brewsterispunkk - Tumblr blog

[brewsterispunkk]

i was tagged by @fineosaur (raniyah, my love🥹) to post my nine favourite albums. I would agree that this is the HARDEST tag, but these are the ones that came to my head right away. as always, there are more, these are just some of my staples ;)

From left-right/down:

- Uprising by Bob Marley and The Wailers

- American Idiot by Green Day

- From Under the Cork Tree by Fall Out Boy

- Pearl by Janis Joplin

- Mi Mundo Raro by Chavela Vargas

- Amor Prohibido by Selena

- Blue by Joni Mitchell

- Voulez-Vous by ABBA

- Rumours by Fleetwood Mac

Of course, there are so so many more, but THESE are some of the ones that shaped me in my younger years (hello, fall out boy&green day) and today.

This is an open tag! So whoever wants to join, pls do!

[brewsterispunkk]

i know it when i see it - part 7

series masterlist | ao3

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8.4k

warnings: attempted rape/non-con, non-consensual drug use, main character is roofied, hurt/comfort, descriptions of vomiting, finally some feelings talk, victim-blaming by the victim

summary: a bad night brings you and joel closer than expected.

a/n: this chapter contains the graphic description of an attempted assault against the main character. if you believe this content may be triggering for you, there is an abridged version of the chapter posted here. please be responsible and protect your peace. resources are included at the end of the chapter.

The sunlight is brutal the next morning.

Slipping through the half-drawn blinds, burning red behind your eyelids. The sheets are warm and smell heavily of your roommate’s perfume, the lavender oil she puts on her wrists to fall asleep. Your head is heavy with hangover, mouth cottoned and dry. You’re achy and sore and so fucking embarrassed you want to die.

God, Joel must think you’re pathetic. Trailing after him like that, picking a fight when it was clear he wanted to leave. Grabbing his dick through his jeans — fucking hell, basically begging him to fuck you.

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle a groan, trying to cringe away from the memory.

What the hell is wrong with you? What is it about him that makes it impossible for you to keep your shit together? You told Tess that you were a big girl, that you could handle this. A fucking lie, clearly, since you can’t keep your cool for a single evening in his presence. 

You are so soft for him, so easy. Just some cock-addled idiot willing to take whatever crumb he’ll give you, and then somehow hurt when that’s all you get. Of course he left. He always leaves. It’s like getting surprised when the sun starts to set.

Even if, for a second, you felt like things were different this time. That quiet moment when you were caught together, the way you felt him laugh, the scrape of his smile against your cheek. When your heart stilled and you were sure, so fucking sure that he felt it too. 

Fuck.

You groan again, cringing away from the memory, the oil-slick shame of it that clings to your skin.

A gentle hand rests on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Your roommate shifts in the sheets beside you.

“Baby, you’re spiraling,” she says, “Go take a shower.”

You do, because you are a little bit disgusting. The stale sweat from the club, from the sex. Glitter and mascara smudged around your eyes. Joel’s dry semen flaking between your thighs. You let the hot water scald your skin and think, unwillingly, of baptism. At this point, you doubt even the holiest of water could wash away your sins.

You stare at the grout, the little specks of mold that live there.

It’s just sex.

That’s what you had said to him, the lie that spilled out of you when you realized he was leaving. 

Because that’s how it is with everyone else, the revolving door of co-stars that spend a few hours with your cunt. You fuck strangers the same way that you file taxes or wait in line at the bank. Efficiently, without anything resembling real want, no jagged edge of feeling. Sweaty and soulless, all gaping mouths and shuddering gasps. Checking your nail beds and chatting about the weather between takes, coming so hard you can’t see straight and never speaking to them again.

It’s just always just sex. 

It shouldn't be different just because it’s Joel. 

You’re tired of smoking until your fingers burn, tired of staring at the scrawl of his phone number, tired of waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop.

You’ve survived bigger disappointments. You won’t let yourself be wasted by it, won’t shrink into some softer shape, cannibalized by your own bastard affection. You tell the gnawing ache in your belly to fuck off, let it go, maybe chew on your ribs for a while. 

The phone rings just as you’re stepping out of the shower, the sound muffled through the walls. You wrap a towel around your waist and crack open the small window to let out a spill of steam. The mirror is too fogged to see your own reflection, and it feels like a small mercy. You’re not sure you can look yourself in the eye right now.

Silly, shameless girl. 

The voice in your head sounds like your mother’s.

You’re slightly more human when you shuffle out into the kitchen. Your roommate is at the stove, nudging a pat of butter around a sizzling pan. 

“Someone called for you,” she says, nodding at the phone.

Only one of the other girls has resurrected, sitting cross-legged on one of the mismatched dining chairs, staring bleary-eyed into a soggy bowl of cereal. You ruffle her hair as you make a bee-line for the coffee pot, and she preens like a cat.

You see Tess’s number scrawled on the pad of paper by the phone, and wince at the idea of talking to her right now. You’ll need to ask her not to book another scene with Joel, explain some version of what happened last night. That was a conversation for later, once you had some food lining your stomach, a steady drip of caffeine in your veins. 

The Hustlers cover is taped to the fridge, and your own face stares at you as you take out the cream. 

Well, not your face, really. 

It’s all Lucky, her heavy-lidded eyes, her please come fuck me smile. The girl in the magazines, the thing you came here to become. A better version of yourself in so many ways. Radiant and unrepentant. 

She watches you take a sip of your coffee. Hair still dripping around your shoulders, so hungover you can barely stand upright. The lovesick, wet rat version of the nation’s newest sex symbol.

It’s just sex.

That’s all it was. A cruel biological trick, the inconvenient compatibility of your bodies. Some fucked up animal magnetism making you think any of it meant more than it did.

You’re not heartbroken. 

Obviously.

Porn stars don’t put their heads in the oven. 

x x x x x

When you tell Tess that you don’t want to work with Joel again, she doesn’t argue. 

She gives you a long look, her gray eyes searching. And for a second it looks like she’s going to say something else, raise some other, elusive point. But then she just shrugs.

“Whatever you want, kid.”

And you’re grateful that she doesn’t ask you to explain, that you don’t have to fess up to your stupid feelings. You’re desperate to feel less in general, to tamp down on that part of you that wants so many things you can’t have.

So instead, you focus on the shit you can control. 

The work, the sex — the tangle of the two together. Business meetings and gang bangs, contract negotiations and nipple clamps. The most lurid moments of your life parsed out in frank, unfeeling conversations. Signing on the dotted line to spread your legs and smile pretty for the camera. 

You sink into it, let yourself be submerged in the endless stream of smut. Every day a new set, a new scene. You’re a waitress, a dancer, a nanny, a prison warden. The ever-changing, eternally fuckable girl. So many skins you can slip into and shed the messy, inconvenient parts of yourself, just for a little while. 

You avoid anything with even a whiff of cowboy in it. No more beard scruff or calloused hands, no low rolling voice, no Texas twang. Instead, only smooth-bodied bull types, oiled and hairless, who greet you with broad, dopey grins. Beautiful, lithe-limbed women, all coy smiles and conspiratory laughter, a breathless whisper in your ear before each take.

You’re not as picky when it comes to the projects. You do the rougher stuff, the longer days. Resetting over and over so the camera can get a better angle, catch the edge of a cock in your throat. Take after take after take. You leave sets sore, but usually satisfied, and so exhausted that you can't do much more than climb into bed.

Less time for thinking. For pining, God forbid.

You’re a pledge, the oh-so-reluctant prey of an older girl in some sorority flick. Knees chafing against plush carpet, your skirt hiked high on your hips as you recite the Greek alphabet. You get a playful spank for every mistaken letter, tripping over the tau and upsilon, forgetting chi altogether. 

You bring your co-star off once with your hand, once with your mouth, and then again with the handle of a hairbrush. It’s a little crass, a porn cliche infecting the girlish room, but the cameras love it. After, she presses you back against the flowery bedsheets to return the favor. It’s not scripted but she coos in your ear that you’ve earned it. 

When the director calls cut, you lay there for a long moment, staring up at the high rafters of the soundstage. Settling back into yourself, feeling out your body. The burn of your knees, the slight ache in your neck. But there’s a warmth low in your belly, the slow-burning embers of your arousal, a sleepy sort of satisfaction in your limbs.

Your co-star’s face appears over yours. Cheeks still flushed, eyes shining. Her hair a golden halo, blocking the too-bright light of the overheads.

“You good?” she asks.

The sheets stick to the sweat of your back, the drip of release still cooling on your thighs. You huff out a sigh. 

“You fucked my brains out.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Please, that was nothing,” she says, “Imagine what I could do with a few hours.”

She winks and you laugh, finally forcing yourself up off the damp bed. 

Around you, the crew has already started striking the set: taking down the frames with their posed pictures, the stray textbooks and candy bars, the pennant for a college that doesn’t exist. Echoes of a life so obviously un-lived, the man-spun fantasy of a dorm room.

The dressing room is cramped, tucked in the back corner of the sound stage and wallpapered pink to disguise its past life as a storage closet.

The mirror is fogged over with hairspray, your reflection cloudy at the edges. You look well-fucked. The blur of mascara beneath your eyes, hair frizzed from her fingers. The tacky shine of her arousal is still damp on your hairline, and you wipe it away with the edge of your robe. 

Your co-star is still mostly naked, the robe draped open around her shoulders. Her breasts sway as she leans closer to the mirror, dabbing at a smudge of lipstick with her pinky finger. 

“Scoot over,” she teases, bumping your elbow as she reaches for the crumpled heap of her carpet bag.

There’s an easy familiarity in your movements, your comfortable closeness. The kind of de-facto friendship you earn after an hour between her legs.

She cuts a neat line of coke on the vanity, nudging aside the bottles of cheap perfume and for her pleasure lube left out by production. She sweeps her hair to the back of her neck, gathering it at the base of her skull as she lowers her head. It’s gone on a long inhale, the excess caught on a fingertip and tucked into her gums.

She straightens and meets your gaze in the mirror.

“Come out with us tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow at her reflection, “Out?”

“There’s a party in the hills,” she says with a shrug, “A bunch of us are going.”

It takes only another half a second of hesitation to decide fuck it. The quiet ache in your hips, the tired pinch behind your eyes, the dizzying cost of the taxi you’ll have to take home at the end of the night. 

It’ll be good to get out. Healthy, probably. 

Lately your brain has started to eat itself if you spend too much time in the empty apartment. Something to do with the weather, probably. Or your diet, the long days of black coffees and crafty croissants. Or maybe it’s guilt, so many Catholic ghosts catching up with you.

You smile at her in the mirror and catch a glimpse of your shiny, shimmering self.  

x x x x x

The taxi crawls through the winding roads towards Mulholland, the windows rolled down so your breath, that blur of backseat conversation, doesn’t fog the windshield. 

There are four of you crammed together, a flask passed between you, an elbow digging into your ribs at every sharp turn. You don’t know the others well — another actress and one of the girls from wardrobe — but your co-star’s arms are wrapped around your waist in lieu of a seatbelt, and you can feel her laughter in your ribs. It’s easy to melt, lean into the warmth, listen eagerly to a story about people you’ve never met. 

One of the other girls pulls out a little baggie, digs into it with the edge of her house key. She notices your gaze and offers it out to you.

“Want some?”

It’s only a little bump, but it burns at the back of your throat, that awful chemical drip.

The taxi turns into the driveway of some sprawling behemoth of a house, perched high at the top of the valley. The windows glow, all glass, and you watch the shift of silhouettes against the dark sky. 

You feel light, giddy, as you make your way up the drive. Gravel crunching underneath your heels, the other girls bumping into you, their laughter carried away on the cool night air.

Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand the second you step over the threshold, and the bubbles fizz down your throat as you take it all in. The crowd, the dizzying masses, all sequin and leather and lace. A chandelier glitters above it all, concentric circles that seem to spin if you stare at it for too long.

Your co-star keeps her elbow locked with yours, tugging you through the house, pausing occasionally to accept an air kiss or make a vague promise to catch up soon. As soon as you move on, she leans in to whisper some scrap of gossip in your ear. 

Terrible flirt, never keeps his hands to himself. 

Worst actress I’ve ever seen, chews the scenery like you wouldn’t believe.

Shame about the divorce, but he should have seen it coming.

You melt from one circle to the next, an endless tide of introductions. You call yourself Lucky before you have a chance to correct it, to rethink the nickname, the endless blur of brand and body. But it doesn’t matter, not really. 

You can be Lucky tonight. 

These days, you’re her more often than you are you.

You wander through the house, taking it all in. The ugly, expensive art. Little statues tucked away on high shelves. No family photos, no shoes by the door. Only the icy veneer of impressive, impersonal wealth. There’s music playing, but it’s shapeless, meant to be heard rather than listened to. Just sounds, really. A bloated bassline, some sluggish synth. 

You think that you prefer the kinds of parties that your friends throw. Casual, comfortable. People sprawled out on the carpet, passing around a joint, or crowded together in the kitchen, trying to dance without bumping elbows. You’d kill for a night that was just dancing.

Here, it was hard not to feel watched. Observed.

Industry types lean in doorways and against railings, cool and impassive, polished in a sheen of self-importance. Around them: the aspirational drift moonish and eager, desperate to be swept into someone’s orbit. An artful hand on the hip, a precisely positioned chin. Hoping desperately to be seen, scouted.

You turn a corner and collide with someone. Champagne jumps from your glass, spilling over your fingers. A soft hand closes over your elbow, catching you before you can stumble.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

You blink up at the man attached to the hand, the apology written across his expression.

And you recognize him. At least, you think you do. 

He has a face like so many men in this city. Handsome enough, half-sculpted. The better-looking boys in their high schools, bolstered by some small-town ego, buoyed by visions of distant stardom. Inevitably disappointed when their egg whites and lean cuts of protein did not grant them entry into some secret world. Chiseled but unfinished. Forgotten marble. They pour coffee, they wait tables. Their good looks became window-dressing for someone else’s story.

He offers his hand with a warm, friendly smile and says, “It’s good to see you again.”

And you think maybe you do remember him. Standing at the edge of a set, a forgettable face from some past project. A producer, you think, like most of the men here. 

You smile up at him the way that you’re good at and say you too.

It’s mostly a lie. You’re trying very hard to remember his name, conjure it up from the blank spaces of your memory. Patrick, maybe. No, Patrick was the AD on the last film you shot. He must be Richard. Robert? You can’t figure out how to ask without insulting him.

“Do you know many people here?” he asks, maybe mistaking your expression for interest, romantic or otherwise. 

“Only a few,” you shrug, “It’s not really my scene.”

His smile widens as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t believe that,” he says, “I bet you fit in anywhere.”

He’s flirting. Leaning in the way that men tend to, like he might catch a bit of your shine if he stands close enough. 

Your co-star reappears, breathless and grinning.

“Everyone is jumping in the pool!” she says, taking your hand in hers and pulling you towards the back of the house.

The man watches you go with a wistful sort of look on his face.

“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he calls after you.

It’s hopeful, almost charming. 

You let your gaze linger for a moment. Let him indulge in the fantasy, however briefly. And maybe you will find him later, circle back as the night ebbs and make good on the promise of your smile. 

But probably not. 

It’s been less than an hour, and you already want to leave. You miss Joan Baez. You miss your bottle of wine. You miss the sound of your own name, the way it’s said without any innuendo or smirk. 

But the night has barely been worth the price of a taxi, so you swallow down the rest of your champagne and try to find the fun in it. The excitement. People would kill for an invitation to a party like this, to be in a beautiful house surrounded by such beautiful things. You search for any of that in yourself, some wide-eyed awe that could gloss over the evening. 

Instead, you only find the beginnings of a headache, a low throb in the base of your skull.

There’s a crowd gathering at the edge of the enormous pool, watching amused as a group of drunken guests splash around in the shallow end. Clothes on, still holding cocktails that must be half-chlorine. Lost in their own revelry, trying to playfully drown each other as the rest of the party watches.

You sip your champagne, waiting for the buzz to take hold, to soften the cold and the ache of your heels. 

Guest after guest kicks off their shoes and jumps in the pool to a giddy wave of oohs and aahs. The occasional cannonball or backflip earns a scattering of applause. Suit jackets are stripped away, abandoned on deck chairs. Women’s dresses billow underwater, strange jellyfish that float up above their waists.

There’s a shout as a young actress is scooped into someone’s arms and thrown into the pool. The splash arcs high, water raining down on the skirts and shoes of those standing closest. The actress emerges after a beat, drenched and beaming, swiping her hair back from her pretty face.

That starts something. Men grabbing their dates, their girlfriends, and tossing them into the water. There are indignant cries, playful laughter. A few of them get pulled in, toppled over by their own gravity.

A hand reaches from out of nowhere, grazes along your lower back, and you shrink away instinctively. 

You’re not going in the fucking pool.

Actually, you think that maybe you need to go home. The headache is getting worse, and you’re starting to feel a little dizzy. Something in the music is setting your teeth on edge, the occasional shrieks striking an uneasy nerve.

A girl standing too close to the edge loses her balance and falls in. She comes up spluttering and scared, floundering for the edge. There’s a cheer when she finds it, a few glasses raised. Her white dress has gone sheer, exposing the pink pebble of her breast to the onlookers. When she smiles, her teeth are chattering.

Your stomach twinges uncomfortably.

Shit.

You might actually be sick.

Not here. Not in front of all these people. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Your co-star catches your eye, raises an eyebrow. Need company? But you shake your head and lift your glass. Just getting another drink.

