#How can I watch Concrete Cowboy

[cowboybeepboop]

i’ve never made a request/idea before so i thought i’d try !!

i keep thinking about the reader being there the day the tornado took up kate’s friends !! like the reader walking home from work because her car stopped working, not knowing what to do when the tornado comes, so kate and her friends help her go to the underpass. with her, javi, and kate being the only survivors.

and because of this, kate ask the reader to come with her to help javi because the reader is the only one who can understand how kate feels. maybe the reader is from a small town in texas, and she stands out with storm parr in her cute little jean shorts and cowboy boots that spike tyler’s attention 😏

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem! Reader

Genre: Smut, angsty and romantic 

Word count: 5.6k 

Warnings: [TW: deep scarring, talking about the scar, etc.] unprotected sex, p in v, handjob, soft Tyler, kind of angsty.

a/n: I kinda wanted there to be angst in this so I tried to incorporate it, I really don’t know atp 😣 I also did not proofread this one so 😭 ALSO I JUST SAW THE TEXAS PART MY BAD

The winds picked up, sending debris spiraling through the air like a malevolent kaleidoscope, as the ominous rumble grew louder. Your heart raced as you sprinted down the desolate street, each step echoing the chaos that was fast approaching. The sky darkened to a shade of green you had only seen in your worst nightmares, the clouds swirling into a frenetic maelstrom that stretched from horizon to horizon. In the midst of this cataclysmic dance, you caught sight of a vehicle swerving off the road.

Without a moment's hesitation, you dashed towards the car as it skidded to a halt, the doors flying open. Kate and her friends, their eyes wide with terror, clambered out. "Over here!" she shouted, pointing at the sturdy overpass looming ahead. You didn't need further prompting. The group sprinted through the storm, the deafening roar of the tornado now a constant, terrifying soundtrack to your desperate flight. As you reached the concrete shelter, the fury of the winds grew more intense, snatching at your clothes and hair. 

Kate's grip on your hand tightened as she let out a blood-curdling scream, her eyes searching the swirling chaos for any sign of her boyfriend. A heartbeat later, you saw him, a mere silhouette in the howling wind, being mercilessly dragged away by the tornado's inescapable pull. The world around you seemed to slow as you watched him disappear into the gaping maw of the storm. You both screamed in unison, raw and visceral, as fear and grief clutched at your chests. Yet amidst the horror, you felt her hand tremble, and instinctively, you squeezed back, grounding her to the present. 

As the tornado's fury began to wane, its retreating roar sounded like a mournful cry echoing through the ravaged landscape. The air grew eerily still, yet the chaos around you seemed to pulse with a life of its own. You felt a sudden jolt, a violent tug at your body, and for a terrifying moment, you were almost ripped away from Kate's grasp. 

Your arm burned with pain, and you realized it was sliced open, blood seeping through your trembling fingers. Despite the horror, Kate's grip remained firm, her eyes locked on yours, filled with a fierce determination that mirrored the dwindling storm's intensity. She screamed, her voice piercing the calm, as the world around you swirled with debris. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, and held onto her hand with every ounce of strength you had left. Together, you waited for the tempest to pass, hearts racing in rhythm with the fading thunder.

You shake the memories as you glance in the front seat at your two best friends the storm brought to you. You were the only person Kate kept contact with, you both moved out to New York, sharing an apartment. So when Javi reached out to Kate she agreed to join the team as long as you came with. 

Shaking off the chilling recollections of that fateful day, you cast a sideways glance at Kate and Javi, who are now your inseparable companions, riding shotgun in the car. The tornado had been a terrifying twist of fate that bound you together, but it was the friendship that grew from the aftermath that truly defined your lives. 

Kate, ever the pragmatic one, had insisted on staying in touch after the ordeal, and when she made the life-altering decision to move to New York, you were the first person she called. The Big Apple's allure had always sparkled in your eyes, and with Kate's offer to share an apartment, it was an opportunity you couldn't refuse. 

When Javi reached out to Kate to ask her to join his team, she had one condition: you had to come with. You agreed without hesitation. The storm had brought you to them, but it was the shared experiences, the laughter, and the unspoken understanding that turned acquaintances into family.

Javi pulls into a rest stop where the rest of the storm par team was waiting for your arrival, you hop out of the truck stretching your arms while following behind Javi. Kate steps out of the car with you, her mind racing back to the events that had started this journey of yours. Her eyes drift over to you, her gaze holding a mix of gratitude and melancholy. Despite the years passed, she can't help but feel a slight pang as she thinks about what cost this new life came with.

She tries to shake off the thought as she looks around, her eyes settling on the rest of the team standing nearby. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself before nodding in greeting.

You cross your arms over your waist, not really paying attention as Javi introduces the team. You wander off to the side, eyes trained on the sky as you take in a deep breath. 

Javi glances over to you as you make your way to the side, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he continues introducing the team to Kate. 

Once he's done, he walks over to where you're standing, his hands shoved in his pockets. He stands beside you, silent for a moment before he speaks. "You alright?"

“It’s just a little odd,” you glance over to him. “Being back.” He gives you a soft nod. The loud noise of music fills your ears as a red truck comes pulling into the lot, catching your eye. 

Javi's demeanor changes the moment he sees Tyler's truck pull into the lot. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He scowls, his eyes darkening as the truck parks. 

He crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Tyler get out of his truck. “Who’s that?” You nod in Tyler’s direction as he greets his fans, noticing the way Javi reacts to him. 

Javi's eyes narrow, a slight sneer appearing on his face. 

"That's Tyler Owens," he mutters, his voice laced with disdain. "He's a big shot storm chaser, thinks he's the king of chasing storms." 

You nod as he speaks, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you should get back to Kate. Better find out if she’s found your storm.” He gives you a small smile as you continue to watch the sky. 

Tyler's eyes linger on yours as you keep your face up to the sky. He smirks, making his way over to you. 

"Now that's a good view." He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest. Glancing over your shoulder you notice his grin. 

“And what do you mean by that?” You raise an eyebrow at his comment, arms crossed under your chest. 

Tyler's smirk only widens as he takes a step closer to you. “I think you know exactly what I mean, sugar.” His piercing blue eyes rake over you, taking in your jean shorts and green long sleeve shirt.

You turn to face him, running a hand through your hair. Your lips press into a firm line as you take in his appearance.

Tyler stands inches away from you, towering over you. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips for a moment before meeting your gaze. 

“You're not from around here, are you?” He asks, his deep southern accent rolling like the thunder outside.

“What makes you think that?” You give him a soft smile. 

Tyler's eyes rake over you again, his gaze lingering on your long sleeves in the heat of the day. "Most of the locals know better than to wear long sleeves in this weather," he points out, a hint of a challenge in his tone.

You stiffen as he mentions the long sleeves, he unknowingly hit a soft spot since you always keep your arms covered due to the dark scar that covers your left arm.

You subconsciously grip the arm, “Yeah, guess that gives me away huh?” Tyler's observant eyes catch the subtle shift in your body language. He notices the way you subconsciously grip your arm when he comments on your sleeves. He tilts his head, his gaze fixed on your arm.

"Yeah, it kinda does," he replies, his tone softer now. There's a slight pang of curiosity in his eyes as he glances down at your arm. You give him a soft smile as you walk past, heading back to the storm par team. 

________

Over the past few weeks, Tyler had been relentless with his flirting, always seeking an opportunity to be near you. Despite your secretiveness, he had become completely infatuated with you, drawn in by your enigmatic nature. Even with  your best efforts to keep him at a distance, he can't help but be drawn to you. He can't explain why, but he's determined to get closer to you.

Tyler, the renowned “Tornado Wrangler,” seems to captivate you with his carefree attitude towards chasing storms that bring destruction. There's a morbid fascination in the way he seeks thrills amidst chaos. He leaves you questioning his intentions, torn between curiosity and concern. What drives him to pursue these dangerous pursuits? Is it merely for the adrenaline rush, or does he have a deeper purpose? You can't help but feel a mix of intrigue and confusion as your thoughts dance in the whirlwind he seems to have conjured.

As Javi pulls into the motel parking lot you notice the familiar red truck, parked with Tyler in the bed, fixing something that broke during the earlier chase. 

You exit the vehicle, arms wrapping around Kate’s shoulders as you lean into her body. She laughs softly at your familiar clinginess, listening to you whine about how hot you are. Something about the heat of today has left you fully exhausted, you're sweaty and unbelievably hot. 

Tyler can't help but let his eyes wander down to your bare legs, revealing quite the view, given your shorts were already rather short. 

He watches with a smirk as Javi teases you, offering to carry you. Tyler crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms straining against the fabric.

“Hey city girl.” Tyler’s voice rings out, capturing your attention instantly. You give him a dazed smile, the intense heat leaving you drained and dizzy. 

“Hey Cowboy.” Tyler couldn’t help but smile at your dazed expression, the heat clearly taking a toll on you. 

“Looks like the heat’s got you all dizzy,” he chuckles, leaning against his truck. “You doing alright?” The concerned look in his eyes betrays his usual cocky demeanor.

“Mhm,” you murmur, “doing just fine.” Kate keeps walking, bringing your tired form with her toward the stairs. He can see how tired you are, the heat clearly taking its toll on your body. 

He pushes off from his truck, following after you and Kate. "You sure about that, sugar? You look ready to fall over."

You let go of Kate, holding the railing as you try to pull yourself together with a few steadying breaths. You’re exhausted from being outside in the heat all day as you usually spend your days inside at a desk. 

Tyler's eyes are fixed on you, watching as you struggle to pull yourself together. He steps closer to you, reaching out a hand to steady you. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Let me carry you up to your room.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got it..” you sigh, straightening up as you regain your composure. “Just not used to this,” your voice is a soft murmur as you give him a reassuring grin. 

He crosses his arms, his muscles straining against the fabric again. He shakes his head at your stubbornness. "You're not used to the heat, but you're a storm chaser?” he teases, his southern accent rolling like thunder.

“Mm, not much of a chaser.” You respond, taking a few steps up the stairs. 

Tyler's eyebrows furrow in confusion as he follows you up the stairs. "What do you mean? You're not much of a chaser?" 

His gaze is fixed on your legs as you take each step, your legs looking damn gorgeous in those short shorts.

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s a long story,” his hand moves to your lower back as he comes up behind you. 

Tyler's hand on your lower back sends a subtle shiver down your spine. He can feel the tension in your body and the exhaustion that's weighing on you.

"Long story, huh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "I've got time." He guides you up the stairs to your room, Kate giving you a suggestive smile as she says goodnight.

“I’m not much of a talker, cowboy.” You open your door, stepping inside the cool room. You let out a soft moan at the change of temperature, thankful to finally be in cold air. 

Tyler follows you into your room, his gaze following your every movement. He takes in the moan that escapes your lips as the cool air hits your skin.

A soft smirk appears on his face at the sound, his eyes rake over your body as you revel in the coolness of the room. 

"Maybe I can change that, sugar," he teases, leaning against the doorframe.

“Is that so?” You plop down on your bed, slipping out of your shoes. “And how do you think you’ll accomplish that?” 

Tyler's smirk deepens as he watches you kick off your shoes and flop onto the bed. His eyes roam over your body, lingering on your legs before meeting your gaze. 

He pushes off from the doorframe, strolling over to the bed and sitting down beside you, his body radiating heat from being outside in the hot sun all day. 

"Oh, I have my ways," he responds, his voice dripping with an underlying hint of desire. 

