#house of blues houston | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reasonsforhope · 10 months ago

Text

Paywall-free version

On the outskirts of Austin, Texas, what began as a fringe experiment has quickly become central to the city’s efforts to reduce homelessness. To Justin Tyler Jr., it is home.

Mr. Tyler, 41, lives in Community First! Village, which aims to be a model of permanent affordable housing for people who are chronically homeless. In the fall of 2022, he joined nearly 400 residents of the village, moving into one of its typical digs: a 200-square-foot, one-room tiny house furnished with a kitchenette, a bed and a recliner.

The village is a self-contained, 51-acre community in a sparsely populated area just outside Austin. Stepping onto its grounds feels like entering another realm.

Eclectic tiny homes are clustered around shared outdoor kitchens, and neat rows of recreational vehicles and manufactured homes line looping cul-de-sacs.

There are chicken coops, two vegetable gardens, a convenience store, art and jewelry studios, a medical clinic and a chapel.

Roads run throughout, but residents mainly get around on foot or on an eight-passenger golf cart that makes regular stops around the property.

Mr. Tyler chose a home with a cobalt-blue door and a small patio in the oldest part of the village, where residents’ cactus and rock gardens created a “funky, hippie vibe” that appealed to him. He arrived in rough shape, struggling with alcoholism, his feet inflamed by gout, with severe back pain from nearly 10 years of sleeping in public parks, in vehicles and on street benches.

At first, he kept to himself. He locked his door and slept. He visited the clinic and started taking medication. After a month or so, he ventured out to meet his neighbors.

“For a while there, I just didn’t want to be seen and known,” he said. “Now I prefer it.”

Between communal meals and movie screenings, Mr. Tyler also works at the village, preparing homes for the dozen or more people who move there each month.

In the next few years, Community First is poised to grow to nearly 2,000 homes across three locations, which would make it by far the nation’s largest project of this kind, big enough to permanently house about half of Austin’s chronically homeless population.

Tiny-home villages for people who have been homeless have existed on a small scale for several decades, but have recently become a popular approach to addressing surging homelessness. Since 2019, the number of these villages across the country has nearly quadrupled, to 124 from 34, with dozens more coming, according to a census by Yetimoni Kpeebi, a researcher at Missouri State University.

Mandy Chapman Semple, a consultant who has helped cities like Houston transform their homelessness systems, said the growth of these villages reflects a need to replace inexpensive housing that was once widely available in the form of mobile home parks and single room occupancy units, and is rapidly being lost. But she said they are a highly imperfect solution.

“I think where we’re challenged is that ‘tiny home’ has taken on a spectrum of definitions,” said Chapman Semple. Many of those definitions fall short of housing standards, often lacking basic amenities like heat and indoor plumbing, which she said limits their ability to meet the needs of the population they intend to serve.

But Community First is pushing the tiny home model to a much larger scale. While most of its homes lack bathrooms and kitchens, its leaders see that as a necessary trade-off to be able to creatively and affordably house the growing number of people living on Austin’s streets. And unlike most other villages, many of which provide temporary emergency shelter in structures that can resemble tool sheds, Community First has been thoughtfully designed with homey spaces where people with some of the highest needs can stay for good. No other tiny home village has attempted to permanently house as many people.

Austin’s homelessness rate has been rapidly worsening, and the city’s response has whipped back and forth... In October [2023], the official estimate put the number of people living without shelter at 5,530, a 125 percent increase from two years earlier. Some of that rise is the result of better outreach, but officials acknowledged that more people have become homeless. City leaders vowed to build more housing, but that effort has been slowed by construction delays and resistance from residents.

Meanwhile, outside the city limits, Community First has been building fast. [Note from below the read more: It's outside city limits because the lack of zoning laws keeps more well-off Austin residents from blocking the project, as they did earlier attempts to build inside the city.] In a mere eight years, this once-modest project has grown into a sprawling community that the city is turning to as a desperately needed source of affordable housing. The village has now drawn hundreds of millions of dollars from public and private sources and given rise to similar initiatives across the country.

This rapid growth has come despite significant challenges. And some question whether a community on the outskirts of town with relaxed housing standards is a suitable way to meet the needs of people coming out of chronic homelessness. The next few years will be a test of whether these issues will be addressed or amplified as the village expands to five times its current size.

-via New York Times, January 8, 2024. Article continues below (at length!)

The community versus Community First

For Alan Graham, the expansion of Community First is just the latest stage in a long-evolving project. In the late 1990s, Mr. Graham, then a real estate developer, attended a Catholic men’s retreat that deepened his faith and inspired him to get more involved with his church. Soon after, he began delivering meals as a church volunteer to people living on Austin’s streets.

In 1998, Mr. Graham, now 67, became a founder of Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a nonprofit that has since amassed a fleet of vehicles that make daily rounds to deliver food and clothing to Austin’s homeless...

Talking to people like Mr. Johnston [a homeless Austin resident who Graham had befriended], Mr. Graham came to feel that housing alone was not enough for people who had been chronically homeless, the official term for those who have been homeless for years or repeatedly and have physical or mental disabilities, including substance-use disorders. About a third of the homeless population fits this description, and they are often estranged from family and other networks.

In 2006, Mr. Graham pitched an idea to Austin’s mayor: Create an R.V. park for people coming out of chronic homelessness. It would have about 150 homes, supportive services and easy access to public transportation. Most importantly, it would help to replace the “profound, catastrophic loss of family” he believed was at the root of the problem with a close-knit and supportive community.

The City Council voted unanimously in 2008 to lease Mr. Graham a 17-acre plot of city-owned land to make his vision a reality. Getting the council members on board, he said, turned out to be the easy part.

When residents near the intended site learned of the plan, they were outraged. They feared the development would reduce their property values and invite crime. One meeting to discuss the plan with the neighborhood grew so heated that Mr. Graham was escorted to his car by the police. Not a single one of the 52 community members in attendance voted in favor of the project.

After plans for the city-owned lot fell apart and other proposed locations faced similar resistance, Mr. Graham gave up on trying to build the development within city limits.

In 2012, he instead acquired a plot of land in a part of Travis County just northeast of Austin. It was far from public transportation and other services, but it had one big advantage: The county’s lack of zoning laws limited the power of neighbors to stop it.

Mr. Graham raised $20 million and began to build. In late 2015, Mr. Johnston left the R.V. park he had been living in and became the second person to move into the new village. It grew rapidly. In just two years, Mr. Graham bought an adjacent property, nearly doubling the village’s size to 51 acres and making room for hundreds more residents.

And then in the fall of 2022, he broke ground on the largest expansion yet: Adding two more sites to the village, expanding it by 127 acres to include nearly 2,000 homes.

“No one ever really did what they first did, and no one’s ever done what they’re about to do,” said Mark Hilbelink, the director of Sunrise Navigation Center, Austin’s largest homeless-services provider. “So there’s a little bit of excitement but also probably a little bit of trepidation about, ‘How do we do this right?’”

What it takes to make a village

Since he moved into Community First eight years ago, Mr. Johnston has found the stability that eluded him for so long. Most mornings, he wakes up early in his R.V., feeds his scruffy adopted terrier, Amos, and walks a few minutes down a quiet road to the village garden, where neat rows of carrots, leeks, beets and arugula await his attention.

Mr. Johnston worked in fast-food restaurants for most of his life, but he learned how to garden at the village. He now works full time cultivating produce for a weekly market that is free to residents.

“Once I got here, I said, This is where I’m going to spend pretty much my entire life now,” Mr. Johnston said.

Everyone at the village pays rent, which averages about $385 a month. The tiny homes that make up two-thirds of the dwellings go for slightly lower, but have no indoor plumbing; their residents use communal bathhouses and kitchens. The rest of the units are R.V.s and manufactured homes with their own bathrooms and kitchens.

Like Mr. Johnston, many residents have jobs in the village, created to offer residents flexible opportunities to earn some income. Last year, they earned a combined $1.5 million working as gardeners, landscapers, custodians, artists, jewelry makers and more, paid out by Mobile Loaves and Fishes.

Ute Dittemer, 66, faced a daily struggle for survival during a decade on the streets before moving into Community First five years ago with her husband. Now she supports herself by painting and molding figures out of clay at the village art house, augmented by her husband’s $800 monthly retirement income. A few years ago, a clay chess set she made sold for $10,000 at an auction. She used the money to buy her first car.

“I’m glad that we are not in a low-income-housing apartment complex,” she said. “We’ve got all this green out here, air to breathe.”

A small number of residents have jobs off-site, and a city bus makes hourly stops at the village 13 times a day to help people commute into town.

But about four out of five residents live on government benefits like disability or Social Security. Their incomes average $900 a month, making even tiny homes impossible to afford without help, Mr. Graham said.

“Essentially 100 percent of the people that move into this village will have to be subsidized for the rest of their lives,” he said.

For about $25,000 a year, Mr. Graham’s organization subsidizes one person’s housing at the village. (Services like primary health care and addiction counseling are provided by other organizations.) So far, that has been paid for entirely by private donations and in small part from collecting rent.

This would not be possible, Mr. Graham said, without a highly successful fund-raising operation that taps big Austin philanthropists. To build the next two expansions, Mr. Graham set a $225 million fund-raising goal, about $150 million of which has already been obtained from the Michael and Susan Dell Foundation, the founder of the Patrón Spirits Company, Hill Country Bible Church and others.

Support goes beyond monetary donations. A large land grant came from the philanthropic arm of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, and Alamo Drafthouse, an Austin-based cinema chain, donated an outdoor amphitheater for movie screenings. Top architectural firms competed for the chance to design energy-efficient tiny homes free of charge. And every week, hundreds of volunteers come to help with landscaping and gardening or to serve free meals.

Around 55 residents, including 15 children, live in the village as “missionals” — unpaid neighbors generally motivated by their Christian faith to be part of the community.

All missionals undergo a monthslong “discernment process” before they can move in. They pay to live in R.V.s and manufactured homes distinguished by an “M” in the front window. Their presence in the community is meant to guard against the pitfalls of concentrated poverty and trauma.

“Missionals are our guardian angels,” said Blair Racine, a 69-year-old resident with a white beard that hangs to his chest. “They’re people we can always call. They’re always there for us.”

After moving into the village in 2018, Mr. Racine spent two years isolated in his R.V. because of a painful eye condition. But after an effective treatment, he became so social that he was nicknamed the Mayor. Missional residents drive him to get his medication once a week, he said. To their children he is Uncle Blair.

Though the village is open to people of any religious background, it is run by Christians, and public spaces are adorned with paintings of Jesus on the cross and other biblical scenes. The application to live in the community outlines a set of “core values” that refer to God and the Bible. But Mr. Graham said there is no proselytizing and people do not have to be sober or seek treatment to live there.

Mr. Graham lives in a 399-square-foot manufactured home in the middle of the village with his wife, Tricia Graham, who works as the community’s “head of neighbor care.” He said they do not have any illusions about solving the underlying mental-health and substance-use problems many residents live with, and that is not their goal.

“This is absolutely not nirvana,” Mr. Graham said. “And we want people to understand the beauty and the complexity of what we do. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on the face of the planet than right here in the middle of this, but you’re not fixing these things.” ...

From an experiment to a model

Community First has already inspired spinoffs, with some tweaks. In 2018, Nate Schlueter, who previously worked with the village’s jobs program, opened Eden Village in his hometown, Springfield, Mo. Unlike in Community First, every home in Eden Village is identical and has its own bathroom and kitchen. Mr. Schlueter’s model has spread to 12 different cities with every village limited to 50 homes or fewer.

“Not every city is Austin, Texas,” Mr. Schlueter said. “We don’t want to build a large-scale village. And if the root cause of homelessness is a loss of family, and community is something that can duplicate that safety net to some extent, to have smaller villages to me seemed like a stronger community safety net. Everybody would know each other.”

The rapid growth of Community First has challenged that ideal. In recent years, some of the original missional residents and staff members have left, finding it harder to support the number of people moving into the village. Steven Hebbard, who lived and worked at the village since its inception, left in 2019 when he said it shifted from a “tiny-town dynamic” where he knew everyone’s name to something that felt more like a city, straining the supportive culture that helped people succeed.

Mobile Loaves and Fishes said more staff members had recently been hired to help new residents adjust, but Mr. Graham noted that there was a limit to what any housing provider could do without violating people’s privacy and autonomy.

Despite these concerns, the organization, which had been run entirely on private money, has recently drawn public support. In January 2023, Travis County gave Mobile Loaves and Fishes $35 million in American Rescue Plan Act funds to build 640 units as part of its expansion.

Then four months later came a significant surprise: The U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development approved the use of federal housing vouchers, which subsidize part or all of a low-income resident’s rent, for the village’s tiny homes. This will make running the village much more financially sustainable, Mr. Graham said, and may make it a more replicable blueprint for other places.

“That’s a big deal for us, and it’s a big deal on a national basis,” Mr. Graham said. “It’s a recognition that this model, managed the way that this model is, has a role in the system.”

Usually, the government considers homes without indoor plumbing to be substandard, but, in this case, it made an exception by applying the housing standards it uses for single-room-occupancy units. The village still did not meet the required ratio of bathrooms per person, but at the request of Travis County and the City of Austin’s housing officials, who cited Austin’s “severe lack of affordable housing” that made it impossible for some homeless people with vouchers to find anywhere else to live, HUD waived its usual requirements.

In the waiver, a HUD staffer wrote that Mr. Graham told HUD officials over the phone that the proportion of in-unit bathrooms “has not been an issue.” But in conversations with The Times, other homeless-service providers in Austin and some village residents said the lack of in-unit bathrooms is one of the biggest problems people have with living there. It also makes the villages less accessible to people with certain disabilities and health issues that are relatively common among the chronically homeless....

Mr. Graham said that with a doctor’s note, people could secure an R.V. or manufactured home at the village, although those are in short supply and have a long waiting list. He said the village’s use of tiny homes allowed them to build at a fraction of the usual cost when few other options existed, and helps ensure residents aren’t isolated in their units, reinforcing the village’s communal ethos.

“If somebody wants to live in a tiny home they ought to have the choice,” Mr. Graham said, “and if they are poor we ought to respect their civil right to live in that place and be subsidized to live there.” But he conceded that for some people, “this might not be the model.”

“Nobody can be everything for everyone,” he said.

By the spring of 2025, Mr. Graham hopes to begin moving people into the next phase of the village, across the street from the current property. The darker visions some once predicted of an impoverished community on the outskirts of town overtaken by drugs and violence have not come to pass. Instead, the village has permanently housed hundreds of people and earned the approval and financial backing of the city, the county and the federal government. But for the model to truly meet the scale of the challenge in Austin and beyond, Chapman Semple said, the compromises that led to Community First in its current incarnation will have to be reckoned with.

“We can build smaller villages that can be fully integrated into the community, that can have access to amenities within the community that we all need to live, including jobs and groceries,” Chapman Semple said. “If it’s a wonderful model then we should be embracing and fighting for its inclusion within our community.”

-via New York Times, January 8, 2024

394 notes · View notes

90s-music-tourney · 2 months ago

Text

All songs have been chosen for the 90s music tourney

Lithium by Nirvana

Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill

Ironic by Alanis Morrisette

She don't use Jelly by Flaming Lips

Iris by Goo Goo Dolls

What's Up by 4 non blondes

Peaches by Presidents of the United States

Criminal by Fiona Apple

Bitch by Meredith Brooks

Good Riddance (Time of your Life) by Green Day

… Baby One More Time by Britney Spears

Sober by TOOL

Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something

Wonderwall by Oasis

Love Fool by The Cardigans

baby got back by sir mix-a-lot

whatta man by salt n peppa

No Scrubs by TLC

Istanbul (Not Constantinople) by They Might Be Giants

Losing my Religion by REM

Fem in a Black Leather Jacket by Pansy Division

No Rain by Blind Melon

Friday I'm in Love by The Cure

Mr. Jones by Counting Crows

Californication by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Tubthumping by Chumbawamba

Zombie by Cranberries

Smooth By Santana Ft. Rob Thomas

One Week by Barenaked Ladies

Semi Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind

Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer

All Star by Smash Mouth

Buddy Holly by Weezer

My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion

Genie in a Bottle By Christina Aguilera

Barbie Girl by Aqua

Spice up your life by Spice Girls

Steal My Sunshine By Len

Cannonball by the Breeders

Bittersweet Symphony by the Verve

What is Love By haddaway

Follow you down by Gin Blossom

Freedom by George Michael

Nothing Compares to You by Sinead o Connor

Around the World by Daft Punk

Laid by James

Possum Kingdom by Toadies

Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger

Only Happy When it Rains by Garbage

Bullet with Butterfly Wings by Smashing Pumpkins

Sunny Came Home by Shawn Colvin

Pepper by Butthole Surfers

Mother Mother by Tracy Bonham

Tim I wish you were born a girl by of Montreal

Voodoo by Godsmack

Mambo No. 5 by Lou Bega

Livin La Vida Loca by Ricky Martin

Just a Girl by No Doubt

Closer by Nine Inch Nails

California Live by Tupac

I will Always Love you by Whitney Houston

Give Me One Reason by Tracy Chapman

Good Day by Ice Cube

Gin and Juice by Snoop Dogg

Dragula by Rob Zombie

My Name is by Eminem

You Get What You Give by New Radicals

No Diggity by Blackstreet

Loser by Beck

pretty fly (for a white guy) by the offspring

What's my Age Again by Blink-182

I want it that way by the Backstreet Boys

Intergalactic By the Beastie Boys

Two Princes by Spin Doctor

Killing in the Name by Rage Against the Machine

Girls and Boys by Blur

Where is my mind by the Pixies

Closing Time by Semisonic

Creep by Radiohead

Say My Name by Destiny's Child

Jump Around by House of Pain

Check the Rhime by A Tribe Called Quest

November Rain by Guns n Roses

The Distance by CAKE

Every You, Every Me by Placebo

The Sign by Ace of Base

Vogue by Madonna

Don't Let Go (Love) by En Vogue

Mm Bop by Hansen

Believe By Cher

Mo Money, Mo Problems by Notorious BIG

Gold Soundz by Pavement

The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly) by Missy Elliot

Common People by Pulp

Doll Parts by Hole

Gangsta's Paradise by Coolio

138 notes · View notes

satorulovebot · 3 months ago

Text

CIGARETTES AND WHISKY | WELCOME TO LONE STAR RANCH. (1)

↳ satoru gojou x suguru getou x reader

genre. angst, fluff, modern au, cowboys, 18+

tags/warnings. drug use (smoking), profanity

notes. 6.8k wc. please enjoy this mini-series my brain cooked up while I was thinking about this choices story I read and horseland, yes the show from 20 years ago. highly recommend. yes, this is stereotypical and takes place in texas (unfortunately). don't smoke kiddos. geto is here too btw.

series masterlist -> chapter two

The Texas sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sprawling landscape that seemed to stretch on for miles. The drive had been long, winding through open country and passing tall grass swaying in the light breeze.

