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queenshelby · 8 months ago

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Sweet Possession (Part 2)

Pairing: Very Dark! Thomas Shelby (32) x Innocent! Reader (19)

Warning: Age Gap, Smut

The following day, however, brought a gloomy atmosphere into the room as, at around 6 o'clock, there was a knock on your bedroom door, causing you to startle.

Until that night, you had never shared a bed with Tommy , and the thought of being interrupted whilst still lying naked next to him made you shudder.

"Who is it?" Thomas barked, quickly wrapping a white sheet around his waist.

"It's Arthur," came the distorted voice of Tommy's older brother, resulting in Tommy jumping out of the bed, collecting his briefs from the floor and throwing them on. "What is it, Arthur?" Tommy asked as he hurriedly opened the door to reveal Arthur, standing there, waving at you while you simply blushed with embarrassment.

"Something's happened," Arthur blurted out. "Down at the docks."

Tommy looked at you, hunched up on the bed, clutching a sheet to your bare breasts. "Go put some clothes on, Love. I'll be back soon," he signaled to you, and you nodded in silence.

As soon as Tommy left the room, you crawled off the bed to gather your scattered garments from the floors, wondering what the problem was on site.

Since you moved into Tommy's house, there had been a lot of trouble at the docks and in his factories and when you asked your now husband about it, he would usually brush it off.

He often put it down to strikes or interruptions due to equipment breakdown and, as his partner in life, of course, you believed him.

Tommy was a businessman, not a criminal, and whilst you thought that his brother and Gypsie acquaintances were rather rough around the edged, you knew that Tommy was a good man.

He was a man who would do anything for you and you appreciated his kindness and the love he gave you, especially after you had been abandoned by all the other men in your life before him.

Even your older brother left you to your own devices when you were just seventeen, moving away from Birmingham without a word, as a result of which the home your parents had partially owned was being foreclosed on.

You had no choice but to move out and find work to sustain yourself, to be able to maintain a roof over your head and pay for your rent. And even then, it didn’t always suffice.

You were fired from three jobs until you found work at the Garrison and now you knew that you never had to work again.

Tommy took care of you now, treated you well and, even though he was determined to have children with you, he respected your wishes to wait.

He bought you horse, a white stallion and you were assigned not one, but two maids, which was something you always considered to be odd.

If you wanted to go to town and spend some time shopping, Tommy had a maid and a driver accompany you and today wasn't much different when you decided to head into the city of Birmingham for some groceries.

"Mrs Shelby, there really is no need. I can send an errand boy to do the shopping," Frances told you as you waved the list of items you wanted to buy in her perfectly manicured face with excitement.

"But I insist Frances. I want to do the shopping and then, tonight, I will cook a nice meal for my husband," you told her politely, seeing that you had always enjoyed to cook but had not done so ever since you moved to Arrow House.

"Very well, Mrs Shelby. Whatever you wish," she answered in a silky voice that reeked of credulousness.

"Fabulous. I know a really nice Italian Grocer by the Canal side. Do you think Isiah could drive me there?" you asked, knowing that Tommy was always rather worried about your safety and wouldn't have liked you driving yourself. Frances hesitated for a moment. "Of course, Mrs. Shelby," she said bluntly, but not without a hint of hesitation in her voice. "I'll call Isiah right away."

You smiled appreciatively at Frances and headed off to the bathroom, quickly freshening up before heading to the car that would take you to the Italian grocer.

The car ride was comfortable and peaceful, and you couldn't help but marvel at how much your life had changed since you first met Thomas Shelby.

Your thoughts were interrupted as the car pulled up to the front of the grocery store.

The sun was shining brightly outside, illuminating the bustling streets of Birmingham and casting a warm glow on the picturesque canal that ran along the side of the store.

You stepped out of the car, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. The sound of laughter and conversation drifted towards you from nearby cafes and pubs, mixing with the distant horns and clatter of the ships moving through the canal locks.

"My mother always took me here when I was little. It's a nice little shop run by a lovely Italian family. My older brother, Alfred, used to bring me here all the time too, just after payday, before-" You paused, your smile faltering slightly. "Before he left to god knows where," you finished, your voice barely above a whisper and Isiah simply nodded with sympathy while you stepped into the shop.

The smell of coffee and bread greeted you as the door jingled shut behind you. Despite the modern facade, the interior remained cozy with a wooden counter in the middle that displayed a variety of pasta and cured meats. On the shelves, colorful tins of tomatoes and olive oil lined the walls.

Remembering the list in your hand, you carefully navigating your way through the narrow aisles and stocked up on your ingredients.

"I am sorry ma'am, but we don't serve Blinders here," one of the Italians said to you as you roamed through the shop and, since you had no idea what the man was talking about, you just laughed nervously.

"Excuse me?" you queried, confused while Isiah appeared behind you, flashing the gun hidden beneath his jacket, thinking that you wouldn't notice.

"We don't want any trouble miss," the stocky man corrected himself quickly, and you quickly blinked, trying to process what was happening.

"Why would I give you trouble?" you asked innocently, unable to make sense of what exactly was going and Isiah then politely urged you to finish up your shopping.

Without another word, you filled up your basket, paid for your groceries and left the store, feeling a sudden chill in the air despite the brilliant sunshine.

Isiah escorted you back to the waiting car in silence but you had so many questions that needed answering, but you refrained yourself from asking, believing that your new husband would soon explain everything to you when you returned home.

The short car ride was again filled with a heavy silence and you couldn’t help but feel unsettled.

As you walked through the front door, Frances took the groceries from your hands and you made your way upstairs to your bedroom to get changed. After a quick shower, you slipped into a nice but comfortable dress that Thomas had given to you as a gift.

You stared at yourself in the mirror and felt a pang of happiness in your chest. Your life had changed so dramatically since being with him and you couldn’t deny that you were happy.

You then made your way downstairs to unpack the groceries and start cooking. It was still early but you knew that the dish you were making had to sit in the oven for almost eight hours on low heat, so you knew to better get cracking. You were pleased with the simplicity and warmth of the task at hand, letting your mind relax as you chopped and sautéed the vegetables and meat.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but wonder about the strange encounter you had at the grocer. The man’s peculiar reference to “Blinders” and the sudden appearance of Isiah’s gun were both alarming and confusing. But, you shook the thoughts away, telling yourself that there was likely a simple explanation.

Tommy had an explanation for everything and, just as you were thinking about him, he came walking through the door of the large and rarely used kitchen in wing one of Arrow House, far away from the staff quarters. He greeted you with a gentle kiss on the cheek before pouring himself a glass of whiskey and looking at you contently.

"How did you go?" you asked your husband , referring to whatever business he had down at the docks.

Thomas took a sip of his whiskey, eyeing you carefully. "Fine," he told you. "There was some stock missing, but we dealt with it," Thomas explained, leaving out the gruesome details of the beating he ordered his men to give out.

"You know I employed a chef to do the cooking, Love ," Thomas said, changing the subject as he watched you chopping the vegetables.

"I'm aware, but I love to cook for you. I am your wife and this is what wives do, isn't it?" you smirked at Thomas, challenging him.

Thomas chuckled lightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he took another sip of his drink. "Yes, of course. I suppose it is," he conceded, a heartfelt smile playing on his lips as he drew closer from behind.

Thomas encircled your waist with one arm and nuzzled your neck softly, causing you to giggle and shiver at the same time.

"You look quite sexy in that dress and apron, Love ," Thomas murmured in your ear, giving it a slight nibble that triggered a heated blush infiltrating your cheeks.

You glanced at him with a playful smile before turning around, your hands instinctively moving to rest on his muscular chest, only to feel the outline of his gun sitting firmly in its halter.

"Why would you need to carry a gun?" you whispered, turning your head slightly to catch his gaze. Thomas' eyes flickered down to the gun before meeting your gaze again.

"Just a precaution, Love. There are some dangerous people in this city," Thomas replied, his voice low and serious.

You nodded, understanding his concerns but still feeling uneasy about the situation. Thomas seemed to sense your disquiet and leaned down to kiss you softly.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, his arms tightening around you briefly before releasing you.

"I love you too, Tommy," you replied softly, your hands still resting on his chest.

Your heart softened towards Thomas in that moment, feeling a deep affection for him. You loved him deeply and you trusted him implicitly. Knowing him as well as you did, it was hard to imagine that his business dealings could be anything but legitimate, even as you had heard rumors about his involvement in illegal activities.

Thomas had always dismissed these rumors as mere speculation, nothing more than idle gossip and slander from his rivals. And yet, as you stood there in the warm kitchen, with the smell of dinner filling the room, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over you since your visit to the Italian grocer.

"I should really get back to cooking, Tommy," you said eventually, stepping out of Thomas' embrace and starting to chop the vegetables again, but Tommy simply removed the knife from your hand.

"The cooking can wait," he said huskily. "I've been thinking about you all day. About how beautiful you looked this morning when you were sleeping," he murmured as he nibbled your earlobe.

"I suppose we could eat a little later than usual," you replied, the tension from earlier melting away as Thomas' lips moved to your neck.

The room felt warm and intimate as the two of you stood there, wrapped up in each other's embrace.

