#womens large flannel shirt

[susoriginals]

Vintage Plaid Flannel Blouse Long Sleeve Button w 2 Front Pockets by C & C California Women's Large Only $8

[bonkhrnyjail]

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club. 

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.  

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong. 

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.” 

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose. 

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?” 

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey. 

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

.   .   .   .   .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight. 

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip. 

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money. 

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

.   .   .   .   .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning. 

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease. 

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

.   .   .   .   .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him. 

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple. 

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this. 

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you. 

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.                       

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling. 

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

.   .   .   .   .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg. 

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk. 

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him. 

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

.   .   .   .   .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra. 

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.  

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your bud a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further. 

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force. 

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation. 

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, matching in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers. 

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him. 

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly. 

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system. 

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by a man. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze. 

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Dark Shades of Innocence Lost Part 6: Keep Me From Falling✨

Club Owner! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: I have been writing this one on and off for a little over a month, and it was a lot! Be prepared for an emotional rollercoaster and please pay attention to those tags. This one gets dark. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being the best beta and making this chapter shine! 🥰 I would like as much feedback on this chapter, so don’t be afraid to reblog or comment because your comments are what sparks my writing 🩷

Chapter Summary: After fighting your feelings for weeks, you decide to go back to the club. Back to those dark shades of red where brown eyes pull you under and feelings become much more than you bargained for.

Word Count: 14.1k

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Tags: A lot of angst, jealousy, so many feelings, yearning, anxiety, toxic ex, flashbacks of physical abuse and trauma, soft Joel, protective Joel, no use y/n, a lot of tears, fist fight, I don’t want to put any spoilers so I will omit some of the tags, switching POVs

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  The flashing red lights outside Club Inferno shine bright against the glow of the full moon. A brisk breeze cuts through the humid air, blowing through your long waves and kissing your bare shoulders. It sinks underneath the dark blue summer dress that clings to your figure. Your body hums with nerves, with need. You want Joel. 

   Joel, Joel, Joel. 

   He’s all you think about, he’s all you want to think about. Even at work, when you should be focusing on organizing bookshelves and paperwork, your mind always goes to him. 

   Sure, maybe at first you didn’t want a relationship, didn’t want to blur the lines. But you liked him, you really liked him. And you’re not sure when that line got crossed, but you were ready. Ready to take it to the next level. Needed to. You needed more. More of him. 

   So, now was your chance to make that happen, to tell him exactly what you wanted from him. A relationship. It was what you always wanted. You were just so scared to let your walls down again, but for him you would. For Joel you’d do just about anything.

   If you didn’t… well, you’ve already lost him once. You’re not sure if you can lose him again.

   When you reach the glossy black doors and step through after getting your ID checked, you see the club is buzzing with crowds of people tonight. The music is loud and blaring, even upstairs is jam-packed with bodies. But you only came here for one thing tonight: Joel Miller.

   You stop at the corner of the bar, brushing your hand against the sleek bar top and run your hand against the cool material. Scanning the crowd, you look for the handsome man that stands out amongst the rest. The man with the dark brown eyes that makes every single nerve ending vibrate inside you every time you set your eyes on him. That smoldering, captivating, charming man that sets your heart on fire. 

   A couple of girls in skimpy dresses get up from their bar stools and leave you room to see the rest of the crowd at the bar. Fresh faces of men and women you haven’t seen here before cross your sight until you get to the very end of the bar. Your heart gets stuck in your throat when you see it. 

   Right there at the very end of the bar top sits Joel, all muscle in a button-up crimson flannel with the top three buttons undone to expose his broad chest, dark hair peeking out of the open shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, accentuating the defined veins that wrap around his forearms, and the black watch clasped on his left wrist just sets it off even more. But what paralyzes you is the fact that he’s sitting at the bar with another woman. Someone who isn’t you.

   Her big, blonde curls fall around her pink blush-filled cheeks, and her tight red dress exposes large breasts that spill from the top of the low cut design. Red lips purse and laugh as she beams at Joel every time she brushes her hand against his fist that’s clenched around an amber glass of whiskey. 

   Two weeks without him and he’s already wrapped around another woman’s finger. Go fucking figure. You told him it was all just for fun, but it never really was that to you, was it?

   Your blood runs cold and you feel as if you just got hit with a metal bat against the back of the head. You tightly dig your manicured nails into the bar top. It feels as if a sharp knife slices deep into your back, slowly carving against your spine as it splits you in half. 

   Another light touch to his hand as she leans over to whisper in his ear sets your nerves on fire. You watch him laugh; that crooked smile that makes you dizzy every time you look at it now eats away at your insides. You can’t watch this. You can’t fucking do this tonight. He was supposed to be yours, but you’re too late…

   You feel a hot prick against the back of your eyes as your vision blurs, fiery tears bleeding into your eyeliner as you back up, your hand still clutching the bar top. You don’t watch where you’re going, and an entire glass of some kind of alcohol slides off the bar top and onto the floor, shattering and sloshing liquid as it splashes against your black high heels. 

   The crowd around the bar goes silent as they all turn to face you, but what stuns you into place is when Joel looks up and sees you standing there looking like a lost puppy. Your bottom lip quivers as you blink back tears, staring between him and the blonde girl that can’t keep her fucking hands off him. 

   His eyes grow wide as he looks at you stunned, immediately standing up from his bar stool as he pushes back the woman’s hand that reaches for him once again. His broad shoulders roll back as his full attention is on you, and then he’s moving fast, calling your name over the loud music as his voice gets washed out by the blaring noise. 

   You turn and push through the crowd, clawing your way blindly to a safe space where maybe you can breathe air that isn’t polluted again. You feel nailed to the wooden floor, chains ripping into your ankles as you force your legs to keep going. Joel calls your name, but you don’t stop to turn back around. You’ll break down in tears if you stop now. So you keep going, dragging your heavy feet until you reach the double doors and barrel your way outside. 

   The night air stills around you as the full moon shines bright behind fluffy clouds. The quiet parking lot is filled with parked cars, but everyone is inside. Not a soul stands outside besides you. That is, until Joel comes crashing through the double doors and calls your name again loudly. 

   “Hey, stop!” Joel yells out of breath as you hear his boots scuff across the pavement. “Didn’t you hear me callin’ your name?” 

   You turn around, crossing your arms over your chest and putting on a brave face, not letting him see the tears that scorch behind your sad eyes. “Guess not,” you mumble as you look down at the dusty cement. 

   “Hey, will you jus’ stop?” he asks with furrowed eyebrows as the lines on his forehead scrunch together intently. You shake your head and don’t answer, but he doesn’t like that at all. “Angel, talk to me.”

   “Don’t call me angel,” you mumble as you retreat a step back from his advances. 

   He takes a step forward and reaches out an arm to try to catch you. When he curls his calloused fingers over your wrist, you pull it out of his grip and shake him off. “Don’t,” you warn sharply as you turn your head the other direction. 

   You hear Joel huff out in frustration as he fights to compose himself. “It was that girl, wasn’t it? Is that what you’re so worked up about, huh?” 

   You bite your lower lip to keep from screaming and whirl back to him as you fight with yourself not to lose control. You purse your lips and then spill yourself to him. “Oh, I don’t know, Joel. Maybe you should go back to your little date.”

   “It wasn’t a date,” he expresses as his jaw clenches up, “it was jus’ a drink. She came up to me first, and all I did was offer to buy her a drink. She’s an old client of mine, nothing more.”

   “An old client, huh?” you scoff and feel your cheeks burn hot.

   “Yeah. Tommy and I did a job at her company’s site.”

   “I’m sure you did.” You roll your eyes and scrape your heel against the concrete.

   “Angel, I didn’t ask her here tonight. She jus’ showed up unannounced. What you saw was nothing.”

   “Oh, yeah? Then why was she all over you? Did you buy her a drink so you could sleep with her just like you did with me?!” Your voice comes out louder than you wanted it to, but you’re so worked up that you can’t control your flaring nostrils and watery eyes. You can practically taste the stench of regret in your throat. You should’ve never come here, should’ve never messed with a man like him. Tall, dominant, charming, and so goddamn handsome. What the fuck did you think was going to happen?

   “Whoa, easy there, darlin’. I wasn’t gonna sleep with her,” he says carefully as his voice stays even. Almost gentle enough to calm you down a bit, but even that makes you more uneasy. 

   “No? It sure looked like you were enjoying yourself, and she seemed to be all over you,” you spit out venomously, kicking the end of your heel into the hard cement. 

   “Why are you actin’ like this?” he asks, exasperated, his eyebrows knitting together into a hard line. 

   “Acting like what?” You seethe as you entwine your fingers tightly together, desperately trying to anchor yourself.

   “Actin’ jealous! All I did was buy her a drink. If I would’ve known you were comin’ I wouldn’t have even…”

   “Wouldn’t have what? Offered to eat her out on your fucking pool table!” you screech.

   “Jus’ stop!” he growls, making your eyes go wide and your heart hammer impossibly fast in your chest. “Is there somethin’ you want to say?” he asks as his jaw ticks and arches an eyebrow, his dark eyes meeting your gaze. 

   Your voice is suddenly as small as a mouse as you reply, “Say something? No, I…”

   “You’re the one who said you didn’t want more. Remember? I asked you, was willing to give you more. I wanted to give you more. All you had to do was say the words, angel. That’s all you had to do.” 

   He stands there staring at you, eyes locked with yours as you dig your long nails deep into the fabric of your dress, nervous sweat pooling at the edges of your soft curls as you bite your tongue in agony. 

   All you had to do was say the words. Why couldn’t you say those fucking words back in that little diner? What was so goddamn hard about that? You wanted him. You fucking wanted him. So badly that it actually felt like your heart was shattering in your chest. 

   “But you… after that night at the diner, you gave me the cold shoulder,” you finally reply. “You practically iced me out, didn’t ask me to come back to the club, couldn’t text me back, didn’t even…”

   “I was givin’ you space,” Joel interrupts. “I didn’t think… fuck. I didn’t think you wanted to come back!” He rakes a hand slowly through his silver threaded scruff and sighs, cursing under his breath as he stares at you with pure turmoil in his hazy eyes.

   “But I did want to come back! Isn’t that what I showed up for tonight? To see you?” you ask, appalled, eyes red with tears pooling across your glassy irises. 

   “I don’t know, angel, why don’t you tell me!” His voice sounds so angry, so gravelly, so very hurt. And you see it in the flared nostrils and wide eyes. He’s just asking questions which you should’ve answered a long time ago.

   “I didn’t… I didn’t want space. I never did…” Your eyes gloss over, and your bottom lip quivers as you fight to keep yourself in one piece. You want to say something, anything to make this stop, but your words run dry as he stares at you carefully. 

   He looks at you fiercely another moment as he licks his bottom lip in frustration. “Tell me somethin’, will ya? What is it that you want from me?”

   The question comes out almost like a snake just bit your ankle. Alarming, unexpected. “I… uh…” You can’t even formulate a coherent sentence as the words rush through your head. I was willing to give you more. I wanted to give you more. But they remain stuck in your throat, unable to escape.

   He takes two steps forward, adjusting the rolled up sleeves of his red flannel. “What. Do. You. Want?”

   The question taunts you, words building as you try to unjumble them. You can’t think straight, not when his mahogany cologne is burning your nostrils, not when his dark chocolate eyes are honing into yours, not when he’s so close that you want to drop all pretense and jump into his strong arms. But you can’t. It’s not that simple. 

   This is all getting too complicated, and you don’t know how much further you can go without putting yourself into a vulnerable position. You already are in a vulnerable position, so why can’t you just say exactly how you feel?

   After your silence, Joel rakes a hand through his dark, greying scruff and sighs again. “Goddamn it, angel. Jus’ tell me what you want.”

   “I… I….” You fidget and keep your eyes locked on his in a panic.

   For fuck’s sake just tell him what you want! 

   Joel pinches the bridge of his nose as he huffs in defeat. When he looks back up at you, he takes a long, slow breath and nods his head. “I can see this isn’t easy for you. But darlin’, if you don’t tell me what you want then I can’t give you that. Now, do you want me to go walk back into my club and go back to that girl, or…?”

   “No!” you plead as you reach your arm out and grab his wrist, holding it like it’s the only thing that’ll save you from falling to your death. Joel looks down at your hand gripping his tanned skin and looks back up with a mix of grief and hope in his eyes.

   “No?” he asks with eyebrows raised in question. “So, tell me. What is it that you want? Is it me you want? Do you want more, need more? Because I can give that to you, angel. I can give you so much more… if you’ll jus’ let me.”

   “You… you left me alone on the curb after I tried asking you about the guitar lesson…” you stammer out.

   He sighs and runs a hand swiftly through his hair, blowing out a long breath as he finds the words he wants to say. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I jus’... I was confused and angry and hurt because I thought… I didn’t think you wanted to be with me, and I really fuckin’ liked you.” He stops to correct himself. “Well, like you. And I apologize for jus’ icin’ you out. You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved that. I was jus’ sorta hopin’ we could be more, ya know…”

   His words leave you standing with your jaw dropped and eyes wide. “I thought… I thought I could be more than jus’ someone you hooked up with,'' Joel continues. “I wanted… I wanted to give you the world...”

   Jesus. He’s just as wrecked as you are. Holy shit.

   Your hand drops from his wrist as you fidget with the hem of your dress, nerves rushing through you like a raging river. He reaches his long arm out and glides calloused fingers gently down your jawline, pushing a curl behind your ear. And it feels so good. So good that you just want to melt inside his warm touch.

   Say it. Say it right fucking now before you ruin everything all over again.

   “I want… I want… y—”

   Your sentence is interrupted by the loud slamming of the front door of the club and then the pounding of feet on the pavement as you hear keys jangling from jeans and mumbling of gibberish you can’t understand. You jump out of Joel’s reach from the fright and compose yourself to act normal in front of a stranger coming out of the club.

   When you look up to see who so rudely interrupted your confession, your eyes go wide and the breath gets knocked from your chest as you take in exactly who stalks toward you. 

   Jason. Your ex. Holy shit…

   He says your name in surprise, calling out to you as you freeze up in place. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking real. Your stomach drops at the sight of his large figure, and your mouth drops open in shock.

   “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” he smirks as his murky green eyes stare coldly back at you. “Hi there, babydoll. Remember me?”

   You blink once, twice, but he doesn’t disappear. This isn’t a dream. He fucking found you. 

   “J… Jason?” Your eyes go as wide as an owl’s, your palms sweating as you take in his figure. Tall, tattoos covering his entire right arm, muddy green eyes that could kill, blonde shaggy hair that falls to his neckline, strong muscles that could snap a man in half, a gold chain glinting around his neck, and worn hands that could tear into your flesh. 

   “Miss me?” he smirks as you see nothing but coldness in his swampy eyes. 

   “I thought you were in jail…” you say quietly, just loud enough for him to hear as he moves toward you slowly, his strides wide and terrifying as he scuffs clean sneakers against the cool pavement. 

   “They let me out on good behavior,” he laughs as he shakes his head, pieces of blonde falling into his eyes as he pushes them away. “Didn’t know I’d run into you here. But I’m sooooo glad I did,” he chuckles, stepping closer. 

   Joel stands and watches the two of you, a conflicting look filling his face as his eyebrows furrow together in concentration. He looks so confused, which he should be. You didn’t tell him about Jason, never even planned to. You thought all memories of Jason were gone as you worked so hard to forget, but now they’re back with a vengeance, and you start to remember everything. 

   “You… you’re not supposed to be here,” you gulp nervously as you take a hesitant step back, but he keeps stalking towards you. Getting closer and closer until he’s only a couple steps in front of you. 

   “Baby, I can be anywhere I want to be,” he croons sickeningly. “And looks like I picked a good night to come out to the club.” You can smell the alcohol falling off his chapped lips, can see how drunk he is already with the way he sways and slurs. This isn’t good, none of this is good. 

   You take one more step back, but he grabs your wrist hard and holds out your left arm as he drags a predatory finger over the faded scar that sits on the inside of your wrist. “I see this hasn’t gone away. A keepsake to remember me by, huh?” he teases as he yanks you closer to him. 

   “Let go,” you demand with a desperate plea in your voice as you try to shove away from him, but he only jabs his nail beds into your wrist as you wince in pain. “I said let go,” you whine as hate fills his cloudy eyes.

   “No, I don’t think so,” he chuckles, holding you in place. 

   “Get the fuck off her,” Joel growls as he pushes Jason away with barely any effort. Jason almost falls off the edge of the curb. 

   Joel looks at you with concern laced in his gentle brown eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks as he looks at the way you hold the inside of your wrist. The faded scar comes into his view and Joel stares at it, his jaw clenching as realization caves in. “Did he… did he do that to you?” 

   You don’t answer, but the way your eyes start to water tells him everything he needs to know. 

   His eyes turn from concerned to full-on burning, rage taking over as he flexes his fingers into a tight fist and ticks his jaw up. He’s not just mad, no. He’s furious. Something inside you clenches up as you see how wrecked he looks; he looks like he wants to eat Jason alive. 

  “Hey, fucker! Step away from her. She’s mine,” Jason warns as he shoves Joel hard in the shoulder as Joel stumbles back a few steps. 

   Joel snarls at Jason, and you swear you’ve never seen him look this feral before. They’re going to fight. Oh, god. No. This isn’t what you wanted. They can’t just…    

   “She ain’t your girl, asshole.” Joel snaps. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

   Jason doesn’t listen; he just hounds Joel and pushes him hard against the brick wall as he runs over and grabs the collar of Joel’s crimson flannel. “The fuck she is!” Jason yells aggressively. “Who the fuck are you to tell me she’s not, hmm? Have you been messing around with her? Yeah you have, I can practically smell you on her.” Jason slams Joel’s head against the hard bricks. 

   No, no, no, not Joel!

   “Jason, stop!” you scream as you run over and try to intercept. 

   “You have no right bein’ here on my property, putting your hands on me or her. So, I’m gonna tell you one more time. Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops,” Joel snarls as he grabs the front of Jason’s shirt and pushes him hard out of his grasp. 

   Jason’s jaw clenches, and his eyes grow impatient. “NO.” The next thing you know, Jason is throwing his fist in the air, and it comes down like lightning against Joel’s jaw. Your eyes grow wide as you hear just how hard the punch hits him, and you’re gasping in horror as you watch, stunned in silence. 

   This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. 

   Joel takes a few seconds to recover, then he’s moving fast as he shoves Jason against the rough bricks and throws a punch to his nose. You hear the snapping sound of broken bones, but Jason just keeps going. 

   Jason grabs a hold of Joel’s collar and throws him hard while another punch lands against his face. You can’t stand it, can’t watch them beat each other to death. You don’t want any part of this. You just want all the loud, violent sounds to stop. You have to do something.

   Before Jason throws another punch in Joel’s direction, you step between them and try to push Jason away. “Jason, I said stop!” 

   Before you know what happens next, Jason slaps you so hard across the cheek that it nearly makes you see stars. He pushes you roughly and watches you lose your balance on the concrete. Cupping your cheek, you fall to the ground with a thud as it all comes back to you in a flash. You hear Joel scream your name in the distance and see him throwing Jason to the ground out of the corner of your eye, but you’re barely even there anymore. 

   Your vision goes spotty, and all you can hear is the white noise as your ears start to ring insufferably loud. Your palms burn as you dig your fingers into the cold concrete, feeling smaller and more invisible than you’ve ever felt in your life as your heart rate kicks up as the adrenaline rushes out. Your scar aches, your eyes shutting as you remember everything that happened all those years ago. You remember, you remember it all. 

   You remember how drunk Jason got that dark, rainy evening. You remember him cussing you out as you fixed dinner for him, remember him demanding you to bring him another bottle of beer, remember him chewing you out because you didn’t twist the lid open for him, remember him throwing the glass dinner plate across the room as sharp glass littered the soft carpet. 

   And that’s when he snapped. 

   He shattered the glass bottle against the edge of the coffee table as broken glass and alcohol spilled everywhere on the cream carpet. You remember him pushing you down into the shards, the sharp edges cutting into your skin; remember him hovering over you as he dug a piece deep into your wrist and called you a filthy whore, dragging the glass deeper into your skin. Remember all the blood that was spilling out, staining the carpet crimson as he made you look him dead in the eyes and threatened to do worse to you. You remember the police barging into the small apartment as they body-slammed him to the ground and cuffed his hands behind his back. You remember the ambulance taking you away. You remember how close you were to dying, how you almost didn’t make it out alive, how you woke up shaking and scared in the hospital bed, afraid he’d come back to finish you off. You remember it all, you remember everything. 

   Your cheek burns hot as you cup it with your palm, feeling the scrapes on your hand bleed into the pain as wet tears spill down your face. It’s like it’s happening all over again. The pain, the screaming, the drunk mess of a man, the accusations, the absolute sheer terror you feel seeping through your thin bones. You feel so fragile, so torn, and you feel as if you're slipping through the concrete cracks, dying a little inside. 

   The faint noise of thrown punches and bodies slamming to the ground reaches your ears again, but you don’t have the strength to look up. You can only sit still, fade away with the noise, try to piece yourself back together when you know you can’t. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. 

   All of a sudden, the front doors of the club slam open, and you hear that familiar warm drawl. “That’s enough, Joel. You got him good,” Tommy says firmly.

   You hear the faint grunts of Joel sending punches right and left to Jason who lies on the ground just taking the hits, too drunk now to even comprehend what’s happening. You wince at the noises, the punches reverberating through your body just like you were lying on that floor passed out cold, only the echoes of policemen and the ER workers picking your lifeless body up off the glass covered floor. 

   “Hey, I said enough,” Tommy repeats. You hear the throws of punches die out into silence, only hearing quiet shuffling that echoes in your ringing ears. 

   Suddenly, you feel someone’s hands on your shoulders, shaking you to get up. You shy away, screaming no, but then the hands are back on you. They’re warm, welcoming, comforting. A ray of sunshine you need to pick you up off the ground because you don’t have the strength to do it yourself. 

   “Hey, look at me,” he says adamantly, but you pull out of his enticing grip that begs for you to hold on to him. 

   “No,” you say sternly as you fall back on your palms and wince in pain. You’re so cold, so weak, so broken. How did you ever pick yourself up off the ground that first time?

   Joel reaches for you again, and this time it’s more careful, delicate. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. It’s me, it’s Joel. ‘S okay now. ‘S okay.” This time you let him help you off the cold ground, turning you around to face him as you sit on your bruised knees, staring down at the hollow ground. 

   “Hey, can you look up for me?” he asks quietly as you shake your head no and keep your eyes glued to the ground. You can’t do it, you’ll surely break if you see even the tiniest scratch on his face. 

   “Baby, look in my eyes. Please, jus’ look at me. C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos as he cups your chin and lifts your head. 

   Your breathing is erratic, your pulse quickening as you try to focus on him and him alone. You lock eyes with him, seeing those concerned flecks of dark brown swirl in your vision as he breathes out and sighs. “There ya go, nice and slow. Jus’ breathe for me.”

   Your eyes go wide as you see the deep red and purple bruises covering his strong left cheekbone, a tinge of crimson blood covering his knuckles he used it to avenge your honor. He got hurt. He’s hurt because of you. 

   “Joel, you… you’re hurt,” you stutter out as you place a hand gently over his bruises as he winces back in pain. 

   “I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart. You’re the one I’m worried ‘bout. Are you… okay?” he asks cautiously as he traces his calloused thumb over your jawline. You pick apart the question, going over the events that had just happened in the span of ten minutes. You weren’t okay, you were far from okay. 