A sense of relief washed over you as the GPS announced your arrival. The place you were going to was around two and a half hours from Houston, in the middle of nowhere, with a small town thirty minutes away. As your car rolled to a stop at the entrance, you could hear the gravel crunch beneath the tires. In front of you stood a large archway made of weathered wood. The old archway had the words "Lone Star Ranch," painted in a dark blue that had faded over time. Beneath the arch, a long driveway stretched out before you that led to the heart of the ranch.

You rested your hands on the steering wheel and sat for a moment, deciding to take in the sight before you. The ranch was beautiful. Beyond the driveway you could see there were rolling hills dotted with cattle and trees that stretched into the distance. You thought the air here felt different—cleaner, somehow.

Taking a deep breath, you turned off the engine, allowing the sounds of the countryside to embrace you. The only sounds you could hear were the distant mooing of cattle and the faint chirping of birds. It was a far cry from the noisy city you had left behind not long ago. Truth be told, you were looking for a place to start over, and you thought this was the solution.

As you stepped out of the car, a realization dawned upon you: you had never lived on a ranch before, worked with animals, or dealt with the physical labor that ranch life demanded. You had briefly ridden horses when you were younger but that was… how many years ago? Over eighteen years ago? You were a city person through and through, and you were going to have to learn to live in the countryside.

The sun was warm against your skin as you stretched, trying to shake off the stiffness from the long drive. You walked around to the back of the car, popping the trunk and pulling out your bags. The sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel was the only noise that filled the air. You were truly out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the ranch and its inhabitants for miles.

You slung a bag over your shoulder and turned around to take in the ranch. To your left was a large, two-story ranch house that overlooked the property. You could tell it was older, similar to the sign out front. The house had a wide front porch that wrapped around the entire house, supported by thick wooden beams. Further down the driveway, you could see several barns and stables; the red paint was faded and chipped, but it was well-maintained.

Just as you were about to close the trunk, a sound from off in the distance caught your attention. It was faint at first, but it grew louder with each passing second—a steady, rhythmic beat that seemed to echo across the open land. Curious, you turned toward the sound, squinting against the sun that hung low on the horizon.

That’s when you saw him.

A man on horseback was riding toward you. The horse's powerful legs were kicking up small clouds of dust with each stride. The man atop the horse sat tall in the saddle, his posture relaxed. As he drew closer, you could make out more details—his broad shoulders, his tanned skin that seemed to gleam in the sunlight, his unruly white hair, and the cowboy hat that shielded his eyes from the sun's glare.

He was shirtless, his torso exposed to the sun, revealing a well-defined physique. It was the kind of body that came from years of hard work and physical labor. A pair of worn jeans hung low on his hips, held up by a thick leather belt with a silver buckle that gleamed in the sunlight.

There was something magnetic about him as if there was something that demanded attention and respect. He oozed confidence, the kind that came from knowing exactly who you were and who you had the potential to be. As he approached where you were standing, he slowed the horse to a stop, his head tilted slightly as he judged you from beneath his hat.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice was smooth and carried a hint of amusement. “What do we have here?”

For a moment, you were at a loss for words, caught off guard by the almost lazy way he spoke. Though his voice was warm, like honey on a hot summer day.

“I’m here for the job,” you managed to say. “Is this Lone Star Ranch?”

A slow smile spread across his lips, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm on the saddle horn as he looked you up and down. “Sure is,” he replied. “And you must be our new guest.”

The way he said “guest” made you feel like there was more to it than just a simple word. His voice was familiar, as if he already knew more about you than you were comfortable with. But before you could dwell on it, he continued, his smile widening.

“Name’s Satoru Gojo,” he said, swinging a leg over the horse and dismounting effortlessly. He landed lightly on his feet, standing a good head taller than you. “Owner of this fine establishment.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”

“Hold that thought,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “No need for introductions just yet. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

He took a step closer to you, and you took a step back. You could see the details you had missed before: the way his muscles moved with each step, the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and how he seemed to enjoy your discomfort.

“Don’t look so tense,” he said, his tone light and teasing as he reached out and gave your shoulder a gentle pat. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his words, and felt embarrassment creeping up your neck. This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined your first meeting would go. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words seemed to get stuck in your throat.

Gojou seemed to sense your discomfort because he took a step back, giving you some space. “Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said as his smile softened. “Welcome to Lone Star Ranch. You’re gonna love it here, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you managed to say. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good to hear,” he said, turning to gesture toward the ranch house in the distance. “Why don’t you grab your stuff, and I’ll show you to your room? We’ll get you settled in, and then I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.”

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, moving to the trunk of your car and pulling out your bags. As you did, you couldn’t help but steal another glance at Gojou, who had turned his attention back to his horse, murmuring something to the animal as he stroked its mane.

There was no denying that he was attractive in a rugged sort of way.

As you slung your bags over your shoulder, you turned back to Gojou, who was now waiting for you. “Ready?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ready,” you replied, following him as he led the way toward the ranch house, your heart still pounding in your chest.

The walk to the ranch house was longer than you expected, giving you time to take in the surroundings. The ranch was even larger up close, with open spaces that seemed to go on forever. Gojou walked a few paces ahead of you, his long strides making it hard for you to keep up with him.

As the two of you got closer to the ranch, you could see the details that had been too far away to notice before. The wood on the house was old but well cared for, the front porch had rows of flowers along the trim of the railing, and a few rocking chairs that looked very inviting.

Gojou reached the front steps and turned to look at you. “So,” he said, resting a hand on the railing as he waited for you to catch up, “what brings you out here? Most people don’t come to Lone Star Ranch unless they’ve got a good reason.”

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal to the man you had just met not even ten minutes ago. Your past was something you’d hoped to leave behind, but it seemed that even out here, in the middle of nowhere, you couldn’t escape it. You forced a smile, hoping to deflect the question. “Just needed a change of scenery,” you said, your tone casual. “Figured this was as good a place as any.”

Gojou raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced by your answer, but he didn’t press you about it. Instead, he gave a small nod, as if accepting your response for now. “Well, you’ve definitely found a change of scenery,” he said, pushing open the front door and holding it open for you. “Come on in. I’ll show you around.”

When you stepped inside, you were immediately hit by the cool air and the smell of wood and leather. The interior of the house was just as rustic as the exterior, with hardwood floors, ceiling beams, and walls filled with old photographs. The furniture was a mix of older pieces that looked like they’d been there for years and newer additions that added a touch of modern comfort. It was the kind of place that felt lived in, like a home that had been passed down through generations.

Gojou led you through the house, pointing out the various rooms as you went. The kitchen was spacious, with a large wooden table in the center and windows that overlooked the back of the ranch. The living room was cozy, with a stone fireplace and shelves lined with books and trinkets. You passed by several other rooms—an office, a dining room, and what looked like a mudroom near the back door—before finally reaching a staircase that led to the second floor.

“Your room’s upstairs,” Gojou said, gesturing for you to follow him. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable enough. You’ll have plenty of privacy up there.”

You nodded, following him up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under your weight. The second floor was just as charming as the first, with a long hallway that led to several bedrooms. Gojou stopped in front of one of the doors, pushing it open to reveal a small but cozy room. The bed was made up with a simple quilt, and a large window let in plenty of natural light. A dresser and a small desk completed the space, and there was a door on the far side that you assumed led to a closet.

“This is you,” Gojou said, stepping aside to let you enter. “Like I said, it’s not much, but it should suit your needs. There’s an attached bathroom too, so you won’t have to worry about sharing.”

“Thank you, it’s perfect.”

He gave you that easy smile again, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you. “Glad you think so. I’ll let you get settled in, and then we can go over the details of your job. There’s a lot to do around here, but I’m sure you’ll catch on quickly.”

As Gojou turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Oh, and one more thing,” his tone more serious now. “This place… it’s special. The people, the land, everything about it. We take care of our own here, but that means we expect you to do the same. Understand?”

You met his gaze, understanding the weight of his words. This wasn’t just a job—it was a community, a way of life that you were being invited into. You nodded, “I understand.”

He studied you for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied with your answer. “Good. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.”

With that, he left, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone in your new room. You stood there for a moment, taking in the silence, the sense of stillness that seemed to permeate the air. This was it—the start of your new life, far away from everything you’d known before.

You walked over to the window, looking out at the view of the ranch below. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light over the land, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. The sight was breathtaking, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a sense of peace.

The night passed fairly quickly, though your sleep was interrupted by the sounds of the night—the creak of the old house settling, the distant howls of coyotes, and the occasional rustle of the wind against the windows. Despite the disturbances, you woke up bright and early, got dressed, and headed downstairs.

As you made your way to the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted you like a warm hug. As you sipped your coffee, you couldn’t help but glance around the kitchen. It was spacious, with wooden cabinets, a large farmhouse sink, and a sturdy wooden table in the center. The walls were full of old photographs of the ranch in its earlier days, groups of cowboys standing proudly next to their horses. It was clear that the ranch had a history deeply intertwined with the land and the people who had worked it.

You were halfway through drinking your coffee when the back door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the kitchen. You turned to see a man about your age, tall and lean with dark hair that was pulled back into a bun. He was dressed in work clothes—a faded denim shirt and worn jeans, with a pair of sturdy boots that had seen better days. His expression was calm as he glanced at you with dark eyes.

“You must be the new hire,” he said, his voice low and even, with a slight drawl that was less pronounced than Gojou’s. “I’m Suguru Getou, the ranch hand. Gojou probably mentioned me.”

You nodded, feeling a little awkward under his gaze. “He did. It’s nice to meet you.”

Getou gave you a small nod and moved past you to pour himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t say anything else, and you took the opportunity to study him. You noticed the way he moved, his mannerisms, and his calloused hands from years of labor. There was something about him, a seriousness that contrasted with Gojou’s easygoing nature.

“You up for a tour?” Getou asked, breaking the silence as he turned to lean against the counter. “Might as well show you the ropes before Gojou starts piling on the work.”

You nodded, and without another word, he led you out of the kitchen and into the cool morning air. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows across the ranch. You followed Getou down the porch steps and onto the gravel path that led toward the barns, the sound of your footsteps mingling with the distant lowing of cattle and the soft noise of horses.

As you walked, Getou pointed out the various buildings and areas of the ranch, his explanations brief but informative. He showed you the stables, where the horses were kept, the barns where the cattle feed and equipment were stored, and the paddocks where the horses were turned out to graze.

“This here’s the main barn,” he said, stopping in front of a large structure. “You’ll spend a lot of time here, mucking stalls, feeding the horses, and helping with whatever else needs doing. It’s hard work, but it’s honest, and you’ll learn a lot if you’re willing to put in the effort.”

You nodded, looking around the barn. Its large wooden doors were open to reveal rows of stalls, each one occupied by a horse. Getou turned to you and gestured for you to follow him. He led you inside, and as you walked down the aisle, you couldn’t help but admire their sleek coats in the morning sunlight. They were beautiful creatures, each one unique in color and stature, their eyes calm and intelligent as they watched you pass. You could tell they were well cared for, their stalls clean and their coats brushed to a shine.

“Over here’s the tack room,” Getou continued, opening a door to reveal a small room lined with saddles, bridles, and other riding gear. “Everything you need for riding and working with the horses is in here. Make sure you put things back where you found them—Satoru’s pretty particular about that.”

You smiled at the thought of Gojou being particular about anything, but you nodded, committing the layout to memory. Getou didn’t seem to notice your amusement.

As Getou walked you through the basics, you noticed how he handled the horses with care and precision. He showed you how to properly secure a saddle, making sure it was snug but not too tight. He showed you how to brush down a horse after a ride, explaining that it was just as important as the ride itself—“Keeps ’em happy and healthy,” he said with a small smile.

He led you back out into the barn, where a few of the other ranch hands had already started their morning chores. They greeted Getou with nods and brief exchanges and you couldn’t help but feel a little out of place because you were a newcomer in a tightly-knit community.

"By the way," he added with a casual wave of his hand, "the blonde one is Nanami, the guy with the pink hair is Sukuna, and the one with the black hair is Toji. You'll see a woman with brown hair—her name is Shoko." He paused, then continued, "We've also got some youngsters around the farm. You'll run into them—Ino, Nobara, Megumi, Yuuji, Yuuta, Maki, and Mai. They're a lively fuckin' bunch."

As the morning went on, Getou continued to walk you through the basics of ranch work—mucking out stalls, feeding the horses, and preparing saddles for the day’s rides. The work was hard, the kind that left you sweaty and sore, but there was a sense of accomplishment that came from seeing the results of your effort.

Getou was a patient man, while he didn’t coddle you, he wasn’t harsh either, simply showing you what needed to be done and trusting you to do it. You appreciated his straightforward approach, and by the time the sun was high in the sky, you felt like you were beginning to get the hang of things.

It was late morning when Gojou finally made his appearance, strolling into the barn with his usual carefree attitude. He was dressed more appropriately today, though his shirt was unbuttoned halfway, exposing the tanned skin of his chest. He greeted Getou with a grin and a slap on the back.

“Well, look at you, already hard at work,” Gojou said, his tone light and teasing as he approached you. “I was half expecting you to be scared shitless, hiding in the house, hoping no one would notice.”

You rolled your eyes, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not afraid of a little hard work.”

Gojou laughed, clearly pleased by your response. “That’s what I like to hear. Keep that attitude, and you’ll do just fine around here.”

“How’s the newbie doing?” Gojou asked, leaning against the stall door.

“Not bad,” Getou replied. “She’s picking things up pretty quick.”

“Good, good,” Gojou said with a nod, turning back to you. “You keep up the good work, and we might just make a ranch hand out of you yet.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Gojou and Getou both showing you the ropes and making sure you were settling in. By the time the sun began to set, you were exhausted, every muscle in your body aching from the day.

As you sat on the porch steps that evening and watched the sun dip below the horizon, you couldn’t help but feel that the ranch was starting to feel like home. For the first time in a long while, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Later that evening, after dinner—a simple but hearty meal prepared by one of the other ranch hands, Sukuna—you found yourself alone in the barn, finishing up some of the chores that had been left for the end of the day. The barn was quiet now, the horses settled in their stalls, the air cool and tinged with the scent of hay and leather.

You were brushing down one of the horses, a gentle mare with a soft brown coat, when you heard footsteps coming from behind you. You turned to see Getou standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t expect to find you here this late,” he said, walking over to the stall where you were working. “Most folks would’ve called it a day by now.”

You shrugged, focusing on your work. “Just wanted to make sure everything was done. Didn’t want to leave anything unfinished.”

Getou watched you for a moment. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” he said quietly. “No one’s expecting you to do more than your share.”

You paused, looking up at him. There was something in his tone that made you feel like he understood more than he was letting on, like he knew what it was like to have something to prove.

“I know,” you said softly. “But I want to.”

Getou nodded, seeming to accept your answer. He leaned against the stall door, watching as you finished brushing down the mare. The silence between you was comfortable this time, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words.

When you finally put the brush away and closed the stall door, Getou straightened up. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the barn entrance. “It’s getting late. You’ll need your rest if you want to keep up tomorrow.”

You followed him out of the barn, the cool night air wrapped around you like a blanket. The stars were just beginning to appear in the sky, their light faint but steady.

As the two of you walked back toward the house, you felt as if there was a silent understanding between you both. He might not be the most talkative person, but you found yourself drawn to him.

By the time you reached the house, you were both silent, each lost in your thoughts. Getou paused at the bottom of the porch steps, turning to look at you.

“Good work today,” he said simply.

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling a warmth in your chest at his words. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded, and with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the night. You watched him go, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The next morning, you were up before dawn, the quiet stillness of the ranch interrupted only by the distant crowing of a rooster and the soft chirping of early birds. The house was still shrouded in darkness as you moved through the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. You found yourself in the kitchen once again, savoring the quiet before the day began.

The previous day had been overwhelming, but you were eager to prove that you could handle the challenges of ranch life. The soreness in your muscles was a reminder of the hard work ahead, but it was also a testament to your determination to make this new life work.

You were just finishing your coffee when you heard the sound of boots on the porch. You turned, half-expecting to see Getou or one of the other ranch hands, but instead, the door swung open to reveal Gojou, his signature smirk already in place. He was dressed casually, a worn-out pair of jeans slung low on his hips and a white shirt.

“Mornin’,” he drawled, his blue eyes sparkling as he made his way into the kitchen. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep, or just eager to start another day of hard labor?”

“A little of both,” you admitted, setting your empty mug in the sink. “I wanted to get a head start.”

Gojou chuckled. “That’s the spirit! We like a bit of enthusiasm around here.” He leaned casually against the counter, crossing his arms as he studied you. “Though I gotta say, you might want to pace yourself. Ranch work isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon. You'll burn out too quickly, and then you’ll be no good to anyone.”

You nodded, appreciating the advice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gojou pushed himself off the counter and stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal his toned abs and a light trail of hair. “Good. Now, how about we get out there and see what kind of trouble we can stir up?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his infectious energy, even if you knew it would likely lead to him teasing you all day. Together, you left the kitchen and stepped out into the cool morning air, the sun still on the horizon.

As you walked down the porch steps and headed toward the barn, Gojou kept up a steady stream of conversation. He asked you about your first day, your impressions of the ranch, and how you were adjusting. It was clear that, beneath his carefree exterior, he genuinely cared about how you were settling in.

“I have to admit,” Gojou said as you reached the barn, “I wasn’t sure how you’d handle all this. Not everyone’s cut out for ranch life, especially not city folk. But you’ve got grit, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks, I’m not afraid of a little hard work.”

“Good thing, too,” he said with a wink. “Because today, we’re going to see what you’re really made of.”

Inside the barn, the familiar scent of hay and horses greeted you, along with the soft sounds of animals moving around in their stalls. A few of the ranch hands, Nanami and Toji, were already at work, moving like people who had done this countless times before. They greeted you and Gojou with nods and brief smiles before returning to their tasks.

Gojou led you to the tack room, where he grabbed a saddle and a bridle, handing them to you with a grin. “Today, we’re going to get you up on a horse and see how you do. Ever ridden before?”

“A little,” you admitted, recalling the few times you’d been on a horse as a kid. “But it’s been a while.”

“No worries,” Gojou said, clapping you on the back. “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands. Or hooves, as it were.”

You followed him out to the paddock, where a few horses were grazing in the early morning light. The sight of them, their sleek coats glistening in the sun, was breathtaking. You could feel a sense of awe and respect for these powerful creatures, their size and strength a reminder of just how different ranch life was from anything you’d known before.

Gojou led one of the horses over to you. She was a chestnut mare with a white line down her face.

“This is Maple,” Gojou said, patting the mare’s neck affectionately. “She’s one of the gentlest horses we’ve got, perfect for someone who’s still finding their feet. She’ll take good care of you.”

You reached out to stroke Maple’s nose, feeling the soft warmth of her breath against your hand. The horse nickered softly, her large, intelligent eyes watching you with a calm curiosity.

“Go ahead and saddle her up,” Gojou instructed, stepping back to give you space. “I’ll be right here if you need any help.”

You took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. The saddle felt heavier than you remembered, the leather creaking as you lifted it onto Maple’s back. You fumbled a bit with the cinch, your fingers clumsy as you tried to remember the steps, but Gojou was patient, offering guidance without stepping in unless you needed it.

Once Maple was saddled, you took a moment to adjust the stirrups and make sure everything was secure. It was a small accomplishment, but it was significant to you, and you couldn’t help but smile as you led Maple out into the open paddock.