You slip back into the main house, away from the noise and bodies, down a quiet hallway that stretches into the rest of the house. More terrible art lines the walls. Brutalist and obscure, void of any warmth. You pause between paintings, waiting for your stomach to settle, for the headache to recede.

But it doesn’t.

You’re not drunk — you can’t be drunk. 

You’re only a few sips into your second drink. And sure, maybe you’re a bit of a lightweight, but never like this. Maybe the hit in the car was laced with something, or it’s reacting badly with the wine, or there was something —

Your gaze slides to the champagne flute in your hand, the soft ripples on the surface. 

Did you set it down? Just for a second? To shake a hand, maybe, or refasten the strap on your heel. You didn’t notice, you weren’t paying attention. 

But you can feel it now.

The slow creeping fog in your head, a haze of dilution. The lights a little too bright, the music a little too loud. Your skin feels heated and buzzing, something boiling beneath.

There was something in your drink. 

The realization sinks through you like a stone, a buzz of panic rising in your veins. You press your fingertips to your throat and feel your fluttering, unsteady pulse. Slower than it should be. 

Not good. Probably very bad, but you try not to panic. 

You double back to the pool area, the mess of bodies, so many strangers. The music is so fucking loud, God, how does anyone think? You search for your co-star, or any of the girls from the car, but they could be any one of the many wet heads in the pool. It’s impossible to tell, impossible to get anyone’s attention amidst the chaos. 

Someone bumps into you and your heel slips against the wet cement. You manage to catch yourself, but only just. Your balance is all wrong, off-center, some new gravity taking hold.

Whatever this is, it’s working fast.

And you can’t keep looking for the others, can’t wait for this to get any worse. 

You turn back to the house, but find a man in front of you, his broad face twisted in a leer. The front of his shirt is soaked through, clinging to the stretch of his stomach.

“Want to go for a swim?” 

You force a smile, even as your insides revolt, as your skin stretches too tight. 

“Not right now, thanks.”

You try to step around him, but he moves with you, blocking your way. His pupils are blown wide, expression hungry as he takes in your dress, the bare skin of your legs. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “The water’s warm.”

You don’t have time for this, for him. You let the mask drop, Lucky sliding away to leave only you. Angry, frightened, slightly feral you. No more smiling, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Fuck off,” you snap.

His expression sours, curdling like milk.

“Bitch,” he mutters, but doesn’t try to stop you again as you shoulder past.

You try to keep your breathing steady, weaving through the crowd gathered at the window, watching the spectacle outside. The house has half-emptied, everyone else spilling out into the night air. There’s a couple tangled together on one of the sofas, all legs and arms, apparently oblivious to their surroundings.

It takes a few wrong turns, a few locked doors, before you find a phone down one of the empty hallways.

Your hand is shaking as you dial Tess’s number, the receiver held so tightly you can hear the plastic creaking against your ear. 

It rings. 

And rings.

And goes straight to Tess's voicemail.

Fuck.

You try the apartment next, but it rings right through. And of course it does. It’s a Saturday night, the girls are almost never home on the weekend. And they’re too far anyways, all the way on the west side. You’re not sure you could even stay conscious for the hour it would take them to get here. 

You’re halfway gone already. The slow creep of fever along your spine, the fuzzing edges of your vision. It’s an effort to stay upright, to stay focused. You can’t stay here, in this house full of strangers. 

There’s only one other number that you know.

One you memorized, girlish and hopeful, but never called. The numbers scrawled on a receipt, tucked into a book by your bed, read over and over until they burned on the back of your eyelids. 

Your hands are shaking as you dial, slipping twice so you have to start over. And you realize it’s late, too late to call, and he doesn’t even like you very much. But there’s no one else.

Joel answers on the second ring. 

“Hello?”

His voice is low, scratched up with sleep. 

“Joel?”

He says your name, and you think, inanely, how much you like the way he says it. The deep gravel of his voice, all the things you’ve been trying to forget. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. He sounds — surprised, maybe. Confused. But not annoyed, not angry that you called. At least he hasn’t hung up on you yet.

“I’m sorry, it’s so late. I tried to call Tess. First, I called her first. And my friends. But no one’s answering and — and —”

You shake your head as a wave of dizziness threatens to overtake you. 

“Hey, slow down,” Joel says, “What’s going on?”

“I think —” you swallow, “I think there was something in my drink.”

You hear his sharp intake of breath. 

“Where are you?”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. An urgency.

You try to scrape through the fog of your memory. You can’t keep your thoughts straight, they keep spilling and tripping together. Someone had said, had told the driver the name as you slid into the back of the car. 

“In the hills. At a house. Some producer guy’s — Rich something?”

“Matthews?”

Fuck. Maybe. Names really are not your strong suit tonight.

“I think so?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

Relief surges through you, though with it comes another wave of dizziness, the black-blue blur at the edge of your vision. It takes a second to realize that you haven’t answered, that Joel is still talking to you.

“Just stay put, alright? I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” you tell him.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.

You let the phone slip from your hand, skittering back against the wall as the coil contracts. 

He’s coming. Joel is coming. Twenty minutes. 

You’re not sure how much time you have, how much further you have to fall. You dig your nails into the skin of your arm, focusing on the bite of pain, the sharp sting. Something to keep you awake. Present.

There’s a burst of laughter, the dance of footsteps, and a couple stumbles into the hall. Faces flushed, hands entwined. They stop short when they see you, their shameless apology tripping out through laughter.

You force something like a smile onto your face, straightening as they make their way past you, disappearing through a doorway down the hall. 

Shit. Your head aches. You need quiet, need to be alone. You really need to not fall apart in the middle of this party, where anyone could see you and shape your current state into some seedy tabloid story.

You press your hands over your eyes, digging the heel into your socket, trying to relieve some of the pressure there.

“Lucky?”

You look up. 

It's him again. The producer, the one whose name you can’t fucking remember. Patrick-Richard-whatever.

You try to straighten, but your knees buckle and you fall back against the wall. Stars burst in front of your vision, obscuring his face, distorting his mostly handsome features. 

“Woah, hey,” he frowns, “You okay?”

“Not feeling great,” you mutter, swallowing down the bile at the back of your throat. 

He chuckles, “The bartender’s a pretty stiff pour.”

You smile weakly. You really don’t want to throw up on him. But his shoes don’t look that expensive. You could probably replace them. 

You must be a little green, because he asks, “Want to get some air?” 

Yeah. Yeah, air might be good. Might clear some of the fever in your head, defibrillate you back into sobriety. At the very least, there will probably be fewer witnesses if you puke. 

You nod, and he offers his arm out for you to take. Which is good, because it’s starting to feel like the ground is slipping out from beneath you. 

“There’s a great balcony,” he’s saying, “You can see the whole valley.”

You’re staring at the floor, focusing on every step as you take it. The rich brocade of the hall carpet, the threshold of the room, the dark hardwood of wherever the fuck you are now. You blink up at the dark room, the French doors and the balcony beyond. 

Then you hear the soft click of the lock behind you.

And your stomach drops.

Hands reach out from behind you, sliding around your waist, pulling you close. A sweaty grip at the back of your dress, a gin-soaked breath at your ear. 

“Thought we could use a little more privacy.”

You freeze. Breath catching in your throat, every joint and muscle locking in place. A fear like poison, like disease, slithers through your veins. 

He put something in your drink.

Somewhere between shaking your hand and making you smile, he slipped something in your fucking champagne. You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t registered him as a threat. His banal, lukewarm smile. His easy flirtation. Not asking too much, barely even pushing.

Because he didn’t need to push.

He planned this.

Nausea twists in your stomach and now you wish you would puke. Ruin the moment, spoil whatever fucked up fantasy he wants to play out. But you can’t even think against the ache in your head, the thrum of your own pulse.

He presses his face into your neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hand slides over your hip, down to the hem of your dress. He gathers it in a fist, the fabric bunching beneath his grip.

“Such a tease,” he murmurs, “This dress was driving me crazy.”

His grip is tight, holding you firmly to his chest. Every touch is hungry, consuming. You can feel him hard against you, pressing against your ass, threatening every awful thing that he wants to do to you. 

You feel surrounded, smothered. The heavy spice of his cologne, the bitter taint of sour sweat beneath. He’s everywhere, hands moving over your body, scraping across your skin.

“Stop,” you try to say, but your voice is a weak, shattered thing. 

It’s taking everything in you to cling to that last scrap of consciousness. Even if you weren’t drugged, you doubt you could fight him off. He’s twice your size, all lean muscle. The hand that flexes at your waist is a threat, a warning.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Don’t be like that.”

And maybe you should just give in. 

Let go, slip into the waiting black. Submit to sharper teeth, let yourself become easy prey. It might be less painful that way. You probably wouldn’t even feel anything. You would wake up tomorrow, sore and aching, with the shadow of this awful thing, but no real memory of it. 

Lips brush your cheek, searching for your mouth. Tasting of smoke and gin and the worst night of your life. 

He’s too close, his grip too tight. The hand at your waist slides down, finding your bare thighs beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath hitches, catching on a sob, as his fingers brush against your center.

“Let me in.”

Something base and animal comes to life inside you. A clawing, gnashing fear that rips through you.

You twist in his grasp. Twist and writhe and wrench away from his hands, the suffocating press of his body against yours. His hands scrape against you, nails breaking skin, but you break free. 

Just for a second. Just for a breath.

Long enough to turn to face him on your shaky legs, to stare into the eyes of this man whose name you don’t even fucking know. The warmth is gone from his gaze. His friendly, forgettable face is now twisted, turned ugly with frustration. His hands twitch at his side — the hands he put on you, the fingers he tried to press inside.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he sneers.

And then lunges for you.

You see him coming, the hands reaching out for you, and try to move out of the way. 

But your legs don’t work. Your reactions are slow, stuck in the mind-numbing molasses of whatever was in your drink. You take a single, stumbling step and your heel snags on the carpet.

Your head hits something on the way down. The sharp edge of a table. You didn’t see it, didn’t realize it was there. 

You land hard, wrong. All the air punches out of your lungs from the force of the fall, the pain splitting through your skull. You can taste blood in your mouth, the bite of metal behind your teeth. It’s thick and bitter when you try to swallow.

It’s too much. The ache in your head, the heavy weight in your limbs. You want to sleep, to stop fighting, to sink into the soft darkness waiting just at the edge of your vision.

There are hands on you again. Dragging you back, turning you over. A weight settles over your legs, pinning you down.

“You like it rough, huh?” he hisses. 

You can barely see, vision spotting and smeared with color. His face is a blur above you. Your dress is shoved up over your stomach. You hear the clink of his belt coming undone.

Things are slipping, gone hazy and hard to understand. You can’t think over the pounding in your head. 

Or maybe it’s not in your head.

There’s a heavy thud, a muffled shout, and then the crack of splintering wood as the door is forced open.

You can’t see, can’t breathe. It’s all colors and sounds, shuffling and swearing, until suddenly the weight is off you. 

You twitch away, curling in on yourself, knees tucking up to your chest. A black film swims over your vision, threatening to overwhelm you. Your nails bite into your legs, and the sharp sting brings you back, keeps you teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

Blinking hard, the blackness ebbs away. The room settles into soft-focus.

The man is crumpled on the floor a few feet away from you, clutching at his nose. Blood seeps between his fingers, dribbles down his chin. You didn’t hear bone but you hope to fuck it’s broken. His expression is stained with fear, eyes wide as he watches —

Joel.

It’s Joel.

He’s here. He came for you. He’s here.

His steps are heavy as he crosses the room and drags the other man up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him so they’re eye level. His expression is stony, severe. Ice-cold fury.

“What the fuck did you give her?” Joel demands.

The other man struggles against him, but it doesn’t matter. Joel is bigger, stronger. When the answer doesn’t come immediately, he tightens his grip.

“Ow, shit, man,” the guy winces, “Fucking rohypnol. It’s just supposed to loosen them up.”

Joel’s jaw tenses, and you think maybe he’s going to hit him again. Break some more bones. Damage some vital organs, if you’re lucky.

Instead, he lets go. Shoves him back towards the door, sniffling and still bleeding.

“Get out,” Joel snarls.

The guy doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t spare you so much as a glance before he stumbles out of the door.

When Joel turns to you, all the anger is gone from his expression. His brow drawn, concern etched in every line on his face. He approaches you slowly, warily. Easing down to crouch beside you.

You swallow hard, trying to find words in the slur of your head, the blood in your mouth.

“He — he —”

You realize you’re shaking, the cold of shock settling in. 

“Hey,” Joel says gently, “You’re okay.”

He smooths his hand over your skirt, pulling your dress back down to cover your legs. You ease a little under his familiar touch, the careful way he pieces you back together. Sliding the strap back onto your shoulder. Thumbing the blood on your chin.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“I think so.”

You just want to go, to get out of this house. You’ll crawl if you have to.

He lifts you up carefully, helps you settle on shaky legs. You try to straighten, to stand on your own stupid heels, but the world tips sideways, a sudden lurch that has stars dancing across your vision again.

But Joel is there. His hand at your hip, his arm wrapping around your waist. Steadying you. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, tucking you into his side, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a blur, mostly. The hardwood, then back onto the carpet of the hall. Joel supporting most of your weight, his voice low in your ear. Doing good. Just a little further. Through the crowd downstairs, the eyes that slide over you, drunk and disinterested.

When you finally reach the front door and step out into the night, you stop short. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, hoping the fresh air might settle something in you. 

It doesn’t. 

“Almost there, baby,” Joel says.

You force yourself to nod, to keep moving.

His truck is a reddish blur at the end of the driveway. He keeps you balanced as he unlocks the door and helps you inside, closing it carefully behind you. Your body sags into the worn leather seat, aching and exhausted, eyes already fluttering shut.

You’re distantly aware of the engine roaring to life beneath you, the crunch of gravel as Joel pulls out of the drive. The dark, twisting hills that sink into city streets. Asphalt and lilacs, the air cool on your feverish skin.

You come-to a few seconds before you realize that you’re going to be sick.

“Shit,” you mutter, “Joel, pull over.”

He does, easing the truck over to the side of the road.

The second it rolls to a stop, you’re fumbling for the door handle and throwing it open. You barely manage to lean over the side before you’re vomiting, spilling sour champagne into the street below. 

You feel hands scraping up your hair. Soothing strokes down the length of your spine.

“You’re okay,” Joel says, “Get it all out.”

It takes a second. Shuddering and retching, your body finally revolting against the poison inside it. When you’re finally empty, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean back into the seat. Sweating. Shaking. The acid taste of bile sharp on your tongue.

Joel watches you. Wary. Worried. Waiting for your go-ahead. 

“You good?”

No. Definitely not. But you think you’re done puking, so you nod.

“Alright,” he says, “Not much longer now.”

X x x x x

You come back to your body in a quiet, unfamiliar place – bathed in a deep blue darkness, the muddy warmth of a streetlight. Soft carpet beneath your bare feet, a blanket around your shoulders. Someone moving nearby, a low voice. Gentle, coaxing.

“Can you look at me?”

It takes a second to focus on Joel’s face in front of you.  Everything is a little melty, the colors soft and smudged, blurring at the edges. Your head feels so impossibly heavy, an anvil on your shoulders.

“Where are we?” you ask, and the words come out slurred, the consonants gone soft and lazy.

Joel raises his hand to stroke your hair back from your face. His fingers feel warm and dry against your cheek.

“My place,” he tells you.

His place. The idea of it sits strange, doesn’t settle. You figured he would take you home, or to Tess. Leave you for someone else to deal with. You’re not his mess, not his problem.

You frown.

“Why?”

“You’re sick,” he says simply, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You blink again, trying to bring the blurred outline of him into focus. He’s crouched in front of the sofa, face level with yours. The tense set of his jaw, his brows drawn together in concern. He’s holding a glass of water, and he presses it carefully into your palm, curling your fingers for you.

“Can you drink this for me?” he asks, voice as gentle as his hands. 

Your arm shakes as you bring the glass up to your lips, and it’s an effort to make your throat work the way it’s supposed to. It feels raw, wrong. But you manage, swallowing down a few mouthfuls, the water soothing some of the burn inside of you, washing away the metallic taint of vomit and blood.

“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

You hum your assent, though your head is still too hazy to follow from one thought to the next. It snags on the good girl, the warmth in his voice that makes you want to cry. 

But then Joel's arms are around you, lifting you easily and tucking you against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the sway of his step as he carries you upstairs. Eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. You wish your own would settle, even out. It’s still too slow, your blood too thick in your veins.

He eases you down onto the bathroom counter, cool granite under the bare skin of your thighs. His hand holds steady at your hip as he leans over to flip a switch. Soft light spills into the small room, and you wince against the brightness. Your head is still sore. Every inch of you aches.

Joel's gaze flickers over you. Steady, assessing. You think, absently, that you must be a mess. Mascara smudged from crying and puking, sick still clinging to your skin. Dress stained from the same, ripped in places you don’t want to think about, not when your stomach still feels so tender.

“Can we take this off, darlin’?” Joel asks.

You nod, lifting your arms. You want it off, gone. Burned, maybe. You doubt you could ever wear it again without feeling the grip of those hands, the snag and tear when he tried to take it off you. 

Joel's hands are careful as he eases the dress over your head.

You shiver, goosebumps on your bare skin. But you don’t bother covering your breasts. It’s not like there’s anything to hide. Joel's seen it all before, knows every inch of your body better than anyone else.