   “I… I’m…” Your mumbling stops as you hear Jason yelling and stirring up trouble as he rambles on about how he’ll be back. You catch him saying “slut” and calling you and Joel vulgar names as security calls the cops. 

   “Sweetheart, say somethin’,” Joel pleads as he drops his large hand over yours and squeezes. 

   The wave of shock hits you like lightning as your scar burns, and the memories flood your mind in the present. This time you see Joel lying there in the puddle of blood, wrist cut up with Jason standing over him with a bottle of alcohol and a smug smirk tugging at his cheeks as his dark eyes stare down at your and Joel’s dying bodies. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much. 

   You feel hot tears swarm your vision as you throw your arms around Joel and sink your face into his warm flannel. The one that smells like him, his musk, his warm scent. The tears don’t stop pouring, your sobs echoing in the distance as you feel your body completely melt against Joel. You hear him call your name, feel him try to talk to you as he tries to get your attention, but you’re too far gone, too broken to feel anything. 

   “Tommy!” Joel screams as you hear Tommy’s footsteps scuff quickly over the cement. “Make sure that fucker never steps foot in our club again, and make sure the cops lock him up. Fucker assaulted me and her tonight. I’m gonna take her home. Jus’ make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble.” Joel snarls as you feel his arms snake around you.

   “Don’t worry, Joel. I’ve got it. Motherfucker is gonna pay for what he did,” Tommy spits as he storms off to the front doors. 

   Joel tries to stir you from his grasp, but you just hold onto him as tight as a koala. “Sweetheart, hey. We need to get up. Do you think you can get up?” Joel asks carefully as he tries to pry you up. You don’t budge, don’t even make a sound as tears blur your vision. 

   “Alright, c’mon,” he sighs as he stoops down and picks you up, cradling you in his strong arms as he carries you to his truck while your eyes soak the front of his flannel. “I’ve got you, babygirl. It’s gonna be okay,” he coos as he brushes his lips over the top of your head and sets you down in the passenger seat.

   He fastens the seatbelt over your lap until it clicks and lingers his fingers against your cheek. You pull away from him, leaning your head to the opposite side as tears begin to soak the fabric of your soft dress. You hear him sigh and listen to him back up, gently closing the passenger door while he shuffles to the driver’s side. 

   He gets himself situated in the seat, and you can feel that hovering gaze over you as he runs his fingers down his clipped scruff. You sink into the edge of the door, curling yourself into a tight ball as you feel his stare smother your insides. 

   You don’t want him to see you like this, all broken and torn to shreds. He wasn’t supposed to know this side of you. The part you keep closed up in a tight glass bottle that drifts off to sea, where no one will see the mess you keep hidden away. 

   This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen, but it did. It did. 

   You close your eyes tight and lean against the glass window, throwing up your shields as you drown out the sounds of the low vibrations of the truck, keeping Joel's concerned, prying eyes from your glassy stare, even blocking out his gravelly voice as he whispers soft words under his breath. 

   This is too much, it’s all too much. You just want to disappear, let shadows envelop you in darkness, fade away so you don’t have to keep living those horrible nightmares night after night.  

   This was all Jason’s fault, all yours for falling for a man who never loved you. The only thing he did was shatter your world completely and keep you from forming intimate relationships. And now you were permanently scarred, just like the mark against your wrist. 

   You’re a fucking piece of work, and nobody deserves that burden now.

   Joel locks his fingers around the leather steering wheel, gripping so tight that his knuckles are painted white as concerned eyes flick to your fragile form in the passenger seat. His thoughts fly wild, his breath quick, his teeth bared as he thinks of what that fucker did to you.

   He’ll drive down to the county jail this weekend, make sure Jason’s locked up tight, make sure he will never place another finger on your beautiful face. He fucking slapped you, knocked you down, and shed violent threats over your crouched body. He’s a dead man.

   Joel ticks his jaw, snaps his teeth together as he thinks of the asshole that hurt you. He swears to god if Jason ever lays another hand on you, he will personally kill him himself. He’d snap his neck, would make sure the fucker was ten feet in the ground, would fucking destroy the man that assaulted you. He’d burn everything, if only that meant he could keep you safe. If only that meant you were his…

   He rakes a hand heavily through his scruff, takes another long glance at you as you shake and whimper against the glass window, folding yourself into the smallest shape you can possibly get yourself in. And it fucking hurts him to see you like this, all fragile and broken and bleeding. He wants to take all the pain away, but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t exactly know what you need, but he’ll be gentle, delicate, whatever you need. He would be that for you. He’d be anything you needed him to be. 

   He gently drops a hand from the steering wheel, reaching out until he stops himself when he sees the jagged scar on your left wrist. How had he never seen it before, how had he not noticed? How was this the first time he’s looked at it?

   God, he’s such a fool, a fucking asshole. The way he iced you out, the way he didn’t reply to your texts, the way he fucking flirted with a woman tonight when he damn well knew all he wanted was you. How could he be so reckless with your feelings? He fucking knew better, and look where that ended.

   He should’ve figured out the signs sooner. The way you always widened your eyes and turned your head before he could sink his lips down on yours, the way you were so hesitant and careful about everything you did with him. Why didn’t he just stop after that stupid question in the diner, when he asked you what exactly the two of you were doing? He should’ve fucking known the way you tried to change the subject, the way you lost all form of words, your breathy stutters. He should’ve fucking saw your wrist and knew someone had hurt you. But he didn’t, and now he was the biggest asshole for falling silent and leaving you thinking he didn’t want you. And he fucking hates himself for that. Because he wanted you the entire goddamn time.

   God. He’s wanted you from the first moment he saw you in his club, sitting there all doe-eyed and looking up at him as your smile took his breath away.

   He’s such a goddamn fool, and he just wishes he could take it all back and start over. He’d be so careful with you, and now you’re sitting there scattered in broken pieces of glass, but he’ll try to put you back together the best he can. He has to try, he just has to because you’re all he really wants anymore. 

   You’re a living, breathing angel, and he’ll set himself on fire if that’s what it takes to win you back.

   The truck stops in a dark driveway, one that’s lit with dim lights glowing against a tan garage. You don’t look up, not even when the hum of the engine cuts off and Joel frantically slams his door closed and practically sprints to the passenger side.

   When he opens it he hesitates a second, assessing your tear-soaked face as you turn away from him. You don’t want him to see you like this, but it’s too late. So why are you shying away from him?

   He carefully unbuckles you and gently lifts you up, cradling you against his firm chest as you sink against it, inhaling his fresh soap smell, the pine scent dripping off his silvery scruff. You smell it then: the scent of safety, of your knight in shining armor.

   Joel carries you into the house, taking you up the creaking stairs and what you assume to be up to his bedroom. You don’t lift your eyes, only squeezing them shut so you can forget the aftermath of showing up to the club. You try to block out the blonde woman, Jason, the fight with Joel, the absolute monstrosity of the events that led you here to Joel’s house. You try to forget, but you can’t. You just can’t.

   You hear a door swing open as you make it to the top of the stairs, his fast beating chest breathing rapidly as you cling to his warm flannel. You could stay curled up against his chest for hours, as long as you don’t have to open your eyes, as long as you can just breathe him and forget the rest of the world.

   Those thoughts are short-lived when you feel the back of your thighs brushing against a soft comforter, and then he’s unlatching you from his flannel. You unwind your fingers and fall against the bed, allowing him to take a step back as the numbness seeps back inside you. 

   You tug at your dress, the room feeling both too overwhelmingly sweltering and also as cold as ice chilling down every single nerve in your body. You just need to get out of this tight thing; the fabric is suffocating and squeezing you like Jason’s rough hands are still wrapped around your throbbing wrists.

   You jump when you hear Joel sliding a drawer shut, your fingers still tugging against your itchy fabric. You want it off, need to get it off, but you can’t seem to make your hands or body work.

   As if Joel senses you struggling against yourself, you see him carefully walking over to you in your periphery, his polished boots scuffing against the dark grey carpet as you take a deep breath to calm yourself.

   Your fingers fidget against the tainted material, and you just want it off now. He slowly, ever so delicately stills your hand, his palm flattening over the top of yours as he whispers quietly. “Here, let me help you out there, sweetheart. ‘S alright, easy now.”

   He slowly tugs your zipper down, ever so slowly pulling the summer dress off your body, and then unclasping the buckle of your heels as he frees them from your aching feet. 

   He gently helps you lift your arms as a long dark blue t-shirt envelops your body, the soft material hitting just below your knees as it clouds you in whiffs of summer breeze and Joel all together. It makes you feel safe, like he’s surrounding you in just him. And it feels so damn good.

   He grunts as he lifts himself off the floor, and then he treads into his bathroom, throwing the bright light on as water starts to pour from his sink.

   Drip, drip, drip. The sounds the water makes as it crashes into the sink makes your heart slow, makes you think about the entire night, makes you cringe as Jason’s face comes into view. You see red eyes, hear slurring curses, feel the glass cutting straight through your fragile skin.

   You grab hold of your wrist, embedding your nails into the skin as you wince at the memory. No more, not tonight. You can’t bear to think of it, so you block it out as the numb feeling tingles down your spine and surrounds every single bone in your body. You shut your eyes tight and count to ten in your head, hoping the voices will go away, but they never do. They’re just… ghosts.

   A few seconds later you hear Joel pad back into the room, his footsteps so slow as he takes step after step until the floor stops creaking. You open your eyes and find him kneeling in front of you, his eyes so lathered with concern that it makes his chocolate irises lighten just a little, and it makes your heart skip in your chest.

   He looks at you like you’re so broken, fragile, but you are. He hesitates as his right hand flexes up with a tan soaked washcloth in his grip, like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re made of glass.

   “Is this okay? Can I…” His gravelly voice fades off, and his brows knit together as he studies your somber features slowly. 

   Permission? He’s asking for permission to touch you? Of course he is. After tonight he figures you don’t want to be touched, and he’s right. You don’t. But Joel, you’ll allow him the honor. 

   He slowly reaches his arm up, brushing a strand of hair delicately behind your ear, and then he brings the cool washcloth up and runs it over your stinging cheek. You wince a little at the pain, but you quickly lean into the cold material and let it soak your heated skin.

   He’s so careful with you, brown eyes flicking every few seconds to assess your face, making sure you’re okay, making sure you won’t just slip like sand into the cracks of the floor. That’s what you would be doing, if it wasn’t for Joel taking care of you. 

   You didn’t ask him to do this, didn’t imagine this being your weekend night with eyeliner running down your face or your eyes swollen and red. You probably look like a giant mess, but isn’t that what you are? 

   You flick your gaze up to his and spot the colorful bruise that flashes deep purple and crimson on the side of his left cheek, the exact same place as yours, and it makes your heart drop in your chest.

   Guilt spirals through your head, your chest, and then drops to your stomach. This is all your fault. Joel is hurt because of you. He wouldn’t have swollen knuckles and discolored bruises on his fingers and cheek if it wasn’t for you. 

   Your vision starts to blur, your fingers twisting into the soft sheets, and your body starts humming with vibrations as you begin to shake. 

   Your fault, your fault, your fault.

   Joel’s eyes widen, and his free hand lands on your thigh as he looks at you as if you’ll shatter into a million pieces. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?” he asks as his mouth twitches into a hard line.

   You shake your head and whimper out, “No, you didn’t. I’m just…” You freeze up and almost lose your words. “You got hurt. You’re hurt because of me. This is all my fault,” you whine as another tear escapes your eye.

   “No, sweetheart. Not at all,” he murmurs as he reaches up and brushes a tear away from your cheek before it can fall to the floor. 

   He cups your face with both hands, his calloused fingers feeling like warmth, and then he gazes at you with so much intent and sorrow in his eyes that they start to glisten. “Don’t you dare for one second think any of this is your fault. None of it is, you didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.”

   Your eyes fill with tears as they start to spill over, your body trembling as you finally release it all out of your system. “Then why does it feel like it is?” you cry out, the room temperature dropping fifteen degrees as you shake with guilt and hurt.

   “Oh, sweetheart. No. C’mere.” He throws off his boots and scoops you up, landing in the soft sheets as he cradles you to his chest while he pulls the dark blue comforter over your shaking body. “‘S’okay, babygirl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he coos, folding his broad arms over your back as he takes one hand and gently runs it down the back of your scalp, soothing you of everything you’ve held pent up inside that you never got the courage to let slip out. 

   “Joel, the reason I didn’t tell you…”

   “Shhh. Not now, sweetheart. You can tell me in the mornin’. Right now I jus’ want you to relax, breathe, sleep. Jus’ focus on deep breaths. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Nobody’s gonna hurt you anymore. I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you,” he soothes as his thick fingers stroke tenderly through your hair, easing you of the tension that you hold in your shoulders.

   “But I… he… you…” You just can’t make sense of your jumbled words.

   “Easy now. Easy,” he whispers, pulling you closer into him so you can nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck where it’s warm and safe and smells like the middle of an autumn’s day.

   You breathe him in, grasping on to his woodsy scent, sinking as deep as you can go against his broad chest, fingers curling possessively against his white undershirt, steadying your breaths to the slow rhythm of his heart, reaching for him and only him as your panicked mind starts to ease into calm waters, Joel the anchor that keeps you from drowning.

   You keep latched tight to him as you start to let your body get dragged into darkness where no one can hurt you, where only Joel keeps you floating into a deep, serene place where your body stills, your galloping heart starting to slow to quiet footsteps as you hear the deep sighs slip from his lips, letting it lull you to sleep as he holds you tighter.

   The last thing you hear before you drift off to sleep is the sound of his deep, gravelly Southern drawl where you feel most relaxed at. “You’re safe with me, angel. Always.” And then you slip into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

   The fan blows overhead, his head resting up against the headboard as he stares at your sleeping form that clings to his white t-shirt. His hand repeatedly strokes your soft locks, as if the motion will make the panic ease from your mind, as if he can make you feel safe, where no one else can touch your delicate form again.

   He brushes his lips against your forehead, caressing them over every perfect line that makes up your gorgeous face, needing to give you everything he can. He thinks you’re so perfect, the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and now all he wants to do is take care of you, the way you should’ve been taking care of long ago.

   He slips a hand under the material of his t-shirt that splays over your body, carefully dragging his fingernails over your lower back in slow, meticulous circles as he soothes you from the panic. 

   “Nobody’s ever gonna make you feel unwanted again, baby. He’s never gonna hurt you again, will never lay his eyes on you because I’ll keep you safe. You’re so perfect, so beautiful, jus’ like the rarest flower in the world. That’s what you are. Rare, my love. You’re so rare,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, dragging his lips over your soft skin as he closes his eyes and breaths in the lilac perfume that envelops your very being.

   You stir beneath him, nuzzling closer as you groan and curl your fingers against his neck, getting as close as you possibly can. He almost thinks you’re awake, but your deep breaths and fluttering eyelashes say you’re in a deep sleep, somewhere far away.

   He hugs you closer and rests his chin on your head, fingers scraping softly against your soft skin, exactly how you like it. He’s always wanted to keep you safe, but now it’s his mission, like his life depends on it. He’ll spend his entire life convincing you if he has to. You’re his now, and he’s never going to let you go.

   He lets his eyelids shut as the fan hums him to sleep, keeping his arms wrapped safely around you, his lips pressing once more to your forehead as sleep drags him under. And for once in his life, he sleeps the rest of the night because you are safe in his arms.

   You wake to the chirping of singing birds as the sun shines brightly through the sheer curtains, your eyes slowly peeling open as you feel deep, slow breaths underneath you. You quietly stir, groaning as you tug his t-shirt against your fingers, suddenly very aware you stayed the night at Joel’s in his bed, in his arms.

   You feel Joel readjust beneath you, lifting your chin as you’re met with the most beautiful sleepy brown eyes you’ve ever seen. And the drawl of his sleep-ridden gravelly voice doesn’t make it any better. “Mornin’, sunshine. You sleep okay?” He curls a lock of hair behind your ear and lingers his calloused palm on your skin, making you warmer than you were before.

   “Mmm, I did,” you smile sleepily as he chuckles, making his brown eyes crinkle as the crow’s feet pull at the corners of his eyes. God, he’s always so handsome, especially in the morning, fresh from a long night’s rest with tousled bedhead curls that you want to run your fingers through. 

   “Good, that’s good,” he murmurs, a crooked smile curling over his lips as you seem to get lost in his beautiful face.

   You almost nestle back into the crook of his neck, but when you look over you realize it’s a quarter past 10:00. Your eyes go wide and you jump up, realizing you’re probably messing up his entire day. “Shit, Joel. I didn’t know it was so late. I’m sorry, you should’ve woke me up earlier.”

   You’re nearly frantic, but he places a palm softly on your face and turns you to look straight into his sleepy eyes. “‘S alright, angel. Jus’ calm down. I took the day off. Tommy’s got me covered, don’t you worry.” 

   “Oh.” You look at him with wide eyes while his thick fingers trail down your jawline like velvet. 

   “Wasn’t gonna jus’ leave you alone after last night. Needed to make sure you were alright. Figured I needed to take care of you.”

   Oh. Take care of you? No one has ever… done that. Taken care of you before. And yet again, he leaves you completely speechless. “To… take care of me?” Your voice is barely a whisper as you stare up into gorgeous flecks of chocolate eyes.

   “That’s right, sweetheart,” he smiles, a hand slowly smoothing down your messy locks as he comforts you.

   All you can muster up is a pathetic thank you as you nestle back into the scruff of his neck, hitching your leg around his hip as you hold tight to his broad chest. His fingers trail soothingly up and down your back, his nail beds scratching softly along your exposed skin as he soothes your growing panic. 

   After a few minutes of cuddling, he shifts his weight and drags his lips across the shell of your ear. “You wanna take a bath?” You nod your head and allow him to unravel you from his comforting hold. “Alright then, c’mon.”

   He carries you into the bathroom, flipping the light on as he goes. He carefully sits you down on top of the ceramic countertop, dropping his thick fingers from your sides so he can start the water in the tub.

   The faucet squeaks and turns, shooting out warm water. You lean against the mirror and close your eyes for just a second, letting the hum of the water calm your stirring tides, letting the sounds of Joel brushing past you soothe you as he sets out some clean towels from the polished cabinet. 

   You start to drift off again, trying to forget the horrors of last night. You start to slip into darkness, but Joel pulls you right back out as you start to fade to black. “You ready?” he asks, standing right in front of you with his thighs meeting your knees, one hand softly grazing along the jawline of your face.

   “Yeah,” you mutter out pathetically, and then he lifts you off the counter and sets you on flat ground.

   “C’mere, pretty girl. Let’s get you out of this.” He cautiously lifts the hem of his shirt and carefully drags it over your head. You place a hand steadily on his veiny forearm, slipping out of your panties until you’re completely bare and shivering like you’ve just walked out into a snowy blizzard. 

   He quickly throws his t-shirt off, shedding himself of his jeans and boxers until he has nothing left covering himself. The bubbles fizz at the top of the tub as he cuts off the water, slipping his fingers through yours so he can help you in the tub. 

   “In you go, angel. There ya go,” he murmurs, letting the warmth lap against your skin as he settles behind you, pressing your back into his broad chest while his thick arms envelop you in comfort.  

   You close your eyes, press your fingertips into his hot skin, and soak in the smell of his rich mahogany scent that always seems to calm you down. You shut out the violent events of last night, only thinking about how Joel swept you up in his arms and took care of you, making sure you were safe and heard, promising you that you were safe. And you were safe, you’re always safe in his strong arms, arms that claim you as his now, hopefully. 

   “Easy now, you’re alright,” he hums in the shell of your ear, caressing his lips against your jawline, slowly taking the soft washcloth over your arms as he bathes you in lavender soap. You lean into his broad body, groaning each time he glides the washcloth over your delicate skin, drowning in the attention and care he’s giving you.

   He didn’t run, he stayed. 

   He picks you up gently and cradles you over his lap, your legs splayed over his thighs while your face nuzzles cozily into the crook of his neck, his calloused fingertips gently skating down the edge of your jawline. You relax every muscle in your body because you feel safe; Joel makes you feel safe.

   He trails his hand down your forearm and pauses at the dip in your wrist, where the scar is visible. His fingertips feel like fire as they hover over the marked area that still feels fresh from years ago.

   “You wanna talk ‘bout it?” he asks shakily, like you’ll break if he’s too loud or if he presses too hard on the scarred skin. You jump when he touches your wrist, and he quickly releases from that spot like he just burnt you more.

   “I…” There you go choking again. When will you ever learn?

    “You don’t have to talk ‘bout anything you’re not comfortable with, sweetheart. Jus’… I wanna know what happened to you because I want to understand you, want to make sure I don’t set off any triggers. I jus’ wanna know how to make you feel safe, babygirl.”

   Babygirl. There’s that word again. The one that makes you think you’re finally his.

   You flick your gaze up to him, staring into concerned brown eyes that draw you in like a moth to a flame. He always did know how to calm you down with just those soft, syrupy eyes. You look down and trace your index finger along the damp, wiry hairs along his chest, and then you take a deep breath.

   Here goes nothing.

   “No, I… I want to tell you everything. So let me try.” You take a shaky breath and breathe out slowly, numbing your body enough to where the adrenaline isn’t filling your lungs, and then you lay it all out like you should’ve long ago. “I went through a lot in my past, Joel. With Jason. He was… he wasn’t always terrible. At least not in the beginning. He picked up drinking after he was in the service. He wasn’t always home, but when he took an early retirement from the military and came back he was a horrible alcoholic. I mean, drowning a whole six pack or more a day. And it just got worse and worse. And he… he…”

   You have to take a breath and close your eyes for just a second, focusing on not falling apart as you feel hot tears well in your eyes at thinking back to the past you so desperately want to forget.

   Joel puts a comforting hand on your lower back, giving you that nudge you need to continue your story. “He got really mean, especially when he was drunk. And I wanted to get out so bad, but he’d just suck me right back in. Promising he’d change, that he’d do better, but he never did. He never even tried. And then I tried to leave one night because he had me so terrified that I packed a bag and ran, but he got me before I was able to make it out the door. And he… he threatened me. Had me pressed up to the door with his hand wrapped around my throat. And he… he told me if I ever left he’d find me. So I felt trapped, and I couldn’t even talk about it to anyone because I was so fucking scared that he’d come after them, too.”

   Joel’s eyes are wide, and his nostrils are flared, his hand drawing slow circles across your back in a soothing motion. You can see he’s fighting to keep his mouth shut, and he nods for you to continue.

   “And then one night, Jason got really drunk. It was a rainy night, and I was cooking him dinner. There was something he didn’t like or something about how I was out too late the night before. I can’t exactly remember, but he was so fucking angry. His eyes were bloodshot red, and he was screaming for me to get him another beer. And I just remember thinking he was going to do something terrible to me. He was… abusive and manipulative… and he was so damn good at talking me down. I still… sometimes I still have nightmares.”

   Joel’s fingers curl against your skin, and he presses you tighter against his chest, like he’s trying to soften the blow for you. He’s so good. 