“Not bad,” Gojou remarked. “You’re a quick learner.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying to hide the flush that crept up your cheeks.

“Now, let’s see you get up there,” Gojou said, gesturing toward the horse.

You took another deep breath, then placed your foot in the stirrup and swung yourself up into the saddle. The motion was a bit awkward, but you managed it without too much trouble. Once you were seated, you adjusted your position, gripping the reins loosely as you tried to find your balance.

Maple stood patiently beneath you, her ears flicking back as if she could sense your nervousness. But her calm demeanor helped to steady your nerves, and you took a moment to relax into the saddle, letting the rhythm of her breathing guide you.

“Remember, don’t pull too hard on the reins,” Gojou advised, leaning against the fence as he watched you. “Just gentle pressure—she’ll respond to even the slightest touch.”

You nodded, taking his advice to heart as you gave Maple a light nudge with your heels. The mare started forward with a smooth, easy gait, her movements fluid and controlled. You could feel the power in her legs as she moved.

Gojou walked alongside you as you guided Maple around the paddock. His presence was reassuring. He offered tips as you went, his voice calm and steady. You learned you really liked it. It wasn’t long before you began to feel more comfortable in the saddle, the initial awkwardness fading as you found your rhythm.

“See? You’ve got this,” Gojou said with a grin, watching as you guided Maple through a series of gentle turns. “It’s all about finding that connection with the horse, trusting each other. Once you’ve got that, the rest is easy.”

But just as you were starting to relax, Maple’s ears suddenly flicked up, her head lifting as she sensed something. You followed her gaze and saw a figure standing by the fence—a man with a rugged appearance and a steely gaze that sent a shiver down your spine.

It was the same man you’d seen the day before, watching you with a look that was hard to decipher. His presence was unsettling, a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie you’d shared with Gojou. There was something about him that put you on edge, a coldness in his eyes that seemed to pierce right through you.

Gojou noticed your reaction and followed your gaze, his expression darkening slightly as he saw the man. “Don’t mind him,” He said dismissively. “That’s just one of the neighbors. He’s always hanging around, looking for something to complain about.”

Eventually, the man turned and walked away, disappearing into the distance. You breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease as you continued your ride.

After your riding lesson, Gojou led you through more of the daily tasks—mucking stalls, feeding the horses, and helping maintain the ranch.

The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the Lone Star Ranch in hues of amber and gold. The warmth of the day lingered in the air, wrapping everything in a soft, golden light. As you walked alongside Gojou back to the house, you felt a deep sense of contentment.

The silence between you was comfortable only interrupted by the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant sounds of ranch animals preparing for the night. It was a moment that felt suspended in time.

When you reached the porch, Gojou paused and turned to you, a playful glint in his eyes. “How about we enjoy the sunset?” he suggested, gesturing to a pair of weathered leather chairs positioned perfectly to face the horizon.

You nodded as you settled into one of the chairs, you felt the worn leather conform to your body. The view from the porch was breathtaking—the sky was full of oranges, pinks, and purples, with the setting sun casting long, soft shadows across the ranch.

Gojou took the seat beside you, leaning back into the soft leather. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tin, the metallic surface catching the last rays of sunlight. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it, revealing a pack of cigarettes nestled inside.

He glanced over at you. “Do you mind?” he asked, though his tone suggested he was more interested in your reaction than in seeking actual permission.

You shook your head, watching curiously as he took a cigarette from the pack and brought it to his lips. He then pulled out a decorated lighter, the flame illuminating his face for a moment before he lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

The first plumes of smoke curled upward, drifting lazily into the evening air. Gojou exhaled slowly, the smoke forming delicate spirals before dissipating into the breeze. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he smoked, each motion was as if he were savoring not just the cigarette but the moment itself.

It was kind of hot.

Gojou took another drag, his eyes half-closed as he exhaled slowly, the smoke blending with the soft colors of the sunset.

“You know,” he began, “there’s something about this time of day that makes everything feel... clearer. Like all the noise from the day just fades away.”

You nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. “It’s peaceful,” you replied, your voice soft. “It’s like the world slows down for a while.”

Gojou glanced at you, his eyes catching the light in a way that made them appear even more blue, more intense. “Exactly. It’s a good time to just... be. No expectations, no pressure.”

He took another slow drag from the cigarette, the end glowing a bright orange before he exhaled again, this time blowing the smoke out in a thin, steady stream. The smoke seemed to hang in the air between you, creating a veil that blurred the lines between the two of you, making the moment feel even more intimate.

“You ever smoke?” Gojou asked, breaking the silence.

“Not really,” you admitted, your gaze still fixed on the way the smoke curled in the air. “Never saw the appeal.”

“Shit, you’re missing out, sweetheart,” Gojou said with a playful grin. “You’re finally getting a taste of what ranch life is all about."

Gojou chuckled softly, “But yeah, it’s not for everyone. But sometimes it’s more about the ritual than anything else. It’s a way to take a step back, to slow down and just... breathe.”

There was something soothing about the way he described it, and you found yourself nodding in agreement. “I can see that.”

Gojou turned to face you. “Wanna try?”

You hesitated for a moment, but the curiosity got the better of you. “Sure,” you said, accepting the cigarette he offered with a reluctant smile.

The last thing you thought he would do was pull the cigarette he was smoking out of his mouth and hand it to you. But you took it anyway.

As your fingers brushed against his, you felt a spark of warmth that sent a shiver up your spine. Gojou’s gaze lingered on you as you brought the cigarette to your lips, his eyes were filled with something that you couldn’t quite place.

You took a small drag, the smoke was harsh on your throat at first, but you quickly adjusted, mimicking the way Gojou had exhaled. The smoke tasted bitter, but there was something oddly intimate about sharing a cigarette. It was something grounding in the way it forced you to focus on each breath.

“Not bad,” He remarked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re a natural.”

You laughed softly, the sound blending with the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. “I wouldn’t go that far, but thanks.”

Gojou leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours as he took another drag. The air between you seemed to thicken with every passing second.

As you passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers brushed against his again, and this time the two of you lingered. Gojou didn’t pull away, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he were testing the boundaries between you. The moment stretched out, filled with an unspoken question, one that neither of you seemed ready to answer just yet.

The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the last rays of golden light over the ranch. The sky had deepened to a rich indigo, with stars beginning to twinkle faintly above. The temperature dropped slightly, the coolness of the evening air brushing against your skin.

Gojou took another long drag from the cigarette, his eyes half-lidded as he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift into the night. His gaze turned back to you, “You’re different from what I expected,” he said, his voice low. “Stronger.”

His words took you by surprise, and you felt a flush of warmth spread through you. “Thanks,” you replied softly, not entirely sure how to respond.

Gojou’s smile was faint but genuine as he took one last drag from the cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray beside him. “Most people don’t last long out here. They get scared off by the work, and the isolation... But you? You’re tougher than you look.”

You’d spent so much of your life running from your past, trying to prove to yourself that you could handle whatever came your way, and hearing those words from Gojou, of all people, felt like a validation you hadn’t realized you needed.

“You’re not what I expected either,” you admitted, meeting his gaze. “You’re... different.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and rich in the cool evening air. “Good different, I hope.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Good different.”

“You know, Gojou, you’re not as bad as I thought you would be.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “I mean, I had this whole idea of you being a bit of a troublemaker. Turns out, you’re just a guy who knows how to unwind.”

Gojou chuckled, “And here I was thinking you’d have too much of a stick up your ass to appreciate a good smoke.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you replied, your tone light.

“By the way, you can call me Satoru.”

"Satoru..." You tested his name on your tongue, “Well, Satoru, thanks for sharing your cigarette with me. It’s nice to have a moment like this, away from all the chaos.”

Satoru’s smile softened, his eyes meeting yours. “Anytime. And if you ever need a break or just someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

As the last light faded from the sky, Satoru stood up and stretched. “It’s getting late,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “We should head inside.”

You nodded, though part of you wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end. The house, with its inviting atmosphere, felt like a refuge from the outside world, out here, in the open air, with the stars overhead and the smell of tobacco lingering.

Satoru extended a hand, his calloused fingers warm against yours. Together, you walked back toward the house, the evening’s cool breeze brushing against your skin.

Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped you, and the scent of wood and earth filled your senses. The memories of the day—Satoru teaching you how to ride a horse, the two of you sharing a cigarette and watching the sun setting over the ranch played through your mind.

Satoru paused at the foot of the stairs, turning to you with a soft smile. “Goodnight Y/N,” he said, his voice low.

“Goodnight,” you replied his gaze linger on you as you made your way upstairs.

You settled into bed with the comforting sounds of the ranch lulling you to sleep, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And just before you drifted off, the image of Satoru—cigarette in hand and eyes full of mischief—lingered in your mind.

Maybe this was where you were meant to be.

series masterlist -> chapter 2

#series: cigarettes and whisky #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojou satoru #gojou satoru x y/n #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x reader #gojo #getou suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #geto x reader #jjk geto #suguru geto

79 notes · View notes

dancingtotuyo · 10 months ago

Text

Overtime

Joel Miller x F!reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: You and Joel fight over the remote as adults do.

Warnings/Tags: language, established relationship, handjob (M receiving), some restraint, insinuated that Joel is larger than reader (he can move you around), implied sex, football references, Joel and reader being menaces to eachother

Words: 1165

Notes: Let’s try this again! Tumblr flagged the first one (tumblr you prude!) written for @iamasaddie’s moodboard game! I had so much fun writing this! And seeing everyone else’s creative genius with their moodboards! Huge shoutout to my love and fellow sportsball enthusiast, Angela @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin, for letting me talk through stuff and beta reading! And last but not least, @saradika for the divider!

Joel is used to lazy Sunday afternoons on the couch. Typically committing Saturdays for errands and projects, he’s tried to use Sundays as a day to spend time with Sarah, but she’s out of town with her best friend until this evening. Which is how Joel finds himself spread out on the couch, the warm sun pulling through your window on the other side of town.

The tv hums with the voices of the sportscasters over the Cowboys’ game. He can hear you bustling around in your bedroom, two threads keeping him tied to consciousness.

There’s the distinct sound of your footsteps and the channel switching as the broadcaster’s voices change. They’re leading into the late game.

“I was watching that,” Joel says, gruffly.

“You’re sleeping.”

“Am not.” Joel runs a hand over his face, slowly blinking his eyes open. “Just resting my eyes.”

You let out a huff of laughter. “Okay, Dad.”

He eyes your backside as you’re engrossed in the pregame commentary. Dressed in the familiar light blue of your well worn Houston Oilers shirt, a smile spreads across his face. “Is that really what you want to call me?”

You flip him off.

Joel bites back a laugh. He reaches out, pinching your bottom firmly between two fingers. You squeal, spinning to face him. “Joel Miller,” you say, crossing your arms.

“C’mon, Sweetheart. The Oilers left Texas years ago. They ain’t even the Oilers anymore,” he prods, knowing he’ll get a rise out of you. “Turn the Cowboys game back on. It’s almost over.”

“My aligiance is not dependent on the location of my team.” You stick your tongue out. “The cowgirls should’ve put the Giants away by now. Not that you would have noticed.”

“Rude.” He scowls.

“My house, my rules, Miller.”

He lets out a sound that reminds you of a growl and before you have time to tease him about it, his arms are around you, pulling you down to the couch with him. You laugh as his lips press to your neck right where you like it.

Your laughter quickly turns into a soft moan as your head dips against his shoulder. His fingers skirt under the hem of your shirt, caressing the soft flesh of your stomach. “You like that baby?”

You nod your head as soft whimpers fall from your lips. Joel chuckles again. His arm slips around your waist, tugging you flush against him.

“Such a good girl,” he purrs in your ear, fingertips trailing down your wrist.

If you thought you couldn’t melt anymore, you’re wrong. Something akin to a whine escapes your lips as you turn your head to kiss him. You’re so close to his lips when his slow chuckle turns to a laugh and the tv remote slips from your grasp.

He flips the station back just as the Cowboys are kicking off for overtime. Before you can react, he tosses it across the room, holding you against him.

“You jackass!” You strain against him, trying to break free.

“I’m just trying to finish my game.”

“You barely started it before you passed out.”

“Wasn’t sleepin.” Joel’s voice is still gruff in your ear.

You try to wiggle free, but it’s useless. He knows from more than enough experience how to keep you in one spot.

You get more anxious as the minutes tick by, shifting as you can between his legs.

“They’re about to kick off,” you fuss at him.

“Overtime will be done soon.” He pats your thigh placatingly. “We’ll turn on your Oilers’ game then, or whatever they’re calling themselves now.”

You roll your eyes.“The Titians?” You shift again.

“I know my teams, Sweetheart.” Joel nips at your earlobe, eyes trained ahead. “And quit shiftin.”

You furrow your brow, until it hits you, literally. His cock presses into your back as a slow smirk spreads across your face. “Why? Is this affecting you?”

You rub against him more intentionally this time. His breath grows ragged in your ear. His hands move to your hips, desperate to stop your motions. He’s not going to let you win the game.

Try as he might, he doesn't have the sheer strength to keep you immobile. Your hands drop to his thighs, fingers trailing the inner seam of his jeans.

You glance behind you. Joel refuses to look at you, a slight twitch in his set jaw. You’re not sure he’s actually absorbing the game anymore.

Your hand creeps up, landing between the two of you as you palm his erection.

He lets out a low groan, gripping your wrist. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

You smirk. “Who said I couldn’t?”

He groans, back hitting the couch, but keeps a hold of your non-dominant hand, tethering you to him.

You pop open the button of his jeans and his cock springs free. You raise an eyebrow at him. “This is a new development.”

“Had to make things easier for you.” He winks.

You scoff, tracing a vein with your finger tips. “Such a pretty little cock.”

“Little?” He teases. “Ain’t nothing little here, Sweetheart.”

You spit in your free hand before gripping him. You run a finger over his tip, spreading out the precum that’s begun to leak. Joel’s head hits the couch with a low groan.

Using your tongue and hands, you waste no time working him to the edge. You’re far enough into your relationship to know how to get Joel off with quick efficiency.

His hips thrust up. “Fuck, Just like that, Sweetheart. You know how I like it.”

His eyes are closed, chest heaving with desire. He’s all but forgotten about the heated overtime match playing on the TV.

You could finish him off right here. Two quick moves and you know he’d make a mess right here, but his grip on your wrist loosens just enough for you to slip free.

The moment your warmth is gone, Joel’s eyes open. He’s dazed, looking blissed out on your couch. He makes eye contact with you, and you shoot him a wink before flipping the station once again to your football game.

Joel groans, rising to his feet. Laughter settles in your bones. He’s trying to look menacing, but his features are still clouded in lust and desire.

“That wasn’t very nice of you.”

“Neither was turning off my game in my house.”

He rips the remote from your hands, tossing it to the couch. He grabs your hips, spinning you toward the wall.

Your hands spread out against the dry wall with a thud, breath catching in your throat as heat floods your body. “Suppose I need to teach you a lesson now, Sweetheart.” He drags out the nickname as if there’s nothing sweet about you.

Shivers rush down your spine. You’re not sure how much of a lesson he teaches you, but it’s worth missing the first quarter.

Joel doesn’t know how his game ends until the halftime report and quite frankly, he doesn’t care.

#✏️ game #joel miller #the last of us #Joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #Joel miller x you #pedro pascal #tlou #mature #pedrostories #Pedro stories #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

198 notes · View notes

waynes-multiverse · 7 months ago

Text

Polaris – Chapter 2

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, flashbacks to past relationships, awkwardness, mentions of cheating

Word Count: 6.1k

A/N: Jenny and Cassie should come with their own warning 😂 Probably the lightest chapter of this series. Just some getting-to-know fun (& tons of awkwardness on all sides). Enjoy the peace while it lasts 😉

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 2: No Signs, No Compasses

Motel coffee sucked. It was a well-known, globally accepted fact.

You had tasted enough of those in your career to know it wasn’t even worth a try at this point. Thus, finding a good source of caffeine became sort of an adventurous challenge on every work trip. Back in Houston, you had your spot and the server knew your order by heart. Here, in Helena, you were new and still had to navigate your way around.

In search of a decent cup, you passed a sign on the highway and entered the Blue Fox Diner. It was a bit on the outskirts of town, but, frankly, you had no idea where the border truly ended. Everything was damn far apart from one another, the only houses which adjoined were the ones on Main Street USA. That was it.

The diner was bright and comfy, giving you an immediate welcoming feeling of home-cooked food and a good roast. Your first sip of black, delicious liquid confirmed it – this was your spot.

“Special Agent Y/L/N?”

Your head snapped up from your cup of joe to a female voice, recognizing the blonde deputy from the Sheriff’s Department yesterday.

“Deputy Jenny Hoyt, right?” You gave her and her friend a smile as the two women sat across from each other in a booth by the big window. You could tell by their curious and mischievous looks that your spectacular entrance wasn’t lost on them.

Great…

“Uh, yeah. You wanna sit with us? Heard you’re staying for that serial killer case,” Jenny said and offered you a seat next to her.

“Sure.” You accepted her invitation without hesitance, knowing you had to get over the awkwardness at some point. After all, you had to work together, and you wanted to get it out of the way rather sooner than later. How did you so gloriously fuck this up in the first place? You usually were professionalism personified – someone J. Edgar Hoover would’ve been proud of.

Right. Beau. There was your answer.

“Cassie Dewell,” the other woman introduced herself and shook your hand as you slid into the leather seat next to Jenny. “I’m a private investigator in town. Special Agent Y/L/N, was it?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve passed by your agency. Nice to meet you,” you said, smiling. “And Y/N is fine.”

“So, how do you like Helena so far?” Cassie asked curiously, although you caught the underlying question between the polite smiles. ‘How do you like our sheriff so far?’

However, you weren’t going to make this easy for them. “Well, uhm, not seen much aside from my motel, the Sheriff’s Department, and this diner. Coffee’s great, though.”

“Leave it to Donno to brew a decent pot,” Jenny muttered with a bitter huff and rolled her eyes.

You threw her an inquisitive look, partially amused. “You don’t seem to be a fan.”

“Oh, it’s about the owner, Tonya. Jenny doesn’t like her,” Cassie explained.

“Then, why exactly are you here?” You were happy the conversation steered clear of you. For now. You knew this bliss and peace wouldn’t last forever. They were just warming you up for the Spanish Inquisition.

“To keep an eye on her. She used to work for a cartel,” Jenny replied.

“Before she went legit and became a real estate agent,” Cassie added.

“Legit my ass,” the blonde huffed. “Pretty sure she stole those fifteen million…”

“She did help us with Gigi,” Cassie countered, which didn’t seem to convince the blonde too much. “And that whole Avery situation.”

“Well, you know, you could always tip off a rivaling cartel. Might get rid of your problem,” you suggested jokingly. “I have a few contacts.”

Jenny’s lips curved into a delighted grin. “I like that idea.”

Cassie snorted, laughing. “Yeah, nice.”

“So… you and Beau are… dating?” Jenny questioned quite forward.

And there it was. The one you’d been waiting for. You sighed internally.