"Fuck, I want you," Thomas whispered hoarsely as his hands traveled down your body, cupping your ass roughly.

You let out a soft cry as he lifted you up onto the kitchen counter, spreading your legs apart with a confident movement that sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins.

"Tommy, what if a maid walks in?" you giggled nervously, your voice breathless as Thomas' fingers deftly slipped beneath your dress and apron.

"Then let them watch ," Thomas growled, his voice thick with desire.

He tugged your panties down, exposing your wet and eager pussy to his hungry gaze.

"You are unbelievable, Thomas!" you chuckled softly just before his fingertips traced the delicate folds of your sex, your body trembling beneath his touch.

Thomas wasted no time, plunging two fingers deep into your core.

"Oh god, Tommy," you cried out, gripping the edge of the countertop as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you.

"God, you're so fucking wet. So ready for me," Tommy groaned as his thumb teased your clit, and you writhed on the counter, grinding against his hand. You felt shameless and exposed, but also incredibly alive.

As Thomas unzipped his trousers, you watched through hooded eyes, your breath hitching as his hard cock sprang free.

He stroked it a couple of times, smearing pre-cum over the tip before using it to coat your slit.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

Thomas chuckled for a second. "Eager, aren't we?" he asked as he positioned himself at your entrance.

You bit your lip as you felt him push inside your tight warmth, stretching you mercilessly. You moaned at the sensation of him filling you up, the feeling of fullness almost overwhelming.

"Fuck, you're tight, Love," Thomas grunted, his fingers digging into your hips as he pistoned back and forth.

"Tommy, oh god please," you whimpered, unable to form complete sentences as the pleasure built inside of you.

"I love feeling you inside me ," you confessed, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

"I've never felt anything like this before," you added, your voice barely above a whisper and, immediately, Thomas' eyes met yours for a brief moment, his gaze intense as he continued to fuck you.

"Neither have I, Love," Tommy told you and you cried out, biting your lip to try and contain the noise as the pleasure became almost unbearable.

You felt yourself climbing higher and higher, the tension building stronger and stronger until the waves of static pleasure crashed inside of you and, suddenly, you felt yourself falling, falling, falling and, as you kept screaming, the waves of pleasure crashed over and over again, never ending.

"Fuck, yes. That's it, Love," Thomas groaned, holding back his own release until you came down from your high. He then pulled out , springing free, and grabbed his cock, giving it a few quick thrusts as he sprayed hot streams of cum across your naked thighs.

Thomas leaned forward, moving your hair off your sweaty forehead, pressing a gentle kiss there before stepping back, still catching his breath.

Reaching for his handkerchief , he started to wipe the remnants of their earthly pleasures of desperation and passion from between your thighs and from his limp cock before zipping up his trousers again.

“Are you alright, Love?” he addressed you gentler than ever before and you simply nodded silently, before reaching for a glass of water and taking a deep sip, feeling a little thirsty after your vigorous desperation for passion and how ‘earthshattering’ your release became.

Thomas poured himself another glass of whiskey and watched you closely as you collected yourself.

"Now that was quite unexpected," you admitted, taking a deep breath before pushing yourself off the counter and swinging your legs down to the ground.

"Was it?" he chuckled before lightening himself a cigarette and offering one to you, which you accepted graciously.

"You know, something really strange happened today when Isiah took me to the Italian Grocer by the Canal on East Street," you started, changing the topic, as you took a deep drag from your cigarette. Thomas arched an eyebrow, encouraging you to go on.

"While I was picking up some fresh produce for dinner, one of the Italians in store told me that they weren't serving 'Blinders' at their shop and, when I queried him about what he meant by that, he told me that he didn't want any trouble. I think he saw Isiah's gun, but I can't be sure. It all was very confusing," you recounted the incident, trying to piece together what happened.

At that moment, Thomas' body language changed entirely. He leaned his head to the side, squinting his left eye and pressing his lips firmly together, as he listening to your confession.

"Did the man say anything else?" Thomas' voice was low and measured as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

"No," you shook your head. "Well, not that I could understand," you told him, causing your husband to clear his throat.

"And what did the Italian look like?" Thomas questioned you with a furrowed brow, as he tried to gauge the seriousness of the situation based on the incomplete information you offered.

"Tall, skinny. He was about thirty years old, with dark hair and dark eyes," you said, almost absentmindedly, as you went on to describe more about the Italian's appearance. Then, suddenly, it struck you just how off-putting the interaction had become now, and some anxiety washed over you again. "Why are you asking?" you questioned Thomas, wondering about the reasoning behind the sudden interest in the man you met earlier today.

Thomas, sensing your apprehension, gave you a reassuring smile as he stubbed out his cigarette, extinguishing the glowing embers.

"No reason. Just mere curiosity, Love," Tommy told you before giving you a kiss on the cheek. "Now, why don't you finish cooking while attend some more business in town, eh?" he told you, his voice gentle and loving, but you noticed a hint of something else in his eyes, something that you couldn't quite identify.

"Alright Tommy," you agreed nonetheless and Thomas kissed you deeply one last time, before grabbing his hat and coat and disappearing off to town.

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zialltops · 10 months ago

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honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck.

a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍

Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke

Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.

If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?

It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.

“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”

The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”

The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.

“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.

“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”

Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.

“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.

The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.

“Is that everything, ma’am?”

Click

You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.

She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”

And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”

You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.

“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”

You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.

“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.

“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.

Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.

“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.

His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.

“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”

His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”

You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.

You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?

He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.

You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. A pair of flared jeans, light in color with stitch work on the sides. With a pair of boots, they make your ass look like a dream—just what you are going for, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.

It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.

You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.

You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.

There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.

You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”

Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.

Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.

Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.

“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”

You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”

The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.

“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”

Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.

And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.

“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”

There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.

“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.

You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”

Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”

He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.

“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”

He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”

You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.

Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”

You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”

“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”

You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—

“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“

He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”

He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.

Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.

Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!

“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.

Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?

She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”

With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.

“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”

You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—

Know you’re fucked.

“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.

The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.

Two days pass in a blur.

You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.

We’ll get through it

You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.

He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.

When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.

“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”

You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.

Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”

The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”

You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.

“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”

By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.

You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.

Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.

On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.

It doesn’t happen for hours.

Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.

“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.

Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.

You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”

You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.

The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.

He’s here.

“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”

She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.

There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.

“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.

“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.

“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”

Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”

The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?

“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.

“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.

He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.

“You want to get out of here?”

Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.

You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.

One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.

Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.

He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.

And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.

You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.

When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.

His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. He’s lucky for the part of his brain that slips off his hat and sets it on the dashboard. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”

His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.

The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.

He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.

He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

You should have known.

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ihavemanyhusbands · 2 years ago

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Lover's Spat

Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You had been the prized protege of the household for some time, but a sudden distance leaves you reeling. What happens when a junior killer feels neglected? Short answer: a bloody tantrum.

Word Count: 3.4k words

Warnings: DARK CONTENT, MINORS DNI, heavy angst and whump, graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of gore, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, non-sexual nudity, injuries, inebriation, use of sedatives, use of restraints, threats, mentions of blood, bit of a power imbalance yeah, corrupted reader, use of she/her pronouns, lmk if anything else!

A/N: Special thanks to @glitchedpup -- my muse and co-creator of this delightfully dark fic <3 i couldn’t have done it without you!! Pretty proud of this one! I shouldn't even have to say this but I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE ACTIONS DEPICTED IN THIS FIC. IT IS NOT A REFLECTION OF MY OWN MORALS/VALUES. Don't like don't read, as usual.

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– “Decipher me, my love, or I will be forced to destroy you.” Clarice Lispector, from “The Book of Delights”.

The room was a complete mess.

Upturned furniture, slashed curtains, and deep gouges on various surfaces. Rorschach stains of crimson fury stained the walls and the once pristine white bed sheets. Bits of bone and flesh were haphazardly strewn about like broken puzzle pieces.

There had clearly been quite the struggle — terror and brute strength versus agility and sheer animal determination.

The mutilated corpse of a man was splayed atop the bed. His chest had been torn open, ribs smashed to pieces in order to access his tender insides. His eyes were closed and his hands had been crudely tied together, palms facing up – like a supplicant. His heart was cupped in them, with a paring knife driven straight through it.

A crime of passion, through and through. But the man himself was inconsequential, merely a vessel to convey a message.

At first, Will didn’t register anything amiss. There were a few small clues here and there that were familiar, like a trail of breadcrumbs left behind for only the most trained eye to find. His eye, more specifically.

They led him closer to the body, where he recognized the fine mother-of-pearl handle of the knife. Suddenly, he could barely hear the voices of those around him. Cold fear momentarily ran like sludge through his veins, but he kept his composure.

This was your design.

He’d known you were under Hannibal’s tutelage, but it was uncharacteristic of you to be so rash and utterly careless. Not once before had you left a trace, but then again, you’d never worked outside of Hannibal’s house.

He’d thought you’d mastered clinical detachment, but this scene was tainted with ire and resentment. It permeated the air like a poisonous gas, roiling in his lungs and threatening to choke him.

“Will?” Jack said, getting his attention. “Any motive you can think of?”

Shaking off the last of his visions, Will took a small fortifying breath and glanced back at him over his shoulder.

“None as of yet.”

