#idk i go a lot of places in the south

[thensson]

[halamshiral]

the more i think about it the more it bothers me that the fandom is taking for granted that since the south ends up the way it ends up each one of our choices in previous games is wiped out. but like, i don't get that??

yes, denerim is destroyed, but why should that imply that whoever i put on the throne is dead and the choice i made three games ago is null and void?? denerim has been destroyed before in the fifth blight, this didn't mean that everyone in the city was killed.

sure, kirkwall is destroyed too, but why that should mean that merrill fixing the eluvian doesn't matter?? maybe that's how they took people to safety??

the hero of ferelden not being mentioned doesn't sure as hell mean that they don't exist anymore or that they are not fighting. actually, considering they are not in weisshaupt, this gives us even more reason to believe that they are in the south doing what they always did (which is: whatever the fuck they want).

i've seen some people say that since the inquisitor's love interest doesn't mention the other da:i companions in the letter, then they are obviously all dead. i'm sorry, but what the actual fuck???

i feel like if something is not explicitly said in the game people are just assuming the worst and i don't understand why. to me this should also be seen as a way to keep our headcanons intact, expecially where the warden and hawke are concerned, and a way from bioware to not force a hard canon on us. sure, it would have been AWESOME to have our previous choices influence somewhat the way things were going, but this doesn't mean they can't get brought up in future games. most da:o choices didn't matter in da2, aside from the useless 5 minutes cameos, but lots of them came back during da:i. why with veilguard it cannot be the same??

the vagueness to me feels like a way to allow that, in the face of a lack of time and resources for veilguard. maybe in future games, if we get to revisit southern thedas, they will actually pull some of those storylines back and go more in depth on what happened there.

i just don't get why in the meanwhile we all have to absolutely assume death and destruction for everything and everyone. you are just painting the picture way worse than it actually is. all because you're disappointed in your own expectations. but those were your own.

[eggmeralda]

I wish there was a way you could put like. every song in the world on shuffle

[oscargender]

to knowis to be loved and to be known is to b eloved. I want transgender friends who will know me and love me in a way that cis people usually do not

[femslashspuffy]

Colorado is so greedy my hometown now has a Raising Canes, In-N-Out, AND a Buckees. Plus if you drive a little more than an hour you can go to a Pizza Ranch. There's a reason no one can agree on what part of the country Colorado is because it wants to be every part.

[tumblasha]

lifetime travel goals

[1] go to the “brazils” of each continent (the country that’s seen as a “fantasy” / magical place)

a. brazil in south america (runner-up: colombia)

b. usa in north america (runner-up: mexico)

c. egypt in africa

d. france in europe (runner-up: greece)

e. australia in oceania

f. japan in asia (runner-up: korea)

[2] go to the “carnavals” of each continent (spring-ish festivals that celebrate that it’s “getting warm again”)

a. carnaval in brazil in south america (runner-up: inti raymi in peru or carnaval in trinidad & tobago)

b. mardi gras in north america

c. mombasa carnival in kenya in africa (runner-up: august’s festas das gatas in são vicente, cv)

d. venice carnival in italy in europe

e. gay and lesbian mardi gras in australia in oceania

f. ??? in philippines in asia

[comradecowplant]

starting the war on christmas early by noticing this emote on the site formerly known as twitter

[justaplacetotalk]

I cannot believe my dad sometimes dude. God forbid I ask him for guidance on something relating to HIS business. I probably fucking fixed it wrong too. Can’t wait for that conversation.

[starfieldcanvas]

as best I understand it, "settler" (in the pejorative sense) is an emergent property that only exists within any nation-state where some subset of the indigenous population legally or functionally has less ability to own the land they live on compared to the nation-state's preferred subgroup. if the indigenous population is neither legally nor functionally disempowered, then there are no settler-colonialists: there are only immigrants.

the solution to "being a settler everywhere you go" is not finding a homier homeland, it's dismantling the practice of discriminatory land management enforced by state violence.

‘Where, on planet Earth, would a Jew not be considered a settler?

This is a serious question, one to which I have yet to get a satisfactory response. I posted about it and a few joke replies arrived (“Florida”) but it does seem as if a lot of people are stumped.

We’re living in a moment when much of the left has embraced the idea that social justice is the global struggle against “settlers.” Whether actual Indigenous North Americans want this or not, this is what the self-righteous have honed in on. It’s a line of thought that predates the current war in Israel and Gaza, but that is, let us say, having a moment.

As an ostensibly progressive worldview, it poses some problems for Jews. And no, not just pro-Israel ones, or Jews who are for some reason rah-rah 19th century colonialism. If you’re meh on Israel, and think Jewish rootlessness is our cosmopolitan charm, and say to hell with ethno-nationalist homelands and whatnot, let us be citizens of the world, then more power to you, but good luck squaring this with a progressive movement that classifies everyone across the globe as either home, displaced from home, or invading someone else’s house.

This is why I’m going to have to say that I do think, in this case, language matters. Insisting on a global anti-settler movement is different from, for example, supporting Truth and Reconciliation. Demanding human rights and fair treatment is different from declaring some percentage of the population as occupiers based on their ancestry.

So I will repeat the question. Where is a Jew not—per these definitions—a settler?

In North America, all Jews who are not Indigenous—and that would be the vast majority of us—are settlers, according to the understanding that defines all such populations as such. Not just Jews whose ancestors literally settler-colonized Canada back in the day, but even those who arrived last week. (Syrian refugees in Canada: also settlers, by this definition.)

In Israel, according to anti-Zionist understandings, all Jews are settlers. Not just Jews living in the settlements. Not just Jews living in the post-1967-specific borders. An Israeli Jew in Tel Aviv is, by the understandings of those who think Israel itself it illegitimate, no matter its borders or leadership, a settler.

How about Europe, then? I have this vague recollection of something happening, 1930s-1940s-ish, where it was decided that Jews, long understood by many to be a foreign element (thus the antisemitic hurling of go back to Palestine), were extremely not in their own rightful homes when on that continent.

If a modern Jewish nation-state had, as some are furiously posting these days, been put in Europe, rather than ever so colonially in the Middle East (never mind the historical connection of Jews to that land, never mind Mizrahi Jews), that theoretical state would have displaced someone and would have been a settlement, and therefore unacceptable. “Settlers are not civilians. This is not hard.”

It’s even “settlement” when Jews are in our “native areas,” one is reminded, perusing the Wikipedia page of Birobidzhan.

Unable to settle in the areas they were from, some Jews were resettled within the former Soviet Union. How did that work out? Not great, but to stay on point, I have put certain words in bold: “Logistically and practically, settling Birobidzhan proved to be difficult. Due to inadequate infrastructure and weather conditions of the area, more than half the Jewish settlers who relocated to Birobidzhan after the initial settlement did not remain.”

It ought to be—it is—possible to care about currently or historically displaced peoples without dividing the world into those who have a historic right to live where they do, and those who are effectively gentrifiers (whatever their financial position) and should scram. The down-with-settlers approach is tricky for refugees generally, but is particularly weak when it comes to stateless ones, who show up, uninvited, and don’t even have a homeland to be sent back to. Jews at this point have a state, but a state that is itself often considered mere settlement.

There is nowhere on this planet that I could live without it being very problematic of me to do so. Which rather forces my position. As long as I’m alive, I have to occupy space somewhere.’

[cheyisagirlkisser]

"She Gets the Job Done!"

Cowgirl Ellie x Fem! Reader

Content: Cowgirl Ellie, Fem! country reader, Ellie is western type of cowgirl, reader is southern, badly written accents(guys I am southern but idk how to write a western accent), smut, clit rubbing(r! recieving), scissoring, making out, biting, some implied homophobia, reader is written as a lesbian, modern AU, reader has female anatomy, very loosely based off of Chappell Roan's unreleased song.

Word Count: 2.4k

Resource Credits: Here and Here!

Description: You're a true southern girl who is fed up with these country boys who just can't please you. What you really need is a woman, but that's kind of hard to seek out in a small southern town. When Ellie Williams moves into your town along with Joel Miller, she ends up working at the farm nearby, and you really want her. It's true: only a woman knows how to treat a woman right.

Wow, you really hated living in the south sometimes. You mostly loved the summer heat complimentary with trips to the creek on the weekends. You always loved going to rodeos where you obsessed over the dandies. You loved southern food, the nature, the farms and the small town life.

What you didn't love was the men.

You were always a romantic at heart, reading steamy western novels with a flashlight under your blankets at the age of 14 or writing love letters you'd never send to cowboys in town. However, as you grew up into a woman, you realized you'd slowly started replacing the men with cowgirls. You spent your nights wondering what it'd be like to be actually satisfied in a relationship. You grew up in a traditional-minded town, so you tried to push down those desires. You had a couple boyfriends, but men just weren't it for you. They were too rough, too awkward with you in bed, too greedy. None of them knew how to please a woman, at least not a woman like you. After a while, you gave up on the dream cowgirl you had in mind. The novels became difficult to pick up once you began to believe you'd never get the chance to experience real passion or real pleasure. That was what you'd felt like, at least until Ellie moved into your town.

Ellie Williams wasn't much for the south. She was a western girl at heart, adorned with thick leather boots and messy auburn hair. You'd seen cowgirls before, so that wasn't what surprised you. You just felt a calling to her, you adored her from her freckles that faded out in the sun to her messy hair that had a tint of red when light hit it in the right way. She was strong, that was for sure. Her biceps looked so firm, like they could handle if you sank your teeth down into them. She wasn't an extremely strong-looking girl, but that only enticed you more. Her eyes told a lot about her, said she wasn't looking for anything funny, but you wondered if she was silly under all the bravado.

She moved from the west side of the states with Joel Miller, who wasn't a wealthy man by any means, but grew up in your home town. At first, you couldn't tell if Ellie and Joel were related or not. Joel was more friendly, talked to older folks in town, but Ellie often kept to herself. She'd spend most of her time helping out with the farm next to your father's. It was when you were walking to the farmer's market that you noticed her for the very first time.

Your father was a nice man, well known in town. You were living with him until you had enough money to afford your own small place. He owned a farm and wasn't the most rich man, but he made ends meet. Today was a nice day, which mean he unfortunately encouraged you to walk to the local farmer's market instead of stealing his truck for the errand. Of course, you kept your complaints to yourself. Your dad was a sweet old man, and you should've been thanking him anyways, cause you met the most gorgeous girl the world had to offer.

Poor Ellie was too busy herding in sheep to notice your stare, to even notice you pass the road. It only made you more intrigued, that she was such a hard worker.

After that day, you'd always look out for her presence. You avoided using your dad's truck when you needed to run errands, saying it would be a quick walk. You just liked being able to pass by her as she worked on the farm, get the extra few seconds to admire her. You really felt like a creep, but this was the first time you really felt such adoration for a person. Such attraction.

The first time you spoke to her, she was driving Joel's truck down the dirt road after she had finished up with your neighbor's farm. You at the time were walking, coming home from the market with a bag of peaches for a peach cobbler. Ellie noticed you, and that was really when the two of you clicked.

She was used to pretty girls, the west and south had no shortage of them. However, you were perfection for the cowgirl. You wore a cutesy pair of overalls and a pink t-shirt underneath, and Ellie had a soft spot for feminine girls. She came to a slow stop on the dusty road, putting the transmission in park.

"Hey, you! Need a ride?" She shouted with a smile plastered on her face. Your heart melted. You'd expected her to be more serious or smug, but she seemed almost nervous. It was only making your heart beat faster.

"I only live next to this farm, it's really no problem." You assured, though you really hoped she'd push the matter. Thankfully, she did.

"Really, Joel would kill me if he found out I let you walk home. It's getting late."

You, an utterly hopeless lesbian, couldn't resist. You said fuck it and let her reach over to open the passenger door for you, and your boots reached up into the truck to plop down into the passenger seat. You placed the brown paper bag of peaches in your lap and gave her a quick thanks as she began driving. Small talk felt more like two old friends hitting it off, and you liked her accent. It made you a tad more comfortable.

The two of you grew really close after that day. She'd be in the local rodeos and you looked forward to the sleepovers that came after. A few months of friendship helped you get to know her in a way that you could confidently call her your best friend. You still liked her though, feelings only growing the more the two of you bonded. You noticed that while she was a bit shy, she came out of her shell when she was around people she knew. She was quite sarcastic to Joel, and you loved the way she made fun of you at times. It made your heart flutter, and you imagined she was saying the opposite of whatever insult she had created for you.

Ellie wasn't much like what you'd imagined, and you partially felt bad for the feelings harbored away for her. She was a cowgirl who loved horses, sure. But she shared some private interests with you that shouldn't have made you want her more, but it did. One night, Ellie and you were sitting outside in her cow field, a blanket laid out beneath the two of you. She turned to you with a genuine smile, the warm look that she only gave very few people, and spoke in a quiet voice.

"You know, I've always wanted to go to space."

You turned to face her with slightly raised eyebrows. "Really? You? In Space?" You couldn't help the surprise in your tone.