“Jenny!” Cassie chided and threw her friend a look over her directness as the blonde mouthed back an innocent “What?”

Your cheeks blushed slightly, but you were all about being direct as well. You cleared your throat, tapping your nails on the table. “It’s fine. After my more than embarrassing entrance, I deserve the third degree.”

“Good answer.” Jenny smiled encouragingly, making you feel a little more at ease. They weren’t aiming to claw your eyes out; they were just curious about you. If the roles were reversed, you’d be as well.

“And it wasn’t that embarrassing,” Cassie placated your nerves. “Trust us, me and Jenny had our fair share of drama. You’re good.”

“Well, I’m glad, I guess…” You let out a relieved chuckle, hoping you wouldn’t stay the small town gossip for long. “And, uh, to answer your question: No, we’re not dating. He’s a nice guy, but it’s nothing like that. We just go way back, and I guess old habits die hard.”

And boy, was that true. Beau and you had once been inseparable. It still felt weird to think about that now you weren’t and hadn’t been for a while. Your heart still ached and longed all the same. That stupid, useless feeling of missing him. He was cut out of your soul, but the phantom pain remained.

Jenny nodded and shared a look with Cassie. “Honest. I like it.”

“Me too.” Cassie’s mouth formed a smile of agreement and reassurance. “So, how long have you guys known each other?”

That was when the cop portion of your chat started. You hadn’t expected anything less, but you were determined to keep it professional and, most of all, shallow. Chitchat and oversharing were more Beau’s territory, but it certainly wasn’t yours.

“About ten years.”

Jenny nodded pensively, thinking about her next question. “You worked a cartel case together, right?”

“Oh, a few cases over the years, actually. I’m stationed at the FBI field office in Houston. Used to work Narcotics before switching to Major Crimes,” you said.

“Hence the serial killer here,” Jenny filled in.

“Can’t believe we’ve got another one,” Cassie remarked with a huff, shaking her head into her coffee cup.

“Oh yeah, right! Heard about the Bleeding Hearts Killer at that campsite.”

You remembered a newspaper article about it. Occasionally, you did still check up on your ex like every sane person would. You even followed him on Social Media, although all he ever posted about was fucking trout fishing. But that same news article had also informed you about Beau leaving his early retirement in the rearview mirror, being referenced as the acting sheriff on the case. It almost seemed like a weird coincidence that one of your active cases would lead you right to him not long after. Cosmic jokes and such.

“Yeah, Sunny and Buck Barnes,” Cassie provided.

“Cassie is actually dating their son,” Jenny told you, smirking at her friend.

“Yeah, we’re not that official yet,” Cassie deflected but noticeably blushed. “You guys need any help with your serial killer?”

Jenny looked at you, knowing you were the one who called the shots now.

Nodding, you twitched your shoulders. “Sure. The more the merrier. More female eyes might even help, considering we’re probably dealing with a woman.”

Jenny cocked a brow. “A female serial killer?”

“It’s rare, but our profiler sure thinks so. As do I,” you confirmed.

“Oh, this just got interesting.” Cassie grinned, intrigued. “We sure never had that one before.”

“No, we did not,” Jenny reiterated, chuckling.

“What didn’t we have?”

Beau’s gravelly voice startled you from behind, but you tried not to let it show. Of course, you’d run into him. It was a small town, after all, and this diner was probably the only place to get good coffee. Avoiding him was not only improbable, but it was an impossibility.

Beau was a good man. But the truth was that he was more than the Southern-charming, bad-dad-jokes, never-shutting-up sheriff everyone had grown to love in Montana. There was another side to him. A side that defied authority, broke rules, and caused trouble. A side you knew better than anyone.

“Female serial killer,” Jenny supplied with a grin.

“Really? A woman?” Baffled, the green-eyed sheriff lifted a brow and looked at you.

“Why, you think a woman can’t do it?” Cassie challenged him with a teasing grin. You knew there was a reason why you immediately took a liking to her.

You watched Beau purse his lips as he struggled for an answer. You had a feeling he had to do that a lot with these two. It almost seemed unfair.

“No, women can do murder just fine. Especially you three,” Beau retorted and then circled the booth with his finger, sipping his coffee. “The three of you bonding is my nightmare.”

“Oh, c‘ mon.” Jenny snorted in amusement.

“Yeah, we’re harmless,” Cassie added.

“Right… Who are you tryna fool here, huh?” Beau chuckled and scratched his beard. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, hop in,” Cassie said and offered up the seat next to her.

“Yeah, I was about to head out anyway. Have to call my supervisor with an update,” you excused quickly and stood up before Beau even sat down. “By the way, I have eight boxes of files in my trunk. It’s gonna be a fun afternoon for us.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” Beau said, trying to remain professional, even though you could tell he was bothered by your abrupt exit.

You, however, weren’t ready to face him yet and spend a whole afternoon with him. You needed more time… and space. Which was hard, considering you two had to work a case together.

Hard but not impossible.

“Oh, uh, Beau, that’s not necessary. Cassie offered to help, so we have enough hands on deck for now,” you said innocently and tried to hide your astute smile as best as possible. “I don’t wanna keep you from your sheriff duties. I saw the giant pile of files on your desk. But I’ll let you know when we need you.”

Admittedly, that was a little mean. You knew how much that man hated paperwork.

Defeatedly, Beau pursed his lips and overplayed his loss with a sour smile. “Yup, alright… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You grinned and didn’t care he knew exactly what you were doing.

“Hey, Y/N, you know, uh… it’s kind of a tradition to buy a round of tequila when you first arrive in town,” Cassie noted with a smug smile.

You matched it, amused, although you could smell an ambush from a mile away. “Oh, yeah? Well, that’s a tradition I can get behind. Where and when?”

“Tonight? Bar called Boot Heel around eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” you accepted the invitation. “But just a heads-up, pouring tequila into me isn’t going to make me open up more.”

“Really isn’t,” Beau confirmed wryly.

“Dammit,” Cassie sighed in feigned disappointment but grinned nevertheless.

Jenny coolly shrugged it off. “Was worth a shot.”

Beau watched you leave with dread in his heart. As soon as the glass door fell closed behind you, he let out a longing sigh.

“Alright, what did you do?” Jenny’s voice ripped him from his thoughts. The blonde crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow.

He had almost forgotten they were here, too.

“Yeah, she’s been barely here twenty-four hours. That’s fast, even for you,” Cassie chimed in with a teasing smile.

“Okay, I didn’t do anything, alright?” Beau defended with a creased brow and a bark in his voice, but his curiosity soon got the best of him. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on the table. “Why? Did she say somethin’?”

“Yeah, he stepped in it,” Cassie commented dryly and looked straight at Jenny, taking his question as a confirmation of their theory.

“Yup.”

Beau rolled his green eyes, his patience already thin after the sleepless night he had. “Alright, did she say something to you guys or not?”

Cassie sighed. “No, she was very… courteous.”

Jenny nodded in agreement and shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, she kept it professional. Said you were nice.”

Beau felt a surge of relief. “Well, that’s good, right?” he asked but watched both women shake their heads with pursed lips. “It’s not-… it’s not good?”

“Nope.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jenny retorted, “You don’t wanna be called nice. Not in that way, at least.”

“I don’t?” Beau cocked his eyebrow at the two, feeling rather confused at this point. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Depends on what you did there, cowboy,” Cassie taunted him with a grin, which was mirrored by Jenny.

“Oh, I’m not telling you guys,” Beau huffed, shaking his head. Contrary to popular belief, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re not talking for once?” Teasingly, Cassie popped an eyebrow at him.

“Must be bad then,” Jenny finished the thought. “Did you-, you know… cheat with her on Carla?”

Perplexed and slightly offended, Beau furrowed his brow. “What? No! Nothing like that. Carla and I were already separated. As in papers served and signed… I’m a very loyal-commitment kinda guy, alright?”

Beau didn’t want to admit his answer might have been a slight overcompensation on his part. While it’s true that he never cheated and would’ve never even considered it, he wasn’t without faults, either. There had been certain feelings towards you fermenting in his stomach, slowly but surely festering in his heart before he even knew what was happening and could put an end to it.

“That sounds like she was your rebound,” Jenny pointed out.

“Yeah, and casual,” Cassie threw in.

“No, it was nothing casual, alright? And she wasn’t my rebound,” Beau replied with an exhaustive breath. Jesus, did you get the third degree as well? At this rate, he should consider himself lucky if you were still in town by tomorrow. His head was spinning. “I mean, if she was my rebound, I was hers, too.”

Dammit, he said too much. He knew the two women would take that piece of information and run with it over the mountains of Montana, probably even making it over the border to goddamn Canada.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jenny questioned as expected. “Is she married? I saw the ring on her finger.”

“Yeah, looked like a wedding band,” Cassie mused.

“Okay, Sherlock and Watson, enough, alright? She’s not married,” Beau replied, but only to save both your reputations. “It’s a sentimental thing. There’s a lot of history there.”

“What kinda history?” Jenny’s knitted brow practically stared at him.

Beau grew tired of their interrogation and dragged a palm over his face, leaning back in his seat. “It’s complicated.”

The two women then shared an inquiring look that held an entire conversation, knowing their interview had run its course. Beau wouldn’t answer any more of their questions.

“Want our advice?” Cassie offered.

Beau hesitated for a moment, puckering his lips in thought. He was desperate, and they could smell it like coyotes. “Alright, lay it on me. What d’you got?”

“Nothing.” Cassie twitched her shoulders and met his annoyed glare with a pleased smile.

“Yeah, see, you actually have to tell us first what happened before we can help you,” Jenny elaborated.

“Alright, I’m done,” Beau said frustratedly, tapping his knuckles on the table once as he rose from his seat.

“Oh, Beau, c’mon, we’re just messing with you.” Cassie chuckled softly and looked at him apologetically. “Fine, you want our advice? Apologize.”

“For whatever you’ve done,” Jenny added.

Pensively, Beau nodded and clicked his tongue. “What if I’ve done that already?”

“Do it again,” Jenny advised simply. “Until she hears you.”

“Yeah, get down on your knees, you know,” Cassie deadpanned. But as Beau suspiciously eyed her at the particular word choice, she burst into laughter.

“Nice.“ Jenny joined in, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as the two clinked their coffee mugs together for a toast to their cleverness.

Beau chuckled out of sheer uncomfortableness, his cheeks flushing embarrassingly red. “Oh, you two are hilarious… I’m heading to work,” he grumbled. “You know, you might wanna join me if you wanna keep your job, Hoyt.”

With a sigh that resembled a yawn, you stretched your shoulders and spine as you got up from the uncomfortable wooden chair in the Sheriff’s Department. You checked your watch and noticed it was already past 2pm.

“Alright… you guys want something for lunch? I’m buying.”

Technically, the government was buying, but you would take any chance you could get to make yourself a little more popular with your colleagues. Jenny, Cassie, and Deputy Poppernak (who told you to call him Mo and started looking you in the eyes again after you brought him a sandwich and a coffee this morning) then gave you their lunch orders, and most importantly, where to get it. What you didn’t expect, though, was Beau appearing behind you out of nowhere after he had locked himself (pun intended) in his office all day and had given you your requested space.

That courtesy apparently was over.

“I’ll come with you,” Beau announced. And although his facial expression resembled a friendly, soft Golden Retriever, you detected the stern bite in his voice. He wasn’t going to be cast aside again.

Stubborn as you were, you still had to try.

“Oh, you don’t hav–,” you tried to interject, but he swiftly waved you off.

“Nonsense. You can’t carry all that alone. I’ll help. Part of the sheriff duties,” he said in his most neighborly tone and grinned triumphantly at you, beaming with Southern chivalry.

You huffed a sigh. Great…

Ignoring Beau Arlen was like trying to avoid air – it was impossible unless you planned on suffocating. Not even a fast pace could get him out of breath enough to stop pestering you. His voice trickled like slow poison into your mind. One of these days, it would infect your heart and destroy your defenses.

“Y/N, hey, can you slow down a little? I didn’t bring my marathon shoes to work, alright? Don’t make me write you a ticket for speeding!” Beau huffed behind you in a half-joking tone, chuckling at his own wit. “C’mon, I just wanna talk. Lord knows you already had your fun today.”

With a heavy sigh, you stopped in your tracks and turned to face him on the sidewalk, Beau almost crashing into you. He clearly hadn’t expected you to actually listen to him.

With a fierce glare in your eyes, you crossed your arms over your chest. “Look, I’ve got nothing left to say to you, okay? Can we just keep this civil?”

Beau pursed his lips but quickly recovered, offering you a charmingly desperate smile. “Well, lucky for you, you would just have to listen.”

You rolled your eyes and started marching ahead again, feeling Beau hot on your trail.

“Y/N, c’mon!”

“Dad?”

At that, both you and Beau spun around, recognizing the voice in an instant as Emily walked out of a shop.

Beau’s face immediately lit up. He gave her a tight hug, kissing her temple. “Hey, kid.”

“Aunt Y/N?” Emily’s face tilted in surprise, brow knitting as she noticed you and left her father’s arms. She greeted you with a bright sunshine smile.

“Hey, Em,” you said and happily mirrored her smile. You had always loved that girl since she was little. Something she wasn’t anymore. It had been a while since you’d last seen her. “Wow, look at you. You’re all grown. You look like you’re about ready to head off to college.”

“Don’t remind me,” Beau mumbled with a sigh next to you.

“Yes, please don’t make him cry,” Emily begged you, chuckling, but her look was still pleadingly serious. It made you laugh. You remembered how protective Beau was of her. It was endearingly sweet, which made it a little harder to be furious with him. “What are you doing in Montana? Are you visiting Dad?”

“Oh, uh, I’m here for a case, actually,” you replied, swallowing, and shot Beau a quick glance to check how much you were allowed to share.

“What kinda case?” Her brow furrowed as she looked at her dad with concern. It broke your heart a little to know that, whenever you were involved, Emily thought her father was in danger.

“Em,” Beau warned her softly.

You had figured he still refrained from talking about work with his family, not wanting them to worry unnecessarily. After what his daughter had been through this summer, you couldn’t really blame him.

“Right, sorry,” she said meekly and bit the inside of her lip.

“Beau?”

Every molecule in your body shuddered at the sound of that voice. God, you so didn’t want to do this right now. The last time you’d seen Carla, it didn’t end well. If you could, you’d teleport yourself somewhere else – preferably Hawaii.

Beam me up, Scotty!

Beau flashed you a glance over his shoulder that said pretty much the same thing – shit. With a thick swallow, he angled his face toward his ex-wife and forced an awkward smile to his lips.

“Hey,” he rasped, his throat drier than the Death Valley.

“Y/N?” As soon as Carla spied you, her brow arched and her features turned sinister. The unhappy surprise of finding you here was written all over her face. And if it hadn’t been, her words soon made her feelings for you abundantly clear. “What are you doing here? Wrecking more homes? At least you’re wearing clothes this time that don’t belong to my ex-husband.”

Yup. You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but that even exceeded your expectations. You gaped at her, a bit speechless. Even Beau seemed temporarily at a loss for words and was taken aback. Only Emily looked the most upset and voiced it, too.

“Mom! Really?!”

Carla then looked apologetically at her daughter, aware of her inappropriate comment, her mouth falling open in shame. You knew it was a knee-jerk reaction.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” you retorted. As you spun around, you glanced up at Beau and touched his shoulder comfortingly, letting him know you were still here, even when you were mad as hell at him. “Call me when you’re finished here. Or if you need an alibi…” you muttered into his ear in passing.

“I’m coming with you,” Emily announced with a scowl over her shoulder at her mother. She hopped next to you and looped her arm through yours, following you inside the restaurant.

As soon as you and his daughter were out of sight, Beau glowered at his ex-wife and shook his head. “Really, Carla? Was that necessary? You know nothing ever happened when we were married.”

“I know, I know,” Carla agreed and sighed, clasping her temples. “I’m sorry. I really am… It just came out. I guess it’s just old wounds, you know? I was surprised to see her here.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Beau bobbed his head in understanding, smacking his lips. He hated everything about this and knew he could only blame himself for it. “I mean, c’mon, you two used to be friends once, right? What happened? You’d think after what you went through with Avery, you’d have a little more compassion for what she’s gone through.”

Carla pursed her lips and bit the insides of her cheeks, surely stifling a fiery comment. “You wanna know what happened between us? You did, Beau,” she snapped, but before he could open his mouth to respond, she heaved a sigh and shot him a remorseful look. “But you’re right. I’ll apologize to her later.”

“Thank you,” he said graciously as his shoulders deflated and passed the tension.

“What’s she doing here? Everything okay?” Carla asked, lines of worry etching her brow. It told Beau that she still cared about him, even if it was just a smidge.

“Uh, yeah. Just work. Serial killer,” he replied. Since their eventful summer, Beau tried to be more open and honest, keeping a clear line of communication with his ex. It was a step forward. “Three victims so far.”

“Serial killer? Again?” Carla raised her brow and scoffed. “I guess it’s good I’m bringing Emily back to Houston, then.”

“You still wanna do that?”

A part of him hoped they’d stay because he wanted to stay here. Montana had given him a fresh start. One that was much needed. Houston, on the other hand, was haunted and full of ghosts he didn’t want to face. He had been running from them for a while now, although they were slowly catching up to him.

But he also needed his family, his daughter. He wanted to be a constant in her life, not just a variable.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Carla sighed and looked a bit torn and helpless, which was rare for her. But Avery’s secrecy and death had done quite a number on her, and Beau supposed she was still working through a lot. “What d’you think?”

Beau thought it was ironic she was suddenly asking for his input, considering she didn’t ask for his advice the first time she took their daughter and moved several states away. But he knew better than to say that out loud, especially since he was partially at fault.

Rubbing his beard, your earlier words reverberated in his head. His daughter wasn’t a little kid anymore and would fly the nest soon, as much as he didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe we should ask Em what she wants. I mean, she’s almost seventeen. If your work isn’t a factor, then maybe we should let her decide.”

Carla nodded pensively as if she was actually considering it. “Yeah, okay,” she agreed and let out a sentimental sigh. “She’s growing up.”

Beau’s smile carried a drop of sadness. “Yeah, she is.”

Surprisingly, his talk with his ex-wife went better than expected. He just wished things would be as easy with you. All he wanted was just a chance to make it right. He couldn’t screw up another relationship.

“Beau… For the record, I want you to be happy, okay? No matter how, where, or with… who,” Carla told him and gifted him a cordial smile that showed her sincerity.

He appreciated her words. There’d been bad blood between them. Divorce made people bitter, he supposed. But old wounds had to heal eventually, too.

As you stepped outside the restaurant with Emily, you flashed an insecure glance at Carla. You averted your gaze to Beau, holding up a big brown paper bag. “You ready? Got the food.”

Beau checked quickly with his ex-wife, who nodded, letting him know that they were done here.

Carla then turned to you and cleared her throat, and you were sure it took a lot for her to even look at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry about earlier.”

You nodded, accepting her apology. You’d never done anything wrong, but the situation was complicated. It was hard on all of you.

“It’s fine. We’re good,” you assured her and gave her a half smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I heard about your husband.”