Will knew there’d be many components to cleaning up this mess. Not only would he have to get the police far off your trail, but he also had to find you. He called Hannibal to inquire about your whereabouts, but he confirmed you were not home. He tried to get ahold of you too, but of course, there was no response.

Once he could disentangle himself from Jack and the crime scene crew – trying to keep his hands from shaking – he racked his brain for all the possible places you could be in. He knew you liked going on long walks, but you preferred to stay away from densely populated areas unless strictly necessary. The woods were too broad a place to search, and there was no way you had made it all the way to Wolf Trap on foot.

Then, he remembered the old apartment you’d lived in before he and Hannibal took you in. It was a shoddy building on the outskirts of town, which he was pretty sure had been foreclosed for a while. Still, it was the only other place you had, really. So he made his way there.

There, he spotted a hole in the chain link fence surrounding the building. He ignored the No Trespassing sign, much like he figured you had, and maneuvered himself through the gap. He made his way up to the third floor, where your unit was, and heard murmurs behind the door.

He found you half naked and rambling, still caked in blood and viscera. In one hand, you were tightly clutching a large kitchen knife, a ribbon of fabric clinging to it. Much of your clothes were in tatters, ripped apart like you’d been desperate to get them off of yourself.

In your other hand, you had an unlabelled bottle of what he assumed was cheap vodka or gin. You were swaying a little in place, clearly inebriated. You held it to your swollen cheekbone, as if the tepid glass could soothe it.

A dark bruise bloomed up the right side of your ribcage, and your breaths were shallow and slow. On the other side, near your belly button, you had a poorly dressed wound, the fabric soaked in dark, shiny crimson. His eyes lingered on this detail for a moment, but his face did not betray the concern he felt.

It was a clear admission of guilt, but he wanted to hear you confess your sins out loud.

“What did you do?” He asked, keeping his voice low and even.

You lifted your head and looked at him without really seeing him. Your gaze was flat and unforgiving, almost unrecognizable. A small blood vessel had burst in your left eye, leaving a red splotch in the sclera. Your muscles tensed and your nostrils flared when you registered him as an intruder.

His hand was close to his waist, where his gun was holstered, in case he’d need to draw it.

“I took him for one last waltz, carried him in my arms as the saccharine wine of his blood spilled over us.” You closed your eyes for a moment, as if reliving it. “He adored me deliriously with his last breaths. I saw it in his eyes.”

Will took a step forward, causing a floorboard to creak, and your eyes snapped open. You slashed the knife in a wide arc, silently warning him to stay back. Your eyes were wild and unfocused, much too dark in the low light.

You swung sideways just as fast, the blade barely missing his midsection. He quickly drew back at your third frantic attempt, and you stumbled forward a little. Despite your skills and abundant bravado, both the drunkenness and the pain made you clumsy. You winced, but did not back down, still in a fighting stance.

He pulled out his gun and pointed it at your shoulder, which made you freeze.

“Hannibal’s going to be pissed if I shoot you,” he said, unfazed by your display. “Put the knife down before you get hurt.”

“You don’t have the guts to hurt me, Graham,” you sneered.

“Try me.”

For a long, tense moment, the two of you stared at each other. It was clear that neither of you actually wanted to hurt the other, but your pride wasn’t going to let you go down so easily.

And you knew that he wouldn’t hesitate if it came down to it, especially for your own good.

“He knows, then?” You asked, still unmoving.

Will simply nodded, and for a brief second, you considered angling the knife towards yourself. You started to adjust your grip on it, and he took the opportunity to lunge forward and knock it out of your hand. It clattered loudly on the floor, and he kicked it away, grabbing your wrist.

“You’re in deep trouble, you know that?” He said, grip tightening. “What if they hadn’t called me? You left evidence everywhere! Do you know how hard it was to hide all that without getting caught? Reckless! Very reckless!”

You tried to struggle out of his grip, and he knocked the bottle out of your grasp, which shattered on the floor. As you lifted your hand to strike him, he grabbed it, now holding both of your wrists.

“Don’t touch me! You don’t get to touch me!” You spat, still thrashing.

“Oh, I beg to differ. But I’m not going to be the one to punish you,” he said, forcefully turning you around and cuffing your hands behind your back. “Now, let’s go.”

He took his jacket off and draped it over your shoulders before ushering you out of the building. He had to steady you as you stumbled about, still furious and not entirely lucid. Even the familiar scent of him enveloping you did nothing to calm you.

He wrestled you into the back seat and made sure you wouldn’t be able to unlock the doors from the inside. For the time being, you resigned to lying on your side, slightly easing the discomfort of your shoulder blades being pinned together.

“Where are we going?” You asked as he started the engine.

“Home,” he said, glancing at you from the rearview mirror. “As you know, we’re expected.”

The drive there was torturous. Every turn made your head spin, the world outside the window swirling into a dizzying whirlpool of colors. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing, keeping down the bile that threatened to crawl up your throat. You stained the fabric of the seat, since the wound on your side had torn just a little further open.

All of the events of the past forty-eight hours were still shoved to the periphery of your mind, but you knew you couldn’t keep a blind eye to your sins forever. Eventually, they would come at you like a raging river, consuming you.

Will pulled into Hannibal’s driveway just after sundown, and a sense of foreboding made your stomach bottom out. Once, the house was a safe haven; A place you finally felt welcome in, despite the fact its walls had witnessed your flaws.

But at that moment, with death hovering at the threshold, it felt like you were heading to the gallows.

As he marched you inside, your knees almost buckled. You gritted your teeth and raised your chin, angry at yourself for displaying any sort of weakness. You were still a little lightheaded and disoriented from the drive, so you had to try even harder to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

The two of you found Hannibal in the living room, sitting by the hearth and staring at the fire within. He said nothing as he looked up, his eyes skirting over you and landing on Will, who held your arm.

In the flickering light, the harsh planes of his face spelled out your fate. You almost expected to hear a gavel pounding before the sentence was carried out… whatever it was.

“Take her downstairs,” he instructed, his tone almost bored. “And leave her there. Repentance always begins with solitude.”

His coldness stung, fueling your resentment, but it did not necessarily surprise you. Still, you tried to catch his eye, but it was no use. He returned his gaze to the fire, and Will dragged you along to the basement.

You were compliant as he led you down the metallic staircase and past a plastic strip curtain, but your eyes were fixed on the various tools against one of the walls. A pang of dread made your heart stutter as you wondered which ones might be used on you.

It was then that you tried to fight back again, desperately this time, survival instincts kicking into overdrive. Without the use of your hands, you resorted to twisting your body and attempting to bite.

He struggled against you, trying to immobilize you in his arms. You managed to get a hold of one of his forearms when it got a little too close to your face, sinking your teeth into it. He growled as you broke the skin, a metallic taste filling your mouth. When he was able to pull you away by the hair, you licked his blood from your teeth.

Instantly, you were backhanded across the face. The entire left side lit up with white-hot pain, and he grabbed you by the throat, pulling you towards the tools.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” He admonished as he clasped your collar around your neck. “You know I’m gonna have to muzzle you for that, right?”

He made you kneel, attaching a chain that was against the far wall to your collar. The muzzle followed right after, a layer of leather covering your mouth.

You glared up at him as he inspected the bite on his forearm, which was still pulsing with bright pain. You felt some satisfaction at having gotten him at least a little, even if it’d potentially make things worse. If you were going to go out, you would do so fighting.

Hopefully, Hannibal would at least be able to appreciate that.

Will left you there without a parting word, instead giving you one last disgruntled look. Once he was up the stairs, you sagged in place. It wasn’t your first time being disciplined, but you knew this was different. A line had been crossed that you weren’t sure you could ever come back from, but you feared what awaited you on the other side.

The basement was dry and cool, slightly soothing your feverish skin. Your head swam once more as adrenaline began to fade from your system. You were sobering up, too, and that was the only way you could tell time was passing.

There, by yourself, you only had your thoughts to torment you, filling in the silence with a buzz like the swarming of bees.

Good things are so slippery, aren’t they? Happiness becomes complacency, and thus monotony. Pleasure wanes quickly, and tragedy seldom waits to make itself known.

And what, then, if you are the harbinger of your own tragedy?

You rested your head against the brick wall, the blue darkness of your eyelids providing some comfort.

After what seemed like an eternity, you heard footsteps descending the metal staircase. You opened your eyes to see Hannibal, his expression still impassive.

He knelt in front of you, undoing the straps of the muzzle. You eyed him warily, but remained unmoving. The barest ghost of a smile was on his face as he saw the crusted blood on the corners of your lips. He’d patched up Will’s arm already, skin mottled purple and red with your molar imprints. He only wished he could have seen you in action.

In his hand, there was a familiar white capsule – one you recognized from his lessons.

“Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turning your face away.

"You will either open your mouth and take the medication, or I can simply dislocate your jaw and force you to take it... The choice is yours.”

Begrudgingly, you did as told, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out. You swallowed the pill dry, grimacing slightly.

“It should, at the very least, quell that sharp tongue of yours. Or perhaps it’ll only encourage it. We shall see,” he mused, looking you over. “I’ll undo the other restraints when that takes effect.”

“I’m no threat to you,” you murmured.