   “But when I handed him the beer, he slapped my face hard and he broke the bottle on the coffee table, even smashed his dinner plate and sent the coffee table across the room. There was so much glass and noise and chaos… and I remember… I remember he pinned me down against the carpet and started lashing out at me, like I was the problem, like I was the reason he was so angry. And I tried to push him away, tried to scream for help, but he took the edge of the broken bottle and slashed my wrist open… he tried to kill me…”

   The bathroom goes completely silent as Joel stares at you with a hint of terror flashing through his eyes. You feel the hot pricks of teardrops cascade down your cheeks, and then you’re a blubbering mess again. “I remember the sirens, the police, how I blacked out and woke up in the hospital. And I was alone, didn’t even remember what happened. All I knew was that I was in a strange place with IVs hooked to my arms, and I could barely see straight because I lost so much blood. And I… I was… I was so scared, Joel. They said… they said I was almost dead. If they would’ve gotten there two minutes later I wouldn’t be sitting here telling you this…”

   Joel wraps his arms firmly around you, cupping the back of your head with a strong hand as he sends a wave of comfort around you, holding you while you cry your heart out and lay out everything just so he knows why you’re so messed up and broken.

   “Oh, babygirl. I’m so, so sorry you had to go through that. That’s… my god, that’s traumatizing.” You wrap your arms around his thick back, burrowing your face into his warm chest as you soak up his warmth.

   “And he… he always said how nobody else could love me, that I was worthless, that I was nothing. And that’s why… that’s why I am the way I am. Because of him.” Your voice cracks as more tears roll down your face. 

   Joel tips your chin up and rubs the tip of his thumb under your eyes, catching big tears as he brushes them away. “Oh, no no no, sweetheart. Don’t you believe him for one minute. You’re so beautiful and you’re strong and you’re worthy of love. Don’t think for one second on it, darlin’ girl. You’re worth it all.”

   You’re worth it all. The words make your eyes glassy as you stare wondrously at the man that saved you from it all. “Thank you for… for making me feel safe,” you whisper against his chest.

  “Always,” he murmurs as his thick fingers run through your hair calmly. “Thank you for trustin’ me with that information, angel,” he whispers against your ear. “You’re such a brave girl, you know that?” He gently presses his lips to the top of your head, and you sink deeper against his warm, welcoming chest. “The bravest girl I know.”

   You’re such a brave girl. The words make you choke back a sob. “You really think so?”

   “Mhm. I do, angel. I do.” His voice is so warm, almost like a brassy baritone sound that glides through your ears, like you could listen to it for forever.

   You melt into his firm chest, eyes glistening up at him as you swallow your tongue and force more explanations out that he probably doesn’t need. “It’s sometimes hard for me to ask for what I need. After so long of that, I kinda lost my voice on things that matter to me,” you mumble shyly as if he’ll draw back from you, but he only pulls you closer.

   “It’s okay, sweetheart. I can be patient,” he coos into the shell of your ear, sending a wave of relief down your body.

   “That’s why at the diner I couldn’t… I froze up when you asked me what I wanted. And I… God, I knew what I wanted. I just couldn’t say the words,” you stutter out, jumbling the words as they seem to blur all together.

   “Hey, s’alright, angel. I should’ve… fuck. I should’ve been better. The way I acted after the diner. I jus’ can’t tell you how sorry I am, sweetheart. I know I hurt you by what I did. I jus’ wasn’t thinking, and I should’ve picked up on the signs the first night I met you. The way… you were so hesitant, and each time I even got close to your lips… Shit, I’m jus’ real sorry, darlin’. There’s not enough apologies that I could give to make it up to you.” He sighs and drags a large hand through his tousled curls, letting another sigh of frustration catch in his throat. “I’m sorry for leavin’ you on read for two weeks. I jus’… I was a wreck myself, but that’s a sorry excuse for bein’ an asshole, and right now I don’t even deserve redemption after the trouble I caused.”

   You shake your head as if he shouldn’t be apologizing at all. “No, Joel. It’s okay. I should’ve just… I should’ve been better by now. About my feelings, about asking for what I need. I tried to bury my past, but all it did was eat me alive.”

   He cups your chin and lifts your face to where your eyes meet his, and he looks so soft and sincere. You think you could just drown in those syrupy eyes filled with warmth. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t apologize. Not after what you’ve been through, my brave girl. Don’t even think about it for one second.”

   My brave girl. The words send a splash of hope pulling through your veins at the word my, like maybe you are his.

   “Joel, I…”

   “Angel, s’alright. I’ll be whatever you need me to be, alright? Jus’ know that you’re so fuckin’ special, and I swear to god I’ll strangle myself before I ever hurt you again. And if someone even thinks of messin’ with you again, jus’ know I’ll kill ‘em with my bare hands. Because you are one of a kind, angel. Never met a girl like you before…”

   “Joel…” You drag your fingertips across his greying scruff, your eyes glistening with longing and need, and then the word block comes up. You push and push, until you have nothing standing in your way anymore from telling him how you really feel. You take a deep breath and let the words fall off your tongue like you’re free falling, and somehow you know he’ll catch you. “I just… what I wanted to say back at the diner is that… I want you. God, I’ve wanted you for so long. And when you didn’t talk to me for almost two weeks… well… it was just… it was the worst thing ever, but I knew I messed up and probably deserved it and…”

   He cuts you off, muttering a soft apology as he looks at you stunned for half a beat, his eyes raining with a look of longing and relief as he pulls you flush against his chest, letting the bubbles float around your entwined bodies. “Oh, sweetheart. No, you never messed up and you absolutely never deserved that. Listen to me very carefully. You have me. I’m all yours, sweet girl. I’ve been yours since that first night we met. And this is me askin’ for forgiveness, and I pray to god you’ll accept it because I don’t think I can see you walk out of this house unless it’s with me standing by your side.”

   Your eyes go wide as you stare into gentle brown eyes, eyes that say they want you. “You… you still want me? Even after…”

    He pushes back a piece of loose hair and grazes his knuckles softly down your jawline. “Angel, I’ve never stopped wanting you. And now, I want you even more.”

   “You… want me…” you repeat in a hushed whisper, afraid that your ears are deceiving you. No one’s ever wanted you, so how could this perfect, gentle man want you?

   “I want you every minute, every second, every breath of every day, sweetheart. I always want you. And if that asshole or any other fucker ever made you feel like you weren’t wanted then let me show you that that’s not true. Because I want you, angel. You’re worth everything, you beautiful, sweet girl. You’re worth it all.” 

   Your eyes blow wide as you feel a warm teardrop roll down your cheek. Joel brushes it away carefully with the pad of his thumb and lingers against your skin, making you feel warmth you’ve never felt in your life. 

   The bubbles splash around you with every shaky breath you take as your fingers graze his patchy beard, delicately tracing each strand of grey that threads through the dark hair, memorizing each fleck of onyx brown that glitters under the bathroom fluorescent lights. Your other hand pushes back a tousled curl off his tanned forehead, lingering your fingers in his messy hair like it’s your favorite shade of color that you want to lace your fingers through forever.

   This man, this sentimental, extremely sweet hunk of a man is yours. He wants you, he really wants you. And for the first time in your life you know what it should feel like to be cared for, to be wanted, to be loved. At least it feels like love. The slow, sensual way he says your name, the longing gazes from his deep hazel eyes that make you blush like a silly girl with a school crush, the way he takes care of you, listens to you, the way he makes you feel safe like no one else has.

   Safe. He makes you feel so safe, so seen, so loved. That’s it. Love. You love this man, and you really just want to fucking kiss him because he’s looking at you all doe-eyed and like you’re the only thing in the world that he wants to look at. And that’s it. You’re finished, smitten, done. 

   This is it.

   It’s like the world stops spinning on its axis as you carefully lace your fingers through his curls, your other hand sliding along his chiseled jaw as you push yourself higher onto his lap and let your forehead connect with his.    

   He breathes in deep and hooks one arm around your lower back, his other hand skimming underneath your chin, letting the tip of his thumb graze along your lower lip. He lets it sit there, memorizing each crevice, every line that connects your smooth lips, and it’s like fire that tingles down your body, like no one has ever touched you before. Not like this, not like he’s mapping out every single trace of your soul, reaching in and stroking your heart like he’s putting together every broken piece of your shattered past.

   “Do you know what my favorite thing about you is, angel?” He whispers with a deep, gravelly tone, shaking your very core as he continues to explore the lines of your lips.

   “What?” Your voice is so scratchy that you almost don’t recognize it. You’re just very aware of how close his lips are, how intimate this moment is in the bathtub, on his lap while he tells you how much he wants you. And it’s so much, so very paralyzingly too intimate, but you don’t care. You don’t have the strength to deny him any longer when you want him just as badly as he wants you.

   “How brave you are. You’re the bravest, strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And the best part is how you wear your heart on your sleeve even after everything you’ve been through. And I’m so lucky to have had the honor of meeting the prettiest angel in the room the first night I met you. And I’m so happy that I can call you mine, pretty little angel. You’re mine.”

   You lean into Joel’s broad body, threading your fingers through his hair, gasping at the beautiful words that fall off his tongue so easily, mesmerized by the incredible man that keeps you breathless with every word he speaks.

   You breathe in his rich mahogany scent, clinging to every word that wraps around your mind. You brush his nose and feel the warmth that heats off his skin, his lips, his very essence that seems to crash into your own body. And it’s like every single sound in the world stops as your lips brush his, like this is what you’ve waited for your entire life, to kiss him. 

   The slight tug of his large hand that cups the back of your neck is all the motivation you need. You let your hand fall against his slacked jaw, and then your lips are on his.

   Warm. His lips are so warm, soft, perfect. Like they were molded just for you. You lean into his chest and hum against his plush lips as you circle your arms around the back of his neck. It’s like earth stops and gravity isn’t real, even the bubbles in the bath seem to come to a standstill as the kiss permeates throughout the room like sparkling firecrackers filling the warm air.

   You part your lips, allowing him to slot his tongue into your mouth, and then he’s surrounding you in complete warmth as you melt as his honey-like tongue explores your mouth slowly. The kiss is nothing like you’ve experienced before. It’s warm, slow, inviting, and it’s written with Joel all over it.

   Joel doesn’t rush, only takes his time as he delves into your mouth, swallowing his cinnamon taste as you drown in the very essence of him. Your bodies move in unison, fingers threading against one another’s hair, hearts beating impossibly fast against each other’s chests, a slow staccato rhythm that lights hearts on fire. You’ve never experienced anything this romantic in your life.

   The kiss eventually ends as his lips disconnect with yours, and all you want to do is get wrapped up in your favorite lips again, but your breathing is ragged and you need some air as the stifling feelings start to fill your chest.

   Joel laces his fingers through your hair and looks down at you with the most beautiful shade of deep brown eyes you’ve ever seen in your life, and you swear he looks completely smitten with you, almost like he’s in love. “You’re tellin’ me I had to wait that long to kiss you?” He smiles, resting his forehead down on yours.

   “Sorry,” you apologize with red cheeks.

   “Don’t gotta be sorry, angel. That was one hell of a kiss. The best damn kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life,” he purrs, lightly stroking slow circles against your jawline.

   You gently laugh as you curl a finger down his broad chest. “Still, sorry I made you wait so long.”

   He shakes his head and smiles warmly. “I’d wait forever if I had to, angel. You’re worth it.”

   Your lips part and your eyes glisten as you stare at the man who has your entire heart. And god, you want to tell him how irrevocably in love you are with him, and that’s exactly what you do. You just let it float through the bathroom, completely aware of every single thing that could go wrong, but you can’t hide your feelings for him anymore. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, so you’ll have him. “Joel, I think… I think… I’m in love with you.”

   His eyes soften into molten chocolate, and his smile is absolutely radiant as it curls over his plush lips. “And what would you say if I said I was in love with you, too?”

   “What?” You freeze, thinking you heard that wrong. He loves you? Oh. Oh my…

   “I love you, my sweet little angel. I’ve been in love with you since I saw you across the bar. I jus’ knew you were the one. They always say you know. Didn’t know what they meant until I saw you lookin’ over at me with those beautiful eyes of yours. I knew from that moment you’d be mine.” 

   Your mouth parts open as you suck in a breath, all your guarded walls and insecurities dropping on the spot as you play the words again and again in your head, until you can fully comprehend what he just said to you.

   He’s in love with you. With you! You don’t know how, you don’t know why he did, but you just know you feel it as much as he does. And your skin is absolutely glowing as you grin mesmerizingly up at his brown starry eyes. “You really love me?”

   “Oh, my little angel. Yes, I love you. You take the breath out of me.”

   You map out every fleck of amber in his eyes, every crevice of pure syrupy colors that call your name like a magical siren, and then you’re falling, crashing into his lips until you can only breathe him. There’s no oxygen left, there’s only him and his cinnamon taste that drips off your tongue.

   Your body molds to his, fingers lacing through messy curls, chest flush to his, climbing him like you can’t get close enough, can’t touch his tanned skin enough, can’t be satiated when his tongue is circling yours, marking his taste where you think you need him the most, so it can slip down and wrap around your heart, marking you as his own.

   After a few minutes of heated tension and messy kisses, you untether from each other and just sit there in the warm, bubbly water, just breathing each other’s air like it’s the only oxygen you need. It’s just you and Joel, your own little safe space, a space he carved out just for you.

   He turns you around and brings your back flush to his chest, wrapping a protective arm around your hips while his lips trace the top of your head until you can only close your eyes and breathe him in. Coffee, cinnamon, a fresh forest with chopped firewood. A warm fire, burning just for you. 

   After another half hour Joel helps you out of the tub, wrapping a soft cotton towel around your soaked body. He uses his large hands to help you dry off, taking slow strokes to your skin as the towel dries the water off your skin. He’s so gentle, careful, even delicate with every move he makes, every touch, every breath. He’s just… perfect. 

   “Here, you can wear some of my sweats. And I’ll get you a clean shirt.” 

   “Oh, okay,” you smile. He brushes his lips over your forehead softly before wrapping a towel around his waist and taking off to his closet, searching around for clothes that you get to wear. 

   You lean against the bathroom doorway and stare mesmerizingly at this beautiful man, watching him toss a long white t-shirt over his bare shoulder as his hands move hangers out of the way to find his sweats. You laugh at the way he tosses hangers to the side, muttering under his breath that he knows he put them right there. You tilt your head back against the bathroom door, assessing him while he works to find you just what you need.

   Your eyes flit to the center of the room where a large mirror hangs and shades of soft cream fill the walls. You freeze when you see it, jaw dropping as you take in what sits on the edge of his mahogany dresser, right where the sunlight catches from the open window. There, right on the crevice of the dresser is a shiny hardcover Iron Flame book. “You bought Iron Flame?”

   “Mhm,” he smiles, turning toward you with a fresh pair of grey sweats in his hand.

   “But why? I thought…”

   “I bought it because it was the closest thing I could get to havin’ you near me when all I wanted was you in my arms.” 

   You look at him wide-eyed, a small smile curling over your mouth as he comes and stands in front of you, trailing a hand slowly down your jawline. “Joel… you finished Fourth Wing?”

   “Two days after the diner, that’s all I did was read. Finished it in one night because I could smell you on the pages. You smell like freshly printed books on a warm summer’s evening, and it had your scent all over those pages, angel.” His lips brush over yours, just long enough to breathe in his fresh cologne, and you feel as if you’re free falling in thin air, but Joel’s right at the bottom, ready to catch you before you collapse. 

   “Joel… I… I’m speechless. You read because it reminded you of me?” you whisper out.

   “Mhm. That’s right, sweet girl. Jus’ for you.” His fingers lace with yours, lips caressing your knuckles as if he’s drinking you in.

   “I… God, I love you.”

   He lifts his eyes and smiles at you as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist. “I love you, too, my beautiful angel…”

   Then his lips are on yours. Soft, gentle, magnetic, electric. And there you go, floating off into a fluffy cloud as his taste and touch send you into a euphoric trance.

   “Are you hungry?” he asks as lets his hands slide from your waist.

   “Mhm.”

   “How ‘bout I cook you come breakfast? But, I have a condition.”

   You raise your eyebrows and playfully smirk at him. “And what’s that?” you giggle.

   “Read to me.” It’s not a question but an ask. He wants you to read to him.

   “You want me to read to you?” Your eyes flick up to his, and those gentle brown eyes are searing into your soul.

   “Yes. Wanna hear that beautiful voice of yours. Read me Iron Flame.”

   You let the words simmer for a few seconds as he slips on a pair of casual jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to his broad chest, making the sculpted muscles flare against his strong build. And his messy curls are still wet and slicked back and so beautiful. This man is more than perfect, he’s yours. Just as you are his.

   “Okay,” you smile, feeling your cheeks blush red as he sends a crooked, adorable smile your way. 

   God, you’re never going to get enough of this man.

   After breakfast, you and Joel end up in his favorite leather recliner. He laces his arms around you and brings you flush against his broad chest, circling his hands with yours as you hold up Iron Flame and quietly read it together. His warm breath blows down the nape of your neck, and you lean into his space, letting the scent of coffee and pine cones envelop the air. You think this is how it always should’ve been, what you’ve been looking for your entire life. It’s Joel. It’s always been Joel. You just had to pave your way through the bad guys to find your knight in shining armor. The one you were always meant to fall in love with.

   “I love you, pretty girl,” he whispers in the shell of your ear, holding you tighter like he never wants to let you go.

   “And I love you too, Joel Miller.”

   “Think these two are endgame?” He’s referring to Violet and Xaden in the book, but you really think he’s talking about you and him.

   “Still got three books to go, but I see it like the ending is right in front of me. They’re so endgame.”

   “Think you’re right, my sweet angel. I think they’re infinite, like you and me.” His lips brush against your forehead, and his fingers lace through yours as you let the next page fall away from your grasp.

   “Infinite, huh?” you whisper.

   “Infinite,” he confirms.

   You tilt your head up and let your lips capture his, saying your feelings as you tug him closer and run your fingers through his thick curls, giggling as he cradles you in his arms and slots his tongue against yours, letting the coffee serenade you with the taste of Joel on your lips.

   You think this is how it should always be, you and him. Right here in his recliner, reading books together, entwined fingers, lips on each other’s as if you both can’t get enough of one another. 

   You were always meant to find him. And he turned out to be your knight in shining armor. And maybe your forever.

   This was just the beginning. You still had a lifetime to go.

[lionlena]

I can't be everywhere (No outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader) ANGST! Part 1

Summary: You knew Joel was a busy man, but you never thought that when you needed him most you would hear, "I can't be everywhere." As if your pain meant nothing. So you decided that you couldn't be everywhere either… You couldn't be in his heart anymore.

Warnings: ANGST, miscarriage, misunderstanding, loss, mourning, broken heart, age gap (17 years), Joel is 45, depression, Joel tries hard, but… He can't show his true emotions…

A/N: I added a small cameo from 9-1-1 Texas, Tommy, Nancy, and TK ;)

Part 1

You met Joel by accident when your boss decided to renovate the offices. But no... He didn't transfer employees to another location or to work from home. NO. He decided that somehow all of you would share the space with the construction workers.

You were furious, as were the rest of the employees. You all understood that for the next few weeks, you would be distracted by the sounds of a drill, the hits of a hammer, the smell of paint...

And yet this was not the most distracting thing, at least for women. The Miller brothers turned out to be what prevented you from focusing on your work.

And while most of your friends sighed at younger brother, you couldn't take your eyes off Joel. Those broad shoulders, those biceps straining against the flannel shirt, the dark hair streaked with gray… He was the reason you fantasized during work, something you had never done before.

But you thought that the fantasies would end there. You realized that Joel was almost 17 years older than you. On top of that, he showed no interest in you... in anyone, really. He was a bit grumpy and silent, unlike Tommy who was constantly smiling and talking to all the women in the office.

Thanks to him, you found out that Joel had a daughter who went to college. So you quickly calculated that you were only about 8 years older than his daughter. This definitely didn't sound like a relationship that could work. Even the fact that Joel was single didn't make you dare to go beyond your fantasies.

Until one unlucky evening…

You stayed at work late to catch up. Joel stayed too and started renovating the women's bathroom. This meant that when you felt the need to use the bathroom, you had to use the men's bathroom. Unfortunately, you completely forgot that their toilet has a broken lock that sticks.

So when you calmly did what you had to do, you suddenly discovered that you couldn't leave. You quickly started to panic. It's not that you were claustrophobic. You could stay in tight spaces as long as you knew you could leave. That's why you avoided the elevator because you were terrified of getting stuck between floors.

So of course, being locked in the bathroom must have triggered a panic attack. On top of that, you left your phone on the desk. You stopped thinking straight very quickly. Instead of trying to open the door, you just started screaming and punching the door. You were probably there for about 5 minutes, but it felt like you had been there for an hour and you couldn't breathe.

Suddenly you heard someone's voice saying that he would help you soon. Then the door finally opened and you just ran out into the hall, hitting that person, but you had to get out.

You leaned back against the wall and tried to regain control. Suddenly you felt large, warm hands on your shoulders and you saw those warm brown eyes in front of you. It slowly dawned on you that the person who freed you was Joel.

"Hey… hey, calm down. Y/N, right?"

You nodded without even thinking when he found out your name.

“Okay, Y/N, focus on my voice. You're safe, nothing bad happened. Take a deep breath… and exhale. Yes, just like that. Very good.”

His calm, comforting voice and strong hands brought you back to reality. But the peace lasted only a moment and was quickly replaced by shame.

"Oh god! I'm sorry... I hit you when..."

Joel smiled and shook his head. "Relax. You didn't do anything I couldn't handle." He looked at you gently. "How are you feeling? You had a panic attack... Are you claustrophobic?"

Joel still had his hands on you and you couldn't help but think how good it felt.

"No... I'm just scared when I'm in a closed room... When I can't get out... Thank you for your help."

Joel finally pulled away from you and nodded in understanding. After a moment, he replied: "I'm glad I could help you. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm doing overtime."

Joel chuckled quietly. "That's the two of us."

And suddenly you couldn't help yourself and said. "Would you like some coffee? I know it's late, but since we're both going to work some more, maybe we could use some caffeine."

Joel nodded eagerly and that was how it began.

As they say: the rest is history.

One coffee turned into daily chats and an invitation to lunch. Then an invitation to dinner turned into a hot night. The hot night turned into quickies in his truck as he drove you to work.

Even though the renovation in your office was over, your romance with Joel has only just begun. And when your friends were despairing that they didn't see Tommy anymore, you thought about your next meeting with Joel with a smile on your face.

After half a year of dating, Joel suggested that you try moving in with him. There were several reasons to agree. You kept complaining about the rent. His house was closer to your work. Joel was a busy man and living with him made it easier for you to spend time together.

And you were happy. Or at least that's what you told yourself. Joel was loved. Sex with him was great. His daughter took a liking to you when she came home for a few days, so everything was in place.

You were happy... You repeated to yourself every time your friends told you how they spent the weekend with their boyfriend at the lake, or how they were at a party and you...

You were making dinner for your tired boyfriend. You told yourself it was better this way. You have an older, mature man who gives you a stable life. You couldn't see the fact that he worked hard as a flaw. But sometimes you wondered if Joel regretted his relationship with you. Did he expect something different? He just wanted adventure and then didn't want to break your heart?

And then it happened... You thought one broken condom was no big deal. Joel thought so too. He said you'd have to be very bad luck if you were to get pregnant from one accident.

But it turned out... Bad luck... Except you couldn't think about your child like that, and Joel...

His reaction was… Neutral. He smiled and assured you that he would take care of you and the baby, but he didn't say anything more. There were no happy shouts, no kisses, no belly touching. Only this peace, which you even perceived as cold.

But you consoled yourself with the thought that it wasn't really about you, it was about Sarah's mom. Joel told you about her. About how she wanted to give Sarah up for adoption right after she was born, but Joel convinced her that they would be a happy family. However, when Sarah turned two, her mother decided she had had enough of motherhood and disappeared, leaving Joel with a broken heart and a small child.