“Thank you,” she replied courtly and motioned for Emily to follow her. “C’mon, honey. Let’s go.”

“Bye, Dad.” Emily waved at her father.

Beau quietly watched his family saunter down the street before he glanced at you and offered you a clumsy smile. “Well, this went better than expected, right?”

You didn’t share his humor, however, and threw him a dark glare. You spun on your heel and trudged back to the Sheriff’s Department. “I have to get back to work.”

Beau exhaled heavily. This wasn’t how he had imagined his outing with you, wishing for a sign or at least a damn compass to show him the way.

March 2014

“Maybe it was the courier?” Beau suggested as he caught the pigskin before throwing it back to his partner across the desk. Passing the ball had become a ritual, helping them work through their case theories one by one.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Randy shook his head when it was his turn. “What about the maid? She certainly had motive.”

A few more exchanges and tosses back and forth happened before you waltzed into the police station. Randy missed his catch, the football almost flying through the Captain’s window, but you gracefully caught it just in time and placed it securely down on the desk.

“Nice catch,” Beau complimented you, impressed.

“Hi, honey,” your husband greeted you and found your lips, kissing you deeply. You giggled and locked your arms around his neck as he pressed you into the edge of his desk.

“Geez, really? Get a room you two,” Beau huffed jokingly, making both of you laugh enough to stop your make-out session but not enough to detangle yourselves from each other.

“We’re newlyweds. We’re supposed to make you sick and scratch your eyes out,” Randy quipped with a grin.

Smiling warmly, Beau shook his head at the two of you. “You got married eight months ago. When’s that honeymoon phase ending, huh?”

“Never,” both of you replied in unison and started kissing again, causing Beau’s eyes to roll back.

“God help me…” He sighed dramatically.

His sigh of exhaustion was soon joined by a second one. “Ugh, again?” Carla asked as she stepped into the station and tilted her head at you and your husband.

“Yeah,” Beau confirmed, amused, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “How did that court case go?”

Carla exhaled a breath of fatigued annoyance. “Y/N’s buying drinks tonight. Thanks to her Oscar-worthy performance on the stand,” she replied as you grinned winningly at her. The two of you had a deal – whoever won a court case was inviting the other for consolation drinks. “You know, I’ve never seen someone so convincingly fake-cry during cross.”

“You’re welcome.” You smirked slyly. “My high school drama teacher taught me that. I think he would’ve been proud of me today. Those were real tears, you know?”

“Oh, the jury certainly thought so.” Carla laughed bitterly.

“So you lost?” Beau glanced at his wife. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Carla arched an eyebrow and knowingly crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you, Beau?”

“Nah, not really.” He laughed and said, “You did defend a tweaker who killed three people over a little bag of meth, so…”

“Well, I know better than to argue with two cops and a federal agent over the rights of American citizens,” Carla fired back.

Beau snorted in amusement. “Wow, okay. Y/N really pissed you off, huh?”

“Again, you’re welcome.” You beamed with self-satisfaction.

“Oh, you both are pissing me off,” Carla retorted jokingly and then looked at you, smiling. “I gotta get back to the office. I’ll see you at the bar.” She then turned to her husband, pointing a finger at him. “And I’ll see you at home.”

Beau leaned in to kiss his wife goodbye, but Carla already rushed out of the station before he got a chance. He heaved a small sigh, his eyes drifting to Randy and you as you giggled like two lovesick teenagers.

“I gotta get back to work, too,” you said as you withdrew from your husband’s lips. But then you noticed an opened case folder on Randy’s desk. Curiously, you tiptoed up and spied over his shoulder to get a better look at it. “Unless you two got something fun here…”

“Ay, hands off! That ain’t your jurisdiction,” Beau warned you playfully and stopped short of batting your hand away.

“C’mon, we’re stuck. She might be able to help,” Randy interjected with an innocent shrug and a puppy dog look.

Beau heaved an exasperated sigh and then smiled challengingly at you. “Alright, what d’you think, Special Agent Y/L/N?”

Grabbing the file, you leafed through it for a moment and then mused, “Hmm, couldn’t have been the maid. Her schedule doesn’t match time of death. But maybe it was the courier? There’s a theft ring hitting several states. They use bike couriers.”

Beau’s smile widened to a triumphant grin as he pointed a finger at his partner. “Ha! That’s what I said.”

“Alright.” Your husband groaned defeatedly. “Let’s check it out.”

“Oh, now you suddenly want to, huh? After the wife said it? That hurts, man,” Beau teased.

Randy shrugged smugly. “Yeah, well, she’s a lot smarter than you.”

Beau pursed his lips and nodded, hiding his smirk of amusement. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

“Well, you guys have fun with this,” you said and kissed your husband’s lips one last time. “I have to get back to work. The tweaker Carla defended gave up his supplier in Brownsville. The DEA wants me to come down to Matamoros with them tomorrow. They think the guy is Gulf Cartel.”

Randy furrowed his brow, and you could see the concern shimmering in his eyes. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks maybe?” You shrugged, not knowing exactly how long assignments sometimes could last. Worst case, you could even be undercover for a couple of months, and your husband knew that.

“So, we’re gonna have fun tonight?” Randy smirked and wiggled his eyebrows, resting his palms on your hips as he pulled you closer.

You grinned smugly. “You bet we are, baby. Bring the handcuffs home.”

“Guys, c’mon, I’m standing right here,” Beau complained and threw his arms up, making both of you laugh and blush.

“Alright, be careful,” Randy reminded you with a peck on your lips.

You nodded and then turned to Beau. “You’re gonna protect my boy here while I’m gone, Arlen? Have his back?”

“Yes, ma’am. With my life. Promise,” Beau said and smiled at you reassuringly, putting you at ease before you walked out of the station.

Randy let out a worried sigh as he watched you leave. He looked up when Beau patted his shoulder in comfort.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a tough one,” Beau said in an attempt to calm his partner’s nerves.

“Yeah, she is,” Randy agreed quietly before his teasing nature returned. He grinned up at him and quipped, “You couldn’t handle her.”

“Sure, I could! Have you met Carla?” Beau retorted as both of them fell back into a brotherly banter. “Trust me, once your sickening honeymoon phase wears off, you’re gonna be right where I am.”

“What, happily unhappy?” Randy sassed and cocked an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” Beau replied wryly, clicking his tongue.

“Nah, man, that’s not me and Y/N,” Randy stated with a surefire grin.

“Alright, lover boy, let’s put our courier in the hot seat. C’mon,” Beau grunted with a roll of his eyes and brushed off his feelings on the subject, although he began to doubt his own statement. He was admittedly a bit jealous of his partner’s relationship.

Maybe some couples were just happier than him and Carla.

Beau tossed the old football into the air and caught it again. With a thoughtful sigh, he placed it on his desk and sunk back into his chair, his palm still resting on the ball.

“You were right, man. Who would’ve thought…” The sheriff clicked his tongue. A knock on the door ripped him from his trance, his green eyes darting to the visitor.

Jenny carefully peeked her head inside and checked on him, “You okay there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured her. He didn’t bother to form a smile, though.

She pursed her lips, clearly not believing him, but nodded her acceptance. “You wanna join us at the bar? Might give you a chance to talk?”

“Uh, yeah, but you girls go ahead. Still have a few things to finish up here,” Beau said.

“Alright.” Jenny gave him a small smile, but she didn’t leave yet, her hand resting on the doorknob. “You know, when I first saw you with Carla, I thought I had it right. But this-… this is an entirely new look.”

Beau grimaced. “Shut up.”

Jenny laughed lightly. “If you love her, you should tell her.” Beau only shot her a deadpan glare, to which the blonde raised her hands in capitulation. “Alright, just sayin’…” With that, she closed the door behind her again.

Beau’s eyes then landed back on the football on his desk, smacking his lips in thought. Sometimes the guilt was eating him alive, burning him from the inside out like acid.

“You’d be okay with this, right? I know you’d want her to be happy,” he verbalized his thoughts out loud, hoping it would give him some clarity. He wasn’t sure, however, if he was just saying it to alleviate his own guilty conscience and justify his actions.

“I think I could really make her happy, you know? At least, I’d try,” Beau said. Two fingers rubbed his mouth as he spun on his chair and glanced out the window to the dark sky and the stars above. “C’mon, man, I just need one small sign…”

Chapter 3: Pour The Whiskey

More glimpses into the past and maybe some much needed talking coming next week! Let me know all your thoughts in the comments, loves 🤍

Join the TAG LIST here! 🌌 Wanna sponsor my caffeine addiction?

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus @jessjad

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl

Everything Beau Arlen: @snowayumi

#polaris #beau arlen #beau arlen x reader #beau arlen x you #beau arlen x female reader #beau arlen series #beau arlen reader insert #beau arlen fanfic #beau arlen fic #big sky #big sky season 3 #big sky fanfiction #jensen ackles #jensen ackles characters #jensen ackles x reader

116 notes · View notes

bradshawssugarbaby · 10 months ago

Text

All Dressed Up - Capt. Syverson x Reader

A/N: based on a thought I had while watching Sand Castle earlier and a discussion with @nouis-bum from a couple of days ago. I couldn't help myself, sorry. Also, we decided for the purpose of my writing, his name's Luke.

pairing: Capt. Syverson x fem!reader

warnings/content: oral (m & f receiving), no use of y/n, no real mention of reader's features other than long hair.

word count: 1.8k

“Honey, have you seen my blue shirt?” Luke Syverson called out to his wife, his icy-blue eyes squinting as he tried to think of where his dress shirt could be. He was sure he’d checked every laundry basket, every drawer in the dresser, and both sides of the closet. He bounded down the stairs, heavy footsteps echoing through the house as he headed for the laundry room. His brows knit together as he thought about any stone he may have left unturned in his search. He didn’t dress up often - in fact, the missing dress shirt in question was his only dress shirt. He had always gotten by with an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans when he went out, which wasn’t a regular occurrence until you’d entered his life a few years ago.

Slowly, you’d begun to introduce new things into his closet, replacing his tattered old Houston Texans jersey was the first step - he’d kept the old one, of course, for nostalgic purposes, but it hardly fit, and the deep navy blue fabric had gained a few holes here and there over the years. The new one had been a birthday gift from you that first year you were together, and he treasured it. The dress shirt was introduced the second Christmas the two of you were together. You had a work Christmas party and he was home from his latest tour for a 6 month break until the next one came around. He’d never met any of your co-workers before, and wanting to make a good impression and keep you happy, he’d reluctantly agreed to go shopping with you to pick out something better suited to wear than a tattered cotton graphic tee he’d had for at least a decade, and a well-worn, faded pair of jeans.

As he squatted down in front of the dryer, opening the door to look at the contents inside to see if his shirt was somewhere in amongst the clean laundry waiting to be folded, he heard footsteps come up behind him, followed by a wolf whistle. He smirked to himself, closing the dryer door after yet another unsuccessful search. He stood upright, his full 6-foot-something frame straightening up as he turned to face you. His bulking muscular figure was still toned from the years of military service he’d just retired from, although now, he stood a little more solidly, having grown accustomed to more than just black coffee and shitty food while he was away. His arms folded across his chest, muscles bulging as he stood before her. His wife stood in front of him, batting her eyelashes as she donned his blue button up shirt, sitting oversized on her, drooping off her shoulders as grinned at him. His eyes scanned over her, taking in the sight before him. His lips curled up into a smirk, framed by his thick, curly, dark beard, the chestnut coloured hairs recently trimmed to look less wild than they usually did. He noticed that the shirt stopped just above her knee, and it didn’t take more than a split second to realize that the shirt was the only article of clothing she was wearing at the time.

“Now, darlin’, why exactly have ya got my shirt on?” His voice carried a teasing tone to it as he spoke, the smirk on his face remaining unchanged as his piercing blue eyes continued to gawk at her.

“Thought it made for a kinda cute shirt dress, don’t you?” She teased, twirling a long strand of hair around her index finger, “Besides, kinda fun watchin’ you run around half naked lookin’ for it.”

“Sugar, don’t get me wrong, it looks great on ya, but I can’t exactly go out for dinner lookin’ like this,” Luke gestured to his naked torso, his hand stopping just above the waist of his dark-washed jeans.

“Fine, but, before I take it off,” She began, her lips curving into a devilish grin as she dragged her fingers lazily over his skin, gently raking through the brown curls that adorned his chest, “I want to make you feel good first.”

“Darlin’, you’re killin’ me here,” He shook his head, laughing as he looked down at her.

Luke watched as she gently pressed her lips to his collarbone before slowly slinking down to her knees before him. He took his belt in his hand, undoing the metal buckle and sliding the long leather material through the belt loops around his waist. He dropped it to the ground, the sound of the buckle clattering against the hardwood flooring echoing through the room.

He undid the button on his jeans with urgency, dragging them down just enough to allow his wife the space she’d need to pleasure him. She yanked the elastic waistband of his boxers down with a smirk, his hardened cock springing back as she freed it from its cotton restraints. She pressed her lips to it, leaving a tauntingly delicate kiss to the sensitive, red tip, her hand firmly gripping the base. She licked a long, wet stripe up the underside of his length, beginning at the base and ending in a swirling motion around the tip, giving him a doe-eyed gaze as she looked up at him, watching for his reaction. He tilted his head back, letting out a deep, low growling moan before turning his head back to look down at her, grunting her name as she guided his member past her lips, creating suction on the tip with her mouth.

She began bobbing her head along his length, her cheeks hollowing as she pushed his erection further into her mouth, saliva beginning to drip down it as she took more of his length past her lips. She pulled her mouth back off his cock with a loud popping noise, smirking up at him as he grunted upon the loss of contact.

“Fucking Christ, babygirl, you’re killin’ me here,” Luke rasped, shaking his head as he looked down at her.

Luke grabbed a handful of her hair, gripping it as he guided her mouth back onto him, pushing her further down his erection and guiding her back off it at a rhythmic pace, building in speed as she went. Luke was struggling to keep himself composed as she continued working his orgasm out of him with her mouth. Her eyes began to water as his tip brushed the back of her throat and the moment his sensitive cap made contact, he felt his knees buckle, swallowing hard as he tried to hold off his orgasm as long as he could. Her gaze never left his face as he tossed his head back, her name falling from his lips like a prayer as thick, warm ropes of cum shot down her throat. His eyes shut for a brief moment, completely lost in his own pleasure. He looked down at her, watching as she slowly backed herself off of him, dragging her tongue lazily against his underside as she did so.

“Darlin’, I think it’s only fair I return the favour for ya now,” He gave her a mischievous smirk as he offered his hand out to her, helping her stand to her feet.

Luke gripped her hips and hoisted her up onto the metal top of the dryer, grinning at her as he took his turn kneeling on the floor. He pulled her forwards by her hips. He tapped the inside of her thigh with his hand, indicating to her that she needed to spread her legs to allow him to fit between them. His blue eyes watched her as he dragged two thick fingers along her wet folds, his voice in a low hum as he spoke, amused at how aroused she was. Luke used his fingers to part her lips gently, letting out a deep exhale as he stared at her, taking in the sight before him.

“Look at you, darlin’, pussy all wet for me, just waitin’ for me to take care a’ya, hmm?” he cooed as he watched her part her lips, allowing a soft moan to escape from her mouth.

“Luke, please, baby,” she mewled, whimpering as he circled the pad of his fingertip against her swollen clit.

The sound of her whimpering, soft moans were music to Luke’s ears, and he wasted no time in pressing his lips to her sensitive bud, lapping his tongue against it, tasting her sweet arousal as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thigh. He dipped two of his fingers into her now dripping core, lazily fucking them into her as he sucked on her nub, waiting for her to beg him to give her more.

“Luke, fucking hell, stop fucking teasing me, please?” She whined, her voice raising in pitch as she let out another whimper.

Luke pumped his fingers into her faster, pressing into her soft spot as he continued to lick and suck at her clit, his bright blue eyes never leaving once leaving her face as he watched, feeling himself become more aroused by seeing her face contort and hearing her vocalize her pleasure. He felt her leg tremble under his free hand, and he continued to fuck her with his fingers, pulling his mouth off of her clit just enough for her to hear him speak.

“Soak my fingers for me, sugar,” He husked, watching as he continued to thrust them into her wet folds, an animalistic grunt escaping his lips as he felt her clenching around him.

She tossed her head back as her arousal coated him, a loud, passionate scream of his name echoing through the air as she climaxed. Luke pulled his fingers out, licking them clean before ducking back between her thighs, delving his tongue inbetween her folds to clean up the mess he’d made of her. Once finished, he pulled back his head, sitting back on his feet for a moment as he grinned up at her, his bearded chin glistening with her arousal as he looked at her.

“Now, sweetness, you’re gonna have to take my shirt off of ya now, or else we’re never gonna make it to dinner. They might notice us being missing.” He smirked, shaking his head as he stood up.

Luke reached his hands out to grab her by the hips, nodding as he helped her down off of the dryer. He cocked an eyebrow up at her, watching as she slowly undid the buttons of the shirt before shrugging the blue material back off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as she exposed her bare skin to him. Unable to control his impulsive urges, Luke grabbed her by the waist, gripping her body tightly as he pulled her in against his frame.

“Well…maybe we can be a few minutes late?”

#capt. syverson x reader #captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson fic #captain syverson smut #captain syverson fanfiction #henry cavill characters

168 notes · View notes

shieldofiron · 7 months ago

Text

Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977

Part 1/3 Also on Ao3 here

For @harringrove-relay-race. Very happy with how part 1 turned out, and there will be more to come. Thanks to @foxxtastic for the intro and next up will be something stunning from our fearless Relay Race leader @half-oz-eddie

Rated M / 5k words / Part 1/3

Part 1: Into Hades

Rolling Stone Magazine - May 2002

Billy Hargrove arrived after I did, in his lovingly maintained blue Camaro, the subject of his song, “Lady Blue.” “Lady Blue” was recently named #93 on Rolling Stone’s Top Love Songs of the Century.

“I wrote, ‘She’s the wind in my hair, the rumble in my soul.’ I thought it was so obvious,” He laughed, his blue eyes still boyish. “My niece made it her wedding song, I said ‘Really? It’s about a fuckin’ car!’”

He showed me several pictures of his niece, the supermodel Tyler Sinclair. It seems good looks run in the family. He suggested the diner and he ordered waffles, winking when I mentioned that we’ll be here a long time.

The decades have been kind to him, maybe a few more lines. It’s not hard to imagine him stepping right back onto the stage, as if no time has passed at all.

“A little extra glitter on the eyes,” He said with a smile, “to hide my crows feet. That’s all I need.”

I ask what he’s going to wear to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony for Kaleidoscope's induction and his smile dims only for a moment.

“I think I should pull out some old costumes. You know, the butterfly still fits.”

He was referring, of course, to the sheer butterfly cape costume that nearly had him thrown off the stage in Houston Texas in December 1976. He caved to putting on a pair of silvery shorts rather than the nude underwear it was designed with. He later wore it with the nude underwear on the inside cover of Kaleidoscope, the album that will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in just a few short weeks. Kaleidoscope was his last album with the iconic Glam Rock band Pretty Boy, which famously broke up at the height of their career while touring for the album, onstage.

It’s not often that a band is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and there’s a question if all of them will even show up.