There’s no heat in his gaze when he looks at you now, no hunger as he wipes a damp rag over your skin. Skin that he’s kissed and bit and come over. That he now strokes gently, carefully. Cleaning away the remnants of the night.

You should really shower, but you’d probably drown.

He tugs a worn t-shirt over your head. Pulls your hair free from the collar, smooths it over your skin. You blink up at him, and his brow furrows in concern. Dark eyes lingering on your split lip, all the places you’ll probably bruise. 

“That hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“S’not bad.”

He hums, but still looks. Tilting your head towards the light, touching the swollen skin.

He’s being so — soft. The tenderness in his touch, in the way he’s looking at you. It makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with the drugs.

You lean forward, tucking your face against his neck, breathing in the whiskey and oak smell of him. His hand rubs along your back, over the knobs of your spine. You feel the pinch of tears behind your eyes.

“I was really scared,” you whisper.

Joel tenses, his hold on you tightening a fraction. 

And it strikes you how easy this is, how well you know each other's bodies. There’s familiarity in every touch, every inch of skin. You’re half-drugged, half-naked. And still you feel safe, despite his bigness, his rough edges.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, cradling the bowl of your skull in his heavy palm. His nose brushes against your temple, breath warm against your cheek. You’re alright, he murmurs. 

You twist your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, nuzzling your face into his neck. Hoping he can feel the thank you, the gratitude fluttering at the base of your throat. He strokes your hair, and you think he understands.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He steps back, and you try to slide off the counter. 

Your knees give out the second your feet touch the floor, and stumble. Catching yourself on the edge of the counter, wincing as the room spins.

“Fuck,” you mutter. The pounding behind your eyes resumes, a steady throb.

“Careful,” Joel says, “That shit’s still in your system. Can't do any cartwheels.”

You mumble something about just trying to fucking walk, but then Joel’s arms are around you again, scooping you off the floor. And that’s fine too. Better, probably.

He deposits you gently onto a bed. His bed, you realize, dimly. The smell of him on soft gray sheets. Your bare legs slide beneath the blankets, the same space he sleeps every night. It twists inside you, a funny feeling blooming in your stomach.

The mattress shifts as he sits beside you, holding out the refilled glass.

“Drink some more for me.”

You do, and you don’t shake as much this time. You feel only slightly more human when you finish. Still drugged, but the room stops spinning. You can blink without seeing stars.

You grimace, setting the glass aside. 

“I think men are bad.”

Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your hair.

“Real bad.”

You meet his gaze, the warmth in the deep brown of his eyes.

“Not you,” you murmur, “You’re okay.”

Even as you say it, you feel the weight of what’s happened hanging between you. The ugly way you’d left things. The anger, the uncertainty. There’s still so much shit you don’t understand, can’t make sense of. The way he is with you now — where was that when he left you standing in that fucking closet, hurt and confused.

Joel’s brow furrows, and he drops his gaze.

“‘M sorry about the other night,” he says, “I shouldn’t’ve left like that.”

Something nervous and vulnerable flutters in your stomach, but you figure you’ve done plenty to embarrass yourself tonight. It can’t get any worse, really.

“Did I —” you swallow, “Did I do something wrong?”

Joel looks up sharply, shaking his head.

“No. No, ‘course not,” he frowns, “It ain’t that. It’s, well — it’s complicated.”

You tilt your head, studying him in the half-light. There’s that nerve that ticks in his jaw. You used to think it meant he was angry, annoyed. Now you think it’s something else. All the things he won’t let himself say, swallowed down like glass.

“I’ve got time,” you say softly.

Joel looks up, lips twitching.

“What you’ve got is a bunch of fucking benzos messin’ with your head.” 

You bite back a smile.

“Might as well tell me then,” you shrug, “I probably won’t remember in the morning.”

Joel huffs out a sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring down at a blank stretch of carpet. His profile silhouetted by the bedroom window, bathed in soft blue light.

“I, uh, kept tellin’ myself I’d keep my distance,” he says.

You blink.

“From me?”

He nods, still not meeting your eye.

“Why?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in every hard line of his body.

“Told you, lines get blurred,” he says, “Figured it’d be easier if I stayed away.”

You think of that first scene, the way he walked away without looking back, how it settled like lead in your stomach. The anger in his face when you’d shown up at the bar, the livewire of tension between you. How much it hurt every time he pulled away, shut you out. 

You frown.

“I don’t want you to stay away.”

“I know, darlin’,” he sighs, gaze flicking up to meet yours, “And that makes it a helluva lot harder.”

Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach. 

Stupid, infuriating man. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him, actually, but you’re pretty sure you still taste like puke. Still, you should try to argue. Plead your case. Explain all the reasons why staying away from you is a terrible idea.

You try to push yourself up, and spots immediately cloud your vision. A fresh wave of nausea threatens to overtake you and you wince, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Woah, easy,” Joel catches your arm before you can topple off the edge of the bed and eases you back down. 

You can’t even argue as he tucks the blankets in around you, pulling the comforter up to your chin.

“Just gotta sleep it off, baby,” he says.

“What if — what if I — asphyxiate, or whatever,” you mumble. 

You hear Joel’s low chuckle somewhere nearby, the shift of the mattress beneath him as he settles in.

“Not gonna let you,” he says, “I'll be right here.”

The darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, and finally, you give in.

x x x x x x x x 

author’s note: There is no situation, context, or flirtation that ever excuses sexual assault. It is never the victim’s fault.

If you need support, the resources below may be helpful: 

RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-4673 | Online Chat

Find a sexual assault service provider near you here. For international readers, you can find local providers here.

Additional resources:

The Sexual Trauma and Abuse Care Center

LGBTQ National Hotline

Mental Health Support for BIPOC Survivors

National Organization of Asian and Pacific Islanders Ending Sexual Violence

[brewsterispunkk]

Second Spring

A SanSan work. (Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane)

Summary: Alayne Stone dies in the Vale, alone.

Centuries later, Sansa Stark has moved home and dropped out of college. Leaving a failed relationship and a half-completed degree behind, she's starting over with only a restraining order and severe PTSD to show for it. Sandor Clegane is her brother's friend and ex-colleague and there's something...familiar about him. She's met him before, she's sure. She's also sure that he hates her. But when Jon is called overseas again, Sandor enters her life in a way she never expected.

or, the one where they get a second chance.

SanSan has been one of my favorite ships since I was introduced to the world of asoiaf. It felt right to put this one out there :) read now on ao3!

[brewsterispunkk]

my roman empire is sansa thinking of sandor anytime a man

[brewsterispunkk]

my favourite asoiaf girlies and their guard dogs.

prints available here

[brewsterispunkk]

Maybe if he was a little less fuckable we wouldn’t be in this mess

[brewsterispunkk]

Sansa Stark & Sandor Clegane A Girl and Her Dog

♥ all gifs & image edits are made by me quote and painting attributions under the cut ♥

A Game of Thrones by George R.R Martin │ Herbert Thomas Dicksee, The Vikings Daughter │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x07 & Lord Byron │ Walton Ford, Gleipnir │ "One More Brevity" by Robert Frost │ A Feast for Crows by George R.R Martin │ The Secret of Moonacre (2008) and "Tuned Girl With Her Dogs" by Vivian Nguyen │ professor-pants │ John Everett Millais, The Crown of Love │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x06 │ "The Lonely Girl And Her Dog" by Justin Gildow │ Aesop's Fables Cigarette cards (Gallaher Limited), The Wolf and the Lamb & White Oleander by Janet Fitch │ A Storm of Swords by George R.R Martin │ Douglas Malloch │ Regency oil painting, artist unknown │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x09 & "Soap" by The Oh Hellos │ Pandemonium by Lauren Oliver │ A Change of Heart by Sonali Dev │ A Game of Thrones ep. 8x04 │ Edvard Munch, Love and Pain │ "Little Lost Pup" by Arthur Guiterman │ A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin & Edwin Henry Landseer, Saved │ "Little Lost Pup" by Arthur Guiterman │ A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin │ "Start Here” by Caitlyn Siehl │ The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh │ Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x07 & Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte │ A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin │ Mufti Ismail Menk │ A Game of Thrones deleted scene │ John William Waterhouse, Tristan and Isolde with the Potion │ "Start Here” by Caitlyn Siehl │ A Game of Thrones by George R.R Martin │ William Chapman │ "Shrike" by Hozier │ Hans Adolf Bühler, Homecoming │ Gale Smith, Promise of Peace │ "The Taming Of The Beast" by Dean Meredith │ Walton Ford, Gleipnir │

[brewsterispunkk]

im counting down the days til their season

235 FAVORITE SHIPS OF ALL TIME (ranked by my followers) 142. colin bridgerton and penelope featherington - bridgerton

[brewsterispunkk]

spent the better half of my holiday break reading this—phenomenal !

they say i killed you (haunt me then) is a House of the Dragon canon-divergent fanfic that takes place immediately following the events of Storm’s End and the death of Lucerys Velaryon in 129 AC. It's a story about grief, loss, obsession, war, the idea of who we are when we've been stripped of our identity, and what we'll do for those we love.

Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy to be so far from the brewing war that threatens to tear apart the country. She has everything she ever thought she needed - her brothers, her mother, the land she loves. Then Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy, pressing at her every nerve and opening her eyes to the possibility of life beyond Karhold. But what happens when the tables turn and it’s Wylla who finds herself under the thumb of the One-Eyed Prince, thrust into a war she has little hope of surviving? Can a fox endure the attention of a dragon? Will any of them make it out alive?

content warnings: canontypical violence, dubcon, kidnapping, explicit content, major character death/minor character death, generational trauma, pregnancy, pregnancy loss

Updates on ao3 every other Friday. Subscribe there if you want chapter updates 🖤 I do not give permission to repost or plug into chat gpt this or any work of mine. most recent update: ch 20 - Treason

writing:

ao3

haunt me tag

haunt me masterlist

outtakes:

fall on me like night - ot3verse

haunt me edits:

- a meeting, a wedding, a rejoining

- Aemond & Wylla by @selfproclaimedunicorn

[brewsterispunkk]

i. a pretend, an act

javier peña x ofc!reader* | chapter one of hope they caught us

summary: peña is back in Texas and wants a simple life. but, when Steve offers him the chance to gather information on a potential new player, he jumps at the chance. what he doesn't expect is that he'll need to go undercover with a female agent—posing as a married couple.

warnings: *reader has a nickname (sunny) for use undercover, no use of y/n, reader has a dad. no physical descriptors used / images in moodboard not representative. fake dating/marriage, undercover/recon work, banter. one bed. wordcount: 4.6k an: thank you to @psychedelic-ink and @wildemaven for the continuous support given. you have both been the biggest supporters of this, shouting at me to write this since September, and here it is. a massive thanks to @thetriumphantpanda without you, this would have been pushed back, thank you for letting me ramble incoherently about my doubts and fears.

All he has to do is pretend. Put on an act.

It’s all so simple, easy.

A thing he is a master in. Something he has never found too hard, having always been pretty good at concealing, at masking.

After all, he’s spent a lot of time flip-flopping around, faced with far too many emotions to not become skilled at faking nonchalance and appearing put together.

Colombia had been his school.

The place where he collected his degree—days of pretending he was okay. Hiding the fact he couldn’t sleep the horrors away, that he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. That stress wasn’t making him chain smoke; that the pressure wasn’t making him sink his cock into women he couldn’t save.

He picked up his doctorate when he returned home. When ranch life had felt so fucking dull it made him want to pick the smoking habit back up, just for something to do. When he saw boats that made his insides twist, but found he had to wear a smile. That he had to hide the way he bristled each time someone called him a hero—when all he wanted was a drink, a fuck or a newspaper.

Mostly, Javi had become a master in squirrelling away the fact he saw every minute of the hours at night, feeling nothing short of relief when his alarm chimed so he could get out of his homemade prison.

Bluffing had always been a skill of his, but this time, right now, thousands of miles from the ranch and even further afield than Colombia, it also required wearing something shiny on his left hand and—

“Try not to fuck her, Jav.”

He’s not surprised that Steve heads up a department in Miami—or that he’s happy and content.

From the moment the two of them reunite, he takes in the glow on his old partner’s skin. Javi strongly suspects it isn’t just from the sun, but rather from knowing his wife can sleep, from getting the chance to watch his daughter grow older, for her to laugh freely.

Javi couldn’t relate.

Not that he’ll admit it. Yet another thing he disguises, smothers his face in what he assumes is what happiness looks like. He wears it like it’s an accessory, something akin to wearing a jacket, rather than actually feeling it.

Picking up a ring, he rotates it between his thumb and finger as he snorts. “Wouldn’t be very husband-like of me, if I didn’t, would it?”

He’s nudged. An intentional elbow to the side which sparks a grin as he places the ring back into its velvety spot. Because none of them look right. None seem right—even for a fake thing.

“Fake husband. And don’t fuck this up.”

“I’m hearing a lot of don’ts and not a lot of do’s, Murphy. What the fuck is it you want me to do?”

He’s already been told, informed. Briefed.

Tricked in fact. Requested down here for an opinion, but when his worn-in soles landed in the office of his former colleague, it unravelled into something so much more.

Handed a file—one he knows everyone expects he won’t read—and given a rundown of what the operation is supposed to look like. But Javi knows better. Had known it too. Even suspects, Murphy does too.

One thing Colombia has taught him is that plans don’t mean shit, not when you’re up against an ever-evolving problem.

You don't just want me here for a consult, do you, Murph? Was hopin’ you were bored in Texas.

He suspects that’s why his Pop had given him an arched brow, an expression that was accompanied by pinched lips when he’d first mentioned it. Even his assurance that it’ll be a few days—just helping Steve out was met with a look Javi hadn’t banked on. Realising as he stood admiring wedding rings that his Pop had figured it out long before him.

At least now he understands why he got the Chucho-treatment—not quite quiet, but not quite the same treatment from him that he did the day before.

Instead, that kind of treatment that pierced itself into him, attempted to bury itself inside of him and made guilt flood through him like a poison.

Even if once before he would struggle with it, found himself desperate to apologise—make it up to his Pops—he didn’t this time. Because, Javi already struggled,a had grown tired of itching for something.

So, he said nothing. Because he knows Murphy wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t need him.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Murphy closes his eyes. The same noticeable twitch in his fingers and chewing inside his cheek that Javier can relate to: the sign of a recent quitter, and one attempting to use gum as a replacement.

Needing too.

“Where is she, anyway?” he asks, shifting the conversation, suppressing a yawn.

Before he’d even got on the plane out here, he’d been tired. Already beginning to fray at the edges, sleep having become an even more distant friend.

It hadn't mattered that he’d convinced himself it was just a chat, that he'd be okay, his body said otherwise. Remembering. It all comes back to him. The aches, the knot in his stomach. The apparent crumbling of the hole he’d covered inside of him, the one carved in Colombia—a place where a piece of his soul he suspects is meant to be, but was long lost when hunting Escobar.

All of it had been made worse by the worried look on Pop’s face when he dropped him at departures. It thickened, slathered itself on his shoulders even more so when he calls him from Murphy’s office to tell him it’ll be three months.

“You managed longer than I thought, Javi.” ”Pop…” ”Come back the right way, mijo.”

Even though he had known it wouldn't matter, he had still tried to explain it all over again. From the top. All softly, with patience—the phone receiver leaving an indent on his phone as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Reminding his Pop that this time he was doing his friend a favour, that it was a one-time thing—a few months, at most.

It didn’t shift the tone—didn’t stop Javi from imagining the disappointed lines bleeding into worried ones, mixing with the ones caused by age. It didn't lessen the tightness over the phone, simmering in the miles of air, because they were both at a standstill in the centre of a formerly (albeit temporary) happy situation.

Sighing, Murphy drops his hand, pulling him back from his thoughts. Watching him, the man he used to share a desk with, gesture, somewhat wildly—likely about to tell him he wasn’t sure.

“She’ll be here, alright.”

Javi snorts, swallowing. Glancing back over another table, seeing other things, other accessories. Things that’ll help him blend, help the two of you blend. You and him, him and you—a person he knows the name of and nothing else.

Steve had shared that you were good, brilliant, the only one he’d trust. That you knew the work so far better than anyone.

He’d been about to begin unpicking those earlier statements when the door opened, blouse and black tailored trousers walking towards him.

It isn’t anything cliché.

Time doesn’t stop, the room doesn't silence, but something happens. Something shifts, changes—alters. Because instantly, Javi realises you’re pretty. A thought which confuses him, especially when it dawns on him that usually, it’s a woman's figure he notices and admires first, but he finds that it's your eyes that he lingers on.

And fuck do they cut into him. Practically reach towards him, before they go through him, digging into flesh and fucking bone.

Then, all at once, ceasefire. A chance to strengthen his façade as you turn to greet Murphy, a handshake, a sea of pleasantries. Enough chance to shove it down, whatever attempted to rise in him.

But, he swears he can still see them behind his lids. Something which makes his jaw tighten, teeth grind—

“You must be my husband,” you say commandingly.

Your body suddenly turns to him, hand sticking out towards him, adding your name to the statement as though stamping it into the air and his body goes clammy, grows warm and makes him suddenly desperate for water, coffee or even whiskey.

Slipping his hand into yours, he’s not surprised to find that it’s soft, the right kind of warm. He’d suspected about as much from just appearances alone.

“Agent Murphy has told me a lot about you, Mr Peña.”

