#Daniel Tacke

[battiestbelfry]

i really did read about daniel molloy getting tacks poured into his pussy just now huh

[missyourflight]

.

[iydiamartinx]

THE ART OF RESTRAINT II

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 2.3k synopsis: At Gotham’s most exclusive gala, your calendar shoot with Bruce Wayne has made you the center of attention. But when admiration turns inappropriate, Bruce intervenes… and stakes a claim that ignites everything you’ve tried to bury. a/n: Due to popular demand here is part 2! Also I think I might make this a series, what do you all think?

A month later, Gotham’s elite gathered beneath chandeliers and champagne towers, draped in couture and cloaked in vanity. The Gotham Foundation Gala had always been an affair of power, legacy, and whispered deals between glasses of merlot.

You and Bruce were always considered the most powerful and wealthiest donors in attendance but this year, thanks to the calendar shoot, the two of you were the main attraction.

You in black silk, the fabric hugging just the right places and cut high all the way to the thigh. You in heels sharp enough to draw blood. You standing beneath towering canvases of the now-infamous calendar shoot—each photo blown up and framed like art, lit from below in gold.

There you were, pinning Bruce Wayne to a bed with a mouthful of fire and a stare that had made half of Gotham’s boardrooms sweat.

And beside it?

Another photo: Bruce above you, hand at your throat, the whisper of his lips nearly brushing yours, both of you suspended in a moment so thick with tension, it still made you hot under the collar.

Compliments followed you all night.

“You looked incredible in those shots—was it really staged?”

“Don’t you two have insane chemistry?”

“I’m shocked the sheets didn’t catch fire.”

You smiled politely. Nodded. Deflected.

You were swirling your drink near one of the gallery displays—your own photo looming behind you in all its controversial glory—when a man stepped into your periphery.

Tall. Well-dressed. Mid-forties, maybe. Clean-cut and confident in that way men get when they think their money makes them interesting.

“You know,” he began conversationally, his tone easy, “I don’t usually like these calendar stunts.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

“But this year?” His gaze flicked to the framed shot of you straddling Bruce, lips nearly touching. “I might frame that one for my office.”

You offered a tight smile, the kind that conveyed your disinterest with causing such a scandal you would be plastered over the front page of the news. 

“You’ve got half the room talking,” he continued, holding out a hand. “Daniel. I run acquisitions over at Monarch Holdings.”

You took his hand briefly. “Pleasure.”

“Is he here?” Daniel asked, nodding toward the photo. “Wayne.”

“He was as much a part of this as I was, so yes—he’s here.” Unfortunately. But you didn’t tack that part on. Instead, you simply nodded toward where he stood, surrounded by a cluster of socialites, all of them fawning as he gifted them one of his signature, devastatingly charming grins.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, the stem of your champagne flute pressing tighter between your fingers—just enough to betray the irritation you refused to show on your face.

“So,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly, “are you two…?”

You gave a bland smile. “Are we two what?”

He laughed like he hadn’t been fishing. “You know what I mean. That shoot didn’t look staged.”

“That’s the job,” you replied coolly. “To make it look real.”

“Right,” he said, eyes still on you. “Well, it worked. Hell of a performance. Intense. Sexy.” He took a sip of his drink, then leaned in just a little. “He’s a lucky man to have had this opportunity with a woman like you.” His eyes raked down your figure, slow and deliberate. “You belong on camera. Honestly, if you ever wanted to do something a little more… private, I know a few people who’d pay a fortune to see it and wouldn’t mind seeing you in something even racier. Hell, I’d fund the shoot myself. Bet you’ve got a few poses he couldn’t pull out of you.

You blinked once. Your eyes narrowing into slits.

The chill in your stare should’ve been enough.

The audacity of this man, propositioning you like you were some whore.

You were one of the richest, most powerful women in the city—your name carried more weight than some entire empires. You had more money than you knew what to do with—the only reason you agreed to the shoot and didn’t tear your assistant a new one was because the proceeds were being donated to the less fortunate. And yet, here he was. Looking at you like you were a toy he could buy. Like some bored little trophy to pose next to him at the next shareholders’ gala.

Your jaw tightened. The words burned behind your teeth, sharp and exact, already forming—

But before you could let them fly, you felt it.

A presence at your back.

Broad. Warm. Unmistakable.

A hand rested at the small of your back—large, steady, and maddeningly familiar. His palm pressed gently against the silk of your gown, anchoring you. Possessive in the subtlest way. Protective in the most public one.

You didn’t have to look.

You already knew who it was.

“I’ve always admired ambition,” Bruce said, stepping into view with a glass of champagne in hand and the kind of effortless grin that made people underestimate him.

His eyes met Daniel’s. Calm. Almost friendly.

“But approaching another man’s date in front of a twelve-foot photo of them practically making out?” Bruce tilted his head, faux-impressed. “That’s bold.”

Daniel blinked. “I didn’t realize—”

He stepped in a little closer, casual and unbothered. The warmth of his hand still lingered at your back.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said with an airy wave of his glass. “You couldn’t have known. We’ve been keeping things quiet.”

You fought the urge to bristle.

The words we’ve been keeping things quiet scraped against every instinct you had. You wanted to cut in, to correct him, to remind everyone in earshot that there was no we.

But you didn’t.

Because as much as it made your blood simmer, Bruce was helping you—even if you hadn’t asked for it. Even if you didn’t need it. And calling him out now, in front of half the gala, would only turn eyes and whispering mouths on both of you and not in a good way.

“You know how it is—mixing business and pleasure,” he went on, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. He leaned in slightly, as if confiding something scandalous, though every word was meant to be overheard. “Gets messy. Especially when other people try to insert themselves where they don’t belong.”

“I do applaud the attempt, though,” Bruce said lightly. “but the truth is… most men wouldn’t know what to do with someone like her.”

Daniel opened his mouth, perhaps to disagree but Bruce didn’t give him a chance.

“Just friendly advice,” Bruce added, with a wink and a sip of his drink. “I’d hate to see you step into something you can’t afford.”

Dan’s smile froze.

For a moment, he just stood there, caught in the pause between realization and retreat. The veneer of confidence he wore so easily began to splinter, cracking beneath the weight of Bruce’s words—a quiet reminder of exactly who you were, and more importantly, who he wasn’t.

He shifted his drink, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Cleared his throat. Laughed—too light, too forced.

His eyes flicked between you and Bruce, searching for a foothold, for some hint that he hadn’t just been publicly dressed down by Gotham’s most powerful man for daring to proposition a woman so clearly out of his reach.

Bruce didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give him an inch.

Eventually, Dan let out an awkward chuckle and took a careful step back. “Didn’t mean to step on toes.”

“You didn’t,” Bruce said, smooth as silk. “But it’s best to watch your footing anyway.”

Dan took the out and disappeared into the crowd, ego limping behind him.

The moment he was gone, you turned to him, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?”

He took a sip of his drink, looking far too pleased with himself. ““Just offering an innocent man a word of warning,” he said, his expression was all practiced innocence. “He seemed a little too eager to bring the devil into his bed.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to slap the glass out of his hand. “You were marking your territory like a dog in a tux.”

He smiled. “A charming dog in a very expensive tux.”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd, weaving between silken gowns and murmured gossip until you found a quiet corridor near the ballroom’s edge. You shoved him through the first unlocked door you found—an unused sitting room glittering with old portraits and low lighting. 

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, muffled by velvet walls and the hum of distant music. 

You turned on Bruce before he could say a word.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He stood there, cool and collected, the very image of effortless wealth and unbothered masculinity. The undone bow tie at his collar made him look almost disheveled. Almost. Just enough to make your jaw clench.

He set his glass down calmly, unbothered. “He was a jackass.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snapped, voice rising, heat flooding your cheeks. “We’re not together. You don’t get to claim me like that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t see you stopping me.”

You glared. “I was about to.”

You both knew that was a lie.

His smirk said it all.

He stepped closer, closing the space like it didn’t exist—until you could feel the heat of him again.

“So do it now,” he said softly, voice like smoke. “Tell me to stop.”

You stared up at him, fury and something else flickering behind your eyes.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, fists clenched. “You can—”

But the rest never came.

Because the next second, his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, claiming.

It was months—no, years—of tension, weeks of silence, and one steamy photoshoot slamming into you like gravity. He kissed you like he’d been waiting—like he’d been starving—and you answered without hesitation, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket as your back hit the wall.

He tasted like champagne and fury. His mouth crashed against yours with months of tension behind it. His hands found your hips, your thigh, your waist—hoisting you up with barely a grunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair as he pressed you harder into the wall.

Your dress hitched up as one of his hands trailed dangerously high. His jacket slipped off his shoulders. The kiss deepened. Frantic. 

It was messy and heated. 

All the unspoken tension that had stretched between you for years—every boardroom standoff, every argument, every glare that lingered with too much heat—snapped in an instant, and now you were pouring it into each other like gasoline on a lit match.

If only the photographer could see you now.

“You’re impossible,” you gasped against his mouth, barely able to catch your breath between kisses.

“So are you,” he muttered, voice rough with want, dragging his mouth down the curve of your throat. “So damn impossible.”

Then he found it—your sweet spot—and latched on, sucking hard.

Your head tipped back against the wall with a quiet, broken whimper as pleasure bloomed hot and dizzy beneath your skin. Your nails scraped down his chest, dragging across fine fabric and hard muscle, just to ground yourself.

You were lost in it—In him, his mouth at your throat, your legs locked around his waist—when the door creaked open. 

Laughter spilled in.

“Oh—oh my God.”

Both of you froze.

And there they were: three socialites standing in the doorway with wide, sparkling eyes and champagne flutes frozen mid-air. One covered her mouth in dramatic glee. Another whipped out her phone. Behind them, of course, stood Dan, red-faced and horrified, looking like he wished the marble floor would swallow him whole.

Your legs were still locked around Bruce’s waist.

His hands were still on you—one gripping your thigh, the other splayed possessively against your lower back, as if even now, he had no intention of letting go.

Your lipstick was halfway to nonexistent, the rest smeared across his mouth.

And then there was the mark.

The very visible, unmistakable claim he’d left on your neck—dark, blooming, and already turning heads.

There was no hiding what you two were doing.

The girls giggled like it was the juiciest scandal they’d ever seen and pulled the door shut behind them, their laughter echoing off marble.

You exhaled sharply, head thudding back against the wall.

Bruce’s forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard—still tangled in the heat of what almost happened, and the reality of what did.

You shoved lightly at his chest.

He let you.

Then his hands slid to your waist, steadying you as he helped you down. His hands didn’t linger.

He fixed your hem without being asked, then straightened his jacket.

Then Bruce cleared his throat and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone. “So… dinner?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just turned, reaching down to grab your fallen clutch. You swiped your thumb across your smeared lipstick, and headed for the door.

At the threshold, you paused.

“Pick me up at eight,” you said, trying—and failing—to hide the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Saturday.”

Then you turned and walked out, heels clicking like a gavel against the marble floor.

Behind you, The Bruce Wayne stood grinning like he’d just closed the biggest deal of his life.

And maybe… he had.

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Tag List: @jeudieohvjdjtg

[star-strings-spills]

Honestly, I could see Herbert having a respect for that side of nature in some way.

It's just awe-inspiring that nature has been around for billions of years before us and will likely be here for billions more after. It always reclaims what we take from it when it no longer serves a purpose to us, no matter how long it's been since we chased it off. We might abandon buildings and cities and everything in between eventually, but nature never does. Not entirely, and not forever.

It's a level of undying devotion that most people could never sustain, just like his devotion to defying death and creating new life in spite of God. After all, it's in spite of us that nature has continued to adapt and survive all this time. It just keeps thriving in our ruins regardless of how hard we try to eradicate it, and that's powerful.

Maybe I'm just too enamored with the power in that side of nature myself, but I do think he'd find a kindred spirit in that resilience. Just the sheer defiance of what was "intended design" and refusing to be shackled by it.

I don't know, it's just a thought I've been pondering, and these doodles kinda made me reflect on it more. Thanks for the brain food I guess. 😅

Dan would never garden, but it would be cool if he did

[welcometosasakiworld]

DPXDC prompt #29

Everything was perfect, Jason has an amazing girlfriend, the pit is quieter, and he is getting along well with his family. The only thing he didn't like it was his family demands in meeting his girlfriend, soon to be wife if he got the courage to ask her brother for permission.

Tim: So... how did you guys meet, Jason is considered the 'black sheep'?

God bless his soul, his girlfriend decided to be gremlin.: Oh, everybody has a bad cousin that teaches you a few things... like how to smoke, how to pick-pocket, how to hot-wire a car, how to put tacks on your shoe when you want to throw off a lie-detecting test. :)

Jason: Which cousin was this?

Danielle 'Chaotic Little Shit' Fenton: *whisper to jason* I am the cousin... *throw a smile towards his family*.

[leaderwonim]

𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐘 — twelve: I’m sure lots of people would want to be friends with you

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. lee heeseung x fem!reader, park sunghoon x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. Y/N always knew that her high school was dominated by wealth and privilege. Upon having a one night stand with popular athlete Lee Heeseung, she uncovers that Heeseung's friend group controls not only social dynamics but also school policies and local affairs, revealing a hidden world of power and manipulation behind their so called perfectly polished exteriors

masterlist | previous | next

“So, what’s wrong?” Riki puts down his chopsticks, looking directly into your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

He scoffs. “I mean, you wouldn’t just drive me to eat noodles at 9pm at night.”

“I can’t drive you to eat for some sibling bonding time?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“You know that’s not it.”

You sigh. “Fine. Someone sent me a picture of Giselle with Heeseung.”

“Heeseung? You mean the guy you keep fawning over in your spam?”

“That’s Sunghoon.”

Riki throws his hands in the air exasperatedly. “I don’t keep up with these Korean dudes you like noona.”

“Noona?” Your eyes widen at that. “You’re already using Korean phrases?”

Your little brother smiled sheepishly, rubbing his neck in an awkward manner. “Yeah, first day of school I made a friend who was also a foreigner. Her name’s Danielle.”

No fucking way.

“Danielle?” Your mouth runs dry, but you don’t want to ruin things for your brother. He’s made a new friend, and Danielle doesn’t seem half as bad as Hanni.

“Why? Is there a problem with her?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. As long as she’s nice to you then I’m happy for you.”

Riki nods, picking up his chopsticks to dig into his ramen bowl once again. “You need to take me out every weekend.”

“Who said?”

“Mom!”

The next day at school had Lee Heeseung dreading his entire life. Not only were things awkward ever since he told Hanni he’s loved her, but you were still ignoring him.

And as a cherry on top, he had quite literally had a meltdown in your best friend’s arms, who, despite reassuring him it wasn’t embarrassing, still made him feel like the biggest loser of them all.

“Hey guys,” Heeseung says, making his way over to Seojun.

The boy clears his throat awkwardly, looking at everywhere else but Heeseung.

“Hey Hee.” At least Danielle was kind enough to greet him. She was always like that, kind and bubbly. It’s a real shame Heeseung and her were under what felt like a dictator friendship.

“Hey man, we were talking last night and uh,” Seojun scratches his neck awkwardly. “We think it’s best if you take a break from our group, you know, for just a little while.”

Heeseung swears his heart just drops at that moment. All the way to the ground.

“What? Why?”

He notices how Hanni looks at her newly polished nails while Seojun and Danielle both have a slumped look on their faces.

“Well you’re kind of the most emotional person we’ve ever met.” Sunghoon says, and Heeseung has to stop himself from letting out a huge scoff because who the fuck does Park Sunghoon think he is?

Heeseung knew all of them first. Heeseung was friends with all of them first, and now Sunghoon was speaking for the rest of them and essentially kicking him out of his own group of friends?

“And no offense, but you’re really ruining the group dynamic.”

He was ruining the group dynamic? Him? After all he’s done to keep the friendship in tacked, after all he’s done to make sure his feelings for Hanni didn’t get in the way of his friendship with Sunghoon, after he let Hanni slam the dork in his face so she wouldn’t feel weird about his confession? He was the one that ruined the group dynamic?

“So you’re blowing me off just because of that?”

Seojun puts his hands on Heeseung’s shoulder, which should bring comfort, but it only feels like burns being printed on his skin. “Once you get over this sad emotional phase, I’m sure lots of people would want to be friends with you.”