So you thought he was afraid of a repeat. You decided that when he saw that you wanted to be a mother and that you loved this child, he would start to show his feelings.

So you loved your unborn child. You stroked your belly and talked to the baby. You took care of your diet and timidly started browsing websites selling cradles.

But Joel didn't notice this because he was practically not home. He worked even harder and you had the feeling that he was doing it on purpose to avoid you. Although he justified it by having to help Sarah stay in college. You felt sidelined.

You were 12 weeks pregnant when you woke up in the morning with terrible stomach pain. You curled into a ball and moaned in pain.

"Joel!" you shouted, hoping that maybe he hadn't left the house yet.

But only silence answered you. You slowly reached for your phone and dialed his number.

'Y/N… I'm in the car, call…'

'Joel! Something's wrong... My stomach hurts terribly.'

You heard a sigh on the other end.

'Honey, calm down. It's definitely nothing serious. Lie in bed and rest.'

You felt tears gathering in your eyes.

'I need you.'

Another moment of silence.

'An investor is coming today. I have to be there, but I promise I'll be back soon. Just try to calm down. Everything will be fine.'

His voice was soothing and even brought you relief for a brief moment. You swallowed your tears and took a deep breath.

'Okay,' you said in a weak voice.

'That's my girl. I'll call you soon. Rest, darling.'

Joel hung up and you felt another painful pressure in your lower abdomen. No matter how hard you tried to calm down. It was getting worse by the minute. And when you felt the wetness between your legs, you panicked. You looked down and saw a red stain. You grabbed the phone and called 9-1-1.

Twenty minutes later, rescuers arrived at your home. A dark-skinned woman in her early 50s was the first to approach you. She smiled at you in a friendly manner.

"Hi, Sweetheart. I'm Captain Tommy Vega, and these are my paramedics, Nancy and TK. We'll do everything we can to help you."

You nodded and moaned in pain. The young man who approached you also seemed very friendly and explained everything he was doing to you. It made you feel a little better. When they helped you onto the stretcher and told you they were taking you to the hospital, you asked:

"Will I lose my baby?"

They looked at you sympathetically. Captain Vega grabbed your hand and calmly replied, "We'll take you to the hospital, they'll check everything there."

You already knew what that meant. You lost your baby, but they didn't want to upset you. They couldn't tell you the truth directly. You nodded and asked, "Can I call my boyfriend?"

Tommy replied, "Of course, but while we're in the ambulance."

Once you were in the ambulance, you tried calling again, but Joel wasn't answering the phone. TK, seeing your sadness, grabbed your hand comfortingly, but it didn't help you much. You were in pain, your stomach hurt and you felt alone and scared. At the hospital, the doctor confirmed what you already knew. You lost your baby.

Joel wasn't there when you cried about it. He wasn't there when they put you in the hospital bed and gave you medication. He was gone... You finally texted him to let him know you were in the hospital and then you fell asleep.

When you woke up a few hours later, you felt someone holding your hand. You looked to the side and saw his brown, worried eyes.

“Joel… Our baby…” you sobbed.

Joel immediately stood up, hugged you, and kissed your forehead.

"Shhh, everything will be fine. Take it easy."

You cried for a few minutes in his arms and waited for something more. You wanted to hear more. That he is sorry, that he suffers too...

You looked at him hurt and asked, "Why weren't you with me?"

Joel grimaced slightly and you saw pain flash in his eyes for a moment, but then it disappeared and he replied coldly, "I can't be everywhere."

You blinked your eyes and looked at him. For a moment you thought you misheard. But his words echoed in your head and burned a mark on your heart. "I can't be everywhere." This wasn't what you expected. "I'm sorry I couldn't be with you." "I would give anything so you wouldn't have to go through this alone." Or at least just: "I'm sorry." You silently looked at him and waited. You waited for him to say something else, something that would even slightly help ease your pain, but Joel just sat next to you and held your hand as if that would be enough. But it wasn't enough. You wanted to cry and scream, but you felt so tired. You finally removed your hand from his and rolled onto your side, wrapping your arms around your belly.

"I want to sleep."

Joel was surprised for a moment, but then he stood up from his seat.

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you in the morning."

He kissed your head and disappeared. And with his disappearance, any remaining illusions you had that Joel wanted this baby disappeared. And why didn't he want to? Maybe it's because he never planned on staying with you long-term, and the baby would force him to do so.

Maybe he never took you seriously. You were just a girl he wanted to play with for a while. Nobody who was important. No one whom he needed. These thoughts washed over you like a wave of a great black ocean and pulled you under. You started sobbing so hard that your whole body was shaking. You've never felt so alone... So broken.

Suddenly you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder and heard the nurse's warm voice.

"Shhh, calm down. I know it hurts. I'm sorry you lost your baby."

Her words only made you cry louder. A stranger showed you more understanding and compassion than your own boyfriend who left you alone.

And maybe Joel didn't love that baby, but you did.

The next day you left the hospital and Joel took you home. Somehow he found time for it. He even told you he took two days off.

Two days!

You didn't know whether to laugh or punch him in the face. Two days for you to heal your heart. Two days for you to come to terms with the loss and return to normal life. Was this what Joel expected?

You didn't know that because you barely talked to each other. You spent most of those two days lying on the couch and staring at the TV. And Joel walked quietly around you. He would bring you sandwiches and water, cover you with a blanket, and sit at the end of the couch. He placed your legs on his lap and massaged them gently. Maybe under normal circumstances, you would have found it sweet, but the pain in your heart and the words he said in the hospital made you grow bitter. You couldn't stand him and when he went back to work, for the first time you were actually happy about it.

For the next few days, life was the same. In the morning he would get up and kiss your head. He asked if you needed anything and you said no. When he left the house, you moved to the couch and spent half the day there. Joel returned in the evening, but unlike in the old days, there was no warm dinner waiting for him. He greeted you and looked at you with something strange in his eyes. You couldn't tell if it was disappointment, anger, or pity.

You didn't care about this. Joel couldn't be everywhere and you were slowly coming to terms with the fact that you couldn't be everywhere either.

A week after the miscarriage, you made a decision. You called your best friend who lived in Florida. You cried and told her everything and heard only one sentence: "Pack up and come immediately."

And so you did. You packed two suitcases and threw them in your car. You left a short note on the kitchen table.

"I'm going away for a while. I don't know if I'll come back. I'm sorry Joel, I can't be everywhere either."

You got into the car and took one last look at Joel's house. You felt tears sting your eyes, but you stopped yourself from crying.

You couldn't be in Joel's heart anymore.

So let me just give up So let me just let go If this isn't good for me Well, I don't wanna know Let me just stop trying Let me just stop fighting I don't want your good advice Or reasons why I'm alright You don't know what it's like You don't know what it's like Don't look at me like that Just like you understand Don't try to pull me back *Katelyn Tarver - 'You don't know'

Tag list: @fahemzzz

Part 2

[cowboyjen68]

Do you have any tips on how to dress & like.. BE as butch as you can whilst living under a household that expects you to be feminine and dress feminine? Sorry if this is a difficult question..

Start with boxers or boxer briefs. (boy shorts in the girls section). These can be passed off as sleeping shorts, summer PJ's etc so when they are in the laundry you can just call them that.

Wearing boxers was a game changer for me before I really started to go back (like when I was a kid) to wearing what I really wanted to wear.

T shirts, Hoodies, jeans and canvas high tops are pretty gender neutral and so are flannel shirts. Most of these things are seen as casual teen or young adult wear. Leaving the house in a flannel over a a t shirt can look very different if tucked in with a nice leather belt. Add a cool buckle and suddenly BUTCH.

They make "women's cut flannel" that is a bit more of a fitted look but getting one a little large and tucking it in takes some of the feminine look from it. Wrangler and Eddie Bauer both carry a women's line.

Wrangler has a women's dressier button down (snap if their retro version) shirt line that is decent and getting it a bit larger and tucking it in or worn open over a T shirt can give you a bit of a butch look but "look mom, it's a woman's shirt". The think about Cowboy fashion it the men's and women's shirts are equally as bold and colorful and flashy.

Columbia sells decent walking and hiking boots that are very similar from men's to women's. I think most farm stores and wilderness outfitters are going to sell clothing for either gender that is very similar.

I hope this helps a bit. (thrift stores and estate sales, even garage sales are great places to get a lot of variety).

[silverzoomies]

Only Me

kyle spencer x reader smut

warnings: dubious consent, biting, kissing, shameless smut, undead kyle, zombie sex, zombie kink, halloween, song lyrics, dead dove: do not eat

word count: 6,205

a/n: hiiii !! halloween fic in june !! lol this one's my most bizarre fic yet probably !! i made kyle a lot more zombified than he was in the show !! if you're squeamish about corpses and wounds and stuff, i wouldn't tread any further !!

apologies for the usual: inconsistencies, characters ooc (kyle's a little more instinctive/aggressive here), clunky writing, etc etc etc

taglist: @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz (as usual, ask to be added !!)

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A full moon shined in a bright, stunning spectacle, high above Miss Robichaux’s Academy. A striking contrast to the black skies of a particularly cool Halloween night. Shrouded in a veil of evening darkness, the old-fashioned academy emitted an otherworldly glow. From the first floor windows, flashing lights of slime green and hellish orange flickered in endless repetition.

Inside, a small group of young witches danced. Dressed in their skimpiest costumes, they moved fluidly to the beat of Oingo Boingo’s Dead Man’s Party. Blaring loudly through a large set of speakers, the tune mingled with the girls’ laughter. Meanwhile, the older women of the academy socialized near cluttered snack tables. They chatted away with each other, paying no mind to their free-spirited students.

Dead Man’s Party.

An ironic song, you thought. Given the only ‘dead’ man in the room seemed beyond confused. You wondered if he even knew what the purpose of a party was. His Frankenstein brain might’ve forgotten parties entirely. Such a concept was also ironic. Considering, when he was alive, Kyle had attended enough frat parties to keep the beer industry thriving for years at a time.

The ancestral room felt alive with energy. You stood in a corner with your back against the wall, sipping overpriced punch Myrtle Snow had prepared herself. An unamused look crossed your face, as you watched Zoe and Madison dance. Their movements were effortless and intentionally suggestive.

Between them, looking out of place and somewhat lost, was Kyle. The zombified blond was hunched over in his loose-fitting flannel shirt. And his expression spoke of someone who had no idea what was happening around him. Unlike everyone else in the room, he hadn’t worn a costume.

Poor guy. It seemed like no one had warned him ahead of time.

There was an unmistakable tension in the air, as Madison and Zoe grinded their thin figures against Kyle. The indecent movements of their dancing were almost unbearable to watch. And you couldn’t help but recoil at the sight. The girls glared at each other, trying to outdo the other in a shallow competition for Kyle’s attention.

As Kyle stood there, he kept his head tilted down. His curly, blond hair fell into his face, and his eyes were blank and empty. Kyle must have been oblivious to the girls’ intentions. You felt a pang of discomfort in your chest at the thought.

“Jeez…it’s like I’m watchin’ a car crash in real time…and I can’t look away…” You said, sipping your punch.

Queenie, dressed in a dingy, striped sweater and a Freddy Krueger cap, leaned casually against the wall next to you. Her sweater fell loose off her shoulder, leaving it bare. She sipped her punch as she laughed, her Kreuger claws resting on her hip. Oingo Boingo echoed in the background, competing with the sound of her voice as she spoke.

“Those two are a wreck if I’ve ever seen one.” She joked, shaking her head, “Somebody’s gotta get in there and save that poor guy. Dude looks miserable. ”

“How pissed do you think they’d be if I cut in?” You asked. Glancing down at the lacy hem of your dress, you toyed with it idly in thought.

The pounding music in the room seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat. Danny Elfman’s wavering voice echoed, booming throughout the floor.

I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walkin’ with a dead man, with a dead man

Your ruby red slippers twinkled on your feet. You wore an (admittedly) revealing Dorothy of Oz costume, with a blue dress lined with white lace. The skirt barely reached past your thighs, showing off your legs in thin, white stockings. You clutched a decorative picnic basket, with a plush, scottie dog sticking his head out from inside. His beady eyes shined in the party lights.

“You’d be doin’ Kyle a favor if you did. But, girl, I dunno…” Queenie pushed herself off the wall, “You know those two ain’t messin’ around. They’re feral over him. Listen, whatever you decide to do? It’s your funeral. We’ve all seen what happens when Madison loses her shit.”

Queenie sauntered off then, her hips swaying with each step. She joined Nan on the dance floor. And you let out a sigh, knocking your head against the wall. After watching Zoe and Madison’s shameful display for a few moments longer, you decided enough was enough. You pulled your phone from your basket to check the time. Only 6pm.

Gracing your ears in tune with the catchy beat of the song, Danny Elfman’s voice rang out.

Don’t run away, it’s only me

Don’t be afraid of what you can’t see

If your hunch was correct, neighborhood trick-or-treating had only just begun. And even though you and Kyle were well into adulthood, the thought of indulging in such an innocent, nostalgic activity was too enticing to resist. Halloween was a holiday wherein Kyle could blend in with the general population. And if you accompanied him, he’d finally get some reprieve from the constant objectification he was accustomed to. It was a win-win.

You waited a few more minutes, hoping the two girls would eventually tire of their petty competition. As time passed, Madison finally stumbled off in her heels. Presumably to have a smoke out back. Queenie, ever the helpful friend, pulled Zoe away for a dance. Leaving Kyle free of anyone’s clutches. Seizing your chance, you immediately stepped in. And you lead him upstairs to your room.

It took around ten minutes for the two of you to finally leave the academy for trick-or-treating.

Five minutes to patiently explain your plan to Kyle, trying your best to help him understand. And another five minutes to help him get ready, after struggling to clarify what Halloween was to begin with. You asked if he wanted to dress up in a costume. 

Kyle’s only response was a simple, slurred-

“W-Woooooolf.”

He then made an awroooo sound in an adorable attempt to mimic a wolf’s howl. It was the cutest thing you’d ever seen Kyle do. And hearing him make such a precious sound instantly melted your heart.

You took the time to chat with Kyle. And you joked that if you’d known ahead of time he wanted to be a wolf, the two of you could have coordinated costumes. Perhaps you could have gone as Little Red Riding Hood, and him as the big, bad wolf. Even though you weren’t sure if Kyle understood the reference, he gave you the sweetest smile nonetheless. In his undead eyes, you saw a sparkle of lingering humanity. You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling your heart melt just a little more.

Carefully guiding Kyle to the bathroom, you brought him in front of the mirror. Using a dark, eyeliner pencil, you drew a big, black dot on the tip of his nose. Then, with a steady hand, you doodled adorable, cartoon whiskers on his cheeks.

Which, in retrospect, made him look more like a cat than a wolf.

But Kyle seemed delighted with his new appearance regardless. He held his big hands up in front of the mirror, curling his fingers into claws. Kyle faked a snarl, scrunching his nose and showing off his pink-tinted teeth. The teeth of a dead man.

To your own surprise, you managed to sneak Kyle out of the academy without a single hitch.

For the next few hours, you lead him around a local neighborhood. As the two of you made your way down the street, you marveled at the eerie decorations at every house. Politely, you approached each doorstep, excitedly proclaiming, “ Trick-or-treat! ” while holding Kyle’s hand loosely in yours.

Thankfully, nobody seemed to mind that you two were well past the necessary age for trick-or-treating.

You stopped to explain the concept of Halloween to him once more, after he struggled to understand what trick-or-treating was. He furrowed his blond brows, as though deep in thought. Kyle made a frustrated grunt in response. You couldn’t help but smile, finding his confusion…strangely endearing. Everything about him was endearing, really.

Despite his initial confusion, Kyle definitely enjoyed the candy aspect of Halloween. The treats. His opaque eyes lit up with glee, and he held his pumpkin bucket up in front of you like a fabulous prize. You cheered him on, showing off your basket overflowing with goodies.

A thick mugginess in the air felt sticky against your skin. As the hour grew later, the air shifted to a sharper, colder chill. Crisp, autumn leaves fluttered in the breeze, twirling in colorful circles along the road. The once charming decorations at every house now appeared all too creepy in the dark. Illuminated only by a combination of moonlight, and the occasional streetlight; the neighborhood appeared desolate and empty. You wrapped an arm around yourself for security and warmth.

Perhaps it was time to return to the academy before things got any spookier.

Kyle loomed in close proximity to you all night. And as the hours passed, he leaned in even closer. Part of you began to question your assumptions about him. Perhaps you had misjudged. Maybe Kyle appreciated the constant attention Zoe and Madison gave him back at the academy.

His craving for physical touch was obvious. Every time you tried to create some space between the two of you, he pressed himself against you again. It became clear then, physical intimacy was something Kyle wanted on an almost constant basis. And given his limited communication skills, you figured he had no other way of expressing such a need. He stuck to your side like glue, walking with you throughout the cold, dark neighborhood.

You were reminded of that Oingo Boingo song. Dead Man’s Party.

I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walkin' with a dead man, with a dead man

Ooh-ooh, waitin' for an invitation to arrive

Ooh, walkin' with a dead man, with a dead man

Despite his proximity, Kyle’s body provided you with no warmth. You were left plagued by the nightly chill in the air. And out of nowhere, Kyle groaned, sounding displeased about… something. You didn’t know what. Worried it was your fault, you moved to give him more space. Kyle appeared even more annoyed then. He choked on words he couldn’t say. And you stopped in your tracks on the sidewalk. Gazing at him with concern in your eyes, you tried to deduce what the problem was.

“Hey, K-” You started.

Before you could ask him, Kyle reached out a hand. He stared down at you with black, cloudy eyes. Between his pale, grey lips rested a half-eaten candy bar. His fingers were covered with sticky chocolate. And he made a move to pull the collar of your low-cut dress down.

“Oh! Wh-...Kyle!! What are you doing, honey?!” You shrieked in hushed surprise.

At that moment, something must have clicked in Kyle’s Frankenstein brain. Some kind of instinctive shift.

Even though he loved his candy, chocolate wasn’t necessarily the kind of Halloween treat he wanted. He pulled the chocolate bar from his lips, tossing it aside into the grass.

“Treeeaat…” He slurred, with his pale, chapped lips coated in chocolate. Kyle tugged the front of your dress down even lower, “Tr…tr-trick…or treeeat?”

Your breasts almost popped out from the force of his strong tug. The swell of them bounced in a mesmerizing display, looking supple and smooth. Smears of chocolate stained the clean, white lace of your dress. Gasping, you backed up before Kyle could do anymore damage. You stumbled on your sparkling, ruby slippers. As you struggled to find your balance, Kyle eagerly followed. He pushed his strong body against yours, leaning down to kiss you.

“Kyle, no! N-Not that I mind, if this is what you want! But…can you at least wait until we get home, bud?” You protested, bringing a hand to his mouth to stop him.

You were fearful of any late-night passerby catching the two of you in such a compromising position. Kyle knit his brows together, put off by your rejection. You gave him a sympathetic look, and lowered your hand.

Whatever you said before, none of it registered. Kyle abruptly attacked your neck with his mouth, and you sucked in a sharp breath. His lips were frigid and cold against your skin, their rough, chapped texture scraping across your neck. Reveling in your taste, he hungrily swirled his cool, slimy tongue.

“Honey, no-...s-stop! You can’t-” You pathetically whined, patting him repeatedly on the shoulders to get his attention.

Kyle devoured your neck like a Halloween treat, sloppily tonguing your smooth, warm skin. You squirmed as he wrapped his thick arms around you tightly, pulling you closer. The entire weight of Kyle’s body pressed itself into yours. Dead weight. You lost your balance again, stumbling backwards. And without meaning to, you slipped off your feet behind a nearby lining of bushes.

Taking a tumble, Kyle came down with you. He immediately took advantage of your vulnerable position on the ground, crawling over your body. Even as you continued to protest, Kyle’s attention returned to your neck. He nipped at your skin, flicking his sticky tongue in a desperate thirst for more of you. Underneath your body, you felt dewey grass seep wetness into your dress. You squirmed again, hesitant to give in to Kyle’s reckless desire.

“Pleaaaase! Just let me-...Kyle, please, help me up, won’t you?” You begged in a desperate plea.

He groaned a throaty noise into your soft neck, and his hands began to explore your body. Fighting to maintain your dignity, as well as your modesty; you made another move to push Kyle off of you. Your hands pressed hard at his thick shoulders, but he refused to budge.

“I’m serious! If you wanna do this together, we can, okay? Just…not here! This is…it’s a neighborhood, right? What if someone sees?? Let’s just wait until we get home, please?” You insisted, “Kyle, p-

Unexpectedly, he cut you off (or shut you up, rather) with a surprise kiss. 

Lips of a muted, grey hue collided with your own, more saturated ones. A kiss of life and death. Kyle’s lips were ice cold, molding effortlessly with your warmth. He tasted of a bizarre mix between cheap, dollar store chocolate and…something else you didn’t recognize. Something almost…earthy.

He was the sloppiest kisser you ever locked lips with. Prodding at your lips fiercly with his tongue, Kyle demanded entrance. When you didn’t let him in, a frustrated growl vibrated through his mouth. His hand darted down to your chest, where he tugged the front of your dress with an even stronger pull. Threatening to rip it apart, as though he knew you would protest.  

You opened your mouth with a surprised squeak, scrambling to pull Kyle’s hand away.

That oozy, freezing tongue of his slithered its way past your lips like a wiggly leech. Thick and slimy in your mouth. Kyle’s kisses became filled with a wild and unrestrained passion. Even though such a messy makeout session would be off-putting to anyone else, you found yourself melting into it. Despite having no concept of restraint or consistency, Kyle’s lack of skill was somehow intoxicating. You were irresistibly drawn to his discolored, dead man tongue.

You couldn’t help but think of how you always admired the way he looked.

When he was alive, Kyle was undeniably stunning, and so gorgeous. He had one of those beautiful, sunshine smiles, and golden hair to match. But after his resurrection, he was viewed as somewhat of a monster. Since the initial work done to bring him back had been less than subpar. To the average person, Kyle looked like a walking corpse pulled straight out of Night of the Living Dead.

However, Kyle’s zombified appearance did nothing to deter you. In death, you found him attractive in about a million other, more forbidden ways. Perhaps you were a bit of a freak behind closed doors.

And now, you had the opportunity to appreciate Kyle, in all his reanimated glory. Allowing yourself to explore his bulky, undead form. Corpse-like in appearance, Kyle’s body seemed right on the cusp of decay.

Maybe you could indulge in your curiosity and unconventional attraction…for just a few minutes. A moment or two wouldn’t hurt. Kyle was obviously desperate for the attention anyway. It was almost cute, really. The way he fought so hard to fool around with you.

Yeah. A few minutes of teasing touches. And then, you’d surely head back to the academy together.

You hesitated to touch Kyle intimately at first, careful not to cross any personal boundaries.

You knew Kyle harbored strict boundaries somewhere in that Frankenstein brain of his. Misty had told both you and Zoe all about it. Though, none of you had any clue where such boundaries originated. Was Kyle somehow self conscious? Did his instincts operate on a more intense, animalistic level of fight or flight? There wasn’t any way for him to tell you, and you’d never be able to guess on your own. Best to tread lightly.

Kyle loomed over you, guzzling your lips and tongue like a hungry man starved. Raising a hand, the tips of your fingers took a careful chance. They brushed across the poorly sewn stitches in his neck. Grazing his prominent scars, you traced their irregular lining.