“Indeed. You are not.”

Still, he made no move to free you, making his point clear. He stood, walking over to the tool wall and wheeling out a metal examination table. Two trays followed right after, and you swallowed hard at the realization that he was setting up for what came next.

"Now, darling, I have been a psychiatrist for many years... I know we can break that defiant streak of yours. The question is how many more bones will have to go with it?"

He gestured towards your ribcage, and you felt a sudden urge to hide your injuries. All the evidence of what you’d done – the irreparable mess you had gotten yourself into. You ought to beg, to grovel and weep at his feet to spare your life. But you would do no such thing, if only for the sake of keeping whatever dignity you had left.

The world began to blur at the edges, like a frosted window during the winter. The maelstrom of emotions that had been brewing inside of you began to evaporate with your exhales, giving way to a blissful nothingness. You watched him wash his hands thoroughly, donning latex gloves.

Once your body was loose and your mind was like a forest of thick fog, Hannibal undid your bindings and carefully scooped you into his arms. Your head lolled against his chest, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat like a loud thunder in your ears. You wanted to cling to him tighter, but you couldn’t find your strength.

“I missed the way you tenderized me,” you rasped, voice weak and breathy. “Soft and pliant flesh for your hands to mold. Didn’t you love me best then?”

“An artist’s job is never quite finished,” he said. “There is love in destruction, too.”

Will descended the stairs as Hannibal was laying you down on the examination table. He used trauma shears to cut what remained of your clothes off, intent on examining every inch of you for the extent of your wounds.

The lights overhead framed their heads like halos, sanctifying them. Shouldn’t your hands be folded in prayer? Your knees on the cool stone floor?

For a moment, you wondered if you’d already died. Soon enough, you supposed.

“Jack’s taken care of. At least for now,” Will’s voice sounded far away as he spoke to Hannibal, who nodded in acknowledgment.

You focused on him, glancing at his bandaged arm. “I’m not sorry for biting you.”

He huffed in bitter amusement. “I know you’re not.”

“Just a little gift for you to remember me by.”

“Why don’t you tell us what’s troubling you?” Hannibal chimed in, listening to you hiss a little through your teeth as he cleaned up some of your scrapes.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Will said. “You left us a very pointed message. Can’t imagine all that mayhem wasn’t inspired by something.”

“You’re the goddamn empath. Why don’t you tell me?” You hissed, still feeling particularly prickly with him.

Hannibal tsked in disapproval, fingers barely tracing your ribcage — a silent warning more than an assessment. Unable to help it, you let out the softest whimper, on edge at the prospect of more agony.

You weren’t entirely surprised that they were ignorant of your rage. They were too preoccupied with other matters to notice. It had been a gradual process, in which they spent more and more time away, leaving you to your own devices. The more tedious tasks were left to you, all of which you could perform almost automatically. It made everything dull at first, but whenever your thoughts would wander to their whereabouts, resentment steadily grew like a thorny bramble in your chest.

But you were quiet in your seething. You tried to remain obedient and useful, in hopes that they would just see how indispensable you were. Anger had always been a reliable companion, especially in moments of fear or weakness, but it was a dangerous fire to stoke. And stoked it was.

Until one day, you couldn’t bear the weight of it all anymore. And this was where it led you.

“I have needs, too, you know,” you began, your words slow and slurred. “Not just carnal. I wanted frenzy and fury, a pain that only you could give and take away. You said destruction is another form of love, but I felt merely endured. An afterthought.”

The two of them shared a look, finally understanding the extent of their negligence. A stray tear escaped your lash line, and Will reached down to brush it away with one of his knuckles.

“‘These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.’” Hannibal recited.

“And quite a fire it was,” Will murmured.

“Would you kiss me before it’s over, then?” You pleaded. “One last time?”

“Last time?” He repeated, frowning in confusion.

“I know what happens next, Will,” the words left you with a ragged sort of exhale, defeated. “An errant flame must be snuffed out for its destruction. I am at your mercy.”

Hannibal removed the piece of cloth from your side, exposing where you’d been stabbed. He noticed the weapon was still buried inside, so he went to retrieve some long, thin surgical tweezers.

"And mercy you shall be granted, just this once. Your fire will not be extinguished tonight, we’ve worked much too hard to keep it kindled. Though discipline should douse that raging inferno considerably,” he leaned in close, so that you were eye to eye. “Did you have enough?”

You managed a small grin. “Never.”

He couldn’t help but smile back. “Atta girl.”

Will glared at him. “But it will not happen again. Our fondness for you is a weakness, despite our faults, forgiveness is not a mistake we will commit twice.”

“The scars shall serve as a reminder. But not to worry, we’ll keep a closer eye on you,” Hannibal reassured. “We are sorry too, isn’t that right, Will?”

Will merely nodded, reaching down to place his hand on your shoulder affectionately, fingers brushing your clavicle.

Hannibal straightened to his full height once more, the metal tweezers in his grip glinting in the light. “This is gonna hurt, darling.”

You nodded, ready to sink into delirium. “Bring it on.”

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#hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter x fem!reader #will graham x fem!reader #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #will graham fanfiction #hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal lecter x will graham x reader #minors dni

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oxblooddraws · 1 year ago

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Moths ago I did a swap au that I unfortunately forgot about it, until I recently saw some old unfinished wips on my folder… But, I didn’t like some things about it so I redrew and rewrote some aspects of it. More explanation under the cut.

Ok, just like before the Boiling Isles are afraid of the humans and the human realm in general, as they believe that humans are vile and evil creatures that want the destruction of witch kind so, they try to not have any connections with.

The people of the isles have perpetually stayed in a 15th, 16th century lifestyle for centuries.

The Boiling isles have been ruled by the empire for 400 years. Who tries to secure the peace of the isles by destroying or foreclosing every human artifact that comes on the Boiling isles and everyone that gets caught of even possessing the smallest one are branded as criminals and sentenced to a lifelong prison or worse execution.

Lilith and Eda are the second in Command to the Emperor and capture anyone that violates the law.

Philip and the Collector are living in the outskirts of the word in the forest with the Bat Queen and the other Palismen. Philip is known to people as the Palisman Keeper, mysterious being that scares away anyone that dares to go into the forest.

Luz gets to the Boiling isles accidentally by a titan blood pool in Gravesfield and after a while she stumbles into Philip and TC, who take her and try to find a way to get her back home. So Luz tries “blend in” as witch named “Luzura” . But, unfortunately for her a rumour that a human has appeared in the Boiling isles has already spread…

This au is going to have a different name than previously had,but I haven’t thought anything yet, so for now it’s vague.

I also may delete the old au later on..

#the owl house #toh au #philip wittebane #emperor belos #toh philip #toh belos #toh #luz noceda #toh luz #the collector #toh collector #eda clawthorne #toh eda #lilith clawthorne #toh lilith #hunter toh #caleb wittebane #my art #Parallel paths au

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veganpeachpie · 8 months ago

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Books without overwhelming romance

I feel like a lot of books people talk about these days have a heavy focus on romance and spice, which really isn't my cup of tea, and it's hard to find good recommendations that don't have that. So here are some YA/adult books I love that don't have romance as a huge part of the plot!

(There may be some minor romantic subplots, but they aren't a major focus.)

The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles In June, 1954, eighteen-year-old Emmett Watson is driven home to Nebraska by the warden of the work farm where he has just served a year for involuntary manslaughter. His mother long gone, his father recently deceased, and the family farm foreclosed upon by the bank, Emmett’s intention is to pick up his eight-year-old brother and head west where they can start their lives anew. But when the warden drives away, Emmett discovers that two friends from the work farm have hidden themselves in the trunk of the warden’s car. Together, they have hatched an altogether different plan for Emmett’s future.

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles In 1922, Count Alexander Rostov is deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by a Bolshevik tribunal, and is sentenced to house arrest in the Metropol, a grand hotel across the street from the Kremlin. Rostov, an indomitable man of erudition and wit, has never worked a day in his life, and must now live in an attic room while some of the most tumultuous decades in Russian history are unfolding outside the hotel’s doors. Unexpectedly, his reduced circumstances provide him entry into a much larger world of emotional discovery.

Babel by R.F. Kuang 1828. Robin Swift, orphaned by cholera in Canton, is brought to London by the mysterious Professor Lovell. There, he trains for years in Latin, Ancient Greek, and Chinese, all in preparation for the day he’ll enroll in Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation—also known as Babel. The tower and its students are the world's center for translation and, more importantly, magic. Silver-working—the art of manifesting the meaning lost in translation using enchanted silver bars—has made the British unparalleled in power, as the arcane craft serves the Empire's quest for colonization. For Robin, Oxford is a utopia dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But knowledge obeys power, and as a Chinese boy raised in Britain, Robin realizes serving Babel means betraying his motherland. As his studies progress, Robin finds himself caught between Babel and the shadowy Hermes Society, an organization dedicated to stopping imperial expansion. When Britain pursues an unjust war with China over silver and opium, Robin must decide . . .