Heeseung now scoffs, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the nonsense that he was hearing. “Fine. This is what you want, right? Hanni? Danielle?”

Danielle doesn’t say anything, she just frowns and looks away.

“It’s for the best.” Hanni says. “It’s not like it’s permanent Hee.”

“Don’t call me that.” Heeseung turns around, practically radiating anger as he walks away from the group.

He doesn’t look where he’s going, too blinded by the hurt he felt at his own friends’ words.

Suddenly hit by another body, Heeseung falls backwards, slamming into the floor.

“Oh my God—I am so sorry,” he mutters out, grabbing the textbook of the person he bumped into on the floor.

“It’s okay really,”

He knows that voice. He fucking knows it.

“Y/N?”

You cringe at the realization that you’ve just bumped into Lee Heeseung, and almost as if he knows you’re going to try to leave him, he holds onto your wrist.

“Please, let me talk to you.”

“I’m busy.” You say, eyes scanning the room for your friends. “Heeseung, let go.”

“No, please. Just let me talk to you for 5 minutes, I’ll leave you alone forever after that if that’s what you want.”

You sigh, watching his defeated eyes bore into yours. No matter how much it hurt that night at the Gala when you saw Heeseung leave with Hanni, you still have feelings for him buried underneath you.

“Okay.” You say, and that’s enough to make Heeseung’s heartbroken face turn into a smiling one.

“Thank you Y/N, thank you.”

And who knows, maybe this would be the biggest mistake of your life, but whatever happens, happens.

AUTHOR’s NOTE: oh!!! it just gets worse and worse for heeseung 😭😭

taglist 1 (closed) @lilyuwon @soobeboobe @immelissaaa @coqhee @shuichi-sama @ssukiyakii @deobitifull @sunpov @anittamaxwynnn @minjaexvz @katarinamae @capri-cuntz @jooniesbears-blog @sakanelli-afc @lvlyjisung @cherlv @mnxnii @llvrhee @b0bbl3s @lwavander @txtlyn @heartheejake @realrintaro @wonyoungsvirus @hyuckies18 @thinkinboutbin @yoonjise @rikizm @cinnamon-won @samouryed @moon4moony @jakesfurry @yunjinhuhjennifer @viagumi

[loumandaniel]

Heyyyyy a long time follower and I hope you don't mind me asking this; do you have any armandaniel fic recommendations that doesn't have past dm? Also on that note how do you think armandaniel would look ( if it is to be a thing ) if there were no past dm?

oh, boy, do i!

a haunting just for company by valkyrisms (e)

"I know what a breakup looks like," Daniel says. "The better question is, why are you coming to me about it? I'm the one who broke up your little sham." "This is what humans do, don't they?" Armand asks, letting his voice drop. "Crashing on their friends' couches when there's a blip in their romances?"

i'll fix you and have my fill by breackers_dock (t)

The “Daniel had a stroke in the apartment and Armand panicked and turned him because he didn’t know what else to do” theory, but treated seriously. ((this is one of my favorite turning fics btw))

all human decisions by luckydicekirby (m)

Daniel might be a newly minted best-selling conspiracy theorist whose sanity was being publicly debated on every existing social media platform, but he was still a journalist. He could track down one monstrous extremely divorced serial killer, easy.

open up your skull, i'll be there by anonymous (e)

Armand turns up in New York, and then he leaves. Daniel's not having that.

you said if they do dm - they've confirmed they are! they've built armand and daniel as complimentary foils with an undercurrent of *~romance~* they're meant to mirror and oppose the other.

and so for the second question:

to me, their story together is about mutual and brutal recognition as the knife turned inward. that's the dm romance story to me! with the version we have of them now, i don't think a romance in the traditional sense will ever work, but, i mean, no other romance has worked for them either. daniel's played father and husband and armand's trying so hard to play perfect companion, but i think the recognition of their worst truths is far more intimate than their attempts at a traditional love.

they want to break and understand and break and mold. both of them want to press on the other's sorest spots and there's something undeniably romantic about figuring out exactly where the wounds are buried ('it's alice, louis' versus 'armand, amadeo, arun'). they're drawn together because of the other's ability to recognize that.that's where their love lives: the parts of themselves no one else could tolerate.

i do think daniel started really writing, publishing, and marketing the book with an attempt to pull armand's attention. i think daniel's position in s3 is simply 'why?' daniel wants to unmask armand and armand wants to be unmasked -on his terms.

and you can still tie into book canon with armand's fear of a fledgling. daniel isn't the naive and eager book version. he's going to analyze and dissect and enjoy the Gift with an endurance of years tacked onto his belt. that's going to be terrifying to armand. daniel destroys himself and others with easy and that makes him unpredictable - a cold killer. and isn't that just fun going forward in this show? :)

[passivenovember]

Steve's never tried a weed brownie before.

Hasn't really wanted to, if he's honest, because the rag-weed shit he gets from Tommy all throughout high school is fine. Even though it's mostly shake and stems and seeds, and the bag Tommy puts it in always looks like it's been mauled by Scotty, his 15 year old schnauzer.

It has to be the same bag, Steve thinks, but maybe that's the 20 minute high talking.

So he's never tried a brownie.

But. Billy Hargrove comes into his life like a storm cloud. Black and gray with impending doom, snagging the air around him with little fish weights until everything is heavy. At first.

But. Then Steve makes him laugh once during a game of shirts and skins, and. It's like the belly of the thing has ripped open, y'know, and the streets of the thing flood with rainwater, and all that existed before is washed down some swallowing, insatiable gutter along with mulch and twigs and the shaky belief that Steve's straight.

They're friends and Steve watches Billy laugh and smile, feels all ten fingers against his chest when Billy shoves him, some sort of atomical reaction to Steve making him laugh, and.

Steve can't believe he ever thought Heaven was in Nancy Wheeler's pants.

--

So.

Billy Hargrove is the Earth after the flood, and the ark carrying everyone to safety. He's the animals inside and the God that sits, watching the world swallow itself.

He feeds things, to Steve.

Lines. You got a really pretty mouth, Harrington. You're smart, you know that? Not. Book smart, but street smart. Dirt road intelligent, I guess, in this shitty fuckin' Hickville hellscape--

Feeds Steve art. That's Samuel Baruch. He's my favorite. Look how he paints cloth, how he tracks the divets and the folds and the shadows. It's like a photo. It's like a window--

Steve makes Billy laugh when he says, "That lady kind of looks like you." Feels all ten fingers on his arm, pushing, when he says, "You'd look cute in a bonnet." Steve nearly falls over. Almost goes easy, but he doesn't.

Billy grabs him. Holds him as he smirks, "Where the fuck would I find a bonnet?"

Steve looks around the art hall, eyes wide and owlish, "Indiana?" He says, out there. In here. And.

Billy stares at him. He's the canvas and the lady in her bonnet, the divets and the folds and the shadows, the artist himself when he wets his thumb and sticks it in Steve's ear. "Dumbass," He says.

Steve finally gets everyone's thing about art.

He snaps a mental image of the afternoon and tries not to smother it in his hands.

--

So.

Steve. His eyes open, bit by bit. And what he finds is blinding. Like he fell asleep in the back of his mother's station wagon and awoke to the screaming light of high noon.

Billy's like the sun, longer Steve knows him. Storm clouds be damned.

Like. He talks about art. And he feeds lines and compliments for shits and giggles, never really noticing that Steve falls for it, a dumb catfish stuck on Billy's sharp, unforgiving hook.

He does all that but he smokes. Weed and cigarettes. He drinks.

He takes Steve to parties and says, "Ever try this before, Bambi?" But it's just Jack Daniels. But. Billy leaning with his elbow on the wall next to Steve's neck, close enough that he can smell Billy's sweat and cologne. He's smiling and his lips are cherry red, rio red, and.

He wants to roll in it.

So. He says, "No," Because, "I haven't."

It's the truth.

So Billy feeds it to him right out of the bottle. Makes him get on his knees. Slaps Steve's wrists away when he tries to hold the vessel himself, because.

Something's happening. Here. There.

Steve stares up at Billy through his eyelashes, trying not to go blind.

--

He blacks out and wakes up in the face of some bitch in a red bikini.

He's still drunk, so it takes him longer than it should to realize she's a poster tacked to somebody's, and he's not at home, and someone's snoring on the rug next to him.

Steve wiggles his toes. Fingers. Tries to remember what happened after Billy's hair caught the dining room lamplight but it's all a blur of sea stone eyes and bright white teeth and all ten fingers, rubbing at him while he threw up under the four way stop on Douglas Street.

Steve groans.

He rolls onto his side and tucks into himself and falls asleep, hoping Billy got home okay.

--

It's silver when a warm, flat palm shakes him alive. "You gotta go," Someone says, their voice rough like flannel bed sheets.

Steve blinks up, into the silver light, and sees Billy. Considers padding from the mattress to sleep inside of Billy's throat, where he'll be warm. It's a familiar urge. It's entirely new.

Steve aches. "What time--"

"--Just before five. My dad gets up early for work," Billy says, like that's supposed to mean castles are crumbing in their kingdom, but he's staring at something on Steve' face.

Really puts things into perspective, because maybe it's supposed to be an emergency. The first wisps of smoke from a forest fire, but Billy has bed head. And pillow lines on his face. And he's looking at Steve like there's something stuck in his throat.

Steve rubs at himself, trying to clear exhaustion and embarrassment. Really, just rubbing it into himself like lotion. "It's Saturday." He says.

"We're poor," Billy tells him, "My dad--"

"Where am I?"

Billy stares at him for a moment and then chuckles, shaking his head, "With me," He mutters.

Steve wants to curl into it like a cat.

--

He's rushed out of the room. He has to climb through the window while Billy keeps watch like a guard dog, and Steve lands on his ankle funny so it isn't until later when he's showered and hung over and falling onto his own mattress that he realizes Billy was in a panic.

That was Billy panicking, like Steve gets when his dad tells him to clean his room before he gets home from work, but Steve was full of concrete and wouldn't do it. Just like that, but worse.

Steve tosses and turns and tries to decipher what there was to be panicked about. Billy's room was clean.

Not just clean but spotless, like someone took a billow pad soaked in bleach and scrubbed every wall and baseboard until nothing remained except that bitch in her red bikini.

The only witness to Steve crawling out through an open window.

--

The more he thinks about it the more it feels like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

He combs through the memory of waking up in Billy's room. He tries to piece together hazy, half-baked image of beige carpet and the bookshelf and the little makeshift vanity that housed all of Billy's hair products.

Steve searches for a spot of the boy he knows. He calls Samuel Baruch's name and hears it shatter against empty, maroon-colored walls and the bikini girl's airbrushed rack.

He tries to envision a wayward sock, left out in the cold. A cup of water on the bedside table. Used tissues on the bedsheets.

Anything.

Steve blinks around his own room and wonders if clutter is a luxury only afforded to boys in houses paid by Monday through Friday workweeks.

He tries to imagine Billy in that room inside the house on Cherry Lane, happy, sleeping until noon in his own boyhood nest while his father gets ready for work.

It sits heavy in Steve's chest. A fairytale.

--

So.

Billy asks him during homeroom on Monday if he's ever had a weed brownie. Really, he scribbles it on a note and has Mary Sandoval stick it under Steve's elbow on her way to the bathroom.

Steve presses the note open on his desk until it's delicately wrinkled, mulling the question over in his mind. He spent the weekend driving himself crazy trying to come up with a reason to invite Billy over, a nook to slip into so he can ask the hard questions.

This could be it.

Steve peeks over his shoulder, flushing pink when Billy wags his tongue.

He has a black eye.

Steve snaps like a piece of rotted driftwood. He turns back to the note and scribbles no, but I'll try one if you have it. Has Mary take it back with her.

Figures. Billy should see his room. Steve should open his eyes.

--

"Why does it smell like that?"

"Like what, pretty boy?"

"Like. Gasoline."

Billy tilts his head back, laughter shooting like fireworks against Steve's ceiling, "It's just the dope. It's how it smells when you bake it into the--"

"--I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"I just think brownies are supposed to smell like chocolate," Steve says, handing the bag over with a wrinkled nose, "It's not a very appetizing smell."

"It's just weed."

"Weed smells gross, too."

"You don't like weed?"

"No, I just--"

"--We don't have to do the edibles if you don't want--"

"--I want to," Steve tells him. "Please." Instead of I'd do anything you asked me to. You're the influence my grandma warned me about. You're the lighter and the cigarette and the smoke in my lungs. Getting me high.

Billy nods, "Since you asked so nicely," and severs the baggy, tearing the first brownie in half.

"Woah," Steve says, embarrassed, "I know I've never had one before but I think I can do more than half."

"They're strong."

"I'm strong too," Steve says. When Billy blinks at him, confused, Steve flexes.

The noise Billy makes is like a duck getting run over by a clown car. It reverberates off the walls and Steve aches to stand and chase it. "You can always start out small and take more if you need to, hot rod."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "How strong are they?"

Billy shrugs, fiddling with the chewed plastic lip of the bag. "I kissed a boy on half," He says.

It's the first time since Billy came to town that he won't stretch to meet Steve's gaze.

Steve takes the bag from him and shoves the brownie into his mouth, coughing over the dry exterior.

"Easy, man, easy," Billy smacks him between the shoulder blades, grinning and rubbing his back once Steve swallows.

[blairdii]

casually thinking about a landoscar bondi rescue au, with lifeguard!oscar, who's always dreamt of working in australia's renowned beach, but finally getting the chance after 2 years of training and failed applications. it's hectic, it's fear-provoking but simultaneously life changing, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

forming bonds with veterans who, honestly, seem more worn out from excessive sun exposure rather than age, but make life on bondi beach is just bit more fulfilling; with the likes of lewis, his boss who would indubitably fend well on the runway and not confines of bondi beach, daniel and his rotund laughs and blinding smile, jenson, a wacky briton who claims to be 'aussie in spirit'. and logan, a newbie like himself, whose words twang more than the average local, but oscar doesn't mind because he's a grounding presence in the presence of heat-induced frenzy.

every holiday follows a routine, he doesn't expect anything out of the usual. perchance, a few false positives of shark sightings, a missing child that dyes his hair grey atom by atom— he's trained to manage all of the stress that comes from when too much fun is had.

he just wishes that someone had prepared him for when he meets lando.

it's a week into december, the sun frying his skin a dangerous shade of puce the days he forgets his sunscreen, when he notices him tumbling on the beach with a group of friends. and his eyes zero in because god, he's beautiful. he's like a vessel of luminescence, curls glimmering and eyes almost clear in the sun.

all in all, oscar falls quick and falls hard. he can't help but be extra attentive anytime lando's taking a dip, watches as he's thrown around by two lanky men (who seem oddly close— he suspects they're dating) whilst the rest of them (two out of the three are called max (it's hard to keep up honestly); the third name carlos, who acts like a mother hen) bask on the sand.

the second day is when he comes within a 3 metre radius of lando. oscar looks away for one second, and lando's swimming out of the red and yellow flags. his friends are shouting at him to "come back for fuck's sake, lando!" but he's grinning like a kid that doesn't understand no, and as much as oscar would hate to humiliate him, he's blowing into the whistle, beckoning him back to shore with a warning. he's trying to be as stern as possible, telling lando that he must stay within the bounds of the flags, but his resolve crumbles the second he apologises, tacks on a baby at the end, and winks as he walks away.

oscar turns to see lando's friends doing what he couldn't seeing as his entire compsure melted like thongs on hissing tarmac, and he's not much later joined by daniel, jenson, and their irritating rendition of the bridal chant. oscar tells them to "shut the fuck up, or i'll tell lewis you two were the one that had defaced the couch last year" but it does nothing to conceal the blush that darkens on his cheeks.

and it continues. he doesn't expect to see lando and his comrades often, but he gathers that they're actually staying at a beach house just a handful of minutes away, and so their presence becomes something he looks forward to every morning. they'd arrive at around 2 hours past noon, and lando would surf on his own, sometimes with one of the lanky guys (george and alex, he learns by the 5th day), before making his way to oscar and flirting til he looks like he's "going to combust"; and it's so embarrassing because he can see the rest of lando's crew in his peripheral, watching them like hawks and no doubt, finding humour in it all.

and is it his fault for indulging? for getting so attached? that when he's not actively trying to save someone's life, he's observing the beach with lando talking his ear off. it's too early to say love, but oscar is so deeply endeared by the man with the gap-toothed grin, and emeralds for eyes, that he thinks it couldn't be to far off. logan has called shotgun to being the best man.

he meets the group properly when one of the max's (tanned skin just like lando— oscar thinks they're the same person in different fonts) gets stung by a blue bottle jellyfish. they're all concerned, lando moreso than the rest as he confides in oscar and tells him how max is "basically his twin from a whole different mother sac". it's a stupidly funny thing for lando to say, but seeing how much he cares pushes oscar towards his descent.

he invites lando out to dinner after his shift on the 8th day. he had never seen lando smile so wide.

the evening is perfect, to say the least. they are hosted at a small restaurant, lights dim and ambience so light, he thinks he's floating on air. lando sits before oscar, face flushed red, and attention unwavering. oscar falls more. they end with a tangle of lips, gentler smiles, and a good night. he falls asleep with landolandolando whirring through his synapses, and the matching anklet pressing welcomed indents into his skin.

it all goes to shit the next day. he knew tides were expected to be higher than normal, and it was even worse that he was to man the tower that day with logan, nico and pierre. he texts lando to be safe, receives an "of course xx" but it does nothing to still his agitated pulse.

all he can do is watch through his binoculars as they head to the backpackers' rip. it's unsuspecting initially, there's no sight of a rip, yet oscar cannot stop his leg from bouncing.

then one second lando's on the surfboard, chest flat as his arms paddle at his sides. the next, he's gone.

oscar knows it's gone wrong, searches for lando in the crowd that has accumulated there and hopes that maybe he's just floated behind someone, but he doesn't see him. not when he grabs the intercom with ferocity and shouts down the line at daniel, logan and jenson down at the beach, fingers trembling and palms clammy. not when all his friends have somehow made it out, panicked, delirious, frightened.

for 4 whole minutes, lando disappears.

