#acre-inch

[lo-carb]

Digging out more of the flower beds....and...

A bowling ball? They had a fucking bowling ball in their flower beds???

[lowcountry-gothic]

Corey Alston (Mount Pleasant, SC)

“​​My name is Corey Alston. I'm a fifth generation Sweetgrass Basket Weaver. I currently run the family business in the Charleston City Market. Sweetgrass Basket Weaving has been a major part of the Gullah Geechee Culture dating back to days of Enslavement. This coastal art form has been recognized as South Carolina State Handcraft and has been known to be kept alive the longest along Sweetgrass Basket Makers HWY of South Carolina. This skill is one of the rare arts of our country that is founded nowhere else in America. Gullah Sweetgrass Baskets are a national treasure.

“​​Being chosen as one of the artisans of Mt. Pleasant does not only bring awareness to my skill set and my culture as a Gullah Geechee representative, but in collaboration with Acres of Ancestry raises awareness of the unjustifiable treatment that Black and minority farmers have endured. The more that this topic is brought to the forefront, the more that our nation's leaders will see that treating white farmers one way and then treating Black farmers another way will not be accepted. I applaud Acres of Ancestry for working tirelessly on making sure that everyone understands what our elder farmers are going through.

“​​These two Sweetgrass Baskets are called ‘Poppa’ and ‘Big Momma.’ It took six months to complete ‘Big Momma’ and four months to complete ‘Poppa.’ They both measure 36 inches tall.”

​​—Corey Alston, fifth generation basket weaver and cultural preservationist from Mount Pleasant, SC, Artisan Statement

[alltheirdamn]

Rotten | cowboy!joel x f!reader

Summary: Sharing land with Joel Miller has always been infuriating, but when your bad attitude finally gets his attention...things get messy. Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Word Count: 5.2k Warnings: No-Outbreak AU, banter and arguing, explicit language, brat taming, semi dark!joel, dubcon elements, degrading, choking, rough spanking, hair pulling, face slapping, throat fucking, touch of dacryphilia, rope/bondage, rough unprotected piv sex, hint of a subspace moment, orgasm denial, squirting, creampie, no aftercare because joel is an old, grumpy asshole A/N: Y'all probably wouldn't believe me if I told you Apple by Charlie XCX inspired this random fic...but anyway, this one goes out to my sweet bb angel @lotusbxtch <3 thank you for always being my partner in crime in the late hours of the evening ilysm

Part II

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

The Texas sun beat down on your skin as you rode through the acres of land—your land— stretching out before you. Passed down from generation to generation, this entire pasture of fields and wild barley was yours. After both of your parents died during a freak accident, you inherited the land and dealt with upkeep and farm animals as if it were your life. And it was your life. Every inch of this farmland was yours, no matter what anyone said. 

You pressed your heels into the side of your horse, Mac, and urged him further down through the tall grass. The summer hadn’t been kind to the fields, the grass yellowing in most places, but what would you do about it? Tell the sun to stop shining? All you could do was take care of the land and ensure nothing went wrong. The animals were taken care of, the wild wheat still grew strong in the outskirts past your tiny farm home, and you had enough money to put dinner on the table for yourself at the end of your night. 

No trouble at all. 

What was trouble, though, was Joel Miller riding his ass right down the edge of your land. The sun cast him in a dark silhouette as he rode closer, his broad body sitting tall on the back of his horse. You held back the reigns, shushing Mac gently as you slowed him to a trot, keeping a healthy distance from the insufferable man trespassing onto your fields. 

“Think y’got yourself a bit lost out here, Miller,” you hollered. 

Joel removed the black cowboy hat from his head; the grey hairs streaking through his curls shimmered in the sunlight as he swiped an arm over his sweaty forehead. Every inch of his skin was sunkissed and tan from hours under the sun, his greying beard patchy and well-kept despite his rugged exterior. If he weren’t such an asshole, maybe you’d even consider him attractive, but your irritation with him ran deeper than any other emotion. 

Staring up at you under thick brows, Joel quirked an amused grin and shrugged. 

“Ain’t lost at all, darlin’. S’my land out here.”