This Savage Song by V.E. Schwab Kate Harker and August Flynn are the heirs to a divided city—a city where the violence has begun to breed actual monsters. All Kate wants is to be as ruthless as her father, who lets the monsters roam free and makes the humans pay for his protection. All August wants is to be human, as good-hearted as his own father, to play a bigger role in protecting the innocent—but he’s one of the monsters. One who can steal a soul with a simple strain of music. When the chance arises to keep an eye on Kate, who’s just been kicked out of her sixth boarding school and returned home, August jumps at it. But Kate discovers August’s secret, and after a failed assassination attempt the pair must flee for their lives.

Anxious People by Frederick Backman Viewing an apartment normally doesn’t turn into a life-or-death situation, but this particular open house becomes just that when a failed bank robber bursts in and takes everyone in the apartment hostage. As the pressure mounts, the eight strangers begin slowly opening up to one another and reveal long-hidden truths. As police surround the premises and television channels broadcast the hostage situation live, the tension mounts and even deeper secrets are slowly revealed. Before long, the robber must decide which is the more terrifying prospect: going out to face the police, or staying in the apartment with this group of impossible people.

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig Somewhere out beyond the edge of the universe there is a library that contains an infinite number of books, each one the story of another reality. One tells the story of your life as it is, along with another book for the other life you could have lived if you had made a different choice at any point in your life. While we all wonder how our lives might have been, what if you had the chance to go to the library and see for yourself? Would any of these other lives truly be better? Nora Seed finds herself faced with this decision. Faced with the possibility of changing her life for a new one, following a different career, undoing old breakups, realizing her dreams of becoming a glaciologist; she must search within herself as she travels through the Midnight Library to decide what is truly fulfilling in life, and what makes it worth living in the first place.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak It is 1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier, and will be busier still. By her brother's graveside, Liesel's life is changed when she picks up a single object, partially hidden in the snow. It is The Gravedigger's Handbook, left behind there by accident, and it is her first act of book thievery. So begins a love affair with books and words, as Liesel, with the help of her accordian-playing foster father, learns to read. Soon she is stealing books from Nazi book-burnings, the mayor's wife's library, wherever there are books to be found. But these are dangerous times. When Liesel's foster family hides a Jew in their basement, Liesel's world is both opened up, and closed down.

The synopses were all taken from Goodreads. Feel free to comment/DM me if you have any questions about these!

#amor towles #the Lincoln highway #a gentleman in moscow #book recommendations #book rec list #books #literature #books and reading #the book thief #Markus zusak #matt haig #the midnight library #anxious people #Frederick backman #this savage song #ve schwab #babel #rebecca f kuang

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thegoldheartlocketandkey-blog · 10 months ago

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911 Spoilers Season 3: You’ve been warned. 😅 Buddie Rewatch

Episode 10-14

Episode 10: Christmas Spirit

Woman Pepper Spray Santa: Buck trying to comfort the little kids, but failing miserably and basically telling a bunch of kids that Santa is not real.

I have no way of knowing if Eddie was working on this shift, but I like to pretend that he heard Santa was one of the victims and choose to stay near the fire truck.

Eddie and Hen are hanging out together. Eddie is talking about how upset Chris is about having to work on Christmas. He knows that Chris will have fun at his aunts but compared to last Christmas with Shannon, it won’t measure up.

Buck, Chris, and Denny are playing together. Chris asks Buck if he could spend Christmas with him. Buck apologizing and telling him that he also has to work. Christopher being extra upset over work.

Buck joining Hen and Eddie in their conversation and commenting on how Christmas sucks this year. All of them pretty much agreeing and Buck saying he wouldn’t be surprised if it got worse.

Golf Clubs vs Plane engine: Buck and Eddie standing closely next to each other. Really got to love that height difference.

Buck pulling out the golf clubs and then noticing Bobby’s nose bleed.

Buck being overly concerned over Bobby. Bobby slightly annoyed by how Buck is concerned. He appreciates it, but thinks it’s too much. Buck admits that Bobby is one of the most important people in his life and he doesn’t know what he’d do if something bad happened to him.

Buck calling Maddie, asking Maddie to do him a favor and speak with Athena.

Blue lady; Eddie and Buck being instructed to look around the home for evidence of anything that may have caused this. The victim commenting on handsome firefighters exploring her home. Eddie finds the cream on the counter. Buck finds a trash can filled with empty tubes.

Athena surprising Bobby at the fire house. Revealing Buck had coordinated with her to plan dinner.

Everyone’s family and friends appearing at the firehouse for a surprise Christmas party.

Eddie hugging Christopher, with his Tia right there. Buck watching the moment really happy for them.

Buck walking around with Mistletoe, uses the opportunity to get a hug and kiss from Hen. (All of us hoping Eddie would have walked by in that moment. But obviously we aren’t so lucky)

Christopher sitting in the middle of Buck and Eddie while they eat dinner.

Buck walking over to Chris with a present to open, Eddie and his Tia standing right next to them, like a family, watching the interaction.

Big 118 Family Christmas photo. Eddie and Buck are stand close to each other. Christopher and Tia are standing in front of them.

Episode 11: Seize the Day

Skydiving emergency: Bobby coming up with the most insane rescue plan. Buck and Eddie are on top of the fire engine and attempting to catch the unconscious man hanging from the plane. They are of course successful.

Mother approaches Buck and Eddie and asks them if they are single. They look at each other.

Buck’s leg is improving and no longer on blood thinners and will no longer need to see his ortho.

The 118 talking about Micheal’s cancer treatment. Which leads to a conversation about Albert, Chimney’s brother. Everyone being excited to meet Albert. Hen making appoint about found family.

Foreclosed home and angry owner: Buck and Eddie fairly close to each other at the scene of the accident and while helping lift the vehicle, and walking back towards the truck.

Albert makes a surprise visit to the firehouse. Buck is enjoying his company. Eddie is sitting right next to buck eating, while Buck describes what Albert has done while waiting for Chimney to arrive.

Eddie revealing that he likes baseball and inviting Albert to see a game.

Karaoke night: Eddie and Buck sitting next to each other at the bar cheering Albert as he was singing with Hen. Eddie, Buck, Hen, and Maddie awkwardly watching Chim lashing out on Albert. Buck chasing after Albert while everyone else tries to process everything.

Maddie reveals that Albert will be staying the night with Buck. Maddie also mentioning her parents aren’t bad people, but they messed up raising both Buck and her.

Buck allowing Chim and Albert to have a deep conversation in his apartment, while he went to go take a shower.

Eddie has invited everyone to his place. Buck, Chris, and Albert are all playing together while Chim and Eddie set up the table. Eddie says the 118 is his chosen family.

Maddie is in the kitchen, when Buck comes over to try and steal a snack. Maddie smacks his hand away. They have a conversation about how you never want to go over to someone’s place empty handed. Buck stating that this is Eddie’s home, he’s really not a guest.

Buck, Eddie, Albert, and Chris around the table enjoying the food. Albert cleaning off Christopher’s face. Buck and Eddie watching.

Episode 12: Fools

Motorcycle and merry-go-round: Eddie mentioning how Chris has watched a video similar to this same scenario online, but the bike wasn’t on fire.

Eddie and Buck are standing next to each other. Buck remembering the victim from a previous rescue.

Maddie, Chim, Josh, and Buck playing poker. Buck is terrible at poker. Josh points out that if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought they were trying to set up Josh and Buck together.

Buck just smiles and Maddie says she wouldn’t do that to Josh, she likes him too much. Buck is slightly offended at that comment. Josh and Buck start to bond over how hard dating is and putting yourself out there.

My personal head cannon for Buck is that he is bisexual. He’s not closeted, just doesn’t feel the need to announce that about himself. I like to believe he had a boyfriend in high school that Maddie knew about. It could explain why neither one of them bat an eye at Josh’s comment about being set up. The way Buck was sitting there with the biggest grin on his face, after Josh made that comment, best believe he was flattered by the thought.

Eddie and Carla are at parent teacher conference. The science teacher mentions how Christopher keeps telling his classmates that tsunamis aren’t a big deal. The meetings are pretty miserable up until we meet the English teacher, Ana. Ana is extremely beautiful and Eddie noticed that.

Ana letting us know that Christopher is funny and very popular in class.

Carla low key trying to be a great wing woman. Carla calling Eddie out on his little crush on the teacher.

Eddie lashing out at Ana because Christopher got hurt while trying to ride a skate board. Eddie being pissed off and takes Chris home, even though Christopher wanted to stay in school.

Carla explaining to Eddie that he needs to have a conversation with Chris about his limitations. Chris revealing that it was his idea to try to ride the skateboard.

Shitty Date; Eddie talking to the victim, asking if she was trying to escape a bad date.

Buck breaking down the bathroom door. While trying to get the woman unstuck from the window and she talks about how hard dating is. Buck proceeds to tell everyone, Eddie’s business of how he ruined any chances he may have had with Chris’ cute English teacher.

Buck and Eddie drinking at Buck’s place discussing Eddie and Chris’ most recent fight where Chris called Eddie a liar. Buck telling him a story about a one-armed Pitcher and how nothing is impossible.

Chris not wanting to go to school because he’s still embarrassed about the skateboard incident. Eddie having a one on one with Chris and explaining that no one can do everything. He talks about how he may have to do things differently but that he can’t be afraid of trying something new.