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, laying on your side, eyes tracing his body. Tyler's smirk never falters as your gaze scans over his body. He can see the desire in your eyes, and it only fuels his own. 

He leans back on his hands, his torso flexing slightly as he does. He turns his head to meet your gaze, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of cockiness and desire. 

"That's right, sugar," he murmurs. "I know how to make you talk." You reach out, fingertips brushing over his ribs softly. 

“I have a feeling you’re wanting something more than just a talk..” you reply, eyes tracing his face. 

As your fingertips graze his ribs, Tyler can feel a shiver run through his body. He watches you intently, the feeling of your touch fueling the desire in his eyes. 

He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. "You're a perceptive one, aren't you, sugar?" His muscles ripple under your touch, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

“You could say that.” You move to straddle his hips, hands pressed against his chest as you gaze down at him. 

Tyler's eyes widen for a moment as you move to straddle his hips, his hands instinctively reaching out to grip your thighs. 

He looks up at you with a mixture of surprise and desire, his breath hitching at the feel of your body on top of his. He grips your thighs, his hands moving up just slightly to rest on your hips as he pulls you closer to him. 

"You're full of surprises, city girl," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with lust.

“Enough talking.” You mutter, pressing your lips to his is a gentle kiss. Tyler responds to your kiss instantly, his lips moving against yours with hunger. He lets out a low moan, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he pulls you down against him. 

He breaks from the kiss, his eyes locking with yours as he breathes out in a soft tone, "Yes, ma'am." He captures your lips in another forceful kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, desperate to taste more of you.

With surprising gentleness, Tyler flips you both over so that you're lying on your back, the mattress cool and welcoming against your overheated skin. His kisses become more urgent as his hands deftly unbutton your shorts, sliding them down your legs and revealing the lacy underwear beneath. 

The fabric whispers against your skin as he peels away your bottoms, exposing your nakedness to the air-conditioned room. His eyes are filled with a raw hunger that mirrors the previous storm, sending a shiver of anticipation through your body. 

His hands trace the lines of your curves, memorizing every inch of your body as if it's the first time he's ever seen a woman, and his touch sets your skin alight with passion.

As Tyler kisses your neck, his calloused fingers gently tug at the hem of your shirt, raising it inch by inch. You gasp at the feel of his lips on your sensitive skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. 

His hands skim over your stomach, pausing briefly at your navel before continuing their ascent, revealing the lacy bra that matches your discarded underwear.

“N-no..” you push his hands away, desperate to keep your shirt on. As you pushed his hands away, a confused look washed over his face. 

"No?" he questions, his voice laced with a mix of surprise and confusion. 

He props himself up on his forearms, hovering over you as he looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. He glances down at your hands, which are gripped tightly to your shirt.

“Leave the shirt,” you murmur, hands going to his belt. Tyler's eyes darkened with desire at the sound of your voice, his body thrumming with anticipation as you go for his belt. 

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks in a gravelly tone. "As you wish, ma'am." He lets you remove his belt, his gaze fixated on your face, trying to discern the reason behind your request. You pull his jeans away, legs wrapping around his waist pulling him close. 

Tyler lets his jeans fall to the floor, his attention now solely on you. He groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The feel of your body against his ignites a fire within him. 

He plants his hands on either side of your head, his body hovering over yours. He gazes down at you, his eyes darkened with a mix of desire and curiosity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you breathe out, cupping his face, pulling his lips to meet yours. Tyler responds to the kiss immediately, his lips moving against yours with a fierce hunger. He lets out a low moan, the sound rumbling in his chest. 

He breaks the kiss for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. He lets out a soft chuckle, “Can’t help it, sugar, you look like a damn dream under me like this.” 

His hands slide under your shirt, roaming over your covered breasts. His hips rock into yours with a steady pace, soft moans escaping your lips as his clothed erection pushes into you. 

You pull Tyler's boxers down, revealing his rigid length. His hands glide under your shirt, finally feeling the softness of your skin, as his lips trace a path down your neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses. 

He groans against your skin as you guide him to the edge of your wetness, the anticipation making him ache with need. With a gentle push, you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, and with one swift movement, he sinks into you, filling you completely. 

His eyes fly open as he watches your face contort with pleasure, your grip on his shoulders tightening as he starts to move inside you with a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. 

His name is a whispered chant on your lips as you rock against him, the coolness of the room forgotten in the heat of the moment. Each thrust and moan is a silent declaration of desire that neither of you can resist.

As Tyler's mouth finds your breast, kissing and teasing the sensitive skin, his hand cups the other, his thumb brushing over the nipple beneath the fabric. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making your toes curl and your back arch. 

You gasp into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as he continues to explore your body with a hunger that's only grown more intense since you first met. 

His hips move in a steady rhythm, each thrust hitting a spot deep within you that has you moaning and writhing beneath him. His kisses become more fervent, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pulls away, his eyes never leaving yours. 

With a need to feel him completely, you tug at Tyler's shirt, breaking the kiss momentarily to pull it over his head. His muscular chest is now bare, the heat from his body only adding to the blaze between your legs. 

As his bare skin meets yours, you can't help but let out a soft whimper, the contact sending a fresh wave of desire through you. His eyes darken further as he watches you, his breaths coming in ragged pants as he continues to rock into you. 

The friction is delicious, his hardness sliding against your slickness with every movement, and you can feel yourself inching closer to the edge of something incredible. Your nails dig into his back as you urge him deeper, the world outside forgotten as the only storm that matters is the one raging in this room.

The climax crashes through you like a wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath. Tyler's pace falters as he follows you over the edge, his body tense and shuddering with his own release. 

He collapses against you, his weight a comforting warmth as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone. 

Your heartbeats synchronize, the rapid beating slowly returning to a steady rhythm as you both revel in the aftermath of your shared passion. The room is filled with the sweet scent of sweat and desire, the air thick with the electricity that still crackles between you.

“Let me see you,” he whispers, hands sliding up your shirt. “All of you..” you gasp softly at his movements. 

Tyler's body is a mixture of fire and sweat, his eyes filled with a soft, almost pleading look. His breaths come in ragged pants, but his voice is steady and firm. 

"Please," he murmurs, his hands gently pushing your shirt up to reveal your bare chest. A soft gasp escapes his lips at the sight of you, and he lets his eyes roam over your body for a long moment. 

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry as he takes in the sight of you above him. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined.."

You pull your shirt the rest of the way off, exposing the thick scar embedded in your arm. 

Tyler's gaze falls to the scar on your arm, his eyes widening slightly. He reaches one of his hands out, gently tracing the outline of the scarred tissue. 

He looks back at you, his expression a mix of concern and surprise. "What happened?" he asks softly, his touch on your scar still as light as a feather.

“It’s a long story..” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw.

Tyler lets out a soft sigh as you press a kiss to his jaw. His grip on your hip tightens slightly, as if he's anchoring himself to you. 

He can sense the hesitation in your voice, the hint of something unsaid. But he doesn't press, not wanting to ruin the moment between you. 

"I'm a patient man, sugar," he murmurs, his voice deep and rough. You slide off of his body, snuggling into his side as you press your cheek to his chest. 

As you settle into his side, Tyler drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his body. He takes a moment to appreciate the feeling of you snuggled against him, relishing the intimate moment.

He can feel the warmth of your cheek against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. Tyler gently rubs his thumb back and forth along the soft skin of your shoulder, a comforting motion that speaks volumes without words.

His comforting movements give you all the reassurance you need, “It happened when I was visiting Oklahoma last..” your voice is soft as you begin to explain the scar. Tyler's rhythmic rubbing pauses for a moment at your words, but he quickly resumes his soothing motions, encouraging you to continue with a soft hum.

His blue eyes, filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern, remain fixed on you, silently urging you to share more of your story.

“There was this huge tornado, I normally wouldn't have been anywhere near it. But I went out on a run and I got lost.” you sigh softly, your eyes fluttering shut as the memories flood back over you.

“It’s how I met Kate, she saved me. We hid under an overpass and I almost got ripped away.” your voice breaks, heart rate picking up. Tyler's hand stills on your shoulder once again as he listens intently to your words. His free hand slips into yours, his strong grip holding yours tenderly, giving you a silent, supportive squeeze. 

His expression turns somber as he senses your shift in mood, concern deepening in his gaze. His gruff voice is soft as he murmurs, "Take your time, sugar."

“A huge piece of metal came out of nowhere and it ripped through my arm. The pain. It was so bad, I thought I was dying.” your nose brushes against his skin as you press your face closer into him. 

Tyler's arm around your shoulders tightens, pulling you even closer to his chest. He holds you firmly yet gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, the one he's holding. His heartbeat thumps steadily under your ear as he listens to your story.

His voice is low and steady as he murmurs, "But you survived. You're here now." you nod, eyes finally raising to meet his gaze. 

When you finally raise your eyes to meet his gaze, Tyler's expression is a mixture of worry and admiration. He can see the pain and fear you experienced in your eyes, but there's also a hint of strength and resilience. He holds your gaze for a few moments, the silence between you filled only with the steady beating of his heart beneath your ear.

He breaks the silence with a soft question, his thumb still tracing comforting circles on the back of your hand, "Does it hurt?"

“Not so much anymore,” you shake your head, Tyler's strong hands guide you back onto him, positioning you so that you're straddling his hips once again. His gaze never leaves you, his eyes raking over your body with a mixture of desire and concern. He keeps his hold on your hips, his fingers gently digging into your soft flesh.

His rough, calloused thumbs brush over the scar on your arm, his touch tender yet firm. "Can I ask you somethin' else?"

“Mhm, ask away.” your hands brush over the contours of his abs, relishing in the feeling of his muscles under your fingers. 

Tyler can't help but shiver slightly under your touch, his muscles flexing reflexively at the feel of your fingers tracing over them. His eyes darken with want, watching intently as you explore his body, but he stays firm, his expression serious.

His thumbs continue to rub gently over the scar on your arm as he asks his question, his deep, gravelly voice almost a rumble, "How come you always wear long sleeves?"

You take a second to think of the right wording, “I just..” you look down at his expression. “I don’t like how people stare, like the scar is all I am. I hate seeing the pity in their eyes..” 

Tyler listens intently to your words, his expression turning thoughtful as he takes in your explanation. His eyes soften as he witnesses the vulnerability in your gaze, and his grip on your hips loosens slightly.

He gives your hip a gentle squeeze as he responds, "Trust me, sugar, that's not all you are. You're beautiful, strong, and I can tell you're a pain in the ass." He chuckles softly before continuing, his tone serious once more, "I ain't lookin' at you with pity."

You grin at him, “No, you’re not.” you press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Looks more like lust,” you whisper into his ear, lips moving against his jaw. 

Tyler lets out a low growl at your words, the gravelly sound sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers flex on your hips, gripping you tighter as he leans into your kiss.

He turns his head to murmur in your ear, his voice a rough whisper, "You're damn right, sugar. I can't keep my eyes off you." He presses another kiss to your jawline, then pulls away enough to look into your eyes, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "And trust me, it ain't just lust."

“Yeah?” you cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “What else is it then?” 

Tyler’s expression softens as you cup his face in your hands, your touch bringing a sense of calm and tenderness to his usually rough exterior. He lifts his hand to cover one of yours, holding it against his face.