You steered Mac forward, keeping yourself parallel with Joel’s body. You weren’t intimidated by any man, let alone Joel Miller. He may have a few decades on you, but that didn’t matter. The Miller family had always been a problem. For generations, they feuded with your family over acres of land that stretched across the horizon, never agreeing on who owned what. Before Joel, his father had caused an uproar in your family, and now he just had to continue causing problems. Would you ever rid yourself of this man and his family?

“I suggest y’take your ass home ‘fore I make you leave,” you warned. 

The wind kicked around you, fanning your hair down around your shoulders. Joel caught how your hair flared under your cowboy hat, and a hint of mischief sparkled inside his dark brown eyes. He was a fucking nuisance and still on your fucking land. 

“Careful now, darlin’. Those are some mighty big fightin’ words.”

You straightened your spine, holding firm on the reigns to keep yourself anchored. Mac huffed impatiently as if he knew how sour your mood was turning. The longer you kept yourself around Joel, the quicker your anger grew. The sun would set soon, and you still had miles to cover before you made it home; you wouldn’t entertain an old cowboy all night, even if he were staring at you like you were a wild horse to be tamed. 

“This is the last time I’m tellin’ you to stay off my land, Joel. I mean it.”

Joel chuckled lightly as if your words meant nothing. He placed his hat back over the matted curls on his head and began riding past you. You glared over your shoulder, watching his body travel further into the horizon and away from the rolling fields of your land. 

**

The summer wasn’t getting any easier. The sun grew brighter each day, and the air thickened with humidity, making it nearly impossible to continue wearing anything restrictive. With no one else around to pester you, you paraded around the stables in a tight top, a pair of daisy dukes, and your usual worn leather boots. The fewer clothes, the better—even if that meant getting bit up by a few mosquitoes here and there. 

You were deep into cleaning Mac’s stall when you heard the sound of hoofs pounding against the dirt ground outside the stables. Your body went rigid; you knew who it was without looking. Who else would it be out here? The horse in the distance bristled as its rider dropped to the ground, his heavy footfall nearing you as you exited the stall with a towel slung over your shoulder. 

Joel stood tall in the entrance, his broad frame sucking in all of the light as he walked closer. He wore an old denim button-up, and the sleeves pushed up his tan forearms, exposing the thickly corded muscles that ran down to his hands. Without a cowboy hat resting over his eyes, you could see how rich and dark they were as they stared you down. Despite hating him, your body reacted on its own accord. You clenched your thighs, trying to quell the ache growing inside your core. Leaning against the stall, you narrowed your eyes, watching Joel stalking closer. His steps were confident—casually, even—as if he owned the damn place. 

“Not sure why y’think it’s okay to come waltzin’ in here,” you scowled, folding your arms over your chest. 

“Ain’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Joel smirked. 

“Fuck off, old man,” you snapped, rolling your eyes. 

“What was that, darlin?” 

Joel stepped forward, and you mimicked his movements, drawing yourself closer to him. Even with his height towering over you, you were unphased. This man wouldn’t get the best of you. 

“Oh, sorry. Should I be speakin’ louder? Ain’t sure if y’got your hearing aids in.”

“No, I heard y’just fine. Just wanna hear you say it again.”

The toe of your boot tapped against his as you glared up at him. With a smug grin stretching across your face, you repeated your retort. 

“Fuck off. Old man.”

Joel’s body tensed, his eyes narrowed as he considered your words. You weren’t backing down; he was on your property and, quite frankly, pissing you off. He could bitch and moan all he wanted about how this land was his birthright, but he was wrong. Your parents settled the matter generations ago and never once faltered against the Millers. That wouldn’t change now. You’d uphold their wishes and continue fighting for what was yours. 

“Y’gotta damn nasty mouth on such a tiny body. Ain’t your parents teach you some manners?” Joel questioned. 

“They taught me enough, but it ain’t gonna stop me from tellin’ you off. So, get the hell off my property,” you demanded. 

You glanced down, noticing Joel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was amusing seeing him all riled up. Who knew he had that kind of spark in him? You wondered just how far you could push him until he snapped. 