You were afraid he might recoil, but Kyle instantly melted into your touch. His shoulders fell slack for a moment, and he moaned a soft, little whine into your mouth. It was as if tracing the scarred etching of stitches brought him some sense of relief.

A trail of thick, gooey saliva connected your tongues, as Kyle pulled his lips from yours. He gazed down into your eyes with a soft expression. The cute dot you'd drawn on his nose was slightly smudged now, along with those kitty wolf whiskers. You noted the way his hefty form looked, illuminated by a faint blanket of warm, yellow light. The street light flickered from above, as if threatening to abandon the two of you in the dark.

You stared back into Kyle’s foggy eyes. They were somewhat empty of humanity, with black pupils blown wide. His brawny chest became exposed, as you unbuttoned the thick flannel of Kyle’s shirt. Trembling fingers felt across his pecs, your skin burning hot against Kyle’s lifeless cold. He shuddered under your touch, arching his back slightly.

“W-Waaarm.” He slurred, “Mooore…”

Patches of discoloration decorated Kyle’s broad torso. They reminded you of a tropical desert map. One in which Kyle’s pale skin was the desert sand. Portions of his flesh had turned yellow in color. Faint hues of deep purple and sea-foam blue leaked through, similar to a watercolor palette. You ran your fingers over the discolored patches of skin, feeling subtle, textural changes. Kyle’s skin was overall smooth, but slightly torn near his ribs.

“Stop me if-uh…if this hurts, okay?” You whispered in a soft tone. Kyle tilted his head, the blonde curls of his hair dangling over his face.

Morbid curiosity overcame you, as you momentarily delved deeper into Kyle’s ripped flesh. The texture of his skin was uneven, as the surrounding skin had dried out slightly. Hesitant, yet alarmingly eager, you dipped your fingers into a decaying wound close to his ribs. Keeping your eyes on Kyle’s face, you searched his expression for any signs of discomfort. Beyond the scabbed edges of his skin, your fingers found a cold, mushy cavern inside.

You felt the cold rigidity of his rib bones just beneath the surface, the dampness of his insides slimy and raw. Kyle’s breathing steadily grew labored the longer you explored him from the inside. His jaw fell slack, dark eyes rolling back in his deep sockets. After teasing the wound for a few beats longer, you pulled your digits from it. A warm blush pooled in your cheeks, and you exhaled a flustered laugh. Ashamed of yourself.

“S-Sorry, honey…” You apologized, “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Kyle whimpered in response, wildly shaking his head. A slimy stickiness lingered on the tips of your fingers. And you made a mental note to thoroughly wash your hands once you finally returned to the academy.

You explored Kyle’s peculiar body for a moment longer. Beautiful, blue veins were visible under the thin layer of his skin. You traced those veins, following their intricate, web-like patterns. Kyle’s eyes fell closed as you did. He hummed soft, submissive whines. His head occasionally jerked in sudden, instinctive motions. After opening his eyes, Kyle stared down at you with a more lax, half-lidded expression.

You noted the way his eye sockets were slightly sunken in, appearing almost skeletal. A smokey darkness surrounded his foggy, black eyes, making them pop when they widened with abrupt impatience.

Growing fed up with your slow-paced, careful touches, Kyle darted down. He returned to his original task, gnawing pink teeth against the burning flesh of your neck. Your blood pulsed under your skin, beating against his slimy tongue. You brought your hands up to his blonde curls, carding your fingers through the somewhat-ragged locks.

Kyle’s hair was clean and washed. Yet, the strands felt like those of an old, decrepit dog. Curls dangled in his face as he mouthed your neck, and Kyle sloppily licked the bruises he sucked harshly into your skin. He pulled at your skimpy outfit, tearing rotted, jagged fingernails into the cheap fabric. Exposing your bra-covered breasts, Kyle ripped the front of your dress apart in one, harsh jerk. You wrapped a hand around his wrist, fighting to pull it away before Kyle tore your bra off as well.

“WAIT! Kyle, no! You can’t, honey!! I-It’s cold out here!! And someone might see!!” You insisted, “B-Before we do that, let’s go back home first!”

You were in too deep now, that much was obvious.

He jerked his hand away from your hold, groaning in protest. Kyle brought his massive palm to your chest, curling his fingers into your bra. He ripped the garment apart, letting your tits bounce freely. Immediately upon seeing them in their lucious, supple glory, Kyle made another noise. A groggy, throaty sound dripped from his tongue, drooling cool saliva over your breasts. He didn’t hold back, dropping to swipe his sticky tongue hungrily around one of your nipples. 

“T-T…T….Treeeeeeeat…” Kyle groaned, ragged over your breast.

You whimpered, your nipples immediately hardening in response to his numbing, chilly touch. Your hands dropped to Kyle’s broad shoulders again, as you attempted once more to push him away. Ruthless with desire, Kyle licked and sucked your tits, as though thirsty for the milk you couldn’t provide.

By now, Kyle was handling you a little more roughly than you preferred.

As the dull flats of Kyle’s teeth sank into your flesh, biting hard; you were beginning to second guess yourself. Kyle chomped into your smooth skin like he wanted to rip you apart and feast on your blood. You wiggled from under him, trying to shimmy away. The hand of his not occupied with your breast, darted up to your shoulder. Kyle forced you down with his palm, keeping you in place. Mesmerized by the pheromones permeating from your pretty breasts, Kyle couldn’t stop himself. He gnawed your tit even harder.

And for you, that bite crossed a line.

Imprints of Kyle’s teeth were left embedded into your skin. Weakly raising your basket, you fought Kyle off, repeatedly whacking him on the shoulders with it. Candy flew out from the basket in every direction. In the back of your mind, you mourned their loss.

No matter how much you fought, Kyle refused to budge. If anything, your protests encouraged him further. Kyle grew more frustrated, growling monstrous noises into your tits as he sucked one hard. He scraped his teeth up to your collarbone, chomping into your skin so harshly you nearly cried.

“Stoooppp!!! Please!!! Kyle, sweetheart, that hurts!!” You pathetically begged, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes, “Please stop!! It’s not good, Kyle! It’s very bad!”

He shook his head wildly with another animalistic growl, keeping you caged under his body in the wet grass. Kyle moved himself further down your squirming form, jerking the skirt of your dress up over your belly. The tiny, lace panties you wore underneath were exposed to him completely, along with a shameful, wet spot between your legs.

“Noooo! Good… v-very good …” Kyle grumbled, frustrated. He sank down between your legs, enveloping your clothed pussy with his whole mouth.

Goosebumps shot across your thighs as his cold breath met your cunt. Kyle’s teeth roughly grazed you, his slimy tongue prodding your folds through the thin fabric of your panties. You instantly panicked, kicking his shoulders with all the might you had left.

Kyle violently tore your delicate panties off, ripping the fabric at the seams and leaving you bare. Crisp, late-night air nipped your poor, defenseless pussy. Fearful that Kyle might start chomping at your cunt like a corpse in search of brains, you quickly rolled onto your belly in the grass. You crawled forward on trembling limbs, your veins pumped full of adrenaline. 

“L-Let me go, Kyle! No more! We gotta get back now!! P-Please!” You cried, rushing forwards with your knees pressing into the dirt.

Kyle came charging after you on all fours, his movements similar to that of a vicious, feral predator. The panic swarming your brain heightened, surging down your spine. Your heartbeat kicked to high-speed. Scrambling to stand, you were faced with the unfortunate reality…that your legs were too shaken and weak to function.

Your thin stocks were stained with mossy green, as wet dew seeped into their fabric. Just as you made it to the sidewalk pavement, you felt the tight grasp of cold hands wrapping around your ankles. Your ruby slippers kicked frantically against Kyle’s hold. But his grip tightened around them. Kyle dragged you by your ankles behind the bush in the dark, his jagged, rotting nails sinking into your skin over your stockings and scratching holes in the fabric.

That Oingo Boingo tune stuck on repeat in your head, echoed eerily topical lyrics in your subconscious mind. Don’t run away, it’s only me

Don’t be afraid of what you can’t see

Don’t run away, it’s only me

Don’t be afraid of what you can’t see

You couldn’t hold back the terrified scream that leapt from your throat.

Kyle’s eyes flew open wide. He moved quickly, climbing over your body from behind. Reaching around to clasp a large, cold hand over your mouth, Kyle growled chilly breaths into the shell of your ear. You could feel the hard press of his sizable bulge against your ass.

You barely registered the sound of Kyle’s hushed, throaty voice shushing you, as you cried for him to stop in loud pleas. He whispered in your ear gentle, slurred reassurances…or, at least, he tried to. Kyle apologized repeatedly, mouthing your ear and neck in a more loving, yet clumsy way. Less teeth. Thank fuck for less teeth.

“S-Ssssss-...sooorry.” He mumbled slowly, “N-N…N….Neeeeed…”

Trying to calm yourself, you breathed long, deep breaths through your nose.

Realistically, you knew Kyle never intended to hurt you. And if he did, it wasn’t necessarily his fault. He was a creature who operated purely on animalistic, carnal instinct. His brain functioned at a process slower than the average person. Like Frankenstein’s monster. Of course, it should come as no surprise. If Kyle desired something as natural as sex, his thirst was bound to make him slightly more deranged.

Maybe he just hadn’t been taught otherwise.

With one of his hands clasped tightly over your mouth, Kyle brought his other to his jeans. He felt around aimlessly for the button, finding it difficult to free his cock from the constrictive denim. After a bit of agitated fumbling, Kyle finally released his hefty, undead cock from his pants. Perched in the grass on your elbows and knees, you curiously dropped your head to take a glance at his dick.

You were lucky enough to catch a quick glimpse of Kyle’s thick, bouncing cock. It was discolored like the rest of his body, and covered in vivid, blue veins. In your mind, you questioned the logistics. How was it even possible for a zombified man to get an erection?? Was it witch magic? Was witch magic really powerful enough to keep oozy, undead blood flowing through a zombie?

Kyle mounted you much like an animal in heat, guiding the fat tip of his cock to your weeping entrance.

The stark contrast between his corpse-like temperature and your own, more lively warmth shook you to your core. You gasped into Kyle’s palm, your lower-half squirming as the deathly cold, smooth length of his cock pushed its way through your searing walls. Your pleasant heat engulfed Kyle’s dick completely, and he immediately roared a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“T-Trrrreeeeeeeeeeeeaaat!” He slurred in a broken tone, “ G-...G….Gooood treat.”

Those were the last, coherent words Kyle spoke, before carnal instinct took over his brain completely. He violently jerked his hips forward, sinking his stiff cock deeper into your pussy. The leaking, wet tip hit your cervix in a bruising pressure. You fell forward into the grass, almost losing balance on your trembling legs. Kyle released his hold on your mouth, instead raking his blunt, uneven nails down your body.

Pumping his cock through the tight squeeze of your cunt, Kyle dropped his palms to the grass. His brittle nails dug themselves so deep into the dirt.

“K-Ky-” You choked, feeling a thickness bubbling in your throat, “Kyle, please-”

The slickness of his length felt inhumanly cold inside you. Your blistering hot pussy constricted around him, grasping hold of Kyle’s cock and pulling him in deeper. He wanted so desperately to gnaw and bite you again, but he refrained from doing so. Kyle made huffy, monstrous noises as he fucked you raw and hard in the grass. Guttural, zombie-like groans echoed, ragged against your ear from behind. He carried no restraint, as he drilled you with his dick so hard and deep, it began to hurt.

Your entire body buzzed with sharp, pinpricks of overwhelming pleasure, edging so closely to pain. But somehow, you registered the ache as intoxicating. Your body couldn’t stop itself from betraying your brain’s warnings. Despite your suffering, your pussy fluttered so wet around Kyle’s cock. Hot, slick heat made it so easy for him to fuck you as hard as he desired. Allowing him to act on his unfiltered, baseless instincts.

“P-Please-...Ky-...Kyle…slow down, please-” You begged, mewling little cries.

Your soft voice only encouraged Kyle. His thrusts turned more violent and rapid, losing any consistency. Heavy balls slapped repeatedly at your hot mound, teasing your clit. Out of your control, your eyes rolled back in their sockets, as you moaned in blissful ecstasy.

Kyle’s nasty, unrelenting thrusts were so powerful in force, the overstimulation was enough to make you cum from penetration alone. Your fiery heat tightened around his pulsing cock, and your body erupted in a mind-altering onslaught of uncontrollable, orgasmic trembles. Kyle roared another guttural, monstrous sound, unable to resist sinking his blunt teeth into your neck. He wrapped an arm tightly around your middle, jerking you backwards to meet his thrusts.

“Kyle, wait!” You struggled to speak, your head dizzy and swimming. Turning your head slightly, you felt Kyle’s messy, blond hair brush the skin of your cheek, “Don’t finish inside! You have to – f-fuck – you have to pull out! You can’t cum inside me, baby!”

Your ass bounced recklessly against the hairy mound of Kyle’s pelvis. If he understood what you meant, it was clear Kyle had no intention of listening. Burying his length to the hilt in one, final, savage thrust; Kyle spilled his sticky, zombie seed deep inside your hot, living pussy.

“N-NO! KYLE, NO-” You panicked again, trying to crawl forward and out of Kyle’s grasp, “FUCK! YOU CAN’T-”

He roared his loudest noise yet, the sudden sound tearing through your eardrums. Latching a palm tightly around the back of your neck, Kyle forced you face down into the dewey grass. With your ass up and out, he fucked the last of his cum into your pussy with a near damaging force. A frigidly cold sensation pooled in the pit of your belly.

For a short moment, Kyle kept his slick cock buried inside you. Even as the length softened, he took his time before pulling himself from your cunt. And once he finally did, the thickness of his off-colored, oozy cum came spilling out of you in heavy spurts.

As it turns out, zombies cum a lot.

You shivered, sniffling as hot tears raced down your reddened cheeks. Kyle released his hold on your neck, reaching up to pet you clumsily over your hair. Behind you, you heard shuffling as he fought to tuck himself in his pants and fumbled with the button. Your knees collapsed into the grass, and you heaved rapid, frantic breaths. You couldn’t deny the way your body quivered with blissful, euphoric exhaustion.

“Kyle…for fuck’s sake…why…” You sniffled with a hiccup, lying with your cheek pressed to the grass.

Several bite marks of deep, dark violet littered your once clean skin. You rolled onto your back on the ground, your chest rising and falling with every quick breath you took. Kyle sat back on his knees, staring down at you with an expression of fearful, worried confusion. It seemed that, somehow, he didn’t understand why you were so immobile and worn out.

Kyle’s black eyes steadily trailed across every mark he left behind, all over your neck, collarbone, and breasts.

He frowned, his foggy eyes pooling with heavy tears. The whiskers and nose you’d drawn on his face earlier were smeared to high heaven, leaving black streaks on his cheeks.

Crawling over you again, Kyle gently buried his teary-eyed face in your tits. He pressed soft, cool kisses along your abused skin. Before resting his cheek on your chest. His thin, blonde curls tickled your chin.

“S-S…ssssorry… ” He mumbled through his tears. Kyle rubbed his thumb across one of the bites he left behind, making you wince, “B-Baaaad…not gooood…sorry…” 

Despite his rough handling, you knew you couldn't stay mad at Kyle for very long. In a way, he'd made you feel pleasure beyond anything you ever experienced with an average, living man. And the loving kindness he carried under the surface of his monstrous exterior made you adore him. So much more than you already did.

You let out a long, tired sigh, raising a hand to gently run your fingers through Kyle's curls.

"What am I gonna do with you, huh? It's okay, honey. It hurt a little bit, but...I'm fine. Just..." You breathed an exhausted laugh, wincing as you tried to move, "Let's try to teach you a little restraint next time, okay?"

If you thought about it logically, there was no possible way you could actually get pregnant from a reanimated corpse, right? His swimmers were probably dead as doornails. Regardless, you felt a little squeamish knowing loads of gooey, zombie spunk resided inside you. You shivered at the thought, shaking your head.

Yeah, you definitely needed a long, hot shower. Asap.

"Can we please go home now, Kyle?" You begged, weakly sitting up on your elbows.

Peering up at you through adorable, innocent, dark eyes, Kyle blinked slowly. He nodded, pushing himself quickly off your body.

"H-Hhhhhh-....Hoooome..." He mumbled, politely holding out a hand to help you up.

You found yourself too incapacitated to stand. After such a raw, violent fucking, your body felt on the brink of death. Consumed by exhaustion, it was as though you'd become the living corpse. Undead and barely functional. Falling into the grass on your back, you groaned, burdened by a deep ache in your bones.

Catching on to your pained, tuckered-out state, Kyle reached down. He wrapped his thick arms around your body, effortlessly lifting you up over his shoulder. It was a ridiculously careless way for him to carry you, but you couldn't find it in yourself to complain.

In one hand, Kyle held his pumpkin bucket and your basket, both slightly empty of the candy they once held. With your limp body lying slump over his shoulder, he used his other hand to keep your skirt pinned over your butt. Nice of him to consider your decency. 

In the empty, desolate cold of a moonlit, Halloween night; Kyle carried you all the way back to the academy.

And the whole way, as you hung limp over his shoulder in a fucked-out daze...you hummed a song softly to yourself.

Oingo Boingo kept looping endlessly in your head, like a persistent parasite.

I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walking with a dead man over my shoulder

I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walking with a dead man over my shoulder

[layla-lobelia]

Chapter 1 : The Sun

Word Count: Approximately 1,162 words. Summary: The story begins with a nine-year-old Clark Kent watching as new neighbors, the Johnson family, move into the farmhouse next door.

The Kansas sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the golden fields surrounding the Kent farm. Nine-year-old Clark Kent sat on the porch steps, his legs swinging back and forth as he watched the dust trail behind the moving truck rolling down the narrow dirt road. The truck creaked to a stop beside the neighboring farmhouse, a place that had been empty for as long as Clark could remember.

Clark tugged at the edge of his flannel shirt, feeling a mixture of curiosity and nervousness. New neighbors weren’t exactly common in Smallville, and the idea of meeting someone new made his heart race a little. He glanced back at the screen door behind him, where his mom, Martha Kent—or Ma Kent as everyone in town called her—was finishing up in the kitchen.

“You ready to meet the new folks?” Ma asked as she stepped out, carrying a large apple pie wrapped in a checkered cloth. Her smile was bright, but she had a keen way of noticing when Clark was uneasy.

“Yeah, I guess,” Clark replied, his voice a little higher than usual. He wasn’t scared exactly, but he couldn’t help feeling a little jittery.

Ma laughed softly and set the pie down for a moment, kneeling beside him. “They’re just people, Clark. Probably nervous, just like you are. But what’s the best way to meet new folks?”

Clark rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help grinning. “With kindness,” he said, parroting what Ma had told him a hundred times before.

“That’s right.” She ruffled his hair gently. “Now come on. Let’s give ‘em a proper Smallville welcome.”

Clark hopped off the porch, his boots kicking up little puffs of dirt as he and his mother made their way across the field that separated their farm from the neighbors’. He could see two men unloading furniture from the truck, lifting a couch and a couple of boxes toward the house. A woman stood nearby, shading her eyes with one hand as she surveyed the work. As Ma and Clark approached, the woman turned toward them and smiled.

“Hello there!” Ma Kent called out cheerfully, waving with her free hand.

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to greet them. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her brown skin glowed in the sunlight. She looked warm and welcoming, the kind of person who could put anyone at ease with just a smile.

“Well, hello!” she said, her voice bright and full of energy. “You must be the Kents! I’m Flora Johnson. We’ve heard so many good things about you already.”

“And we’ve been lookin’ forward to meeting you,” Ma Kent replied, offering the pie with both hands. “We brought a little something—hope you all like apple pie.”

Flora’s eyes lit up as she accepted the pie. “Apple pie? Oh, this is just perfect! Thank you so much, Martha.” She handed Ma Kent a large glass jar filled with amber-colored honey. “My husband and I keep bees, so here’s a little something from our hive. You’ll never find better honey.”

Clark stood quietly by Ma’s side, his eyes flicking between the two women. He wasn’t sure when he was supposed to speak, and he felt like he was too big to hide behind Ma’s skirt but too shy to just stand there.

Flora seemed to notice Clark for the first time, her eyes softening as she bent down slightly to his level. “And who’s this handsome young man?”

“This is my son, Clark,” Ma Kent said with a proud smile. “Clark, say hello to Mrs. Johnson.”

Clark’s ears burned red as he mumbled, “Hello, ma’am,” keeping his eyes on the ground.

Flora chuckled softly. “A little shy, huh? Don’t worry, my daughter’s the same way. She’s around your age, but she’s probably hiding out in the barn right now. She’s not too thrilled about moving.”

Ma Kent gave Clark a gentle nudge. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself, Clark? I’m sure she’d love to meet someone her own age.”

Clark hesitated for a moment, but the idea of meeting someone new tugged at him, curiosity outweighing his nerves. “Okay,” he said, giving his mom a quick nod before walking toward the barn, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

As he rounded the side of the barn, he spotted a girl standing on the other side of a wooden fence. Her curly black hair, tied back with a red scarf, bounced as she tried to scramble over the fence. Her overalls, covered in tiny embroidered flowers, were dirt-smudged, and her face was scrunched up in concentration as she pulled herself up, one foot barely managing to hook over the top rail.

Clark watched for a moment, biting back a laugh, before stepping closer. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

The girl startled, her grip slipping as she dropped back down to the ground with a soft thud. She spun around, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I’m tryin’ to leave,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her overalls as she glared at him. “What’s it to you?”

Clark blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. “Leave? But… you just got here.”

Layla frowned and crossed her arms. “I don’t like it here. What if the people here are mean? I don’t know anyone, and I don’t wanna be here.”

Clark tilted his head, thinking for a second before he stepped a little closer. “I’m not mean. And you know me now.”

The girl huffed but didn’t say anything, her stubbornness starting to crack a little.

“I’ll be your friend,” Clark said simply, his voice full of warmth. “That way, you don’t have to worry about not knowin’ anyone. I’m Clark, by the way.”

Layla’s frown slowly melted into something softer as she stared at him. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she dropped her arms to her sides. “I’m Layla,” she said quietly, kicking at the dirt with her boot. “You really wanna be my friend?”

Clark shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Why not? We’re neighbors, right? And I don’t got many friends either.”

Layla’s eyes widened a little, as if she couldn’t quite believe he meant it. She glanced back at the fence for a moment, then at Clark. Finally, she gave a small, hesitant smile. “You don’t seem like a bad neighbor.”

Clark smiled back, feeling a sense of relief and happiness spread through him. “And you don’t seem so bad yourself.”

Layla took a step forward, a little more confident now. “So… what do you do around here? Is there anything fun?”

Clark thought for a moment, then grinned. “Well, there’s a creek just down the hill. We can catch frogs and stuff. And sometimes Pa lets me drive the tractor. It’s pretty cool.”

Layla raised an eyebrow. “You can drive a tractor?”

Clark puffed out his chest a little. “Yup! Well, mostly just steer it. But it’s still fun.”

Layla giggled, the sound light and free. “Alright, that sounds kinda fun. Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.”

Clark beamed, glad that he had managed to cheer her up. “Come on, I’ll show you the creek. It’s not far.”

Layla hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Okay, but you better not trick me.”

“I won’t!” Clark said with a laugh, already turning to lead the way. “Promise.”

As they walked back toward the barn, Layla glanced over at Clark, a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe this new place wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[separatist-apologist]

Cowboy Like Me

Never thought I'd meet you here

Summary: When Nesta is stranded in rural Montana, she finds herself rescued by an unlikely pair.