She laughed softly at your expression. "Yes, dumbass. I used to listen to the first moon landing recording on repeat. Somethin' about it was really magical, ya know?"

You couldn't help but melt a little at her confession. The thought of Ellie being obsessed with astronauts was really endearing. But you couldn't stop the teasing, either.

"Is that why you have those nerdy space comics on your shelf? You told me those were Joel's!"

Ellie scoffed and swatted your arm playfully, but her hand lingered on your skin. "That's a topic for another time. Be grateful I share my secrets with ya."

You felt the warmth of her fingers, the way they softly traced patterns on your bare arm. Right then and there, you suddenly needed to risk it all.

"Ellie...I..I really need to tell you something." You sounded shaky and uncertain, but you needed to get your feelings out, even if it meant facing a possible rejection. This girl was too perfect to let get away.

"Yeah, what's up?" She sounded curious, unaware. That made you feel uneasy.

"I just..well, when I first saw you, I thought of you as a completely different person. And I really liked you. I liked you in a romantic way. I got to know you, though. The thing is, I think I like you even more. And I'm so sorry if you-" You were suddenly cut off when her plush lips met yours.

You were shocked, but quickly kissed her back, hands grasping at her everywhere, pulling her to lay on her side so you could tangle your legs with hers. It felt so nice to be kissing her. She tasted like fruit and smelled even better, and her tongue felt hypnotizing against yours. It made you crave much more.

Soon, you were rolled onto your back so the cowgirl could lay on top of you. Her hands were trailing from your sides to your stomach, her hand pausing above your shirt, her eyes meeting yours to search for any hesitation. When you nodded, her hands slid up your shirt to massage your tits through the fabric of your cotton bra. You let out a quiet whine, the feeling of her weight pressed on your body, and she leaned in to press her lips against your neck. In response, you tilted your head back, desperately craving more of her. You could feel the shakiness of her breath, and it reminded you that she was just as nervous as you were.

"Do you wanna keep going?" She asked, and you really noticed how different her tone was from when she was usually speaking to people. One of her hands trailed down the button of your jeans, and she didn't continue until you nodded.

Her hand quickly unzipped your jeans, her eyes meeting yours. She thought you were just too beautiful, looking up at her with wide eyes. She adored you. Her fingers slipped into your panties, and she let out a little "fuck" when she felt the damp patch in your panties. You laughed with a tinge of embarrassment.

"Please, Ellie." You sounded so desperate, Ellie quickly leaned up to plant a kiss on your lips. This one was much more confident, more sloppy and hungry than the first. She took your tongue into her mouth, giving it a hard suck which made you buck up into her hand, trying to get her to just fuck you.

"Patience, mkay?" She said softly as she pulled away, a shaky exhale leaving her mouth at the sight of the string of saliva the kiss had pulled from the two of you.

You nodded even though you weren't the most patient person. Ellie kept you at bay by rubbing at your clit with the pad of her finger, swirling moisture around the soft bud. You made one of the most heavenly sounds Ellie had ever heard, your eyes fluttering shut as she touched you. For the first time, someone actually focused on you. She struggled to pull your shirt off with just hand but you helped her out and soon, your bra was quickly unclasped. Ellie continued to rub at your clit as much as she could through your jeans, but she eventually gave up and pulled her hand out of your jeans, eliciting a cute whine from you.

"Off, please?" She requested, her voice so sweet and yet so demanding. Now that she knew you wanted her, she wasn't playing around. You nodded eagerly and lifted your hips as much as possible to pull your jeans and panties over your hips. Soon, you were left naked on the blanket. Ellie sat up to strip off her own clothes and you admired the sight.

Something about watching the girl strip, her pale skin coming into view in contrast to the stars above the two of you, it was perfection. Her body was slim and she was lean but had muscle on her. There they were, those perfect biceps..you couldn't help but sit up with her to plant kisses on them which soon turned into hungry little bites.

She let out a shaky laugh at your biting and joked with you, even in the heat of the moment. "You're gonna take a bite outta my arm, jesus."

You ignored her teasing and instead moved your lips to her pointy tits, smiling slightly as she shuddered. You found her weak spots. You dragged your tongue over both of her tits, feeling her nipples harden against your touch. She was getting impatient now. She pulled you closer so you were sitting with your legs tangled together, moving to slot herself between your legs. You let out countless desperate pleas as her wet cunt came into contact with yours.

You couldn't help but buck your hips into her no matter how much she tried to stabilize you, both of your moans filling the field. Her cunt was so wet against yours and you could feel her clit and lips both rub up and down all over your own clit. The stimulation felt so good but it had you desperate in ways your body knew, your whines getting louder when Ellie would lean in for wet, lazy kisses and trail her lips all over your neck, hands snaking around to squeeze your ass.

"Fuck, Els. Please, I'm gonna cum..I want you, please.." You pleaded with her, your orgasm building up inside you. This would be the first time you actually came from another person's actions.

"Cum with me, mkay? Cmon baby, you can cum for me.."

You'd never heard Ellie speak so filthy before. Sure, she had a sailor's mouth. She'd swear and curse even on her death bed. But just hearing her beg you to cum, it really sent sparks down into your pussy.

You frantically ground against her pussy, words coming out probably incoherent to Ellie's ears. "Fuck, I'm cummin', I love you Els.."

Your orgasm hit you like fireworks, all of the butterflies you'd felt for Ellie over the months released into intense bliss. She came with you, your juices mixing together, wetness coating both of your thighs.

The two of you spent the next few minutes catching your breaths, a comfortable silence exchanged. You were collapsed against her, arms around her as she held you close. She was so warm, and it was now a comfort more than a turn-on.

Soon, she spoke up in a soft, quiet murmur just for you.

"I love you too, by the way.."

[pedrospatch]

someone to be thankful for

DBF! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: It’s Thanksgiving—when dinner with your nightmare of a family goes south, you find comfort in the person you least expect it from: your father’s best friend, Joel Miller.

warnings/tags: 18+ only, MINORS DNI. (AU, NO OUTBREAK) non canon, DBF! Joel, AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s, i do not specify her age, but she’s a recent college grad so do with that what you will, not everyone graduates at the same specific age ya know? Joel is in his mid-ish 50’s). Reader’s a teacher, she is visiting her suburban childhood home from a big city. Reader’s parents are religious and practice traditional-ish gender norms (i.e father is head of the household kinda thing) reader’s family celebrates Thanksgiving (sorry) several mentions of food and alcohol, reader’s parents suck, she has two brothers who come with names, a lot of her relatives come with names, watch out for Aunt Ines she’s a bitch. (TW) body/weight shaming (twice) PLEASE BE MINDFUL if this could be triggering. mentions of and implications of childhood abuse (not graphic) reader’s dad gets in her face, implied infidelity (reader’s dad), implied toxic marriage (reader’s parents). soft, caring, protective Joel. Joel’s recently divorced, mention of Sarah, mentions of the ex-wife. SMUT. oral sex (female receiving) p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) reader states she’s on baby blockers (birth control), creampie, DADDY KINK (bc reader clearly has a few daddy issues), LOTS of pet names (darlin’, baby, pretty girl, sweetheart, honey), size kink (ish?), cockwarming. think i got it all?

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. if this isn’t your thing, that is fine but just keep on scrolling.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION.

word count: 11.5k

a/n: yeah…idk. this was very delayed because it turned into a whole thing. if anyone actually reads all 11k of this, i will bake you muffins.

You take a deep breath and look in the mirror.

Skirt pressed, not a wrinkle in sight.

Hair brushed, not a single strand out of place.

Makeup done, not a blemish to be seen.

And somehow, someone will still find something.

Something to point out.

Something to comment on.

Something to criticize.

If not your appearance, it’ll be something else.

Because someone always had something to say.

“Should you be eating all of that?”

“Another year gone and still no boyfriend?”

“Don’t you want to get married?”

“When I was in my twenties, I had two children.”

Boundaries didn’t exist on Thanksgiving.

Actually, for your family, boundaries didn’t exist at all—somehow, they are still scratching their heads and wondering why you’d decided to up and leave the minute your high school principal handed over that diploma, your ticket to freedom.

“Sweetie!” Your mother’s shrill voice calls from the kitchen downstairs. “I need a hand! Our guests are going to start arriving soon and there is still plenty left for us to do before they get here!”

You groan outwardly.

There’s still plenty left to do?

How’s that even fucking possible?

You’ve been cooking and baking since sunrise.

“Don’t you think it’s too early?” you’d grumbled at five o’ clock in the morning when your mother had pulled you out of bed, declaring it was time for the big dinner preparations to begin—even though it’d be several hours before your family came over and gathered around the table to break bread. She had pulled the turkey out of the freezer a few days ago, a massive, thirty-pound whole bird that looked big enough to feed a small village. In addition, she had picked up a ham and a brisket. “Mom, why’s there so much food?” Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the sleeve of your robe, you’d started making your way over to the Nespresso only to realize that the coffee machine was hidden behind paper bags full of groceries. “Are we cooking for all of Texas or something?”

“Very funny,” she had glared at you. “Of course we aren’t.” She started unwrapping the turkey. “We’re simply making sure we have enough food and that we have different options for everyone to enjoy, so knock it off with the wisecracks and get to peeling those carrots for me for the stuffing. There is not a single minute to waste today, you hear me, missy? We’re hosting a dozen people, so everything must be absolutely perfect. I won’t accept anything less than perfection today, do you understand me?”

Thirteen hours later, she’s still driving you insane.

You’re only home visiting until the end of the week and then it’s back to the Midwest. You can survive her for three more days, right?

You hear her calling your name and exhale a small, frustrated sigh. “I’m coming, mom!” you call back. It’s difficult to mask the annoyance in your tone of voice, but somehow you manage it. “One minute!”

Smoothing down your pleated plaid skirt, you take one last look in the mirror to make sure everything is in order—there is a loose thread on the sleeve of your brown, knitted sweater and you carefully snip it off with a pair of scissors before sliding your feet into the comfiest pair of ankle boots you’d packed and head downstairs, nose leading the way as you follow the warm, delicious scent of the made from scratch biscuits and rolls baking in the oven.

You find your mother standing at the center island counter garnishing a charcuterie board with sweet gherkins and sprigs of fresh herbs. She’s donning a festive apron embroidered with fall leaves over her designer dress, and her hair’s still up in rollers. “Finally, there you are,” she huffs out loudly the second she hears you walk into the kitchen. Down the hallway, your father and two younger brothers are shouting at some football game on the flat screen television in the living room—men don’t lift a single finger on this day, at least not in this household. “I need you to start setting the table for me. I have place cards in that bag over there. Make sure your dad’s at the head of the table. Oh and don’t forget to bring out the children’s table for all your little cousins—” She glances up, letting out a small gasp when she sees you. “What in the world are you wearing?”

Frowning, you look down at yourself. “Clothes?”

Her ruby red lips purse together in a tight thin line.

“Honey, that skirt is too short. It’s inappropriate.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her. “It’s like an inch above the knee, how is that inappropriate? It’s not like it’s a miniskirt, mom.” As she eyes your skirt with disapproval, you decide you’re not in the mood to argue and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll go upstairs and change into something else then—”

“No, no, forget it,” she shakes her head. “We don’t have the time for that.” Your mother whirls around, picking up the bag of place holders—she’d special ordered little turkeys carved out of wood. She also takes a marker and a notepad, shoving everything into your hands. “Here. I wrote down all the names of everyone who’s coming for dinner. The children get place holders too but make sure the little ones are sitting beside someone older to help them. Oh! Did I already mention putting your dad at the head of the—”

Tuning her out, your eyes scan down the guest list and if there’s one thing to be thankful for today it’s the fact that your mother’s given you the power to seat everybody wherever you want. Halfway down the list, you see the names of several relatives that you don’t want anywhere near you at the table. An Aunt Miriam who smells like the inside of a casino; a cousin Jennifer who refuses to acknowledge her forty-eight month old is actually four years old; an uncle Richard who always has one too many beers and winds up spewing antigovernment conspiracy theories, ranting until he’s passed out somewhere, such as on the floor of the guest bathroom.

You get to the bottom of the list and can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Joel Miller?”

She nods, returning to her board.

“You remember Mr. Miller, don’t you, sweetie? He and your father went to college together—he’s one of his oldest and dearest friends. Don’t tell me you forgot about him? You’ve met him plenty of ti—”

“Yeah, I remember who Joel is, mom,” you mutter, cutting her off. “Didn’t he and the family move out to Arizona like, four years ago? To Phoenix, right?” You’d been away for college then. Taking a second glance at the list, you notice she had forgotten the names of Joel’s wife and daughter. Surely, it’d just been a mistake on her part, though. “I had no idea they were in town visiting. Dad didn’t mention it to me at all.”

“They’re not.” She lowers her voice, as if someone else is standing in the room listening. “Joel moved back to Austin, he’s been back for a few days now. He and Connie, they um—” Pausing for a moment, she reaches up and clasps the cross hanging from her neck before whispering, “They got divorced.”