Chris roasts Eddies cooking skills. Eddie tells us he has a black thumb and can’t keep plants alive.

Eddie apologizes to Ana for lashing out on her. Ana gives him a metaphor about falling off a horse and how it may not be the right horse. The conversation being geared toward how Chris may not be able to ride a skateboard but could end up writing a book. There is an underlying tone in their conversation about dating.

Buck and Carla help surprise Chris at the skatepark. Eddie and Buck pushing Chris on the skateboard contraption they created. Chris having the time of his life. Cute family moment.

Episode 13: Pinned

Bowling Ally Crushed Arm: Eddie and Buck are in the background walking in the gurney.

Eddie and Buck hop on top of the machine to observe the situation and come up with possible solutions. Buck coming up with keeping the arm braced with the device. Everyone a little surprised by that.

Buck is welding the piece off. Eddie is standing nearby, watching from above with no protective gear.

Buck and Eddie guiding the victim’s arm out. As they walk out of the bowling alley, Buck is celebrating/joking around. Eddie rains on his parade a little. It’s light hearted in banter.

Chim, Hen, and Eddie are discussing Chim’s relationship with Maddie. Eddie telling Chim that who cares about what Albert thinks. Eddie also being the one to ask if he loves her. Eddie laughing when Chim says they are taking it slow.

Buck interrupts the conversation for line up.

Before Chim walks out the locker room, Eddie stops him and states, “tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone, if you love her, tell her.”

Nail Gun to the Heart: Buck secures the “weapon.” Eddie tries to reassure victim that this surprisingly happens a lot.

Buck and Eddie standing closely together, like a foot apart.

Buck and Eddie closing the ambulance doors together.

Buck and Eddie walking pressed against each other to open the ambulance doors. They are talking about getting lunch.

These men do not know how to exist in a space and not be a foot from each other.

Episode 14: The Taking of Dispatch 9-1-1

No Buddie. Iconic Episode.

We get to see Buck being Buck and doing what he felt was necessary to make sure his sister was safe.

#buddie #911 abc #eddie diaz #evan buck buckely #buck x eddie #911 spoilers #911 show #911 fandom #evan buckley #9 1 1 #911 rewatch

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goth-oatmilk-latte · 6 months ago

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I don't ever, EVER

E V E R

want to again hear how my generation isn't able to afford a home bc of $7 lattes or avocado toast or our video game consumption when a CONDEMNED, FORECLOSED house in a "nice area" is going for 275k.

"oh but oatmilk you're paying for the potential and --" NO. THE ENTIRE HOUSE NEEDS TO BE GUTTED AND REDONE. there is mold and rotted wood and broken glass and decay from moisture. what potential is there anymore.

yes. it's condemned, really. I walk past it every day, its been condemned for months now. it was a rental property that got neglected after prior tenants left, and the owners foreclosed on it due to not being able to afford repairs after not finding new occupants. the house had squatters and is full of trash.

I was interested in renting it a while back, but the price was insane and that's why they couldn't find a new tenant. it's a 3 bed 1 bath, one floor home. there is a SHARED driveway. or street parking. it was being rented around 2.3k/mo which is also ridiculous, its 2x what i pay in rent, and isnt much bigger than my current home. tbh they deserved foreclosure bc who the hell is making 3x that and wants to rent???

AND SOME MOTHERFUCKER WANTS TO SELL IT AT 275K BC OF WHERE IT IS. "up and coming area"

I will give you $275 and a swift kick in the teeth for it.

two hundred and seventy five thousand dollars. for a condemned home.

we have a severe housing crisis in my city. our homeless shelters are full. corporate real estate/property mgmt buys anything and rents it out for ridiculous pricing. or sells it at an insane price.

"why are young people still having roommates" "why is there so many homeless" "why aren't young people buying"

shit. like. this.

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hoarderofliterature · 1 year ago

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goro akechi wakes up.

at first, his legs don't move, and he blinks up at the dark alley. he's bent in an odd angle, not so much that he feels particularly bad, but if he stays in this pretzel for much longer, he's going to have some serious cramps on the train home.

home. huh. where is he? his foot twitches, finally, and his spine pops as he unfurls himself from the cold, slimy concrete. his fingers scrabble at the ground as dull pain lances through his chest, biting back a groan as he immediately stops moving to assess the damage.

one gloved hand carefully reaches up to undo his tie. the first button of his collar. the second. dips inside, and meets the frayed, pink edge of a healing bullet wound. ah. interesting.

well. no time to think about that. that's for later, after he goes home and finds out where the bastard is, and whether his heart was changed, figure out what prison he's in, break in-

breathe, goro. not now.

slowly, he props himself against the filthy bricks. he must be behind the diet building, where he's ended up more than once after a hit. it's routine from here: what time is it. does he have any food. does he have any appearances tomorrow. any visible injuries.

he takes stock of himself. apart from the scar on his chest, there are minor scrapes he can hide with makeup, and- oh. he feels over his left eye. a long gash, also probably pink, runs from his forehead to his cheek. well, anyhow. he has concealer, doesn't he? that's four, out of the way.

two takes longer. he rummages around in the trash heap for his briefcase, which he gingerly extracts after a moment, positively as gross as he is. thankfully, there are some leftover granola bars inside. he bites into one and it's strangely... dusty? but no matter. he'll take what he can get.

god. being in the metaverse is exhausting, every time. his whole body is screaming for rest, each movement of his jaw more tiring than the last. he has to get home before he collapses. and if it hasn't been a shitty fucking day already, his phone is dead.

he drags himself to his feet, sways for a moment as the alley narrows to his lungs and colors and light, catches himself on the wall, pants for air. fuck. he should. he should maybe ask someone. about this. that's. that's for later. he grits his teeth, does not bite his tongue when he bends down to pick up his suitcase, and starts to walk.

the world is cold. the world is pain. goro trudges towards the station, step by laborious fucking step. still winter, he guesses by the trees. just past ten, the clock in the square reads. no scheduled appearances until the christmas event. one. and three. one. and three.

four. he catches himself in the shining metal of a lamp post. there's a large, purple bruise on the side of his neck, probably from the angle he woke up in. he tallies it with the rest.

four. his brow furrows. didn't the station... only have three card machines, this morning?

four. four hundred yen, from here to kichijoji. the fare wasn't supposed to change today, was it? he swears he only paid three fifty on the way here.

four. the old man who always rides this route at night is gone.

four. he stares up at his apartment building, every rapid breath a nail to his lungs. a large sign is plastered over the door.

foreclosed. no. no way.

four. he nearly screams in pain as he trips over a stone in the sidewalk, half-crazed in his urge to get to the club. he's still covered in dirt, sweat, and probably his own blood, but he could care fucking less as he limps down the stairs, ankle probably twisted at this point. he can't find it in himself to give a single goddamn.

muhen's not there.

a woman, tending the bar. one of muhen's old flings, then- she'd been in the corner of his eye, on the stage a few times. she turns. the glint of a diamond ring, sitting on her finger, flashes in the low light. goro's stomach lurches.

he asks anyway if he can clean up in the bathroom. she lets him go, watching as he drags himself inside.

four. the face that stares back at him in the (newly mounted, silver fittings) mirror is haunted, sunken. eighteen. should be dead. fucked up, just a little. he's gonna have to hide that scar forever, huh. fuck. fuck. not now. that's for later.

he ducks into the widest stall, scrubs at his hair with his stupid uniform coat, says fuck it and uses it as a rag for his scars and bruises and grime until he tosses it over his shoulder and stumbles back out. he never wants to see it again in his life. but it's still winter.

he orders a drink. whiskey, neat. hopefully it'll help with the pain until he can find somewhere to sleep for-

the fake id slides across the counter. she only glances between it and his face once, before motioning him to a table. he nearly passes out when he sits down. the side of the chair digging into his leg keeps him tethered. four. four.

he downs the whiskey too fast when it arrives. it burns, hot and raw in his throat. his eyes water, ducts stinging from the unknown exertion. he orders another. drinks it slower until it sinks in. asks for the bill.

his hands shake as he feels around for his phone charger, plugs it into the socket outside of jazz jin normally used for the string lights. it takes fifteen minutes until it buzzes to life- the screen a distorted, wobbly red and black miasma that reminds him too much of mementos. he crushes the receipt from the club in his hand.

four. it slices into his thumb, a shallow cut, but it's the only one that makes him yelp. he licks at the wound, smooths the paper out, trying not to get blood on it. something's off about it.

he peers closer, holds his probably broken, shitty phone over the meager letters for light. scanning, all the way down, name of the club, two whiskeys, muhen's name still on the register, good- the date. the year. the year, it can't be-

one.

goro akechi is eighteen. he wakes up, still inexplicably eighteen, in 202X, at nine in the evening. christmas eve. six years after he fought his father's cognition of him, and lost.

four. at twelve in the morning, he collapses on the street, only found by the bouncer when he steps into the alley for a smoke. dragged into a hospital under the name now more dead to him than the unfamiliar world. sleeps heavy and deep, pallid and still, until the harsh light kicks him awake once more to deal with the fallout.

but that's for later.