[casuallyimagining]

Selfish. || myg.

Less of Them - Two: Selfish.

NSFW. minors dni

Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader Genre: arranged marriage au, established relationship, star-crossed lovers, angst, smut, fluff Word Count: 5,461

Summary: As the daughter of one of the oldest families in the kingdom, when the king decides that it's you he wishes to marry, you're forced to make a decision and fulfill your duty, leaving behind everything you've ever known--and the only man you've ever loved.

Warnings: implied domestic abuse, controlling behavior, depression, arguing, a slap, blood, discovery of a dead body, murder

Notes: thank you to @oddinary4bts for beta-ing this

"I do know there are all kinds of barriers to love. I do believe the world needs less of them." - Lang Leav

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There’s a bustle in the castle that hasn’t been here for a year. It’s like the very stone–polished, whitewashed, ancient–is vibrating with excitement. After all, a royal wedding is an exciting time, and everyone must play their part. The cherry trees, hundreds of them across the property of the castle and in the castle town, are close to blossom. The merchants are busy building and sewing and crafting and baking. The stewards and keepers have cleaned the castle walls inside and out more times than can be counted.

You cannot find it in yourself to match their enthusiasm.

You stand on a pedestal facing a floor-length mirror, a seamstress on either side of you. They haven’t stopped touching you since they’d walked into the room. Slipping garments onto your body. Primping and adjusting the fabric so it lays just right. Measuring, pinning, tucking, tacking. The silk is heavy, like lead on your limbs, and they just keep layering it on. All of it is an elegant cream color–not white, despite tradition. Daniel had instructed the royal seamstresses. It was because of him, after all. White is too pure, too untouched.

Maybe, under different circumstances, worn by someone else, you would find the gown pretty. The silken fabric is soft and luxurious, a delicate floral pattern embroidered into the sleeves. The skirt is plain, but it flows well, and it’s a slightly richer color than the rest. There’s a small loop at the waist where a luck ornament will be attached. You haven’t seen it yet–the queen mother hasn’t yet presented it to you–but the handmaids have told you that it’s meant to bring many sons.

But honestly, you’ve avoided looking–really looking–at any of it, your focus solely on the leather toe of your shoe sticking out from under the fabric of your dress. You were never too mesmerized by your reflection, but now… It’s hard to reconcile what you see with what used to be there. Your hair is longer. You’ve lost weight. A bruise peeks out from under the collar of your dress. There’s a hollowness in your eyes, and worse, there’s a hollowness somewhere deeper. A meekness that you don’t recognize, but that’s been gnawing at the edges of you for nearly a year now. 

You don’t recognize yourself. You don’t want to recognize yourself.

“Have you seen him yet?” You hear one of the handmaidens ask as the seamstresses pin the fabric at your sleeve.

The other handmaiden groans softly. “I’ve been stuck inside all day. Kagha asked me to shine the silver.” Kagha is the stewardess of the castle, and she’s been running around like a crazy person of late trying to prepare for the wedding.

The first handmaiden leans closer to the other. You’ve seen her around, but you have no idea what her name is. “He’s gorgeous,” she whispers, so quiet you almost can’t hear.

“Shame he’s from the forest,” the second handmaiden laments, standing. Her arms are full of linen.

You hum. It’s been a long year. A lonely year. You’ve learned a lot, and you know you’ve done a lot of growing to meet the needs of the position you find yourself in. But that doesn’t mean that the path hadn’t been lonely. And you’d finally managed to convince Daniel to allow you to send a letter to your father, asking him to send you someone to serve in the castle.

Based on the handmaidens’ reactions, he’s sent Seokjin. 

It makes sense. Out of anyone your father could have sent, Seokjin is the most likely to fit in at the castle and in Castle Town. He’s charming and smart, and knows how to hold himself at court. And, more than anyone, Seokjin knows–or assumes–how careful one must be in this life, too. 

There’s an excitement bubbling in you that you haven’t felt in a while. Your step-brother. Here. Finally, a friend. You leave the seamstresses when they’re finished, an almost giddy bounce to your step. It leads you all the way to the King’s Council Chamber–if Seokjin is here, that’s where he’ll be. Daniel may not have greeted you on your arrival to the Ironhold, but he would certainly not risk snubbing the eldest son of one of the old families.

You stand outside of the council chamber, suddenly unsure. The excitement has faded, replaced with the roiling unease that comes with being anywhere near this room. You should wait. As excited as you may be to see Seokjin, you don’t want to risk Daniel’s ire at your interruption. So you stand there, outside the door, far enough away so that you aren’t in anyone’s way. 

After a moment, you can feel your heartbeat start to pound in your ears. Maybe waiting is a mistake. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can make it back to your chambers. Maybe you can wait there. You nod to yourself. That’s a better idea. You’ll wait for them to come to you.

You’ve just turned to go when the door opens, the hinges creaking lowly with the motion. You can hear Daniel’s voice, but it’s Eden, Daniel’s younger brother, who walks out first. His eyes widen when he sees you standing there, half fleeing, and you can hear him make a little noise of surprise. It doesn’t last long, though, because as soon as Daniel spots you, Eden’s face schools into something neutral.

Daniel stops mid-word to question you. “What are you doing here?”

“I-” Your words stick in your throat. You shouldn’t be here, but you’re frozen in place. And then, just when you think things can’t get worse, a dark head of hair and curious, feline eyes poke out from around Daniel’s form.

You freeze, hoping the ground will open up and swallow you whole. You feel yourself wilt, and suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of how you’re standing, how awkward your arms feel at your side, how rigid your spine feels.  It’s not Seokjin. You could never be that lucky.

Daniel stalks toward you and roughly grabs your upper arm. His fingers dig in, pressing into your flesh. You wince ever so slightly–it hurts, the bruise already there is an angry deep purple–but quickly, you school your face into something more pleasant.

“We’ve talked about this,” Daniel says. His voice is even, but you can hear the undertones.

You should not be here.

You’re embarrassing me. Again.

We will discuss this again later.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out softer than you’d like, and you wonder if he can hear the slight tremble, or if it’s just you. “I… I thought it was Seokjin and I…” You trail off, eyes falling to the stone floor.

The king jerks you closer, grip like a vise on your upper arm. “You what?”

“I got excited.”

He hums. “I see.”

Off to your left, Eden clears his throat. “Brother. You have a meeting with Mother and the High Priest in the garden soon. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Daniel nods and squeezes your arm. “We’ll discuss this later.”

The brothers leave, and suddenly, the hall is quiet. The few guards that had been milling around follow Daniel and Eden out. You clear your throat, unable to meet the dark eyes that watch you curiously. He’s never been to the Crownlands, and your brain latches onto an idea. 

This doesn’t have to be awkward.

“Have you seen the grounds?” you question finally, shifting your weight.

Yoongi shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Would you like to?”

You can feel him looking at you, can feel the questions hanging in the air. Thankfully–and surprisingly–he says nothing, simply motions for you to lead the way.

“The castle was built nearly 800 years ago by the Choi family. Because of tensions at the time between the royal family and the rest of the old families, the Ironhold was built to be nearly impregnable, with oil chutes built into every staircase and balistraria in every exterior wall.” You gesture to one of the arrow slits in the wall, where the sunlight from the mid-spring sun peeks through the thick stone. You know that he knows all this–he sat through almost as many of your father’s history lessons as you did–but it helps to keep talking.

And to his credit, Yoongi listens patiently. He follows dutifully at your side, pausing to look at things you point out and nodding along where appropriate. You can’t show him everything–that would almost be impossible as the castle grounds are so large. But you walk him through parts of the gardens (“There are over 1,000 cherry trees on the castle grounds.”), and show him the fish ponds (“The fish have been imported from the Eastern Coastlands. Some of the koi are descendants of the original fish brought in when the ponds were built 300 years ago!”). You walk past the Queen Mother’s private residence in the southern part of the castle grounds and show him the knight’s barracks and the training grounds. 

All of the buildings on the castle grounds look the same. It had taken you a few months to actually learn where everything was and what each building housed. Tall, sloping, whitewashed walls, deep blue tile roofs, sharp corners and rectangular windows. A far cry from the curved staircases and round windows and dark woods of Castle Blackwood. 

Re-entering the castle proper, you show him the Grand Hall, where important dinners are held, and the king’s dining room. And finally, finally, you end the tour of the castle grounds on the second floor of the western tower where your chambers–and the chambers of personal guards and hand servants–are. You’ve known for a while that there was a room designated for your own personal guard, so you end up in front of that door.

“This is yours,” you tell him, gesturing to the door. It’s not as thick or as dark as the ones back at Castle Blackwood, but you grew accustomed to those small differences long ago.

He stands there, his hand on the brass doorknob, gaze soft as he takes you in. You can see his eyes dart briefly to where the bruise peeks out from under your collar and feel yourself shrink away. You don’t want to know what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Come in.” His voice is gentle, almost as if he’s speaking to a wounded animal. “Let’s catch up.”

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. It’ll make it harder to move forward–to move on. But then he says, “Please,” and you’ve never been able to resist the softness of his eyes. So you let him lead you into his chambers and shut the door.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen you in a dress,” he says quietly. He stands in front of you, a little awkward. He keeps rubbing his hands together, patting down his trousers. It’s little comfort to know that he’s just as nervous as you are.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?” You don’t mean to snap, but it just kind of happens. You aren’t sure what this means–what it means for him, let alone what it means for you. There’s a pit in your stomach that feels almost like you swallowed a rock, and you do your best to steady yourself.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why are you here? Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t it have been Seokjin, or Namjoon, or any- anyone else?” 

He reaches into his doublet and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. It’s a little crumpled, the edges a little worn, like it’s been read many times. You catch a glimpse of a forest green wax seal still clinging to the top edge, and immediately you know what it is. 

“Maybe we’re both a little selfish.” The way he says it, you can feel your heart sink. 

Of course you know what the letter says. It haunts you, but at the time, you thought you were doing the right thing. You still do. 

I hope that, in time, you can move on. That eventually, you will find yourself in love. That you will find happiness again. It’s selfish, but I will only be able to live through this with the hope that you are happy and living a life that is worthy of the care you’ve shown me. 

Find someone who loves you as much as I do. For my sake, if nothing else. 

You want him to be able to move on and live his life. You want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy. And you would sacrifice your own happiness a hundred times over if it meant he could have the life he deserves. 

Yoongi reaches out, and your heart races. You tense, an automatic reaction, and his hand pauses mere centimeters from your cheek. A look of confusion crosses his dark eyes that quickly morphs to understanding and then sadness. His hand falls back to his side.

“How did you get that bruise?” His voice is casual, but you know him, can practically see the cogs turning in his mind.

You tug the collar of your gown so that it covers better. “I tripped.”

“And bruised your shoulder?”

“I’m still getting used to the gowns.”

He hums. You know he knows you’re lying. But you aren’t sure how much you want to allow him back in yet. You aren’t sure how much you want to drag him down with you. 

He sighs, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he looks at the letter that’s still in his hands. “I tried,” he says softly. “For the first few months, I thought that if I could just convince myself that I was mad at you, it would be easier. I tried so hard to hate you, to blame you for leaving, make it your fault.” He looks up at you, then, and you can see a shine to his eyes. He reaches out again, but this time, the tips of his fingers brush against your hand. “But I couldn’t. It’s not fair, but it’s even less fair for you. And I want to be here. I know it won’t be easy, but I want to be here with you. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Your eyes sting, and there’s a lump in your throat that you can’t quite swallow down. 

Hours later, you’re alone in your chambers. Dusk has fallen, the handmaidens have already been through to light the few candles on the tray near your bed. You sit on the chaise under the open window, a gentle spring breeze lightly caressing your skin. Silently, you stare down at the wooden box in your hands.

It’s dusty. You haven’t touched it since placing it on the shelf when you’d first arrived in the Ironhold. You can see the fingerprints from how you’ve held it over the past half-hour. Gently, you wipe the dust from the gilded leaves of the thistle and press them in. A soft ‘click’ echoes through the inside of the box. 

You take the contents out carefully. Sketches from one of the artists in the Forest Town–one of you, your father, your step-mother, and Namjoon and Seokjin; the other of you and Yoongi. You look much younger here, even though the drawings were only done a few years ago. It feels like an eternity. The real reason you’d pulled the box off the shelf, though, is still in your hand, wrapped delicately in a piece of cloth you’d ripped from a pair of your trousers.

Once it’s unwrapped, you hold it between your thumb and your forefinger and inspect it in the low light. 

Part of you feels guilty that this is the first time you’ve looked at it in almost a year, that you can’t wear it, even on a chain around your neck, or at the very least that you can’t display it in some way. You shouldn’t have accepted it. But there’s no way you could have known it would have spent a year hidden away in a secret compartment in a wooden box, wrapped in the fabric of the trousers you can no longer wear.

You suppose there are things about the world your father couldn’t have thought to teach you.

He couldn’t have prepared you for everything you’ve learned here. How to break yourself down, brick by brick, and rebuild from the ground up. How to change how you talk, how you think. To change your personality to be more likable, less loud, less prominent. To change how you walk, how you stand, how you take up space. A good queen knows when to enhance her king’s spotlight, but also how to fade into the background. She’s firm but quiet. She defers to her husband’s opinions, she doesn’t shape them. And certainly, she knows naught of how the king’s court functions.

He could never have taught you that there’s a special kind of loneliness reserved only for future queens, when you arrive in a new city and no one knows you and no one likes you and no one wants to know or like you. You’ll just be another fixture in the Crownlands, a figurehead with no power, a vessel with no thoughts. There for one thing–maybe two, if you’re lucky–and ignored the rest of the time.

You miss home, miss having things to fill your time with. You miss the activity of Blackwood Castle–there was always something going on, even if it was something minor. Now, you feel as though you spend most of your time daintily draping yourself across chaises and windowsills, watching the world pass you by. You’d tried to go to the library once and were barred entry (“The queen has no need for such knowledge!”). You’d been banned from the council chambers (“How dare you embarrass your king in front of the Eastern traders!”). You couldn’t watch the knights spar, couldn’t sit by as the dog trainers did their work, couldn’t stroll the streets of the Castle Town.

The sound of guard boots in the hall draw your attention, and you jump, hurriedly re-wrapping the ring in cloth and slotting it and the two drawings back into the secret compartment in the box. You press the thistle flower and manage to wipe the rest of the dust off the front just as the door to your chamber opens.