Taken aback, your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

“I know. Joel and Connie were the last people that I ever thought would get divorced. Such a shame,” your mother remarks, shaking her head. “I ran into Mrs. Adler at the super market and she was telling me all about it. Thinks they could have saved their marriage if only those two—”

“Would get right with Jesus,” you finish, biting the tiny smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “She says that about everything, mom.”

“Well, she isn’t wrong! The sacrament of marriage is a lifelong bond that shouldn’t be broken. It’s not right.” Dropping her hand away from her necklace, she crosses her arms over chest. “Anyway, Connie stayed in Phoenix. Sarah’s spending Thanksgiving with her. Your father didn’t want Joel spending the holiday alone and invited him over for dinner. That means I need you to be on your very best behavior tonight. I don’t want you embarrassing your father in front of his closest friend. Is that understood?”

You can’t help but scoff a little. “I’m not a child.”

She narrows her eyes at you and scoffs right back, planting her hands on her hips.

“No, you’re a smart aleck. Need I remind you what happened last Thanksgiving with Aunt Ines?”

Of course she didn’t have to remind you about last year’s fiasco with her insufferable bitch of a sister.

“That’s an awfully big piece of pumpkin pie,” she’d remarked loudly, eliciting snickers from everybody sitting at the table. “Don’t forget, dear—a moment on the lips, forever on the hips. And you have quite a few forevers on your hips already, darling.”

You had smiled sweetly at her, your fingers itching to fling your mother’s fine china at her. “I wouldn’t really worry about my pie, Aunt Ines,” you had said as soon as you realized that nobody, not even your parents, would be coming to your defense. “Much less when your husband’s stepping out and eating someone else’s pie when he’s away on all those so called business trips. Worry about that instead.”

That comment hadn’t gone over all too well. Three months later, Aunt Ines and Uncle Louis started to see a marriage counselor. Whoops.

“Well?”

“She deserved that,” you say, shrugging lightly.

“She’s family.”

“She’s a jerk.”

“You crossed a line.”

“She crossed it first.”

Before your mother can respond, the sound of the doorbell ringing echoes throughout the house.

“Jesus, we don’t have time for this!” Your mother’s eyes widen when she tries running a hand through her hair and realizes she still has her rollers in. “Oh no, people are arriving and I’m still not ready!” She makes a beeline for the hallway. “Get the door and greet our guests, I’ll be down in five minutes!”

She disappears upstairs into her bedroom and you hear the doorbell ring again. Your father shouts for someone to go answer it, someone other than him or your brothers because it is the end of the fourth quarter and they just can’t possibly miss that.

You make your way through the foyer and open up the front door expecting it to be one of your family members, but it’s not.

Your throat instantly goes dry at the sight of him.

He’s broader than you remeber, so much broader.

The fabric of his sage green dress shirt is nice and snug on his frame—stretched taut over the planes of his chest and his wide shoulders. He’s holding a box of store bought something or other but you’re much too preoccupied with the way the sleeves of his shirt are hugging his biceps to notice what it is although you assume it’s some kind of dessert. He looks far more delicious than whatever sweet treat could be in that white box he’s got in his hands.

After a minute, you realize you’ve been gawking at him and the heat rushes to your cheeks. “Hello Mr. Miller,” you greet him politely. “It’s very nice to see you again. Please, come on in.”

He smiles, his brown eyes warm and sweet behind his square, black-rimmed glasses. “You remember me,” he states and the syrupy richness of his voice sends a pleasant tingle up your spine. Stepping off to the side, you allow him inside—as he steps past you over the threshold, the tantalizing scent of his cologne almost brings you to your knees. Notes of a citrus accord like tart grapefruit, fresh bergamot mixed with the woodiness of vetiver and musk; it’s intoxicating, something you could easily get drunk off of if you’re not careful. “I’m surprised. S’been a real long time since you last saw me.”

“It hasn’t been all that long,” you reply, closing the door behind you. You speak to him in the steadiest voice you can muster, with nonchalance—as if you aren’t one missed heartbeat away from feeling like a silly little schoolgirl with her first crush. “Has it?”

He thinks about it. “‘Bout four and a half years.”

“That’s really not that long.”

“S’not,” Joel admits with a chuckle. “But with how much I’ve aged in that short amount of time, I just wasn’t sure if you’d recognize me, y’know? I look a lot different than I used to.” He pauses and laughs, shaking his head. “I must look like an old geezer to you now, don’t I?”

Grays lightly pepper his thick dark brown curls, his beard and his mustache. He’s got crows feet when he smiles, he has worry lines and creases between his eyebrows—he does look a lot older, but he’s so goddamn handsome, wrinkles, fine lines, and all.

You toss him a playful eye roll, prompting a grin. “I don’t think you look like an old geezer, Mr. Miller.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell makin’ me feel like an old geezer by callin’ me that, darlin’ girl.” He gives you a little wink and you’re not quite sure if it’s that, or if it was the way he’d used a pet name that knocks all the wind out of your lungs. “Please, just call me Joel.”

You nod and shyly agree to it. “Okay, then. Joel.”

“S’much better.” His grin widens and a prominent, deep dimple appears on the left side of his cheek.

There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not awkward or weird. It’s comfortable—being in his presence is comfortable. His sweet disposition makes you feel so calm, so at ease.

Joel’s always been a nice man of course, although your interactions with him had been limited—kind, quick hello’s in passing on Sundays whenever he’d come over to watch football with your dad, maybe a polite how are you here and there if you bumped into him at gatherings like a backyard barbecue or birthday party. But you’re older now, no longer the child who greeted her father’s best friend because it was bad manners if she didn’t. You don’t want to throw him that kind, quick hello or that polite how are you and then scurry off the way you used to as a little kid. You actually want to talk to Joel Miller.

But you suddenly remember he’s not here for you.

He’s here for your father.

Joel!” Your mother screeches, five-inch high heels clacking loudly as she descends the staircase. She had ditched the apron and hair rollers—and put on one too many layers of her heaviest perfume. With a delighted squeal, she rushes up to Joel and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, almost causing him to drop the box he’s still holding. “Oh, it is so good to see you! It’s been far too long!”

You force back a small, amused snort.

As if she hadn’t been judging the man for a failed marriage just minutes ago in the kitchen.

It’s performative, too over the top to be sincere.

“S’good to see you too.” He steps back and laughs as he adjusts his glasses with one of his hands. He holds out the box to her with the other. “Picked up a pecan pie on the way over here. I would’a tried to make it myself, but the kitchen’s still all packed up in boxes.” He pauses, laughing again. “Then again, I ain’t really much of a baker. Store bought was for the best I reckon,” he admits, sheepishly. When he shrugs his shoulders, his shirt strains a bit over his frame and even your mother can’t help but stare a little.

Lightly clearing her throat, she takes the box from him and reminds him, “Didn’t I tell you that all you had to bring tonight was a nice, healthy appetite?”

Joel lightly pats his stomach. “Brought that too. In fact, I didn’t eat a thing all day long. I’m absolutely starvin’ right now. Could eat a whole horse.”

“Good! Dinner’s going to be served soon. William’s in the living room with the boys, watching football game after football game. Come with me, I’m sure you’re eager to see him.” Your mother spins on her heel and hands you the dessert. “Sweetie, will you be a gem and go put this in the kitchen for me?” It isn’t a request, it’s an order masked as a request—it’s the kindest she’s been to you all day. She takes Joel’s arm and leads him down the hallway, calling out over her shoulder, “And please set the table!”

You do set the table, and when you do, you decide to sit yourself right next to Joel Miller.

Your mother lightly clinks her knife against the rim of her wine glass and clears her throat. “Everyone! It’s time to join hands and say grace before we dig into our meal,” she announces, her voice breaking through the loud, buzzing chatter at the table. She waits until there’s complete silence and then takes her seat, the chair adjacent to your father’s. You’re on his opposite side and Joel’s right beside you. “I think you should do the honor, William. You are the man of the house, after all.”

Nodding, your father begins the prayer.

“Heavenly Father, bless this food we are about—”

You’re not listening. You’re distracted by the jolt of electricity that zips through your entire body when you put your hand in Joel’s. His hand dwarfs yours and it’s rough and calloused, but somehow it’s the most gentle, soothing touch. Heat prickles at your face and neck when you feel him sweep his thumb across the back of your hand—you open your eyes and glance over at him, wondering if that had just been an accident. You’re convinced it was, until he does it again, running his finger over each knuckle one at a time. Slowly, like he’s savoring the touch.

Biting your lip, you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

His head is bowed and his eyes are still closed, but a faint smile tugs lightly at the corner of his mouth and he firmly squeezes your hand back. There’s an unmistakable desire that’s already burning deep in your lower belly, a flame you can’t extinguish even when the angel on your shoulder reminds you that not only is Joel Miller twice your fucking age, he is also your father’s best friend. His best friend.

“…through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” your relatives chime together in unison.

You force out the declaration. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Joel murmurs, opening his eyes. He turns to you and his gaze flits to your hand in his and for a moment, it almost seems like he doesn’t want to let it go. It feels like Joel doesn’t want to let it go—and he doesn’t. He doesn’t let it go until the sound of your father’s loud, booming voice announcing it is time for him to carve the bird startles the two of you apart. Clearing his throat lightly, Joel turns his attention forward and reaches for his cabernet. He gulps down half his glass in one easy swallow.

Dinner’s fairly uneventful.

You eat in complete silence, as does Joel.

Part of you wonders if it’s because you’re sitting in between him and your father, the only person that he’s most comfortable conversing with. Assuming this is the case, you’re just about to ask him if he’d like to trade places when he turns to you and says, “Your dad told me you went to school in Chicago.”

He’s just being friendly, you remind yourself when your heart starts to flutter wildly at the notion that he wants to talk to you. He’s friendly. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Yeah. I did.” You pick up your glass of wine, taking a sip hoping it’ll ease the nerves. “I graduated over the summer and took a teaching job out there.”

“You became a teacher?”

“Yeah. I teach kindergarten.” You smile proudly.

“Can you believe that, Joel?” Your father lets out a scoff and shakes his head. “I spent thousands and thousands of dollars to send her to school. All that money and for what? For her to learn how to teach little ankle biters how to color inside the lines?” He rolls his eyes and gestures to your two brothers on the opposite side of the table. “Now my boys, they are smart. Chose good careers to pursue. Brandon starts applying to medical school in the spring. Oh and Matthew? He got early acceptance to Yale. He plans on studying law.” He shifts his attention over to you once more and shrugs. “Not too sure where I went wrong with this one.”

You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief.

“Dad.”

Chortling, he waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on, honey. I’m just kidding around. You know that I don’t mean it.” He then reaches out, pinching your cheek roughly. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he tells you before turning his attention back to his plate.

But he does mean it.

His comments hurt, and you hate that they hurt.

Joel nudges your arm with his. “Y’know somethin’, it takes someone real special to become a teacher, ‘specially to kids that age,” he states in a matter of fact tone. “Someone who’s real sweet and patient, someone real smart too. Someone just like you.”

Warmth radiates through your entire body. It’s not just his words, but it’s the sincerity behind them.

You shoot him a small, grateful smile.

The two of you wind up talking to one another.

Joel’s moving his contracting business, bringing it back to Austin from Phoenix to run it with Tommy, his younger brother who you vaguely remembered meeting a time or two in the past. He mentions his daughter here and there, but doesn’t bring Connie up once—perhaps it’s too painful for him? It’s hard to tell. He seems to be in good spirits and truth be told, it doesn’t appear he’s mourning his marriage; but it’s difficult to believe he’s not missing her, the woman he’d spent three decades of his life with. It shouldn’t even matter to you whether he’s missing his ex-wife or not, if there are residual feelings still lingering around. But it does matter and you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you’re too ashamed to admit it.

“Do you like Chicago?” Joel questions, curiously.

Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah. It’s a cool city.”

“You plan on stayin’ out there permanently?”

“I’m not too sure,” you admit. “It’s too expensive. I don’t want to live with a roommate forever. Unless teachers start getting paid more, I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to afford to live alone in Chicago.”

Joel seems hesitant about his next query. “Do you ever think ‘bout comin’ back to Austin at all?”

Suddenly, you’re not too sure about that either.

You’ve been itching to go back and get as far from Austin, Texas as possible, but now, it means being far from Joel Miller. There’s a deep, sinking feeling inside of your chest at the thought.

Realizing he’s still waiting for a response, you have no choice but to tell him the truth. “I don’t think I’ll ever come back here, to be honest. Not to stay.”

“Oh. I see.” He sounds disappointed. “Are you—do you plan on visitin’ home again for Christmas?”

“I do. I’ll be here for Christmas and New Year’s.”

He’s being friendly. He’s being friendly. He’s—

“It’d be real nice to see you again then.” Flushing a deep shade of red, subtle regret flashes across his features, as if he’d said it without thinking. Picking up his glass, he drains the rest of his wine and you can swear he’s nervous. About what he’d just said, and about whether or not your parents, who are in such close proximity, had overheard him. Because what business did he have in telling their daughter it would be nice to see her again?