Javi learns, rather quickly, that you have a nice voice.

It doesn’t grate, doesn’t annoy him—it’s informative, but there’s something else there, a playful edge, a little thing within you that hasn’t been crushed.

He remembers when he’d been as sprightly.

Rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm as he does, fingers desperate to clutch a pen, his jaw tightening—roll it in his fingers, hold it like he used to hold a smoke. A need to play pretend with it, just as he’s about to with you.

A thing which is slowly making him more tense.

Not that you seem to notice, too focused on getting him up to speed on the actual investigation. He’d read much of your notes before today, it was the next part he was more on edge by.

Because, whatever his earlier opinion of you was, he was getting the distinct impression you’d rather set your skin on fire than be fake married. A thing you stop trying to hide, your face displaying your disgust at it each time it is casually mentioned.

It was mandatory—Murphy’s words—for the two of you to get to know one another. A crash course, a 101 in the other. It’s told to you, that the two of you are going to be stationed in your new home for the next two months, starting from today. But, because they’re merciful, there’d be no requirement to begin working today.

“Wanted to make sure you had time to get to know one another. So, take the day—work can begin another day.”

“How nice of you, Murph,” he responds, words dipped in sarcasm. Briefly catching sight of you smirking as you study something on the table.

Javi had already imagined that—since it was recon, and more surveillance than anything else—for the most part, everything could remain the same. He learnt he was right moments later when it was confirmed his name would remain very much his own, and you were handed his surname like a gift you’d rather burn than accept.

It was you who had to surrender more.

“Y’need a new first name.”

If you were surprised, you don’t show it. A sea of reasons given, the main one being if anyone asked around with a photo and your name, it would be easier to put two and two together. You lived here, for one.

You keep your eyes down, glancing over the table of possessions you’re allowed to borrow, to play dress up with. Fingers brushing over a watch (silver, a white face)—something haunting in your eye you’re quick to blink away when you meet Murphy’s stare.

Folding his arms, Steve sighs. “Jus’ something you’ll answer to. That can be used in public.”

Javi watches you smirk, something secretive, a hidden joke simmering between the two of you—leaving him very much out in the cold of it.

After a beat, you lick your lips.

“Sunny,” you reply, lifting your eyes, digging each syllable of the name you’re going to use into him.

“Let me guess you’re someone’s ray of sunshine?”

He doesn’t mean for it to fall out laced in bitterness, but it does all the same. His mouth tilted into a smirk, your eyes hardening as you placed down a pair of earrings you’d picked up.

“Think it’s more because of my sunny disposition.” He snorts, watching you move around the table. “It’s a family nickname—I’ve… I’ve always been called it, so, I’ll answer to it.”

Swallowing, Javi lets his eyes wander to the wall of the room.

“Alright you two. You need to sell it, y’hear me?”

Javi didn’t realise until he saw Murphy with his hands on his hips how big boss he looked, and how much it rather annoyed him. How it would be quite easy to give him a shove. More so when he’s handed a new phone, a set of documents, and given more instructions he wishes he could shove down his throat.

He almost gets close enough to do both when briefing ends and he’s handed the keys to the hotel suite they’d be living in—their story simple, easy:

“We have a fake house for you both being made ready as a cover story, but for now you’re both in the hotel. Prime location. Beach views, and very much in reach to the top places the targets visit.”

Murphy hadn’t been lying.

It did have good views, the suite was even nice—really nice.

Almost too nice for a little surveillance, a little fake marriage and a drug bust. But, he didn’t complain, barely said a thing in the ride over, or when you wheeled your own case. He even remained silent when you refused to look at him in the elevator or on the walk to the room, and even when the two of you entered.

In fact, the first words he said were:

“You gotta try and look at me like you don’t wanna peel my skin off. You know, if you want this to work.”

He expects it, braces for it—the tongue lashing, an icy stare. Picturing you as the kind of woman who is already to sharpen your tools and pierce him with them when he blinks. But, you don’t.

If anything, Javi watches in slow motion as your shoulders sink, your cogs turning before your expression softens.

“You’re right—I’m… sorry.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he nods. “There’s one bed.”

“Well. We can sleep in the same bed, Peña. We’re adults. However, for your sake, I’m going to put a pillow between us.” Your eyes sweep over him, cold, drowning him in a chill. “Two actually.”

“You a cuddler, or something?”

Smiling, you sigh. “No. The pillow is so that if you roll over all sleepy and desperate for some affection, I won’t have to cut you. Because if you touch me, that is what will happen.”

“How are we meant to sell we’re in love if I can’t touch you?”

“Oh, out there, you can touch me. In here, no.”

His snort rumbles from his chest. Tugged up, wrenched from some cobweb-filled depth, as you smile. Nothing big, nothing life-changing, but a start—the beginning of a level-playing field.

A part of him suspects you’re used to charm. You’re able to disable it, switch it, unfazed by his gaze or the edge of his words. If anything, you seem really fucking bored of it—something he’s not sure if he admires or despises.

He then learns, quickly, that you take things seriously. Your bag opens, pulling out a notebook—upside down cursive etched over a page, your eyes scanning over it, before you ask if he’s ready. He’s barely able to ask for what, when you begin firing things at him.

Favourite food. Comfort film. Where did we meet? What song do you sing in the car when I’m not around? Are you allergic to anything?

The list goes on, and on. The more things continue to run out of your mouth, the more he begins to admire you—to settle into some comfort that you want to do this properly. That you’re going to take it seriously too, something he wants.

Needing it to matter.

Needing to have something work out easily, not have it all end for nothing.

The only time you pause is for a dinner—room service, his treat and his choice. A way of providing proof that he’d been listening, paying attention—somehow wanting to prove something to you, even if he’d known you for only half a day.

“So, how did Murphy get you on this?”

He studies the way you cross your leg over the other, the base of your heel tapping against the carpet—all very much guarded, on edge.

“You can tell it’s my first, can’t you?”

Javi smiles, making it softer purposefully. “A little.”

“He said you were good,” you sigh, placing your napkin down. “I think I was chosen because it was easy. Y’know, than someone with… higher priorities. Plus, I already know the case. Guess it just made sense to send me.”

Nodding, he watches as you avoid his sight, focusing instead on the swirls in the carpet. Something ticking in your pretty little head, it forcing your nostrils to flare, for your jaw to tighten—and he’s watching it happen, practically feeling the air around you begin to vibrate from it all.

“M’not gonna let anything happen to you, Sunny. You know that right?”

That does it. Further digs in the hatred you’re feeling tenfold because the use of your new name makes you flinch. And he knows, like he had suspected earlier that it means more than just a name. Especially from the look on your face.

At first, your expression is soft, almost mask-less—no walls, no defence. Then, like magic, it shifts. It drapes down, rebuilds, and suddenly there within seconds, the same expression he’s been working with since introduction.

“Well, I have heard you take care of the women in your care extremely well.”

Picking up your drink, and stirring the straw, you let your eyes meet his. The small wooden table suddenly even smaller—the large suite, suddenly constricting in a way he hadn’t expected so far.

“S’not what I meant.”

“I know.” It’s curt, your reply. Clearing your throat, you snort, “You are handsome. I can see why you did so well. And, I might not need to say this, but I need you to know I like my job, and I don’t require that kind of care.”

Rubbing his jaw, he sighs. “That so?”

“I have something that can help with that. It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t need to remind it that it’s ‘so big’, and it doesn’t need me to call it baby. It just hums—politely—and makes my thighs shake.”

He snorts, draining the rest of his glass. The ice clangs just before he places it back down on the table.

“You bring it with you?”

Licking your lips, your mouth slides into your cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve had told you his credentials—how he worked, how smart he was. How easily he was able to decipher a read on someone.

He did also mention much of Peña’s backstory—including his rich history with the opposite sex.

A thing you hadn’t been planning on throwing in his face, but rather keeping it stored in the back of your head for informational purposes only.

Yet, it slipped out all the same—coated in catty and wrapped in bitchy.

It’s not an excuse, but you know it’s because you’re on edge, feeling prickly, practically inside out.

In all of the briefings you’d had before agreeing to this, your boss had failed to mention that it wasn’t just the man’s tongue that got women to confess all their secrets, but his ridiculously handsome face too.

But, it wasn’t just that. That, in part, you thought you could handle. But rather, the weight of letting him down. This man you don’t know, but you’re about to know a hell of a lot about.

None of it helped by the fact it appears he also wants to do a good job. And then, there’s the fact he’s quick-witted, observant, and it most definitely doesn’t help that he’s all broad shoulders and brown eyes that make you—

Then, he’d flirted.

On any other day, in any other place, you’re sure you’d have melted. Likely leaned forward, elbow on your knee, tracing your bottom lip with your finger just to make his eyes drop to your mouth.

But, this isn’t any other day—it’s work, a job, one that requires him (in part) to be a flirt.

Clearing your throat, you smear on a smile. “You not tried to date since you’ve been home?”

His face hardens, just slightly.

It pinching, eyes more so than anywhere else—his smile falling, descending to a thin line as he traces his teeth with his tongue. Then, his eyes shift into an entirely different brown, an explosion of shades swirling—flecks of gold and sadness-infused umber.

“No.”

Nodding, you pick at some salad on the side of your plate. “Probably a good job—don’t need any angry people coming for me when I’m curled up on your arm.”

He snorts, but it doesn’t flutter over his face. His hand remains balled up, resting on the arm of the chair—something more there, prodding, needling him. He may be so easily able to read you, but you’re sure he’s about as clear as a warm day himself.

Landing his gaze back on you, you feel it linger, hover—before it begins to slip down from your eyes, landing somewhere at your neck, before the buttons off your shirt. Something warming inside of you, flooding out, spreading across your skin as you try your damnest to level your breathing.

“Got any more questions?”

“Plenty,” you reply, almost catching the y on your teeth before placing a light smirk out over your lips, letting it move across your face.

Gesturing, Javi licks his lips and so you begin with more. Not needing the book now, just working your way through the things which populate, which appear like bubbles he bursts with his answers.

He’s open about some things more than others. The two of you covering family quickly, childhoods even quicker. You both discreetly avoid too many details of Colombia, about the things you’d already heard in chunks from your superior.

Your 101 beginner class in your new husband proving to be easier to understand than your field handbook—although, you supposed the intermediate and expert levels to him would be far harder to crack.

He’s unmarried, not dating—there’s his dad, a sea of distant family and a town full of people whom his father would class as family. You suspect some guilt there, it layered between the conversation on his dad, and the one which followed when you’d asked if the ranch would be okay without him.

“—My Pops has had help for a long time. One of them has been promoted. He… He works there full time now.”

Even if he had tried to say it simply, it was laced in bitterness—not from jealousy, you suspect from the sadness that had poisoned over time. A well stuffed with things which had rotted and gone mouldy over time.

Upon sight of him this morning, you had known you’d need to be clever, smart—find ways to compartmentalise it all. Because, when he traces his nose with his finger, when his eyes widen a little more than normal—coffee-brown all but drowning you—you had known it would be hard otherwise.

Something there, niggling, piercing through.

“Any lovers I need to be aware of?”

Smiling, you slide your feet from your heels, pulling your legs up more, swallowing. “No, you’re good.”

“Any potential risks I need to be aware of—anyone who’ll call into question your new name?”

Your stomach knots, uncomfortably so. A thing balling inside of you, that same fear you’d been plucking at for days—ever since Steve had suggested your name, thrown it out on the conference table with a bunch of greedy eyes seated around it.

“No, I… I’m new here too. Only was transferred six months ago.”

He looks at you, lets it hover, hold. Something there, trying to disguise itself in the way he narrows his eyes a fraction, in the way his lips pinch together—the way his brain seems to whir like a fan that can be heard even across the table.

When you yawn, he makes a move to tidy up the plates for the tray—batting your hand away. “I’ve got it, hermosa.”

“Hermosa?”

Your cheeks are warm, more so under his stare. It’s all wide, blooming—it tracing your eyes before it sweeps back to the tray.

“Gotta call my wife something original, special.”

“I’m hardly special, Peña.”

“If I’ve married you, you’re special.”

Clamping your mouth shut, you say nothing.

Something churning, a horribleness that you know stems from the fact this isn’t real. None of it. The niceness, the ring on your finger—the one your finger slides up your palm to brush over, to trace.

The one which didn’t have a home there this morning, but now sits like it’s always supposed to. Your stare on his back as he goes to the door, pushing the metal tray, the jingling of plates and glass sounding out as your heartbeat pounds in your ears, your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

It continues to hammer when your back flattened against the bathroom door—safe amongst marble, mirrors and an array of complimentary products which covered most of the sink.

Only as you begin to undress and change for bed, does it lessen. Does your composure come back to you. The mask which you so delicately applied, the one which had taken more words of encouragement in your bathroom mirror this morning than you’d thought.

Because, it isn’t that you thought you couldn’t do this—but rather why would you?

This isn’t your expertise. Not your usual field of knowledge. The last time you’d even been on a date had been at least over a year ago, and the last time you’d lived with a man had been so long ago you were worried you’d wake tomorrow and learn you have habits you weren’t aware of.

Did you kick in your sleep?

Did you grind your teeth?

“Cariño?” Javi calls out, knuckles tapping on the door. “You good in there?”

No, you want to reply. Hands gripping the sink basin, staring at your makeup-less face and the nightie he was about to see you in.

“Yeah,” you call out, washing your hands, and flushing the toilet before unlocking the door, and emerging.

He’s polite enough to not drink you in, even if you're sure he’s craning his neck not to do so.

“Look, before you combust from not doing so.”

Smirking, he traces his fingers across his chin, before slowly dropping his eyes.

And you feel them.

Warm. Hot. Sliding over your neck, collarbone, down the silk which covers your chest, abdomen and most of your thighs, before he’s running his vision back up.

“Better?”

“Nice legs.”

Narrowing your eyes, you barge into him a little as you pass him. “Try not to dream about them, and Peña?”

He hums.

“Try to remember you’re not actually married, don’t want you falling for the fantasy we’re putting on. Hate to break your heart.”

CHAPTER TWO -> (updates tuesdays)

[brewsterispunkk]

It's back! You're back! Oh my GOD! I got that notification and did the happiest wiggle 😭🥰

YES WE ARE BACK!!!

part 1 up now 🥳💖

[brewsterispunkk]

diamonds and stones, part one

pairing: clyde logan x f!reader (no use of y/n)

WC: 9k(!!)

summary: reader returns home & encounters some ghosts from her past.

warnings: 18+! language, mentions of war, amputation.

a/n: it's here!! i hope y'all enjoy this long ass chapter (this is so long its embarrassing LOL). there's some time skipping/flashbacks here so i hope it's not too hard to follow! as always, any feedback is appreciated :)

series masterlist

ONE

The phone had barely rung two times before you answered, thumb punching the accept call button as soon as you glanced at the caller ID. Pulling the phone up to your ear, you looked ahead at the cornfields and the open road in front of you. Your mom’s crackly voice filled your ears.

“Darlin’,” she sighed on the other end. So, she’d gotten your message.You thought to yourself.

Mentally, you kicked yourself for giving her any notice in the first place. You knew she’d try to talk you out of it, like she had successfully done the previous two times you’d tried moving back home.

“You got out, honey.” she’d say. “You got to do what I never did. You went to college, you got your degree, you moved to the city. Don’t throw that away. There ain’t nothin’ for you here.”

You hated that she referred to your hometown like that, the place that raised you: a place to get out of. Sometimes you missed it like you missed a limb.

And after your Gramma’s first stroke it had worked, no matter how guilty you felt for being states away while she recovered. 

It had been a minor stroke, the summer before your junior year of college. Not fatal, or with too many lasting health complications, but it had been enough to scare you. It had been enough to scare you into almost dropping out of college and moving home, but your mother and grandmother had insisted that you go back after she’d begun the road to recovery. 

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason you decided to go back, a small voice in the back of your head whispered.

 Two dark brown eyes danced in your mind's eye; freckles scattered sparsely across tan cheeks, a rumble of a laugh, the crackle of a tape on an old car radio. You dispelled it before you allowed your mind to wander further.

That’s in the past, you  insisted,  chastising that quiet voice trying to bring up old ghosts. 

You wouldn’t let your mind go there again. He left, you reminded yourself, instead resolving to focus on the road in front of you, and the nagging voice of your mother in your ear. 

She sighed your name.

“I told you not to come, honey. This is the whole reason we waited so long to tell you–”

“I’m already on the road, mom.” You interrupted her. “I moved out earlier this week, and I’m already on my way home. No use in trying to change my mind on this when it’s already done.” 

For the first time in what seemed like forever, you were met with radio silence; Your mother was speechless. There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again. Secretly, inside you’re smug. You’ve managed to outsmart her.

“You’re on the road right now?” She asked in that familiar disapproving short tone.

“As we speak,” you shifted, holding the wheel with one hand and slouching in your seat. Your mother sighed again.

“Stop that,” she said, displeasure evident in her voice.

“Stop what, mama? Driving?”

“Stop sounding so smug,” She scolded in that tone that all mothers have perfected, before addressing you by your full name. “This is gonna upset your Gramma. The last thing she wanted was you putin’ your whole life on hold for this.”

“‘For this?’” You asked in disbelief. “Mama, I can’t believe you waited more than a whole month to tell me the cancer was back in the first place! As if it was none of my business!” 

You could practically hear her eye-roll through the phone. 