Daniel stands there, the Realm’s unshakeable king, smelling of wine and grinning like the dog that caught the hare. He doesn’t say anything, merely shuts the door behind him and yanks the bolt in place to lock it. You embrace him as he approaches, allowing him to push you back onto the bed.

After he leaves, you stare at the ceiling and hope that someday soon, you’ll start to feel less hollow again. 

It takes mere days for Yoongi to fully integrate into life in the Ironhold. Or, perhaps, integrate is the wrong word. It takes mere days for him to disappear. Once it’s clear he’s there to stay, he’s no longer a novelty, overshadowed by the wedding looming over the next couple days. He goes with you to dress fittings, sits behind you out of the way when you meet with the clergy. He even accompanies you to meet with the Queen Mother. You’re shocked that she allows him to stand in on your conversation, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’re a little glad she does.

“My knights followed me everywhere over the years,” she says casually, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I expect you’d want yours to do the same, forest bumpkin though he is.”

The Queen Mother sits at a small table near the window. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, simply stares out at the garden as if she’s inspecting the very plants for quality of growth. It’s uncanny how much her sons have inherited from her. Daniel has the same intense, calculating gaze, and both he and Eden have her high cheekbones and downturned lips. They’ve all got the same dark, glossy hair and downturned eyes.

You stand there, waiting for her to address you again. It’s awkward, but you dare not move. You can feel Yoongi’s presence behind you–he’s been quiet all morning, but you can tell that he has thoughts about life in the castle. You ignore him. Instead, you focus your attention on the table in front of you and the Queen Mother’s cup of tea.

Finally, the Queen Mother brings her attention back in your direction, leveling a gaze at you that reminds you just how scrutinized you’ve been since you arrived at the Ironhold nearly a year ago. She studies you for a moment before raising her teacup to her lips. “I suppose you’re expecting me to give you the norigae for tomorrow’s ceremony.”

That had been why you thought she’d called this meeting. The seamstresses who’d been working on your gown said the Queen Mother would give you a lucky decoration. They’d said it was a big honor, that it was tradition. Now, you’re unsure. Still, though, you nod quietly.

The Queen Mother hums. Her gaze burns into you, and when you fidget where you stand, she frowns. “Danny has said that your dress is to be cream.”

“It’s pretty.”

“It’s not white.” Her tone is as sharp as her glare. It’s an accusation.

You swallow. “I do as my king asks.”

“The traditional norigae has been passed down for generations in the Choi family,” the Queen Mother says. She does not look at you, merely glares down at her tea cup. “It’s supposed to bring great luck to the marriage and many sons. It’s meant to be given to a king’s bride to both welcome her into the Choi family and celebrate the pure gift she brings with her.”

It scares you a little, how she says it. It almost sounds like a threat, though you aren’t quite sure what she’s threatening you with. What you do know, though, is that you probably should be scared of whatever it is.

“Do you think you deserve that?” she questions.

“I…” 

You aren’t sure what to say. You aren’t sure there’s anything you can say. You’ve willingly allowed Daniel into your bed when he’s come calling. He’s the king and the man you are to marry. This is your life now.

Her question lingers as you wrack your brain for something–anything–to say. Thankfully, she puts you out of your misery.

“I suppose I must. Tradition is tradition, after all.” She sighs. “I will give it to the dressmakers tomorrow before the ceremony.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“You may go.” There is no room for argument. 

The trek back through the gardens and to your chambers is silent. Yoongi is quiet as he follows you, the only signs that he’s there are his shadow following yours and his footsteps echoing off the stone floors of the castle. He shuts the door behind you as you enter your room, sliding the steel bolt into place to lock it.

“That’s not necessary,” you tell him, collapsing onto the chaise at the foot of your bed. You’re exhausted, and there’s something heavy growing in your chest. “You can return to your own chambers. I’ll call for you if I need anything.”

He doesn’t move, and when you look up at him, you can see the conflict in his eyes. After a moment, he seems to decide on something, because he takes a cautious step forward.

“You know you don’t have to put up with any of this.”

“What?” You have no idea what he’s talking about. 

“We could run away.” He’s closer now, kneeling in front of you. Carefully, he takes your hand, holding it as though it were glass.

You shake your head. “You know that’s not possible.”

Yoongi squeezes your hand, dark eyes pleading. “We could go somewhere far away. Somewhere they couldn’t find you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“You’re exactly who I’m worried about.” His tone is firm. “This place is poison, it’s… it’s-”

“It’s fine, Yoongi.” His touch is electric on your skin, and you jerk your hand away, burned by his proximity. “This is my duty. This is my life.”

“It’s not fine!” He stands, clearly frustrated. “You don’t deserve how these assholes treat you. No one does. The Westerlands can deal with whatever comes from-”

“Loyalty does not yield.”

“Fuck that! Have some sense!”

“Get out.” You say it as loud as you dare, not wanting to draw the guards but desperate, so, so desperate, for him to leave. When he doesn’t move, you pick up the closest thing to you—a soft-bound journal—and throw it at him. The book hits him in the chest with a dull thud and plops to the ground. 

A pillow follows. Then another. A blanket. Your hair brush. Anything you can get your hands on, you hurl in his direction. If he would just leave and let you rest. You’re exhausted. Dear God, why won’t he leave? Eventually, you’re out of ammunition, everything else around you being too heavy or too large to throw with any sort of accuracy. Yoongi, to his credit, has stayed stock-still throughout the ordeal, unflinching despite the onslaught.

You stalk over to him, blood pressure rising. There’s a headache stirring behind your eyes. The pit grows inside of you. “Go. Now.”

“No.” He says it so calmly.

“Stubborn fool. I will send you home.”

“Listen to yourself,” he pleads. “This isn’t you, you don’t-”

Your palm stings. 

Why does your palm sting? 

You look down, confused, and see your skin a shade of angry red. Movement in front of you draws your attention. For the first time since you’d thrown the journal, Yoongi moves. His hand comes up to cup his cheek; your gaze follows his arm as it moves. There, hidden by his hand, his skin begins to blossom pink.

It’s like you’re sucked out of your body. You can see yourself standing there, cradling your stinging hand, staring in bewilderment at the red that blooms across his skin. A silent moment passes. But then you feel something, deep within you. At first, it’s nothing more than a tremor, a slight tremble within you, but then it builds. Your heart races. Whatever was left of you—whatever you’d been able to claw and cobble together over the last year—implodes. You can feel it shatter within you, a thousand times more powerful than the initial destruction. And with it, you crumble.

Yoongi approaches you cautiously, like he’s coming up on a wounded animal. “What can I do?” he asks, his voice soft, kind. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Leave,” you beg.

You regret it. You regret contacting your father. You regret asking him to send someone. Why you thought having any of them here would be helpful–or why you’d never considered it would be him–you’ll never know. You can survive here–you were surviving here. But at what cost?

It hits you hard, blindsiding you like a sudden storm. The truth is, you’re scared. What if the old you–the you he fell in love with… What if she’s gone? What if she can’t come back? What if she died the day you climbed into that carriage, replaced by this hollow husk of a person you are now?

You suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re here. Yoongi is here. Tomorrow, you will marry Daniel. And from there, you will take things as you have. One day at a time.

Eventually, you manage to pull yourself together. Your face still feels stiff and puffy, but you refuse to remove the cloth you’ve draped over the mirror, so you don’t know if it really is. You’ve got a headache–all the pressure behind your eyes and in your cheeks is enough to make you feel like your head is splitting open. Part of you just wants to go to sleep. But it’s barely mid-afternoon, and you aren’t entirely sure what you’re supposed to be doing.

The wedding is tomorrow, but you’ve gotten almost no direction from anyone on what should be happening. You suspect that something should be happening, but you have no idea what it could possibly be. As a child, you spent more time climbing trees and tormenting Namjoon with Yoongi than dreaming of your wedding, but even still. This feels like a business transaction.

A knock at your door pulls you from your thoughts, and it takes a moment for you to gather yourself. Your mind is a little hazy as you slide the bolt unlocked and open the door, but when you see Eden standing there, you force yourself to come to your senses. The prince bows slightly with his head, inclining it forward ever so slightly. It’s respectful, but only so much–he’s still the one with royal blood.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, stepping into the room. You haven’t really invited him in, but you step aside anyway and close the door behind him. “I heard that mother may have accosted you over the norigae this morning.”

“She was within her right,” you tell him softly.

Eden hums. “Still. You’re to be part of this family. Mother is just disappointed that she won’t be the most important woman in Daniel’s life anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s remotely true.”

He snorts, a wry smile on his lips. In the year you’ve been at the Ironhold, Eden has become your favorite person here. You don’t particularly trust him, but of everyone that lives in the Crownlands, he seems the most normal.

Casually, Eden wanders over to a window, looking out over the courtyard several levels below. “It is my hope that things will get easier for you in time.”

From where you’re sitting, that seems almost impossible. But you don’t want to quash his optimism. So you smile politely and nod.

“I brought you something,” Eden tells you, and the way he says it, it sounds almost like a conspiracy. 

Carefully, he pulls a long strip of fabric out of his pocket. It’s a beautiful silk, red as blood–the chosen color of House Choi. He holds it out with both hands.

“Technically, my brother should be giving this to you,” he says as you take it. “But I don’t think he cares so much about keeping to every tradition. Just the ones that are convenient to him.”

You can feel something thin and hard inside the silk. Eden nods, and you gently unfold the fabric. Inside is a hairpin, shiny silver and around the length of your hand. The end is an intricate dragon head, expertly forged, and in its mouth, a bright red gem. The same dragon that stands resolutely on the Choi family crest. It’s pretty, but something about it makes your heart hurt.

“Tomorrow, you will become a dragon,” Eden says. “You should be able to dress like one.” 

“Th-thank you.” You can barely manage it, and you hope that he takes your struggle as emotion and not the war that’s starting to wage within you.

After Eden leaves, the hours pass slowly. You aren’t sure what time it is when Daniel stops by your chambers. He barely speaks to you, but you can tell something is different about tonight. He stays longer after, falls asleep in your bed, on top of the coverlet. You aren’t sure when you drift off, only that you do.

You aren’t quite sure what wakes you up. It’s late. Or maybe early. It’s pitch dark–you can’t even see candles in the windows across the courtyard. Mysteriously, Daniel is still beside you. You’ve awoken on your side, so you can’t see him, but you can feel the dip in the mattress and the pull of his body on the blankets.

But there’s something else. Your blankets almost feel damp, the linen heavy with an extra weight. You sit up, curious, and immediately notice a spot that pools around Daniel. It’s soaked down deep into the mattress, the spot dark, almost black, in the dark of night. You reach out and touch it, and though you aren’t sure what you’re expecting, it’s sticky.

“My king?” you ask softly, touching his arm. He hasn’t moved since you woke, and you have a sinking sense that something is horribly wrong. When he doesn’t rouse, you shake him. “Daniel?”

There’s no response. His arm is stiff. He does not move. Your skin is sticky. You shake him harder, so hard that he rolls over. For a moment, you believe he’s awake. But then you see the cloth sticking out of his parted lips. And the gaping hole in his neck.

prev. | masterlist | next

[lsunstreakerl]

some more scrapbook paper max. and esteban.

"I used your hands for my final last year."

Esteban's tone is faintly reprimanding as he repairs Max's hands, visual blueprints of his nerves and muscles faintly visible above his skin.

"Did you get a good grade?"

Esteban's mouth quirks into a wry smile.

"I think I know your nerves and musculoskeletal structure better than any of the anatomy structures, so yes. I even got extra credit for working with a 'chronic trauma patient'."

Max feels his nose wrinkle, careful not to move his wrists.

"That sounds rude."

"Well."

Esteban carefully flips his left hand over, traces the smallest pathways into Max's palm. He can feel the muscles starting to weave back together, nerve endings carefully being repaired.

"Maybe if you stopping being a chronic trauma patient I would not call you that. But every time I see you it is like you are trying to fry out your hands."

"Not every time."

"Breaking your ankle because you slipped on ice is not the rare achievement you think it is."

Max shuts his mouth.

------

Liam eats too much instant food. It's not really Max's place to judge, and he's not a maid by any means, but he likes his space clean, which means he occasionally goes on a little rampage through their dorm room, wiping down the desks and throwing away trash.

The silver lining on the inside of the chip bags- it makes Max's skin crawl when there's too much of it around, tiny little spots just begging for a spark.

He straightens out their room, replaces the sticky tack on the corner of one of Liam's posters where it's curling. He's technically on light duty while his hands heal, but he's on call tonight if Daniel leaves for anything.

He's kind of hoping that doesn't happen.

Satisfied with their dorm room, Mac crawls under his covers- two layers of woven static shielding and a soft quilt. He's not sure what Lambiase made the quilt with, for Max to be able to sleep under it, but it's nice.

He's listening to a missed chemistry lecture when the door jiggles, and then there's the familiar sound of someone angling the handle just right-

Max and Liam's door has been busted since Max moved in. If it's locked or not doesn't matter, it can be popped open at the right angle. There's a few people that know this, although the list doesn't include very many that are willing to be skipping class in the middle of the day.

Esteban pops his head in.

"You should really get that fixed."

Max is aware. He's been meaning to get on that for a very long time.

He sits up, quilt loosely draped around his shoulders as Esteban steps inside, hands in his pockets.

"What is it?"

Esteban sits on the edge of the bed with furrowed brows, reaching for his hands.

"You're on call with Daniel tonight. You're not supposed to be, but- that's not a fight I'm willing to pick. I want to do another session to make sure you don't immediately undo all of my hard work."

"Oh."

Esteban doesn't have to. He's done more than enough already, and Max's hands are capable of healing naturally with the right guidance and enough time.

Although, if he and Daniel go out, and it gets messy again-

That's time he might not have.

"Thank you, Esteban."

Esteban frowns as Max starts to feel the unnatural feeling of things in his hands moving, being encouraged to turn and shift and grow.

"Don't mention it. I just don't like seeing my work wasted, yes?"

Max huffs a laugh, leaning his head back against the headboard behind him and letting his eyes drift back shut.

"Sure. I think you are starting to like me, Ocon."

Esteban's sharp bark of laughter in response makes Max lips curl into a grin.

"You are exactly as intolerable as you've been since day one, don't worry."

Max cracks an eyelid, smug.

"Right. Keep telling yourself that."

[nothingenoughao3]

Daniel Cain: Reefernator

"Dan Cain is a stoner in the novelization!"

I have never been less surprised by a characterization and it's one of the only things I'll accept from the novel as canon. Because it was already canon in the movie. I know old Gen X stoner types and I know Dan is one of them, I know it in my bones.

Behold, the home of a man who smokes a titanic amount of grass whenever he's not onscreen:

[ID: three screenshots from "Re-Animator". The first shows Meg in shadow; the second shows Meg peering into Herbert West's room; the third shows Dan standing by the door with a baseball bat, and Herbert with a medical textbook on the sofa. End ID.]

Without exception, every single windowpane in 666 Darkmoor is curtained.

The curtains are eternally drawn, day or night.

The lamp could not be loved by a cocaine-snorting yuppie. Only by a stoner who likes to play with the fringe once he's on his fifth bowl.

He still hasn't unpacked most of his shit (but I promise you this: he did unpack the box that was labeled as "first aid/bathroom stuff" but it held his glass Gandalf pipe cautiously wrapped in bubble paper, and a wooden box with his stash and his grinder in it).

Dan has house plants because he thinks that freshens the air and lessens the smell of green. He is wrong. He also feels a spiritual connection to the plants when he's giga-high. He is right.

Most telling of all, he has tacked up towels and/or random pieces of cloth over the glass windows in the doors. THAT is prime "I don't want the cops to see me smoking grass" behavior.

This is the home where the air can give you a contact high. This is the home of a man who can direct you to the nearest ditch where marijuana is growing wild in any subdivision of Arkham. It's only missing a Frank Frazetta poster and a painting of mushrooms with faces, and only because they're still in one of those boxes Dan hasn't unpacked yet.

Dan Cain can roll a blunt that will give you an out-of-body experience. Dan Cain can take fat rips off a bong that will render lesser folks speechless, melting into the sofa, and gently hallucinating. Dan Cain says your edibles ain't shit and he means it for real.