“I’ll be there,” Hargrove said, fiddling with the silver band on his middle finger. “I have no problem with seeing him.”

The him is, of course, the lead guitarist and other lead singer of Pretty Boy, Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington invites me to his oceanfront house in Malibu later that afternoon.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to go,” He said thoughtfully, his brown eyes darting around the room.

When I mention that Billy is going to go, he seems surprised.

“He didn’t say he was going to punch me, did he?” Harrington smiled, but it doesn’t seem like much of a joke.

For one of the most famous rock stars of the 70s, Harrington is shockingly low key. He wears a t-shirt and slouchy linen pants, and he jokes that he ought to have shaved when I take out my camera. The house is stunning but empty, with miles of blank white walls and overstuffed white furniture.

“I’m looking for a little peace,” He shrugs, “I used to have all these pictures up, all this furniture… It was too much.”

It was hard not to see him as an artist without a muse. He drifted listlessly, picking things up and putting them down as we talked. So it was a surprise to me to hear that he’s been recording.

“I may never release it but… Yeah,” He laughed, “Music. After all this time. Bet you didn’t know.”

He picks up a rare photo from the piano. It’s from the early days of Pretty Boy, before Billy Hargrove. Harrington has his arm around his bandmate, Eddie Munson. Their drummer Chrissy Cunningham is balanced precariously across their shoulders, laughing and cringing at the same time. Bassist Robin Buckley smirks from the corner of the frame, messy bangs in her eyes.

“Who knew, right?” He asked no one, shaking the frame a little.

There are no pictures of Billy Hargrove.

“That’s a… a long story,” He said, when I asked.

But I have time. I tell him Rolling Stone will pay for it. At least that makes him laugh.

It was just by chance that Pretty Boy’s last concert was filmed.

“We were meant to just film in Vegas,” The director, Argyle Molina-Zapata, sat down with me after a private screening of Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977, “But there was a freak rainstorm, and I couldn’t get my camera’s out of the back. The crowd was digging it, refused to leave. I remember when Billy hit the high note for ‘Mother Make Me,’ there was this lightning crack… brilliant.”

Molina-Zapata shook his head, “But the footage, what I got of it, was awful. Awful! So I begged Murray to let me come with them to Santa Fe.”

Murray was Murray Bauman, famed tour manager, who handled the Boys, later Pretty Boy from their first album Starfire, all the way to Kaleidoscope.

“And I was lucky,” Argyle nodded, “They had that extra tour bus.”

The tour busses are featured in the first few minutes of the film. They roll around the corner, one reading Billy Blue (Billy’s original stage name was Billy Blue before he dropped the Blue), and the other, Steve’s Six (Named after Steve’s best friends from his hometown.)

“They were nightmares,” Murray Bauman’s voice crackled over the phone, “Nightmares on tour. Separate buses. Separate hotels. Fuck me, I swear to god at one point they wanted separate stages. And the label caved on almost all of it. Fucking nightmare.”

It’s almost impossible to imagine it when you see them on stage together. There’s something electric that passed between Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington, something that drove crowds wild. They gravitate towards each other on the stage, orbiting like planets until they can share the same mic. They can’t seem to stay apart.

It’s hard to see exactly what happened that night.

“I’ve watched it a million times,” Argyle laughed, “But the only two people who can really say what happened are Billy and Steve.”

What you can see is this: Steve tearing into “Pride & Prejudice”, the lead off Kaleidoscope and the last song of the night.

Billy was trembling, visibly shaking as he sang and Steve harmonized along.

What can I say, if you ask me to walk away?

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Billy danced closer, joining Steve, his handheld mic loose at his side.

Can you ever put away your pride?

Is it worth it to not have me at your side?

I guess it must be, because I’m yours,

Regretfully,

Baby.

Billy leans in, sharing Steve’s mic for the bridge.

Is it really a mystery?

What I mean to you, and you mean to me?

Is it really, baby?

Billy shook his head, curls bouncing. He looked into Steve's eyes. He smiled. Steve looks at Billy, and Billy looks at him. It almost looks like Billy mouths something, but bootleg footage also has appeared where it looks like Billy just nodded. Steve goes a little shell shocked, hand freezing on his guitar, falling out of sync.

And then Steve turned away and left the stage, handing his guitar to a stagehand. Billy turned to the crowd, his expression strangely triumphant. He was always magnetic on stage, but this moment transcends that. It somehow feels like he’s getting everything he wants.

So I guess I’m losing you,

You promised me you would and it’s true.

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Steve Harrington hasn’t performed in public since 1977.

“None of us knew what was going to happen that night,” Chrissy Cunningham curled up next to her husband, Eddie Munson, on the large white couch of their Seattle home.

They’re a handsome couple still, draped in rock and roll finery. He toyed with the edge of her scarf, and she curled his long hair around her long fingers.

“We had some of our own shit going on at the time so…” Munson shrugged, “Maybe we were distracted.”

Their living room was crowded and verdant, every spare flat surface covered in plants. Their partner, former record executive Jason Carver, puttered in the kitchen in an apron that read Plant Papa.

“Yeah,” Chrissy smiled, “We had some stuff going on at the same time. But still… It seemed like they were getting better. Didn’t it seem like they were getting better?”

Munson shrugged, “The thing about Billy and Steve… they were soulmates. You don’t write music like that and not… it was like they had a second language, just for them. They were soulmates, I really believe that. Everything they did, everything that happened… they could only hurt each other that badly if… yeah.”

When I ask what they did to each other, Eddie and Chrissy just scooted closer together, like teenagers in a slasher, hiding from the killer. She laid a hand over his leg, her two stone diamond ring catching the sunlight.

“Steve never wanted Billy to be in the band,” Eddie shook his head, “but Jim had a soft spot for Billy. And Steve had… I mean Jim was…”

“Jim was like a father. To all of us.” Chrissy’s knee jiggled.

“We were this little tiny band from Nowhere, Indiana,” Eddie nodded, “And Jim believed in us.”

“I was just a junior exec at the time. I was put on the Kaleidoscope tour in case of catastrophic failure, which by the way it was,” Jason Carver is making risotto while we speak, the steam curling the lock of hair that falls over his face. “But it wasn’t my fault although I was high as hell on coke half the time. I guess I deserved to get fired. But Jim was the real deal. Gold records out the ass, best wife in the world, and his daughter, I mean… she was something else.”

They’re referring, of course, to Jim Hopper, producer on Kaleidoscope as well as Billy Blue and The Boys’ records, and the father of pop superstar Eleven aka Jane Hopper.

“Jim was…” Steve Harrington’s eyes always got a little misty talking about Jim, staring out over the ocean. “Yeah, I guess he was a little like my dad. My own parents were always gone. Which is like… I grew up so privileged so like I’m not saying… I just mean I grew up mostly by myself. And we were just so lucky he even agreed to listen to us when we got to LA.”

“I remember that night,” Joyce Hopper’s voice was raspy, cigarette-y in the way only old movie stars are. She’s a gorgeous woman in jeans and a gardening hat, speaking to me while she tends to her garden at her home in Castellammare. “He came home and said, ‘I have the next ones, the next big ones. Fuck, Joyce, they’re brilliant. Unpolished, but brilliant.’”

When I ask about when Jim discovered Billy Hargrove she just laughed.

“If Steve and the rest of The Boys were unpolished, Billy Hargrove was a fucking ten carat diamond,” She said. “But Steve’s band was Jim’s, and he could polish them up how he wanted. And then when he thought they were just right for it… he set the diamond.”

Jim Hopper was a big man, larger than life both in appearance and in personality. His fingerprints are all over some of the best hits of the decade.

Watching him on old interviews, there’s an immediacy to his presence that leaps off the screen.

“My daughter is the one who really found him. She snuck out with her sister and wandered God knows where. And she just… found him. Called me the next morning, saying ‘Dad, you have to hear this guy.’ He was playing in this… terrible club,” Jim said, tapping his cigar on the table of Merv Griffin’s set. “Absolute shithole, pardon my french. And he’s got a great voice, you’ve heard his voice, right?”

“I have,” Merv said.

“I had to get him out of there. He was a star.”

Billy Hargrove was a teenage runaway from San Diego when he came to LA in 1971.

“I had a girl’s backpack from my stepsister, eight dollars, and an extra pair of underwear. By the end of the next week? I had two more dollars,” Billy laughed. “But I got lucky. I met Heather.”

Heather Holloway was a showgirl at Wildwoods, a nightly revue. She found Billy at the backdoor, and took him to her apartment.

“She saved me,” He frowned. “Whenever I needed her most.”

Heather Holloway, Billy Hargrove’s first and only wife, died in 1979.

“I got a job singing at Sugar, this great gay club downtown. It was in the late afternoons, so I had a crowd of about… two. But those two brought two more,” Billy smiled, “Heather would talk me up to all the promoters. He’s a singer, he’s great, you’ll love him, he’s so cute.”

“He was an instant hit,” Sugar’s manager, Bob Newby, tells me by phone as well. “I did have to keep a couple of creeps off him, when he just started he was only nineteen. But even if you closed your eyes… he was a hit.”

“Guys used to think that because I was a part of the entertainment, I was fair game. And let me tell you, the novelty of that wears off mighty quick,” Billy shakes his head.

He shares a diary entry from his late wife of a night in April 1972. He came to her home with blood all over his face.

“Some guy thought because I was a fag…” Billy’s mouth twisted, but he went on, cradling the little marble notebook in his hand. “He could do whatever he wanted to me. When I fought back… he cracked a bottle over my head.”

He’s not just a piece of meat. He’s a person. I don’t understand these people. I just don’t understand, Heather Holloway wrote. I cleaned him up and he’s sleeping now.

The next diary entry is from a day later. April 12. Billy and I drove to Vegas and got married. When we spoke in the morning he said he was afraid for me too, even though I’m careful with the girls. He’s afraid of the cops trying to bust up the Wildwoods and picking me up. At least this way, he says. He and I can come home to each other. Look out for each other. Always. The groom wore band aids and his great velvet pants. The bride wore lavender. It was perfect.

“And lucky too. Because within a month… I met Jim,” Billy smiled. “And my whole life changed.”

Upside Down Records signed Billy Blue, unagented, in1972 and he spent the next year working on his debut album with Jim Hopper.

“I didn’t even realize, when it happened,” Billy shook his head. “A couple of girls came by after a show, wanting to talk to me, wanting to meet me. That wasn’t that unusual. But they were young, far too young to get into the club. And the little one, she was asking all these weird questions. Did I have an agent? Did I know if I had enough songs for an album? Weird fuckin’ questions. And then she said I have to meet someone. To be honest, I thought she was coked out of her mind when she said, ‘You have to meet my dad.’”

“I was not,” Eleven promised me, “coked out of my mind. But that’s just Billy.”

Eleven aka Jane Hopper, meets me backstage at one of her shows. She’s dressed in slouchy leather pants, to match her sister and drummer Kali Hopper.

“I knew he was something special. My dad was always talking about the IT factor. That thing that made a person something special. But I didn’t get it until I saw Billy Blue singing on that tiny stage,” She smiled. “He didn’t just have the IT factor. He was IT.”

It’s odd then, that Billy Blue’s first album had a surprisingly tepid response. His first single, in 1973, “Let Alone,” came in at only 26th for the month of April on the pop charts.

“People liked it,” Billy shrugs, “But I don’t think they knew what to do with it. You have my songs, these like… little pop love songs and ballads. I wasn’t that strong of a writer at the time. It was like half my songs, half covers. And so they’d book me, expecting fucking… Peter Frampton. And here comes this big queer with glitter on his nipples.”

But the lyrics of “Let Alone” would hint at his later songs, a hallmark simplicity that shone off his raw voice and poetry that hinted at a troubled past.

And if you were meant to care for me

You would, and that’s how it has to be

You said I couldn’t go on without you

Ha, look at me, looking brand new

At the same time, The Boys’ song “Paper Girl,” penned by Harrington, was number one.

She’s my paper girl

Wakes me up every morning, right on time

She got me smiling, got my head in a whirl

Picture perfect, paper girl

“Billy didn’t have much commercial appeal. Sex appeal, yes,” Jason laughed, toying with Chrissy’s hair. “But for sales? That’s where The Boys came in.”

“I hated that name,” Eddie said, “To start with we were half girls.”

The Boys had already had a somewhat successful tour under their belt by the time Jim suggested a collaboration with Billy Hargrove.

“It was a nice, short tour,” Steve Harrington glances away when I ask about the first tour.

“It was a nightmare. Balls to the wall nightmare,” Robin Buckley’s voice is a warm crackle over the phone. “Steve went on like thirty overlapping benders at once.”

Her partner, soap actress Vickie Carmichael cackles behind her, at their home in Salt Lake City.

“The thing about Steve is… well… he’s never found a good way of coping with himself,” Robin huffs. “Music was about as close as he ever got. But in those early days, he just kept looking for more and more.”

“You don’t think it was about-” Vickie asked, just barely into the phone.

“No.”

“It was about Nancy,” Eddie said confidently when I mentioned their first tour. “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”

The Boys got their start in the late sixties, beginning with Eddie and Steve. Eddie gave Steve guitar lessons, which turned into some talent show performances. They used to practice at Eddie’s Uncle’s trailer.

“That’s where we got the name,” Eddie nodded, “My uncle used to just call us that, and it stuck.”

“I don’t even remember,” Chrissy said.

“That’s not how we got the name,” Steve shook his head, when I mention Eddie. “It was our first gig, after we got Chrissy and Robin. Robin put it down after the headliner kept asking when ‘you boys’ would go on, and kept addressing it to Chrissy’s chest. She blew him out of the fucking water.”

Nancy Wheeler was there that night, writing about local bands for a tiny column in the school paper.

“She was beautiful. Smart. So smart. Could hear her talk forever,” Steve said, eyes falling.

Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were married in 1972 after they graduated high school.

“Steve made his own choices,” Chrissy shook her head.

That summer, the Boys plus one drove to LA and Nancy Wheeler took a job at Women’s Day Magazine and later, Rolling Stone. Steve Harrington and The Boys got a “steady gig” at La Bonita Rosa on the strip, playing for drunks every night from seven to eight.

“I really liked playing at La Bonita,” Steve said. “The audience, right there. You could smell the sweat. You could see on their faces if you were bombing. And we used to bomb. A lot. But it was a great place to try things. Experiment. We played there for about a year but… it felt too short.”

Within the year they had met Jim Hopper, who got them into the recording studio and sold their demo nearly on the spot to Upside Down Records.

“They had a great sound. They had got this way of playing. Smooth like a polished stone. Everything sounds good sitting in a frame like that,” Jim said in an interview with Rolling Stone in 1981. “Their songs were… catchy, but basic. But they had the sound.”

Upside Down records set the Boys on a US tour after “Paper Girl,” and “Joy to Love You,” both charted.

“It was like… overnight. One day we’re in a studio, messing around. Kid stuff. I was nineteen,” Steve Harrington shookhis head. “But…”

“That tour,” Chrissy trails off, playing with her ring again.

“I…” Steve Harrington scratched his nose. “I was losing it. Majorly losing it. It felt like we had just moved to LA and we were already neck deep. I mean, I had a number one fucking song. And for some reason I got it in my head to call my mom. She told the maid she wasn’t home. And I could hear her over the phone. My mom. So yeah. I lost it. Lost about half my damn mind on that tour. And people will say it was because of Nancy, because we got married just out of high school, and she wasn’t supportive… but that wasn’t true. Nancy saved me.”

“Nancy never wanted him to be in the band. But… she also didn’t seem to care that much either,” Eddie shook his head, “It’s… complicated. Love is supposed to be. Simple. Like the chords of a song. 1-3-5.”

Jason Carver rolled his eyes at that, “Then what are we?”

Eddie grinned, “We’re a band.”

Nancy Wheeler met me on a Thursday in New York City, slim sunglasses dominating her small porcelain face. We get lunch at her favorite deli shop, and she perches at the counter, loafers dangling. She’s an editor at The New Yorker now, but she still has a soft spot for rock and roll, as evidenced by the Grateful Dead t-shirt under her blazer.

“That tour. I didn’t even know anything was wrong. He just came home with a funny look on his face, saying, ‘We’re headlining.’ So I said, ‘That’s great, Steve.’ He just kept… saying it. It was starting to piss me off, if I’m being honest,” She shook her head. “I should have known something was wrong.”

“I wish she had stopped me. But how could you know right? Hindsight is always 2020,” Steve Harrington said. “I mean, she was my wife. How could she not want me home? But that’s just… sorry. That’s not fair to put on her. I chose to go.”

“I flew out to meet them when they were in Indianapolis, visited my family, and I came a day early to see him,” She smiled warmly, and then it fell. “He was… Well, first, Eddie Munson tried to intercept me at the hotel, so I wouldn’t see him. I told him, ‘I’m here to see my fucking husband.’”

Steve Harrington didn’t add any more details about the tour, just shrugged when I asked.

“He was coked up like you wouldn’t believe,” Robin scoffed. “She walked in on him with two girls and coke all over his… well.”

“I just asked him. Do you want to come home? Do you want to get help? Or not?” She purses her lips. “And so he came home and we found a rehab place near Hawkins.”

“The tour kind of… fell apart. Obviously. We had lost our lead singer and guitarist to fucking… Hawkins, Indiana,”

Everything stopped for the Boys. Upside Down offered to let them out of their two album contract, but Steve couldn’t afford to pay it down.

“Rehab,” He shrugged. “Is expensive.”

Right as it seemed that everything would be over for the Boys, things were looking up for Billy Blue.

“Jim was always saying, ‘the record is selling alright, the songs are getting there but he needs a… push,’” Joyce said. “‘He’s so close. So close. He’s a star.’”

“He always believed in me,” Billy smiled, toying with his ring again. “Always. Even when I threw a jug of milk at his head.”

Joyce laughed when I asked about that moment, “He came home saying, ‘He milked me, Joyce. But he’ll fix the song tonight.’”

“And I did,” Billy said. “And the album was going alright. I did a little tour, socal and the southwest. And then one night, Jim brings me this song. He said, ‘I want you to tell me what’s missing from this.’”

The song was, of course, the Boys’ biggest hit, “Hades.” Steve Harrington’s first version was called, “To Orpheus” and the chorus goes:

Don’t turn back don’t look behind you baby

I’m close, I’m right behind

The future's so bright, and I want you to take me

Wanna be holding your hand when I make it across the line.

“It was fine, but just kind of… nothing. It was supposed to be about Eurydice, but it was so… nothing. She just loved Orpheus and that was it. There were no insides to her. She was going to follow him to her doom,” Billy shook his head. “That’s not right.”

This was not the version that made it to the recording booth, of course. The Boys’ single, “Hades featuring Billy Blue,” came out in 1975. The actual chorus goes:

Turn back on me and I won’t forgive you baby

Don’t want you to see me like this

Up ahead is bright, and I want you to take me

If you’re strong enough to cross that finish line

“‘Hades,’ was a real step forward for the Boys. Gone were the teenybopper tunes,” Steve Harrington’s biographer and personal friend Dustin Henderson wrote in his book The Pretty Boy. “Their first album got the kids dancing. But the second proved that they actually had something to say.”