“Now don’t be ridiculous.” She simpered. “We didn’t wanna upset you is all. And we certainly didn’t want you doin’ something so rash, like this.” 

You rolled your eyes. This woman was impossible. 

“Mom, I’d been considering leaving for a long time. My lease was up, Carla got married. This was just the final nail in the coffin. It was a long time comin’.”

“But you seemed so happy, baby.” she cooed. 

“I don’t care! I deserve to know if my grandma is dying or not, and you have no right to keep it from me!”

You were met with silence. It was your turn to sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she conceded softly. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I was just scared of something like this happening. You can’t expect me to believe that this whole thing didn’t cause you to up and move home out of the blue.”

“I know, mama, but it’s the truth.” You paused, before continuing, “I put in my notice weeks ago. I’ve missed home. A lot. The city is…so loud. And there are no mountains near Chicago. The land is so flat, and–”

“I know baby, I know.” You could hear her shuffling around on the other end of the line.

 She was no doubt calling from the landline in the kitchen at the old house. Thinking of it, your heart yearned. You missed it so much.

“It’s just that this was your dream, baby. And I just know your Gramma’s gonna blame herself for you giving that up.”

“Mom, I’m not giving anything up,” you emphasized the last part, trying to get it through her head. “I still have my dreams, Chicago just wasn’t it. It took me a while to realize that, but I have. And I have no idea where I wanna go or what I wanna do next, but I do know that I miss home. I was planning on coming back even before I found out.”

“Alright,” she began, but you wouldn’t let her continue. You needed to get this out. 

“And, that combined with the fact that Gramma’s cancer is back means there’s nothin’ you can do to stop me.”

“Alright,” she sighed on the other line. “I suppose there’s nothin’ I can do about it now. How did you find out in the first place? You never mentioned in that hysterical voicemail you left–”

“I had reason to be hysterical, don’t you think? Findin’ out from Jimmy Logan and all.”

“Jimmy Logan?” she asked in surprise. “Now what were you doin’ talkin’ to him? Did he finally buck up and get a cell phone?”

“Yes, he did,” you chuckled, “Mellie finally convinced him. Anyway, after she helped him get his contacts in order, the first thing he did was give me a ring, saying how sorry he was to hear about Gramma bein’ sick again.”

“But how? I didn’t even tell Jimmy Logan. The only people we told were the ladies in prayer group.”

You laughed.

“Oh, you know how word gets around. Jimmy heard it from Earl at the hardware store, who heard it from Irene, who heard it from her momma, who, if I’m not mistaken, is in your prayer group.”

“Well,” your mother huffed. “I suppose that is how it goes. I’ll tell you one thing, your Gramma will be happy to see you, no matter the circumstance.”

“I know,” you sighed,  glad that the air was at least a little cleared between you. You were still hurt that she’d kept something as important as your Gramma’s illness from you, but you understood where she was coming from. She just wanted what was best for you, wanted you to have everything she didn’t.

“Speaking of them Logans,” your mom said. “Have you told her you’re coming home?”

You laughed into the phone.

“Yes, Mellie knows I’m coming home.” You were surprised that she’d even assumed you hadn’t told the youngest Logan about your returning. She’d kill you if you didn’t.

“Good. I know she’s missed you. Last week while she was doin’ my hair, she told me a girl’s weekend every few months and a phone call just wasn’t cutting it.”

Mellie’s face flashed in your mind, and the feeling of dread at returning home started to dissipate. She had that effect on you; Ever since you met nearly 20 years earlier. You smiled, as your mind drifted back to then.

1995

You’d never imagined coming to a new school would ever be this hard. You’d expected it to be like how you’d seen it happen in TV shows or books or those kids movies you liked so much; Where after a rocky start with school bullies, the new kid fell in with the perfect group of friends and everything was fine. That was what you’d anticipated: The melodrama, the excitement. What you hadn’t expected was the monotony and loneliness.

Entering the third grade in october–two and a half months into the term–was never easy. At least that’s what your grandma had told you, and her being your grandma, you were inclined to believe her. 

“It’s not gonna be easy,” she’d told you. “And kids can be real mean, darlin’. Especially when you’re new and they don’t know you. But, you just show them how kind, and special, and smart, and funny you are, and you won't have no problem fittin’ in.”

And you’d expected it to be that easy. Boy were you wrong.

On your first day at Daniel Boone Elementary, you’d expected to be met with a little wariness (what with being the new kid and all), but had hoped, in the end, to make at least one new friend to tell your mom and grandma about when you got off the bus and went home. Instead, you got the usual strange introduction to the class by your new teacher, and that was that. No kids even came up to talk to you. You ate your PB&J sandwich alone at lunch, and spent recess alone on the swings. 

The following months went by in a similar manner: no new friends in sight. All the girls in your class were either too preoccupied with your hand-me-down clothes to play with you, or too shy to. And the boys wanted nothing to do with the weird new girl with too-knobby knees and too-big teeth because even if you liked the exact same things as them, you were still a girl, which meant you had cooties. 

So, at home you’d drift away and pass your time the only time you knew how: through stories. Whether it be babysitters’ club books or PBS kids documentaries on your grandma’s old box TV, your head was always in the clouds. You’d be cryptic when your grandma or mom would ask about school, and they’d begun to notice. Before the snow came and the world froze over for winter, you’d also begun to explore the property behind your grandma’s house, getting lost in nature as you used to. 

By spring, your grandma was at a standstill. 

The snow was thawing, and after a winter indoors, she was at her wits end. She could recognize a depressive episode when she saw one, and the fact that she was seeing it in you, her eight-year-old granddaughter, made her heart break all the more.

She had been just about ready to call an intervention with the school’s principal and psychologist when it happened. You met the person who would change your life.

You’d met Mellie Logan once before, roughly a month after your arrival in Boone County, when you were still new enough to be considered the least bit interesting at Daniel Boone Elementary. She was a year older than you and about a head shorter, with the same shade of rich brown hair as the older boy you’d recognized her sit with on the bus; Her brother, Jimmy Logan who was a middle schooler, but not the least bit embarrassed to sit by his little sister on the ride home, tugging playfully on her braids. She was in Ms. Granfell’s class down the hall, with whom your class shared a recess and lunch time, along with some of the 6th graders. 

It had been on the bus that you’d had your brief first encounter with Mellie Logan. She and about five other kids got off a few stops before yours, down Elm street, and rather than the fact that she had one older brother, that was about all you knew about the girl, and that was all the thought you’d given to her. 

The encounter was a small one: your backpack had been in the aisle as the kids filed in from the school at the end of a school-day in early November and she’d muttered a quiet “pardon me,” as she passed you to her usual seat at the back of the bus where her brother was already seated, and that was that. You barely knew her.

Now, though, as you sat in the school principal’s office, bright fluorescent lights shining over the deep mahogany desk, you felt that all of that was going to change. Mellie sat beside you, eyebrows knit together obstinately as she stared directly ahead of her at the clock on the opposite wall, frowning.

It read: 1:23. You sighed.

That meant that you were missing library time with the rest of your class while being holed up in here, waiting while the principal made calls to each of your parents that they had to come pick you up and discuss the incident.

Your stomach sunk in annoyance as you crossed your arms and slumped down further into the armchair next to Mellie. 

 Great, now they have even more of a reason to think I’m weird, you thought. That was the last thing you needed. You were already having a hard time fitting in in the first place, with girls like Heather Campbell making faces at you and snickering when it was your turn to answer a question or read aloud to the class. You didn’t need to be known as the weird new girl who’d also gotten into a fight with a sixth grader. 

You groaned in realization that that was exactly what you’d be known as from now on. You ran a hand over your face. And just wait until your mom found out, until your Gramma found out. Your life was over.

At that, Mellie looked over at you, her formerly sour expression turned questioning at your sudden outburst.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, moving to sit on her hands. Her legs were swinging back and forth off of the edge of the seat of the chair. She looked more bored than anything else, which was wild to you, considering the insane amount of trouble you both were about to be in the moment your parents walked through that door.

You looked at her like she was insane, her freckled face a picture of nonchalance, and sighed. Your heart was at the pit of your stomach as you watched the small round clock tick by, each second drawing closer to what was bound to be the end of your eight years on this planet.

You hadn’t intended to get involved. You really hadn’t. But when you’d seen the trampled, embarrassed look in his deep brown eyes, you didn’t know what else you could do.

 It was, surprisingly, not in your nature to be confrontational at this point in your life. Though you’d later grow to be quite the headstrong person, the years spent walking around on eggshells with Keith had taken a toll on your personality. You liked to avoid conflict with even your family, nevertheless with the mean fourth graders you’d always hear snickering at people during lunchtime. But when you’d heard them picking on the lanky boy with messy dark hair something within you had snapped.

It was breakfast for lunch day, aka: the best day of the week, and when the bell rang  signaling the beginning of lunchtime you moved as fast as your legs could carry you to the cafeteria.

You stepped into the line behind a tall, lanky boy who had to be at least a few years older than you. You recognized him from your bus; He lived on the same street as Mellie and her brother, and like you, always sat by himself on the bus. You thought that he was probably the only kid who was as quiet as you. In fact, you weren’t sure you’d ever even heard the stoic boy utter a word in the month and a half you’d spent riding home with him. His face always seemed to stay the same too, you’d noticed. 

Not that you’d been watching him, you corrected yourself.

Right now, though, the boy smiled at you as you came up behind him. A tight-lipped, shy one at that, but his dark eyes shone with genuine kindness that you were almost too flustered to know what to do. Such kindness, even small ones like this, had been few and far between in your time in Boone County. It’d been lonely, and this little boy’s smile made it feel a little less so. A part of you wondered if this town had been similarly lonely for him too. You smiled back.

The sound of giggling broke you from your blatant staring at the boy in front of you. Two girls had entered the line behind you. You didn’t know their names, but you recognized them from the time you had spent people-watching during your month or so of eating alone. The taller one was blonde, with long straight hair and thick braces covering her teeth as she smiled right past you and to the boy standing in front of you. Her counterpart was shorter and a bit stouter, with short pin-curls that practically stuck to her hair. Your stomach dropped as you took in the looks on both of their faces. Their smiles were anything but kind as they looked right through and onto the boy who was oblivious to what was coming.

You weren’t though. Just last week, you’d seen the pair of girls push a little girl in your class off of the monkey bars for “taking their spot,” when you knew for a fact that that girl had been there for all of recess already. Before that, you’d seen them ridicule another girl for her new haircut that had come out much shorter than expected until she cried. These were two girls you knew not to cross, and here they were, sights set on the boy in front of you whose name you didn't even know. And you were caught in the middle of it. 

“Uhm, excuse me?” The blonde girl asked, reaching across you and tapping the boy on the shoulder. Her face was twisted in barely held-in laughter, while beside her, her friend’s face held an identical.

The boy turned, eyes wide and curious. Kind. Unaware of exactly how nasty these two could be. 

“Y-yeah?” He asked, voice cracking when he stuttered. The blonde looked over to her friend and then back at him.

“Your name’s Clyde, right?” She asked, head tilting.

“Uhm, yeah, tha’s right.” He smiled, bashful. Ears twinged red.

Clyde. That was the boy’s name. It fit him, you thought. 

Her friend popped in. “Say, ain’t you a Logan?” She asked, face spread in what seemed like a kind smile. 

Something you didn’t buy. You thought as you grabbed an orange from the selection of fruit.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, moving down the line. He picked up a strawberry milk carton before moving further down where the french toast sticks were. You continued to eavesdrop, feeling the most awkward you had in a while as the conversation continued with you, quite literally, in the middle of it.

“Well, Clyde Logan,” the blonde continued, reaching for an identical carton of strawberry milk. Her face was smug. “There’s something Quinn and I have been meaning to ask you for a while now.”

“What’s that?” he asked, curious. He looked at her, eyes open and welcoming and you dreaded the next words that were going to come out of her mouth. It wasn’t gonna be good.

“We were just wondering,” she snorted halfway through, hand coming to her mouth. “Sorry, we were just wondering if you’d done something to upset your momma?”

He chuckled awkwardly, obviously confused, and flicked some dark hair behind his ear. “Pardon me?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Oh, nothin’. It’s just you had to have done something to have earned a haircut like that.”

Beside her, her friend had given up on controlling her laughter. Wheezing, her friend–Quinn–interjected.

“Or maybe your hairdresser hates you? What did you do to make someone let you walk out of the house like that?” She giggled.

“Don’t be silly, Quinn. The Logans can’t afford a hairdresser. It had to have been his momma. I mean, really Clyde, you had to have done somethin’ bad.” The blonde chimed in again.

“Although, maybe it’s not the haircut, Heather.” Quinn piped in casually, serving herself french toast. “That’s not fair to his momma. It’s those ears. They stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Mhm,” the blonde, heather, nodded. “I think you’re right. And his nose. It's so big. That’s what makes you so unfortunate looking. Not the hair at all.”

Clyde looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Surprise coloring his features, the smallest frown upon his lips.

“Or , you know what,” Heather considered, piling bacon onto her lunch tray. “It’s probably that curse your sister wouldn’t shut up about last year. What’d she call it?”

“The Logan Family Curse.” Quinn chimed in. Heather laughed. 

“That must be it!” She giggled in that snotty, preteen way. “Who knew that the Logan family curse was being cursed with bein’ uglier than a mud fence!”

“Or having ears the size of Dumbo’s.” 

Looking over at Clyde, you saw his eyes glassy with unshed tears as he looked down at his lunch tray. Crestfallen. It sent white hot anger surging through your chest, and before you could register it, you were turning to face the two girls beside you in line.

“Just because he has straight teeth and you don’t doesn’t mean you have to be mean.” You glared at her. Her smug face morphed into one of anger as her eyes hardened into a glare.

“Excuse me?” she asked. Beside her, Quinn’s eyebrows rose to her hairline.

“You heard me, brace-face.” You stood your ground, glaring right back at her. She gasped at the insult, not ready for a taste of her own medicine. An identical look of horror crossed her companion’s face. From behind you, you heard a familiar high voice call out.

“Clyde? Where are you–” Mellie looked confused, her eyes following the lanky, dark-haired figure racing out of the cafeteria, leaving his lunch tray deserted in line next to you. Her gaze hardened as she looked over at you and the two girls in line. She stomped over, arms crossed.

“What did you say to him?” She demanded, looking between you three. When no one spoke up, she asked again, louder.

“What did you say to my brother?” She seethed. Heather looked at Quinn, an amused smirk on her face. 

“Oh, you mean Dumbo?” She asked.

“Nothing–we just gave him some beauty advice,” Quinn descended into the same annoying laughter as her friend. 

What happened next was a blur to you. There was a hand in someone’s hair, another pushing someone's shoulder, and the sound of a hand smacking against someone’s face. You were pushed backwards–by who, you didn’t know–and your half-full lunch tray came down on top of you, covering you in scrambled eggs and syrup. Heather screeched like a banshee, and Quinn started crying. A lunch monitor ran over to break it up, and before you knew it, Heather was being sent to the nurse and you and Mellie to the principal’s office. 

Which brings you to now.

You sat, smelling of eggs and syrup, and waiting for your life to end. After a few minutes of silence, you looked to the scrappy, brooding girl next to you. 

“Did you have to hit her?” You asked, breaking the silence. Scoffing, she turned to look at you. 

“Uhm, yeah I had to hit her.” She spat out incredulously. “She was makin’ fun of my big brother. You don’t let people mess around with your kin.” 

“But–” you began before she interrupted you, seemingly not hearing you at all. That was something you’d grow to find out was a habit of hers whenever she talked about something she was passionate about. 

“And I’d do it again, too,” she said, stubbornly. “I don’t care what Mrs. Findlay says. If you ask me, Heather Campbell had it comin’ and needed to be knocked down a few pegs. I’m only sad I got caught.”

Her matter-of-fact made you giggle a little bit. After all, you couldn’t disagree with her; You’d seen Heather and Quinn unleash their wrath before. Many times in the short time you’d been in town. They needed to be put in their place. And you were glad you’d had at least a small part in doing it, even if it did put a target on your back and was bound to make your life hell indefinitely. 

“I am sorry you got involved, though,” Mellie said. “It ain’t fair you got roped into all a’ my trouble-makin’.” 

You chuckled a bit.

“Nah,” you sighed. “Before you walked up, I did say some pretty nasty things to them. I guess I deserved it.”

Mellie, looking surprised at that, snorted.

 “You?” she asked, eyes wide in apparent disbelief. “You said somethin’ to Heather Campbell?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” you asked, brows furrowed. “And yes, I’ll have you know, I did say something to her.”

“Nothin’.”  Mellie said, “it’s just that in all the time you’ve been here, I ain't heard you speak but about two times.”

“I couldn’t let her talk to him like that when he didn’t do nothin’ to deserve it.” You said. “Besides, I was tired of hearin’ her run her mouth all the time and no one sayin’ anything.”

“Well alrighty then.” She said.

 A beat of silence passed, the only sound being the ticking of the clock. Then, “what did you say to her?”

You snorted. 

“I called her brace-face.” You admitted sheepishly. Beside you, Mellie howled in laughter and after a moment, you joined her.

“You know,” she said pensively, smiling at you, all trace of a sour mood gone, “I think we’re gonna be good friends.”

You smiled back at her, the first real one in a while. 

“Me too.” And you meant it. 

Present Day

Your mother’s voice snapped you back to reality. 

“And what about him?” she asked carefully, words thick with meaning. “Does he know you’re comin’ back?”