He lets out a soft exhale, his warm breath brushing over your skin. “It’s more than that, sugar.” he mutters, his eyes searching yours. “It’s this intense, pull toward you that I can’t explain. You’ve got me tangled up somethin’ fierce.” 

You kiss his lips hungrily, enjoying his softness and honesty, something about this feels like a stronger connection than just lust and you both know it. Tyler groans against your lips, responding to your hungry kiss with equal intensity. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, craving the feeling of your body against his. 

The heat and passion between you is tangible, but there's a depth to it that goes beyond lust. As your lips meet again and again, you both feel the pull, the connection growing with each shared touch. He lets out a guttural groan, his hands sliding up your back to fist in your hair.

“Ty..” you sigh out his name, body shuddering at his touch. Tyler shivers as you whisper his name, the sound of it on your lips sending a jolt through his entire body. He breaks the kiss for a second to look at you, his eyes darker now, filled with lust and desire.

He gently tugs at your hair, pulling your head back to give him access to your neck. Tyler's lips find your pulse point, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. His voice is barely more than a growl as he murmurs against your skin, "I like the way you're sayin' my name, sugar."

You gasp at his lips on your skin, eyes closing as you reach back, hand grasping his erection. Tyler groans loudly at your touch, his hands clenching involuntarily around your hips. He moans, his head falling back against the pillow.

His breathing is ragged and uneven as he gasps out your name, "Mmmf- fuck." His hand that's not on your hip grips the bedsheet, the fabric crumpling under his strong grip, "Jesus, sugar..  that's not fair." he mutters, his voice strained.

As you grip Tyler's erection firmly, you feel his desperation pulsing beneath your hand. His hips buck into your touch, seeking more friction, more movement. His eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth gritted as he tries to hold back the groan that builds in his throat. 

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his neck as your hand works him in a slow, torturous rhythm that's driving him wild. His breathing hitches, his body tensing as you whisper his name, your voice a sweet torment that sends shivers down his spine. Tyler's fingers dig into the mattress, his body arching off the bed as you continue to pleasure him with a masterful touch that seems to know exactly what he craves. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable, his muscles tightening and releasing in a silent dance of passion. "Tease," Tyler groaned, his eyes snapping open to lock onto yours, filled with a mix of pleasure and frustration. He could feel the tension coiling in his core, begging for release, but you seemed to have other plans. 

Your hand remained a steady pressure, moving in a deliberate, agonizingly slow motion along his length, making him rock his hips up to meet your touch. "Fuck, sugar," he ground out, his voice thick with desire, "You're killin' me." 

You knew you had him wrapped around your finger, and the power was intoxicating. But the storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing within the confines of this room, the thunder of his voice matching the rumble of his need. With a quick flick of your wrist, you increased the tempo of your strokes, his hips rising to meet you, seeking more. 

The friction grew, the pressure building, and with each stroke, you could feel him getting closer to the edge. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race even faster. His hands found their way to your breasts, squeezing and kneading, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples. 

The sensation sent a bolt of pleasure through you, making your grip on him tighten. Tyler's groan grew louder, his body tensing as he approached climax. With one final, firm stroke, Tyler's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a loud moan, his grip on the sheets turned to a clutch at your hips. 

[onlyquinns]

Omg I saw a photo the other day of Jack and I had an idea.

yk how he went to zak bryan with his friends a last year. Can you write a fic about that, like his gf going as well. Just dancing with Jack and his friends, singing ur heart out and it all that stuff xxx

you giggle excitedly next to jack, cheering loudly as the concert begins. colorful lights pour over your face as you sing along, swaying your hips. jack glances over at you, lips curled into a smile and mouthing along to lyrics.

you’re wearing a mini skirt, the hem falling higher than your fingertips. you move your feet to the music, shuffling your cowboy boots against the concrete ground.

jack can barely concentrate on the concert, eyes now only one you as you dance and sing. he knows you’re going to complain in the morning that your throat hurts and your voice is hoarse, but he knows he’ll gladly bring you lemon tea.

you look up at him and smile, eyes bright. at that moment, he takes your hands in his and dances with you. the two of you don’t care about the people around you, even though they give you dirty glares. he pulls you into him and then away again, twirling you and watching your hair flutter around you.

the singer on stage laughs at the sight of the two of you, your bodies visible at the front of the stage. he calls the two of you out, something about how the two of you know how to enjoy a concert, but it falls on deaf ears. other concert goers scream and cheer the two of you on, but you pay no mind to them and their screams.

jack leans in close to you as the next song plays, opening notes echoing through the concert venue. your ears ring with the yells and guitar riffs, breath falling in pants but still smiling.

you let jack press his forehead to yours, smiling tenderly and his eyes fluttering shut. his friends around the two of you whoop but he brushes them off.

as the lyrics flow through the speakers, jack whispers softly along. “you’re the sun to me…”

[chronically-ghosted]

i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine

rating: teen

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.

tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!

one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day. 

🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Frankie Morales has a problem.

Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams. 

So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . .  he can’t classify this as a bad problem.

In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.

And right now, it’s wearing a dress.

Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden. 

Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.

He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –

He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.

There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –

Wait. 

That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass. 

That’s –

“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”

You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh. 

“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”

He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle. 

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”

“The fuck outta you is excused.”

You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own. 

Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem. 

His real fucking problem is Nick. 

Your boyfriend. 

Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair. 

“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”

He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is. 

But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.

“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.” 

Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.

See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really. 

Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.

So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.

The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.

And he’s your friend.

Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.

Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care. 

So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .

And you deserve the world.

You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.

That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.

Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line. 

Never a good idea with Benny Miller. 

I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.

“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road. 

“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”

“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks. 

You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight. 

“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.” 

“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie. 

Don’t, man, just don’t. 

Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out. 

Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers. 

“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”

Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction. 

As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you. 

“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back. 

“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”

Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier. 

Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet. 

Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.

“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.

Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.

“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”

Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet. 

The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.

“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”

He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest. 

“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.” 

That was a mistake.

This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now. 

Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,

“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”

But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world. 

C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this

C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.

C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.

Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.

His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all. 

When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.

Frankie only ever asked for one. 

He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart. 

The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar. 

“Six tequila shots, please.”

You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.

Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night. 

The sooner, the better, you mother fucker. 

You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system. 

The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you? 

And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.

You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch. 

22%

Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.

But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.

He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning. 

One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u 

You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.

Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail. 

Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play. 

First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.

But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami. 

But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language. 

“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”

There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.

“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”

“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”

“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”

In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall. 

“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”

You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding. 

There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.

“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”

His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion. 

“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”

And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:

“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”

“Benny, fuck off!”

And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.

Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?

The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy. 

You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on. 

This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.

Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart. 

Fuck. Fuck!

You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.

The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.

“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”

You stare at the phone on your floor. 

Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?

Not this time.

You open the door and either way, everything changes. 

“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”

You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”

You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.

“So you listened to it already?”

“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”

He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”

“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”

“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on. 

You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.

“We need to talk.” 

He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.

His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off. 

Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want some cereal? 

Do you want to– 

“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –

He called you baby.

You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags. 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.” 

With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail? 

“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”

“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time. 

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“We broke up.”

“When? Why?”

“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”

Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees. 

“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.

“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”

His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another. 

You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.

“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”

“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.” 

You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 

Grateful.

He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude. 

“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”

This is the right time, he supposes. 

Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.

Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover. 

“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.

You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.

“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”

He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”

“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”

Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold. 

“How do you feel about conchas?” 

Translations:

Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.

¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?

Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.

[acapelladitty]

Trouble Like A Mugshot (1.5k)

Pairing: Lucy Maclean/Cooper Howard

Summary: After a long day of travelling the wastelands, Lucy is feeling horny and asks Cooper if he wants to have sex with her. A question which is much more complicated than she could have possibly known.

(A/N: I might turn this into a short series of moments showcasing the pairs developing relationship from this to hard nsfw if that's something folks would like to see.)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

Lucy Maclean was no stranger to the difficult to ignore feelings which were pressing at her body. Fingers slightly trembling, breath coming in shorter bursts than she would admit to, eyes unable to pull themselves fully away from the lounging ghoul who reclined in his nearby bunk with a relaxed stance; cowboy hat tipped across his face as he feigned sleep.

Lucy Maclean knew herself enough to understand that her restlessness wasn't the radition sickness which had recently started to touch at her peripherals again. Nor was it the fact that it had been weeks since she'd had any time to herself that wasn't shadowed by either her ghoulish companion or some other entity.

Lucy Maclean was horny and she was never one to deny herself a simple, sneaky little indulgence when the mood took her.

"Hey, Cooper." She called, fingers rolling across her bare forearms as she sat with her back to the wall, legs crossed in a neat pile. "You awake and listening to me?"

"Hard not to with those foghorn vocals." A grumpy response, muffled by the hat rang back at her. "What are you yapping your flap about?

"Do you want to have sex?"

In their time together, Lucy had never witnessed Cooper doing anything that her vault lessons had taught her were sexual acts. He didn't touch himself around her, didn't disappear for some self-relief as the boys did, didn't make any kind of pass at her like some of the others had done before her husband had been selected. As far as she knew, maybe the ghoul didn't even feel the same things she did, and that realisation made her roll back on her question almost as quickly as she had asked it.

"I mean, if you can have sex that is. I don't know if your," Lucy paused, unsure how to describe her partners physical state without causing offence, "condition, makes it possible. I don't even know if you have the right parts for it but there's other ways of experiencing pleasure. We could use our mou-"

Cutting herself off as her babbling reach a new octave, Lucy watched as Cooper's body - his frame stock still since she had asked her initial question - finally stirred into action. A reddened hand slowly rose from its position by his hip until it reached the cowboy hat, plucking the leather from his face as he turned to look at his bunkmate and travelling companion with an indescribable expression; various emotions fluttering through his typically stoic face.

"I know your experiences with ghouls are limited, princess." Cooper spoke patiently, voice low as he fired the hated nickname at her, her vocal dislike of the new monkier making it a very quick favourite of his. "But the whole package is still intact so let's get that established before you go telling people falsehoods about my good person."

"Okay. Noted." Lucy held her hands up apologetically and her knees touched as she lounged against the concrete wall which was supporting her. "But you didn't answer me. Do you want to? Have sex, I mean? Last time i did was with my assigned husband and it was good enough, great even, but then he tried to kill me and it was this whole thing."

Mentally filing that information away for future use and subtle further investigation, Cooper lay back fully against his own cot and tilted his head closer in her direction, thankful for the dimness of their shared room as it shielded most of his features.

"As much as I'd love to bury my bone in a new patch of land, I don't think that's necessarily the best choice in terms of this little partnership we've stitched together."

Indicating his sewn finger, he wagged it at her dismissively as a discomforting sensation flooded his stomach, mild arousal at the thought of some tail mixing with something dangerous that set his teeth on edge.

"Why not? It's only sex."

Suddenly feeling older than he had any right to, Cooper fell silent as he mused on her question for a moment.

Lucy Maclean.

Eyes as big as a doe, that girl was built soft but he was lucky enough to see people for what they truly were and the steel which lurked beneath the painful optimism and naivety that shone free of her would make her a dangerous player if she ever truly entered the game. He felt the burden of his own cruelty at times, cornering her into making decisions that would cause her little vaultie friends to vomit if they knew the violence she enacted, but with every difficult choice came a fresh coating to that steel which would see her survive and thrive in the wastelands.

It's only sex.