And you just know that when Herbert walked in and took a single breath, he went "Oh, okay, if blackmailing him for banging the Dean's daughter doesn't work, I can always, as humans say, 'rat him out' to 'the fuzz'."

[wildemaven]

sweetest heidi!! congrats on 1000 my lovely 🤍

can I request a main dish blind drabble?!

Pedro character: let’s gooooo Javier Peña or Jack Whiskey Daniels! chef’s choice 😉

numbers: 3 and 283

😘😘😘😘

losin’ you | jack ‘whiskey’ daniels

pairing: bull rider!jack daniels x barrel racer f!reader word count: 1287 content warnings: 18+ blog: some angst, reader and jack have history, some forgiveness but he has to work for it, reader has a rebound fling, reader rides a horse but no other physical descriptions, this is an AU, cursing, I think that’s it. notes: Kay! I’m sorry it took so long for me to get to this!!! I hope it was worth the wait 💕 Shoutout to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for a specific line (I won’t give away which one it is)

It’s not a world you think you’ll ever be used to. Roaring crowds and blinding lights accompanied by the adrenaline rush as you race against the clock doing what you love. It goes against the quiet life you dream of having on some land, miles outside of the bustling town and an even longer dirt road entrance to deter solicitors. But it pays the bills enough to get by for now. 

Bouncing from rodeo to rodeo can be lonely, even with all the cheering from fans and their undying support. All in the name of making a living and a name for yourself with the hopes of becoming a champion barrel racer. 

Tonight is a little different. Run after run chasing the fastest time. Arena dirt kicked up straight out the gate. Weaving around the three strategically placed barrels, all sharp turns and calculated verbal cues to carry you past the line. 13.58 seconds was all it took to secure the top place at the end of the event. 

Instead of hiding out in your trailer with one of your two closest friends Bravo and Miller, who both happen to be a 15 hand Chestnut Quarter Horses, you allow yourself to revel in the celebration and enthusiasm fans are showering you with. 

The vibrancy in the air is palpable after leaving Miller to rest up in your trailer. An effervescence pounding in your chest— all your self doubt and fears dissipating into a plume of contentment. 

It’s a feat in itself meandering through rodeo dust and small crowds wanting pictures and messy signatures on your walk to pick up the grand prize shiny buckle and winner’s check, hoping to get on the road before the announcer calls the last event for the night. 

The sight of a cowboy loading your tack and saddles in their proper compartments has you stopping in your tracks. Watching as he moves about with familiarity. Feeding Miller his favorite treats, already loaded and secured in his trailer stall. Bridles and lead ropes hung on their designated hooks. Gooseneck hitched into the bed of your old pickup truck. 

Seemingly taking care of your long list of tasks effortlessly. 

“Congratulations, Sweetheart.” He says as he latches the tack room closed, his hand giving it a good shake before turning to look at you. 

“Jack—“ You’re sure he doesn’t miss the way your face almost lights up at the sight of him. Quickly controlling your expression to something a little more neutral despite wanting nothing more than to run into his arms. 

“The boyfriend ain’t around is he?” His voice tempered as he took a look around, expecting a six foot something man to walk out of the shadows swinging.

“Benny? Why? You wanna compare buckles, see whose is bigger?” You snark at him, tossing your earnings in the front seat of your truck. 

“Don’t wanna step on anyone’s boots if I’m not welcomed, is all.” Such a stark contrast from the man who would go toe to toe with anyone who so much as looked in your direction. 

You roll your eyes as you stalk past him to open the small trailer window to allow Miller to hang his head out. 

“No he ain’t around. Fell for some cute buckle bunny over in Austin. Besides— he wasn’t my boyfriend. Just a fun rebound, ya know since you broke my heart and all.” He can sense the hurt in your voice, looking to where you’re running your hand over Miller’s velvet nose

“Sweetheart, ‘M sorry.“ Jack says meekly looking to where his boot is dragging over the dirt, his tone barely audible with noise coming from the stadium cheering on the roping finals. 

You know he isn’t referring to Benny and the whirlwind of a fling that he was. Seeing other people, serious or not, was part of the agreement. Benny Miller was a good time for a short time, long enough to keep you distracted from the way your heart ached for Jack. 

“It’s fine. Besides, it got a little weird with his last being Miller, too. I was losing track of the amount of times he used the line ‘wanna take Miller out for a ride? And I don't mean your horse!’” 

“That wasn’t what I was referring to Sweetheart and you know it. I was talkin’ about that night. I’m sorry—“ Oh, so this is a real apology. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him sound so defeated in all the years you’ve known him. 

“Surprised you were able to get that big time ego of yours through the front gate. Now that you’ve got nothin’ holdin’ you back from all those sponsors and big money.” 

You chance a look over to him, propped sheepishly against your trailer, hands tucked in his pockets, too ashamed to look at you directly as you call him out. Not sure how long you want to drag this out and tell him how much you’ve missed him. 

“I came here to see you race. Watch you win big— jus’ like we always wanted.” He turns to meet your gaze. 

“We? I think what we wanted were two very different things, Jack. I wanted to win big doing what I love with the man I love. You wanted— what was it you said that night ‘take a break a break so you could figure things out’ among the other shit that spilled from that stupid mouth of yours.” You throw his words back at him as you stomp the short distance to him, causing him to straighten up in preparation for more of your own words. 

“I thought that’s what I wanted. Guess it took me losin’ you to realize I was wrong. I want you. More than the sponsors. More than the fame. I need you more than all of that shit combined, Baby.” He confesses sincerely. 

The warmth of his touch has your knees nearly buckling when he brushes some dirt with his finger off your cheek. 

“And so you thought you’d waltz your Mr. Professional Bull Ridin’ ass in here? Lookin’ all handsome wearin’ those blue tight jeans and my favorite denim jacket of yours. Hopin’ I would just take you back just like that?” You sound harsher than you intended to. 

“Well, I didn’t even think I would make it this far. I was sure I’d already be staring at your tail lights by now.” He quips, giving you a glimpse at that lopsided smile of his you’ve missed more than you should. 

You study him for a beat. Your eyes flitting across his face, each one of his beautiful features still as heart melting as always. 

Against your better judgment you kiss him. His lips molding perfectly over your own. Like a puzzle you once had and misplaced. Now found and situated where it belongs. 

“It’s gonna take more than an evening of groveling to get you outta the dog house— but it’s a start.” You flick the brim of his black felt hat, turning on your heels in the direction of the passenger side of the truck. 

He’s amused by your candor. The tip of his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, watching the way your hips sway a little more deliberately until you’ve reached the truck door. 

“If I remember correctly, the 8 second ride time only applied to the arena?” Biting at your bottom lip at the remembrance of the way he took care of you in so many ways. 

“Yes, ma’am!” His hat tipping with a slight nod. 

“Well, this truck ain’t gonna drive itself home, Cowboy.” Giving him a wink as you hoist yourself into the cab, watching the dust kick up behind him as he sprints to the driver’s seat. 

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VIII ║ Silver Pony

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 7: Fleabitten | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 9: Warmblood }

Rating: E

Summary: And just like that, your week at the Statesman Ranch comes to an end, leaving you grappling with the prospect of saying goodbye to Jack.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, grief, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7.5k

Notes: Here we are, the penultimate chapter of Palomino. I had the last scene in mind since the very beginning of the series, actually putting it into words has been so emotional. Thank you as always for your patience and your love for this series, I'm eternally grateful that you're still with me as we wrap up this beautiful journey cowboy Jack and his Darlin' started almost a year ago ❤️

P.S. Please excuse typos and any mistakes as I had very little time to edit with the husband ill this weekend.

Coaxing Scotch to a halt at the end of the track - the last lookout point before the trail slopes downhill and homeward - you let the leather reins slip long and loose as he stretches his neck and shakes out his mane with a low nicker. 

A hundred feet drop below, between the palomino’s ears turned forward in anticipation, is the Statesman Ranch in all its glory, nestled in the fertile valley of green pasture, with its winding creek and red roofs. You can see tiny people milling about, the stables busy in the middle of the afternoon, and horses grazing in the fields bracketed by white picket fences.

Out of the corner of your eye, Whiskey comes to a stop next to you, close enough that your knee bumps into Jack’s. 

You keep your gaze on the ranch below as you ask half-jokingly, ‘Is it too late to turn back now?’

He chuckles, and you twist towards him, your own lips curling. ‘I believe we had this exact same conversation the first day, darlin’.’

It’s not too late to back out, you know.

Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me now, cowboy.

You don’t even realise you’ve fallen quiet until his calloused hand slides over yours, fingers tangling together. Jack brushes a sweet kiss to the heart of your palm that goes right to the one in your ribcage. 

He cocks his head to one side in a gentle question. ‘Shall we rip off the bandaid, darlin’?’

Knowing there’s no other way around it, you squeeze his hand. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’

Jameson is the first to spot the five of you passing through the backgates. The sight of him zooming up the slope with his ears pinned back in excitement has you laughing, the horses nickering hello as his barks echo in the valley. 

It makes no sense really - you barely know this place after all - but something inexplicably comforting and familiar tugs at your insides as you ride through the ranch. Stable hands call out to Jack in friendly greeting and to you with polite ma’ams, between bales of hay being loaded, saddles and tack polished, and the clang of steel on iron from the farrier’s workstation out back. All the while, Jameson trots faithfully by your side, as if he’s known you all his life.

‘You sure know how to make a girl feel special,’ you coo at him and he barks back, tail wagging.

Jack winks at you and says cryptically, ‘Well, you’re about to feel a lot more special, darlin’.’

Sure enough, when the horses clop into the main stable yard, your jaw drops.

‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ bellows Champ with a huge grin on his face, standing in front of the stable doors with hands on his hips, larger than life than ever.

You chortle at the huge Welcome Back! banner stretched over the barn door, complete with over-the-top cowboy themed helium balloons, bumping into each other in the afternoon breeze. You catch Jack rolling his eyes fondly at the scene.

Champ gives Scotch an affectionate ruffle on the mane as he comes to a halt by the wooden post. ‘So - how was it, m’dear? Was it everythin’ I promised it would be?’

‘Everything and more,’ you answer in the affirmative as you dismount, letting him pull you in for an enthusiastic hug.

‘That’s what I like to hear!’ he beams and pats the palomino soundly on the rump. ‘And Scotch? Was he a good boy?’

‘The bestest boy,’ you gush, throwing your hands around the horse’s neck in a hug. ‘He deserves all the carrots and apples in the world.’

Swinging his leg over the back of Whiskey’s saddle and landing gracefully on booted feet on the opposite side of the post, Jack quips, ‘But you’ve already fed him all the carrots and apples in the world.’

Champ chortles. ‘And what about our cowboy? Was he on his best behaviour?’

Jack points a self-righteous finger at his boss. ‘I’ll have you know our guest rated the pack trip a perfect ten out of ten, so I’ll be expectin’ an immediate raise. Ain’t that right, darlin’?’

A loud scoff coming from the stables turns your head, and you smile when Tequila emerges, wasting no time taking his aim at Jack. ‘Hold your horses, Daniels. Pretty sure the food poisonin’ knocks a few points off!’

Crossing the yard with his usual swagger, he sidles up to the other side of Scotch and tips his hat at you, leaning his elbows on the saddle. ‘Welcome back, sweetheart. Good to see you up and runnin’.’

You bite your lip at the mischievous wink he tosses your way.

Champs harrumps indignantly. ‘You have some nerve askin’ for a raise, son! Poppy was madder than a wet hen she heard about that. As you well know, she expects a full report at dinner tonight.’

Jack huffs in jest. ‘I’m puttin’ in a call to my attorney as we speak.’

The banter is spirited and relentless as the cowboys make quick work of untacking and unloading the horses, Champ insisting you shouldn’t lift a finger and talking for more than the three of you. 

When the stable hands take away the last of the bags with your dirty laundry to be laundered, Jack takes a hold of both Whiskey and Bourbon. Clearing his throat, he seems to hesitate for a second, a tick in his jaw, but he eventually nods at you and says, ‘Well. I best be bringin’ the boys in now. Catch you later, darlin’.’

The bottom of your stomach gives out at the catch you later, darlin’, knocking the breath clean out of you, unprepared for the dread that courses through your veins like lead at the sudden prospect of being apart. Your fingers twitch with urgency, wanting to reach out, grab him by the front of his shirt, and cling to him -

Get a grip, woman.

You physically shake yourself out of it, and instead, try to bide your time. ‘Or, you know, if can I help with anything at all -’

Jack clearly catches on to your reluctance, but Champ is insistent. ‘Absolutely not! Now, it’s just gettin’ to four o’clock, so there’s plenty of time to go back to your room, clean up and join us for sunset drinks in a couple of hours. How does that sound, ma’am?’

Jack’s mouth stretches into a reassuring smile that you wish were imprinted into the skin of your forehead instead. With a promise in his eyes that it’ll only be a couple of hours, he leads the chestnut and pinto into the stables.

You don’t even try to hide the slump in your shoulders and your wistful, lingering gaze on the cowboy’s retreating back, nearly jumping out of your skin when Tequila gives you an almost brotherly pat on the shoulder over Scotch’s back. ‘I gotcha, girl.’

Speaking up, he calls out, ‘Hey Champ, Ginger was just tellin’ me that you got an urgent message from Harry, so you better give him a call back - you know how he gets when you don’t.’

The older man flinches dramatically at the mention of his accountant, flinging his hands up in frustration. ‘Damn distillery is more trouble than it’s worth! I better go - you remember your way back to your cabin, young lady?’

Before you can get a word out, Tequila cuts in, ‘Jack can show her the way if she doesn’t, I’m sure.’

The sly reference goes straight over Champ’s head as he bustles off, but not without a polite tip of his hat. Once he’s out of sight, you smile at the cowboy. ‘I appreciate that, Teak.’

He winks at you and spins on his heels to take Scotch to the washing bay. ‘Consider it part of our excellent service at the Statesman Ranch, sweetheart!’

You find Jack hatless in Bourbon’s box, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline, slick with sweat, when you slip in and shut the door quietly behind you.

‘Whatcha doin’, darlin’?’ he asks with a lopsided smile.

Even though you didn’t run into anyone on your way in, you glance around to make sure you’re alone before grabbing him by the open neck of his shirt and tugging him into you. One palm on his cheek, rough with the stubble starting to peek through since his last shave at the Halfway House, you press your lips to his, blood thrumming with the thrill of sneaking around.

You catch the hitch of his breath with a wet suck on his bottom lip and he groans - too loudly in the mid-afternoon quiet. Cheeky hands wander south and grab you shamelessly by the ass, his tongue questing deep into your mouth, and you can feel him hardening against your stomach, drawing a whimper from you.

Pulling back reluctantly, his nose still on yours, he growls. ‘Such brazen behaviour.’ 

Your tongue darts out and swipes the underside of your upper lip, drunk on the taste of him, and his dark gaze follows. ‘I think you like it, cowboy.’

‘Too fuckin’ much,’ he admits with a pained moan and a chaste kiss to your temple, nose in your hair, as if to calm himself down. ‘You should go clean up, I need to finish up here and you’re distractin’ me.’

You pout, laying your cards on the table. ‘But I miss you.’

His gaze warms at your admission, and he stoops to kiss you again. ‘I know, but it’s only for a little while, okay? I’ll come ‘round your room to pick you up at six.’

‘Fine,’ you reply begrudgingly. ‘Be quick, ok?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he teases and swats you on the bottom playfully as he herds you towards the door. ‘I won’t be long, promise.’

Taking two steps down the corridor, you look back one last time at Jack, who’s still watching you from the stall, leaning on the top of the door. When he blows you a lingering kiss, the thought strikes you unbidden -

If it’s this hard leaving him for a couple of hours.

Feeling the tell-tale sting in your nose and the prickle of tears at your eyes, you push the thought out of your mind - 

You put one foot in front of the other, and walk away.

You didn’t realise how much you missed civilisation until you surprise yourself with the longest sigh under the rain shower. Head bowed under the steady stream, you take your time, lathering yourself until you’re cocooned in olive scented bubbles before rinsing, relishing the firm water pressure soothing the knots and soreness lurking under your skin.

But there’s a deeper ache, one that can’t be reached from the surface.

You have literally not been apart from Jack for the last four days. You’ve been showering together since the Halfway House, for crying out loud. It hasn’t taken you more than the stretch of an arm to catch his hand, or the turn of your cheek to find his lips.