They’re both much too preoccupied. Your father is attempting to be slick checking his text messages underneath the table and you can tell by the smirk on his face that it’s one of his secretaries. He’s got a penchant for perky blondes in tight pencil skirts. Your mother is well aware of this. She is also aware he’s on his phone, but she turns a blind eye just as she always does and distracts herself by being the perfect hostess.

Feeling foolishly courageous, you turn back to him and nod, heart pounding against your sternum. “It would. It’d be very nice, actually.”

Relieved, he nods and murmurs quietly, “We’ll talk ‘bout it later, then. That okay, darlin’?”

Not wanting to seem too eager, you nod again and turn away from him, teeth sinking into your lip in a futile attempt to hide the giddiness in your smile—but the soft chuckle Joel elicits under his breath is a clear indication that it’s useless.

He knows how he’s making you feel. He likes it.

Your mother returns from the kitchen carrying two baskets of fresh crescent rolls, one for each end of the table. She sets one of them down right in front of you and you reach out to take one when a voice, one that sounds as awful as nails scraping down a chalkboard, remarks loudly, “Should you be eating so much bread, dear?” Ines, who’s sitting a couple chairs down, next to your grandmother, looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. There’s a smug little smile on her face, almost as if she were daring you to run your mouth like you’d done last year.

For as much as it pains you, you make your choice and decide not to take the bait. You pull your hand out of the basket of rolls and pick up your glass of wine instead, chugging it down like it’s water.

Frowning, Joel picks up the basket and takes a roll that you assume is for himself, but it’s not. Putting it on your plate, he shoots her a frigid glare. “Don’t you listen to her.” He says it loud enough for her to hear him. “You just enjoy yourself, alright?”

Your aunt bats her eyes, innocently. “Well, I’m just saying. If my skirt was that tight on me, I would be thinking twice about what goes into my mouth.”

Hushed laughter sweeps across the entire table.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You slam your empty glass down so hard onto the table that the entire dining room goes completely silent. The little ones at the children’s table stare with big and wide eyes, mouths full of food hung open because a grown up had just used a naughty word.

Your mother says your name warningly. “Don’t you start,” she hisses, shaking her head. “Be quiet.”

Angrily, you round on her. “Seriously? You’re going to let her say that to me? You don’t care that she’s making comments about my weight?” You almost laugh. Of course doesn’t care, she has never cared and she never will. “I’m your daughter! Would it kill you to defend me for once in your fucking life?”

“Shut your mouth!” Your father stands up, shoving a threatening finger into your face, so close the tip of it almost touches the tip of your nose. He hasn’t put his hands on you since you were nine, but he’s as drunk as he is angry, and you find yourself back in the shoes of the little girl who would curl up into a ball in the corner of her room as she begged and pleaded for him not to hurt her. “You hear me?”

Joel stands and walks around your chair. Placing a hand on your father’s chest, he mutters, “Hey now let’s take a step back from her, alright?” He guides him back down into his chair. “Ain’t gotta be in her face like that, Will.”

“I’m sick and tired of her ruining everything—can’t get through one dinner without her screwing it up! Always has to run that fucking mouth of hers! She still acts like a goddamn fucking child—”

You can’t bear to sit there and hear another insult.

Fighting back the hot tears that are threatening to spill over, you quickly stand up and rush out of the dining room. You make a beeline for the front door and step outside onto the porch. It’s about sixty or so degrees in Austin and the cold nips at your bare legs, but that’s the least of your worries. Without a place to go, you descend the porch steps and find yourself walking towards the swing that’s hanging from the old bur oak tree in the front yard. You had asked your father for a swing when you were three years old—it wasn’t until your brothers asked for a swing a couple years later that he’d hung one up.

You sit down, hands curling around the rope that’s so old and weathered it’s beginning to fray slightly but not so much so that you’re concerned about it snapping. You’re so busy trying to keep it together that you don’t notice the sound of crisp, autumnal leaves crunching under a pair of boots behind you. A hand gingerly touches your shoulder. You let out a startled gasp and glance over to see it’s Joel.

“Hey there, darlin’,” he says, gently.

You stare at him in surprise.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Needed to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you grit the lie through your teeth.

Joel’s expression softens. “You ain’t gotta pretend with me, sweetheart.”

His concern is genuine. It’s real.

You don’t quite know how to handle it. Accept it.

“It got real ugly in there, ‘specially with your dad.”

Tears prickle at your eyes all over again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Baffled, Joel walks around the swing and a minor labored grunt escapes him as he squats in front of you. “There’s a few people who need to be apologizin’ for what happened, but darlin’ you sure as fuckin’ hell ain’t one of them.”

It’s odd. Feels foreign, even.

You’re not used to someone being on your side—it prompts more tears to spring forward and despite your best efforts to fight them off, it’s useless. You manage to whisper his name. It’s a feeble warning, one that’s telling him to go back inside before he’s caught in the torrential downpour of emotions you are mere seconds away from unleashing on him.

But he doesn’t budge. He waits. Joel knows you’re about to break and he’s ready to catch the pieces.

Finally, a tear slips and rolls down your cheek, only to be followed by another and then another. You’re holding onto the swing for dear life now, emotions that you’ve been holding in for your whole life now coming to the surface. The rope digs painfully into the palms of your hands. He reaches out and curls his fingers lightly around your wrists.

“S’okay to let go,” Joel encourages you and you’re certain he’s not just referring to the swing. “Listen to me, darlin’ girl. I ain’t gonna let you fall, alright? I’m right here to catch you. You can let go. I’ve got you, okay?”

You allow Joel to take your hands off the rope and he guides them around his shoulders as you begin to crumble. Leaning forward slightly off the swing, you wrap you arms around him and bury your face into his neck. “Joel,” you choke out his name as he wraps his own arms around your waist, pulling you closer into him.

He feels like stability.

He feels like security.

He feels like safety.

Your entire body shudders as you cry, cry, cry.

“S’alright, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He repeats his reassurance over and over again.

He wants you to believe it.

And you do believe it.

Joel’s as patient as can be. It’s growing colder and his knees are begging for a change of positon, but couldn’t care less about the discomfort. He rubs a soothing circle into your back and waits until there is nothing left except little hiccups and sniffles.

“Shit,” you mumble when you pull back and notice you’d left behind a wet spot on his shirt along with light traces of mascara. You wipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater. “I ruined your shirt.”

“S’okay. Nothin’ the dry cleaners can’t take care of for me.” Joel chuckles and lets go of you. “You feel a little better now, darlin’?”

“I do.” You glance over your shoulder at the house, then exhale a sigh and turn back to him, admitting quietly, “I don’t want to go back in there, though.”

He rises to his feet and pulls out a set of keys from the pocket of his black jeans. “Well, y’dont have to go back in there,” he states. “Is there somewhere I can take you? Friend’s house, maybe?”

“My best friend Megan went to Puerto Vallarta for Thanksgiving. Most of my other friends left Austin like I did,” you explain, sighing again. “Anyone who didn’t leave is spending their time with their family tonight and I don’t want to bother them.”

Joel hums, mulling it over in his mind. “Well, don’t know how comfortable you’ll be with the idea, but my place ain’t all too far from here. Ten minutes or so. Less if there’s no one out on the roads.”

“Joel, that’s so nice of you to offer, but I’ve already ruined your dinner tonight. The last thing I want to do is put you out even more,” you say, sheepishly.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t ruin a fuckin’ thing for me tonight. And you wouldn’t be puttin’ me out at all,” he promises. “S’gettin’ late and truth be told, I just wanna get you somewhere warm.” Holding out his free hand, he adds, “And comfortable.”

“But Joel—”

“I can be real stubborn too, y’know,” he teases you with a playful grin. “We’ll be out here all night long freezin’ our fuckin’ asses off.”

He isn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Okay,” you relent, accepting the offer.

You place your hand in his and he helps you off the swing. He doesn’t let it go as he leads the way to a sleek, black Dodge Ram that’s parked behind your grandfather’s silver Mercedes. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it. “Sorry, sweet girl. It’s a bit of a trip up into the seat,” he remarks, chuckling as he opens the passenger side door for you. He gives you a boost into the truck; the scent of new leather is mixed with that of his cologne. It is all man and couldn’t be sexier. “Good up there?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Joel closes the door and hurriedly walks around to the driver’s side of the pickup, climbing up into his seat with ease. “Seatbelt,” he tells you as he sticks the key into the ignition. The first thing he does as soon as the engine roars to life is turn on your seat warmer. He switches on the heater as well, waiting a minute before asking, “You warm enough?”

“I am. Thank you, Joel.”

“‘Course.” He nods and pulls away from the curb.

As Joel’s driving you further and further from your parents’ house, all you feel is sweet relief.

“M’sorry the place is such a mess.”

Joel leads you into his living room and touches his hand to the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him and say, “I’d hardly call cardboard boxes stacked neatly over on one side of the room a mess, Joel.” You take a look around his townhouse—most of his furniture’s still wrapped up in plastic, except for the black leather couch and the rustic, acacia wood coffee table. He has a flat screen mounted over the brick fireplace; he’s been sleeping on the couch, or at least, that’s what the pillow and Texas Longhorns fleece throw tells you. You turn to him. “If you want to see a real mess, you should see my apartment in Chicago.”

You watch him as he takes off his glasses and puts them down on the coffee table.

“S’it pretty bad?”

“My roommate’s a kindergarten teacher too. You’d be surprised at how many popsicle sticks two girls in their twenties can end up bringing home. Not to mention all the glitter.”

“If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it’s workin’ like a charm.” Joel picks up his blanket and drapes it over the armchair adjacent to the couch. “Go on and make yourself comfortable, darlin’. You thirsty at all? I’ve got water or I can make coffee. Also got a pack of beer in the fridge,” he adds, jokingly.

“What kind of beer?” you ask curiously as you sink down onto the couch.

He seems pleasantly surprised by your interest.

“Lone Star.”

“I’ll have one. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“‘Course it’s not too much trouble. Not at all.”

It’s hard not to stare as he walks away towards the kitchen. Your thighs clench together—his back, his shoulders, those unkempt salt and pepper curls of his that tuft at the nape of his neck right above his collar—this man is the epitome of utter perfection. Your mind wanders and you can’t help imagine the way your legs would look thrown over those broad shoulders. How his large hands would feel on your plush skin as they wrap around your thighs to hold them in place against his chest while he fucks y—

“Here you go, darlin’.”

Joel’s deep voice shatters your train of thought.

He’s standing beside you, holding out the bottle of beer, which he’d uncapped along with his own.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you say as you accept the beer from him, trying not to lose the sliver of composure that you’re holding onto—it wavers when your fingers accidentally brush his.

“S’it too cold in here for you?” he asks. “I normally keep the thermostat pretty low.”

“It’s a little cold,” you admit. “But it’s not a prob—”

It’s too late. Joel walks over to the fireplace and he manages to strike a match and light it with just his free hand. After tossing in a couple logs, he makes his way back over to the couch and he takes a seat beside you. “That a bit better, sweetheart?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “You said it was cold.”

He takes a long, generous swig of the golden lager before setting the bottle down on one of the green ceramic coasters on the coffee table. He sits back; an arm stretches out over the back of the couch in a casual manner and his legs spread open causing your thighs to clench together once more.

“You feelin’ alright?”

“Huh?” You then realize he is referring to what had happened at dinner. “Oh. Um. Yeah, I’m alright.”

Joel peers at you, his concern evident, clear in the depths of his dark brown eyes. “You sure?”

“No. Not really,” you confess, tracing the mouth of your bottle with your index finger. “But I’ll get over it. I don’t have a choice but to get over it.” Another lump starts forming in the back of your throat and you swallow it, quickly chasing it down with a gulp of beer.

“M’guessin’ your family’s got somethin’ to do with why you decided to leave Austin?”

“Bingo,” you deadpan. “I was so sick and tired of it all. How I was talked to, how I was treated. Like I’m such a fucking disappointment.”

He frowns. “You’re not a disappointment, though.”

“My parents think I’m a disappointment. My dad’s never told me he’s proud of me, Joel. Nothing I do, nothing I have ever done is good enough for either of them, but especially not for him.” There is a dull ache that settles in your heart and all you can do is silently will yourself not to breakdown again, not in front of him, at least. You sigh. “Do you know what it’s like, not feeling good enough for someone that is supposed to love you no matter what? Someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally?”

Joel knows it’s a rhetorical question, he knows it’s not something you’re expecting him to answer.

But he does answer, because he does know.

“I do, actually. I know all too well what it feels like.”

He looks down at his left hand, which is resting on his thigh and you do too. Your eyes flicker over the fading tanline on his finger—where he once wore a wedding band. You don’t even think twice about it and reach over, sweeping your own finger over the patch of pale skin. Without missing a beat, you tell him, “You’re good enough, Joel.”

He can’t help but laugh a little. “She’d disagree.”

“She’s wrong.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t have to know what happened.”

“That ain’t how it works, sweetheart.”

Stubbornly, you lift your chin. “I don’t care.”

Joel laughs. “Y’think you know me, darlin’? Y’think you know what kinda man I am? Hm?”