“Still hate it,” Steve Harrington said. “I wrote that song in rehab. It was deeply, deeply personal to me.”

“He came out, all ready. He wanted to start recording right away,” Robin sighed. “Like I mean the next day. All these songs, just pouring out of him. But the label had lost faith in us. And they certainly weren’t going to let us start recording with a guy who had only just earned his thirty day sober chip.”

“The song wasn’t ready,” Billy shook his head. “But I guess he was. Jim said he needed this. So Jim asked if I would come and like… pitch some stuff as a personal favor. Songwriting credit, that’s all it was supposed to be. Get the songs moving, get them going.”

Steve Harrington takes a long time to continue speaking about it.

“I felt it, writing for that album. I felt proud of those songs. They didn’t belong to anyone else but me,” He toyed with some piano keys while we talked, and then finally sat down and began to play something tuneless and half formed.

“That album was all about Nancy,” Chrissy said. “I mean. I know it. You know it. Nancy knew it. And she kind of hated it. But-”

“You can’t leave your husband right as he gets out of rehab,” Nancy said to me, toying with her wedding ring. “When he writes all these songs about how you’re the only thing… Steve was always like that. Heart wide open. That’s why when he met Billy. I almost thought… it would all be okay. That sounds fucked up but. I thought they could save each other. That the music could save him.”

“It was just a songwriting credit,” Billy raised his hands. “Jim swore up and down. I was just gonna come in there and sit down with this guy Steve. But when I walk into the studio, there’s two mics set up.”

“I was the Boys’ only singer,” Steve Harrington shook his head. “And to be absolutely honest, I was kind of a jackass about it. So to have some guy come in and say he’s gonna sing me my song… well…”

“Steve was the only one who would ever argue with Jim, And he let him have it that day,” Eddie laughed. “He called him the most low down, dirty, rat bitten bastard in California, and that he would die rather than give up his band to someone else.”

“I did not want his band. I did not know his band. And I did not care. And his song sucked. And I told him so. And then I sang it. Better.” Billy smiled.

“Billy was…” Chrissy shook her head. “Incredible.”

I ask Steve what Billy was like that first day in the studio.

“He was,” Something passed over his face. “Alright. He has a great voice, alright.”

“I was good. Better. Best.” Billy smiled.

“But he didn’t understand the song. He wanted Eurydice to… doubt. To think she wasn’t going to get out,” Steve slammed his hands on the keys. “It’s been… almost twenty years. I still don’t understand it.”

I asked why he let Billy stay. But Steve doesn’t have an answer.

“They were like oil and water, right away,” Chrissy said.

“Yeah, but oil on the water can catch fire,” Eddie shrugged.

“Jim asked me to stay,” Billy looked away from me, down at his waffles. “It was a favor to the label.”

“If Billy said louder, Steve said mute,” Robin snickered. “It was kind of great, actually. Finally someone called King Steve on his shit. One day I came in and they were arguing over how close the microphone should be to your throat. Almost got in a physical fight over a fucking microphone. I mean, I love Steve. But he always thinks he’s like… the babysitter. It’s his job to do everything for everybody.”

“Like who was this guy? Really? He came into my studio with no shirt on, most of the time still half smashed from the night before, and he thinks he can make all these changes. But Jim keeps telling me it’s just business, the label thinks it’s good business.” Steve frowned, and then smiled, and then frowned again.

“Yeah, I never wore shirts back then. Or underwear,” Billy said with a grin. “I was a rockstar!”

“Steve fought for every song on that album,” Nancy Wheeler patted her lips primly with a napkin. “He only lost on one.”

“Billy Hargove has songwriting credit and lead vocals on “Hades.” Dustin Henderson wrote.

“Billy was all over that album. He’d make some minor suggestion, maybe this chord instead of that, this word is better. And Steve would flip out, yell at him, yell at Jim, threaten to storm out… and then two days later quietly tell me to change the chord, he’d start singing the new words. Billy was there with us about every single day,” Eddie said.

“Of course, it was our biggest hit,” Chrissy laughed. “Everything but that song, Steve did what he wanted. Oh we had Billy in the studio, making suggestions. But Steve did what he wanted except for ‘Hades.’ Jim said that song is the album, and he wouldn’t cut it.”

“Jim was always right,” Steve closed the piano. “The bastard.”

Hades exploded onto the radio in late 1975. They didn’t have the same distribution as their first record, but the Boys had another hit.

“Billy had this way of singing it. Still does. He broke four mics when we recorded it. Singing so loud I had to keep an eye on the cymbals to stop them from shaking. You can feel him, right in your chest.” Chrissy giggled. “Like he was trying to wake all the dead from Hades. If anyone could, he could.”

“It’s a really, really great song,” Robin said.

This song belongs to Billy Blue, Rolling Stone wrote in 1976. The only question now is, what will The Boys do next?

“I remember that article. Fucking… Harrington said that he basically wrote the whole song. But he said, ‘the label thought bringing Billy in was a good idea,’” Billy gets tense for the first time. “I’m not saying I was like… I just mean. It would have been nice. To treat me like an equal. I’m more than just a singer. I’m not just… a piece of meat.”

“Billy was really pissed about that article. I remember, the day after the article came out, we were getting breakfast at this tiny place off La Cienega. Steve had this car back then, a big maroon BMW, and Eddie had got him a vanity plate when he bought it. Stupid thing it said, ‘BIGBOY.’ Anyway, We’re having breakfast, and we hear this screech outside, like an accident,” Robin Buckley gets uncharacteristically quiet as she goes on through this story. “Billy’s car is parked halfway out of the parking lot, and he comes in like a bull in a charge. Billy… he wasn’t some wimpy guy. He was small, but he was strong as hell… He came right over and grabbed Steve by his collar and lifted him right off the counter. And he said, I’ll never forget it because Steve used to recite it from memory, yell it at me, ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming. Is that Steve fucking Harrington? The lead singer of the Boys. Hey man, I love your song ‘Hades.’ How’d you get your voice to sound halfway decent for once?’”

“I don’t remember that,” Steve Harrington said flatly when I asked.

“And Steve used to be a fucking dick in high school. So he starts getting real bitchy, shoving Billy off him, asking what his problem is, why he’s such a dick all the fucking time, when it’s not even his band. And Billy said something like, ‘No one wants your shit band. Not with you in it,’” Robin paused for a moment. “And they just. Stare at each other. Like… daring each other to do something.”

Billy just shrugs when I ask, “I was pissed. I gave this guy a number one hit, and he still wanted to treat me like some… airhead singer the label brought in as a stunt. I’m not just a singer. I’m not a piece of meat. I’m a person.”

When I ask Steve about that day he’s pretty quiet, deflated at his piano. He only wants to talk about the song. The music. Can’t seem to talk about Billy any other way.

“He sang it like he not only knows Orpheus can’t save him, but that he won’t. It was supposed to be hopeful. A happy ending.” Steve said.

“So you still hate the song?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. It’s brilliant. And that’s the whole problem.”

To be continued...

Next up is Half-Oz-Eddie's piece at 7:00 pm. GET HYPE!

#harringrove relay race #harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove fic #steve x billy #harringrovefic #harringrovefanfic #harringrove fanfiction #harringrove fanfic #stranger things #my writing #DJATS au #Daisy jones and the six au #tw drugs

108 notes · View notes

pinkponycult · 6 months ago

Text

Chappell Roan at House of Blues, Houston, TX on 2/19/23 by Abby Stanford

#chappell roan #live performances #wlwsource #dailymusicqueens #photo #pinkponycult #spring 2023: rainbow

248 notes · View notes

chippedshake · 1 month ago

Text

Dally Winston didn’t have many possessions. A side effect of never staying in one place for too long, he supposed. Even if he stayed in the same city, he would sleep wherever he could, and most folks’ hospitality didn’t extend past the week.

He was a constant flight risk. Too many people had woken up one day to find him fifteen miles away and nowhere to be found. And when he ran, he didn’t come back; he brought all he could need with him: the clothes on his back, the blade in his pocket, and the shoebox under his train seat.

The shoebox would be wrapped inside of his sweater – no matter if he ran away in August or December – and the only thing anyone could see if they somehow got close enough to open it would be candy bars and Kools, and maybe a shirt or two.

While he was in Cleveland, some guy in his gang – Joe or John or something about as interesting – tried to nab one and nearly got his head beat in.

That same night he’d caught a freight to New York. He wasn’t about to explain himself to a group of wannabe gangsters who couldn’t throw a punch and didn’t want him around anyway.

Crouched in almost complete darkness, the train jostling him around as he opened his shoebox, the twelve-year-old made sure nothing was out of place underneath the bars and packs. He let out a small sigh of relief at the four plastic bags, perfectly intact. It was too dim to see the actual handwriting, but he knew each one had a city name on it.

The keys to his father’s house and his sister’s comb from Austin.

Houston was where he met the first girl that actually mattered to him – Kathy – and her number was the only thing in that bag.

He’d taken his first job as a waiter in Pittsburg, and the navy blue button in that bag reminded him of his boss, the first one to look at him and see a scared boy with nowhere to go instead of a hood in the making.

Maybe he was both.

He didn’t need to open the Cleveland bag to know it was empty. Hadn’t been there enough to have anyone to remember.

It wasn’t the first time he’d left a city without anything to care about. Atlanta and Nashville had been crossed out to make space for other names, but he’d only been there for a couple weeks.

He’d been in Cleveland for almost a year.

Squinting to make anything out in the near-darkness, Dallas took the permanent marker in the corner of the box and crossed out Cleveland, replacing it with New York in as good handwriting as he could manage.

It was legible at best, but no one else was meant to read it, so he figured it didn’t much matter.

When he left three years later it was the fullest bag he had.

It was a bit of a struggle to keep the bag covered inside the shoebox, but he managed.

When Dallas got to Tulsa, he was far from optimistic. He’d been in New York for the longest yet and had actually managed to get close to a couple boys there before the fuzz got a bit too familiar with him and he knew he needed to skip town again. Before that happened, he’d thought he’d finally found somewhere he could stay long-term, until the greaser life inevitably caught up with him and gave him the greaser death he’d known was coming for him since he was nine and on a train away from Austin.

Then he met a group of boys, one of them hardly in middle school, who thought themselves a gang even though they couldn’t do anything but grease their hair back. And yet, somehow, even though the kid was obnoxious and his brothers were overprotective over him and one of them seemed to be constantly sucking on a lemon, Dallas found himself strangely drawn to them.

They might not have been as tough as the packs in New York, but there was something else about them.

It might have been how Buck, who hardly knew him, let him stay above the bar almost free of charge. How he would patch him up whenever he came back from a stupid fight and scowl whenever he saw a new bruise. How he would wordlessly direct Johnny to Dallas’s room whenever he appeared unannounced and made sure none of the drunks gave him any trouble. How he would give Dallas advice about anything he asked about, even if most of it was terrible.

It might have been how Johnny always came to him for help and didn’t seem scared of him for a moment, even when they didn’t know each other and he had every reason to.

It might have been how Steve would skip school with him to watch cars speed by and comment on everything from the engine to the paint job.

It might have been how Soda embraced him wholeheartedly, despite how perfect his life was and how ugly a stain Dallas was on it. How he listened in silence when Dallas finally broke and told him about Holly and how he’d never forgive himself for leaving her alone with that bastard. How he told him it wasn’t his fault.

It might have been Mrs Curtis and her disapproving looks when he told stories about his battles and conquests. How she never stopped believing in him anyway.

It might have been how he knew that, despite all of their fights, Tim would never betray him when it mattered. How he’d been the one to first call him Dally.

It might have been how Darry always explained football terms to him when he told a story Dally wouldn’t understand and how Ponyboy wouldn’t stop yapping about his favourite books and how Two-Bit went to every part with him to make sure he didn’t do anything too stupid.

It might have been how, more often than not, Dally went home with something in his pocket to put away in his shoebox.

It’s been two days since Dally crumpled under a streetlight while his friends watched – except Buck wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, and part of him wonders if maybe he could’ve stopped him if he was – and Buck knows that it’s well past time to clean out his room because despite what he told Dally, he really does need the rent money.

It’s just washing the sheets and taking out any clothes he might have collected – not even three years he’d been there, and Buck’s life has a hole in it now that he’s gone and if this is anything like how Dally felt with Johnny, maybe he can understand his decision a bit more – and then he’s ready to rent the room out.

But it isn’t just washing the sheets and finding something to do with his clothes, because they won’t fit Buck because Dally was just a kid.

It’s accepting that the kid’s gone. It’s accepting that he’s not going to open the door with a scowl on his face. He’s not going to start complaining about Sylvia. Buck isn’t going to pretend not to care and give him barmy advice he doesn’t even believe himself.

The kid’s going to lie – still, cold, dead – in his make-shift grave and Buck’s going to stop crying because he’s done his fair share of that for a grown man and a greaser. And they’re just clothes.

Clothes that smell like the first kid Buck had cared about enough to take care of. Clothes many of which Buck himself had gotten Dally. Clothes that hold more memories of Dally Winston than any other place in town.

Just clothes.

And, apparently, a shoebox.

When he opens it, Buck isn’t expecting much beyond some unsavoury magazines and maybe a candy bar.

Instead, he finds five plastic bags with city names written on them in the chicken scrawl that only almost three years of living with Dally had taught him to read.There are a couple Twixes thrown on top as a half-hearted cover, but they don’t do much to hide the bags.

Three are almost empty. One is half full.

The last one is overflowing.

The Curtis brothers rarely received letters beyond bills or some routine ones from the state. They didn’t have many people that couldn’t just talk to them if they wanted to tell them something. At most they got some half-hearted birthday cards from distant relatives a couple weeks late.

They never received packages, though.

Except now their mailbox has a plastic bag stuffed inside of it and a shoebox sitting on the ground next to it, holding their usual letters and four other bags.

As they have for the last two nights, the whole gang – or, rather, what’s left of it – eats dinner together. No one says it, but they’re scared to spend too much time alone. Loneliness eats at them, even when they’re all together, and they’re the only thing keeping each other from going insane.

Darry clears his throat, breaking into the silence that settled down on them two days ago and has only thickened since.

“We, uh… we got a letter from Buck together.”

Two-Bit looks up from his plate with a raised eyebrow, and there’s something desperate in the way that gesture, that used to be casually playful and fun, comes from a Two-Bit who hasn’t smiled since Pony walked in the door two nights ago.

Steve and Soda share a glance before looking at Darry, but Pony doesn’t even bother. He just keeps pushing the food around on his plate as if it’ll make it disappear.

"What's it say?" Soda's voice sounds clogged up from lack of use.

"Apparently he– uh... Dally–" they ignore how his voice breaks on Dally's name "– he had stuff from all of us. Kept 'em in a box under his bed. Buck found them when he cleaned his room out. Sent 'em to us. He had stuff from where he's been before, too." For all Darry tries to seem casual, he can’t stop the unspilled tears of the last few days from seeping into his voice.

"I–" Steve trails off before clearing his throat and starting again. "Let’s see it then, yeah?"

It’s a well-known fact that Ponyboy’s too sensitive to be a greaser. Sodapop calls himself a bawl-baby and seems to somehow feel everything stronger than everyone else. Two-Bit’s an emotional drunk and hasn’t cracked a joke in two days. And Darry’s been suppressing everything he’s felt for nine months and is bound to burst at some point.

And yet Steve is the first to break.

He’s holding a small piece of metal – his DX name tag – that presses coolly against his skin. Dally always used to swipe it and play with it in front of him, laughing as Steve made mad grabs for it. He doesn’t even know why he tried; he knew he wouldn’t get it back until Dally got bored. He stole it a bit over a year ago, and Steve always figured that it was just to mess with him.

He sinks into his chair with a wet, choked sob.

Dally comes in on the one day Steve gets stuck at the counter. He’s messing around, sitting on the counter, his legs dangling off it, with Steve’s name tag, trying to goad him into some sort of stupid argument. Steve doesn’t even bother trying to grab it back anymore; Dally’ll give it back whenever he feels like it, and it’s no use trying to get it back before.

"You going to the drive-in today?"

"Nah, Soda'n me're goin' to the races."

"You takin' the kid?"

"Sure hope not."

Dally stops playing with the name tag for a moment. He swivels ninety degrees to face Steve and crosses his legs on top of the counter.

His eyes have always been off-putting, but now it feels like they’re piercing through Steve’s mask of uncaring and putting his soul on display for all the world to see. Steve looks away.

"Don’t do that, man."

Steve looks at him in confusion. "Don’t do what?"

"Don’t pretend like you hate the kid. You're not foolin' anyone but him, an' someday it'll be too late."

They stare at each other for a couple moments in a heavy silence. There are thousands of questions running through Steve’s head and he doesn’t know where to start.

"I gotta split."

Dally jumps off the counter and walks off, completely nonchalant, as if they’ve just had a normal conversation.

Steve doesn’t notice his name tag is gone until Soda asks him about it when he calls him over for help later.

He thinks a lot about Dally’s advice during the next year. Maybe he’s right. He does care about Pony, deep down. Somewhere. He’s an annoying piece of shit, but Steve cares about him.

But he’s been pretending not to for so long that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to show him. Because if there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that he’s not about to have a heart-to-heart with the little shit.

What he usually does when he can’t figure something feelings-y out is ignore it: block it out until it stops bothering him. But Dally won’t let him. His voice has needled a hole in his head, interfering with his every thought.

And the worst part is that Dally’s right. It’s not even just the kid that doesn’t know he really cares.

No one does.

No one but Soda and Evie really knows that he cares about them. And that’s really just Steve assuming they can read him well enough, because he’s not exactly one for baring his heart to someone and declaring how much they mean to him.

Logically, he should be the closest to Johnny, since none of the others really gets what it means to want to be anywhere but home, but Johnny would rather have to try and explain it to Pony than really talk to Steve.

Paying just the slightest bit of attention makes him realise that his stupid little sarcastic comments during Two-Bit’s stories actually hurt him, but for some reason Two-Bit chose not to tell him and Steve’s only just noticing now, after years of it.

Somehow, Steve managed to hide how much he wanted to be like Darry between ages seven and twelve, but now Darry thinks he hates him and obviously doesn’t know about the part of that hero worship that Steve still harbours.

Not even Dally, who acts like he can see right through him, knows about how Steve wants him to teach him to fight and about how he feels like Dally just… gets him better than anyone else.

But anger is how he processes everything. He can’t have a conversation without a sarcastic comment mixed in with it and would much rather brawl than talk something out. He doesn’t know any other way to work through things because no one ever bothered to teach him.

He wonders whether he could have asked Dally for help. Whether Dally would’ve laughed in his face or taken him under his wing and taught him how to feel things like a normal person.

Steve still hasn’t changed. He knows he should. Regret at Johnny and Dally never knowing how much he cared curls up inside his stomach, wrapping around and suffocating him. It’s only a matter of time before someone else’s monster is added in – no such thing as an old greaser – and Steve can feel it watching him, waiting until it can curl around his throat and start squeezing.

It’s too late for Johnny and Dally to know that he cares about them. It’s too late for Dally to see him take his advice to heart.

But Johnny and Dally aren’t the part of the gang that’s left.