Day 1 of @sjmromanceweek: Meet-Cute

Also, check out this art of Cowboy Cassian from @melphss

Read on AO3

Nesta was in hell. 

Who got married in Montana? Montana seemed like the sort of place you exiled people to die in lonely misery. She didn’t give a fuck about all the open sky, the clean air, or the nature that quite literally ambled up to her rental car looking for a snack. Nesta wasn’t built for this sort of life and maybe it said something about her that she couldn’t imagine anyone else who was.

She’d made a mistake, though. When she’d rented her airbnb, she’d just assumed it was an actual home, like the pictures had depicted, and not some ramshackle hovel with a literal hole in the ground for shitting.

For fifty dollars a night, she supposed she deserved that. Nesta thought that maybe she also deserved her twisted ankle. Heels on a gravel road had been an obvious mistake—was she supposed to go barefoot? She hadn’t brought anything else. Nesta emitted a soft scream of hatred for this new, cheerful place before propping herself up on the hood of her car to look at her swelling ankle.

All this for a wedding. The minute Nesta managed to get back into her car, she was going to book a flight home and block this friend forever. Why was she even trying to have friends outside of Gwyn and Emerie, besides? Nesta maneuvered her phone from her black skirt pocket only to find that of fucking course she didn’t have service.

She screamed again, irate with the whole endeavor.

“All right, ma’am?” a masculine voice called. Nesta whipped her head to the side of the long, gravel drive, intending to give that busybody man the middle finger for his trouble.

She hesitated. To start, the man in question was astride a large black horse. She had no quick comeback for a man who was pulling towards her shiny red sedan like he’d stepped straight out of eighteen forty six. 

He swung one of his long, powerful legs off the creature with ease, revealing himself to be at least six foot-five. Nesta had never considered herself a small woman, standing at five-nine without heels, but as he approached, his rough stubbled face hidden beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, Nesta felt positively dainty. 

He swept his hat off his head and Nesta wished he hadn’t. Holding it against the blue and green flannel of his shirt, he was like something out of a magazine ad for country living. Warm brown skin, hazel eyes, and dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders was a lethal combination on this man. His chiseled jaw, the stubble grazing his cheeks, and his rough features made Nesta think he had no trouble picking up women.

And that irked her, even as she swallowed with desire. He was absurdly stunning, the absolute dream of anyone hoping to marry a cowboy from a long-forgotten age. Those eyes of his, framed with ridiculously long lashes, swept over her, and then her surroundings.

“Tricked, huh?” he asked in a rich, deep drawl. “You wouldn’t be the first. Won’t be the last.”

“Someone should burn this place to the ground,” she hissed, one hand still gripping her hurt ankle. 

He chuckled. “I don’t think that would stop someone from tryin’ to sell it. You hurt?” he added, his eyes falling on her ankle. 

“I twisted my foot,” she admitted. He knelt, the sight emptying out all of Nesta’s thoughts. She could only stare at his thighs, bulging in his tight jeans. His hand was large enough to wrap fully around her ankle, and ever so slowly, he pulled her foot from her scuffed black heel.

“This is your problem,” he said, holding up her shoe with a frown. 

“Well I know that now,” Nesta hissed, “you must be a psychic.”

His eyes flashed. “Can you drive?”

“No,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I wouldn’t go around insultin’ the only person who can help…but that’s just me,” he replied. 

Nesta hesitated. “Are you a doctor?”

He snorted, rising to his feet again. His large, muscular body blocked the bright sun the way a tree might, and Nesta couldn’t pretend she wasn’t grateful.

“Cattle rancher,” he replied, “but I know a thing or two about tapin’ up a sprain. We’ll get you iced up and bandaged and on your way Miss…”

She sighed. “Nesta Archeron,” she half grumbled.

“Miss Archeron—”

“Nesta. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He smiled, setting her heart racing. “Miss Nesta, then. I’m Cassian, and I’m walkin’ towards you real slow because I don’t want to spook you.”

“Why would you—put me down right now!”

He shook his head. “And let you finish breakin’ what you started? No offense, darlin’, but carrying you is a lot safer than letting you hop on the horse—”

“Why can’t we drive?”

He looked down at her, his amusement plain. “And what would I do with Bryaxis?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nesta breathed, gripping Cassian’s neck until her nails dug into his skin. “I’ve never been on a horse.”

“He doesn’t bite,” Cassian replied. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She couldn’t help her squeal as he hoisted her up into the fine leather saddle. Nesta’s bare thighs touched the material, spreading her legs obscenely, though Cassian didn’t seen to notice or care. He merely swung himself up behind her. He put one hand on her hip, the warmth seeping through her silken skirt, before reaching for the reins.

“What were you doing out here, anyway?”

He nodded towards a saddle bag. “Needed a few things in town.

“And you took a horse?” she replied, trying to imagine where he’d even park it.

Cassian’s laugh rumbled through his chest. “Where are you from, Miss Nesta?”

“Chicago,” she replied, well aware she was proving every city slicker stereotype true. “Have you ever been?”

She felt him shrug. “Nope. I’ve been to cities before, but not so far south.

So far south. Nesta didn’t know how to respond to that. “You’re not missing much, honestly.”

“No? Is Chicago not home sweet home?”

It was Nesta’s turn to shrug. “It’s where I live.”

If he had thoughts about that, Cassian kept them to himself. That was just as well—Nesta didn’t want to fight some stranger when she was currently on his horse, unable to even run. He’d left her shoes on top of her car and her suitcase in the trunk. Nesta was literally at his mercy, given the small, two-lane road they were currently traveling down had no hint of civilization besides the two of them. 

She’d done such a shitty job picking an airbnb. 

“What are you doin’ up here, then?” he asked after a moment. His voice had the most pleasant gravel, deep and dark like a star-flecked sky. Nesta knew she was leaning against the broad plain of his chest and found she didn’t care. 

“My friend is getting married,” she said. “I guess her fiance grew up out here.”

“Oh yeah?” he replied, an obvious smile in his voice. “Married on a ranch?”

Nesta twisted in her saddle. “Don’t you dare—”

“Lots of people rent out my barn on the edge of the property. You can stay up with me, if you need a place. I’ll charge you a real fair price.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s that?”

“You ever mucked out a stall, Miss Nesta?”

She poked him in the ribs, turning back to face the endless expanse of cloudless blue. “Is that your thing, then? Humbling the city girl by making her clean up shit?”

“Maybe I think you’d be real pretty with a little mud on your face.”

Nesta swallowed. “I don’t do mud,” she said, looking at her immaculate nails.

“What do you do, then?” Why did he sound so suggestive? Nesta’s hands were clammy–nervous. When had a man ever had that effect on her? 

“Law,” she told him. “Corporate law.”

He made some soft, noncommittal noise that was, honestly, a lot better than a lot of the finance men she dated. Cassian acknowledged he’d heard her without feeling the need to cut her down in service of his own ego. 

“I don’t know much about that,” he finally admitted. Nesta could have kissed him for it, though she wouldn’t. 

“It’s pretty boring,” she said, earning another of his soft noises.

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” he replied. “You don’t strike me as the type to spend your time sufferin’.”

“Well…I do get to humble really rich men with a fair amount of regularity,” she admitted with a smile. His grip on her waist tightened. 

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his breath fanning against the back of her neck. She shivered, unintentionally leaning further into him. She was acting like a cat in heat over a man she’d known for fifteen minutes.

“I’ll pay,” she breathed. Behind her, Cassian went stiff.

“Pay?”

“For a room,” she clarified, wondering what he was thinking. “If you were serious about your offer, I’d pay you for it.”

“Oh, darlin’, there’s no need for that. Just a little hel—”

“I told you I don’t do dirt,” she snapped. “You can have money or nothing at all.”

“I’m not takin’ your money,” Cassian drawled. “Just keep after yourself and don’t disturb the cats.”

Her heart stuttered. “Cats?”

“Yeah. My girl just had kittens and she’s real skittish, so if you see her, be real quiet and soft.”

Nesta could have died. “What's her name?”

She wanted a cat so badly. Her landlord expressly forbade any animals at all, and Nesta was too much of a rule follower to risk a secret cat. The thought of spending three days surrounded by a mama cat and her little kittens seemed like heaven.

“Cheddar,” Cassian admitted ruefully. “She’s orange. Dad must be black, though, because half her little beans are black, too.”

A soft squeak slipped from Nesta’s throat. “Do they have names?”

“Not yet. Maybe you’ll help me out with that,” he added with what sounded suspiciously like hope. 

She didn’t dare unpack that. Not as Cassian pulled off the road, steering his steady horse down another gravel path. Untouched grass stretched for miles in every direction until the sky met mountains in the distance. 

“Your friends will be down there,” Cassian told her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. Accident, she swore, watching the point of his finger. “But we’ll be up here. I’ll walk you down for the wedding…keep you from wreckin’ that other pretty ankle of yours.”

“Does that work on the women around here? Your folksy charm, your aw shucks—”

Cassian laughed. “Are you askin’ if being nice gets me laid?”

“Does it?”

“My good looks get me laid, darlin’.  My folksy charm, as you so eloquently put it, is just called manners outside of the city. No need to pretend.”

“You’d be surprised,” she told him dryly. Cassian merely held her close, his eyes fixated on the two story ranch just in the distance. Nesta could have wept with relief. The saddle was rubbing against her inner thigh, chafing her delicate skin and the woodsy scent of smoke and pine coming off Cassian was threatening to throw all Nesta’s good sense out the window. 

His home sprawled against the Montana countryside. Built to look as if it was made of wood—and maybe it was, for all she knew—the house had to be worth a cool million in Nesta’s estimation. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder at him, though. Didn’t dare acknowledge she knew this man wasn’t the simple, rural cattle rancher he was trying to embody. 

And Nesta certainly didn’t let him see that she was weirdly relieved. She liked an ambitious man. And unlike all the men she’d been dating back home, Cassian wasn’t slick. Nesta would have put all the money she had on Cassian being the sort who had his heart on his sleeve for all to see. She had no business thinking about that.

This wasn’t a date.

Cassian swung off his horse and gently pulled her back into his arms.

“Don’t you go runnin’ off,” he warned Bryaxis.

“Will he?”

Cassian merely shrugged as he took her up a stone laid path towards his glass and wood front door.

“If he goes anywhere, it’ll be next door to his girlfriend.”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “Your horse has a girlfriend?”

“He’s a good-looking horse. Why shouldn’t he have a girlfriend. I catch him all the time down by the fence nuzzlin’ her with his nose.”

“Like you, then?”

Cassian chuckled. “I am very single, Miss Nesta—”

“Just Nesta,” she interrupted, breathless as he brought her inside. “The Miss makes me feel like someone’s kindergarten teacher.”

“Fine, Nesta. I, unlike my horse, am very single.”

“Any particular reason?” she asked, wishing she sounded snide and not interested.

Cassian set her on a long, dark leather sofa, He swept his hat off his head as he knelt in front of her again. 

“You want to know why I’m single? Maybe I work too much,” he said softly, sliding her his hand up  and then back down her knee. “Maybe I’m a shitty kisser.”

“I’ll bet it’s the second,” she replied. Cassian’s hazel eyes met her own, a smirk curving over his sensual mouth.

“And you? Are you a shitty kisser?”

“Terribly deficient.”

“I figured,” he murmured, turning his gaze back to her swollen ankle. Cassian grabbed a red pillow from the corner of his couch to prop up her foot. “Why don’t you stay here and I’ll get us all set up, hm?”

“Okay.”

Cassian vanished long enough for Nesta to fire off several quiet texts and otherwise study his really nice home. The living room had a wall made of pointed windows, and though everything had that wood cabin aesthetic, it was cozy and cheerful and bright. She flipped through her work emails while she waited, dragging a knitted blanket off the back of the sofa over her lap. 

Was she insane for hanging out in a stranger's house? She would never have dared back home—her friends thought she was insane. And yet she was at the right place, and if Cassian wanted to hurt her, surely bandaging up her foot wasn’t necessary. She doubted his neighbors would have heard her scream if she stood outside and emptied her lungs of air.

Cassian returned nearly an hour later, balancing a glass of water and a plate in one massive hand, and her suitcase in the other.

“You got my things?” she asked him, surprised he’d bother. She’d assumed she’d have to hobble back out there for it.

“Of course, darlin’,” he replied, setting a nice sandwich and two ibuprofen down on the wood coffee table right in front of her. “Unless you plan on wearin’ that skirt the entire time? I don’t mind, but…”

Her cheeks flushed. “Thank you. That was really nice.”

He ducked his head. “Have somethin’ to eat before you take the medicine. You look like you haven’t had anything but coffee today. Pain killers won’t settle well on an empty stomach and while you’re cute, you’re not cute enough to clean up puke.”

Nesta was rendered speechless. That was for the best. Everytime he casually said something nice about her, Nesta was far too tempted to crawl into his lap and repay him for his generosity in a different sort of way. Instead, Nesta remained perfectly still while Cassian wrapped up her ankle with a beige colored bandage and pressed a bag of frozen green beans against the aching bone. 

“Keep this elevated,” he insisted, taking a spot close enough that Nesta could have scooted forward and put her head in his lap. She was far too tempted. 

“Want to watch something?” she suggested. “Or are you busy?”

“Not too busy for you,” he teased, reaching for the remote. “How do you feel about history?”

Their eyes met, and in unison, they said, “Ancient Aliens.”

Cassian smiled with satisfaction. “Fuck yeah.”

They wasted the afternoon that way. Nesta inched closer and closer until her head was propped up against his thigh. Cassian kept his arm casual against the back of the couch, unconcerned as they giggled their way through each new show. He didn’t stop until the sun dipped low, bathing the room in shadow.

“Want to help me make dinner?” he asked, his voice gruffer than before. She looked up at him.

“No eating out?”

His lips curved into a sly smile. “Are you asking to be eaten out?”

She smacked at his stomach, heart racing all the same. “You don’t seem like the cooking type. Isn’t that something for your little wife?”

“Are you offerin’?” he joked. “I accept. C’mon, lazy bones. At least come talk to me.”

“Does anything bother you?” Nesta asked, unconcerned when Cassian lifted her back into the air. She winced at the jolt of pain lancing through her ankle, though she couldn’t pretend she didn’t like the ease with which he carried her through his house. Cassian was careful, setting her atop a granite kitchen island so she could watch over his attempts at cooking.

“So tell me, Miss Nesta—”

“Just Nesta.”

“Nes,” he grinned. “Miss hot shot attorney. What do you think about my humble home?”

She looked around, pretending to survey with an arched eyebrow. “It’s a little rustic—”

Cassian’s fingers were between her ribs before she could stop him, tickling until she thrashed and gasped for a breath of air. 

“Stop it, stop—”

“Rustic,” he chuckled, pulling out a nice creuset pot and setting it atop the range. “You’ll have to work on your insults.”

“I think you just wanted an excuse to touch me,” Nesta replied. Cassian smiled.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “It’s not everyday a beautiful woman is waitin’ for me on the side of the road.”

“I wasn’t waiting. I was stuck.”

He shrugged. “Sure felt like you were waitin’ for me.”

“Maybe you were waiting on me.”

“Almost certainly,” Cassian agreed cheerfully. “Do you eat pasta?”

“I’ll eat anything,” Nesta agreed. Cassian nodded.

“You and me both, sweetheart.”

And God, but Nesta wanted to find out if that was true. Cassian had a box of recipes he’d inherited from his mother that he’d been more than happy to show her. While Nesta pulled the cards out one by one, Cassian made his own tomato sauce. She knew it shouldn’t have impressed her and still it did. 

He was nearly done when his cat, Cheddar, slunk into the room. Three black and orange kittens flopped just behind her, the third tumbling face first over the threshold from the hall to the tile. Nesta gasped.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Where are the other four, mama?” Cassian asked his cat as she wound her way through his legs to rub against him. “What are those little demons up to?”

Nesta carefully hopped off the counter so she could scoop up one of the babies.

“Probably peeing in my boot,” Cassian grumbled, stirring his sauce with a wooden spoon. 

“Babies,” Nesta breathed, delighted when the three that had ambled in with their mother immediately bounded towards her. Her favorite, for no reason at all, was the one with the split black and orange face. She had the brightest blue eyes and when Nesta lifted her up to really look at her, the small creature meowed loudly. 

“Well now you’ve done it,” Cassian teased as Cheddar trotted over to see what the fuss was. “Be careful–mama cat has claws.”

Nesta scratched behind her ears. “Maybe for you.”

“I suppose like calls to like,” he grumbled. While he plated their food, Nesta played with the kittens until there was a snag in her skirt. Cassian offered Nesta a hand and when he pulled her up to her feet, balancing on one foot, he yanked just hard enough that she fell into his chest.

Into his lips. 

“Oh,” she whispered, unsure what to do. Cassian kept her steady with one arm, the kiss polite and chaste and just enough to make her want much, much more.

“Sorry,” he murmured, brushing a strand of her hair off her face. “Probably shouldn’t kiss the woman rentin’ one of my rooms, but…”

“It’s alright,” Nesta assured him, letting him lead her to the blocky table just outside the kitchen. It might have been awkward had Cassian not been so charming. So laid back and nice. He’d made her spaghetti and didn’t care when his cat spent the entirety of the meal winding her lithe, orange body through his feet and purring so loud Nesta felt like she was competing for his attention. 

Cassian kept the conversation going as if nothing had happened, but Nesta couldn’t get the feel of his mouth against hers out of her mind. He’d smelled crisp and clean and when her hands had pressed against his chest, he’d been all hard, toned muscle. 

“Why don’t I clean up down here, and you can get settled in your room?” Cassian suggested when Nesta had been silent a little too long. She was undressing him in her mind, and when she looked up at him, the little smile on his face made her wonder if he wasn’t aware. 

“Sure,” she agreed, if only to get out of helping with the dishes.

“I’ll carry you up,” he added, his eyes flashing. Nesta shook her head, her pride unable to stand being taken up and down the stairs.

“I can do it myself.

“Are you always this difficult?” he asked, rising to his feet. Cassian was a big man. Nesta had never felt small in comparison, had never once looked at a prospective lover and thought herself little. Cassian, though. Cassian exuded strength. In another life, he might have been a warrior prince worshiped by the masses. 

Nesta offered him a feline smile. “Maybe.” Back home, that refusal to yield would have earned her nothing good. With Cassian, though? A slow smile spread over his rugged face.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if you weren’t, I suppose. Go on then, Miss Nesta. Yell if you need me…I’ll come runnin’.”

Nesta suppressed a shiver at his sensual tone. “Is that a promise?”

He looked her up and down, his expression suddenly ravenous. If Nesta had less pride, she might have hopped over to him, pressed her hands to his chest, and let him finish what he’d started. 

“It is,” he said simply, those hazel eyes finding her face again. 

It was shree will that made her turn. As if she had something to prove. And Nesta made it all of four little hops before Cassian was coming behind her and sweeping her up off her feet. Nesta gasped, unprepared to be so close to him again.

“C’mon,” he murmured, holding her like she was something delicate.

Something fragile.

And no one thought that about her. Nesta swallowed hard, biting back the urge to snap at him. He didn’t know what she was like and maybe that was a blessing, because Nesta didn’t have to put on a show for him. She could press her head against his chest and sigh, “Thank you,” without needing to scowl, to stare him down so he knew not to ever try such a thing again.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he drawled softly, taking that first wooden step. “But I’ve got the feelin’ that back home, you’re somethin’ of a ball buster.”

Nesta tightened, her hackles raised. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, ma’am,” he chuckled. “It’s just…I’m thinkin’ that most of those men up there don’t know how to act right when it comes to you. And because they can’t make hide or hair of you, they treat you bad. Try and break you, make you small? So you’ve gotta be real tough, don’t you baby?”

Nesta swallowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said crisply, careful to enunciate every single syllable which she knew only proved his point. 

“That’s what I thought,” he said softly, taking her upstairs. Nesta didn’t want him to let her go. I was a strange thing, to be so seen. To be laid bare by this man she didn’t even know. 

“Don’t get mad at me for sayin’ this, but you remind me of Bryaxis—”

“Your horse?”

“He was mistreated too,” Cassian explained. “Screamed at, whipped…you name it, he endured it. But all he needed was a soft hand. A little patience. I figure you probably aren’t too different.”

“Where are you taking me?” 

Cassian had opened a bedroom door that absolutely belonged to him. The dark masculine reds and blacks of the bed were a dead giveaway, along with the half-full glass of water on a wood bedside table and a stack of books dog-eared haphazardly. A leather jacket was hung from a chair near the open closet door, and though it was dark, Nesta could see an adjoining bathroom at the far end of the room.

“Where, I think, you want to be tonight. Tell me if I’m wrong—I’ll put you somewhere else.”

“This is your room, Cassian.”

She could see he was trying not to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tell him he’s stupid. Tell him he’s wrong. Demand he put you back in your own room and—

“Okay,” she whispered before she could talk herself out of it.

Relief all but crumpled over his features. He murmured something that sounded suspiciously like Thank the good lord, and set her atop his neatly made bedspread.

Nerves shocked through Nesta, rendering her silent for a moment. Cassian, for his part, seemed to have realized that he, too, had her in his bed and didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“I ah…why don’t I wash up the dishes and you can take a shower?”

“That sounds good, Cassian.”

It sounded better than good, and though Nesta swore she wasn’t going to say so, she called, “Unless you think I need help in the shower?”

Cassian froze. For all his bravado, it was obvious he’d never thought he’d get this far. Nesta crawled toward the end of his bed with exaggerated slowness, holding his stare. He took a slow breath, those eyes of his darkening to almost black.

“Is it safe for me alone in there?”

The knot in his throat bobbed. “I reckon it’s not, Miss Nesta—”

“Just Nesta,” she reminded him, rising up on her knees so she could touch the hard planes of his stomach. “Do you think you could call me that, Cassian?”

“I…” his voice trailed off when her fingers found his belt and tugged. 

“You know,” Nesta continued with far more bravado than she felt, “I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for coming to my rescue today.”

“You..” he cleared his throat. “That’s not necessary. I—Nes—”

“That’s better,” she crooned, having undone the button of his jeans. A lump was forming—hard and thick and Nesta was desperate to see what the cowboy had hidden in those black pair of briefs. 

“Nes,” he tried again, his hands resting on her shoulder. He wasn’t stopping her, and given the way his fingers curled against her, she thought he was trying very, very hard to be a gentleman.

That wouldn’t do. 

“I’d be a poor guest if I didn’t thank you,” she said, slipping past the waistband of his underwear. Nesta gasped when she curled around him—or, tried to. As she pulled Cassian out, she realized she’d need to rethink her plan to thank him with her tongue. Cassian was enormous, both thick and long. Hardly a grower, given he was still stiffening in her curled hand.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, each waiting for the other to do something. Deciding he was erect enough, she pumped him. Her fingers just barely fit around his shaft, and even with two hands she couldn’t have fully covered him. Nesta certainly wasn’t going to be able to fit him all in her throat.

But god she wanted to try. 

He exhaled a breath when she stroked him again, earning a chuckle from Nesta. “Tell me how you like it,” she murmured, softening her grip. Nesta had to hope that the cowboy liked it rough, because she wanted him to fuck her within an inch of her life. 

“Nice and slow?” she tried, making a sweet pass over that large cock of his.

Cassian shook his head, his dark tresses, whispering against his broad shoulders. What was he like out of control? 

“What about this?” she tried, pumping him harder, squeezing tighter. He shook his head again, allowing her to make a third, rougher pass. Nesta twisted her wrist against his head, her nails grazing the sensitive vein trailing his now very erect cock jutting from between two powerful legs.