“I do know.” You place your hand on top of his and his jaw clenches. “You’re a good man, Joel Miller. I know that you’re a good man.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong ‘bout that.” There’s a brief pause and he hesitates before confessing, “A good man wouldn’t be sittin’ here just fuckin’ dyin’ to kiss his best friend’s daughter.”

You freeze and grip your bottle so tight, you would not be the slightest bit surprised if it shatters right in your hand. “You—you want to kiss me?”

“Since the moment you opened up that front door and said hello to me.” Joel shakes his head. “S’not right.” He’s riddled with guilt, with shame. He pulls his hand out from under yours. “I ain’t a good man at all. You’re half my fuckin’ age and I shouldn’t—”

You cut him off, softly uttering his name. “Joel?”

“Yeah?” His voice sounds hoarse. Strained.

“Can you—will you kiss me? Please?”

You need more than just his kiss, so much more.

You need him to unravel you in every way possible, but beggars can’t be choosers and if one kiss was all you’ll get tonight, then you’ll fucking take it.

Joel swallows dryly. “That really what you want?”

His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to meet your sweet, innocent gaze.

“Yes,” you breathe in reply. “Please. Kiss me.”

He leans in, and there’s brief hesitation on his part and he stops mere centimeters from your face, his nose lightly brushing against yours. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this.” His warm breath fans over your lips; they’re parted, eager to meet his own. “I shouldn’t let this happen. I—I should take you back home to your family before I do somethin’ real stupid.”

Your heart sinks. “That really what you want?” you parrot his own question back to him and hold your breath, knowing there’s a chance his answer could be the answer that you don’t want to hear, the one that could end up crushing you.

Joel lifts his hand, cupping the side of your face in his palm. “‘Course it’s not what I want.” His thumb strokes your cheek, his dark eyes taking in each of your features. He’s studying, memorizing them, as if he’ll never get another chance to be this close to you again. With the line he’s about to cross, you’re both about to cross, that just might be the case.

The tension seeps through your skin and into your bones.

You exhale shakily. “Then just kiss me already.”

He moves his hand and gently curls it around your chin, holding you steady as he leans further in and closes the gap of space in between you. He moves slowly and he’s gentle—too gentle. You want to tell him you’re not made of porcelain, but you’re much too preoccupied with how Joel’s mouth feels, how perfectly it molds against yours. He delicately nips your bottom lip with his teeth. It’s a silent request.

He wants more, more, more. Your lips part for him, granting him the access he’s seeking. Joel doesn’t waste a single moment and he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue, eliciting a whimper from you. Without breaking contact, he takes your beer and somehow he manages to lean over to set it down on the coffee table without dropping it. He then pushes you back into the couch and the next thing you know, you’re lying on your back and he’s settled in between your legs, using one of his arms to keep himself propped up, while the other wraps itself in your hair. Your own hands clutch at fistfuls of his shirt, fingers gripping the fabric so tight, the skin over your knuckles stretches painfully thin.

You whimper out again, the noise prompting a low growl to rumble through his chest—suddenly, he’s not being so gentle. He isn’t being rough. But he is hungry, he’s possessive, and he’s letting it show in the way he’s swelling your lips with his kisses, how his fingers are gripping the hair at the base of your neck as he firmly tilts your head backwards to give himself better access to your mouth.

Your mind is racing, and yet, you can’t think at all.

It’s not until his hips buck into you and you feel his bulge through his jeans against you that you break away from him. “Joel,” you gasp his out name. You grip his shirt even harder, chest heaving as you try to catch a much needed breath of air. You can feel the arousal pooling between your legs. The flames burning in the fireplace are nothing in comparison to the ones that are burning deep in your belly.

“Fuck,” he curses, pulling back. “M’sorry—”

The last thing you want is for him to be sorry.

“No! Please don’t be sorry,” you rasp, gazing up at him. Your eyes are glazed over with a lust you have never felt for another man before. “I want this, you know I want this—don’t you?”

Joel sighs, brushing a soft kiss to your temple. You wish he could take a peek into your mind, see how badly you want to be wrapped up in his arms—you want to get lost in his embrace, feel him all around you, inside you. You want him to write his name on your bare skin with his tongue, whisper his secrets into the spot where you’re aching for him most.

He sighs again and lightly shakes his head.

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

“I want this,” you repeat yourself. “I want you.”

Relaxing the death grip you have on his shirt, your hands release the fabric and move to the buttons. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo each one of them; after an embarrassing fumble or two, you manage to get them all and push Joel’s shirt off of his shoulders. He sucks in a quick, sharp breath as your greedy hands begin roaming, exploring every inch of smooth, tan skin on his upper body.

Your touch erases all the uncertainty he’s feeling.

“Wanna feel you too, baby.” Joel takes the hem of your sweater and gestures for you to sit up slightly so he can pull it over your head. Carelessly tossing it somewhere behind him, he glances down, blood rushing to his cock as he takes in the sight of your supple curves clad in sweet, delicate white lace. “Christ, you look so fuckin’ soft.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s saying it out loud, not until he catches the flirtatious little grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You sit up slightly once again and reach behind you to unhook the lingerie and take it off, adding it to the ever growing pile of clothes on the hardwood floor. Licking his lips, he meets your gaze for just a moment before dipping his head down, wrapping them around one of your hardened nipples. “Joel,” you mewl his name as he flicks the pebbled flesh with his tongue.

Joel releases it with a lewd, wet pop and he tosses you a smirk before he moves to the other to give it the same attention. He’s a biter, you find out as he takes it between his teeth, nipping over and over.

Your throbbing center clenches around nothing.

“Joel, please. I need you—I fucking need you.”

He tears away from your nipple. “Where, baby?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your own gasp cuts you off as he starts trailing his lips down the length of your body until he comes to a stop at the waistband of your skirt. One of his hands finds the zipper on the side and he looks up at you, as if asking for permission. Desperate, you nod. Pulling the zipper down, he slides the skirt, along with the pair of lace white panties you’re wearing off of you and discards them, leaving you completely naked.

Your insecurities begin to trickle in, but Joel’s able to halt them right in their tracks.

“You’re too fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he says, his reassurance calming your nerves instantly. “So beautiful. So beautiful and so fuckin’ perfect.”

You watch as he makes himself comfortable—well as comfortable as he can—in between your legs. He shoots you a sheepish look.

“Knew I should’a put the damn bed together. But I been puttin’ it off and puttin’ it off all week long.”

You giggle breathlessly. “Who needs a bed?”

Chuckling, Joel feathers a kiss on your inner thigh.

Your smile is all but slapped right off of your face.

“Joel.”

Any traces of humor vanish. You’re both reminded of the next wall that’s about to be broken, the next line that’s about to be crossed.

He looks down and groans. “Such a pretty, perfect little pussy,” he remarks, his voice low, husky. “Bet she’s nice and wet for me, ain’t she baby?” He lifts his hand and drags the tip of his finger up your slit slowly, your slick coating his digit. He smirks up at you. “Oh, she’s fuckin’ soakin’, sweet girl. S’this all for me?”

Foreplay wasn’t in the vocabulary of guys your age and while part of you wishes Joel would hurry, you also find yourself enjoying the fact that he’s taking his time, teasing you—making you really want it to the point where you’re willing to fucking plead him for it. Joel Miller’s the only man you’d ever beg for.

He skims your other thigh with his nose and kisses it just like he’d done with the other. “Tell me darlin’ s’this where you need me? Right here?”

Frantically, you nod your head.

“Words, honey. Gotta use your words for me.”

“Yes!” you choke out. “That’s where I need you. So bad. Need you so fucking bad. Please Daddy—”

You freeze and momentarily, he does too. Truth be told, you wouldn’t really blame him if he just stood up, gathered your clothes and tossed them at you, demanding you put them back on and leave.

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Daddy, huh?”

Your face is on fire. “I—it slipped,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean to call you—I’m so sorry, Joel. I’m not even sure where that came from. I’ve never—”

You’re on the verge of panicking, then notice there is a certain glimmer in his eyes and realize he liked it when you’d called him that. You’re taken aback.

He fucking likes being called Daddy.

“Sweetheart, there ain’t nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout. I promise. You can call me that. But on a condition.”

You stare at him, no idea what the condition could possibly be.

“Ain’t allowed to call anyone else that. Ever.” There is a possessiveness in his tone and it nearly makes you come on the spot. “That understood?”

You nod obediently. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” he prompts.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. That’s a real good girl, honey.”

For a split second, you can’t breathe.

This man will surely be the death of you.

Joel plants one final kiss, this one on your mound.

“Please,” you whimper, the heat in your lower belly growing and fizzling out to the rest of your body at the feeling of his breath over your aching core.

“Please what?” he murmurs into the sensitive skin as his arms curl around your legs. “Tell Daddy—tell Daddy what you need baby, so he can take care of you.”

“Your mouth,” you beg him, desperation mounting with each passing second. Your hips buck upward; his biceps flex as he tightens his arms around your thighs, pinning you down in place. “Your mouth—I need your mouth. Please.”

Joel moves his head to the junction of your thighs, his mouth hovering right over where you needed it the most. He looks up at you with hunger, like he’s a ravenous, starved man who hasn’t had a thing to eat in days. “What a good girl,” he praises, dipping his head even lower. His mouth waters at the sight of your glistening folds. “Bet you taste as delicious as you fuckin’ look, don’t you, pretty girl?”

He flattens his tongue and glides it up your slit, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he gets his first taste. You gasp out when it grazes your swollen, aroused clit and your head falls back onto the couch. “Oh fuck,” you whine, reaching for his hair. You weave your hands through his graying locks and pull his face closer. Another swipe of his tongue causes your back to arch up off the leather and the edges of your vision to blur.

He pulls an arm from around your legs and drags a finger down your drenched entrance, lips securing themselves around your clit. His gaze stays locked on you as he pushes his long, thick digit into you—you feel him smirk as he curls it upwards, pressing the pad of his finger firmly against the soft spongy spot inside you, making you see stars. Joel slips in a second finger and curls it along with the other to double the pleasure. He begins thrusting his digits in and out of your warm cunt, eliciting what had to be the sweetest sounds that he’d ever heard in his entire life from you. He combines it with with slow, firm, and precise stokes of his tongue on your clit.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you encourage him, your loud, breathy moans bouncing off the bare, freshly painted walls of his house. “Yes Daddy, fuck—feels so fucking good, please don’t fucking stop—”

It’s not like you have to tell him what to do.

Joel knows exactly what he’s doing, and he knows it too. He listens to every single one of your moans and feels every single buck of your hips. He is sure to pay extra attention to when your hands pull and tug at his curls; he remembers what combinations of licking, sucking, and fucking make you squeeze your plush thighs tighter around his head; reminds himself of which technique brings your body off of the couch, what makes your toes curl. Joel’s quick to learn your body’s cues, each and every last one. He already knows when to give you more, when to give you less—when he needs speed up, when it is time to slow it all down.

You sing his name over and over again, pressure of an orgasm already building between your hips. His tongue swirls around your sensitive little bundle of nerves as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt and you glance down. You almost choke when you catch a tiny glimpse of the muscles in his forearm, the way they flex underneath his skin with each of his movements as he’s fucking you. Your gaze flits to his face. His own eyes are fixed intently on you.

You’re milliseconds away from release.

“Joel, I’m so fucking close. I’m gonna come—”

His arm squeezes your thigh in encouragement.

One last, broad stroke of Joel’s tongue on your clit sends an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing over you. Strangled cries tear themselves from the back of your throat as your velvet walls flutter and convulse, squeezing his fingers. Joel, who’s face is still half buried in your pussy, takes it upon himself to help you ride through the high. He peppers soft, delicate kisses onto your swollen clit as his fingers continue to slide in and out of you slowly. He waits patiently until your loud cries dissolve into nothing but breathless little whimpers before he crawls up, positioning himself on top of you, a hand on either side of your head. His beard and mustache glisten with a mixture of saliva and slick—and somehow it it ignites another fire and you’re ready for more, so much more.

“Sweet girl,” Joel murmurs. Leaning down, his lips meet yours and you taste yourself on his tongue

You place a hand on his chest, right over his heart, which beats strong and steady against your palm.

You start dragging your hand down his chest, your fingernails raking over his skin. It travels lower and lower, gliding over the softness of his stomach. He tenses when you brush the waistband of his jeans.

Tearing away from you, he grits out, “Baby. No.”

You immediately snatch your hand away from him.

“You changed your mind?” you question, stomach sinking at the thought of it being over already.

You’re just so fucking greedy for this man.

He offers reassurance—and an explanation.

“No, that ain’t it at all. S’just—” Joel pauses briefly and flushes a shade of red. “S’just that, well, I ain’t got condoms on me, darlin’.”

Relieved, you assure him, “It’s okay. I’m clean.”

“Me too. But that ain’t what I’m worried about,” he admits, his face going from red to maroon.

You smile, finding his embarrassment endearing.

“I’m on birth control.”