You sighed. “Mama, why would he know I’m coming back? Why would he care that I’m coming back?”

“Darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that–”

“He didn’t bother telling me when he came back. I had to find out from Mellie, a month after the fact.” You continued, that familiar white-hot feeling in your chest resurfacing. “Besides, I’m sure Mellie mentioned it to him. She’d have to if he’s gonna continue this disappearing act of his.”

“That’s not fair, baby, and you know it.” She scolded, ever the mother. It didn’t matter that you were twenty-five, she’d always put you in your place when it came down to it. “He’s been through a lot.”

“I’m sure he has,” you agreed half-heartedly. 

“And–”

“--Not that I’d know about it! He hasn’t spoken so much as a word to me in years. Not for lack of trying on my part either, you know that mom.”

“I know, baby, I know,” she said. This was a conversation you’d had before. And no matter how many times you did, she’d always brought up the same points. 

And now, Clyde Logan had been home for more than two years, but felt like a ghost. Your family hadn’t heard a thing from him. According to your cousin Zach, Jimmy had wanted to throw a coming-home party for him, but had canceled it last minute. You didn’t know what he was doing now.

You knew better than to ask Mellie about it. She was your best friend, yes, but you wouldn’t put her in that position. You wouldn’t make her choose sides or play middle-man between you and her brother. And she knew better than to bring it up with you, too. She saw her brother’s idiocy, and, more importantly, she saw how hurt you were after all that had happened. 

So, Clyde generally wasn’t brought up between the two of you. Not in great detail, anyway. No matter how much you knew she had to reign herself in over it. Your best friend was a fixer at heart, and that instinct didn’t go away when it came to her best friend and her brother. 

“Let’s just drop it, mom.” You said. “I am not coming home for Clyde Logan, of all people. I’m just happy to be coming home at all.” 

“Well, that makes two of us.” she laughed lightly on the other end. “How far out are you?” she asked.

“I’m about halfway through Indiana right now.”

“Whew,” she whistled. “What a drive.”

You laughed at her sarcasm. “Oh yeah, nothin’ but cornfields for miles. That  is somethin’ I won’t be missing, that’s for sure.”

“Good.” she said, “You’d better get a move-on if you wanna be home before dinner, then. I’ll call your cousins and see who can make it.”

Your heart leapt at the thought of it, seeing the family again. You’d missed living in the same county as them all; Not having to drive hours to hug your grandma, to hear your aunt Nikki’s laugh, or to engage in yet another political conversation with your uncle Mike. 

“That sounds perfect.”

“Alright then. Your Gramma’s gonna be surprised, that’s for sure. And i’m warnin’ you now: She will not be as easily swayed as I am at your comin’ back.”

“Yeah, I know.” You shook your head. “I’ll start preparing my speech now.”

“You better!” She laughed, “I’m gonna let you go, babe. Call your aunts. Love you.”

“Love you too, momma.” You sighed, as the call ended. 

The late May sun shone through the clouds, as you steered off of the freeway to continue south. Toward home. 

- - 

It was well past seven in the evening before everyone left your grandmother’s house—and, I guess, your house too, for now—for dinner. 

It had worked: you’d made it home, finally, and even though your grandmother wasn’t happy with you for returning, she understood why. It’d been too long since you’d been home for more than a week or two. Even longer, if you didn’t count the summers you’d come home during college. 

After Clyde had left for his third tour, things weren’t the same. You always hosted holidays after that, or visited your extended family in Charleston. You’d missed your hometown, yes. But the pain you felt at how you and Clyde left things hurt you more. Only now, after six months of therapy and the terrifying possibility that your grandmother was dying, did you feel even remotely comfortable enough to come back. 

Now, after a long, loud meal with your extended family, you wondered why you’d left at all. The anxiety you’d felt driving into the county limits earlier that evening had dissipated. Home has a funny way of doing that: letting you ease right back in like you’d never left. 

Your cousins were getting bigger—now nearly teenagers—and your aunts inquired about your personal life over dinner. Now, after the coffee had gone cold and your last relative had gone home, you helped your grandmother with the dishes—much to her chagrin. 

Your grandmother was a kind woman, a gentle woman, but she was also a proud woman, and more stubborn than even you.

“Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I’m inept, you know,” she slapped your hand away from where it had tried to venture into the soapy water of the sink. 

You sighed. So she’s still mad. 

“I know, Gramma,” you offered. “Just trying to help.”

She grumbled back, still focusing on scrubbing the plate in front of her. 

You gave up, moving instead to dry and put away the dishes she’d washed. As you began, she didn’t so much as spare you a glance, just hummed under her breath. 

The kitchen looked untouched from it had been growing up—the linoleum counters, tiled walls, and deep wood of the cabinets perpetually stuck in the 1970s. Some of the glassware your grandmother owned was from the seventies, or even before then, going back to when your mom and uncles were kids. You could tell from old family pictures that the house had changed little since they bought it in 1969. Even after so many years, your Gramma had refused to invest in a dishwasher, insisting on washing dishes by hand instead. 

You took a ceramic plate from the drying rack, toweling it off before opening the cabinet to put it away. The cabinet door had the same creak it always did. 

“You know,” you tossed over your shoulder at your grandmother. “I was planning on coming back for a while before I heard about the cancer.” 

“That’s what you keep sayin’,” she mumbled. “I can see right through ya, though, darlin’. You think I haven’t noticed you haven’t been home in years?” 

You bit your lip, trying to ignore the pang of guilt her words sent through you. 

“I’m sorry about that, Gramma, I am—“

“Oh, hush,” she waved a suds-covered hand at you, still not turning around. “Long as I get to see you, I don’t care where it is. What I’m trying to say is: you certainly would not have come home had it not been for my diagnosis.” 

You deflated a little; in a sense, she was right. You’d been considering returning before, that was true, but part of you deep down knew you wouldn’t have been successful if you hadn’t heard about her sickness. 

“What I can’t live with is you giving up your dreams for an old woman like me.”

You scoffed at that, coming up behind her and wrapping your arms around her shoulders. 

“Please,” you mumbled into the hug. “You couldn’t have kept me away. I would’ve found out at some point.” 

She sighed, hugging you back and leaning into you. 

“‘Suppose you’re right,” she acquiesced. “Doesn’t mean I’ve gotta be happy about it though.” 

“That’s fair,” you chuckled, letting go and taking another plate from the drying rack. “But you can’t get mad at me. It should be me angry at you for keeping it from me for as long as you did.”

She turned to you then, wiping her wet hands off with a towel. There was a strange look in her eyes as she took you in, eyeing you head to toe. She snapped out of it after a moment and offered you a smile. 

“Hm,” she hummed, bringing a weathered hand to cup your cheek. “I couldn’t stay angry at you even if I tried.”

You smiled cheekily at her. 

“I know.”

“Hm,” she chuckled, pinching your cheek lightly and patting it. “Now let me finish these up. Mellie’ll be here soon and you haven’t even taken your suitcase up yet.”

You nodded and put the last plate away. 

“I’ll turn the radio on for you,” you smiled. “It’s too quiet around here.”

“Alright sugar,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You won’t be sayin’ that come Monday. I’ve got your cousins after school most weekdays. And I thought you were a handful.” 

You chuckled. 

One thing about your family was true: none of you were boring—especially the little ones. They kept your grandmother on her toes. 

“I’m looking forward to that,” you chuckled. That was another thing you regretted about moving so far away: not being there to watch your little cousins grow up.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. “You might be reconsidering moving back after a few days.”

“Unlikely,” you snorted. “I’m hard to scare off. Well, now anyway.”

Your grandmother sent you a sympathetic smile then, and you knew she’d forgiven you. You twitched a little under her gaze. She almost looked like she pitied you. You understood if she did; she was the one to bear the brunt of your heartache when everything between you and Clyde had blown up. Still, it wasn’t a time you liked to dwell on. 

“So, you think you’re finally over that Logan boy?” She asked, crossing her arms and facing you.

You sighed; it was just like your grandmother to not mince words or beat around the bush.

“Jesus, Gramma,” you raked a hand over your face. 

“What?” she asked defensively. “Would you rather me tip-toe around you like everyone else? Your mama won’t ask, and you’ve banned Mellie from mentioning that boy.”

“So you thought you’d…” your words trailed off, not understanding exactly why she was bringing this up now. 

“I thought I’d mention the elephant in the room. Call it curiosity, sugar,” she smirked at you. “I just figured that since he was the one that kept you away for so long—”

“Gramma, you know he’s not the only reason l left—”

“I know, I know,” she held up a hand to stop you. “But I remember how you were when you left. In the months before. Barely leaving the house, not talking to anyone. Whatever he did, it did a number on you. I don’t want you getting like that again—”

You softened. She was worried about you, of course she was. Your grandmother was nothing if not a mama bear. 

“Trust me, Gramma. You do not have to worry Clyde Logan of all people. I’ve been over it for a while, I think. I’ll be okay.”

“Hm,” she scrutinized you through narrowed eyes, before nodding. “Alright. I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thanks, Gramma.”

“You ever gonna tell me all that happened with him?” 

“Maybe one day,” you smiled at her sadly. 

She nodded at you in understanding. 

“Alright, babydoll. You go get ready.”

As you walked up the familiar steps to your childhood bedroom, listening to Patsy Cline drift through the old kitchen radio, you smiled to yourself at the familiarity of it all.

- - 

“Trust me,” Camila grabbed your shoulder from the back of Mellie’s ‘85 silverado—her pride and joy and newest fixer upper. “This place is great, and it helps that we don’t have to drive all the way to Madison like we did back in the day.”

You snorted at how your friends were trying to sell you on this new dive bar. Where you’d wanted to go out in Madison like the old days, they’d insisted you stay local tonight.

You shifted in the denim cut-offs that Mellie had insisted you wear. You hadn’t worn them out since your senior year of college. Hell, you hadn’t been out since your senior year of college.

She’d showed up at your door at exactly eight o’clock on the dot, intent on getting you dolled up for a night out. Camila and Gwen, two of your best friends from high school, had shown up soon after. It was like old times—playing your old CDs, the smell of cheap perfume and hair-straighteners flooding your childhood bedroom. You couldn’t even bring yourself to be nervous about going out. Now, two hours later with a new outfit and your hair and makeup done to perfection, you were off to check out the newest haunt in town. 

It’d been big news when the place had opened about nine months ago. It wasn’t every day that a new business opened in Logan, so obviously it was the talk of the town. Even you’d heard about it all the way in Chicago. Duck Tape was its name and it had been renovated into a bar from an old bait and tackle shop. And apparently, since its opening, it’d become a staple of your small community. You’d been promised that you’d run into at least five people from high school here, maybe more. It was also in the middle of nowhere. 

“We’re basically driving the same distance, Cami.” You laughed. From beside you in the driver’s seat, Mellie smirked. 

“Don’t rain on her parade.” She teased. “Cami’s just trying to explain away the real reason why she came here: she’s got it bad for the bouncer.”

Camila gasped and smacked Mellie’s shoulder. 

“That isn’t it at all, Mellie Logan and you know it!”

“Mmhm,” Gwen nodded from the other side of her, very obviously not buying any of it. “It has nothing to do with the six-feet, tall, dark, and handsome bouncer. I believe you, Cami.”

You laughed at her sarcasm. 

“I don’t know why you don’t put yourself out of your misery and just get his number,” Mellie asks from the front seat, looking at Cami through the rearview mirror. 

“And risk rejection? Not a chance.”

You snorted at that, understanding completely. You’d had a few non-serious relationships here and there, but nothing that had stuck during your time in Chicago. And even then, they were alway the ones who had to make the first move. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupted. “Since when do any of these places need bouncers?”

When you were in high school, it was a given that no one underage would even try to get into a bar in Logan. It would have been pointless: everybody knew everybody here, so even if you had the good sense to get a fake ID, you’d be at the sheriff’s station before you had time to order your first drink.

“Since these kids are gettin’ more and more ballsy,” Gwen answered you. “‘Bout a year ago coach Garrison’s kid got busted for drinking underage at Tulman’s. Ever since, they’ve been IDing at the door.”

Tulman’s was the other bar in town, nestled in the heart of downtown. 

“I bet coach was pissed.”

“You have no idea,” Cami nodded, picking at her manicured nail. “Gave hell to the guy who owns the place. That’s just another reason why I like Duck Tape better.”

Gwen groaned from beside her. Mellie just laughed. 

Mellie sighed beside you, reaching for the gear-shift. “Just ask him out. You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

“Oh please,” Cami laughed, speaking up over the sound of Garth Brooks’ voice coming from the speakers. “Stick to hairdressing, Mel. You’d make a shit motivational speaker.” 

A chorus of laughs sounded as Mellie took a sharp turn off of the highway and onto the mountain road where the bar was. 

This was so familiar: you and your girlfriends, all dressed up and piling into one car to go out as if you were somewhere glamorous like New York City and not in Boone County, West Virginia. The chatter of the girls around you was comforting, and you relished in it. 

This, you thought. This is home.

- - 

You dropped your glass when he walked in, brushing past the bouncer with a large hand on his shoulder. Your stomach dropped.

The glass shattered at your feet, sending cranberry juice and vodka splattering over your boots and calves. A few people surrounding you jumped as well, moving away from the shattered glass on the floor. Beside you, Camila started. 

“Jesus,” she cried, grabbing your bare shoulder and looking at you. She was trying to get your attention, you knew, but you couldn’t bring your eyes away from the imposing figure of Clyde Logan, who just walked into the bar. “You okay? What—shit.”

She saw him too. 

“Mellie,” you heard her whisper, trying to get the attention of your friend who was too-busy flirting with a man in a stetson beside you. Gwen was in the bathroom. “Mellie.” 

He was tall—just as tall as he’d always been, but even more imposing. His shoulders stretched broadly across the dark blue button-up he had on. He wore worn blue jeans and work boots and still had that stiff, ramrod-straight posture that he’d come back from basic training with. You blinked. 

He was here. He was here. 

Even after years, he had an effect on you. You felt stuck to the floor, frozen in place as he made his way to the bar, his left side facing away from you. His dark hair was longer than you’d ever seen it, curling around his ears and down his neck thickly. You couldn’t tell much from the dim-lighting, but you could detect a bit of a stubble along his jaw and above his lip. 

Lord have mercy, he was beautiful. 

He was gorgeous–even more so than you remembered him. It made your chest ache.

“What?” Mellie turned to Cami, a flirty laugh in her voice.

“Look.”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke. 

“Fuck.” Mellie spat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. He said he wasn’t working tonight.”

You breathed in a ragged breath, everything feeling all of a sudden too much. The neon lights, the chatter of people from all sides of you invaded your senses. The early summer heat was cloying at your skin in the crowded bar. You felt boxed in on all sides. 

“I’m just going to,” you mumbled, finally tearing your eyes away from Clyde, who was talking to the man behind the bar. You didn’t finish the sentence, instead electing to train your gaze on your boots and try to make your way to the bar door. 

Behind you, you heard Mellie call your name. You ignored her, breathing deeply as you tried to navigate your way to the door. 

Air, you told yourself. I need some air. Then I’ll be fine. 

You tried to push yourself past a particularly large group, squeezing between two peoples’ backs. One of them moved backwards, their foot moving to step in front of yours.

Your boot caught on the foot, and you tumbled forward, losing your balance. 

You tripped, scrambling, reaching out with your arms to break your fall as you tumbled.

Only, instead of continuing to fall to the ground, you stumbled into something. Or rather, someone. 

Your hands landed on a broad chest, and you felt an arm snake its way around your middle, attempting to steady you. You let out a breath, finding your footing. 

You brought your gaze up, an apology on your lips.

“Shit,” you mumbled, pulling your hands back from the stranger’s chest frantically. “I’m sorry—”

Brown eyes stared back at you, brows drawn together and full of confusion. Freckles scattered familiarly across his cheekbones and his lips parted as he looked at you. 

Clyde. 

You took a large step back, away from him, nearly stumbling again. He looked nearly as shocked as you felt, wide eyes taking you in from head to toe. After all, it had been over two years since you’d seen each other. 

You did the same—eyes moving down his thick neck, his broad shoulders, down his chest. He was still so much taller than you.

This was all too much. 

You could feel the panic setting back in your bones, and you blinked rapidly, moving to shove past him to the door, your legs carrying you before your mind could catch up.

When you did, he snapped out of it, moving to the side to block you and shoulder-checking you in the process. When he did, something firm and stiff—foreign—jabbed into your stomach, causing you to jerk away, even more past him.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you turned to see—

What you saw made the breath leave your chest. 

There, strapped to what remained of Clyde’s arm was a prosthetic. 

- - 

Tears fell thick and hot down your cheeks as you rested your face between your knees on the side of the dingy bar. The rough wood of the paneling on the outside of the bar dug into your back through the thin shirt Mellie had convinced you to wear, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your mind was elsewhere.

Gone. Clyde’s left arm was gone–or at least part of it was. 

Hurt flooded your chest at the thought of it; your once-best friend returning home from war, part of him missing, alone, and you weren’t there. He’d had to do it alone.

Another wave of tears came. 

How could you not have known?

Everyone knew everything about everyone in Logan. It was the way of things and it always had been. It was how you’d found out about your Gramma’s illness, it was how word had spread like wildfire when Mellie’s boyfriend in tenth grade cheated on her, and it was how the whole town knew Bobbie Jo was pregnant with Sadie before Jimmy did. But this. 