“That's what I thought,” Nesta murmured, looking up through dark lashes. “Just like me.”

“Nes—” 

Nesta silenced him by taking him into her mouth. She had to use her hand to make up the difference and she didn’t care. A soft, strangled noise escaped Cassian as his fingers plunged into her hair. 

Yes.

This was what she needed. Nesta took him until she gagged, and then she took a little more, teeth grazing his sensitive skin, hand punishingly tight. Cassian moaned, tugging at her hair. Nesta sucked again, trying so hard to communicate that she could take it. He was holding back, practically shaking from the effort. 

Nesta took more of him, widening her jaw in order to accommodate the sheer size of him. That was all it took. Cassian made a rough, snarling sound, pushing her off him.

“You’re a lady,” he panted, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. 

Finally.

“And in my house, ladies come first,” he continued, eyes flashing as he shrugged out of that shirt. Nesta swore softly at the sight of all that gleaming, corded muscle. Nesta had never seen someone so effortlessly toned, so big.

Powerful.

“I seem to recall something about eating out,” she said breathlessly, swallowing hard when Cassian prowled toward her.

“I haven’t forgotten, darlin’,” he promised, hovering over her with his unbuttoned jeans and a smile that made Nesta’s heart race. “But first, I think I’m owed a kiss.”

“Just one?” she asked as his lips ghosted over her own.

“Let’s start with one and go from there,” he said, sliding his hand around the back of her head. Nesta had only her ripped dress between them, which provided no protection against Cassian when he pressed the weight of his body against her. 

In another life, she might have kissed him nice and slow—teasing it out, exploring him thoroughly. Right then, though, Nesta thought she might explode if she didn’t have his mouth directly on her, his tongue stroking, thrusting, tasting. He was just as excited, grinding himself into her while she pulled at the strands of his hair.

He tasted like snow kissed wind, somehow. Like the crackling of a fire and a frosted window—like some memory she’d long forgotten. Nesta dug her nails down the back of his neck and against his shoulder blades until he bucked into her, wild and nearly unrestrained. Nesta could not remember the last time she’d wanted someone the way she wanted him.

“Off—get this—off,” Cassian panted between messy, hungry kisses. He was pawing at her dress, trying to figure out how to take it off. Nesta arched her back into his chest, earning matching moans from them both as she yanked down the zipper

Nesta would never know how she managed to get that dress off her body given Cassian never stopped his frantic kissing. Nor did she figure out how her bra joined her clothes on the floor. She only realized she was nearly naked when Cassian licked down the column of her neck before burying his face between her breasts.

“Fuck, Nes,” he breathed, both hands covering them entirely—no easy feat, given how large they were. Cassian massaged them, callused thumbs dragging over her aching nipples until Nesta was certain she was making a mess all over his bedding. 

His mouth latched around her and Nesta was lost, ripping at his hair as her body bowed off the bed.

“Responsive,” he teased, his tongue tracing around the sensitive bud. “I wonder…”

“Cass—” she gasped when his hand made its way between her legs. Nesta writhed when he began drawing circles on her clit, teasing touches that weren’t even close to what she needed, even as he switched between her breasts, sucking and licking. She could feel it all in her pussy, like every nerve in her body was intimately connected.

She could have come from that—for the first time in god knew how long. At least, without her own hand, without assistance from a toy. Nesta couldn’t recall the last time a man had pleased her so easily, so effortlessly.

Cassian pulled back, wild and impossibly sexy. Holding her gaze, he nipped his way down her body until he found the red pair of panties still clinging to her hips.

“Aw, for me?” he teased, kissing against the fabric. “Sweetheart, you’re soaked.”

Nesta pushed herself against his face, but Cassian was still licking against the lace. 

“I’ll bet you could come just like this. Couldn’t you?”

If he was doing it? Probably. Nesta merely whined, arching when he hooked his fingers into her underwear and peeled them off her.

He whistled softly. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Do you know that? I feel sick at the sight of you.”

She didn’t have a chance to respond. Cassian’s tongue slid down the center of her, rendering speech impossible. Nesta reached for something to hold on to, and found his hair for purchase. Cassian groaned, the sound vibrating against her. Her thighs tightened around his face, earning another groan of pleasure. 

Cassian’s tongue was everything. She realized, after a lifetime of thinking she was just difficult to get off—too fussy, too particular, too exacting—that what she really needed was someone who knew what they were doing. Cassian had her spread apart, licking and sucking her clit with the sort of expert precision that told Nesta he liked what he was doing. 

She regretted not sucking him more. Nesta was going to come apart in record time and she knew she was going to beg him to do this again in a few hours. All weekend.

For fucking ever. 

Release was gathering on her spine, burning hotly through her blood until Nesta didn’t recognize the noises coming from her throat. Cassian, too, was rolling his hips into the mattress, trying to alleviate his own arousal. Nesta nearly stopped him, if only to have that long, thick length in her body.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Cassian pushed one of his fingers into her. Nesta tightened around him and Cassian swore at whatever he felt, though he didn’t stop. He fucked and sucked in time, working her like she was an instrument only he knew how to play. Nesta built up, up, up, until she was fucking his hand, rolling all over his face like a wild animal. 

Nesta broke apart with a scream she couldn’t control, bucking against him as she shattered into fractals of starlight. Cassian didn’t stop, riding her through wave after wave with clear, obvious excitement. It was only when pleasure became edged with pain that Nesta released the grip her thighs had around his face and Cassian came up for a deep breath of air.

“Fuck,” he said, his lips gleaming from her arousal. “Fuck, Nes—”

“Come here, come here,” she panted, scrabbling for his shoulders. Cassian obliged, kissing her frantically. His tongue was coated in the taste of her, pushed against her own. Nesta liked it, wanted more of him.

“Condom,” he breathed, finally shucking his jeans to trip over to his dresser. Nesta propped herself up on her elbows to watch, admiring his firm ass as he went. Cassian was quick about it, rolling the condom onto his cock with what she swore were shaking hands. His eyes shone, and if she didn’t know better, she would have sworn Cassian could not believe his good luck. 

“You sure?” he asked, hesitating at the end of the bed. Nesta nearly laughed, given she was spread out and still trembling from his mouth. Any other man would have jumped on her, would already be balls deep buried in her.

He was sweet, she decided.

She wanted to keep him, though she had no idea how. She’d figure it out later. “I’m sure.”

“Good,” he said with another heart stopping smile. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said no.”

“Sure you do,” she offered in what she hoped was a sultry voice. “You’d have gone into the bathroom and used your hand.”

“That was my plan to start,” he agreed, settling between the cradle of her thighs. “But this is much better. Have I said how pretty you are?”

“Once, at least.”

“Well.” He pushed himself an inch or so into her. Nesta gasped loudly. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’.”

He’d punched all the air from her lungs. Nesta didn’t think she’d ever been stretched against anything half as large as Cassian. It was the sweetest pain that, with each shallow stroke inching him in deeper, became wholly pleasure. By the time Cassian had fully seated himself within her, a bead of sweat was trailing down his temple from the effort it took to go slow.

“Good?”

“Good,” she agreed, gripping the back of his neck for a kiss. “Cass?”

He hummed in response.

“I’m not fragile. You can fuck me, if you like.”

Cassian pulled himself out before snapping his hips so hard the headboard above them rattled. “Like that?” he grunted.

“Yes—yes, Cassian—”

He did it again, groaning loudly when she tightened involuntarily around him. This was Cassian unrestrained, his hair wild around his rugged, handsome face. His muscles bunched and shifted from the effort, held over her just enough that she could incline her had and watch his cock slide in and out of her body. 

He wasn’t finished, and Nesta already wanted to have him again. 

And again.

Cassian reached for her knees, bending them up by her shoulders to drive himself deeper. Nesta moaned, eyes rolling up into her head. The balls of her feet were pressed to his chest pushing him with each slide out, only for him to return with twice as much force. When she’d said she’d wanted it rough, well…this was exactly what she meant. 

“Nes, fuck—” he panted, eyes rolling up into his head as she came on his cock. Nesta arched hard, every muscle in her body going taut all at once. She clamped around him and Cassian came too, clearly unbidden and unprepared for the force of his own release. She wanted to drown herself in the noises he made, in the frantic thrusting of his body driving himself deeper on instinct. 

Cassian collapsed on top of her, dropping Nesta’s legs carelessly. She hissed when her bruised ankle hit the bed. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, lips against her jaw. “And I’m not, at the same time. Nesta, I…”

“I know,” she agreed, because she was certain they were thinking the same thing. Something else had happened between them, something they couldn’t so easily walk away from.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, perhaps guessing those words were never going to come easy to Nesta. “I can hear you worryin’. Baby, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Nesta brushed her fingertips against the rough stubble of his face. “Promise?”

Cassian grinned. “I promise.”

[aloysiavirgata]

Hi! I'm not sure if you've done this before, but my prompt is: 2023 Mulder and Scully rediscovered an old copy of their Hollywood AD film. Thanks so much!😍

It was the kind of autumn Gothic novels were written for, blustery and orange-gold with purple velvet twilights. The house was creaky with uneven seams that the cold seeped into, left Scully in thick wool socks at breakfast, flannel pajamas at bedtime.

She went to the thrift store after work to hunt for handmade quilts. She liked to rescue them from the sad racks under fluorescent lights, imagined women gossiping and sewing them with fingers as nimble as any surgeon. Remembered how Playtex seamstresses sewed the first space suits with 1/64th of an inch tolerances.

Scully perused the DVD bin as she waited in line, a Rising Sun quilt in shades of blue over her arm. She smiled as she went through them, remembering the times she had seen the films. A Few Good Men, When Harry Met Sally, Gladiator, and…oh.

Christ.

Scully felt her face go hot, glanced around as though anyone were paying attention. She tucked The Lazarus Bowl under the quilt, tossed a twenty on the counter, and fled.

***

Mulder hadn’t really stopped smirking since she came home with it, cracking wise as he assembled a large plate of nachos for them to share.

Scully, angry at herself for this weakness, glared at him from the depths of a laundry-basket quilt in shades of green.

“Should I call Walter?” he asked, settling next to her. “Your main squeeze?”

“Fuck off.”

“How many Hail Marys from Sister Spooky for that?” He hit play.

Scully, visible only as narrowed eyes and a messy bun, watched Téa Leoni sprint across the screen in Manolo Blahniks.

Mulder loaded a chip with refried beans. “Look at her go,” he said with admiration. “You’ve got to be impressed with her commitment to verisimilitude.”

Her onscreen doppelgänger paused to let her bosom heave.

“I would never run in that bra, that would just ruin your neck.”

“Well, that’s why she got paid the big bucks.”

They watched in silence for a while longer, eating, listening to the wind scrape tree branches together over the mortifying dialogue.

“You ever miss it?” Scully asked. She’d be sixty in a few months. Sixty, my god. She was thirty-six when this mess had come out and had been starting to feel past her prime just then.

She’d been a child. An infant.

Mulder made a non-committal noise around a pickled jalapeño. “Sixty-two now, I’d have been punted out 5 years ago anyway.”

“I think the kids say yeeted now,” Scully remarked. “We’d have been yeeted.”

“That’s very lit of you, Scully.”

“I’m hip to the lingo. All the new residents are like…sixteen.”

Gary Shandling waved his gun, made dire threats that violated the Geneva Convention.

“Look at this fucking idiot,” Mulder scowled. “I showed him how to hold the thing, Jesus Christ.”

Scully smirked. “You ever show him whether you dress to the left or the right?”

He grabbed her under the quilt, drew her against him as the windows rattled. “Just you. In the limo, if I recall. God this is a terrible movie.”

“Only on the way back,” she clarified, his hands under her shirt. “I made you buy me dinner first.”

“Always a lady,” he mumbled into her neck. “Though…that was the Bureau card. I guess ol’ Walter bought you dinner and I just reaped the benefits.”

Scully shoved him away.

“Wh-“

“I can’t live this lie any longer, Fox. I’m in love with Associate Producer Walter Skinner.”

[bevanne46]

Quilts

Quilting has a long history that can be traced back to ancient civilizations. The earliest known evidence of quilting is an ivory carving of the Pharaoh of the Egyptian First Dynasty, which dates to around 3400 BC.

A quilt is decorative textile, often used as a bedspread, made by stitching together a top, middle, and bottom layer of fabric.

Quilts are practical and beautiful bed blankets that keep you warm on cold nights. Some Quilts are works of art that can be hung on a wall for display. The Tristan Quilt (14th century), made in Sicily, is one of the earliest surviving examples of a decorative quilt. 

But Quilts can also be so much more!

Quilts can be loving memories of someone we lost, of our past, of family and can tell a story.

Quilts can be a tribute to our life's work or military service.

Quilts can be a security blanket and support for a frightened child or the sick.

Quilts can be used on windows or doors as draft stoppers like tapestries of old.

Quilts can be used as tents or forts for children's play time.

Quilts can be beautiful, unique gifts for someone else or yourself.

Quilts can be made into practical garments such as jackets, capes & skirts. (Crusaders in the Medieval Days, wore quilted garments under their armor)

Quilts can be used to recover upholstered furniture like stools & chairs.

Prior to the development of the sewing machine, quilting was always done by hand, sometimes with a long running stitch or by hand tying. Women would get together to hold a "Quilting Bee", a group to help complete the hand stitching of a large quilt. Quilts were traditionally made from cotton and when times were tough people would turn old clothing into quilts.  The original Reuse, Repurpose, and Zero Waste! 

In today’s world, some will try to tell you that Quilts should only be made from Top Brand Quilting Cottons but really Quilts can be made from almost any fabric: cotton, polyester, wool, flannel, t-shirts, uniforms, etc.  

Read about the History of Quilting here:

Read about Quilting here:

[flowingivy]

Cut by Thorns

CW- domestic violence, swearing, slight graphic description.

Chapter 1

"GET THE FUCK OUT NOW." You screamed at the tall man, who was previously hitting and yelling at you. "ITS ALL YOUR FAULT Y/N" the loud crash of plates being thrown against wall echoed threw the apartment. You were finally able to shove the big man out of the apartment and locked the door. "IF YOU DONT LEAVE ILL CALL THE FUCKING COPS." Silence for the first time in multiple hours. Silence.

Noise dripping with blood caused by the man you called for boyfriend for almost a year. Things started off really good. He was sweet, took you out of dates. Made sure you were always happy. On a normal day, he was in the shower and his phone buzzed on the bed. That day everything fell apart. Cheater. Lier. Fake.

After finding out that he had been cheating on you for a large portion of your relationship, he got violent, but it wasn't ever physical until now. Sitting on the floor, crying your heart out. The man you once knew was gone. Stomping to the bedroom you shared just earlier that day. You grabbed a trash bag and threw all his shit into it. Rushing to the balcony and throwing it all off the third story of the building.

You called your closest friend. The girl you've been close with for years. The only one who has never done you wrong. Your ride or die. Kate. She has always been protective over you. Never wanted to leave your side. When you met the girl she was drunk at the bar. Complaining about work and the large amount of men she lived with. You took her home and made sure she was safe. Sometimes friends come when you least expect it.

After that night, Kate would come over every single Friday and have what you both liked to call a girls night. A glass of wine and talking about how shitty work has been. Along with her frequently bring up the men she worked with. Which Kate also lived with. Not knowing what she did for work. You tried to be as supportive as possible. Kate always hated your now ex boyfriend. In her words he was a free loader so once she heard about the series of events of just minutes ago.

She was livid and angry. You're the one person she genuinely cared for as a person. Well on the phone with the furious women. You heard her talk to someone. Probably her roommates. "hey y/n? Is it okay if I go for about half an hour?. I'll be over as soon as I can. Just text me if he comes back okay?" You whip the tears from your eyes "yeah that's okay. I'm gonna go take a shower. Just come in when you get here." The phone hangs up.

You go back to the room and grab a pair of men's stripped boxers and a large black shirt. Turning the water on to the hottest setting and wait for it to heat up. You turn on your favorite music and start to wash up. Getting all the crimson blood off your face and hands.

Knock knock.

You hop out of the shower, throw on your large clothes, and walk to the door of your very spacious apartment. Opening the door, you were met with four faces. Three you have never seen before. Kate immediately hugged you and grabbed your shoulders tight. "Oh my god. Y/n your face is so bruises." You flinch at the sudden touch. "Kate, who are these guys?" You say in a soft tone, always sounding scared.

"Oh yeah! This is Brian" pointing to a tall blonde man with slight stubble and a bright yellow hoodie and ripped jeans. "This is Tim" Kate pointed to a built man with side burns and a red flannel. "Last but not least, toby." Lastly pointing to a shorter boy but still taller then you. He had a black face mask on and a black turtle neck. "These are my roommate I've always told you about. They offered to give me a ride" You wave at the boys and smiled a bit. "The place it fucking trashed." You say with a bit of embarrassment.

"These pigs are probably worse." Kate jokingly rolls her eyes."fuck you." Toby thought he was quiet but kate had elbowed him in the side. Which he couldnt feel but got the hint. "Can we come in? I'll help you clean up y/n. " You move out of the way. Unveiling the trashed apartment. Glass all over the floor. The coffee table in the living room flipped over. "Oh god." Tim said under his breath, trying not to make y/n feel bad. "One person did this? Jesus." Brian said, looking towards you with concern written all over his face. What she went threw. None of them wished upon anyone. Ever.

Kate went under the sink and grabbed a trash bag. Picking up large pieces of glass and trash that was thrown around. "Kate, please, you don't have to.." You say with guilt in your voice. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You should just relax for right now. I'll make sure this place looks untouched when I'm done. After we can even go get food." Kate smiled slightly at you, trying to cheer you up.

"Fine.. but I'm paying for food. For all of us." You smiled back at the girl. Tim helping get trash off the floor. Toby whipped down the counter that had spilled pop on it. Kate now with a broom getting the rest of the glass. "Go get dressed so you don't look homeless!" Kate said in a joking tone. "Ok, mom," you giggled back. Walking to your room. Flipping on the light switch. You heard talking in the kitchen/ living room (they are connected). Not being able to understand what was being said, you got dressed into a pair of oversized ripped jeans. Along with a large black hoodie that had a large picture of Medusa on the back.

Walking out of the bedroom, you saw a fully clean apartment. It looked like your ex-boyfriend wasn't even there. It felt great. Being with Kate and the boys you just met. Felt comfortable, like as along as you had Kate. Nothing bad was going to happen to you. The men made you feel like they would have your back as long as Kate cared for you. As you walked to get your shoes. You felt three pairs of eyes on you. Watching your every move. You could get comfortable with not getting treated like shit by a man all the time. You could get used to having a man genuinely care about you as a person. Not an object.

"Are you ready to go y/n?"

A/N- this is my first book ever. I would love to hear suggestions🙏 next chapter will be out soon.

[strawberryblondebutch]

questions 10 and 19. need to hear all about your gay lil fashion sense.

10. did you do anything gay as a kid that makes sense when you look back on your childhood?

My first memory, I kid you not, is wanting to shake hands with a young woman behind me at Mass during the sign of peace because she was so pretty. Honestly, most of my life decisions were made with the intention of getting the attention of pretty women.

19. describe your fashion sense. do you "dress gayly"?

HA. Here's the thing. My hair goes just past my collarbone. No matter what I do, how I dress or otherwise style myself, I will not register as gay to most heterosexuals. Gay people, however, will clock me almost at once. Unless you're my biphobic bisexual Gaylor neurosurgeon ex-situationship, of course.

I'm not a big dressing-up butch. If I dress up, it has to be on my own terms. Otherwise, I'm a blue jeans and sneakers gal seven days of the week. What I wear on top varies slightly: black emo band t-shirts or sports jerseys (baseball, hockey, hurling, soccer, you name it). Autumn is henley season. As far as accessories go, I have a couple pendants and watches I can pair with the fit at large.

Also, I do not own a winter coat. I don't need one. I am a furnace. I have two leather jackets, one for fashion and one for my bike, and those get the job done when it drops below 25-ish. 25-50, I have a Jameson letterman jacket and my signed Wonder Years flannel. More than that? Guns are out. I'm like a teenage boy.

sapphic asks

[twola]

Devil's Backbone : Diablo Ridge II

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge II: A Den of Thieves

Perhaps, she thinks forlornly, she came to this group looking for safety, but has found that she is but a hapless doe in a den of wolves.

cw: gross sexual advances, injuries, suicidal ideations

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“Ever robbed someone? Broken into a homestead? Charmed the money or a watch off a man?”

“Can’t say I have…”

The blonde woman snorts, rolling her eyes as she takes a sip of beer from a bottle, before placing it back on the table and getting back down on her knees again in front of the large tin tub, water sloshing as she tosses another piece of clothing into it.

“Karen, we all started somewhere. Don’t be on Ruth's case before she even has a chance to prove herself.” Tilly eyes her over the tub and grabs a soaking wet shirt from it and pulls it over the rungs of the washboard tilted over the rim,  “Don’t mind her none, Ruth. Karen’s just in a mood.”

You cast your eyes down toward your lap, sitting on your knees as you work at a particularly stubborn stain in a man’s shirt. You’re not sure what the stain is - mud, horse shit, blood, likely blood , in the blue check-worked flannel. The water in the large tub swirls, grey and dirty as the women washed mounds of clothing of their use. Bubbles of soap pop on the surface.

“Oh, Ruth, it’s alright. I’ll teach you some of the tricks of the trade.” Mary Beth leans in and smiles at you for a moment before returning to her task, hanging a threadbare union suit to dry on the makeshift clothesline suspended between the wagon and a tree several feet away.

“You just gotta be nimble with your fingers,” She laughs, stepping around Tilly and plucking Karen’s beer bottle from the table with relative ease. 

“Hey! Get yer own!” Karen hollers at her, throwing a wet sock at the young woman, who ducks and shrieks with glee, darting behind a sheet hung from the clothesline. Karen grumbles, eyeing where Mary Beth hides, and you can see she has another sock balled up in her hand below the water’s surface. Mary Beth peers from behind the sheet, her brown curls falling over her shoulder. 

Her scream sends Tilly and Karen into hysterical laughter as the latter hits her with the balled-up sock square in the face. You even chuckle, cracking into a grin for the first time in the several days you’ve been here in this camp.

“Eugh!” Mary Beth yells, wiping her face, “That’s one of Uncle’s socks!”

Karen guffaws back at her, “Serves ya right, you thief!”

Tilly chuckles, looking at you over the tub. You make eye contact with her briefly, before looking down at the shirt in your hands again. 

“Ruth, you’ll be alrigh’. We’re lookin’ out for you. Ain’t nobody here gonna kick you out, don’t mind their blusterin’. We all come from somewhere where nobody looked out for us.” Tilly says quietly, and you raise your gaze to hers again.

“Thank you, Tilly.” You say meekly, before handing her the shirt in your hands. 

Tilly smiles, covering your hand with hers. Her eyes dart up, behind you, and she snorts slightly, “Best look busy, Grimshaw’s stompin’ her way over.”

You glance back over your shoulder, and indeed, the stern-looking Susan Grimshaw, who you have learned runs the camp with an iron fist, is moving quickly toward this corner of the clearing where the laundry is set up. She likely heard the commotion between Mary Beth and Karen.

Approaching the group, Susan places her hands on her hips, her trademark scowl painted across her face.

“I don’t think that laundry requires y’all to be hootin’ and hollerin’, ladies.” She spits, eyeing the group with disdain. Karen turns her head away, rolling her eyes. Mary Beth meekly ducks behind the sheet hanging on the line, making herself look busy. Tilly grimaces and scrubs a pair of pants on the washboard.