Joel clenches his hands into fists. His cock strains against his zipper at the thought of it—taking your cunt bare. “Y’sure you want this?” He rasps out. “I need you to be a hundred percent sure ‘bout it.”

“I’m a thousand percent sure, Joel. I fucking need it. More than anything I’ve ever needed in my life.”

That’s all he needed to hear.

Joel stands up, his gaze never leaving your own as he kicks off his black leather boots. You sit up, and it takes every ounce of strength you have in you to remain composed as he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans and pushes them down his legs. You bite down on your bottom lip and try not to stare at his bulge like it’s your first time ever seeing a dick, but if he’s as big as he looks in his boxer briefs, maybe this would end up being a lot more than what your body could handle.

He hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic of his boxer briefs and slides them off, allowing his thick, hard cock to spring free from its confinement.

You swallow harshly. He’s fucking massive.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” Joel chuckles at the expression on your face as he kicks aside all of his clothes. His length rests on his lower abdomen and precome smears the skin there. Wrapping one of his hands around it, he gives it a couple strokes, just a hint of relief until you come into play. “Hm?”

Licking your lips, you nod and stand up. You take a couple of wobbling step towards him—Joel’s cock hasn’t been anywhere near you and you’re already fucking walking side to side. “Come here,” you say to him, taking both his hands in your own. You pull him back to the couch and gently guide him down into a sitting position. Swinging your leg over both of his, you straddle his lap. You gingerly place your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh softly when you feel him brush against your pussy; the contact makes you both moan in unsion. “This okay?” you ask him, breathily. You can’t be sure as to why you’re suddenly feeling a bit shy, like you’re not planning to ride his fucking soul out of him.

“More than okay.” Joel brushes your hair over your shoulder and then drags his hand down the length of your body, committing to his memory every one of your curves. “Gonna be a real good girl and ride my cock, baby?”

You gift him with a cheeky grin. “Yes, Daddy.”

The shyness begins to dissipate and you dive your hand between your bodies, wrapping it around his cock, causing his breath to catch in his throat. You lift yourself slightly off his lap, teasingly gliding the head of his cock down your drenched slit, then up, letting it graze over your clit, which is still senstive to the touch thanks to his lips and tongue.

Joel’s hands find their way around you, running up the curve of your spine. “Wasn’t aware that my girl was such a little fuckin’ tease,” he remarks in a low tone. He slides his hands back down and his large, warm palms cup your ass, fingers kneading flesh.

“Your girl?” you repeat, your heart skipping a beat, stomach fluttering at the idea of being his. “Is that what I am to you, Joel? Your girl?”

“S’that what you want, honey?” Joel whispers, his eyes finding your own, two hopeful gazes meeting in the deepest, most intimate moment that you’ve shared all evening. “Y’wanna be my girl?”

Leaning forward, your reply is preceded by kiss, so soft and so sweet his heart swells inside his chest.

“I do,” you mumble against his lips. “I really do.”

Still gripping your ass, Joel eases you up and lines himself up at your entrance. He bucks his hips and slides the head of his cock past your folds and into your heat. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, his hands moving to your hips, thumbs grazing your skin. He slowly guides you further down his shaft, grunting as you sink down, taking him inch by inch. “Christ, you’re so goddamn fuckin’ tight—”

The initial stretch is almost too much for you. Your nails sink deeper into his shoulders as he pulls you down further down onto him. “Joel,” you whimper, biting back a loud cry. You’re fully seated, his cock completely sheathed inside you, his head pressing against your cervix. You’re so full of him.

One of his hands abandons your hip and slips over your lower belly.

“This where you’re feelin’ me, pretty girl?” he coos gently. “This where you feel Daddy’s cock? In your belly?”

“Yes,” you sigh out contentedly. “Feels so good.”

You lift yourself off of him, then slide back down in a slow, languid motion.

Joel’s head falls back onto the couch. “Christ.” He mutters the word, his chest heaving. Staring up at the ceiling, he takes a moment to catch his breath and silently wills himself not to explode. Once he’s managed to somewhat compose himself, he looks at you again, pupils blown so wide you can’t find a single trace of brown. “Go on, then,” he rasps. “Go on, sweetheart.”

The living room fills with the sounds of low moans and panting breaths as you move, alternating your maneuvers between rocking and bouncing on him in a frenzied, fast paced rhythm. The friction of his pelvis each time you grind into it winds up the coil between your hips and suddenly you’re desperate, so pathetically desperate for another release.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” Joel encourages, feeling the beginning of his own climax building quick—much too quick for his liking. “Jus’ like that, honey. What a good girl you are for me, so fuckin’ good for me. Just like I fuckin’ knew you would be.”

“Fuck,” you whine. “You feel so good, Daddy. Feel so fucking good inside me—”

Leaning back, you firmly plant both your hands on his thighs and arch your body, head falling back as you pick up the pace. The burning fire casts a soft, orange glow around you and his jaw falls slack. His eyes drink in every single fucking thing about you, watch you with an adoration that, for the first time in your whole life, makes you feel wanted. Actually wanted.

“Joel,” you whisper his name over and over. You’re both beginning to lose track of where you end and he begins. You can hardly hear the praises that are spilling from his plush lips over the squelching wet sounds of your cunt sliding up and down his cock. There’s no chance to warn him—your mouth parts in a silent scream as you come undone on him.

“M’so fuckin’ close,” Joel grunts. He feels his cock twitch as your pussy grips him like a vice. “Where? Where do you want it, pretty girl?”

“Inside me. Please, I need you to come inside me,” you plead him, the innocent tone of your voice the last thing to push him over the edge he’s teetering on. “Fill me up, Daddy—please, want every drop of you inside me—”

Joel reaches for your arms and yanks you forward, into him. Throwing them around his neck, his own arms wrap around you and roughly slam you down onto him, holding you firmly in place. He bucks his hips upwards, balls tightening, his cock pulsing as he comes. Strings of hissed curse words and deep gutteral groans muffle when he drops his face into your collarbone. Still holding you in place, he spills his load into you, his seed filling you to the brim.

He sags back against the couch and pulls you with him. Wrapping his arms tighter around you, he lets himself stay buried inside of you, the primal in him relishing the heavenly feeling of his come dripping messily out of your pussy and all over his thighs.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks after a minute.

“M’perfect,” you mumble against his chest. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re coming down from a high or if it’s because he’s tracing patterns on your shoulder blade with his finger, but you shiver in his arms.

“Let me get the blanket—”

Joel starts to move to get up, but you stop him.

“No, please don’t,” you say, pushing him back. You put all of your weight onto him, as if he can’t move you off to the side if he really wanted to. “I—I want you inside me for a little while longer. Please.”

“But baby, you’re cold—”

You don’t bother explaining to him that you’re not.

“Just hold me. Please.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

Snuggling into him, you close your eyes and Joel’s hand strokes at your hair. Between that, the thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek and the sound of the fireplace crackling behind you, you’re nearly soothed into sleep.

“Joel?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“I hate Thanksgiving,” you admit, smiling tiredly to yourself when you feel a laugh rumble in his chest.

“Do you, now?”

You nod. “I do. But I’m really thankful for you.”

Giving you a gentle squeeze, Joel kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “Well, m’thankful for you too, sweet girl.” He pauses momentarily. “I ain’t all too sure how I’m s’pposed to just let you go home. I know I have to but—”

Lifting your head off of his chest, you take the side of his face and cradle it in your palm. You meet his gaze, heart sinking when you see the sadness that has replaced the lust from earlier.

He doesn’t mean home to your parents’ house. He means Chicago.

You graze his beard with your thumb. “I’m coming back in a few weeks,” you remind him, gently. “I’ve only planned to spend a week out here just for the holidays, but I can visit sooner. As soon as the kids go on winter break, I can come back to Austin.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would, Joel. I’m not sure how it would work what with my parents and all, though. I don’t want them catching onto us.”

“C’mere.” Joel brushes your lips with his before he makes his promise. “I’ll figure it out, baby. Leave it all to me and I’ll figure it out.”

divider credit to @saradika-graphics 🤎

[arctic-hands]

[Image Description: first image: stock photo of three black t-shirts. The first one says on top "Irish By Blood American By Birth" followed by the American flag (thirteen horizontal stripes alternating between red and white, a blue box in the upper left corner containing fifty white stars) merging with the Irish flag (three vertical stripes of green, white, and orange), with the bottom text saying "Patriot By Choice". The second shirt has a fading out Thin Blue Line flag used by American police (a vertical American flag with the red replaced by black, usually with the third white stripe from the right replaced with a blue line, but on this shirt the blue line has been replaced with green, followed by a white stripe and then an orange stripe). The third flag has a somewhat transparent police badge superimposed over the Irish flag, with the word "Irish" up top in big letters, and smaller letters I can't make out on the bottom. Second image: a screenshot of D.W. from the cartoon Arthur (an anthropomorphic animal nominally called an aardvark but lacking the long nose, leaving a flat, tanned fur face and with darker human-like hair in a bob), looking at someone/thing offscreen with a look of disbelief and/or disgust on her face. End I.D.]

Irish people, I NEED to know: What do you think of these weird shirts that rednecks in my home town wear?

[honeyryewhiskey]

... ❝ happy new year!❞

— a hunter's new year's eve party is the last place you wanted to be tonight. but, claire clued you in on a certain someone being here tonight. and, what? you're just supposed to not show up when the elusive dean winchester is making an appearance? warnings!! alcohol use, strong language, it's nye ofc they r kissing, assume reader is a little older than claire so this is less weird idk, 18+ mdni ! 3.8k words

“Claire—no. I told you, I’m not going,” you say with an exaggerated sigh, tucking your phone between your shoulder and chin as you step out of the quiet diner. The cool South Dakota night breeze bites at your skin as you continue, “Hunters are obnoxious drunks—all of them. New Year’s is basically a rite of passage: another year breathing, another excuse to act like a pack of wild animals partying like it’s their last day on Earth.” As you huff a sigh, the cold air turning your breath into a misty cloud that lingers.

Crossing the dimly lit parking lot toward your truck, you hear Claire mutter something under her breath.

It’s quick—but her words make your heart flutter, your hand freezing just as it brushes the door handle.

“What did you just say?”

Through the crackle of the call, you can hear her smug little scoff that instantly makes you want to reach through the phone. You know she’s dramatically rolling her big blue eyes, too

“I said,” she drawls, each word slow and taunting, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse, “The Winchesters are in town—so Dean will be there.”

Dean fucking Winchester. You’d only met him once—years ago, before Claire roped you into becoming her hunting partner. He’d swept in like a storm, leather jacket and all, to save your ass from a nasty shifter, barely breaking a sweat in the process. His gruff charm and cocky smirk had left you reeling, even as he’d muttered something about “maybe hunting isn’t the answer” before disappearing into the night in his impala. But it wasn’t until later, in the dim haze of a small-town bar, when Claire casually dropped the bombshell that the Winchesters were basically her uncles. A few drinks in, your guard slipped, and you drunkenly admitted your stupid crush on the eldest brother. Claire, to her credit, had seemed to let it slide—until now.

“So, what?” you say, forcing out a sheepish laugh as you yank the car door open a little too hard. It bounces back and smacks into your arm. “Ow,” you mutter, scowling at the offending door.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” You grit your teeth, cheeks burning. “Look, Claire, I told you I’m not going. The Winchesters don’t change that.”

“Uh-huh,” she replies, dripping with disbelief. “And what if I told you Dean’s already here—at Jodi’s—and he asked about you?”

“He did?” The words are out before you can stop them, your stomach doing an unwelcome little flip. You try to ignore it as you hurriedly shuffle into the driver’s seat. “What was he asking? Wait—what did you say to him?”

“Hah!” Claire cackles, victorious. “You sound like a middle schooler, all flustered over a boy.”

“Oh, Claire,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at nothing, “your uncle is so much more than a boy—”

“Ew! Stop it.” Her groan is dramatic enough to make you grin. “Look, if you don’t come, I’ll just tell Dean about your little crush myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“Hey, Dean! Can you c’mere for a second?”

“Claire Novak!” You practically shout, panic tightening your throat.

Her laughter echoes through the line, wicked and delighted. “God, you’re so easy. Relax—I’m kidding.” There’s a pause. Her voice sounds distant, as she talks to someone on the other side of the phone, “oh—Dean, can you just say something stupid real quick? Need proof of life here.”

“What?” His gruff voice rumbles faintly through the line.

“Perfect.” Claire’s smugness is palpable. “So?”

You let out a groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Give me a few hours.” 

✧˖*°࿐

The humming engine softens as you creep down the winding drive. Large pine trees part as Jodi’s cabin comes into view. Massive windows, glowing orange against Pactola Lake. The light leaves a pretty reflection against glass-like water, a snow covered lawn twinking in warm hues. But it’s the silky gleam of your headlights shining against the sleek body of an old ‘67 impala that catches your eyes. Dean’s impala.