In his life, Cooper Howard had enjoyed less sexual partners than many would believe. A sticky fumbling in the upper level of an old barn had been his first, the other party a sweet girl from a nearby ranch who was two years older and knew what she wanted from him. Pretty soon after that came Barb and as soon as he laid eyes on her he never saw anything past her.

War was terrible for the other men and many lost themselves in drink and the women who haunted the barracks and backlines looking for poor souls to feed on. But not him. Never him.

Not when he had to come home to Barb.

Even when married and at the height of his fame, when aspiring young things would throw themselves at him, their perfumes overpowered by the stink of wine and cigarettes, he had rebuffed them politely. He was loyal and he enjoyed the fruits of that loyalty as he held his wife in his arms and basked in the sweet sounds that she would make as they fucked. Hell, she had even given him a daughter and he loved her every day for it.

War never changes.

But he did.

And fuck him if his new appearance and designation as a Ghoul didn't screw him out of any chance of some stress relief as he wandered the wastelands. Might as well have been a fucking leper for all the tail which was now afforded to him and his leathery visage.

Not for Lucy Maclean though.

She, it seemed, didn't care about any of that.

"Did I say something wrong? The leaders explained all acts of intercourse to us so I know what I'm doing and I consent fully."

Lucy's voice, heated with an almost defensive lilt, broke into his musings and Cooper blinked at her as the hole that made up his nose flared while he inhaled deeply.

"I don't doubt that, darling. I've seen how you handle a pistol." Reverting to his typical sarcasm as he looked, truly looked, at her, Cooper sighed at the earnestness which oozed from her features. "But I'm gonna have to decline. Politely."

"Is it because of me? Did i do somethig wrong? I mean, my husband didn't seem to mind but then he was planning on killing me anyway so y'know?" Making a wild gesture with her fingers as she spoke, the casualness of her speech wasn't enough to mask the genuine insecurity which threaded through the questions.

"You're fine. Attractive little thing, even. I think any man would jump at the chance to have you wrapped around them like an old holster."

He wasn't lying- and he wasn't blind. She was a good looking young woman, her innocence flickering like the dull embers of a welcoming fire in the darkness of the wastelands. She was enthusiastic, eager, and damn pretty with those big eyes and curved figure which hid beneath the bulky clothes which she used for protection. More than once he'd caught himself glancing at her as she bent to snatch up things from the floor and the few times he did allow himself to fall into something like sleep featured breathy moans and the feeling of long, brunette strands brushing through his ungloved hands. Mouthy too so he knew she would be a vocal one - probably yowling like a hellcat.

It would be so easy to have her.

A simple yes and she would no doubt leap into action, shedding those clothes as quickly as did her weapons when trying to find peaceful solutions to violent problems. He would treat her right, everh inch the gentleman cowboy and no doubt much better than that shady husband she'd unwittingly fucked. He'd show her things with his fingers and mouth that would have her screaming loud enough to wake up all the devils in hell. Against the cot, against the wall and against whatever furniture she wanted, he could show her how a real man treats a woman as they both burned off some stress.

Feeling a very definite stirring in his groin, Cooper was quick to banish the dangerous thoughts.

"But a bad man like me shouldn't be allowed near a pretty little thing yourself. You're ready for a lot, Lucy Maclean, but you ain't ready for that."

Something almost like understanding passed through her gaze and Lucy nodded, instead exhaling deeply as she tapped the back of her head against the wall behind her.

"In that case, would you mind leaving for an hour so that I can masturbate, please?"

Cursing himself for the little shred of morality which plucked at his heart and refused to allow him to ruin this unknowing tease of a woman, Cooper dutifully rose to his feet and marched to the nearby door.

"You get half an hour." He grunted, barely tilting his head towards her as he stormed out into the nighttime air - determined to get far enough away that there was no chance that he would hear her and break his determined stance.

Besides, he might not be fucking her but as his cock pressed against his slacks, he wasn't masochistic enough to deny himself a similar pleasure and the distance would also give him some much needed alone time.

Goddamn Lucy Maclean.

Links to rest of the series:

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

[arcane-vagabond]

Hey.

Go ahead and get settled because this will be...long, in true Liz fashion.

So, by now I'm sure most of you have heard what's happened. If not, you can search this blog for some answers or others for more.

I joined this fandom offiicially at the end of September after being a long time lurker. I had just lost my job and times were uncertain for me. I felt inspired to write, and as someone whose formative years were shaped by the fandom experience, I wanted to feel that sense of belonging again - to feel like a part of a community. I've talked about it on here before, but I started my fandom days in the original Hunger Games fandom when the first movie had just come out, and then I shifted gears towards the SuperWhoLock fandom. If you know anything about SuperWhoLock, then you know you had to have pretty tough fucking skin to be a part of any of it.

Of course, this was back in the day when fandom was an actual community and not authors having to beg for scraps of engagement and people thinking its a numbers game. I was a fairly large blog within the SuperWhoLock community (Waywardly-Carrying-On was the username), but I left fandom for a few years because life got hectic and I felt like I had outgrown the fandom itself as I was no longer watching any of the shows. As the years went on, I started to yearn for the fandom experience again, which is how I found myself dipping toes into several different ones.

I was so excited to publish my first fanfic. I had convinced myself that I wasn't a good writer (much to the chagrin of my irl friends), and I had put a pause on writing my original story. I wanted to write this idea about a cowboy and a girl using characters that I had grown to love like I did way back in my older days. So, I started posting, and I was so excited for the story, that I kept posting almost daily. MamaMay was one of the first people to embrace not only my story, but me as a person into the fandom. She made me feel welcomed and wanted.

Pretty much right off the bat I was already getting anons telling me that I was being too much and that I needed to calm down with all the posting. I was confused because...this is Tumblr. It's literally a blogging website? Why wouldn't I post? I decided to ignore the mean words (not before giving my opinion, of course) and kept on doing my thing. Well, the anons got continually worse and worse. I had a suspiscion as to who the anons could be, but I never had concrete proof. So, I experimented with blocking suspects until finally it worked. I'm not naming names because that's not my style, so don't even bother asking.

The fact of the matter is, some of you have entered fandom spaces for the first time, and you don't know how to act. You don't care to learn fandom etiquette as you've made abundantly clear by calling fandom olds every name under the sun while utilizing the anonymous feature. Newsflash, you're part of the problem. You're the reason why authors don't want to publish anymore. You are the reason that something that's supposed to be fun is starting to feel like a goddamn chore.

How many times can authors on here say that we aren't machines? We have lives outside of this website: family, friends, jobs, school, etc. Some of you really are just hellbent on making everyone around you miserable, and it's sad. You can't just leave well enough alone and let people enjoy something, no you feel like everyone has to enjoy it the same way as you.

Some of you go after authors on here because of some weird sense of jealousy too. I don't know why my shit blew up, babe, I really don't. But I started out with no followers and no support just like everyone else. I'll tell you what helped me though: following fandom etiquette and reaching out to other creators to build an actual community. None of this "I've reblogged three of your things and now I'm messaging you so that you return the favor." No, I reached out to make actual friendships which is what fandom is SUPPOSED to be. If someone was clearly not interested, it was fine!! I backed off and kept doing my own thing.

Some of you think being mean on the internet makes you big and bad. Guess what! It doesn't! It's loser mentality and I feel genuinely sorry for you. I'm sorry that people in your own life made you feel so small as to feel like you had to lash out at strangers on the internet who are just trying to have fun.

Anyway, this is my really long way of saying that I am taking a break for a little bit. I have no idea how long it will be - could be the weekend, could be a couple of weeks, could be forever. I need time to decide if this is something I want to keep persuing. If I come back, I don't know if I will remain a TGM blog or if I'll shift gears and hop into another fandom with a rebrand. Guess we'll just have to see.

To the people on here who have been a constant source of joy, laughter, and support: thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Your presence has meant everything to me, and I hope that my break sees me wanting to come back and giggle about the silly plane movie with you all again.

Nothing but love,

Liz 💛

[pascalsbby]

Hot Single Dad of The Neighborhood

Summary: It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller.

Warnings: mdni, 18+, eventual smut (c’mon…wouldn’t be a celebration without it)

This is satire. Kinda. It’s me laughing at myself & my love for this fictional man. But you’re laughing along, because you get it. Let me know what you think!!

This is a part of my 700 follower’s celebration. Read the detailed description here 🩷

It all started with this:

Let me set the scene:

It’s 9:45pm on a Friday, and this is better than having the house to yourself. This is the time of week where we tuck our children (and husbands) in, and we gather around this shitty glass table as the tales are whispered through. It starts off with your usual: sugar-salted peach margaritas turned to two, a joint, and then the riveting conversation of, “now who would leave that dick?”

We call ourselves ‘Joel Miller’s Neighborhood Wives’. It’s a mouthful. But we like a mouthful. So- sit down, have a smoke, a wee little drink, and listen to the goss.

The neighborhood wives (Kat, Kali, Chloe on the right of you, Kit, Vic, Bug & Angela to the left) are all cuddled around Kat’s patio, enacting a dramatic retelling of ‘who the fuck is Joel Miller?’ Himself, somewhere across the street, wondering why every now and then he hears a chorus of squeals. Then, he smiles to himself and wishes he had the guts to grace y’all with his presence. He’s not invited though.

This is the first time you’ve hung out with them, and maybe the last, tbh. No way this Miller guy is worth all this fuss.

And, action.

It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller. We take whatever we can get from him, between when we hear his truck two streets over, lightly running across the hollow wooden floors to put on our slippers. The low growl from his truck pipes (or yours) grows louder as he turns the corner onto the street. We watch as he drops out of the truck and thuds against the concrete, slamming that damn door closed. Probably how he lets all his ladies know he’s home. Our eyes follow his form, tapping all the way up to his front door before he takes those goddamn cowboy boots off. We stumble out of the front door and check the mail. Well, only for the third time that morning. What? We are all always expecting something, alright? You catch what you can before his shoulders disappear through the blue-chipped front door, right back into his house. We close the mailboxes simultaneously and sadly drip back to our front doors. No hello’s today.

Sometimes later in the night before supper, you’ll see the door shaped hole widen in the darkness, warmth boasting from behind as Joel’s form takes up the light, smiling as he pats Tommy on his way inside. Tommy usually drinks too much and stays the night, so we sit back and tend to the family. We ride our delusions in the meantime. Then, the cycle continues. It’s like… the cycle of life. You know?

He seems like your typical gentleman, Joel. A Southern-raised man, one who would let you be his nuclear-family sweetheart. Cook for him, clean for him, spread *it open for him, let his massive fucking hands feel any part of you they wanted. Especially if that meant they were to explore more under the stiff shirtwaist dresses. Or in. We would all rather him in.

Spread, what, exactly? Oh yeah dude, sorry. I meant: *Cunt, asshole, any part of you he wanted to look down the middle of and split open, really. We aren’t shy about it when it comes to talking to each other. Obviously.

The aforementioned Tommy?

That’s his brother, probably about seven or eight years younger. He is a beau too, but he doesn’t seem the type to really fuck it out of ya. I mean sure, he has done his fair share of fucking around with the moms’ of the neighborhood, too. Bug even whispered a tale of Tommy going after those mom’s college daughters, swooping in to help clean the pool before setting them gently on the concrete and swiping their panties to the side as he buried his face in them. He always made sure they were at least 22. This is only moments after the pretty younger girls make their way back into the pretty, white iron gates afront their parents' houses.

