge of the counter is digging into his spine.

“Can we go back to bed?” you ask him in a faint voice, eyes still closed and your nose bumps against his, your breath shallow against Steve’s face. The boy is left dizzy from your surging kisses, lips still tingling despite the loss of yours, and Steve almost misses the salacious hint in your request.

Almost.

The boy can’t bring himself to speak, but Steve nods, sneaking another kiss from you before he takes your hand in his and leads you back to the safety of his bedroom, socked feet padding against the floor sounding just as loud as the thumping his heart bounces off his ribcage.

And there, between rumbled sheets, Steve proves how much he loves you til the early signs of morning peak through his blinds, slivers of pink and orange rays mixing and painting your features gold.

Gentle kisses and rough hands, crescent moons adding to the constellation of freckles on his back, moans mixing with whispered sweet nothings echoing between his bedroom walls; a faint mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you encompassing you both.

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