The burning in your cheeks is hard to ignore as you find a space to park in the tightly packed lot. Old trucks and cars cover every inch, some even parked on the frosty grass. Hunter parties were big, but never this big. A ripple of relief flows through, momentarily easing the goosebumps pricking your skin. More people meant less chances for you to embarrass yourself in front of the Winchesters or Claire, who’d never let you live it down if you did.

Turning the ignition, the engine clicks off with a huff. As if on cue, your phone starts buzzing on the passenger seat. 

You bite down on the corner of your lip, face illuminated by the glow of your cell as the overhead lights fade out. 

Stealing a moment to yourself, you stare out at the quiet of the cars while practicing deep breathing. You’re used to this, you remind yourself. Hunter’s parties are where you spent all of your holidays after the age of eight. Ended up in the wrong place, at the wrong time and found yourself with your own hunter’s origin story. 

At least there was family in this world you live in, a weird, fucked up family of strangers bonded by their shared profession of exterminating walking evil from the world. 

And now, said family was getting plastered on homemade beer and cheap wine a few yards away from where you sat deep breathing in your truck. 

Shoving the creaky truck open, you slip into the night. Claire throws open the front door, a wicked grin plastered over her face. 

“Would you quit dragging your feet and get in here?” Claire hollers, her grin gleaming like she knows exactly how hard your heart is pounding. The faint hum of country music and the murmur of voices spill out through the open doorway behind her, the warmth of the cabin promising a sharp contrast to the frosty night air.

You tug your jacket tighter around yourself, muttering, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The cabin’s interior is as cozy and chaotic as you remember from past gatherings. The faint scent of pine mingles with beer and something smoky—someone probably barbecued a big dinner. Hunters are scattered everywhere, laughing, drinking, and sharing stories loud enough to rattle the walls.

You weave your way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. There’s Jodi by the makeshift bar, pouring drinks while laughing at something Alex said. Garth waves from his spot near the fire, somehow managing to juggle a beer and a plate piled high with food. And Bobby is leaning against a wall, talking with a hunter you vaguely recognize from a case last year.

Claire bumps into you from behind, snapping you out of your daze. “C’mon,” she sings out, brows jumping with excitement, “drinks are this way.” 

She leads you to the cluster of coolers tucked against the back wall of the kitchen. The noise of the party fades slightly as you step away from the center of the chaos, but the faint hum of music and bursts of laughter still fill the air.

“Here,” Claire nods, flipping open a cooler lid and pulling out a nondescript brown bottle. “You’ll love this. Super organic. Super local.”

“That sounds like a lie,” you say, narrowing your eyes as you take the bottle.

Claire smirks. “Just try it.”

With a small shrug, you twist the cap off and take a cautious sip. The taste hits immediately—bitter and earthy, with an unmistakable homemade tang. You recoil, your nose scrunching as the bottle lowers from your lips.

“Okay, what the hell is that?” you cough, wiping your mouth. “Did someone brew this in a bathtub?”

Claire laughs just as a voice cuts in from behind you, warm and teasing. “That bad, huh?”

You turn to find Dean standing there, beer in hand with an amused smirk on his lips. Your stomach flutters and flips under his gaze, as you remind yourself to just act cool.

You hadn’t even noticed Sam, stepping beside his brother with a polite smile. 

“Guess you’re not cut out for the finer things,” Dean adds, nodding toward the bottle in your hand.

“Oh, is that what this is?” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. “Because it tastes like someone blended tree bark and regret.”

Sam chuckles, offering his hand. “I’m Sam, this is my brother, Dean. You’re Claire’s friend right? She’s told us a lot about you.”

You take his hand with a polite smile. “Yeah, she’s told me plenty about you guys, too. Nice to finally meet you, Sam. But Your brother and I met once, a while ago now.”

Sam quirks a brow at your words, hazel eyes cutting between you and Dean as if he’s trying to read between the lines of exactly what kind of meeting that may have been.

Before he can get a chance to ask, Claire clears her throat loudly, cutting into the exchange. “Oh, Sam, didn’t you want to see that thing? Over there?” Her finger points vaguely at the living room, deep blue irises the size of saucers as she tries to give him a look of let’s go—now.

Sam blinks, confused as he turns towards her. “What thing?”

Rolling her eyes, she grabs his arm, already dragging him away. “You know—the thing Jodi was talking about. Let’s go.”

“Wait—what thing?” Sam protests, his long limbs stumbling as she pulls him into the crowd, leaving you and Dean standing awkwardly by the coolers.

Dean watches them disappear, his eyebrows furrowed. “She’s acting weird.”

You let out a sheepish laugh, looking down at the bottle in your hand. “Claire? No,” you wave your hand vaguely, desperate to put out the spark of suspicion brewing in his jade eyes, “She’s... always like that.”

Dean gives you a skeptical look but doesn’t push. “So,” he sighs, leaning casually against the counter, “how’s life as Claire’s partner-in-crime? She ever let you get a word in?” His curiosity completely fizzled, eyes trained on you with a small smile. 

You grin up at him, trying your damn hardest not to smile too much at a simple question. “Occasionally. When she’s asleep.”

“That sounds about right,” he chuckles, that smile falling into a smirk. “Bet she’s got you running all over the place, huh?”

“Pretty much. Although to be fair, I do my fair share of dragging her into messes.”

“Let me guess,” Dean starts, his husky voice making goosebumps tent across your skin. “You’re the responsible one. The voice of reason.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more like... I’m the one making sure she doesn’t jump into a werewolf den without backup.”

“Good luck with that,” he quips, rolling his eyes. “She’s stubborn as hell. Runs in the family.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you reply, smirking back at him.

Dean’s eyes narrow playfully. “Was that a shot at me?”

“Maybe,” you say, taking another swig of the beer and grimacing again. “God, this is terrible.”

Dean chuckles, reaching over to take the bottle from you. “Here, let me save you from yourself.” He sets it on the cooler and hands you one of the labeled beers from the next cooler over. “Try this instead. It won’t kill you.”

You take it, your fingers brushing his briefly. “Thanks. I was starting to think you were going to let me suffer.”

“Nah,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Not my style.”

Bobby’s clapping as he strides into the kitchen catches everyone’s attention. “You two—garage, now,” he orders, motioning toward the garage door. A small crowd trails behind him as he crosses the room.

Dean flashes you a quick grin, raising a brow. You exchange a knowing look before following the group. Claire brushes past, grabbing your arm with a playful smile as she glances between you and Dean.

Jodi stood at the makeshift table in the garage, lining up red Solo cups with the precision of someone who’d once been a drill sergeant in another life. “Alright, listen up!” she called, gesturing toward the group. “We’re playing flip cup—two teams, four players each. No whining, no excuses, and definitely no cheating.” She pointed at Dean with a sharp look.

Dean raises his hands in mock surrender, all feigned innocence. “What? I’m offended you’d even suggest that, Jodi.”

Donna, practically bouncing with excitement, chimes in, “Relax, Sheriff. Dean’s too cocky to cheat. He thinks he’s already won.”

Standing next to Sam, you smirk. “That’s because he hasn’t gone up against us yet. His ego’s about to take a hit.”

Dean’s gaze snaps to yours, his eyebrows lifting with a teasing smile. “Big words, sweetheart. Let’s see if you can back ’em up.”

Jodi claps her hands again, “Alright, teams are set! Over here—Dean, Alex, Sam, and Bobby. Over there—Me, Donna, Claire and you.” she finishes, pointing at you with a wink. “Dean, I reckon I’ve got your match here with this one.” 

A deep laugh rolls out of Dean as he leans casually against the workbench, “Uh, huh, you say that now, Jodi. But you’re gonna be singin’ a different tune when this is over.”

The game kicks off with an eruption of cheers as everyone falls into line behind the first match: you and Alex. She knocks back her first drink with ease, but her flip wobbles, giving you enough time to swiftly take the first win. 

“Yes!” you shriek, hands going up in the air, “first blood!” 

“That’s my girl!” Claire giggles from the line. 

Dean, watching with his arms crossed, meets your eyes with a smirk, “Alright, alright, girls. Don’t get too cocky yet.”

Sam and Donna face off next. To your surprise, Donna keeps pace with Sam, matching his speed as she downs her drink. Just as Sam moves to flip his cup, Donna’s lands upright on the first try with flawless precision.

“Yes!” Donna shouts, throwing her arms up in victory. The garage erupts into cheers from her team, while yours lets out a collective groan.

Sam stares at his still-tipping cup, dumbfounded. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

Donna grins, clapping him on the back. “Sorry, Sammy, but the Midwest don’t mess around.”

They fall back from the table, Sam with his head hanging low as Dean’s laughter booms over everyone else's. 

Claire steps up with confidence, “You’re going down, old man!” she teases as she stares down Dean from across the table. Her expression is smug, completely locked into her competitive nature. They move simultaneously, Claire finishing her cup seconds before Dean. 

“C’mon,” she yells, wiping her mouth hastily as she attempts her first flip. It doesn’t land, earning a smug chuckle from Dean as he casually sets his cup down onto the table. 

Grinning at her lazily, “Patience, kiddo.” With an annoying lack of effort, he nails his first flip. A noisy chaos ensues around you. 

“That’s how it’s done.” he gloats, head tilting to throw you a quick wink.

With narrow eyes, you shoot back at him, “Don’t get too comfortable, Winchester.” 

The game heated up as Jodi and Bobby began the final round, a rambunctious chant of “chug, chug, chug,” filled the air. Jodi drinks too fast, falling into a coughing fit as Bobby takes advantage of the moment and flips his cup a few times, cursing, until he’s taking the round for the win. 

The opposite team cheers as Jodi regains her composure, “Hang on a damn minute,” she laughs, clearing her throat, “we’ve got a tie. Two and two for wins, who’s gonna be the tie breakers?”

Everyone looks around at each other for a moment, until Dean’s clearing his throat, stepping up to the table. He points at you without looking up from the cup he’s filling with beer. “You and me, baby. Let’s go.” 

The room quieted slightly as everyone leaned in, the tension palpable.

Dean smirks, “You ready for this?”

You return his look, eyes sparkling, “Born ready.”

You both drink at lighting speed, slamming cups down almost simultaneously. Dean flips first, but it topples over and skids across the table. “Damnnit!” he shouts. 

You try yours, the cup slipping on the table that has become a mess of puddles from the previous rounds. Bitting your lip you try again, your finger curling into the cup just as Dean breaks your focus with a throat holler.  

You look up to see his cup, perfectly upright on the table. 

His fists are pumping the air, basking in the glory. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t mess with the master.”

Donna and Alex high-fived him as Jodi shook her head with a rueful smile.

Claire, groaning loudly, threw a hand over her face. “Ugh, I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

With your hands on her hips, a raised eyebrow. “Alright, Winchester. You won. No need to act like you just saved the world.”

Dean stepped closer, his grin growing wider. “Oh, it’s not just about winning. It’s about proving a point.”

Crossing your arms, head tilting. “And what point is that?”

Dean, leaning in slightly, lowered his voice just enough to make your heart skip. “That I’m better at everything.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Dean, straightening up, gave you a wink. “You’ll thank me for the lesson someday.”

Sam, rolling his eyes, walked by and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “You’re the worst winner.”

Dean grinned at his brother. “And proud of it, Sammy.”

The garage was still buzzing with energy as everyone started migrating toward the house, laughing and recounting moments from the flip cup game. Jodi herded people inside, saying something about grabbing coats before heading out for the fireworks.

You linger near the door, talking to Sam and Claire about Dean’s relentless gloating, when you feel the faintest brush of warm air against your ear.

“Hey.”

Dean’s closeness startles you, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks.

“I’ve got a better spot to watch the fireworks,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Blinking at him, your heart stumbles over itself. “Yeah? What makes it better?”

Dean leans in a little closer, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening. “Well, for one, it’s not packed with a bunch of loudmouths.” He nods toward the others, who are noisily debating something in the living room. “Second, it’s got the best view of the lake. Was gonna keep it to myself, but…” His brows raise, teasing. “Figured I owed you after absolutely destroying you in flip cup.”

You bite your cheek to hide a smile. “Oh, how generous of you.”

Dean leans back with a shrug, his hands sliding into his pockets. “What can I say? I’m a man of honor.”

“Sure you are,” you tease back, feeling a mix of amusement and nerves swirl in your chest.

Without waiting for a full reply, Dean jerks his head toward the back stairs. “C’mon. You in?”

You hesitate only for a moment, the pull of his green eyes leaving no room for argument. With a nod, you agree. “Lead the way.”

Following Dean up the stairs, the noise of the party fades into a muffled hum. Stepping into a bedroom, you notice the open duffel bag tossed on the bed, a scattered mess of flannels and dark t-shirts on the floor.

Oh. You’re in his room.

Unaware of the way your heart is beating like a hummingbird’s wings, Dean grabs a flannel blanket from the chair in the corner before crossing to the window.

“Wait,” you start, watching as he unlocks it and slides it open. “We’re going out the window?”

Dean glances over his shoulder, his grin casual as ever. “What, you scared of a little height? Thought you were more adventurous than that.”

“I’m plenty adventurous,” you shoot back, hands on your hips. “Just wasn’t expecting an escape route.”