So, for the first time, Steve looks around at his friends and tries to really see them. He tries to see the part of them they leave to subtext and interpretation, hoping someone will understand what that blink or that twitch meant.

Soda winces, he’s in pain. He’s holding something tightly in his hand, something sharp. But he has that faraway look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks about Sandy sometimes, so Steve knows not to talk to him. He’s going through something he needs to process alone.

Darry’s smiling in a bittersweet way that tells Steve that he’s remembering something good, something happy, and being brought back to the present will be infinitely more painful if it’s at someone else’s hands.

Two-Bit trails around the room, restless as ever, twirling a pencil around his fingers. Steve’s never felt like he knows Two-Bit. The walls of defensive humour and beer always seemed impenetrable and, honestly, Steve never really tried.

Finally, his eyes land on Ponyboy, sitting at the head of the table, a drawing between his hands. He’s trembling and blinking away tears.

“Golly, Pony, you oughta show Dal.” Pony looks up at Johnny, surprised and slightly incredulous.

“Yeah, right. Dally’ll laugh right in my face.”

“‘Course he won’t. Might not get it, but he won’t laugh atcha.”

If Pony didn’t know any better, he might say Dally’s face softens when he shows him the drawing.

Most people wouldn’t notice it, the subtle way his eyes stop being so sharp, like a shard of ice that melts just the smallest bit at edges. The way the corners of his mouth quiver ever so slightly as he tries to suppress a smile. The sharp exhale through his nose that replaces how most people would gasp.

Ponyboy didn’t even know he knew Dally that well. He didn’t know he could read him so easily, notice the smallest changes in his face and deduce his feelings. Most of the time, Dally still feels like an enigma.

“This ain’t too shabby, kid.” He looks up at Ponyboy. “When’d you make it?”

“It took me a coupla days, but I started when Two stole your switch to open a meat packet.”

Dally tsks almost fondly, shaking his head. “‘Course you did.” Before Ponyboy can ask what he means, Dally lifts his gaze – piercing, ice blue – and fixes it onto him. “You mind if I keep it?”

“Yeah– I mean, sure. I don’t mind.”

He looks at Ponyboy strangely for a moment before reaching forward and ruffling his hair. “You’re an okay kid, Pony.”

The memory doesn’t last much longer. Pony’s mom calls them to dinner a couple moments later and Dally never mentions it again. Pony had mostly forgotten about it until he’d opened that bag and found it, folded into careful eighths.

Now, as he thinks back to that moment and all the ones that were around it, he can’t help but wonder why he thought that Dally hated him. Why he thought Dally only ever loved Johnny. He’d thought Dally was hardened too much to feel anything, but from someone else’s point of view, maybe Ponyboy’s like that right now.

Maybe wanting privacy and being alone sometimes can make someone think he doesn’t care.

Maybe life punishing him for caring in the past makes him try to suppress it, or express it in almost imperceptible acts of fondness.

Maybe his own absolute conviction that Dally was nothing more than a hood made him ignore the clear signs.

He thinks about Steve telling him not to walk home alone, and Tim making sure he has a blade whenever he goes out with Curly, and Angela off-handedly asking where he’s going. He thinks about Darry hugging him at the hospital and the two of them chasing Soda in the darkness and Two-Bit making jokes even when Dally’s covered by a white sheet.

Has he been really seeing people, or has he just been seeing what he wants to see?

Steve’s slumping in a chair, looking at his nametag and then letting his gaze roll around the room. Darry’s playing with a deflated football, a bitter smile on his lips. Soda has his fist closed tightly around something, eyes closed as he takes deep breaths. Two-Bit is alone on the couch, staring at a tiny pencil in his hand that’s been bitten almost down to the point.

Ponyboy makes eye contact with Steve, who jerks his head towards Two-Bit and the two of them go over to him, Steve sitting down next to him with a back too stiff to possibly be comfortable, and Pony standing on his other side, a hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t remember.” Two-Bit’s voice sounds genuinely broken, and Ponyboy is sent back to when he stumbled into the house after catching a ride with a stranger from the hospital. When Two-Bit said that even Dally had a breaking point. That years of hardening himself so he wouldn’t hurt had been for nothing when Johnny died and made him reach it.

Is Two-Bit at his?

“All o’ you, you’re there, with something, and you’re remembering. ‘Cause you bothered to make memories with him. Me, I was too busy getting drunk –” his voice breaks and it seems like he’s about to cry “– I was too busy getting drunk to remember anything from him.” He holds up the pencil. “This was mine. I know ‘cause I’m the only one that chews pencils, all y’all find it disgusting, and he kept it so it was important and he took it at some point and I can’t remember–”

Two-Bit fully breaks at that point, folding in on himself, grabbing onto the pencil with a death grip.

Steve looks at Ponyboy, completely at loss as to what to do, and for all Pony may be more “sensitive” or more in touch with his emotions, he doesn’t have any more ideas on how to comfort Two-Bit.

Maybe they’re not supposed to. Maybe they just have to leave him to cope and come to terms with himself. Maybe they have to let him hate himself like Ponyboy’s done on so many occasions.

Maybe it’s what they’re supposed to do, but it’s not what Ponyboy wants.

“I can.” Two-Bit looks up at him, eyes slightly glazed.“I remember it. You got me to skip a couple years ago, remember? We found Dally, and me and him smoked but you just chewed on your pencil. It was when he told us about… about Holly. I guess he musta taken it and we didn’t notice.”

Steve’s looking at him curiously, as if he knows he’s lying. Ponyboy just hopes that Two-Bit doesn’t notice.

“Yeah…” Two-Bit starts nodding slowly, “I think I remember that.”

Steve’s still staring at Ponyboy, looking like he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. He sends him one final confused look before turning to Two-Bit.

“Look, Two…” Steve hesitates for a moment “you– you still got four friends. You ain’t alone. There’s a lotta opportunities to get more memories – not with- with them, that’s true, but with us – and we want you to remember ‘em. ‘Cause we’re not gonna be here one day, and all that’s gonna be left for you is what you can remember, and Pony here ain’t gonna be around to remember for ya.”

Steve looks like the effort of being sincere is damn near killing him, but he powers through, not noticing that Sodapop and Darry are looking at them and listening in.

“And we– we need you to remember. An’ not to be hungover every day. ‘Cause it’s hurtin’ you and it’s hurtin’ us. An’ maybe this ain’t the time to tell you, but it’s the time I’m usin’, and we can help you if you want it. If you don’t, too, we don’t care none.”

“He’s right,” Soda says, getting up and walking towards them, something clutched tightly in his hand. “You aren’t just hurting you, you’re taking us with ya. Which means that you don’t gotta get better all alone neither. We’ll help you and distract you and whatever you need to get over it.”

Darry doesn’t get up from the table where he’s sitting, but nods as he watches Two-Bit carefully.

A year ago, Darry wouldn’t’ve hesitated at getting up and hugging Two-Bit, or telling him that he’ll be by his side, helping him over his twisted addiction. He would’ve sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around him and told him everything would be alright. That they would work together, and he’d get over it and everything would be okay.

Only it isn’t a year ago, and if Darry does any of that, the whole gang’ll look at him like he’s insane.

Darry’s parents died on a Saturday. He’d had three hours of sleep because he was out with Two-Bit ‘till the early hours of the morning, and then Ponyboy had gone and literally started jumping on his bed to get him up at eight – partly to be a little shit, partly so they could play football.

Since then, Two-Bit has invited him out too many times for him to count, but Darry’s never been able to. He treasures his hours of sleep more than he does the box under his bed with his savings, and wasting them on partying seems unthinkable.

But it’s not just going out at night. Darry hasn’t had a real conversation with Two-Bit in nearly eight months and the realisation has glued him to his chair.

It isn’t Two-Bit’s fault that he didn’t have to grow up like Darry did, and it’s not even a bad thing, but that doesn’t mean Darry can’t or didn’t resent him for it, just a bit. He’s only a little over a year older than Two, but their lives have grown to be so different that it seems like an insurmountable gap.

And they were too close for Darry to fall into the fatherly role he’s fallen into with most of the gang, so over the weeks they grew apart, and now Darry hardly knows the boy that used to be his best friend.

And now, as he watches Two-Bit cry over a bitten pencil and swear he’ll do better, for them, Darry feels the distance like a knife in his chest, twisting with every comforting word his brothers can provide when he’s forgotten how to.

It feels ironic, then, when his hands come to rest on the table, and hit the stupid deflated football Dally left him that doesn’t just mark when he realised Dally was a real person with real feelings who cared about his friends, but also marks when he got his head on straight and started the most important friendship of his life.

He should’ve known. Soda’s pitying glances and Ponyboy always asking him to stay behind, the way Steve always glared at them, hell, even Two-Bit had warned him.

But he’d been delusional enough to believe they might see beyond how much money he had and genuinely like him as a friend. In the end, all it’d taken was graduating.

He’d like to pretend like it didn’t hurt.

Like he didn’t care that all his friends from high school were hanging out without him just a couple weeks after graduation and hadn’t bothered to invite him. Like he didn’t care that when he’d gone over to talk to them, they’d acted like they’d never been friends. Like he didn’t care that none of them seemed to care, none of them but Paul Holden, whose face flickered with a semblance of regret – or pity – for half a second before his expression hardened back into bored disinterest.

The pillow that’s currently taking a beating he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy begs to differ. He throws it against the door, which opens a couple moments later, showing an unimpressed Dally standing behind it. He just raises an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

“I’m fine,” Darry grumbles, fully aware of how childish he sounds as he walks forward to grab his pillow.

“You do get why I don’t believe you, right?”

Darry grabs the pillow and rolls his eyes. “Why bother asking, then?”

“Thought you might wanna talk to someone who won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

He looks at Dallas in mild interest. “What makes you think anyone else’ll say ‘I told you so’?”

“You had a picture of the football team on the wall, before, but now it’s ripped into pieces in the trash can in the kitchen. An’ you’re hacked off at somethin’ and the team’s you an’ a group of Socs. I ain’t stupid.”

Darry’s walking away from him, punching at the pillow. He doesn’t respond.

“You should prolly talk about it, man.”

Dally’s right, he probably should. But who’s he gonna talk to? The fifteen-year-old midget lecturing him when he’s known him for just over a couple months? His brothers, who’ll just say they knew it would happen? Two-Bit, who’ll probably just make it into a big joke? Steve, who Darry’s almost sure hates him? His mother will just look at him in pity and his father will give him a pat on the back and tell him not to let it bother him.

The only person Darry walks to talk about this with is Paul, and that just leads him back to the start.

He still doesn’t say a thing.

“Alright, maybe you don’t gotta talk about it. Don’t you want a better distraction than a shitty old pillow?”

“Like?”

Something hits him in the back and Darry whirls around. Dally stands smugly a couple steps further into his bedroom.

There’s a football at Darry’s feet.

“That was a pathetic throw. It’s not supposed to turn like that.”

“Teach me, then.”

They spend the rest of the day in the field nearby, Darry teaching Dally the basics of football. Everything from how to throw the ball (he seems to be messing up on purpose) to basic strategies his team used to use. As the day wears on and some of the other members of the gang start showing up, they join in, and when Mrs Curtis calls them in for dinner, they’re in the middle of one of their usual scrimmages.

Darry claps a hand on Dally’s shoulder as they walk into their house.

“Thanks.”

Dally looks up at him, a glint in his eye. “Nah, man, thanks for teaching me.”

The ball had landed on a nail, somehow, a couple weeks later, and they’d all chipped in for a new one. No one had wondered where the old one ended up, assuming it had been thrown out somewhere.

Darry had always wanted to find it somehow. He didn’t like that some nail had left him without the only physical reminder he had that Dallas Winston was a decent human being, and maybe even cared about him.

And it’d been just a couple days later that he’d started hanging out with Two-Bit more often.

Now that he had it back, though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to feel.

Dally had thought that that moment was important enough to warrant keeping a reminder of it, a reminder of Darry.

A hand is placed on his shoulder. He looks up and finds Soda looking down at him, worry written across his face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Pepsi-cola, don’t worry about it.”

Darry’s smile is strained and forced but Soda doesn’t say anything about it.

He sits down next to Darry at the table, grip tightening around the pin in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know who to thank for the fact that the gang had let him open the bag first, but if anyone else found it before him, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done.

He wonders what exactly the point of this whole experience is. Of looking at painful reminders of one of the people they lost not three days ago and remembering all they went through together only to wake up and realise he isn’t there. They won’t get anything, they won’t get to see him again, they’ll just get a painful ache in their chest.

The pin is simple enough that if someone doesn’t know exactly the right information, they wouldn’t think too much about the pink triangle on a black background.

The gang would know, though. Maybe not all of them, but at least one of them would, and they’d figure it out.

News stories flicker through Soda’s head – boys killed, beaten, kicked out of their homes.

He’s not even sure why he told Dally.

It’s at least partially because Dally got him drunk. He’s also not entirely sure what kind of cigarette he was given.

But for some reason, Soda finds himself sitting on Dally’s bed as the other boy rummages around the room. He’s blabbering and any sort of filter he’s had before has been completely erased.

“There’s just… something, y’know? Like, I like Sandy just fine, but it’s like Steve’s eyes glow, man. And have you seen him when someone has a car that’s real messed up? His nose scrunches up all cute-like. I like Sandy more, though, I think, Steve’s just my friend. You dig, right, Dally?”

“Sure, man.” Dally locks the door. “You’re staying here tonight, right? There ain’t no way I’m bringin’ you home like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He throws himself backwards onto the bed and ends up in a starfish position. “Maybe I don’t like her more’n Steve, I dunno. It’s weird, ain’t it, how everyone thinks I gotta like Sandy more’n Steve? I don’t think I do, but I should. Why can’t I like Steve more?”

Sodapop wakes up the next day and doesn’t really remember much besides the fact that he told Dallas Winston he was a queer and the boy proceeded to sleep in the same bed as him without hesitation.

It takes him only a couple more seconds to realise this is the first person he’s told.

“Hey, Dal…”

Dally yawns as he opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You won’t tell anyone about what I told you last night, right?”

“I mean, you could use some help getting with Steve, but sure, I’ll keep quiet.” Dally’s wearing his crooked grin, the one he always has on when he’s just messed with some Socs.

“I ain’t jokin’, Dallas,” Sodapop says, his voice hard.

“I ain’t either,” Dally says defensively “I won’t tell anyone, so don’t go worryin’ your pretty little head about it.”

They stare off for a couple seconds before Soda relents. He grabs his jacket off the floor and walks out. Maybe he stalks, maybe he storms, maybe he strolls. He’s not entirely sure, but he’s not around long enough to find out.

The next day, Dally walks into the DX and slides the pin over to Soda.

“You got no idea how hard it was to find someone I could swipe this from.”

It takes him two seconds to recognise it and just one more to cover it with his hand and look around frantically.

“Dally,” he hisses, calming down a bit once he realises no one’s around.

“What? I made sure no one was in here.”

Soda just glares at him, but Dally seems undisturbed, slouching and drumming his fingers on the counter.

“What’s this even for, anyway? S’not like I wanna go around tellin’ people ‘bout it.”

“Aw, c’mon man, I swiped it an’ everythin’.”

“That’s not my fault. You know what’d happen if Pony found this? Darry? Steve? Sandy?”

“Fine, fine.” Dally takes the pin back. “You wanna be a coward, go ahead.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

“You callin’ me a coward, Curtis?” Dally raises an eyebrow, and under any other circumstance, Sodapop would’ve made a comment about him turning out like Two-Bit.

“That’s what it sounds like, ain’t it? ‘Cause there’s only one kinda guy that’d sleep next to a queer an’ it sure ain’t a straight one.” The last bit comes out a bit whispered and Sodapop looks around the DX again, making sure no one’s there.

Nothing about Dally’s stance until now had made the conversation seem anything but casual. A lazy smile had rested on his lips, and he was slouching, relaxed, his hand resting idly on the counter. Now his face has hardened, eyes turned to shards of ice.

It’s an expression Soda has never seen directed at himself, only at Socs. Under normal circumstances, he’d be terrified.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Who’s the coward now? You think I ain’t seen how little you care about Sylvia? You think I ain’t seen how you look at Johnny? Don’t you go tellin’ me how to live my life when you’re just as much a coward as me.”

“The difference is I don’t deserve anythin’ better’n a dirty broad that two-times me every time the fuzz picks me up, and Johnny don’t deserve anythin’ less’n the‘ntire world, which I ain’t exactly in the position to give ‘im, as you mighta noticed. You’n Steve, on the other hand, ‘re just about made for each other. So don’t you go actin’ like we’re the same ‘cause you know damn well we ain’t.”

Soda hasn’t had enough time to process half of what Dally’s just said before he storms out of the DX, pin in hand.

Later that night, at dinner, when Mrs Curtis notices the hole in Dally’s palm, he says he accidentally pushed himself up on a nail.

Soda doesn’t know why Dally chose something that reminded him of the only fight they ever had. They never acknowledged it afterwards.

But then, when he thinks about all the other times he interacted with Dally – and with everyone else in the gang, he realises – he can’t think of a single one where he was completely honest. He hasn’t ever told Pony that his constant singing annoys him or asked Darry to cook the meat just a little bit more because it gives him a stomach ache when it’s so undone.

And part of that is just because he doesn’t like to make people upset, so if he can swallow his emotions and just pretend to be happy, he’ll do it every time.

But he also hasn’t told Steve he loves him or told Pony that his drawings are spectacular or told Darry that he admires him because he could never do everything he does or told Two-Bit that his way of seeing life probably got him past the hardest week of his life. And he didn’t tell Johnny that he was such a fucking warrior for putting up with everything life had thrown at him, that he was an absolute angel for everything he’d done for Ponyboy. He never hugged Johnny goodbye.

He never told Dally that he cared about him and didn’t resent him for the pin. He never apologised for what he said. He never told him that he deserved Johnny and Johnny deserved him and they should give it a shot.

He always put on a mask, however light, to make himself simpler. More palatable.

Except for then.

When his secret was threatened, when he realised he wasn’t alone, his mask had broken and he said exactly what he thought. Had Dally managed to notice that? Had he known when Sodapop was lying, pretending like he was okay when there was a gaping hole in his chest?

Or did he just run on anger, on violence, and enjoy the memory of Sodapop being angry more than any of the memories of him being happy?

It doesn’t matter, Soda realises as the rest of the gang – five is such a small number – sits down around the table, each of them with their object in their hands. Because Dally isn’t around anymore, and they can drive themselves crazy trying to figure out what he meant or why he did things, but they’ll never really know.

And Soda doesn’t know if it even matters, if they somehow manage to find out.

Because even if Dally kept it because he liked seeing Soda riled up, or because he just liked the pin, or because he got it from a boyfriend or hookup, it made Soda realise that he’d only ever been true once in his life. It made him realise he’d been going through his life as a lie, and that if he didn’t want to have a thousand words unsaid, a thousand loves unrealised, a thousand regrets on his deathbed, something had to change.

The point wasn’t to go through the pain of remembering. The point was to think about Dally and about what he thought. About what he would have wanted.

Not necessarily to do it exactly, but to think about it. To let him impact their lives for just a little longer.

Let him live for just one more minute.