A laugh bubbles in your throat as you wrap yourself in a fluffy towel. The word codependent springs to mind.

Standing in the middle of the room in just your underwear, you sort through the clean clothes that are folded neatly on the bed. Pulling on the prettiest top you brought and the same pair of jeans you wore on your birthday, you dig out your makeup bag and settle in front of the vanity, putting on a Spotify playlist and humming along as you get ready for dinner.

One second you’re blending in your foundation, then the next - liner in your grasp and poised over the corner of your eye - panic rudely sets in.

What if -

What if the chemistry between the two of you was conditional on forced proximity?

What if Jack was only attracted to you because there was literally no other woman for miles and miles?

What if -

You startle at the knock on the door. 

It’s deja vu when you pad across the oakwood floors on bare feet, your heart threatening to thunder out of your chest when you twist the knob clockwise.

Jack is leaning on the doorframe, freshly showered himself, damp locks curling into his forehead. The yellow flannel he’s wearing is new to you, but not the way the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, over his sunkissed forearms.

For one moment of madness, you want to sink your teeth into the thick, sinewy -

‘What is it, darlin’?’ he asks, amused by your scrutiny.

You shrug, fingers fidgeting with a touch of shyness. ‘Just thinking about the last time you were on this doorstep.’

‘When you were swept away by my good looks and charm?’ he quips, arching an eyebrow.

You let him have this one, teasing, ‘Something like that, cowboy.’

Straightening up to his full height, he pulls you in by the waist so that you’re almost standing on the worn leather tips of his boots, the span of his palms warm on the small of your back. He doesn’t even bother checking over his shoulder before brushing a tender kiss on your lips, and it takes you right back to that first time in the field of wildflowers at dawn.

And you just know, in your heart of hearts - there is no what if.

In the middle of nowhere, up in the mountains, the sunset hour demands nothing short of worship. Miles and miles of grassland, trees and summer blooms become altars dipped in bronze at which to prostrate oneself as the sun sinks, rejoicing at the rapture of the end of day.

Whilst not as transcendent as what you experienced on the trail, the last sunset over the ranch is giving as good as it gets. The sun gilds the fields in gold on its descent as the stable hands bring in the last of the horses for the night while the swallows fly home above. The river that winds through the ranch is ablaze with the refracting light, and across the yard, you can hear the impatient whinnying of those waiting for their supper. 

Jack and Tequila are setting up the barbeque and firepit, the orange glow of the twin flames taking the place of the fading daylight. The familiar scent of burning wood grounds you - you’re feeling a bit out of practice being the centre of attention after being alone with Jack for the past week.

Ice cold lemonade in one hand and buffalo jerky in the other, you smile when Ginger approaches with a hug. ‘I’m sure you’ve had to answer this question about fifty times today, but how was it?’

‘You want the short answer or long answer?’

‘I want a dissertation if you have it in you!’

You sneak glances at Jack over Ginger’s shoulder while you chat, and he watches you back from afar as he bustles in and out of the kitchen, always trailing two steps behind Poppy. You catch snippets of their conversation as they go back and forth, and you pick up enough to know that she is grilling him on the ‘food poisoning’ incident. He shoots you puppy eyes every time he passes by, which makes you grin.

You may or may not have been a bit distracted by the cowboy when Ginger asks, ‘So, did you catch Jack washing in the river in the end?’

A violent cough racks your entire body as you choke mid-swallow, and she chuckles, giving you a comforting pat on the back. ‘It’s ok, girlfriend - I don’t have to know!’

You knock back more lemonade and choose to play coy. If only she knew.

Champ is in his element, swapping out your drink for a whiskey soda as the dusk deepens and making sure the snacks platter is topped up with locally made boar and elk salami. Despite only having half an ear in the conversation while he keeps an eye on the dinner prep, he’s somehow still fully invested, and is particularly interested in the photos and videos you’ve been taking on Jack’s DSLR.

‘And that’s what you do for a livin’, young lady?’ he asks, putting on his reading glasses so he can study the photos downloaded onto your phone.

‘Adjacent. I’m in marketing, I do quite a lot of business-to-consumer social media campaigns,’ you explain, switching to Instagram to show him your employer’s profile. 

Champ turns to Ginger. ‘Do we have the social media?’

She exchanges a fond smile with you. ‘No we don’t, boss, but we do have a website. I think it was last updated in 2012.’

Champ holds his chin between his thumb and index finger thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, m’dear? Should we get the social media?’

‘It depends,’ you answer truthfully. ‘If you want to boost occupancy, social media will definitely help connect new guests, and also encourage repeat visits. But if you asked me, I think the real potential is on the distillery side of the business.’

Champ perks up under his cowboy hat. ‘I’m listenin’.’

You tap the bottle of Statesman whiskey that’s sitting on the barrel table. ‘Jack told me that you only handle wholesale orders right now, which is perfectly fine. But if you want to go direct to consumers one day, social media is the way to go. I’ve worked with vineyards and gin distilleries, so I’ve seen how effective these campaigns can be.’

Humming pensively, Champ sips at his whiskey, neat, a faraway look in his eyes as he mulls over your words. ‘Well, that’s somethin’ to think about, I’d say.’

There’s no other way to end the trip than with a western cookout. The barbeque station is packed with trays of beautifully cut and aged meat from neighbouring ranches, sausages and brats, while the smoked brisket and ribs that have been cooking all day are brought out from the smoker in the kitchen. 

On the side, a picnic table draped with a chequered table cloth is crammed with baked beans (smoked in-house), corn on the cob, pasta salad and soda bread; and on the greens front, there’s homemade coleslaw, potato salad and greens freshly picked from the vegetable patch.

It’s a feast of epic proportions, and it doesn’t surprise you at all that Poppy is pulling out all the stops.

Jack mans the barbeque under her supervision, wielding the tongs with showmanship, and your heart purrs at the familiar sight of him cooking by firelight as darkness well and truly sets in. You feel slightly adrift not being by his side, but Champ is keeping you entertained and well fed, piling seconds upon thirds on your loaded plate despite your protests.

By the time Teak takes over at the barbeque and Jack makes his way towards the communal table where you’re all standing, you’re sipping slowly on your third whiskey and soda. You smile at him over the brim of your tumbler which he returns, and your body leans unconsciously towards him, before remembering where you are. He tucks his right hand into his back pocket, and you want to think that it’s because if he doesn’t, he would reach out for you.

Being denied his touch when he’s right there has you shifting your feet restlessly. Your fingers itch for him, there’s an insistent prickle under your skin that you know he alone can placate.

You venture a peek at Jack, wondering if he’s faring any better than you are. Feeling your eyes on him, he turns to you, his gaze dropping to your mouth none too subtly, the muscle in his neck tensing. Caught in the moment, all you want to do is to run your tongue down the hollow of his throat and taste the smoke on his skin -

You look away in case you do anything rash.

You’re barely holding it together when the conversation moves on to your birthday at the Halfway House.

‘And how was the dinner?’ asks Poppy animatedly. ‘Did you like the cake?’

Despite yourself, you beam, ‘Like it? I loved it, thank you so much! I was so spoiled.’

‘Did Jack show you a good time?’

‘Oh I should say so,’ cuts in Tequila despite being six feet away at the barbeque. At Jack’s glare, he quickly adds, ‘He decked out the place real nice, y’know, with balloons and shit.’

With a shake of your head, you chuckle, ‘And he dressed the horses up in birthday hats and tinsel!’

With the barbeque dying down to a low, simmering flame, Poppy slides in a couple of peach cobblers in pie dishes directly onto the embers to warm up. Leaving behind gravy-stained plates stacked up high on the barrel table, the group drifts over to the low-set deck chairs sitting in a tidy circle around the firepit. 

Emptying the last of the whiskey into his glass, Champ calls out, ‘Jack, m’boy, how ‘bout you run to the cellar and grab us another bottle of the fifteen years?’

‘Sure, boss,’ he replies, hanging back and catching your attention. ‘You wanna come look at the cellar, darlin’? It’s quite a sight.’

Champ is delighted. ‘What an inspired idea! Take your time, young lady, it’s not quite the distillery cellar, but we’ll save that for next time.’

Teak gives you a two-fingered salute and a knowing wink as Jack leads the way. ‘Enjoy the tour, sweetheart!’

Jack barely waits until you’ve turned the corner behind one of the barns before backing you up against the wall. You taste whiskey and woodsmoke on his tongue as he pins you in place with his broad frame, and you haul him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.

‘I missed you, darlin’,’ he whispers against your lips.

‘I was standing right next to you, cowboy.’

‘I know,’ he whines. ‘Took everythin’ to keep my hands to myself.’

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you reach up to brush an errant curl back from his eyes. ‘Me too.’

Jack grabs your hand and takes you on what must be a shortcut to the kitchen, since you don’t recognise the route. Practically dragging you down a flight of steps at the back, he lets go of you only to pull open a heavy oak door. Your eyes widen when the orange lights flicker on, stepping into the cellar lined with hundreds, if not thousands of bottles, floor-to-ceiling shelves nestled into stone arches carved into the walls. 

You wander the perimeter of the room, carefully pulling out dusty bottles high and low to inspect the years printed on the labels, but Jack is having none of it. Face nuzzled into the nook of your shoulder, he grinds his half-hard cock into you impatiently, calloused palms sliding under your shirt and squeezing your tits through your bra.

You moan, the sound echoing under the low vaulted ceilings. ‘What are you doing, cowboy?’

‘Want you now,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, teeth catching the sensitive skin.

‘What’s gotten into you?’ you ask, a laugh caught in your throat as he ruts against the cleft of your ass needily, a shudder rippling through you when you feel just how much he wants you through the denim.

‘It’s the change in altitude,’ he rasps, dry humping you in earnest now, his fingers fumbling with the front of the zipper. ‘And you’re really fuckin’ sexy in these jeans.’

‘Such a sweet talker,’ you tease, reaching behind you to undo his pants. ‘We got to be quick.’

He yanks the front of your jeans down so hard the movement jolts you forwards, flipping the denim inside out and dragging it down to the middle of your thighs, your panties going with them. His question is hot in your ear. ‘Want me to use protection, darlin’?’

You don’t skip a beat with an emphatic, ‘No.’

‘Fuck,’ he growls at your one-worded answer. ‘Lettin’ me fuck you bare? I’m one lucky cowboy.’

Your pussy throbs at his words alone, and you gasp in surprise when Jack manhandles you to the middle of the room, where a row of aged barrels rest on their sides, elevated on a sturdy shelf to keep them off the floor. He bends you unceremoniously over one cask so that your front is pressed up against the curved wooden surface, then, kicking your legs apart and notching the head of his cock at the mouth of your cunt, he sinks into you in one determined thrust.

‘Jack!’ you cry out, voice hoarse, filled almost painfully full, suspended on the tips of your toes as he plants his feet and drives into you, pulling out to the tip before plunging all the way back in, so deep you feel him in your throat. His breath is harsh and hot on the shell of your ear, but you can’t hear him over your own cries.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he croons throatily, his jeans rubbing the back of your thighs raw as his grip on you bites into your sides, holding you in place as you writhe. ‘Such a good girl, lettin’ me bend you over like this, takin’ me so well.’

Nails skidding over the wooden grain of the barrel as you scrabble for something to hold onto, you mewl, ‘Yes, yes, yes, feels so fucking good, cowboy!’

The slap of skin on skin bounces obscenely off the walls, and between the buck of his hips and his groans, you hear the slick squelch of your pussy stretching for him.

It seems to spur him on, and he snaps harder into you, rasping, ‘Look at you naughty thin’, lettin’ me fuck you in the middle of the cellar when anyone can walk in.’

Only then does it hit you - the absurdity of having fucked your way across the open country on this packtrip, taking for granted the liberty of literally screaming to the high heavens, free from prying eyes and ears. Juxtaposed against the sudden and very real prospect of getting caught, your body instinctively reacts.

Jack feels you clench wetly around his cock, a choked chuckle halfway in his throat. ‘Fuck, you filthy girl, you like that, don’t you? Want someone to walk in on us when I’m balls deep inside this pretty pussy?’

Your back arches, and he slides in so deep you’re sure you’ll be feeling him for days after, even when you’re a thousand miles from here. ‘Yes, yes, yes sir -’

The next thing you know, he’s gripping your hair and pulling, making you watch him over your shoulder. His eyes are black, jaw hanging open and teeth bared, and he’s gone - he’s thrusting recklessly into you, and you have no idea how your spine hasn’t snapped from being bent so far backwards. Then one rope-worn palm comes down on your right ass cheek in a cracking slap, making you gag on a half-groan, slick trickling down your thighs at the sting.

Jack leans over you now, caging you between his arms, his soft kisses on your neck an antithesis to the uncompromising rhythm at which he’s pounding into you. He coaxes, ‘Gonna cum for me, darlin’?’

Two of his fingers nudge between your legs and you whine when they make landing on your swollen clit. You nod desperately, clawing at the smooth wooden barrel under you. ‘Yes Jack, please make me cum. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, you will,’ he says matter-of-factly, smearing mouth and tongue down the side of your neck. ‘You can do it. Make a mess on my cock, c’mon, darlin’ -’

When you clamp down around him, it takes Jack everything - everyfuckin’thin’ - not to let go and pump into you, fill that tight little cunt as you wail his name, quaking and squirming in his grasp. Air doesn’t quite reach his lungs, and he’s biting so hard on the insides of his mouth that it swells instantly, wanting so badly to mark you, to possess you in the most primal way a man can -

With a strangled groan, he pulls out, but only just - he’s already cumming before he can even wrap a fist around his cock, spurting crudely all over the swollen lips of your pussy and the curve of your ass as he milks himself dry, shudder after shudder. His spend drips so prettily down the back of your thighs, stopping just short of staining your jeans, that he goes light-headed for a moment. He sways, and if not for you grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him down for a lazy kiss, he probably would’ve keeled over.

He looks down at the mess he made, crooning into your ear, ‘You’re so beautiful covered in my cum, darlin’.’

You squeak, startled, when he runs this thumb down your slit, still so slick and wet for him, and he has to fight the urge to fucking scoop up his cum shove it into you, filling you only to have it drool out of you when he holds the pretty lips open -

He feels your eyes on him, like you can tell what he’s thinking. He winces, shame rearing its head as he apologises, ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away. Was it - too much?’

Cupping his cheek in your palm, you pull him down for another kiss. ‘Never. I’ll take everything you’ve got, cowboy.’

Jack somehow has a handkerchief in his shirt pocket, which he brandishes with a flourish, prompting a giggle from you. ‘A gentleman if I’ve ever seen one.’

With a playful smirk, he declares, ‘Damn straight - my mama raised me right.’

Gently, Jack cleans you up, and you’re happy to let him do all the work, your body heavy and sated. When he’s done, he swivels you around and presses his lips to your temple. ‘Come back to my house tonight, darlin’?’

You tuck your nose into the crook of his neck and breathe in deeply. ‘I’d love to, cowboy.’

He’s carefully folding up the soiled handkerchief and tucking it into his back pocket when you hear footsteps on the stairs, and the two of you have barely pulled up your jeans when the door swings open.

There’s a dramatic pause as Teak takes in your dishevelled state and none too guilty faces. Looking distinctly unsurprised, he bursts into laughter nonetheless. ‘The cellar? Is nothin’ sacred to you heathens?’

The cookout winds down over bubbling hot peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream that Teak collected from the freezer in the kitchen on the way back. It’s pushing ten o’clock when Champ calls it a night, and you all help with bringing the dirty dishes and leftovers inside.

Poppy and Ginger make quick work of putting all the food in tupperware and into the fridge. Jack and Teak load up the dishwasher as you finish off the last of your drink.

Champ dusts his hands, as if he’s the one who’s done all the tidying up, and asks, ‘Your flight tomorrow isn’t until afternoon is it?’

You nod, passing Jack your empty glass. ‘Yeah, I need to drop off my rental truck as well, so I think I’ll have to leave around eleven.’

He pats you on the back. ‘Alright then, we’ll see you tomorrow mornin’. Have a good night’s sleep, young lady.’

‘Say goodbye before you go,’ adds Ginger, giving you a peck on the cheek.

‘Dinner was incredible, Poppy, thank you,’ you smile as she pulls you into a warm hug.