Fair enough, he has the same curls wrapping down the base of his neck, kissing the skin beneath them. He has the ‘Miller Smirk’ - what the town wives call it. The Miller brothers are known throughout the neighborhood for their distinct brand of charm. Both possess an effortless charisma that begs you to get on your knees. But they never let us. Sad. Their shared features aren’t few, but none are as similar and charming as their half-smiles. Grins always slightly tilted, as if they were sharing an inside joke with each other but not the rest of the world.

So of course Tommy is desired to an extent, physically, of course. Emotionally? Probably not. But shit, you’d have both if you could. Paris looks great this time of year. Anyways.

He wasn’t the Miller we all grappled over and wanted so deeply, despite a metal band around our fingers (or not). His competency and willingness. They way he looks at his daughter. Oh yeah…girl dad. The way he looks in the Texas heat. His back, flexed and sweating through his too-tight shirt. “The day that man wears a white shirt and it’s over 90 degrees- I will drop fucking dead. Someone take care of the kid for me,” Kat.

There’s been one story about Joel that is retold over and over like it’s fuckin’ Genesis Chapter 3, creation and all. The story on how, why, we all got here to begin with. No one can agree who first told it. Angela or Bug, shit…was it Chloe? Okay, okay, it really doesn’t matter at the moment. Just listen.

It was late August, three years ago. Hot and dripping with the dead-end heat of summer. Almost as if it was giving all it could before the last of it sputtered out and away, knowing Fall was right around the corner to take its place- happy to finally have a rest. A for sale sign that had been smiling at you for months was suddenly gone, the dirt still fresh from where it had been happily ripped. Joel Miller, Mr. Texas cowboy himself showed up one day as the crickets started singing, he kissed the cicadas goodbye for the season, unloaded the Miller Construction van and then he never left. A few weeks later after he and his brother fixed up the place, a little girl was running up the concrete to the front door. But there was no wife.

When he moved into the neighborhood, a new era dawned. It was one where the wives would rather mow the lawn, take the trash cans out on Wednesday nights, and tend to the long-forgotten garden. No really, all of our gardens are pristine now. Because somewhere not too far away there was a beautiful, muscular man with a mustache you wanted to wet, and God, his nose. A nose that was prominent even a few houses down, sun setting behind as it sat there strong and just uh- you knew a nose like that would be tickling your clit while he used his tongue other places. Or the other way around, whichever way you were sitting. Whatever way he wanted you to sit.

It was something about that deep navy cotton shirt his chest and shoulders grace about once or twice a week. The other is some form of a Lakers’ tee, yellow or purple, love-worn but scrunched up and stretched in the right places. You’ll see. Maybe that in itself, how it wraps around his sun-bathed/loved/kissed skin is the reason for everyone’s fever induced fluster. Maybe it’s the drawl, and the fact he absolutely drips of sex.

Most interactions end with deep breaths leaning against the door, knocking on your chest. Or texting the group message (we’ll add you in a minute, it’s called JMW)((Joel Miller’s Whores)). He always has something to say, something to coo at you while you in turn try not to purr back… at least with your mouth. Although no, because you would purr around him with your mouth if he’d only ask for it.

But you? Metaphorically, denoting us all. No, he would never look down upon you, between his eyelashes and brooding smile, dark, tanned skin smelling of the day- “want you to pull the pretty dress up and get on your knees. I’m tired from the day, workin’ so hard for this family. Leas’ you could do is suck my cock, no?” And he didn’t know it, but he was right. He did work so hard for this family. He was your maladaptive daydreaming, he’s what you giggle at during fake conversations, he was the cock slipping between your hungry folds at night.

Instead, it was half-baked smiles and short waves in the drop off line in the morning. He walks Sarah in, every single day. She’s getting to the age where she seems like she’d deter the sweet action, but she doesn’t- she loves him that much. We never see him in the afternoon, his barely-present wife (he has to have a wife, right? Like Bug says, “I mean look at him”), was probably the one picking up Sarah. Probably taking her to some even bigger house on the richer side of town because it's her turn to watch her. How the hell could you leave someone like Joel?

But regardless, we never see her. Never have the entire time we’ve peeked out of our blinds, running to turn off the lamp so no one can see the strip of light coming from the window.

He has never brought a woman inside of that house, let alone has anyone left it. Once, Tommy brought a girl to their Thanksgiving dinner and Vic told Kit she had come alone, first, and hugged Joel. That “Joel was extra smiley to her.” Moral of the story, we don’t know for sure if he’s still married or he’s just somehow keeping that dick to himself.

Jesus, Kat retold that story for three fucking weeks. But, we don’t really blame her. It was how it all began.

Don’t get me wrong, Joel Miller is available- if that pesky little wasp hive directly atop your living room window is getting out of hand, and you just happen to be a single mom who so desperately needs a man’s touch. Not like that. Well, yeah like that. Then, you could count on Joel Miller to back up his old blue truck bed into your driveway, set up his ladder, and allow you to spend the next hour watching through the window as his shirt pulls up his stomach as he does his diligent work.

His v-lines kissed by veins and tufted black hair towards his middle, peeking up and saying hello every time his jeans got a little too low. Musta forgot his usual belt. Or maybe his work belt was a tad too heavy today. Uh, to take that pressure off of his back for him, and into your hands.

-

But him owing you? That’s a different kind of available. It was a week later, the morning before the mom gathering, and you had only seen Joel once. Yes… peaking through your blinds. Then you heard his voice.

“Hi ma’am,” he waved, turning your attention from where you were setting your bags in the car. “Sarah, ask the pretty lady what you wanted, don’t make her wait any longer in this heat.” He was loading his work tools into the bed of his pickup. Another bed of his you’d like to grace.

Shit. Maybe this Miller was worth the fuss.

-

Part 2 later this week babes <3 It will be an actual fic, hehe.

@justagalwhowrites @cool-iguana @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @netherfeildren @chloeangelic

[pawnshopbleus]

These Are the Days Six - Friends

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader High School AU

For the summary, warnings, and more please visit here.

Previous Chapter.

Rain in California was scarce. No matter how much you prayed for the water droplets to fall from the sky, your prayers were never answered. In Washington, the rain never stopped. 

The grey clouds should have been a sign that it would rain, but you weren’t looking at the sky. The whiteboard in front of you displayed some boring war movie. One thing about Mr. Miller is that he thinks a movie will help the class more than a textbook ever could. Last week, he had you watch some Clint Eastwood film about cowboys that went into space. 

In other words, Mr. Miller is an extraordinary teacher. 

Twenty minutes before the class ends, Mr. Miller pauses the movie and turns on the lights. The entire class groans as their eyes get adjusted to the white lights. 

Mr. Miller reaches into his bag and brings out a stack of white papers. One by one, he hands out the last test you all took. It wasn’t about space cowboys (although you wouldn’t have minded that). It was about the three branches of government. 

When he gets to your table, he slides your test to you and does the same to Abby. Meet me after class , is written on the front in red letters next to your perfect score. You hear Abby sigh in frustration. You know that this is hard for her, especially with the softball season coming up and their field is still in shambles. There’s so much pressure on her shoulders and no one is cutting her any slack. 

The bell rings and students jump at the opportunity to leave the classroom. Abby and you stay behind, slowly packing your things into your bag. 

Mr. Miller pulls up a chair in front of you both. 

“Now, I know you two have been studying together and I can see Abby trying in class but it’s not transferring to the test. That’s what I need you two to focus on. I want you to succeed, Abby. I really do but you need to practice a little bit more,” Mr. Miller says before pushing off his chair and returning to his desk. 

You and Abby make your way to the door. 

“Wait,” Mr Miller holds his hand up. “If it helps, you two should go to each other’s houses. Maybe being in a familiar environment could help you focus better.” 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Your bike is still missing. The posters that Dina and Jesse helped you put up are slowly starting to bleed as raindrops fall on them. 

You pull your hood over your head and your headphones in your ears. You curse yourself for wearing canvas shoes on a rainy day and get to walking. The cold air nips at your face and the wind ruffles your clothes. 

Most days, the roads are clear but that’s not the case today. Cars are bumper to bumper and their horns are blaring. It must be true that people can’t drive when it rains. There are multiple people from your school that you recognize. None of them even bat an eye at you until you see the familiar truck that carries the unmistakable scent of dirt. This time, it doesn’t just smell like dirt and must, but there’s a flowery scent that carries through the chilly air. 

Their arguing is muffled due to the windows being rolled up, but you’re almost certain that you heard the words “pregnant” and “cheating.” You aren’t much for gossip but you really wish you could be a taco wrapper tossed in the back seat right now. You want to know what’s going on because by the looks of Abby’s tear-stained face, it isn’t good. 

Abby gets out of the car and slams the door. Owen’s protests are muffled by the sound of rain hitting the concrete sidewalk. 

“Abby, are you okay?” you ask.

She turns and looks at you in surprise and then, as if she doesn’t know who you are, turns and walks away.

The rest of the walk home is spent thinking about what you just saw. You’ve never seen Abby and Owen fight but that didn’t seem like just fighting. Over the past few weeks, Abby has been a different person when Owen is around. She never smiles or talks like she used to. The girl she once was is gone and she’s been replaced by this stoic robot. 

When you get home, you take a warm shower and get changed into some different clothes. After the day you’ve had all you want to do is relax and watch TV but your phone rings as soon as you sit down on the couch. 

Dina’s voice nearly causes your heart to fall out of your chest. 

“Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” “Owen got Mel, the captain of the cheerleading team pregnant. Everyone is talking about it!” 

“Are you serious?” “Yeah. Poor Abby. She suspected that Owen was cheating on her for a while but she never had any proof until now.” 

Dina loves gossip but she has a way of handling the information so delicately. It makes one think why they are vainly talking about another human. But this isn’t gossip. This is simply one friend passing on information about another friend. Regardless, you care about Abby and it seems like she needs someone that she can trust right now. 

Dina wishes you a good night and you hang up. Your house is silent which only serves as another confirmation. You need to call Abby. 

The phone rings a total of five times before she answers. 

“Hello,” she says and it’s obvious that she’s been crying. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I-” she sighs. “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry for what you saw today. Owen and I are having some…problems right now.”

“Abby, I know what’s going on. If you ever need anything just know that I’ll be here for you.” 

You don’t know if she’s grateful or not because you can hear her sniffle and then cry as the emotions get to her. 

“You're a really good friend,” she says through tears. 

Something about the word ‘friend’ gets to you. It makes you swallow your words and smile through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, friends.”

The phone is silent for a while. The only thing you can hear is Abby's sniffles and the sound of crickets chirping outside. And that’s how you fall asleep. On the couch while on the phone with your friend.

Next Chapter.

Taglist: @soupycloud

Thank you for reading!

[fawninthetrees]

Pearl

Chapter 3: Fords and Deeres

Synopsis: You return to Wabang after eight years. The life you tried so hard to run from threatens to swallow you.

A/N: Sorry guys, I got hit by a car (jk). Anyway here is the 3rd chapter. I repurchased prime just so I could watch outer range again. I genuinely don’t know wtf is going on in the show, but sexy cowboy. This ff will loosely follow some of what happens, at least as much as I can understand.

Warnings: Wildly inaccurate descriptions of car repairs (sorry, I only know how to change a tire)

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You opened your family’s auto shop back up the monday after the funeral. You had taken the shop keys off your fathers ring and attatched it to yours. A flood of people came in and you found yourself having to work on three cars in one day, the next day two, and the day after that four. It was amazing how many people in Wabang needed the help. But the work helped distract you, which you were greatful for.