“Ain’t you just spoiled rotten. Is that what it is? Y’think everythin’ is yours ‘cause your mommy and daddy said so?”

His voice was taunting, a litany of rhetorical questions to which he didn’t care to know the answer. Whatever you said, it wouldn’t matter because his mind was made up. Stubborn old man.

“I don’t think everythin’ is mine. I know it is,” you objected. “So, move your old ass back to your side of the pasture and get out of my face.”

Joel crowded your body, walking you back towards the stall door until your body pressed into the wood. You lifted your chin defiantly, watching his eyes clouded with rage. 

“Spoiled lil’ brat. Should teach you a lesson for the way you’re speakin’ to me,” Joel growled. 

Let’s see how far we can take this, you thought. 

“Whatcha gonna do? Spank me?” You laughed, gracing him with a rueful smile. 

Placing his hands above you on the door, Joel caged you between his body. You had nowhere to run; truthfully, you didn’t want to run. The incessant ache between your legs was swelling, your underwear practically soaked with the burning anticipation coursing through your veins. 

“Keep runnin’ your mouth, darlin’. S’only gonna make things worse for you.”

“I ain’t scared of you, Joel.”

“You damn well should be,” he warned. 

Joel’s hand shot out to grab the base of your neck, yanking you a breath away from his lips. The rich scent of whiskey wafted off his lips as he held you close, his fingers tightening around your throat. You rolled your tongue across your bottom lip, an invitation for whatever threat he had. You could take it. 

“Y’think it’s cute actin’ this way? Think you’re just tough shit, and no one will put you in your place, hmm?” Joel whispered. 

“You gonna be the one to do it, Joel?” You challenged. 

Joel used his grip on your throat to spin you toward the door, your cheek smashing into the wood as he pinned you against it. The instant sting of his palm radiated through the denim of your shorts, the heat of his hand melting into your skin. You yelped in pain, dragging your nails over the wood that strained against the press of your body. His hand smoothed over the curve of your ass before delivering another jarring smack. 

“Fuck!” You cried, biting back tears. 

“Spoiled.” Smack. “Fuckin’.” Smack. “Brat.” Smack. Smack. 

“Joel, please!” You begged. 

You weren’t sure if you were begging for more or begging for him to stop. Either way, he was unrelenting, his handprint leaving welts on your skin. Joel’s grip on your throat tightened, restricting your breathing as he dug his fingers into the supple skin of your ass. Prodding…smoothing…spanking. A continuous, viscous cycle you were weak against. Every bite of his hand on your body intensified the throbbing between your legs, your clit swelling with need. Repeating slaps against your other cheek forced tears down your face, their path leading down your neck and onto Joel’s warm hand. 

“You cryin’, darlin’?” Joel taunted. “Gonna beg me to stop?”

“Please—” You choked out, your words garbled and strained. 

Joel’s lips touched your ear, his breath fanning over your skin in waves. 

“M’fraid I can’t. Not til’ y’learn your lesson.”

You twisted your head around, your tired eyes connecting with his. There wasn’t a hint of brown in his irises as his pupils swallowed them whole, an unsatisfied look washing over his features. He wasn’t done, and neither were you. 

“Fuck you,” you snarled. 

Joel tilted his head, his graying mustache twitching as his lips curved into a smile. An unmistakable hint of desire masked his expression, keeping you reeled in and wanting more. If he could keep going, then so could you. 

“You just ain’t backin’ down, huh?” Joel questioned. 

You wagged your head back and forth, his fingers squeezing against your windpipes. Joel’s hand coasted up your waist, tugging at the belt loop on your shorts until your body spun to face his. Even with tears streaming down your cheeks, you grinned at him, clearly unbothered by the onslaught of pain he had inflicted. 

“That all y’got, old man?” You lipped off. 

“Call me old man one more time, darlin’,” Joel warned his face inches from yours. 

“Old. Man.” You punctuated each word through gritted teeth.

Joel cupped your sex through your jeans, no doubt feeling the arousal seeping through the denim fabric. A rouge whimper fell off your lips, and you bit back any more sounds to give away the desperation rolling through your veins.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he exhaled, but there was a lightness in his voice.