The redhead winks at you. ‘My absolute pleasure. I’ll fix you a little takeaway lunch to go tomorrow for the journey home. No plane food allowed for our guests!’

The kitchen empties until it’s just you, Jack and Teak, with the latter grinning at you two like a lunatic. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. ‘So you guys wanna hang, or -’

‘Get the fuck outta here, Teak!’ Jack growls.

The taller cowboy ambles over to you, joints loose with alcohol, and gives you what can only be described as a bear hug. 

‘Just try keep it down, will ya? It’s real quiet in the valley at night and some of us have to work early tomorrow,’ he ribs with an insolent wink. ‘Guess we won’t see you lovebirds at breakfast?’

‘Not if you’re there,’ Jack retorts, to which Teak flashes a good-natured middle finger and saunters off into the night.

Jack draws you into his arms and you slump against him, relieved that you’re finally alone. ‘Shall we, darlin’?’

His fingers curl securely around the back of your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles at the base of yours as he closes the kitchen door behind you. It strikes you this is actually the first time you’re holding hands - there was no need for that when you were in the saddle, or camped in close proximity. 

Your cheeks stretch with a smile so wide that the muscles ache. The mundanity of walking side by side, hand in hand, shouldn’t be this thrilling.

It’s quiet other than the grind of gravel under your boots and Jack’s heavier ones. The night air is sweet, the blanket of stars above you just as magical, but it’s not quite the same kind of stillness at the lower altitude. Perhaps it’s the way the sound travels with buildings and other people around, maybe the very physics of it is fundamentally different.

Turning into the parking lot, your attention is piqued by a handsome motorcycle parked all on its lonesome next to the main lodge.

Pride in his voice, Jack says, ‘Darlin’, meet the Silver Pony.’

You know nothing about motorcycles, but you can appreciate the sleek lines, the classy tan leather seat and the retro elegance about her as you circle it. Her silver paint job gleams in the lonely porch light. ‘She’s beautiful, cowboy.’

‘She’s an old girl but she got good bones. I restored her myself,’ he proclaims proudly, before admitting, ‘And well, Teak helped too.’

Opening a little cabinet attached to the side of the main lodge, Jack pulls out a helmet that has you laughing. It’s painted red white and blue, stars, stripes and the full monty, with the word WHISKEY painted across the front in bold formation.

He grins at you. ‘Found it in a yard sale. Too good to pass up.’

Lowering it over your head, he tightens the strap carefully under your chin. It’s a bit big, but it’ll do for a short ride. Blinking up at him, it brings you back to that first day in the stables, and you feel the same pull that you did when he fitted you with your hat.

Except this time, you can do something about it. Standing on your tiptoes to kiss him, you giggle when your helmet slips and knocks into his forehead with a clunk.

Putting on his own sensible black helmet, he plants his left foot by the side of the bike and swings his right leg over the leather seat. 

You’re taken aback by the spike in your pulse at the sight - you’d think that having seen him on horseback all week would have prepared you for it. But there’s something about the way he leans over the top of the motorcycle, thighs wrapped around the metal body, forearms flexing as he grasps the handlebar. 

Starting the ignition and knocking back the kickstand with the heel of his cowboy boot, Jack nods at you. ‘Hop on, darlin’.’

You do, and you don’t need to be told to hold on tight.

The Silver Pony purrs to a stop outside a modest cottage, about a ten-minute cruise from the ranch, down a short dirt track from the main road. It’s pitch black except for the headlights that illuminate an unexpectedly floral front garden. You hop off and take off your helmet before Jack kills the engine, plunging you into a very familiar darkness.

Switching on the light on his phone, he reaches for your hand and pulls you gently to his side, his solid warmth welcome even though it’s nowhere as chilly as it was up on the mountains. Flashing the light towards the front yard, he tells you, ‘Ginger has quite the green finger, this is all her work. It took some time, but the vegetable patch is just startin’ to come through this season.’

Keys jangling, Jack unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, flipping on the lights. 

It’s a cosy space, not big by country standards, but more than spacious enough for one cowboy. It’s clearly a man’s house, with a distinct lack of decorative touches other than a vintage map of Wyoming hanging over a dining table and a crowded bookshelf by the door. Dark wood with orange knots line the floors and ceilings, the warm tones reminding you of nights around the campfire.

Walking through the tidy but lived-in space, you pass an open kitchen with a breakfast bar that backs into the living room. A rustic stone fireplace stands in the corner, bracketed by a cosy sectional with deep seats.

Jack watches you mill about, taking everything in. When you stop by the fireplace, he asks jokingly from across the room, ‘So, what’s the verdict?’

You tease, ‘Not gonna lie - I’m disappointed there aren’t more spurs and lassos on the walls.’

He chuckles and steps into the kitchen. ‘You want a nightcap?’

‘Just water thank you, I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

Filling up two glasses at the sink, he crosses the room to join you at the mantelpiece.

‘How long have you been living here?’ you ask, setting your glass on the shelf after taking a sip.

He takes a moment to reply. ‘I took a long break off work after my wife died, then moved in here straight after. Couldn’t stand bein’ in our house alone - couldn’t bear bein’ there at all.’ He pauses, and his lips quirk with a wry smile. ‘Champ and Teak packed everythin’ up for me and drove it all here.’

His honesty hits you squarely in the chest, the weight of the grief behind his words nearly knocking you back a step. You reach for him, closing the two-step distance and wrapping your arms tight around his waist.

Eyes closed, he lets you anchor him to the moment. Maybe he shouldn’t, but the confession slips right through his teeth. ‘I haven’t brought any women here. Ever.’

He holds his breath as he feels you hold yours. 

You mumble into his chest, ‘You have to stop making it harder for me to leave, cowboy.’

Then don’t. 

The two words are on the tip of his tongue, and for a second, he worries that he actually said them out loud. But he knows he can’t. It’s mad. It’s been a week. It’s not fair on you, not when you have a whole life back in the city, thousands of miles away, and his is right here in the shadow of the Bighorn Mountains.

So he says nothing.

Eventually, you pull back and tip your face up towards him. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the wetness lining the seams of your eyes. 

‘Let’s go to bed, cowboy.’

He watches you from the doorway, where he leans idly against the frame, body relaxed from the whiskey sodas at dinner. The curtains are drawn and the light from the bedside lamp soft, casting orange shades on the walls and your skin as you shrug on the shirt he leaves out for you. The last button done, you snuggle comfortably under his sheets, and his heart lurches.

Not for the first time, the thought crosses his mind -

You look like you belong here.

‘Are you gonna stare all night, cowboy?’ you tease, sinking into the pillows.

He shrugs and closes the door behind him, shedding his clothes as he goes. ‘Can’t help it, darlin,’. You look good in my bed.’

‘It’s so comfy,’ you sigh happily, watching him strip down to his boxers.

‘It’s just the hard ground talkin’,’ he says, climbing in next to you. Bundling you into his arms and sliding one leg between yours, he kisses you, a deep exhale leaving him as he does. You smile so wide the corners of your eyes crease, and he watches as they land somewhere behind him.

His stomach drops when it dawns on him what catches your attention.

But it’s too late. You sit up, leaning over him and grabbing a hold of it with gentle hands.

You stare up at him. ‘Jack.’ 

He doesn’t even remember the last time he really looked at the photo. It’s there when he wakes up, when he goes to bed. It sits on the bedside table by the lamp, probably covered in dust. 

Untouched.

His silence doesn’t deter you, but your tone is soft, and he understands that you’re giving him an out if he wants it. ‘What’s her name?’

His throat goes drier than sandpaper, and he’s suddenly speaking through a mouthful of cotton. It takes him two tries before he manages to enunciate. ‘Addison. Everyone called her Addie.’

‘Was this taken at your wedding?’

He nods, picking at a loose thread on the comforter.

‘Look at you all dashing in a suit, cowboy,’ you hum appreciatively, tracing a fingertip over the smart dark grey tweed jacket with navy accents. ‘Where did you get married?’

‘At her parents’ ranch.’

‘Under this magnolia tree?’

He nods again. ‘It was her favourite spot.’

‘She’s so beautiful,’ you say quietly.

His eyes dart to the photo in your grasp despite himself. Swallowing thickly, he says, ‘She’s buried there now, where she was always happiest.’

At that, you return the photo to its place on the bedside table, almost solemnly. This is usually the point when people stop asking questions, so when you snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, gazing at him expectantly, he frowns in confusion. 

‘What is it, darlin’?’

‘Tell me about her.’

Jack is stumped, flustered at your request. He shifts, sitting up stiffly against the headboard. ‘Like what?’

You shrug. ‘I don’t know. Like - how did you meet?’

His answer is short, factual. ‘On the rodeo circuit. We both worked on the tour.’

You give him an encouraging nudge. ‘And? What was she like?’

‘She -’ he pauses and holds his breath, weighing his words. In the end, it’s the truth that he tells you. ‘She was the best person.’

He stutters to a stop again, but you’re still peering at him, your expression curious and open. He knows you won’t push him, he trusts that you wouldn’t. He could reach out and switch off the light right now, and he knows you’d leave it at that.

But a small part of him demurs. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, but something unsettling and hopeful at once stirs in his stomach, one that is stopping him from cutting short this somewhat unconventional pillow talk.

So he tests the words on his tongue, starting with something small. ‘She was a cat person. All the barn cats loved her, no matter where we went on the circuit.’

Watching the way your eyes smile at the detail, he feels a little lighter. He adds, ‘We literally had cats camping out in our truck, and I’m allergic, so I’d be sneezing and covered in hives on the long-distance drives between rodeos.’

You laugh, and his chest swells with the realisation that he doesn’t remember the last time any mention of his wife sparked anything but sad side glances and commiserating pats on the back - let alone joy.

Over the years, he had let go of her joy. Because it doesn’t hurt as much to mourn her this way.

And the guilt that he did this, took the easy way out, is almost too much for one soul-crushing moment - until you lay your head on his chest, unfurling one hand and pressing it into his side, literally holding him together, rib by rib.

He tells you about Addie. Things he’s been afraid to remember, but even more afraid that he had forgotten. Her likes, pet peeves, where she went to college, her favourite show, her irrational fear of butterflies, her favourite dress, the song that always got her up on her feet dancing wherever she was, whatever she was doing, when it came on the radio. 

You listen, picking up on the way his voice falls back into that beautiful Southern cadence that you have come to know as he remembers his wife, nothing but love in his eyes as the guardedness fades with each memory he confides in you. You pepper the pauses with follow-up questions and playful quips where you’re draped across him, one arm folded underneath you and the other over his waist, but you feel yourself nodding off as the hour grows late. 

He holds you to him, his palm spanning your lower back, until you go quiet.

Jack is tired, his own lids drooping with impending slumber, the sprint down memory lane taking more out of him than he expected. Brushing a kiss to the crown of your head, he rolls you off his front and onto your side, tucking you into the rumpled sheets. Spooning you from behind, he murmurs one last thing on the shell of your ear.

‘She would’ve loved you, darlin’.’

Notes: When I first started this series, I didn't have a backstory developed for Jack other than that his wife died eight and a half years before Darlin' comes on the scene. It's been such an organic and fulfilling journey developing his character and his history over the series, filling in the blanks as we and Darlin' got to know him better.

It's so important to me that his wife and his grief isn't pushed to one side for the sake of easy story telling. I've dropped little hints of his bereavement throughout the series, nothing too loud, but it's there in the background, my way of paying respect to one aspect of canon Jack that touches me very deeply despite the mess the movie makes of his story.

Out of all my Reader! characters, I would say that Darlin' is my most unassuming one. Not in a bad way at all, it's just that she doesn't have as loud a personality as Shiv or Pin, or as dramatic a storyline as Sweetheart. But this chapter, she just really came into her own. That last scene will stay with me forever ❤️

Edited to add a reminder that we still have one more chapter to go before we say goodbye to these two. I’m not ready 😭

[wannab-urs]

Title: Under Your Skin

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x Javier Peña x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve worked on Chucho’s ranch since you were 15 years old, grew up with Javi, loved Javi… He comes back after nearly 20 years to find you hooking up with a certain former secret agent. He’s jealous, for sure, but of who? 

Warnings: mdni, 18+ post season 3 of Narcos, AU where Jack gets kicked out of the Statesmen instead of burgered, Javi being bi and repressed, Jack being a bisexual slut, SMUT, MMF dynamics, oral (f receiving), javi being a dick, oral (m receiving), javi tries to hit jack, gay kissing (!!!), making out, face sitting, reader kinda gets used and likes it, nipple play, throat fucking, Eiffel tower moment, brief f masturbation, brief m masturbation, pet names (sugar, cowboy, baby, hermosa), truly unreasonable amounts of cursing i’m sorry i talk like this, and also unreasonable amounts of southern phrasing, again sorry I talk like this, unprotected PIV, creampie, cum eating, teasing Javi, actually 90% porn with like a little backstory, kind of enemies to lovers, they’re all ranch hands technically, also they’re all romantically into each other but also javi is dumb and jack can’t believe anyone would want him for more than sex haha oops :)  WC: 3.5k

A/N: This is my @pedrostories Secret Santa gift to the lovely @javier-pena!! I hope it’s everything you wanted ahhhhh. I hope it's ok that this has nothing to do with Christmas and really doesn't even take place in the winter. I saw that you like Whiskey and Javi P, cowboys , and poly fics and like... could not resist. I tried my hand at enemies to lovers, a trope I love to read, but I think it came out pretty mild. I am so excited for you to read this!!!!! Happy Holidays ❤️

credits: dividers by @saradika // Thanks for the beta @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin, @beskarandblasters, and @idolatrybarbie

Jack Daniels Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Working on a ranch isn’t easy, and it usually isn’t even all that fun. But it does have its perks. One such perk is currently on his knees with his face buried in your pussy. One of your legs is over Jack’s shoulder and you use it to pull him even closer, grinding your clit on his hooked nose. Just as you’re about to come, the door to the tack room slams open. You and Jack jump apart and you quickly start stuffing your legs back into your jeans. 

“For FUCKS sake, Daniels. This is the third time this week. Get back to fucking work.” Javier Peña, face red and chest heaving, looks like he just caught his girlfriend cheating on him. “And you. You should fucking know better.” 

You fasten the button of your jeans and smirk at Javi. “Know better than what, Javi?”

“Than to fuck around with some asshole like Daniels.” 

“He’s nicer than you,” you snark before storming out, making sure to slam your shoulder into Javi on the way out the door. He ruined a perfectly good orgasm.

You’ve worked on Chucho’s ranch since you were 15 years old, taking care of the horses at first before graduating to fixing the fences and caring for the cattle as well. You and Javi had been best friends before he ran off to Colombia, spending every day after school and every second of daylight in the summer together on his father’s ranch. 

You had been in the back pew the day he never showed up for his and Lorraine’s wedding. You like to think you had something to do with that. He clearly, clearly, wanted out of Laredo, wanted nothing to do with the wife and 2.5 kids and picket fence life he was barrelling toward. 

His bachelor party was just the two of you drinking in the hayloft, you begging him to do what he’d always wanted to and him going on about duty and obligation. You’d almost kissed him that night, but stopped yourself. He was getting married the next day, for fuck’s sake. You’re glad he listened to you, in the end, even if he disappeared without so much as a goodbye.

In the years he was gone, you never really forgot about him. The truth was that he had been your first love, but you’d never worked up the courage to tell him, and then he was getting married and then he was gone. 

Jack looked so much like Javi that when he first showed up on the ranch, you asked if he was Javi’s cousin or something, a long lost Peña. He assured you he was from Kentucky and had no relation to the Peñas. Jack had been some sort of law enforcement, and the reason he was here on a ranch in Texas was a mystery to everyone but him. There were rumors he was fired, banned from law enforcement altogether, but nothing could be confirmed. He doesn’t seem like the type to have a bad past, but you never really know.

Jack is charming in a loud, overly confident sort of way. He’s smart as a whip and funny to boot. He’s a damn good time and he’s never asked anything of you but a good fuck and better company. It’s really more than you could have hoped for with Javi gone and no other prospects in town… that you had any interest in anyway.

Now, nearly a couple decades after he left, Javi is back working for his dad. He won’t talk about Colombia, even though everyone calls him a hero. You’d think he’d want to brag about his accomplishments down there, but he reminds you of war vets, the way he shuts down when anyone brings it up. 