Grimshaw’s unfortunate gaze rests on you. Your eyes dart back down to the pile of dirty laundry next to your lap.

“Missus Shaw.”

Well, no hiding now.

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw?”

“You’ve got Hosea saying that you have a bit o’ medical experience. Time to show it. Mister Callander over there had a run-in with an O’Driscoll and needs some sewing up.”

You stand from your knees, wiping your wet hands on the stained apron covering your blue woolen skirt.

“Yes ma’am.” 

Grimshaw leads you toward a large tent in the middle of the camp, you recognize it as Dutch’s tent, far more grandiose and large than any of the other ones spread throughout the glen. She pulls back the canvas flap and pulls you inside, none too gently.

Dutch leans against a table opposite a large cot.  Another man, blonde with a short patchy beard and stringy hair, sits on a chair in the middle of the makeshift room, his right arm bloody above the elbow. Susan grabs a small stool from the side of the tent and places it next to the man seated in the chair. She nods her head to you to take a seat. You do so without putting up a fight.

“What, I ain’t good enough for you, Grimshaw?” The man retorts, pulling off his flannel shirt and balling it up in his lap. 

“Mister Callander, you’re good enough for Missus Shaw over here to prove some worth. Let’s see how your arm looks when she’s done."

The blonde man snorts, unbuttoning his greying union suit and peeling it down to his waist. He winces as the fabric, stained bloody red, is slowly peeled down his right arm, an ugly gash a few inches long oozing coagulated blood graces his bicep. 

He looks you up and down. “Hope you know what you’re doin’, missy.”

Grimshaw hands you a wooden box, and without responding, takes her place next to Dutch, eyeing you with disdain as she places her hands on her hips. She waits a few minutes before huffing and leaving the tent.

You open the box and take a quick survey of the items inside. Linen bandages, thread, needles, a few half-opened bottles of tonics, and the like. An old bottle that you hoped was some kind of alcohol, maybe a kind of moonshine? A long breath, like a sigh, escapes your mouth as your gaze moves up to the man’s arm.

“Alright,” you lean closer, fingers moving toward the wound, “Mister…”

“Mac Callander.”

“Right, Mister Callander,” You grab a rag to blot against the drying blood on the man’s skin, “What was this from?”

“Bullet graze. Shoulda seen the other guy,” He grins smugly, laughing while looking over to Dutch, “Fuckin’ O’Driscolls.”

“A few stitches and you should be fine, sir.” You open the bottle of mystery liquid and give it a sniff, grimacing when indeed, your hunch was correct. Very strong moonshine. You pour a little onto the rag and wipe at the wound, before placing the rag down and threading the needle from the box, “Be sure to hold still.”

The needle pierces the man’s skin, but he does not wince, nor grimace, nor complain. You continue your work, placing tight sutures across the gash, sewing the skin shut.

“Arthur said you ran into O’Driscolls on your way back from Blackwater. Seems like you’ve been acquainted with them.” Dutch crosses his arms, peering down at your handiwork on Mac’s bicep to inspect the sutures.

“Yes, they seem like a pleasant lot.” You reply, keeping your eyes on stitches, not looking up at either man.

“Good only for a bunch o’ bullets.” Mac snorts, giving Dutch a grin before he looks back down as you pierce his skin with your needle again.

Blessed silence for a few moments while taking a small knife to cut the thread, tying it off when the stitches are complete, but alas, the quiet was not to last.

“So, Ruth, Hosea said you were a recent widow. May I ask what happened to Mister Shaw?”

You sigh, wiping the oozing blood from Mac’s arm with a rag. You were wondering when this would come up. “Robbers, I guess. I came back from Blackwater and the house was looted, and he was there…” you trail off, voice becoming small. 

“Probably was those O’Driscolls, them rat bastards.” Mac spits, grabbing his shirt from his lap.

Dutch places a hand under his chin in contemplation. “You were over past Blackwater, right? Still in West Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Probably was. Colm’s been moving around this state quite a bit. My condolences, Ruth.” Dutch places a hand on your shoulder as you gather your supplies, the needle, and extra thread.

“Thank you, Mister Van der Linde.”

“Please, it’s Dutch. No need to be so formal.”

You nod. Before you can stand up from the stool you’re perched on, the canvas flap of the tent is pulled back, and the stern matriarch of the camp pushes in, past Dutch and over to Mac.

Miss Grimshaw looks critically over the stitches.

Dutch leans in, “Come now, Susan. I know you’re never satisfied but Missus Shaw over here did a quality job on ol’ Mac.”

“Hmph.” She replies, turning on her heel and exiting the tent with an unmoving scowl.

“If yer lookin for any kind o’ approval from her, yer barkin’ up the wrong tree.” Mac laughs, watching your eyes follow the older woman out. Dutch snorts, and makes to leave as well.

“Oh, I… uh…”

“Missy, I’ll be sure to kill some of those damn O’Driscolls fer ya.” Mac says as he rebuttons his work shirt, “Would be my pleasure, ‘specially after how kind you was with me.”

You smile nervously back at him, nodding. “T-thank you.”

The blonde-haired man runs his hand through his stringy locks before placing a worn hat on his head.  He looked every bit as rough and tumble as an outlaw should. 

You move to stand, stepping toward the opening of the tent, when the man behind you clears his throat. You turn your head to look back at him.

“Wouldn’t mind them kind little hands on other parts of me,” Mac says lowly, a lascivious smirk painted across his face.

A cold shiver goes down your spine as you turn back, pushing your way out of the canvas, refusing to respond. You walk, purposeful in your gait, toward the open tent and wagon claimed by the women.

Perhaps, you think forlornly, you had come to this group looking for safety, but have found that you are but a hapless doe in a den of wolves.

—

The pine trees here weren’t Ponderosas. They didn’t have the sweet smell of vanilla and caramel when you pick at the bark. The wood beneath your fingers is hard, and the strong smell of pine, tart, and spicy, reminding you a bit of the smell of gin.

Mayhaps they were junipers.

“Miss.”

A man’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

“So, Missus- what was yer name again?”

“Shaw. Ruth Shaw.”

“Right, Missus Shaw. Micah Bell. The third. What brings you here?” The man, another blond one with stringy hair and a patchy beard - dirty and soaked in the overwhelming smell of whiskey, sauntered around you as if he were heaven-sent.

“Mister Matthews invited me back when we met in Blackwater.”

“Hmm. And can you shoot, steal, rob?” Micah asks, circling you critically.

“I haven’t done any of that before, no.”  Another person asking this question. You were starting to get a sinking feeling in your gut about this group and what place you were finding yourself in within it. 

“Well, Miss, least there is one thing you can do that’ll be easy fer ya.” Micah drawled lowly.

“What’s that, Mister Bell?” You dread to know the answer with the way the man was looking you up and down.

“ Seducin’ .” He whispers, reaching out and touching a lock of your wavy hair that falls over your shoulder.

You don’t respond, as earlier. It’s probably safer for you not to agitate, not in this group. Not in this band of outlaws, criminals, and highwaymen. Maybe you were safe with Hosea or amongst the women, but cornered by these rough-and-tumble men? You’re sure their morality wouldn’t possibly extend to not beating a woman who fought back at them, or worse.

“You lemme know if you need any practice, Missus Shaw. Would be happy to oblige.” He steps even closer to you, unhanding that lock of hair, as you step back in a cold, fearful sweat.

“Micah, leave her alone.” A sharp, curt female voice snaps from somewhere behind him.

He steps back frowning. “Why, Miss Kirk, sweet thing, I was just gettin’ to know our newest member.”

“She look like she don’t want to get to know you. Go sulk somewhere else.” A petite, brown-haired woman walks with purpose toward you, her straight hair down and unbound, framing her face.

“Fine, fine. But don’t be jealous, girl, you know you’re special to me.” He retorts with a sickeningly sweet tone, unmatched completely by the depravity gleaming in his eyes.

She groans, rolling her eyes, while grabbing your arm and interlacing it with hers, walking both of you out of the camp and into the woods.

“Th-thanks for that, Miss.”

“Watch out for him. I made a dumb mistake when I joined this group - thinkin’ if I shacked up with one of these men I’d be safe - safer than I’d been before. Turns out I chose one of the snakes of the bunch.” The woman spoke with an aggravated tone in her voice before turning her head to you, giving that look that all women know.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Kirk.”

“Jenny,” she corrected, placing her other hand on your forearm as you walked side-by-side, arms interlocked, “It’d be best for you if you dropped some of the manners. Y’dont need em here. Makes you kinda stick out like some high-society lady or the sort.”

You snort under your breath, a smile finally gracing your face at the irony.

“Even if you are, from what I’ve heard, you ain’t haughty ‘bout it like Molly is.”

“First off, I’m not any society lady. I was born in a one-room cabin and my people were dirt poor. And Molly? Is that the red-haired woman with Dutch?” 

“Sure is, she fancies she’s above us all, and somehow over Grimshaw’s orders. Must be nice sleepin’ with the King. That’s a girl who chose right.” Jenny leans in, lowering her voice while she raises her eyebrow.

You nod, not wanting to get embroiled in the politics of this group, not until you figured out who was who, who was loyal to who, and who you could trust.

That was a small list at the moment.

“You let me know if you need anythin’. Including chasin’ any of those bastards off.” Jenny taps your arm comfortingly, as the two of you continue slowly walking through the pines on the edge of the camp.

“Thank you, Jenny.”

“Now c’mon, I heard Pearson sayin’ that we actually have some fresh meat for dinner. Thank god someone here knows how to hunt. Bless Charles, that man’s wonderful.”

–

He chafed at the red leather of the vest, not broken in, hard and new and clean. Give him an old workshirt and a pair of broken-in denim to make him feel comfortable.

But no, he had to be trussed up like some prized hen, a clean pressed shirt, and new pants, his boots polished and free of the dirt and dust that he lived in. His hair was even tamed with pomade, slicked back like he was some feckless city boy, his face freshly shaven.

Hosea had some kind of scam going on, real estate speculation, or the like. Some hapless fool in Blackwater, straight from some city in the east, who was sweet-talked into investing a sum of money for a plot of land in the basin of the Great Plains. This was Hosea’s specialty, making unknowing men with little common sense feel comfortable, taken care of, looked out for. Then he would rob them blind.

Arthur figured he was just along for insurance’s sake. He wasn’t much for acting. Give him a bandana and revolver and he’d get money, maybe with a little bloodshed involved. He knew he wasn’t a smooth talker, but the barrel of a gun always did enough talking for him over the years.

Boadicea tossed her head, whinnying loudly as Arthur pointed her down the trail, following Hosea atop Silver Dollar. Arthur clicked his tongue, calming the horse and running one of his hands through her dark mane. With a tap of his heels on her side, he spurred the horse to catch up with Hosea, falling in abreast of him on the road.

He knew he shouldn’t open the can of worms ‘bout this new girl. Hosea seemed firm in his desire to keep her around, though to what end, he had no idea. Wasn’t like Hosea to keep a woman around for the sake of having one - that was more Dutch’s thing. 

But chafing in this stupid vest, pulling this stupid scam, dealing with Bill’s stupid coach robbery the other day, Arthur was itching for a confrontation. 

“You done with her yet? Had enough flirtin’ with that girl?”

Hosea rolls his eyes, pulling Silver Dollar’s reins back as the two horses cross over a small creekbed. 

“I don’t know why you’re death on her, Arthur.”

“Y’didn’t have to offer her anything. Look at her. She’d scared shitless and ain’t made out fer this kinda life. Shoulda dropped her off on that ferry ‘nd let her go.”

Hosea scowls, “I dunno, I guess I see somethin’ in her.” He turns his head to the side, idly staring off across the plains.

“Sure y’do!” Arthur throws his hand in the air, raising his voice indignantly, “Y’see a girl that looks like Bessie did back in the day.”

Hosea glowers back at him with a heat and malice Arthur had not seen for many years. With the sternness of a father, he speaks slowly, in a low, disappointed tone. “Might behoove you to remember I took a chance on a fourteen-year-old boy, starvin’, cold, and alone. Saw somethin’ in him once.”

The older man digs his spurs into his horse’s side and breaks him into a canter, moving ahead, effectively ending the conversation.

Chided, Arthur turns his gaze back to the road, to Blackwater ahead of them. He pulls on Boadicea’s reins while beckoning her to pick up speed, “C’mon girl, let’s get this over with.”

There was work to be done.

–

While the camp’s occupants had finished dinner, another stew with meat of dubious origin, for the umpteenth night in a row, they settled in around the campfire. Someone was playing a guitar, and a bawdy song was drunkenly sung, sometimes shouted, by various men and women.

You had no desire to socialize, creeping around the darkened tents to where the stash of alcohol was kept. Finding a bottle of wine, you snatch it and scurry toward the woods. Working at the cork as you step through the underbrush, you begin to climb the hill toward the top of the ridge, you had heard someone say you could see much of the Dakota valley there.

You take a swig from the bottle, the tart, near-sour taste making you cringe. It was certainly not an enjoyable vintage of any kind, but for an outlaw camp, this was by far the best you could do.

What in God’s name were you doing?

Somehow, in some godforsaken way, your life keeps getting worse. You’re alone, your husband of ten years dead, your town and friends slaughtered, you’re still reeling from the loss of a child. Now you’re amongst a crew of criminals, where the men could give a fig about your virtue and it was only a matter of time until they threw you to the wind.

You continue to drink the wine, straight from the bottle, hoping and praying that the alcohol could make you forget, at least momentarily, the fresh hell that had become your life.

You reach the peak of the hill, leaning against a tree and sliding down against its trunk, sitting on the ground. You tip the bottle back again, taking another overwhelming mouthful of the wine, as tears prick at the corner of your eyes.

You lose track of time in the night, the wide open sky over West Elizabeth bright with stars. 

Somehow, after drinking most of the bottle, you drag yourself up, swaying in your steps toward the edge of the ridge. The curving, meandering waters of the Dakota reflect the moon’s light, shimmering in the distance. The cliffside beckons. A warm wind blows north from the plains. 

This could be all over. You wouldn’t have to worry about ruffling outlaws’ feathers or where your meal was coming from. You wouldn’t have to worry about dangerous men possibly forcing themselves on you. You wouldn’t have to worry about the pain you feel in your chest upon waking, to find that indeed, your current life is not just a nightmare.

“Ruth, dear, are you alright?”

You sigh, letting a stuttering breath between your lips before letting your eyes close. The grip on the neck of the bottle you’re holding loosens, and the glass slips from your fingers. The bottle rolls into the grass, and over the rocky cliff, bouncing and crashing in a cacophony of sound as the pieces rush toward the base of the ridge below.

“What am I supposed to do, Mister Matthews?” 

“Well, first, we’re gonna move you away from that ledge,” you feel Hosea’s hand on your arm, and allow him to pull you back from your precarious spot. You lean back into him, and he winds his other arm around your ribcage as he walks you back, unsteady on your feet. A few steps away, he walks you to an overturned log, placing you gently to sit upon it. He sits down next to you, placing a hand on your upper back.

“Now, how about you tell an old man what’s on your mind.”

You place your head in your hands, bending over as a sob escapes your lips. Hosea slides closer to you, winding his arm around your shoulders.

“I… I don’t have anyone. He- he’s gone and…I’m… alone,” you sob, allowing Hosea to rub your arm. 

“You’ll be alright, Ruth. You’re a strong woman.” Hosea says softly, “Y’may feel like you can’t go on, but it’ll get better. It’ll get…less.”

“I just…” You trail off, pulling your hands from your face, finding them damp with tears. You rub at your eyes, sniffling.

Hosea sighs. “I spent an entire year drunk after Bessie died. I know it’s hard, trust me, dear, but you can go on.”

You look up at him, tears continuing to spill from your eyes, unhindered by the drink you consumed.

“I…I don’t want to die alone, which I guess means I don’t want to die.” You confess, staring at your feet.

“I understand. I know it’s not much, but dear, you’re not alone with us. We’re a family, this gang. I know we’re a bit rough ‘round the edges, but there’s nothing more important here than each other.” Hosea says, pulling back his arm from you to place his hands on his thighs before pushing himself up to stand.

You remain silent, clasping your hands between your knees, hot tears rolling slowly down your cheeks. The weight of it all, the piercing wound of loss, it chokes your throat in a vice-like grip. It presses on your rib cage like an animal desperately trying to claw its way out.

Hosea gives you his hand.  You blink back tears, unbidden now, and sigh loudly before moving your gaze from his hand up to his face.

In his eyes, even through your alcohol-induced haze, you see a sadness, a hint of pain, a familiar graying of something that once was vibrant. 

You take his hand and allow him to pull you to stand. He places the hand of yours that he holds on his arm, steadying you. 

He leads you back to camp, slowly, walking you back to the women’s tent amongst the dying orange embers of a campfire gone neglected as the group allows silence to overtake the night.

[cowboyjen68]

hiii!

i'm a younger butch lesbian, but there's a bit of a roadblock: i live in a very cis/heteronormative place, so i have no butch role models. i have no idea how to...well, be butch.

tips and tricks?

This is an easy and simple answer. Just be you. Dress in what makes you feel confident and comfortable.

Being butch will come as natural as breathing to you.

The best butch role models will live life as their honest selves whether that be an outgoing smiley extrovert or a quiet stoic introvert or anything in between. She won't need to put on a facade of toughness or act in any certain way to appease the outside world. We are perceived as butches just by existing so we might as well live life in a way that makes us happy.

You don't need to subsribe to any roles or rules as expected by society. IF you are butch you are butch. Be you.

Now some less woo woo advice. LOL Boy shorts or boxer under wear are almost universally comforting to butches. (NOT all by many) so try some Wal Mart boxers on for size. They seriously made me more comfortable and confident in my younger years.

IF you want to shop in the men's (boy's section) go right ahead. Rarely does anyone look twice because, frankly, men's clothes are accepted, in general, as more gender nuetral than women's clothes. Thrift stores are great places to try different clothes on to see what you like. It is a chaotic grouping of all kinds of styles and sizes for much less than retail (in many cases but beware over priced items larger second hand stores ). Once you find a style you like you can go to new or stick with used.

Shoes... I wear women's Columbias because they are good for my feet, affordable and suit my manual labor jobs. DO not neglect your feet for fashion. Find and spend the money on good shoes. Men's are just too large for me and sporting or outdoor activity shoes tend to have similar quality in men's and women's as opposed to dress shoes were women's are crap and men's are sturdy.

Flannel at big box stores are pretty affordable. Estate sales and garage sales, auctions and thrift stores can be a great place to find vintage, unique men's clothing at a fraction of on line or retail. I have found some very cool ties and belt buckles and dress shirts by taking a Saturday to check out estate sales. If you don't like them down the line you are only out a few bucks.

It warms my heart to see young women embrace the word butch and their own butchness because with that acceptence can come a wonderful community and a source of support in life.

Butch hugs from me to you.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Cop!Andy takes future Mrs barber to a local Christmas festival, this time finally not dressed as elf

His appearance surprises you, so much so that you almost blister past him before you turn around and spy him waiting for you at the entrance gate. He’s waiting for you with a coy smirk on his face and his ocean blue eyes glinting with amusement.

Instead of a red and green elf costume or the police uniform you’d seen him in before, Andy Barber is wearing a thick flannel with a grey shirt and fake wash jeans that make his legs look miles long. His beard is freshly trimmed and only pieces of his hair is visible beneath his black toque.

“Andy.” You speak his name with a slight spike to the end, clearly surprised by him.

“Almost blew right past me, Mrs. Barber.” He continued the tease and struts, naturally struts, toward you. “Are you playing hard to get sweetheart? Or did you not recognize me?”

“I was expecting to see you in a costume. Ya know I was partial to the ears.” You retort and feel your breath constricting in your throat because he has no right to be that beautiful.

“Not today, missus.” He steps in line with you and brushes the outside of his hand against yours before he finally grasps it. “You look beautiful, honey.”

You’re not wearing anything special, not like some of the women who comes to these things with sleek winter sweater dresses or tiny skirts and act like they’re not cold. You know they probably feel confident because they obviously look good but you have to wonder if they actually feel good.

It wasn’t as if Boston was some hotspot in Winter, weather and temperature wise, it was still afflicted by storms.

Instead of dressed up, you chose something simple. You are wearing a pair of thick fleece lined leggings and a university hoodie, a men’s style that you got big on ourptose.

“That flannel looks comfortable. I’m gonna steal it.” You’re bold with your statement, hoping you can throw him off but instead he raises an eyebrow and his smirk widens.

“Do you like me putting you in cuffs that badly, Mrs. Barber?” Andy coos, seductively, and you shiver in response.

“Chippendales wanna be…” you mutter, his hand tightening on yours as a large group passes and you feel yourself haphazardly getting tossed around.

You note that in grabbing your hand he’s saving you from being thrown into a safety barrier, and your natural response was to step closer to him.

“What would you like to do first, Mrs. Barber?” Andy looks down at you as things calm, his eyes searching yours. “Apart from the obvious don’t break the law-“

“You take the fun out of everything.” You rolled your eyes and huffed, only momentarily, before you caught the sight of an outdoor rink.

“How good of a skater are you?” You begin walking toward the arena and the skate rentals, Andy following behind.

“We’re gonna find out, jailbird.”

[anditvanisheslikemist]

October 1 - Flannel

From this prompt list. Writing something for every day in October last year went well, so I'm giving it a try again! I'll eventually crosspost them to AO3 as well.

"How is there a line to stand on the top of a mountain?" Matty folds his arms more tightly around himself and glares at the dozens of other people who have had the same idea about how to spend an October weekend as they had.

"Tourists." Nico nudges Matty's elbow with his own. "Which, I might remind you, we are, too."

Matty sighs heavily as the couple who had just been posing for their fall foliage picture takes their phone back from the person behind them in line with effusive thanks. That person in turn starts explaining some complicated settings on their large camera to the person behind them in line.

Nico puts a hand to the small of Matty's back, but has to turn away into his other arm-- h'TSCHU!-- before he can turn back to Matty. "No rush. There's a beautiful view."

Matty hums noncommittally, but puts an arm around Nico's shoulders in return. Nico leans in, letting his eyes close for a long moment. Matty's warm and strong beside him, the flannel he always wears hiking soft against his cheek. His breath catches again and he turns into Matty rather than away this time: hhh-TCHIU!

Matty's touch has a question in it, not quite okay? because he knows when Nico's not okay and this isn't it. Just checking in.

"The wildfire smoke," Nico says, the last couple of syllables tripping over each other to fit themselves in before the oncoming ihh... t'CHUU! Someone else in line blesses him and he gives them a well-practiced smile and nod.

Matty pulls him just a little bit closer, protective in a way that Nico thinks is more unconscious than not. "We can go."

"No, no need." The haze is just barely noticeable. Not at all like it had been earlier in the year. "We're almost there."

Another step forward and a pair of early-20-something women turn to try to hand both of their phones to Matty. He just glares at them. Nico touches his nose to his sleeve at the back of his wrist to make sure it's not dripping and takes one of the phones, motioning for the girls to go and pose. It only takes a minute and then Nico and Matty are up, Nico handing his phone in turn to the older couple behind them.

"Worth the wait," he says quietly once they're in place, looking out over the brilliant reds and oranges and yellows on all the hills.

Matty nods his agreement. Nico slips a hand between Matty's t-shirt and his flannel, breathing in the way it feels warm and soft and safe.

"Oh, that's perfect," the woman taking their picture is saying, but Nico doesn't look at her, just up at Matty, and smiles.