“Well, buckle up, sweetheart.” He climbs through the window with practiced ease, balancing the blanket over his shoulder. “It’s worth it, trust me.”

You follow him, carefully stepping onto the gently sloped roof. The cool night air hits your cheeks, and the chatter of the group below mixes with faint music drifting from the cabin.

Dean spreads the blanket out on a flat portion of the roof, then turns to offer a hand. “Your throne awaits, milady.”

You laugh softly, taking his hand and sitting down next to him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” he quips, settling beside you.

It’s the perfect vantage point—an unobstructed view of the lake where the fireworks will light up the sky. Down on the lawn, the others gather, laughing and occasionally tripping over each other as a few of the guys set up the fireworks.

You laugh, pointing out one hunter chasing another with a lit sparkler. “This feels like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Dean chuckles. “Hunters: professional monster killers, amateur party planners.”

The fireworks begin, bursting over the lake in brilliant colors that reflect off the water. The two of you fall into a companionable silence, the booms and crackles filling the air.

Someone from the ground shouts into the night, “It’s almost time!”

Within seconds, your mind is racing, thinking about how much fun this entire night has been. How you’re not even sure when—or if—you’ll see the elusive Dean Winchester again. Maybe it’s the buzz from chugging beer during flip cup, or maybe it’s the way he makes you feel safe, even in silence, that gives you the courage to speak.

“Confession,” you blurt out, biting your lip. Just as you get the word out, the crowd below begins the countdown.

ten… nine…

“Hm?” he grumbles, brows knitting as jade eyes give your face a once-over.

eight… seven…

“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss.”

six… five…

Your heart is definitely going to burst out of your chest, that much you’re sure of.

four… three…

Dean lets out a quiet, raspy laugh.

two…

His eyes roam over your face, soft and searching.

one…

The fireworks crackle into the night, but all you can focus on is Dean’s warm hands against your flushed cheeks. He pulls you in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

The world around you falls away—the cracking in the sky, the cheers from below, the chill of the night. All that matters is the way Dean’s kiss lingers, unhurried, sweet, and just a little daring.

He pulls back first, with a smile big enough to show off the dimples in his cheeks. “Guess that counts as your first New Year’s kiss. Gotta say, you’re setting the bar pretty high.”

You laugh, trying to play it cool even as your heart races. “High? That was barely a six out of ten.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “A six, huh? Alright, guess I’ve got all year to work on it.”

Your cheeks flush, but you roll your eyes. “You better bring your A-game next time, Winchester.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch again. “You ain’t seen anything yet.”

happy new year babiesss, i'm sorry if this is ass i just wanted to write reader with best friend claire and the warm fuzzy feeling of being at a hunter's party. and if the teams didn't actually tie. dont look at me i rewrote that like 5 fucking times bc i can't figure out how to tie it but i think i did idk idk idk

if ur reading this far, this post is scheduled as i am currently bartending at the clerb to about 1,000 drunk ppl pray for me lol 🫶🏽

[ghostdaughterr]

“a place where no one has died”

lyric breakdown

“so, it’s just me and this tap water all full of lead

and we circle the drain ‘til i go back to bed”

— LA tap water is gross and so am i

“it’s just you in the morning, you’re all that i want

and you’re so far away, i hope the bombs don’t go off”

— homesickness, a feeling of an impending doom/violent end

“and this world is bad theater, the 3rd act is on

and it’s falling apart ‘til the curtain draws

there’s a light i can’t see but it shines on the stage

and i’m sewn to my seat like i’m part of the play”

— it’s all falling apart and i am powerless to stop it. there is an illusion i cannot quite see through. maybe this illusion is life itself.

“is it true? what you told me an autumn ago

empty words in the darkness from mouths full of smoke”

— not even the ones you love are outside the illusion

“it’s just me and this medicine no one prescribed

it gets caught in my throat and i choke and i cry”

— neither are the drugs. numbing yourself stops working eventually.

“it’s just you in the mirror always judging me

take my eyes and my tongue, i forgot how to speak”

— self-hatred, self-denial, trying to not give up

“it’s okay, give it time, it’ll all be alright

there’s a girl in the shower, she’s singing and alive

there’s a dog in the graveyard so patient and sad

there’s this place we can go where it won’t be so bad”

— reveling in the ecstasy of a life drenched in grief, the girl singing in my shower is a recurring hallucination, and idk if it’s me or the dog that’s in the graveyard waiting

“there’s fresh air and clean clothes and silence you can stand

your grandmother’s in the kitchen with flour on her hands”

— the most beautiful place i can imagine

“and police don’t exist there, you won’t have to hide

and police don’t exist there, and no one has died”

— acab and also “song for a chicken named jenny” by pat the bunny means a lot to me and there’s a line where he says ‘here in your arms my darling police don’t exist’

“and we never tried the hard stuff and no one has died

and our bodies worked perfect and no one has died

and nobody owns nothing and no one has died

and no one has died and no one has died”

— would’ve could’ve should’ve-ing my way into heaven

“it’s just me in this bedroom rewriting cliches

cutting open my sickness every fucking day

and it all tastes like ashes and blood in my throat

there’s a man with a gun in my childhood home”

— retreating into solitude trying to make sense of it, the violent machinery of my mind and the loneliness of this life. then being robbed of even the safety that should exist in your own mind or in your childhood bedroom.

“and you’re tied to the radiator, burns on your wrist

nothing bad happens here since my mother got sick”

— the death of innocence. the marks left by cruelty.

“and the walls are asbestos and no one has died

and the water’s still poison but no one has died

and the kids all have cancer but no one has died

and my body’s a target but no one has died”

— old houses i grew up in, LA tap water + dirty water in my hometown after Hurricane Helene, cancer being everywhere in my life and my family, existing as a trans person in america but particularly in the south

“and no one has died” x12

— obviously we have all died. everyone i loved. everyone. this is a prayer. a desperate and ultimately futile prayer.

[dragonheartstring360]

Some notes for anyone writing a character with glasses, from someone who wears glasses everyday:

- glasses need to come off before changing a shirt, unless it has a really big collar. Otherwise, glasses will get ripped off by said shirt collar.

- weather will affect how well you can see out of them, especially rain. Raindrops will dot glasses and it’s like trying to drive a car in the rain without working windshield wipers. Snow sometimes does this too, but not as bad, and lots of dust kicking up will make glasses dirty and foggy. If it’s humid enough (talking like swampy, Deep South levels, weather app says “90-100% humidity”), glasses will fog up when you step outside. If it’s crazy windy, glasses can fly off and the character should hold onto them or take them off and put them somewhere safe. They’ll usually get dirty or break in a pants pocket, so maybe have character carry around a sturdy glasses case if needed.

- not all materials are good for wiping glasses off. Some shirt materials just make it worse.

- if your character’s glasses are super dirty or smudged, they will be able to see it 24/7 as they look around and it’s annoying af.

- although glasses can keep things from getting in a character’s eyes (like something that’s been sprayed), it doesn’t protect our eyes all the time, especially if it’s coming at an angle or there’s a large amount. For that, you’d need actual safety glasses or goggles (and yes, they do make prescription goggles, but they’re not cheap).

- speaking of waves, for the love of god, DO NOT have your character swim with their glasses on. At best, they’ll get wet and they won’t be able to see. At worst, if they’re forced underwater or an ocean wave smacks them in the face, they’ll fly off and/or break.

- a crack in glasses is actually annoying af and makes it very hard to see.

- if a character’s face is wet, like from sweat or a ton of rain, their glasses will continuously slide down their nose and they’ll need to keep pushing them back up.

- lots of liquids other than water will make glasses opaque.

- glasses should be fitted pretty well to a person’s head. So if the character’s face is dry or there’s a moderate amount of wind, the “legs” that go behind their ears should be tight enough that they don’t just constantly fly off or slip down their nose. If they do, they’re too big (but obviously something a tornado will make them fly off).

- although I hate the whole “they took off their glasses and now they’re a ✨ model ✨” trope, people do tend to look very different with glasses on vs off - especially a character like Harry Potter who constantly wears their glasses. It’s not unrealistic that people who don’t know the character well (or even those who do, but just aren’t as quick) won’t recognize them at first without their glasses.

- as far as I know (correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never been able to do this), if a lens pops out of the frames, it can’t be popped back in by non-professionals without the right tools. The glasses are just done for.

- if your character has contacts in (or this is a psa for anyone who wears contacts), DO NOT have them rub their eyes. The contact will pop out and they’re very translucent and tiny, so trust me, it will just fall and be lost forever.

- being able to see clearly out of one eye and not the other (like with a broken/missing lens or a contact falling out) causes headaches.

- glasses are expensive af in the US (idk about other places). One time when I didn’t have vision insurance, an eye exam and two frames with lenses (I have blue eyes and very extreme light sensitivity, so have to have prescription sun glasses as well as regular glasses) cost over $900USD. If you want the special frames that become tinted and basically turn into sunglasses when you walk outside, it will cost extra.

- speaking of those lenses that become tinted when you walk outside, they take awhile to fade back to normal after you go back inside. Your character needs to be prepared to still be “wearing” sunglasses for the first 5-10 minutes after they walk inside.

- if a character is wearing contacts, they can wear normal sunglasses. If not, they’ll need special prescription sunglasses to be able to see. You cannot wear prescription sunglasses with contacts in or you won’t be able to see anything. Ever tried to look through your friend’s glasses and everything’s weird and warped and giving you a headache? That’s what it will look like.

- not exactly glasses related, but people with lighter colored eyes will always have worse light sensitivity than people with darker eyes. I have very blue eyes and looking up at the sky on a sunny day will literally make me see stars, and especially if I’m driving towards the sun while it’s setting, I have to have my sunglasses on or I literally will not be able to see and tears will be leaking out my eyes the whole way home.

- speaking of prescription sunglasses, unless your character can see pretty far without their glasses or they’re far sighted, you cannot just take prescription sunglasses off and still be able to see, especially while driving. You just have to deal with it and keep the sunglasses on and look like a Matrix wannabe if it gets cloudy or starts raining, or you have to do the super speedy Dance of Death where you’re still watching the road in front of you, taking off one pair of glasses and putting the other on super fast (which usually requires you to use your mouth to open and close things).

- GLASSES ARE FRAGILE. Seriously, a very petite person could sit in them and snap them in half. They’re not something you want your character just throwing around.

- there are varying levels of how well someone can see. There’s farsightedness and nearsightedness. Some people don’t have that much trouble and can see pretty far, so only wear their glasses as needed. But some people (aka moi) can genuinely only see a few inches in front of their face. Like if I ever lost my glasses or they broke, I’d be done for. I wouldn’t be able to work or drive or do anything around the house.

- glasses need to be replaced about once a year because of possible prescription changes or sometimes lenses losing their strength and becoming harder to see through. Trying to tough it out after long enough will give your character headaches/migraines and sore eyes from eye strain.

- some mascaras (especially thick ones) will smudge glasses when the character blinks. Same with false lashes (although they’ll brush instead of smudge). Usually less intense mascaras and shorter fake lash lengths are better.

- eye makeup is harder to see with glasses on.

- please, please, PLEASE stop using the whole “omg look how much prettier/more attractive they are without their glasses” trope. Not everyone’s eyes can handle contacts and some people prefer wearing their glasses. And it makes those of us who prefer glasses or have to wear them feel like shit, especially because there aren’t a lot of characters with glasses in media who don’t become the butt of a joke (ie the one wearing glasses is the “ugly duckling” for it like in princess diaries, or like Velma from scooby doo always losing them and patting around, or people who wear glasses will always be some sort of dorky/insufferable know it all).

- glasses come in all shapes, sizes, and colors and can be used to actually enhance a character’s style! Some of them even have magnetic frames that click in place over the simple pair, so have fun using glasses to build your character’s style.

- edit to add: no one ever purposely falls asleep with their glasses on. You will crush and break them when you roll around. However, if a character does accidentally fall asleep with them on, a love interest gently taking them off so they don’t wake them up and setting them on the table next to them can be a super cute moment.

- whoops thought of some more. Hair products, especially hairspray, can be a bitch to get off glasses and doesn’t always just rinse off with water. If they’re spraying anything, including dry shampoo, the glasses have gotta come off and get out of the line of fire first.

- hair can and will get caught in the little hinge by the legs and we do occasionally not notice till we take our glasses off and rip a hair out of our heads.

- be careful when you comb or brush, cuz if the glasses legs get caught in the brush or comb, it will be ripped off our face.

Hope this helps! May the writing gods bless your work 🤓

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Genuine question, do you guys just not have wildlife?

If so then that’s so sad 😢 I heard you guys wiped out a lot of yours, which is depressing, but to not have much at all? Really fucked up. Everywhere in the world has lost a lot of wildlife since the end of the last ice age and the spread of humans, but I can’t imagine having so little you don’t need window screens or something

Every time I see anything about Europeans not having screens on their windows I remember that one post “this is why you got the plague”. I cannot read anything about Europe and window screens without remembering that post, and honestly, I am still confused as to why people there don’t have screens