#goro akechi #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #akechi goro #p5 akechi #p5 #p5r #hehe sillies (fics)#text post #written at 2am and tossed in queue

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frostcorpsclub · 9 months ago

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I ordered this cute commission of Jack and Suzy's ponified forms from https://www.deviantart.com/teonnakatztkgs Please look under the cut for some important information

From the description

"I'm sharing this across as many platforms as I can as I'm faced with a horrible situation and desperately need help. In short I'm losing my home and need a down-payment for a new place. The renters market right now is insane. (Like 5000 sometimes 7000 dollars a month for RENT) I've managed to find a place but he refuses to go lower than 3000 down but the rent is doable with my income. But I have been on medical leave since early February due to seizure like activity while I was working. I still have my job and should be returning in April from medical leave. But the foreclosure starts in 2 weeks and ive been using my savings to get by and dont have anywhere near enough for a down-payment. I have begged the mortgage company to let me make payments to them and they have been shady and refusing for months and out of nowhere want to foreclose. It's not even my house I just live in it. They have been building up in my area for a while now and recently started a plaza very close to where I am. I don't know if it has anything to do with it but I need to move. My family will NOT help me with anything.

OK that out of the way.

I'm trying to save 3000$. It's a lot but I have to be able to get a down-payment. It's not just for my sake.

I will literally draw whatever you want however you want it.

Sketch doodle traditional: 1$ Sketch page traditional: 3$ Sketch page digital: 5-7$(comes flat colored more complex characters will be higher) Black lineart fullbody: 10$ Colored lineart fullbody: 15$ Colored and shaded fullbody: 20$ (5$ more for each additional character) Background: 10$

Customs: Black lineart: 5$ Colored lineart: 10$

Adopts and OCs: I'm selling EVERYONE except TK, Kalmin, Silver, and Silverstorm. I have cats, dogs, lions, ponys, etc. Just ask what your looking for I'm still trying to figure out how to use toyhouse to share them there. Depending on how much art they have they will be higher.

Please share if you can't buy"

#jackfrost1997 #jackfrostmks #jackfrostmutantkillersnowman #suzy snowflake #suzysnowflake #suzy frost #suzette schneeflocke #suzette frost #mlp #mlp fim #mlp g4 #mlp art #mlp oc #my little pony

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realtyhubph-blog · 4 months ago

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3 BR House Timog Park Homes Angeles

📍 Timog Park Homes Subdivision Brgy Pampang, Angeles City Property Features TYPE: 3 BR House📐 Lot: 96 square meters🛌 3 Bedrooms🛀 1 Bathroom🅿️ 2 Carports✅ Pocket Garden • Dirty Kitchen • Front Yard Garden • New Vinyl Flooring✅ Appliances Included: 1x built-in gas range (brand new) • 2x split type AC • 1x window type AC • 1x washing machine • 1x refrigerator • 1x TV • 1 sofa set • 1 dining set…

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kemetic-dreams · 1 year ago

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Land taken from African Americans through trickery, violence and murder

For generations, African American families passed down the tales in uneasy whispers: "They stole our land."

These were family secrets shared after the children fell asleep, after neighbors turned down the lamps -- old stories locked in fear and shame.

Some of those whispered bits of oral history, it turns out, are true.

In an 18-month investigation, The Associated Press documented a pattern in which African Americans were cheated out of their land or driven from it through intimidation, violence and even murder.

In some cases, government officials approved the land takings; in others, they took part in them. The earliest occurred before the Civil War; others are being litigated today.

Some of the land taken from African families has become a country club in Virginia, oil fields in Mississippi, a major-league baseball spring training facility in Florida.

The United States has a long history of bitter, often violent land disputes, from claim jumping in the gold fields to range wars in the old West to broken treaties with American Indians. Poor European landowners, too, were sometimes treated unfairly, pressured to sell out at rock-bottom prices by railroads and lumber and mining companies.

The fate of African American landowners has been an overlooked part of this story.

The AP -- in an investigation that included interviews with more than 1,000 people and the examination of tens of thousands of public records in county courthouses and state and federal archives -- documented 107 land takings in 13 Southern and border states.

In those cases alone, 406 African American landowners lost more than 24,000 acres of farm and timber land plus 85 smaller properties, including stores and city lots. Today, virtually all of this property, valued at tens of millions of dollars, is owned by Europeans or by corporations.

Properties taken from Africans were often small -- a 40-acre farm, a general store, a modest house. But the losses were devastating to families struggling to overcome the legacy of slavery. In the agrarian South, landownership was the ladder to respect and prosperity -- the means to building economic security and passing wealth on to the next generation. When African American families lost their land, they lost all of this.

"When they steal your land, they steal your future," said Stephanie Hagans, 40, of Atlanta, who has been researching how her great-grandmother, Ablow Weddington Stewart, lost 35 acres in Matthews, N.C. A European lawyer foreclosed on Stewart in 1942 after he refused to allow her to finish paying off a $540 debt, witnesses told the AP.

"How different would our lives be," Hagans asked, "if we'd had the opportunities, the pride that land brings?"

No one knows how many African American families have been unfairly stripped of their land, but there are indications of extensive loss.

Besides the 107 cases the AP documented, reporters found evidence of scores of other land takings that could not be fully verified because of gaps or inconsistencies in the public record. Thousands of additional reports of land takings from African American families remain uninvestigated.

Two thousand have been collected in recent years by the Penn Center on St. Helena Island, S.C., an educational institution established for freed slaves during the Civil War. The Land Loss Prevention Project, a group of lawyers in Durham, N.C., who represent blacks in land disputes, said it receives new reports daily. And Heather Gray of the Federation of Southern Cooperatives in Atlanta said her organization has "file cabinets full of complaints."

AP's findings "are just the tip of one of the biggest crimes of this country's history," said Ray Winbush, director of Fisk University's Institute of Race Relations.

Some examples of land takings documented by the AP:

After midnight on Oct. 4, 1908, 50 hooded European men surrounded the home of a African farmer in Hickman, Ky., and ordered him to come out for a whipping. When David Walker refused and shot at them instead, the mob poured coal oil on his house and set it afire, according to contemporary newspaper accounts. Pleading for mercy, Walker ran out the front door, followed by four screaming children and his wife, carrying a baby in her arms. The mob shot them all, wounding three children and killing the others. Walker's oldest son never escaped the burning house. No one was ever charged with the killings, and the surviving children were deprived of the farm their father died defending. Land records show that Walker's 2 1/2-acre farm was simply folded into the property of a white neighbor. The neighbor soon sold it to another man, whose daughter owns the undeveloped land today.In the 1950s and 1960s, a Chevrolet dealer in Holmes County, Miss., acquired hundreds of acres from African American farmers by foreclosing on small loans for farm equipment and pickup trucks. Norman Weathersby, then the only dealer in the area, required the farmers to put up their land as security for the loans, county residents who dealt with him said. And the equipment he sold them, they said, often broke down shortly thereafter. Weathersby's friend, William E. Strider, ran the local Farmers Home Administration -- the credit lifeline for many Southern farmers. Area residents, including Erma Russell, 81, said Strider, now dead, was often slow in releasing farm operating loans to Africans. When cash-poor farmers missed payments owed to Weathersby, he took their land. The AP documented eight cases in which Weathersby acquired African-owned farms this way. When he died in 1973, he left more than 700 acres of this land to his family, according to estate papers, deeds and court records.In 1964, the state of Alabama sued Lemon Williams and Lawrence Hudson, claiming the cousins had no right to two 40-acre farms their family had worked in Sweet Water, Ala., for nearly a century. The land, officials contended, belonged to the state. Circuit Judge Emmett F. Hildreth urged the state to drop its suit, declaring it would result in "a severe injustice." But when the state refused, saying it wanted income from timber on the land, the judge ruled against the family. Today, the land lies empty; the state recently opened some of it to logging. The state's internal memos and letters on the case are peppered with references to the family's race.

In the same courthouse where the case was heard, the AP located deeds and tax records documenting that the family had owned the land since an ancestor bought the property on Jan. 3, 1874. Surviving records also show the family paid property taxes on the farms from the mid-1950s until the land was taken.

AP reporters tracked the land cases by reviewing deeds, mortgages, tax records, estate papers, court proceedings, surveyor maps, oil and gas leases, marriage records, census listings, birth records, death certificates and Freedmen's Bureau archives. Additional documents, including FBI files and Farmers Home Administration records, were obtained through the Freedom of Information Act.

The AP interviewed black families that lost land, as well as lawyers, title searchers, historians, appraisers, genealogists, surveyors, land activists, and local, state and federal officials.

The AP also talked to current owners of the land, nearly all of whom acquired the properties years after the land takings occurred. Most said they knew little about the history of their land. When told about it, most expressed regret.

Weathersby's son, John, 62, who now runs the dealership in Indianola, Miss., said he had little direct knowledge about his father's business affairs. However, he said he was sure his father never would have sold defective vehicles and that he always treated people fairly.

Alabama Gov. Don Siegelman examined the state's files on the Sweet Water case after an inquiry from the AP. He said he found them "disturbing" and has asked the state attorney general to review the matter.

"What I have asked the attorney general to do," he said, "is look not only at the letter of the law but at what is fair and right."

The land takings are part of a larger picture -- a 91-year decline in African American landownership in America.