He’s different now than the old Javi, your Javi, was. He’s surly, quick to snap at people, smokes like a freight train, and never does anything but sit in the bunkhouse and drink. You think you could handle all the change if he’d just talk to you. 

You were so close as kids, but now it’s like you don’t know him at all. The bright, funny, hot-headed kid you knew is gone and some asshole has replaced him. He barely speaks to you at all, but he treats Jack even worse – insinuating Jack can’t do his job, calling him an asshole at any given opportunity, even up and leaving a room when the man walks in. It’s ridiculous and you can’t figure out why he’s acting like this. Jack has never so much as looked at Javi sideways, even after all the harsh treatment.

You head to your room in the bunkhouse, all your work taken care of for the day already. It’s not like you were neglecting your job to hook up with Jack, as much as Javi might like to think that. You push open the door to your room and find Jack lounging in your bed, shirtless and barefoot. 

“Hey there, pretty girl,” Jack smiles at you, his eyes scrunching at the corners. God he’s cute. 

“Hi, cowboy. Made yourself at home, did you?” You start stripping out of your work clothes, not caring about Jack’s presence. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. Jack gets off the bed and pulls your mostly naked body into his chest, nuzzling your neck. 

“We got interrupted earlier.” 

“Fucking asshole. He’s just mad he’s not getting any.”

“May be more right than you know, sugar.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him but shrug off the comment, dropping to your knees and working at Jack’s belt buckle. 

Javi hates that son of a bitch, he really does. He’s always sneaking off work to fuck whatever willing idiot falls for his charming smile and his stupid broad shoulders and his long bowlegs. 

He can’t believe you of all people fell for it, keep falling for it. Sure he’s pretty, but the guy is an asshole. Two days ago, he caught him in the store room with his hand down Jose’s pants. The guy is a slut, plain and simple. You’re too fucking good for him. 

Javi isn’t completely sure why Jack gets under his skin so bad. At least not in any way he’ll admit to himself or anyone else. Jack is charming without being sleazy, smart, good at his job, funny. There were rumors that Jack had done bad things in his past, though there’s nothing about the man that indicates he had, aside from his silence on the topic. Something Javi can’t honestly hold against him, considering his own refusal to open up. There’s no real reason for Javi to hate him, but he does. Everything the other man does sets him into a rage, his face hot, chest heaving, fists clenching. He wants to put his fist through a wall. 

He’s not quite sure where he went wrong with you. Sure, leaving for nearly 20 years does a number on a friendship, but he’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be this bad. You haven’t done anything wrong, other than fuck around with Jack, but every time he speaks to you now it’s a biting remark. A criticism of your work ethic, your choice in bed fellows, even your outfits. It’s like he has no control over his own damn mouth.

Javi knows he’s in the wrong, knows he should apologize for his comment earlier. He heads to the bunkhouse to find you. Your room is two doors down and across the hall from his. Javi doesn’t bother knocking, pushing the door open.

“Hey, do you have a sec–” Javi freezes in your doorway, catching an eyeful of you with Jack fucking Daniels’ cock in your mouth. Jack catches his eye and fucking winks at him. Javi ignores the twitch in his jeans and closes the door, stalking down the hall to his own room and slamming his door behind him.

Twice in one day? Seriously? He takes back the apology before he can ever offer it to you. This is just ridiculous. What do you see in Jack that you don’t see in him? And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Javi wants you for himself and he’s pissed that Jack got to you while you he was off not catching Escobar. 

There’s a knock on his door and then, “Peña?” Fucking Jack Daniels. 

“Piss off, Whiskey. Not in the mood.”

Jack opens the door anyway, steps inside and shuts it behind him. Javi takes his disheveled hair, still bare chest and feet. The man hadn’t even bothered to button his jeans. Javi is on his feet in the other man’s face in seconds. “I said piss off, Daniels. Something about that you don’t understand?” 

“No need to be hostile, Peña, I just wanted to check on you. Stormed out of there pretty quick.” Jack doesn’t back up an inch. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want to see her with your cock down her throat.” 

“Why, Jav? You like her or something?” Javi shoves Jack until his back hits the wall, hard. “Or is it because you’re afraid you’ll like it too much?” Javi sees red. He swings on Jack, but Jack catches his fist and pulls the other man into his chest. 

“Fuck you,” Javi growls it, lips almost grazing Jack’s, their mouths are so close together. 

“That an offer?” Jack smirks. If Jack didn’t know better, he’d think he heard Javi’s breath hitch in his throat at that. Before he can wonder if Javi is gonna try to hit him again, Javi crashes their lips together. 

Jack drops Javi’s arm and grabs the collar of his shirt in both hands instead. Jack licks into Javi’s mouth, slots a thigh between Javi’s and feels the other man’s cock getting hard against his leg. Jack walks him back toward the bed, tugging at the buttons of Javi’s shirt. 

Suddenly, the door opens and Javi flies back from Jack as if he’d shoved him, sprawling on the bed. Jack doesn’t even turn to look at you, just stares Javi down.

 “Hey, I heard…” you trail off, taking in the scene in front of you. Jack standing in the middle of the room, looking even more disheveled than the state you’d left him in. Javi spread out on the bed, shirt half untucked and half unbuttoned, his dick clearly hard in his jeans. “What am I looking at here?”

“Nothing,” Javi spits out. 

“Me and Jav had a little fight, but we kissed and made up, Sugar.” Jack winks at you and you feel your cheeks heat, feel a flutter of arousal in your belly. 

“Oh really?” You run your tongue along your top teeth, trying and failing to contain a smirk.

Javi furrows his brow at you. Do you sound… excited? Jack glances back and forth between the two of you. 

“Why don’t you close the door?” Jack asks you, his voice low. You kick the door closed behind you and walk over to Javi. You take his face in your hands and tug him toward you until he’s sitting up on the bed.

“Close your mouth ‘fore flies get in, baby.” He snaps his jaw shut and you press a chaste kiss to his lips. “This okay?” Javi nods slowly. You climb onto the bed, straddling Javi’s thighs, and kiss him again, deeper and longer than the first. 

Jack makes his way across the room and settles on his knees behind Javi, gripping his hips and pressing his lips behind his ear. 

“How about this? Is this okay?” Jack whispers. 

“Y-yeah,” Javi honest to god stutters. This is not where he thought this was going. He doesn’t even like men. Not usually. 

Javi kisses you like his fucking life depends on it. He sucks your tongue into his mouth, tangles his own with yours. Drags his mouth down your jaw line, your throat, leaves a mark on your collarbone. You finish unbuttoning Javi’s shirt and Jack pulls it off him and tosses it on the floor before he sucks his own mark into Javi’s neck and Javi bites back a moan at the feeling. He buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

“I um- I don’t really-” Javi’s face burns hot. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. 

“It’s alright, I gotcha.” Jack runs his hands up and down Javi’s sides, soothing him. “Let’s start with something you’re familiar with, huh? Or at least I hope you are.” Jack slides off the bed, silently communicating with you what his plan is. 

You push Javi until he’s on his back in the center of the bed. You stand up and strip your panties and t-shirt off before you crawl up his body, dropping kisses on the soft curve of his stomach, his chest, his throat. You settle your knees on either side of his head, your soaked pussy hovering just over his face. This he can do, he thinks.

He grabs your thighs and licks a stripe from your core to your clit. You moan, one hand braced on the wall in front of you and the other fisted in his hair. He pulls you flush with his mouth and starts moving your hips for you, making you ride his face. He thrusts his tongue in and out of you while you grind on his nose, much like you had Jack’s earlier. They’re both so fucking beautiful, fuck. 

Jack gets situated between Javi’s spread thighs and takes in the sight of you straddling his face. It might be the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Your head thrown back in ecstasy, Javi’s strong arms pulling you back and forth on his face. 

Jack palms Javi through his jeans and he hears him moan into your skin. Jack strips his own jeans off, then drags Javi’s down far enough to free his cock. Jack’s mouth waters at the sight. Javi is thick, long, uncut. Fuckin’ gorgeous. He sucks the tip of Javi’s cock into his mouth, savoring the salty taste of his precum. Javi lets out a deep, muffled groan straight into your core and it sends you over the edge. Your cries only encourage Jack more and he takes Javi to the root, bobbing his head up and down the man’s length. 

Javi holds you to his face while he works you through your orgasm. He finally lets you go, and you fall to the side to catch your breath and shake off the aftershocks. 

Javi slides both hands into Jack’s hair, thrusting lightly into Jack’s mouth. Jack reaches a hand between his own legs and strokes himself while he lets Javi use his throat. You just came, but the sight of the two men together has your cunt clenching around nothing. You drop your hand to your clit and rub circles in time to Javi’s thrusts. 

Javi pulls Jack off him abruptly. “Fuck- you’re really good at that.”

“I know,” Jack smirks at Javi, his voice rough. 

“I’d really like to come in her tight little cunt though, instead of your mouth.” Javi looks over to you, eyes full of lust. “If that’s okay?” 

“More than okay, baby.” You shoo the boys off the bed and lay across it with your head hanging off the edge. Jack moves to stand by your head and slips the head of his cock between your open lips. Javi feels a twinge of jealousy at the way you both seem to know exactly what the other wants without saying a word aloud. But then you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer to you and he lets it go. If this is the only time Javi gets to have you, he’s not going to waste it being jealous of the guy who just sucked him off. 

Javi drags his cock through your soaked folds. “So wet for us, baby.” Javi groans as he pushes inside you, slowly sliding in to the hilt. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Jack cradles your head in one hand while he shallowly fucks your throat, playing with your tits with his free hand. He tweaks your left nipple and you moan around his cock. Every thrust from Javi pushes you further down Jack’s length, forcing him to fuck your throat. You’ve never been used like this before, like some sort of proxy for two men to fuck each other, but you fucking love it. You feel close to coming again already, and no one has touched your clit in minutes. 

Jack pulls Javi to him and crashes their mouths together. Javi lets Jack plunder his mouth for a moment before sucking on the other man’s tongue, drawing a moan from the cowboy’s throat. He may have never kissed a man, but he’s been with enough women to manage that. 

The two men sync up, thrusting into your holes at the same time and you feel like you’re ascending to another fucking plane of existence. There are no thoughts in your head except for Javi and Jack and how fucking amazing you feel. And, briefly, the thought of them both stuffed in your core, stuffing you fuller than you’ve ever been. You clench at that thought, and Javi has enough presence of mind to drop his hand to your mound, rubbing messy circles on your clit. 

Your body tenses, back arching as you get closer and closer to the edge, which only serves to open your throat up more for Jack. Javi grabs your hips with both hands and starts pulling you onto his cock, hitting your g-spot every time. Suddenly, your entire body tenses and your pussy flutters around Javi’s thick cock. Your vision blacks out as your eyes roll into the back of your head, coming harder than you ever have before.

Jack comes down your throat with absolutely no warning, too lost in Javi’s mouth on his and your mouth around his cock to say a word. You grab his hips and hold him deep in your throat, swallowing around him. The force of his orgasm knocks him forward on the bed, hands planted on either side of your hips and face buried in the crook of Javi’s neck as he paints your throat. 

Javi thrusts into you a few more times before his hips still, flush with yours. He comes deep inside you for what feels like forever, his cum spilling out of you and dripping onto the bed. 

He pulls out of you slowly, dropping a kiss to your thigh before he goes to get a towel to clean you up. When he comes back, he finds you with your legs thrown over Jack’s shoulders, the man eating Javi’s cum out of your cunt. Javi’s spent dick gives a valiant twitch at the sight. 

“Guess I didn’t need the towel then?” Javi jokes, tossing it onto the bedside table and climbing back onto the bed. Jack sucks your clit into his mouth one last time and pulls off with a pop. 

“Guess not,” Jack smirks. You and Jack settle in beside Javi, Jack pulling the man’s head to his chest and you resting your head on Javi’s torso. You all sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. 

“You’re not uh-” Javi closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’re not gonna tell my old man I-”

“That you like boys?” you snicker. 

“Not foolin’ anyone in those tight little jeans you wear, Jav.”

Javi presses his fingers into his eyelids and takes another deep breath. “Guys I’m serious.” 

“Of course. We won’t tell anyone. Not til you’re ready.” You lean up and kiss his cheek before nuzzling back into Javi’s tummy. 

“So you gonna tell her, or am I?” Jack looks like a kid in a candy store.

You sit up quickly. “Tell me what?” 

“Don’t–” Javi tries to plead with Jack.

“Sugar, he tried to hit me for messing around with you,” Jack interrupts. “Think he might have a crush.” 

“What the fuck, man?” Javi’s brow furrows so deep you think it might get stuck that way. 

Jack ignores him and addresses you, “He’s always starin’ at you and checking up on you and asking you for shit he can damn well get himself.”

“Javi, is it true?” 

Javi looks up at the ceiling as if he’s praying for God to have mercy on him. 

“Yeah, hermosa. It’s true. Lo- Liked you since I was a kid.” 

You smile so wide it hurts and wrap your arms around Javi, pulling him to you for another long, deep kiss. “Javi, baby, I was in love with you before you ever even got with Lorraine. And I never stopped loving you. Jack was just a stand-in, until he wasn’t.” You look over at Jack with a wince. “Sorry, Jack. No offense?” 

“None taken, sugar.” Jack smiles good-naturedly and kisses you on the forehead. “Could we do this again sometime? Or are y’all cuttin’ me out of the deal now?” 

“You’re not going anywhere, cowboy. Javi likes you too.” 

“Wait really?” Jack seems genuinely surprised. 

Javi drops his head into his hands and groans. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

Oh and here's a silly little moodboard thing I made

[alernun]

When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers, if you can. Let’s spread the self-love. ♥️

Ooooh a fun ask! Here goes (in no particular order): 1. The Turning of Daniel Molloy, the Devil's Minion, in the Al Sharaf Towers, Dubai Rating: E Fandom & Pairing: Interview With The Vampire, Armandaniel Why It's One of My Faves: This 7k oneshot was the first thing I wrote in over 10 years, and was my introductory fic into the Interview With The Vampire fandom. I thought really long and hard about the push and pull between them and getting the dialogue right, and I'm super proud of how it turned out, particularly Armand's voice. 2. The Devil, His Minion, and the Wedding of the Century Rating: E Fandom & Pairing: Interview With The Vampire, Armandaniel, Loustat, references to past Armand/Marius Why It's One of My Faves: Mainly because it's one of the fandom's favorites! This 50K word longfic is in the top 2% of kudos'd fics in the fandom, and is I think, the best piece of long-form writing I've ever done. Following Armand, Daniel, and the chucklefucks who come out of the woodwork leading up to their wedding was such a rewarding journey for me as a writer. It also inspired the extremely talented @writerhellenemeyers to record a podfic for it, which you can (and SHOULD) listen to here! 3. Atonement Rating: E Fandom & Pairing: Interview With The Vampire, Armandaniel, Armand/Marius Why It's One of My Faves: I'm proud of myself for tacking really hard stuff here, some of which I have direct experience with, namely childhood sexual abuse. It also gets into complex trauma. Marius and Armand's complex history. Restorative Justice. Domestic Violence. Addiction. Religion. Self-harm. LGBTQ issues. It's ALL in here, and although it's not one of my more popular works, I'm so proud of myself for staying true to my vision for it and finishing it despite some cowardly anonymous bullying I got on here while I was writing it. 4. The Boy on the Bench Rating: E Fandom & Pairing: Interview With The Vampire, Armandaniel, Loumand Why It's One of My Faves: This filthy lil oneshot is the first full-on BDSM fic I've ever written. It's also my most popular one-shot and got such a warm response, both for the sexy times and the emotional subtext I was going for, that it will always have a special place in my heart. 5. Translations Rating: Mature Fandom & Pairing: X-Men: First Class, Charles/Erik Why It's One of My Faves: I wrote this over twelve years ago. it's my first-ever longfic as an adult, and explores a chance meeting between young Charles Xavier and Magneto in post-WWII Israel. I think it's some of the best character work I've ever done, particularly baby Magneto's point of view. Let me know your favorite and why, if you're so inclined. Also, I tag: @animalceramics @pickingbelovedoffthesofa @graygiantess @shineforthee and @homoautoerotic