It struck you all at once; everyone knew. Of course everyone knew. Camila, Gwen, Mellie. Your mother. They all had known and still didn’t tell you. 

You felt like someone had torn your heart from your chest. 

The sound of gravel crunching under boots tore your gaze up. You knew who it was before he called your name. You’d know the sound of his step anywhere. 

Clyde Logan walked toward you, arms clasped behind his back, dark eyes wary. He always looked like this when he was nervous. Even now, you couldn’t believe he was standing before you after so long. Even now, you couldn’t contain the slow simmer of anger that flared in your gut at the sight of him.

He stood there a minute, eyes on yours, before he cleared his throat. 

“How…uh, how long you been back?” He offered softly, eyes never once leaving yours. 

The slow simmer in your gut reached a boil. You stood to your feet, lip curling at him. You didn’t care enough to wipe your face of tears.

“Really?” You asked harshly, voice slightly raised. Clyde flinched at your tone. “That’s what you have to say to me Clyde Logan—after three years?”

Clyde bit his lip and looked down. He sighed. 

“Junebug—-”

“Do not,” you hissed at him, glaring up at his pained expression. “You do not get to call me that anymore.”

He just stared at you, a pained expression on his face. 

It didn't surprise you—Clyde had never had a way with words. Even as kids, even as best friends, it had been hard for him to express himself. He was quiet. Now was no exception. 

“Did you get my letters?” You hated that your voice warbled. 

Clyde’s eyes fell to his boots and you knew the answer from the guilty expression that crossed his face. 

You scoffed, even more anger bubbling inside you at the confirmation. 

After the fight—the one that sent you packing, right before his third deployment, you’d written him. Countless times, apologizing, explaining yourself, begging him for a response, anything. And you’d never heard anything back. 

“I wrote you for months, Clyde.” You said, voice softer now. “When you were over there, I had to get updates from Mellie. Or from my mom, because you wouldn’t write me back. You wouldn’t answer my calls. I didn’t know if you were hurt, or if you—”

You stopped yourself, sniffing. 

You stared at his prosthetic arm, finally able to get a better look at it.

 It began just under his elbow, strapped on there to give the illusion of a full-limb. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. 

“Ugly, ain’t it?” He asked, noting how your stare held there. Your eyes snapped to his. 

You scoffed, ignoring him and looking away. 

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered, drying your face with your palm.

“I told Mellie not to tell you,” he blurted. “After. Made her swear not to. Don’t be mad at her.”

You sighed. 

You weren’t angry at her; you couldn’t be. Shortly after you’d realized he wanted nothing to do with you, you’d made any talk of Clyde strictly off-limits in your friendship. Even if she’d wanted to tell you, it was off limits. That was not the case, however, with your own family.

You’d be having words with your mother and grandmother when you returned home. 

“My relationship with Mellie is none of your business,” you glared up at him. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Clyde scoffed now, the soft, reserved look gone from his eyes and replaced by annoyance. 

“What?” you asked. “You got something to say? Say it.”

“Fine,” he barked. “Three years and you haven’t changed a bit.”

Oh, so he was pulling that card, you thought, thinking back to your last argument. You laughed humorlessly. 

“Oh, I haven’t changed?” You asked, raising your eyebrows. “At least I had the balls to come back! At least I’m not a coward like you—”

“Coward?” He asked, voice low. 

“You heard me.” You spat, voice warbling again with anger. You hated that you got like this; whenever you were angry, you’d cry. “At least I have the stones to face my mistakes. I don’t run away from them, Clyde.” 

With that you walked away, leaving him standing there in the gravel of the Duck Tape parking lot. 

He made no move to follow you, thank god. 

You decided to call it a night, knowing any chance of letting loose was long gone. Though you weren’t angry with her, you didn’t think you could face Mellie or the girls again tonight. You pulled your cell phone from your bag and sent a quick text to the group chat, telling them you’d decided to head home. You sent a separate one to Mellie, telling her you weren’t mad at her but you needed some time. 

You walked back to the front of the bar, leaning on the wood of the front railing, and stared at the phone screen. Your mother and grandmother would be asleep by now, and even if they weren’t, you weren’t sure you wanted to see them anyway. You could always call your cousins—but doing that would open up the door to countless questions and speculations at why you were leaving Duck Tape looking an emotional wreck. 

Then, it hit you.

You found the contact easily and hit call; there was one person who you knew you could call whenever, wherever to come get you, no questions asked. You just hoped he was up.

[brewsterispunkk]

Open to see what you get in 2024

loved

[brewsterispunkk]

diamonds and stones—Spotify playlist

hey y’all!! i plan to update diamonds and stones by the end of the week at latest. in the meantime: here is the official fic playlist. fair warning: there’s a lot of bluegrass & country. this is what I’ve listened to when writing & fic planning. i hope u love it as much as I do 💖

[brewsterispunkk]

day after tomorrow

joel miller x reader

summary: joel drops you off and picks you up from the airport. you are definitely falling in love with him. 

warnings: modern no outbreak au, game!joel or hbo!joel, fluff, really just a fluff fest honestly, new-ish relationship, falling in love, sweet enough to make your teeth ache | 2.7k

A/N: this is a christmas gift for my dear friend @strangerfreaks who makes my life better in every way possible. i love you! hope you enjoy this <3

___

He's leaning on the side of the truck when you hurry outside with your stuff. 

"Morning," you call. It's barely that, sky still dark and air still carrying the bite of the night's chill. 

Joel straightens up and gives you a tired smile. Most of his smiles are tired but they're always genuine when directed at you. He tugs the backpack from your shoulder and presses his lips to your cheek, beard scratching your skin gently. 

"Howdy," he says in your ear before pulling away.

The travel mug Joel pushes into your hands is warm to the touch. 

"Tea," he says before you can tell him it's too early for coffee. His voice is deeper than usual, still warming up from sleep. It's not a cup from the local shop -- they're not open yet -- so he must have made it at home. "No caffeine before flights." 

"You remembered?" 

He gives you an unimpressed look and grabs your bags. They go in the backseat of his truck and he jerks his chin at the passenger door. "Get in. S'chilly."

It's also early. So early you were not going to ask him to drive you to the airport but when you mentioned you had to go on a work trip he offered. Insisted, actually, once he found out what time you needed to get there.

"You ain't takin' a cab that early," he had said. "Hell, you ain't takin' a cab home, neither. I'll pick you up."

This thing between you isn't new anymore, not exactly, but it's not solid yet. It doesn't have a name. But it's been a few months and you know what his sheets smell like and the feel of him pressed against you in the middle of the night and how he laughs with his head thrown back, mouth wide and eyes creased at the corners. He likes to take you on long walks around the lake a few towns over and you know all about his daughters even if you haven't met them yet. Your life feels a little more solid with Joel in it and the swell of your heart in your chest when you talk to him, when you see him, when he looks at you, is a welcome feeling. It's nice to want and be wanted in return. 

The inside of his truck is warm, your seat heater already turned on. The radio is down to a low hum and there's a silver cup similar to your own in the holder between the seats. Joel gets back into the truck with a slight groan and glances at you to see if you've got your seatbelt on before he clicks his. 

"Ready?" he asks. You nod. He settles his hand on your headrest and looks out the back windshield as he reverses the truck out of the driveway. "Shouldn't hit much traffic," he says. 

You take a sip of your tea and watch him as he drives out of your neighborhood and towards the highway. Part of you wishes you would hit traffic so you could look at him longer. Even in the dark you know his face pretty well by now. His hair is getting a little long, the dark threaded through with some grey and falling over his perpetually lined forehead. The scar on the bridge of his nose that you love to run your finger across and the bruises under his eyes from too many nights up late working on site plans and employee schedules. You don't think you've met a man who works as hard as Joel, and yet here he is driving you to the airport when he could be sleeping. 

Maybe it's because he's tired or maybe it's because it's dark or maybe it's because you're leaving for a few days but Joel lets you look without teasing. His eyes catch yours for just a second and he smirks.

"Why don't you drink coffee before a flight?" He takes a sip of his own thermos. You watch his throat work as he swallows and look away this time. The sky is starting to look purple out your window, the trees and fields and occasional buildings flying by too fast for your eyes to settle on anything. Joel drinks coffee like it's water. You're still leaning things about each other -- most days you find yourself thinking that you want to be learning things about him for the rest of your life -- and this is a new topic of conversation. You haven't had to be on a plane since you met him.

"I don't really like flying," you say. "Makes me nervous. I figure caffeine will just make it worse."

"Don't like it much either." You look at him again and find see smirk turn to a frown as he merges onto the nearly empty highway. "You gonna be okay?"

He asks like it's within his power to make flying something enjoyable, to cancel your work trip, to squash everything in this world that makes you nervous. Mostly you're just glad he's not teasing you about it. Maybe someday you can take a trip and be grumpy about it together.

"I'll be fine, Joel."

"Hm."

He rests an elbow against the window and rakes his hand through his hair.

"What are you up to this week?" you ask. 

He sighs. "Not much," he says. "Lumber shipment but Tommy's handlin' it. Ellie says her shower head is actin' funny so I'll go to her place and look at that. Probably sit my ass on the couch and try to watch a damn football game or somethin'."

"So what I'm hearing is you're going to miss me." It's meant to be a tease but it comes out a bit more earnest than you'd like. 

He sends you that unamused look of his but the mirth in his eyes betrays him, tells you he sees through it. You're learning that he's good at that -- seeing what you really mean, what you really want, who you really are, all the way down to the core. "Course I will," he says. "What man wouldn't miss cold hands bein' stuck up his shirt when he gets in bed?"

You scoff and Joel snickers. You could remind him how he usually catches your hands in his before you make it to his hemline on the rare nights he does wear a shirt, how he cradles your fingers and blows on them softly while rubbing them with his perpetually warm palms. The memory makes your breath hitch just a bit. 

It's only three days. Some conference your boss wanted you to go to in his stead. It won't require much of you -- you just have to attend a few panels, a dinner or two, and schmooze a little bit. You'll be back before you know it. You tell yourself it's silly to feel this apprehension at the distance, the time apart. But you're used to Joel by now and damn if you won't miss him. Used to him taking up space in your kitchen, used to his arm around you on the couch, used to his short texts and heavy gaze. You know by now that it's only a matter of time before you love him.  

"I'll miss you, too," you say softly. Joel eyes you, smirk turned soft again and reaches for you. He settles his palm on your thigh and you cover your hand with his. 

When you get to the airport aren't many cars around and you're pretty sure the attendants won't yell at you for idling. Joel seems to think the same thing as he gets out of the truck to set your luggage on the ground. You leave your now-empty to-go mug in his car and throw your arms around him when he gets to the curb with your suitcase. His chest rumbles in amusement but he hugs you back, one palm rubbing between your shoulder blades until you pull away. 

"Thank you for --"

"Nope," he interrupts you. "No thanks allowed." He hands you your backpack and you shoulder it. "I'll pick you up on Wednesday," he says. 

You wave him off. "I get in way too late, don't worry about it --"

His hand cups your cheek and the words sputter out in your throat. "I'll be here," he says again. 

"I'll call you," you say. "When I get there." It sounds like a question.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Please do."

"Thanks for the tea --"

"Now, what did I just say?"

You wrinkle your nose at him and he rolls his eyes before leaning in to press his lips to yours. You sigh into the kiss just a little though it remains chaste, mouths closed as his thumb strokes your cheek once, twice, before he pulls away. It's the kind of kiss that feels fond, feels familiar. A kiss that becomes routine and for a second you imgaine the press of your mouths a thousand times over just like this. 

"Safe flight, sweetheart."

You smile at him and grab your suitcase before you stand here kissing him all day. "Bye, Joel." 

6:04 am: you make it to your gate okay?

You send him a picture of your breakfast sandwich and the sun rising through the window, painting the sky purple and orange. 

6:05 am: don't text and drive!

He replies with a photo of a full mug of coffee on his counter. It's a silly one, a dinosaur wearing a Santa hat. You think Sarah got it for him as a gag gift. 

6:05 am: home already. let me know when you land

6:06 am: will do. have a good day!

The flight is pretty okay. You spend the bumpy moments thinking about Joel's hand on your leg and get through it just fine. A shuttle takes you to your hotel and you have to hurry a bit to be ready for your first panel. 

You're busy all day. So tired by the time you get back to your room that you flop on the bed with a groan. 

"Ugh," you say, face smushed into the sheets. You're tired and hungry and...you miss Joel and feel a little silly about it.

That sense of puppy love, as most people would call it, hasn't faded. Your feelings for Joel are more than the crush they were when you first started seeing each other but they still linger in the realm of infatuation. You like to look at him, to feel the solid warmth of him beside you, above you, underneath you. You like being near him. But you're also starting to love things. You love the way his voice sounds when he wakes up, the way he says your name over the phone, the way he asks you what you want, how you are, how your day was. You love to see him on your couch, in your kitchen, in your bed. You've started to miss him when he's not around. 

And what you said to him in his truck is true. You do miss him. It's an ache that sits in the center of your chest, an ache that feels like the best kind of bruise -- because it comes from something good. And because you know it'll be soothed soon enough. 

But, because you're only human, you doubt that it's as serious for him. Joel keeps his cards close to his chest and while you feel like you know him pretty well by now you also have so much to learn. So, though you really want to, you don't pick up the phone and call him. Maybe the next time you're away. 

7:54 pm: day 1 done! ready to get in bed. why do men talk so much?

He texts back immediately. 

7:54 pm: god knows. don't forget to order room service on the company dime. sweet dreams.

You laugh and do as he says. 

The rest of the conference goes the same. By day three you're exhausted and your face hurts from smiling at so many people. Your shoes are no longer comfortable and as soon as the closing keynote ends you're out of there, changing into soft clothes and taking the shuttle to the airport. You text Joel a picture of your airport dinner and then your eye bags and he replies with a cute that has you giggling a little too loudly in public. 

You just want to get home to him. Your own bed is a bonus. 

But then your flight gets delayed. Twice. Joel tells you not to worry, he'll pick you up in the middle of the night if he has to. Once you board you get stuck on the tarmac for another half hour before finally taking off. It's a decidedly less relaxing experience because you're so anxious to be home but you make it. When you land it feels like you're sitting in your seat for ages. You're tired and feel gross and you want to go to bed. Your phone turns back on and you've got one text waiting for you.

10:34 pm: i'll be by baggage claim

That was 15 minutes ago. He must have been checking your flight in the air to get here at a reasonable time. God, you want to touch him. You want to stick your nose in his neck and inhale. 

You try very hard not to run through the terminal to the escalator that goes down to arrivals. It seems to move really fucking slowly once you're on it. As soon as it gets far enough for you to see the baggage claim level and everyone waiting there your eyes search for him. You see some families, a few tired children sleeping in arms that hold them tenderly. A group of girls with a sign that reads WELCOME HOME RACHEL!

And then there's Joel.

Once you spot him it's hard to keep a smile from your face. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the escalator. Jeans, jacket, boots, and a firm set to his jaw that might be intimidating to anyone else but to you it's familiar. It's him. Once he sees you he stands a little taller and you see his cheek twitch. If someone wasn't in front of you you'd be down the steps in seconds but you wait until you're at the bottom to race forward. 

It's probably a bit dramatic. You drop your suitcase and backpack at your feet in front of him.

"Hi," you say, and then you throw your arms around his shoulders. Joel laughs. 

"S'like you're comin' home from war, or somethin'," he says, though his hugs you back just as tightly. "Should'a made a sign."

"Feels like it." Your words are muffled by his shoulder. 

"That bad, huh?" His palm drags up and down your spine. "Let's get you home, then."

Neither of you pull away. "I missed you," you say softly. 

Joel breathes deep and pulls away, hand on the back of your head as he makes sure you're looking at him. 

"Missed you, too," he says gruffly. Then he kisses you. It's less chaste than your goodbye kiss but still perfectly acceptable for airport arrivals, you think. 

"You hungry?"

"I sent you a picture of my dinner!"

"Not what I asked." You shrug and tangle your fingers with his. His thumb strokes the back of your hand. "We'll get you somethin' on the way home."

"Do you want to stay over?" you ask in a rush, realizing too late he's got no reason to want to. It's late and tomorrow is a workday. "I'm just gonna shower and go to bed but I--"

Joel's nostrils flare. "If you want me to I will." Simple as that. 

"Okay," you say. He squeezes your hand.

You walk in easy silence for a few moments. Once you're in the car you'll ask how his week was, tell him about the gossip you learned at the conference. You'll look at him the entire drive to your place, drinking your fill of him after three days without. Yeah, you're going to love him. It's just a matter of time.

"Thank you for coming to get me," you say. 

Joel looks like he wants to argue but he allows it.

"Anytime," he says. It sounds like a promise. 

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[brewsterispunkk]

devour (the entire universe)

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: E (additional warnings: harvesting violence, mentions of gore and blood, mentions of cannibalism, love as consumption and all the visuals that come with it, so much fucking and filth and ass play and cum eating it isn’t funny)

My submission for the @pedrostories Secret Santa event, my giftee is @wannab-urs ❤ Merry Christmas, my lovely!

I was so excited when I was given your name (!!) - I absolutely love seeing you on my dash. I tried to take as many things from your list as possible, but the prompt "love as consumption" really inspired this piece. Having never written anything like this before, I really, really hope you like it. A million thank yous to @hier--soir who beta'ed this for me and also gave me the best inspiration and guidance - I couldn't have done it without them. Thank you also to @bageldaddy who put up with my terrible spelling and who always reminds me, in the best way, that less is more ❤

--

CYCLE ONE

The first time you saw him, he stumbled into the field you were working in.  Your head snapping up at the sound of someone coming through the grass, you observed each other for a moment, each of your throwers raised. 