You were both giving into some carnal need, electrifying the humid air around you. You chased his mouth, wanting to lap up every threat on his whiskey-drenched tongue. Joel pulled back, your lips connecting with nothing as you arched forward. With a slight pout, you huffed in annoyance. 

“Look who’s actin’ all desperate now. Just beggin’ for this old man to fuck you.”

“Betcha can’t even get it up in the first place,” you grumbled. 

Joel’s hand connected with your cheek, a rough slap sending your face to the side. Dammit, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d done. The sting of his palm sent a wave of pleasure rolling through your stomach, a burning need just aching to come undone. Thick fingers gripped your jaw, wagging your face side to side. 

“I’ve heard enough of that bratty mouth,” Joel said decisively. 

His hands brushed over your collarbone, grasping your shoulders and shoving you to your knees. Your legs hit the straw-covered ground with a soft thud, your skin scraping against the dry hay. He wasted no time undoing his large belt buckle, working his cock out of the confines of his jeans, and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. Joel was hung like a fucking horse, his length thick and no short of any girth. Precum dribbled down off the tip, the sticky mess enticing you to move closer. Staring up at him through your lashes, you waited for his next move. He might have you on your knees, but you’d have his cock, and that was power in itself. 

“Make use of that mouth and suck,” he commanded. 

You lapped at the precum, his cock twitching against every flick of your tongue. You explored his length, dragging your tongue along the veins running down the underside of his cock. Joel gripped the hair at the crown of your head, guiding your mouth over the tip and down his length. Your nose brushed against the bushy hair at the base, his musky scent flooding your senses—it was intoxicating. 

“There we go,” Joel hummed, his voice gravely and strained. “So fuckin’ full of me y’can’t talk back.”

His name came out muffled as you tried to speak, your tongue flatted against the base of his cock. He pushed his cock a centimeter further, the tip knocking against the back of your throat. You gagged around him, your hands slapping against his thick thighs. 

“I don’t wanna hear y’say a damn word,” Joel growled. “You’re gonna take my fuckin’ cock down your throat and choke on it.”

You clawed at his thighs as tears sprung along your waterline, threatening to spill over the longer he kept himself inside your mouth. His fingers tightened around tiny strands of your hair, anchoring you to his cock as he thrusted himself deeper. You tried to protest and pull away, but his grip on you was unforgiving. 

“Please,” you garbled, spit rolling down your chin. 

“Still actin’ like a spoiled fuckin’ brat, ain’t you? Think y’can get whatever you want?”

He granted you an inch to breathe, pulling you halfway off his cock. You inhaled sharply through your nose, trying to latch onto any control. Joel used his grip on your hair to slide your mouth up and down his length, the sound of your lips around his the only noise aside from his labored breathing. You tapped on his thigh twice, hoping he’d relent and give you a reprieve. 

“Real fuckin’ cute,” he laughed. “Struggle all y’want, darlin’. I ain’t stoppin’.”

The tears flowed freely now, mixing with the saliva pooling down your jaw as you worked him deeper down your throat. Every strained attempt to beg him to stop fell on deaf ears; his cock only pushed further down until you had no choice but to sit there completely disarmed and helpless. The scratches left on his thighs didn’t phase him at all, nor did your whimpers as you tried to swallow a breath around him. 

“Keep cryin’, darlin’. Just makes you look prettier when I’m ruinin’ you,” Joel muttered. 

As your nose pressed against the hair at his navel, Joel’s hand brushed over your cheek, collecting a rogue tear on his thumb. Through blurred eyes and running mascara, you blinked up at him right as he tasted the tear pooling on the pad of his fingertip. 

“Delicious,” he hummed.

A dangerous grin split across his face, his hips jerking forward one last time before he wrenched you free from his cock. You coughed violently, the air wooshing back into your lungs with each heaving breath. You swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, wiping off the saliva coating your chin and jaw. 

“You fuckin’ asshole,” you choked out. 

Crouching down, Joel met you at eye level, his eyes soulless and dark. You shivered under his heavy gaze and flinched away from his face as he crowded you. 