Three weeks in and you had fallen into a rhythm and were currenlty elbows deep in a 1978 C/K10 which belonged to Mr. Mason, the owner of The Handome Gambler. He promised free drinks for two months if you could figure out why the truck made such a god-awful (his words) noise when he drove it.

You would never turn down free drinks. Thus, you were bent over the engine cranking an allen wrench as you tried to remove a faulty piece. The garage part of the shop had no AC so you had three rotating fans pointing at you. Unfortunately, that did nothing to prevent the sweltering Wyoming heat. Sweat dripped down your nose and you impatiently rubbed it off. A few hours ago you discarded the sleeves of your jumpsuit in a poor attempt to cool down.

You were alerted by the jingle of the bells that hung over the front door. “I’m in the back!” you shouted, arms flexing as you continued to unscrew.

You heard boots shuffle in and come to a halt somewhere behind you. “What can I do for you?” you asked without removing your head from the engine.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

Rhett.

You finally unscrewed the cap. Someone had attatched the wrong piece. A cap that belonged to a 1976 Chevy was forced onto a 1978. You wondered what idiot made that mistake. You tossed the cap onto the tool chest and tugged a cloth out of your waistband and wiped off as much grease as you could before turning around.

“What can I do for you?” you repeated, leaning against the truck and folding your arms in front of you.

Rhett had his hands stuffed into his pocket. He wore nice fitting blue jeans, his scuffed boots, and a red flannel. His eyes were on the ground, as if the oil stained concrete was infinitely more interesting.

“Tractor isn’t working, needs a new belt.”

You hadn’t expected your first conversation back with him to be about a damn John Deere. You actually had it planned out, a result of restless nights over the course of eight years. You were gonna punch him, a clean right hook to the jaw, and then demand to know what the fuck was wrong with him.

There goes that plan.

“I see,” you said. “You know the tool shop is open? You could have grabbed it yourself.”

He looked up at you then. “Yeah… but… I guess I wanted to come talk to you first.”

You snorted at that, turning your back to him and reaching for the 1978 cap and wrench. You tucked yourself back into the hood and began screwing it on. “Had about 8 years to do that, Abbott.”

You heard him wince. You never used his last name with him, that was always reserved for Perry. More specifically, when Perry pissed you off. Which was often.

You busied yourself with fixing the truck. You knew he would wait for you, he had always been determined when he made up his mind to do something. When you finished, you slammed the hood shut and made your way to the drivers seat and jammed the keys in. The engine hummed, no weird rattling sound outside of what was appropriate. You clicked your tongue in approval. Yay, free beer.

“Well, talk,” you said, removing the keys and locking them up for safe keeping.

“I’m sorry about your mom.” he said softly.

You took out your phone to text Mr. Mason that the truck was finished. You pocketed your phone and walked past Rhett.

“Yeah, me too. Now, let’s get you that belt.”

You stayed ahead of him, leading him to row 15 before coming to a halt. Scanning the shelf and after a few seconds, found it. John Deere belt. You plucked it out of the box.

“Did Ceclia ask you to check on me?”

He shook his head. “What? No, the tractor really is broken. Royal told Perry to get the belt... but I told him I would.”

You hummed. “How is he? Heard he had a kid now.”

“Yeah, Amy.”

You nodded. “Saw her at the funeral, she’s cute… where’s her mom?”

“Left Perry 9 months ago, haven’t heard from her since.”

Yikes.

You led him to the register. Tapping at the ancient machine. “37.49.”

“I wanted to call.”

Ahh, there it was.

You looked up at him then. His brows were drawn together apologetically, and he wore that little frown he always had when he’d done something wrong. He looked like a kicked puppy.

“But you didn’t.” you took his cash, a fifty. “You made the decision to stop.” you clicked a few more buttons on the register and it shot open, knocking into your hip. You counted bills and stuck out your hand to give him his change.

“And i’ve regretted it everyday since.”

“Big of you.”

Rhett said your name in a pleading way that made your heart ache. You knew he meant it. He had never been one to lie to you. And even if he was, he would have scratched neck, his tell.

“Why?” you asked, searching his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he scratched his neck.

You always thought his eyes were beautiful. They were the same shade as cobalt. Like the sky right before the clouds gathered for rain. He was the only one in his family with blue eyes. As kids, you joked that it was because he was adopted. Perry used to say it’s because he dropped Rhett one too many times.

“Yes you do.” you sat the money down on the counter, no longer interested in keeping up conversation. “When you feel like sharing, give me a call.” and then you laughed humorlessly. “Oh, wait.”

You left Rhett Abbot in your shop, gazing longingly after you.

[yo-yo-yungi]

MY LOVE, MY GRATITUDE - JEONG YUNHO - SFW

Yunho x reader

Genre: angst

Warning list: Angst- so you know, it ain’t happy. Mentions of a fall (no serious damage), mentions of a scar on the readers knee, mentions of food

Word count: 583

Summary: sometimes letters are made to be sent. Other times, letters are for the words we regret never saying.

Dear Yunho,

I wish I had sent this letter years ago, now it's too late. How am I supposed to confess when you look at her the way I look at you? Why did it take you only 2 months to ask her out, when I've been waiting for 10 years? Yunho, I've known you for so long, seen the good, the bad, and the ugly (yes, like the cowboys - yes, I'm a dork). We've known each other since we were 12 - is that the issue? Do you see me as a sister? I doubt it, especially since you kissed me at the Halloween party. Yes, you were drunk. No, I never mentioned it. But have I been thinking about it every second of every day since then? Yes.

I frequently revisit the photos of you stored on my phone. There are over 1,000 of them... you always had a habit of taking selfies whenever I left my phone unattended. Oh how I long for you to do that again.

When I look at photos, they can't compare to a single glance at you. Your beauty cannot be fully captured in an image; it's not the same as seeing you in person. Could you walk past me one last time? No need for a sly wink or even a glance my way, just walk... I'll be watching.

Did you watch the sunset with her as you did with me? I should have confessed my love to you then, should have expressed how those moments meant everything to me.

The little moments with you are etched into my memory like sacred scripture. I can’t look at a tulip without remembering the time you got me some for my birthday, I can't look at a toothbrush without remembering all our childhood sleepovers. Yunho, even my own desk brings back memories of you falling off the chair. But… worst of all, the one that bothers me the most… I can’t look at myself without thinking of you. You changed me, both physically and mentally. Like that scar that graces my knee from when you pushed me a little too hard and I fell to the concrete… I’m sorry by the way, that was my fault… I shouldn’t have said the cupcakes you made were ugly. I loved them… truly. Every time I see that mark on my knee I think of you. It’s not fair…

Whenever someone mentions my considerate nature, I think of you, because you were the one who taught me that. Before I met you, I was unkind and harsh. Why did you give me a chance? You, this beacon of positivity, why did you give me a chance? Is it selfish to wish you hadn't? Because now I'm left with an emptiness in my heart. It stings like a fresh wound - I understand this may not be the best metaphor, but I don't care.

Yunho, I'll put it simply-

I am absolutely, desperately, unconditionally in love with you and everything that you are. If I can turn back time and tell you how I felt before you met her- I would- but I can’t do that now… it’s selfish. You taught me that selfishness isn’t a good look on anyone.

Since I can't express my love for you, I'll express my gratitude instead. Thank you for shaping me into the person I am today. I'm also grateful for the lessons you've taught me about love. I'll cherish these memories forever.

<3

[swifty-fox]

Find the word

How it works: I search for the words prev assigned me in my latest WIP and then choose four words for you to search for in your WIP.

tagged by @joeyalohadream wheee I love this one

My words: heat, step, heavy, light

heat is Love song

“Not bad. Just different.”

He continues his slow massage, not sure of what he’s doing but enjoying the way Gale trusted him all the same. Eyes the swell of Gale’s ass again, pert and soft-looking. 

“Good, even,” he adds.

The can of crisco is right there, the top gone extra slick and shiny from the heat of the room, put off by the two of their bodies working together. It’s thick and rich smelling between his fingers, the shortening turning almost foamy as he loosens it up into something workable, “Really fucking good.”

Gale’s knees press against the inside of John’s thighs, spreading eagerly and widening the cradle for John’s cock to slip into. He takes full advantage of it, grinding forward while tugging Gale’s briefs fully out of the way. Teases Gale until he’s snarling, twitchy, grinding back against him in a slow roll as John asks him about flight checks.

“Fuck the flight check, John. Wheels up.” 

step is Frog au/Cicada season <3

“Gale you’re scaring me,” Helen says calmly.

Gale freezes, words in his throat, hand half raised to gesture down the street. The statement doesn’t make sense, but she’d said it, clear as anything. It didn’t make sense, he wasn’t reaching for her, or raising his voice or trying to hurt her at all.

“You are a large man,” Helen continues, “And I have told you no.” 

“Oh.” 

There’s a buzzing in his ears and he drops his hand down by his side, all the frenetic energy leeching from him like poison from a wound. It leaves him numb, and a little cold. Hollowed out as he tries to figure out how to express himself, explain his need to do something right, this time around. Helen sighs, slipping her pocket book strap off her shoulder and parking herself down on the concrete steps leading up to her office. She pats the spot next to her. 

After a moments hesitation, Gale sits, hard enough the bump of stone against his tailbone stings. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

heavy is Outlaws P3!

John’s lips fit nice around the cigarette, would fit nice around Gale’s cock. He watches through heavy, quiet eyelids, that plush wrap around pale paper and wants in a vague sort of way. In a way he knew would come eventually, when they felt it. There wasn’t any rush to the need. No urgency. Neither of them was going anywhere, at least not alone. 

“He’s– yeah I can put him on,” John drops his hand down, the black shinyplastic of the phone in hand, “She wants to talk to you.”

Gale takes the phone, draws his knees up to his chest, picking at the dirty rip in one knee and tucks the phone between shoulder and ear, “Hi, Mrs. Egan.” 

light is from Lemon tree, my a/b/o collab fiuc with @euph0riacc

“He was trying to save Dickie–” 

“Stop.”

Johnny reaches for a cigarette. His lighter. Hears the hiss and fizzle of a false start. Flicks it again, to no avail. Again, the little metal case mocking him in its impotence. He chokes, flicks it again. 

His hand trembles.

He flicks it again.

Flicks it again.

Again. 

It’s rippling out amongst the men now, picked up by the distress he’s throwing off, or by word of mouth. John’s lighting a cigarette in his own mouth, pressing it between Johnny’s lips and stealing his pristine one for his own taking. 

“Biddick’s dead?” someone says, voice cracking.Johnny stares at the asphalt, trying to remember how to breathe. I can’t do this, he thinks, I can’t do this.

tagging @middlingmay @london-cowboy @weimarweekly @hogans-heroes @feyd-meowtha

Your words are: Cut, forgiven, pillow, sleep

[akutagawas-fly]

Trying to get my partner to watch BSD with me and all the “selling points” I can come up with without spoilers are NOT selling points at all.

-main inspirations we know of (or that i have seen listed) are jjba and cowboy beebop. Combined. Also watches Avengers whenever he has writers block.

- I think asagiri has a masters in physics?? Can’t find a concrete source but honestly if he does, it shows. Fucking nerd.

- is old man yaoi a selling point? I haven’t tried that angle yet.