“Now this is something I have never seen in all my time in The Green,” he said. “A little girl.”

Immediately bristling, indignation flashed across your face underneath the glass dome of your helmet. You resented being called that - a little girl. The open prejudice against women harvesters was well known and there was something about his tone that felt mocking in a way you loathed, so you didn’t even dignify his statement with an answer. 

Instead, you held your ground. 

The two of you locked in a silent standoff, he took you in with a tilt of his helmet, assessing the threat you posed. You did the same, taking in his battered yellow suit, his lithe but broad frame. 

Eventually, he lifted his hands in acquiescence and turned, disappearing back into the thick vegetation. 

“A little girl,” you muttered angrily to yourself. Gouging your shovel into the rough soil, you sneered at the remembrance of his tone – as if he was taken aback by your presence. As if you didn’t belong here. 

Three weeks later, you understood the marvel in his initial statement. 

A woman an anomaly on the Green, others saw you as an easy target. Strong-armed out of your gems for the third time in weeks, other harvesters used brute force against your own smaller frame. Repeatedly forcing you into submission, you started to hate both them and yourself; the cruel environment and even crueler inhabitants bending you until you almost broke. 

It was at this point that he stumbled upon you again: only this time, he offered himself to your aid. 

Impressed by your tenacity, he suggested a partnership: your nimble fingers paired with his protection. 

Sitting in the dirt with your suit torn and your case gone, you knew it was foolish to reject his offer of protection, but you did it anyway. 

Both of you knew it was pride talking.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing you face to face. “I don’t see you have much of a choice. Or perhaps you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

You narrowed your eyes in stubbornness. “What’s in it for you?”

He shrugged. “A companion.”

You stiffened, and he shook his head. “Not that sort of companion.” His eyes raked over your form, as if he could see anything under your bulky suit, coming back to your face with a raise of his eyebrows. “Unless you’re interested?”

Your face hardened. “Not a chance. Protection only. Even split.”

He thought for a moment, his face suddenly transforming into something amenable.

“Of course.”

CYCLE TWO

At first, you hated him. 

Couldn’t stand the way he was always talking in that drawl of his, always spewing those endless sentences filled with nonsensical words and even less content. You had come to the Green to work alone in silence, after all. A concept he seemed to despise, given the way he wouldn’t fucking shut up. 

Attempting to ignore his ceaseless talking in the days that followed, you thought all the time about breaking the partnership - especially when you saw just how deceiving he could be with those words of his. It was a resource, you reasoned, to have that type of deception on your side, but what was stopping him from deceiving you? Constantly questioning his true allegiance, you kept your guard up – until the fourth time someone tried to take what was yours. 

He killed them. 

No hesitation, no negotiating. Calculated yet with a glimpse of something feral underneath that flashed in his dark eyes with every plunge of his harvesting knife into the man’s chest, you held your breath as you watched him take out the threat. Your form was frozen, the heavy grunts of his struggle echoing through your helmet. 

Chest heaving and fist gripping a blade covered in thick, dark blood when he rose, his breathing sounded heavy and labored through the radio. His deep voice crackled through, pulling you from your fog. 

“It’s okay, Birdie. Keep digging.”

CYCLE THREE 

Sharing a tent for logistical reasons, you had to get used to his…proximity. 

The careless way he discarded his clothes around the small space, the constant crinkle of Bits Bars. The way he changed his clothes in front of you whether or not you averted your gaze. His scent that clung to everything in that tent: the thin pillow and blanket he gave you, the towels you dried yourself with, the clothing he lent you to sleep in. 

Unused to having anyone in his presence, he was careless with his body and trying to give him some privacy (that he didn’t seem to want, nor need) you strained your eyes attempting not to look at his tanned skin every time he bared it. His body littered with evidence of survival, you wanted to touch every line of puckered skin with your fingertips just to see how it felt. 

Attraction due to proximity, is what you told yourself. 

Imagining the texture and heat of his skin, obsessing about the way his tongue peeked out to dart at his top lip when he was deep in concentration, staring at the size of his hands as he worked to daydream about how filling his fingers would feel inside you. The images haunted your every waking moment, and you tried to ignore them all, including the sleep thick mumbles that left his plush lips while he was dreaming at night. 

The intimate sound drove you mad with arousal, even though you assumed they were nightmares that plagued him…until the sounds changed into something more desperate. Until he said your name, his hips shifting on his cot with intent. 

Your pulse pounding in the dark, you slipped your hand beneath your waistband and delved your fingers deep into the silken wetness that greeted you. 

Swirling, swirling, swirling, you joined him in his dreams. 

CYCLE FOUR

Everything about your dynamic changed when he lost his arm. 

Used to him being confidence brimming over, he turned into something else. Sullen, quiet. The silence you once craved too foreign to be comfortable, you tried to coax him out. 

“You seem like you’ve been doing this a long time. Tell me about it.” 

“How long have you been on your own? How many planets have you harvested on?”

“How did you get that blonde streak in your hair, is it a birthmark or something?”

Slowly inching yourself into the hole he’d lowered himself into, you settled in next to him, curling yourself into his still side. 

Diving deep inside him to find the self-confidence you knew was buried deep, you cradled it carefully, nurturing it back to life. You modified his throwers for one armed use, stitched up the sleeve of his jumpsuit so it would stop flapping in the wind, helped him practice fighting techniques to learn a new way of throwing his lean strength around. When he had a setback in his healing, you bartered for more juice all on your own. 

Carefully soaking his stump, he had avoided your gaze the whole time – or tried to, but you wouldn’t let him. 

“Hey,” you murmured, his chin cupped in your hand. His dark eyes lifted to yours, and you held his gaze. “We’re still partners, right?”

He huffed in disgust, looking away. “A one armed man is of little benefit to you.”

“I decide what’s beneficial to me,” you challenged, the fierceness in your tone forcing the edge of his lips to tug up. 

He said nothing as his eyes searched your face and you considered how this must be for him – a reversal of roles, an independent creature like him used to coming out on top. Scrambling and clawing and fighting for it, sure – only this time he lost, and with it, everything he knew.

Except you. 

“I need you,” you said, reaching for his whiskered cheek to guide his face back to yours. “Partners. You and me, okay?”

“If you’d still have me, Birdie,” he offered, nodding in confirmation. “You and me.”

CYCLE FIVE

The first time you kissed, you were both drunk – and you did a lot more than kissing. 

For a man still getting used to one arm, he fucked you senseless. 

A bottle of…something found on the body of another harvester who saw Ezra’s missing arm and tried to take advantage, the two of you drank it in its entirety next to the still body left in the fight’s wake. Stumbling back to your tent with warmth spreading through your limbs to pool between your thighs, he saw your aching, restless want and matched it with his own. 

Insatiable, filthy, depraved: you thought his inhibitions were gone along with the contents of the bottle, but it turns out he never had any. 

Helmets tossed and clothes torn from each other’s bodies, his fingers left bruising marks in their wake paired with the ones pounded into the inside of your thighs from his rough thrusts that shifted the cot along the floor. He swallowed your guttural moans before matching them with his own, his teeth biting into the soft, pliant flesh that he found under the rough exterior of your suit. 

Riddled with the marks of his desire, he watched you ride him until you cried out his name and then made you sit on his face, licking his own spend out from inside you. 

Never stopping until you begged him for reprieve, he only let you sleep an hour before waking you up to do it all over again. 

He fucked you anywhere you were willing to be fucked after that: in broad daylight against the hull of an abandoned pod, bent over his cot with his dirty t-shirt stuffed into your mouth, right in the loose soil of a dig once. 

Introducing you to so much more than you had experience with, he drew every debased fantasy out of you, and then made it come true with his fingers, mouth and cock. Wondering where he’d even learned the things he knew, he regaled you with more tales of his travels, only this time he told you about the interactions of a different kind. 

A brothel, specializing in bondage. 

A woman who had trained her gag reflex, and then bringing in a friend, had shown Ezra how to train his as well. 

A bounty hunter once, who refused to take off his helmet. 

“It was thrilling, not being able to see his face,” he mused, a delighted smile stretching his cheeks. “He came more than anyone I have ever been with. Filled my mouth full of his milky desire.” 

He stopped there with a fond expression, lost in reminiscing. 

“Sounds like you don’t need me anymore,” you teased. “You should go find your tall drink of bounty hunter, and –”

A smirk graced his face, and he rolled you onto your back to settle above you. “I love my gems golden colored, but I love them green as well.” He winked. “Come now, my envious Birdie. I’ll always need you.”

CYCLE TEN

You learned to move as one - both inside the tent and out. 

Alone for months, you shifted with each others every movement, as if your bodies were connected just like the frequency of your helmets. Every tell of his showed plain through his suit, every mood shift of yours was met with a lift of his eyebrow. 

Every beat of time spent in the presence of one another all merged and blended into one timeline: before, and after Ezra. 

Before, there was insignificance, and after, there was only him. 

Love seemed too simple a word, too small for what you felt. You shared a heartbeat, a body, a mind — something more than just love. It was crushing and all consuming, something that took root deep inside you and branched out to connect with his own limbs. You needed a better word than love to describe your devotion. 

Something that dripped in reverence and coated your tongue just like he did. 

“Have you ever cared for someone so much you wanted to consume them? Swallow a piece of them whole, to keep within you forever?”

Love as consumption, he called it. 

You were used to his musings by now, the knowledge that he’d gathered over a lifetime of travels pouring out of his generous, plush mouth. Your bodies squeezed together on his cot, your skin was bare and sweat damp with exertion, your limbs intertwined with his. “There is something romantic about it, don’t you think? Wanting their body within yours.”

“Your body is already within mine nearly every night,” you teased, and he pinched the tip of your nose, grinning. 

“Too true, little bird. Too true.” His face shifted from playful to something subdued. “But you know what I mean.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” Your thumb traced a line across his eyebrow, your fingers seeking out the patch of white in his hairline just above.  “Want me to slice a piece of you off and eat it?”

He ignored the grimace on your face. “Which part of me would you choose?”

The question was phrased in such a way that you could tease him again, but you knew he wanted a real answer, not a playful one. 

“Well…” you thought, lacing your fingers with his to bring them to your mouth. “I have always loved these. But to leave you with any less fingers would just be cruel.”

He huffed a laugh, his eyes fixed on the way your mouth molded around his knuckles as you gave them a kiss. Letting go, your touch drifted to dance along the blunt edge of his stump.

“Maybe a piece from here?”

He frowned. “You’d take even more from me, in a place I am already lacking?”

Your voice dropped an octave, your own expression turning solemn. “It was horrible, what we had to do. I hate thinking about it: the weight of your arm as it dropped away, the pain you were in.” You found his dark eyes, holding his gaze as you stroked the puckered flesh. “I want to carve a piece out right here, just to rewrite the memory of it. A gift from you to me, rather than something I took.”

“You took nothing that I did not beg you to take.”

The double meaning in his words – like all of them – wasn’t lost on either of you. 

“Only you would make amputation sound so romantic.”

He smiled, and you dug your fingers into the firm round of his shoulder, pulling his body to lie on top of yours. Cradled safely between your plush thighs, his hips immediately rocked forward with intent. 

His head dipped to nuzzle his nose against your own. “It’s easy to be a romantic with a muse such as you.”

Catching him with a kiss, your lips locked as he slid his tongue inside the wet cavern of your mouth and you breathed him in, winding your arms around his neck to keep him in place. Your fingers slid up through the crown of his mussed, shortly cropped hair and he relaxed on top of you, deepening the kiss. 

“I would give you my arm if I could.” 

You whispered your confession as his mouth covered your pulse with a harsh suck, and whined when he answered with a sharp bite: his incisors pinching your delicate flesh. His hot breath ghosted humid over your skin as he searched for another spot, biting down on the other side of your slim neck. 

Arching underneath him, you continued. “I would cut it off and give it to you.” 

He found the tender underside of your breast, catching it between his teeth and groaned, soothing the bite with a broad sweep of his tongue before continuing down the plane of your body. 

“I would give you anything, Ez. Anything.”

Mindless with lust from the sharp edges of his love, you writhed underneath him, hitching your knees higher along his torso. His strong muscles flexed and shifted under the squeeze of your legs, and he forced them open to spread your legs wider. Questing, his mouth sought out the tender skin along the curve of your hip with another bite. 

“Fuck,” you breathed, pushing your fingers through his hair to guide him lower. 

Situating his broad shoulders between your thighs, his mouth devoured.

Wide open to catch everything you gifted him, his tongue slid smoothly through your folds to collect every slip of arousal that dripped out, his throat bobbing with a swallow before going harder. His hunger shifted you up the cot, the lower half of his face buried inside your aching cunt and when his tongue found your clit with a smooth, forceful grind, you shamelessly begged for more. 

“Harder. Eat it harder.”

He growled, his fingers digging into your flesh to tug you tight against his face and a hoarse cry crawled out of your throat – one that broke into an astonished cry when he pulled back just to bite into the plush, smooth skin of your inner thigh. This one drew blood – you could feel the hot slip of it against your skin, his kisses smeared with it. Ignoring the blossoming throb of pain, you asked him to do it again. 

He did, right at the same time he slid two fingers inside you with a filling stretch and joining your hand with his, he rested his cheek on your inner thigh and watched as your fingers breached your slick warmth together. A finger of your own and one of his, then two of your own and two of his - your hands worked together, as they always have. His face right next to the liquid warmth coating the digits, his tongue joined to lap at your clit. 

Obscene sounds filled the small tent: the audible slick sound of your cunt accepting his fingers over and over again, your higher pitched moans blending with his lower ones. Keeping his fingers tucked snugly inside, his mouth lowered down between your cheeks to slide against your asshole and he ate you there with abandon as well, your thighs dropping open wider to give him more room. 

When his mouth found your clit again with a suck, the impulse to be eaten alive by him spread thick and warm through your hips, weighing heavily in your core. Propelled higher and higher with every pump of his fingers, the image of his blood soaked mouth as his teeth tore into your pulse made you pitch forward into your release, your body bowing against the thin cot. 

Breathless and still riding a pulsing wave, you begged him. “Come up here and fuck me.”

He obeyed immediately, letting his weight push the air from your lungs just before his mouth stole the rest. His kisses soaked in desperation, his cock notched thick and stiff at your entrance, and you accepted him within you without any resistance. Fucking you with harsh snaps of his hips, your fingers dug into the meat of his ass and surrounded in his warmth with the light blacked out by his broad frame, your lips found a home on his bicep that flexed taut next to your cheek.

Your body cradled within his, the humid air around you pulsing with life. The rhythmic woosh of his strong heartbeat, the safety you’d feel within the damp darkness, finally joined as one. 

His strokes snapped harder, his own want matching yours. His mouth ached to bite your soft lips, to nibble on the skin until it broke under the force of his love. 

His harvesting knife slipped between his ribs to crack them open, gifting you everything held inside. Feeding you bits and pieces of his heart, watching the muscle that’s only ever beat for you disappear between your lips. 

“Where do you want it, Birdie?” he begged above you, his mouth molding around the hinge of your jaw, tasting the sweet skin there. “I’m gonna come. Shit – shit. Where do you want it?”

“Inside me.”

A shudder slipped through his body as he came with a loud, sated groan, his hips forcing themselves into the cradle of your thighs to bury it as deep as possible – but he wasn’t done. He was never done, when it came to you. Before he could catch his breath, he slid his softening cock from your warmth and replaced it with his fingers, crooking them to gather the milky spend. 

Bringing them up to your mouth, he fed it to you. 

Glistening tendrils of release coated his fingers and your lips, smeared across your tongue when he forced them into your mouth and then sliding them out, he kissed you deeply, savoring your joined taste. He gathered more, this time shifting his touch to the tight ring of your ass and he pushed some in there as well, your hips arched up to accept it. 

Sweat, spend, blood: he consumed them all and likewise fed them to you. Hours slipped by, his appetite for you insatiable: forcing you onto your hands and knees to eat you roughly from behind, filling your ass with his cock before pulling out to spill hot across your lower back, smearing it over your skin like a balm, his fingers tacky with it when he wrapped them around your slender throat and made you take him again. Riding him, your fingers sought out the wet heat of his mouth and he kissed and nibbled on them, before drawing them in with a suck. 

The vast universe outside the tent was a threatening thing: harsh and unforgiving, ruthless and deadly. Inside the tent, tendrils of filthy intimacy surrounded your bodies as you orbited each other, creating your own universe between the sweat damp press of your bodies. 

“You and me,” he breathed under you, his teeth catching on the pads of your fingers and you dropped down, resting your mouth just under the whiskered curve of his jaw. His pulse a rapid beat under the skin, you relished the strength held just under the surface. 

“You and me,” you replied, your mouth opening wide.

[brewsterispunkk]

never not reblog . this is a tour de force

fwb!joel | masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: two friends decide to blow off a little steam together. slowly but surely, it turns into more. series warnings/tags: jackson era, established friendship, friends with benefits, friends to lovers, age gap [20 years], so much smut, jealousy. explicit warnings included in each part. main masterlist

one - whole new can of worms

two - cat's outta the bag

three - don't cry over spilt milk

four - bite the bullet