In 1910, African Americans owned more farmland than at any time before or since -- at least 15 million acres. Nearly all of it was in the South, largely in Mississippi, Alabama and the Carolinas, according to the U.S. Agricultural Census. Today, Africans own only 1.1 million of the country's more than 1 billion acres of arable land. They are part owners of another 1.07 million acres.

The number of European American farmers has declined over the last century, too, as economic trends have concentrated land in fewer, often corporate, hands. However, African American ownership has declined 2 1/2 times faster than white ownership, the U.S. Civil Rights Commission noted in a 1982 report, the last comprehensive federal study on the trend.

The decline in African American landownership had a number of causes, including the discriminatory lending practices of the Farmers Home Administration and the migration of Africans from the rural South to industrial centers in the North and West.

However, the land takings also contributed. In the decades between Reconstruction and the civil rights struggle, black families were powerless to prevent them, said Stuart E. Tolnay, a University of Washington sociologist and co-author of a book on lynchings. In an era when African Americans could not drink from the same water fountains as European and African men were lynched for whistling at white women, few Africans dared to challenge Europeans. Those who did could rarely find lawyers to take their cases or judges who would give them a fair hearing.

The Rev. Isaac Simmons was an exception. When his land was taken, he found a lawyer and tried to fight back.

In 1942, his 141-acre farm in Amite County, Miss., was sold for nonpayment of taxes, property records show. The farm, for which his father had paid $302 in 1887, was bought by a European man for $180.

Only partial, tattered tax records for the period exist today in the county courthouse; but they are enough to show that tax payments on at least part of the property were current when the land was taken.

Simmons hired a lawyer in February 1944 and filed suit to get his land back. On March 26, a group of Europeans paid Simmons a visit.

The minister's daughter, Laura Lee Houston, now 74, recently recalled her terror as she stood with her month-old baby in her arms and watched the men drag Simmons away. "I screamed and hollered so loud," she said. "They came toward me and I ran down in the woods."

The Europeans then grabbed Simmons' son, Eldridge, from his house and drove the two men to a lonely road.

"Two of them kept beating me," Eldridge Simmons later told the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. "They kept telling me that my father and I were 'smart niggers' for going to see a lawyer."

Simmons, who has since died, said his captors gave him 10 days to leave town and told his father to start running. Later that day, the minister's body turned up with three gunshot wounds in the back, The McComb Enterprise newspaper reported at the time.

Today, the Simmons land -- thick with timber and used for hunting -- is privately owned and is assessed at $33,660. (Officials assess property for tax purposes, and the valuation is usually less than its market value.)

Over the past 20 years, a handful of African families have sued to regain their ancestral lands. State courts, however, have dismissed their cases on grounds that statutes of limitations had expired.

A group of attorneys led by Harvard University law professor Charles J. Ogletree has been making inquries recently about land takings. The group has announced its intention to file a national class-action lawsuit in pursuit of reparations for slavery and racial discrimination. However, some legal experts say redress for many land takings may not be possible unless laws are changed.

As the acres slipped away, so did treasured pieces of family history -- cabins crafted by a grandfather's hand, family graves in shaded groves.

But "the home place" meant more than just that. Many Africans have found it "very difficult to transfer wealth from one generation to the next," because they had trouble holding onto land, said Paula Giddings, a history professor at Duke University.

The Espy family in Vero Beach, Fla., lost its heritage in 1942, when the U.S. government seized its land through eminent domain to build an airfield. Government agencies frequently take land this way for public purposes under rules that require fair compensation for the owners.

In Vero Beach, however, the Navy appraised the Espys' 147 acres, which included a 30-acre fruit grove, two houses and 40 house lots, at $8,000, according to court records. The Espys sued, and an all-white jury awarded them $13,000. That amounted to one-sixth of the price per acre that the Navy paid European neighbors for similar land with fewer improvements, records show.

After World War II, the Navy gave the airfield to the city of Vero Beach. Ignoring the Espys' plea to buy back their land, the city sold part of it, at $1,500 an acre, to the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1965 as a spring training facility.

In 1999, the former Navy land, with parts of Dodgertown and a municipal airport, was assessed at $6.19 million. Sixty percent of that land once belonged to the Espys. The team sold its property to Indian River County for $10 million in August, according to Craig Callan, a Dodgers official.

The true extent of land takings from African families will never be known because of gaps in property and tax records in many rural Southern counties. The AP found crumbling tax records, deed books with pages torn from them, file folders with documents missing, and records that had been crudely altered.

In Jackson Parish, La., 40 years of moldy, gnawed tax and mortgage records were piled in a cellar behind a roll of Christmas lights and a wooden reindeer. In Yazoo County, Miss., volumes of tax and deed records filled a classroom in an abandoned school, the papers coated with white dust from a falling ceiling. The AP retrieved dozens of documents that custodians said were earmarked for shredders or landfills.

The AP also found that about a third of the county courthouses in Southern and border states have burned -- some more than once -- since the Civil War. Some of the fires were deliberately set.

On the night of Sept. 10, 1932, for example, 15 Europeans torched the courthouse in Paulding, Miss., where property records for the eastern half of Jasper County, then predominantly African, were stored. Records for the predominantly white western half of the county were safe in another courthouse miles away.

The door to the Paulding courthouse's safe, which protected the records, had been locked the night before, the Jasper County News reported at the time. The next morning, the safe was found open, most of the records reduced to ashes.

Suddenly, it was unclear who owned a big piece of eastern Jasper County.

Even before the courthouse fire, landownership in Jasper County was contentious. According to historical accounts, the Ku Klux Klan, resentful that African were buying and profiting from land, had been attacking African-owned farms, burning houses, lynching African farmers and chasing African American landowners away.

The Masonite Corp., a wood products company, was one of the largest landowners in the area. Because most of the land records had been destroyed, the company went to court in December 1937 to clear its title. Masonite believed it owned 9,581 acres and said in court papers that it had been unable to locate anyone with a rival claim to the land.

A month later, the court ruled the company had clear title to the land, which has since yielded millions of dollars in natural gas, timber and oil, according to state records.

From the few property records that remain, the AP was able to document that at least 204.5 of those acres had been acquired by Masonite after African American owners were driven off by the Klan. At least 850,000 barrels of oil have been pumped from this property, according to state oil and gas board records and figures from the Petroleum Technology Transfer Council, an industry group.

Today, the land is owned by International Paper Corp., which acquired Masonite in 1988. Jenny Boardman, a company spokeswoman, said International Paper had been unaware of the "tragic" history of the land and was concerned about AP's findings.

"This is probably part of a much larger, public debate about whether there should be restitution for people who have been harmed in the past," she said. "And by virtue of the fact that we now own these lands, we should be part of that discussion."

Even when Southern courthouses remained standing, mistrust and fear of white authority long kept Africans away from record rooms, where documents often were segregated into "white" and "colored." Many elderly Africans say they still remember how they were snubbed by court clerks, spat upon and even struck.

Today, however, fear and shame have given way to pride. Interest in genealogy among African families is surging, and some African whispered stories.

"People are out there wondering: What ever happened to Grandma's land?" said Loretta Carter Hanes, 75, a retired genealogist. "They knew that their grandparents shed a lot of blood and tears to get it."

Bryan Logan, a 55-year-old sports writer from Washington, D.C., was researching his heritage when he uncovered a connection to 264 acres of riverfront property in Richmond, Va.

Today, the land is Willow Oaks, an almost exclusively European American country club with an assessed value of $2.94 million. But in the 1850s, it was a corn-and-wheat plantation worked by the Howlett slaves -- Logan's ancestors.

Their owner, Thomas Howlett, directed in his will that his 15 slaves be freed, that his plantation be sold and that the slaves receive the proceeds. When he died in 1856, his European relatives challenged the will, but two courts upheld it.

Yet the freed slaves never got a penny.

Benjamin Hatcher, the executor of the estate, simply took over the plantation, court records show. He cleared the timber and mined the stone, providing granite for the Navy and War Department buildings in Washington and the capitol in Richmond, according to records in the National Archives.

When the Civil War ended in 1865, the former slaves complained to the occupying Union Army, which ordered Virginia courts to investigate.

Hatcher testified that he had sold the plantation in 1862 -- apparently to his son, Thomas -- but had not given the proceeds to the former slaves. Instead, court papers show, the proceeds were invested on their behalf in Confederate War Bonds. There is nothing in the public record to suggest the former slaves wanted their money used to support the Southern war effort.

Moreover, the bonds were purchased in the former slaves' names in 1864 -- a dubious investment at best in the fourth year of the war. Within months, Union armies were marching on Atlanta and Richmond, and the bonds were worthless pieces of paper.

The Africans insisted they were never given even that, but in 1871, Virginia's highest court ruled that Hatcher was innocent of wrongdoing and that the former slaves were owed nothing.

The following year, the plantation was broken up and sold at a public auction. Hatcher's son received the proceeds, county records show. In the 1930s, a Richmond businessman cobbled the estate back together; he sold it to Willow Oaks Corp. in 1955 for an unspecified amount.

"I don't hold anything against Willow Oaks," Logan said. "But how Virginia's courts acted, how they allowed the land to be stolen -- it goes against everything America stands for."

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