- passionately hating asagiri for what he puts us through. I won’t say what to my partner but she will know eventually

- Asagiri saying that the target audience is “people who are not good at living” (ouch but the rest of the quote is very sweet)

So yeah I don’t have any good selling points for BSD and don’t even know how to describe it anymore with what’s going on without spoiling. Like we are so far beyond “authors with super powers solving crime” now lmaoo

Like, “its pretty gay” is the best i got as a spoiler free pitch to get someone to watch it.

[dirtg1rl]

I was born in South Carolina and grew up 2 minutes away from the Texas motor speedway. The humming from the damn nascar races kept me up all night. There was a giant can of whoop ass on the road to my house (I’m being serious there was this huge concrete cylinder with whoop a** plastered on the front). My parents took me to the same church my whole life and the old ladies would say I’ve gotten so big everytime they saw me. For fun we would hop the fence of the golf course and make pretend houses in the woods. We would go on walks to pet the cows and horses. The summer smelt like hot asphalt and lemonade powder, and I went everywhere barefoot even though the ground was hot enough to cook an egg. We went to my grandpas house every Sunday to watch the cowboys and my cousins and I would rummage through his tools in the garage. I’m afraid I will spend the rest of my life trying to find this feeling again.

spending 4th of july at the lake trying to scare each other telling crocodile stories, waking up early on Sunday to get dolled up, smelling the stale cigarettes and beer on my grandpas breath when he slipped me a 20 and told me not to tell my momma, the golf course where we would catch fireflies and frogs, the way the warm dead grass covered our yard, my dad making “pools” out of a bucket and the water hose.

How can I explain to someone that this is what I had to leave behind, it was in fact my life, and now I’m so far away from that reality I can’t decipher what was true. I need to go back to Texas bad

[lovelykil]

「 Halloween 」

kyle x reader older ver.

cw; little nsfw

note; me when uhh mee whennn ermm uhhh me when cowboy kyle ohhhhhhhhhhhgod

black reader implied

I whipped out my phone to take a picture of my cowboy boots next to Kyle's to post on my Instagram as we waited for Kenny and Eric to finish getting their candy. We stood on the sidewalk waiting for them to get back.

It seemed like forever I mean how long does it take to just get your candy and go?

I had already posted the picture on my account and still they weren't back.

Kyle huffed in frustration feelings the same then felt his pockets since it vibrated.

"Did you tag me in something" He asked before even looking at his phone. I giggled lightly, putting my phone in my jean pocket.

"How'd you know?"

"Cause you always tag me in something, I swear." He opened his phone, going to insta.

I swung my bag of candy slowly from boredom, my eyes wondering around. I saw other groups of people walk from house to house, kids running around in their little costumes and some houses going way out for this Halloween. Webs everywhere with giant spiders in the middle, tall ass Skeletons in their front yard, smokey-like air filling the yard with gravestones in the grass as zombie like hands reach out to bring in an unattended little kid down to the underground, and bright red scary lights hung from their houses.

South Park went big for this year, that's for sure

Kyle set his bag of candy down on the concrete to hold his phone better as he probably tapped through our friend's stories from tonight, an hour ago Wendy posted her and Stan's costume, they went as Mavis and Johnny from hotel transylvania.

Which was totally cute, they went trick or treating with Bebe and Clyde not sure why they didn't join us though but it's whatever.

It was maybe cause every damn year we go and do this Eric likes to bitch about the candy and start a whole scene with the person handing out candy.

oh wait..

My head whipped back around to find cartman and to NO surprise he was waving his arm in the air with candy, even from way over here I could hear him shout in his barbie costume.

Surprisingly Kenny and him matched.. can you guess?

barbie and ken

If it wasn't obvious

His blonde hair wig bounced all around as he yelled I saw Kenny bring his hand to his face, shaking it slowly.

I groaned to myself, rolling my eyes into their sockets.

"Cartmans being a dick again.." I muttered. I looked over at the ginger in his cowboy costume. He looked up from his phone, squinted then rolled his eyes.

"That fucking asshole- hold on I'll be back." He put his phone back in his pocket then walked his way onto the drive way of the house, his boots clanked on the hard floor following the path to the front door to drag Eric back.

I watched,, more like studied him.

Okay I lied, fonded over.

Me and him went as cowboys this year he wasn't to big of a fan of this though.

"You want to go dressed as cowboys this Halloween?" Kyle put down his pencil and spun his chair to look at me. I set on the edge of his bed with my phone to my chest and my legs swinging in excitement. I nodded, even smiling.

He looked at me like I had a screw loose in my head or something, to which I clicked my tounge and leaned off the bed.

"I think it would be cool, I like cowboys" I walked over to him, pouting. He took off his glasses with to rub his over worked eyes.

"Don't you think we're to old to be trick or treating? I mean we can just eat candy and watch movies at my house for the night." He put his hand down, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

I stared at him in disbelief, obviously very offended. I set my hand on my hip turning my head in offense.

"I'm not that old!"

He watched me walk back to his bed andturn over to lay on my side as I sulked on my phone, he sighed and got up from his chair to crawl over next to me.

"You're kinda of a baby you know"

"I love trick or treating."

"Alright fine we can go, sorry." He played with a stain of my curly hair, curling it around just to let it go and watch it coil back to its regular curl. I turned over, sitting up.

My eyes lit up, I put my hands on his shoulders "Really?"

"Yes" He chuckled, nodding. I smiled, pecking his nose then went to grab my phone.

"Okay we are sooo going to need to buy these, also I have a spare cowboy hat back at my house that will look so good on you." I showed him the clothes, my voice trembling with pure happiness.

"Okay but why cowboy?" He questioned, grabbing my phone for himself to scroll through the clothes we needed. I was about to answer his question when I paused, remembering the reason I wanted to do this in the first place.

I mean I initially did like western things but.. the other reason behind it..

My cheeks burned my dark face, I rubbed the back of my neck as my eyes darted elsewhere.

"Uhm no clue like I said I just like cowboys, they are cool.."

"Mmmm, okay I guess."

The real reason was because I just wanted to see him in clothes like that, he's pretty tall with a pretty face and a small waist though still masculine in every way.

Him in brown boots, a button up black shirt, sliver western buckle belt to go with his low rise boot cut jeans that fit his figure complimented with chaps to wear with, and a cowboy hat to top it off.

And of course his rope that he could totally just use on me, maybe tie my wrist together and hold them over my head as his slender fingers make contact with my bare skin from beneth my button shirt. His voice low telling me to keep quiet each time I whimper to his touch.

His eyes filled with lust watching me struggle to fulfill his demand once his fingers inch near my temple, rubbing my pearl slowly. He'd smirk from above taking off his hat to set it on the bed.

"Want me to go down on you baby?" He'd whisper in such a suggestive tone, his smirk making my legs tremble. I'd nod nervously and watch him hum a response, unbuttoning my pants.

"Yeah you do, my pretty girl."

And possibly maybe his–

"CARTMAN GOD DAMMIT COME ON!"

"NO LET ME GO, THEY GAVE ME A TOOTH BRUSH KAHL, A FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH. WHO DOES THAT?" My flash back came to a quick end, hearing loud voices coming near me. I blinked, looking around for a second gaining conscience.

"oh shit." I whispered, feeling my face burn.

"There's other houses still fatass, you'll be okay." Kyle dragged Eric back to the spot as Kenny followed.

He looked so damn fine in that hat, his angry expression just made his outfit look 100 times better on him.

I felt my heart race and a nervous feeling washing over me.

"Sorry that took long, ready to continue Y/n?" He let got of Eric, dropping him on the concrete. The barbie shouted in frustration to the jew, fixing his messy blonde wig.

My eyes traced up at Kyle just realizing how small I was compared to him, I wasn't even that short and he literally towered me.

I swallowed some extra spit, avoiding his gaze. "yeah..uh let's.. let's go." I turned around to start the walk to the next house. If I stared at him more I think I would've probably started to make out with him in front of these kids which I was not going to do.

So many explicit thought flooded my god forsaken mind as we continued the walk to the houses I wanted to bang my head on a wall.

There wasn't much I could do anyway Kyle had no clue I was suffering from him, he kept arguing with cartman but still held my hand since I wanted him too.

I could feel my body grow hot especially my lower region, my cool breath was soon hot and thick.

As we approached another house I gripped Kyle's hand for him to stop. The other duo went ahead of us as I kept Kyle back.

He turned around confused, looking down.

"Something wrong Y/-"

"I need you badly right now ky, need you to tie me up with that rope of yours." I pointed to the rope on his waist, pleading. His stunned eyes met my begging ones he was quiet and didn't say anything from shock.

"You want to cut this short then?" He pointed to the decorated house to which I nodded, feeling a little sad then again that was the least thing on my mind at the moment.

He faltered with a blush, his contact still on me. I stepped closer to him, my hand feeling around his pant area begging some more. Anything I would do just for him to take me home so he can have his way with me in this cowboy wear.

"you just look so good right now, I don't think I can hold myself back for much longer.."

"o-oh?" He watched me feel up on him, his face growing redder. Just moments later I felt a bump growing from beneath his pants as my fingers teased him.

He whined, his hips leaning towards me.

"fuck.." He muttered from pleasure mixed with shame. I giggled, moving my hand away from him.

"Now you have to take me home."

"Okay fine.." He gave in, looking around to check if the coast was clear to flee.

He took my hand soon enough and walked away from the previous house we were at, I held onto his hand in content.

As we walked, trying to find his car he looked over at me needing the feeling to ask something.

"I have a feeling you picked these costumes just so you can see me in this." He stated. I looked at him then turned away once I felt myself get nervous.

"Maybe, or maybe not.. who knows?"

"Mhm.." He hummed.

A silence fell between us then was disturbed when he snickered lightly.

"You're so horny it's crazy." He laughed, I scoffed with a blush.

"Says the one with a walking boner right now."

"Oh shit I forgot about that, kids are here oh my god.."

[thewolvesof1998]

AO3 | Redbubble | ko-fi

Art and Sticker Commissions are open!

🍉🍉🍉.

My Fics:

You can see all my posts about my fics/WIPs by searching the tag 'thewolvesof1998 writes'

9-1-1:

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown (826, T, Buddie): Post AO3

You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes (1.6k, M, Buddie): Post AO3

asking all these questions, just to be polite, while dying inside (1.2k, T, Buddie): Post AO3

Tapping Morse Code into your heart (2.8k, E, Buddie): Post AO3

I want you to be selfish with me (4.6k, M, Buddie): Post AO3

You bring me comfort (4.2k, T, Buddie): Post AO3

I Can See You (3.1k, T, Buddie): Post AO3

Alright, Cowboy, Go Get 'Em (2/3 Chapters, 16.9K, E, Buddie): Post AO3 Masterlist

Under the Guise of Violence (3k, E, Buddie): Post AO3

nicknames, supernova similes and the family we make (798w, G, Buddie): Post AO3

let me cradle your body (be a safe place to rest) (1.9K, G, Buddie): Post AO3

even when the heat breaks I'm still yours (6.1k, E, Buddie) Post AO3

We might end up real close (2.2k, E, Buddie) Post AO3

They don’t know (your name is already mine) (7.6k, G, Buddie) Post AO3

A good ally (2k, E, Bucktommy) post AO3

Doin' things that lovers do (what else to do?) (5.6k, E, Buddie) post AO3

You make bad days infinitely better (3k, T, Buddie) post AO3

Top Gun Maverick:

Folie à deux (1k, M, Hangster) post A03

Tumblr Drabbles:

‘If I were a worm would you still love me’ that transformed into quote ‘the tape worm porn’

Fic Writing Review 2023 (which includes a list of all my current wips and links to post about them.)

Masterlist of ‘I don’t mind if we fight, If you make me bleed.’ posts

My favourite writing tool

My Original Writing:

Someone to be Gentle- Original Poem

Water Burial -Original Poem (trigger warnings)

My God is a Woman - Original Poem

My Edits:

You can see all my post about my edits by searching the tag 'thewolvesof1998 edit'

Don't Go Where I Can't Follow - LOTR inspired Buddie

Evan Buckley Icons

Eddie Diaz Instagram Post

What Was I Made For x Evan Buckley

Buck's Tweets inspired by Oliver's own Tweets

RWRB Buddie Movie Posters

Ryan Guzman Twilight poster

My Art:

You can see all my post about my art by searching the tag 'thewolvesof1998 art'

My Stickers

9-1-1:

Cowboy Buck inspired by my fic Alright, Cowboy, Go Get 'Em

Sad pumpkin Buckley

Buck in short shorts and crop top pt. 1 (wip)

Buck in short shorts and crop top pt. 2 (wip)

Rodeo Star Buck (wip)

Rodeo Star Buck (finished)

'I do not panic' Eddie Diaz sticker

Critical Role:

Grog Mayo Sticker

Top Gun Maverick:

Jake and Bradley for the fic write our names in the wet concrete by @exhuastedpigeon

Bradley for the fic Bradley Before They Turn the Lights Out by @leslieknopeao3

Wolf Pack Dispatch:

1/12/23

1/01/24

HOW TO WATCH SEASON 7 OF 9-1-1

[calicomarie11]

Secret Santa Fic Part 4

Over the next week Eddie continued to surprise Buck with Secret Santa gifts and let himself stray into flirty territory. 

The next gift was a box of pastries from Coin de Rue, including the elusive flat croissants that Buck had always been too late to try. He was ecstatic to finally have one in his hands and then confused as Eddie stole the last bite from his hand and popped it into his mouth with a smirk.   

When Buck unwrapped the collection of classic holiday movies and the ingredients for S’mores, Eddie told him to bring them over for movie night. He pressed against Buck when they relaxed on the couch and let his head rest on Buck’s shoulder. And when Buck slowly snaked his arm around Eddie’s waist, he hid his pleased grin against Buck’s neck and felt the tremor move through Buck’s body before he squeezed at Eddie’s side. Eddie thought about making his move then, but he had a plan with his son and he was committed to seeing it through.

On Christmas Eve their 24 hour shift started at noon so that they would have some time to spend with their families on Christmas Day. Buck opened his locker to find a three foot tall Christmas tree festooned with lights and a popcorn and cranberry string and absolutely covered with mini ornaments. Eddie watched as Buck pulled out the tree to examine each little trinket, excitedly pointing things out to Eddie.

“Oh, wow, there’s a little Jeep, and a fire helmet, a poker chip, a surfboard, a bee, a cocktail shaker and little cowboy hat, a tiara like the one Jee always makes me wear for tea parties, and, oh wow, these look like Chris’ glasses.” 

Buck turned to Eddie with suspiciously wet eyes. “I can’t believe my Secret Santa found all these. That must have taken forever.”

Eddie shrugged, trying to keep his face blank. “Maybe they think you’re worth it.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to find out who it is tomorrow so I can thank them. This week has been amazing, even if we do have to work on Christmas.” 

“At least we have dinner with the Han’s to look forward to,” Eddie said, redirecting the conversation from speculation about Buck’s Secret Santa.

He listened to Buck chat about all the presents he got for Jee as they finished getting ready and headed up to the loft to wait for the first call.

They didn’t have to wait long until they were heading out to a house fire started by some idiot who put real candles on their Christmas tree, and after that they were rarely at the firehouse. They were lucky to catch a few hours of sleep before the calls started rolling in as LA woke up on Christmas morning.

By the time they made it back to the station it was almost time for the shift change, so Bobby took them offline to be sure they would all be able to go home without delay. After cleaning up from the last call, the members of A shift gathered to eat the cinnamon rolls Buck had baked the day before and exchange presents.

Hen presided over the gifts, a Santa hat perched on her head. She picked up each wrapped box, read out the recipients name and handed it over. 

Eddie laughed as he opened up the mustache grooming kit from Chimney and shook his head. “It’s not coming back, no matter how much you miss it,” he said. 

Chimney groaned. “But it made it so easy to tease you. Think of my fun, Eddie.”

Buck nudged his shoulder. “I kinda miss it too, it was sexy,” he whispered and Eddie didn’t think anyone could blame him for missing the next several gift exchanges. 

Finally, all the presents under the tree had been passed out and Buck was the only one without a gift.

Buck looked around the group, confused. “So, who was it? Who was my Secret Santa?” he asked. 

The sounds of crutches on the concrete floor of the loft interrupted him and Buck sprang up, turning with hope in his eyes to watch as Christopher walked towards them from Bobby’s office. 

He held a box in his hand and grinned wildly at the adults. “Special delivery for Buck,” he got out before Buck had hoisted him into a bear hug. 

“You’re here. Are you really here, for good?” Buck asked as he squeezed like a boa constrictor. 

“Yeah, I’m here to stay,” Christopher answered. “Grandma and Grandpa were cramping my style.”

Buck reluctantly set him down and looked to Eddie who nodded. 

“This is the best Christmas present ever,” Buck said, looking stunned.

“That’s not even your present, Buck,” Chris said with an eye roll. He handed Buck the box he’d been carrying and waited for him to open it.

Buck unwrapped the small rectangular box and lifted the lid. Inside nestled a Saint Christopher medal just like the one that sat next to Eddie’s heart. His eyes went wide when he recognized what it was and his next words came out choked. “For me?” 

“Duh. You need all the help you can get to stay safe so you can come home to dad and me.” Christopher said, the sarcastic words not fooling Buck who could see the hint of tears starting.

“Thank you, Chris. I promise to always try my best to come home safe to you.” 

“And dad?”

“And your dad,” Buck straightened, wiping a tear from the corners of his eye. “So I guess that means Eddie is my Secret Santa,” he said, turning to the rest of the group with a grin. 

Eddie walked over to them, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Guilty as charged,” he said, coming to a stop facing Buck. He wiped his palms off on his uniform pants and then reached up, this time letting one hand rest on the side of Buck’s neck and placing the other on his waist. 

Eddie’s eyes roamed over Buck’s face, looking for any sign that this was unwanted and finding none. Buck’s eyes flicked down to his mouth and Eddie finally leaned in, moving slow in case Buck wanted to pull away.

But he must have been moving too slow because he felt himself being yanked up against Buck’s solid chest and then Buck’s lips were on his, pressing sweetly against his own. Eddie was vaguely aware of Hen in the background telling someone to pay up, but then Buck sighed and Eddie took the chance to deepen the kiss.  

They might have stayed there the rest of the day if Bobby’s discreet cough next to them hadn’t broken through their trance.

“We’ll have to talk about this next shift, but for now we’re done for the day. Go home and have a Merry Christmas,” Bobby said.

Buck leaned back, but kept his eyes on Eddie as if he couldn’t look away as he said “Merry Christmas, Cap.”

Then Buck pulled Eddie into a hug, whispering “Best Christmas ever,” into his hair. And Eddie had to agree. 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Now on AO3

It's finished, just in time for Christmas. Happy Holidays, y'all.

[yobotica]

Fandom Homework

Idea by @razielim, I like the idea of sitting down and talking about the stuff I want to be working on! Mostly pretty rambly here, so I'll put it all beneath a cut:

It's all gonna be about the WIPs, baby! I think the thing that comes to mind most on 'boy I wish I could finish this' is actually the fallout AU I have for Assassin's Creed. ShaunDes, of course, but I think the ultimate plan was to try for OT3 with Clay on this one. I've never done it, but I get a lot of comments for that on my other fics and I think it would be interesting in this setting if I can make it work. I think the current plan for this one is more a sort of main 'how the group got together' vibe (all the moderns) and then snippets/side stories for some of their adventures. I do have an overall plot involving everyone figuring out who they are, secrets coming to light, etc. I just gotta get it all written is all.

Second is obviously to finish my in progress titanfall fic, which I usually just refer to as Weary, lol. While I've never once really felt pressured that updates are few and far between by comments on AO3, I sometimes regret posting it before it was finished. I never post WIPs as they're worked on because I am the slowest writer - once I get going, I can write pretty fast, it's just the getting started that trips me up. That, and i end up writing a lot of stuff that it turns out, it's not time for, or it's just not right for the story. I think I'm at like, over 15k words discarded for this fic overall, some of which has been repurposed/used already (just later than when it was originally written), but most of which has not. (Yet; I know at least two bits are just too early).

Third is a fic that is almost 10 years old and unfinished. It's only been posted up to chapter 10 on the assassin's creed kinkmeme, the last chapter of which was posted in 2016. It's almost complete, actually, sitting at just under 55.5k words, but I can't quite pin down the ending. Then it needs to be edited. Insert sad-cowboy emoji.

I'd really like to revisit my old DS9 stuff. I never published any of it on AO3 - in fact, I can't even remember if I've published any of it anywhere. It's some of the earliest stuff I've written, and it's pretty rough by my standards, but it's still something I'd like to get some time into and whip up into something readable at some point.

I want to learn how to draw transformers! I've wanted to for a while, but I recently watched Transformers One and it was gorgeous. There's a lot of different styles for the whole franchise, but I like that one a lot. That and Transformers Prime, which I haven't seen yet, lol. I'm a pretty recent fan, to be honest, but me and a friend have spent a lot of time making transformers OCs that I'd love to be able to draw just for fun. (It's the only reason I play Forza Horizon 5 at all, is to make the car forms for those that can be made in that game.)

I'd love to get works written for a few fandoms I've been into for a while, but never written for. Stuff like Dishonored, Legacy of Kain/Soul Reaver, Inception or even Dragon Age. Mostly based on vibes rather than concrete ideas (except for dishonored, which I have exactly one (1) idea that could be used for fic), but still. It's something I'd like to do.

Oh! I need to finish and edit the FFXV fic I have in progress! It could be considered complete enough, to be honest, but it feels incomplete to me for some reason. I wrote up to a certain point, then lost all steam. It's set post Episode Ignis alternate ending, a really, really cute and sweet fic.

I think one thing I'd like to do is maybe just post a collection on AO3 of my WIPs. I don't think of anything I've written as abandoned, even if it's been years since I looked at them, but I also do think some of it was pretty good! I don't know how readers feel about this, though.

I'd like to get more Deus Ex fic written, too. I had a few things perk my interested for kinktober but October was mostly a really shit month for me, so I got no writing done at all. I definitely don't mind using those prompts late or anything, but I still haven't got any creative juice for writing right now, so they're just sitting there, waiting for their time.

I've also had a few ideas that I think I might never write but maybe folks might be interested in hearing about or adopting themselves? Like prompts, maybe. Adoptable fic ideas. Mostly it's stuff I'd love to read but not research to write myself, but that feels a little selfish, lol. But I also just think they're fun to talk about and gush over even if they never actually get written.

I think this was nice to sit down and write out. I don't post very much about myself or my work, but I've enjoyed seeing people talk about things they'd like to get done or things they have in progress and thought I'd share. I'm wishing you all well and hoping you all have something creative you'd like to look forward to doing as well! <3