“How’s that attitude of yours now?” He questioned. 

You reeled back, sending a glob of spit across the bridge of his nose. Joel scrunched his eyes together, jaw clenched as he wiped away your spit. You bared your teeth at him, still refusing to back down. Joel straightened to his full height, working at shoving his cock back in his jeans. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit disappointed; you hated him but wanted more. 

“Guess I ain’t been rough enough,” Joel grumbled, walking down the stable. 

You watched as he picked a bundle of lead rope off the hook near Mac’s stall, weighing it between his hands. A jolt of panic ran through your veins as you saw his eyes light up in mischief. You were so fucked. You half-considered running, but where was the fun in that? Joel would only chase you down, and even that sounded delicious. There was no use in fighting it now; you were in it for the long haul. 

“Now,” he started, his steps slow as he walked back toward your kneeling body. “I’m gonna give you two options. Y’either walk your ass outside like a good girl, or I drag you out by your hair. What’s it gonna be, darlin’?”

“I’ll walk,” you snapped, rising to your feet. 

Your knees ached with each step as you walked into the blinding daylight outside the stables. Gnats swarmed around your face as you stood idle by the entrance, glancing over your shoulder at Joel stalking behind you. The rope swung beside his body as he carried it in his hand, the lingering threat lying within the coarse fibers that wound together. His head jerked over to the tie rack beside the barn, his eyes trained on the vacant stall before the expanse of your land. 

“C’mon, brat.”

He waltzed in front of you, guiding you to the empty platform with a stern look gracing his features. Without a single word, Joel yanked your wrists together, his deft fingers working at knotting the rope around your skin. The fraying pieces bit into your skin, rubbing and burning the longer he twisted it in loops around your hands. He gave the rope a good tug, humming in satisfaction once the binding was tight enough. Guiding your arms upwards, he clipped the lead to the metal loop on one side of the tie rack, keeping your body suspended awkwardly as your wrists ached from the restraint. You refused to say a word, too frustrated even to protest his actions. If you thought you were helpless before, you were utterly powerless now. It was just you, Joel, and the empty stretch of land that went on for miles. 

Joel pressed his body against your back, the warmth of his touch ignited heat within your core all over again. You squirmed as his hands roamed over your curves, his fingers tracing the outline of your breasts under your sweat-covered shirt. He pinched at your nipples, finding their pebbled indentation hidden within your bra. A desperate whine left your lips as you swayed against the pull of the rope, your feet slipping against the ground. 

“See all that land out there,” Joel whispered, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. “That’s all mine, darlin’, and I’m gonna make sure you remember that by the time I’m through with you.”

“Tyin’ me up and fuckin’ me ain’t gonna change my mind,” you scoffed. 

“Guess I’m just gonna have to fuck some sense into you.”

Joel’s hands worked down your body, making quick work of undoing your shorts and shoving them down to your boots. The hot, sticky summer air breezed over your bare skin, hardly helping to soothe the painful ache between your thighs. Thick, calloused fingers massaged the skin of your hips, kneading your supple curves as you writhed against his touch. You could beg him for more, and oh god, did you want to. You wanted to cave and relinquish everything just to quell the burning pleasure inside your body, but you wouldn’t beg. Not for Joel Miller or any other man. 

Joel swiped a finger through your drenched folds, tutting at your pliancy. The brief touch alone was enough to spark stars behind your eyes, your breath growing shallow.

“Well, would ya’ look at that,” Joel tutted. “You’re soakin’ my fingers, darlin’.”

You refused to say a word, too afraid you’d succumb to your own devices. You wouldn’t ask him to fuck you, but Jesus Christ, you fucking needed it. Every fiber of your being cried for release, and if it meant you had to be tied up and fucked in front of the yellow fields in front of you, then that’s what you’d do. 

“I’ll give you one last chance,” Joel offered. “Say this land is mine and I’ll let you go.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, no doubt a mess after being on your knees before him. There was a cruelty in his eyes that alarmed you, but you were too focused on what you needed, even to feel afraid. 

“This is my land,” you stated, your chin held high. “S’my family’s land and it’s gonna stay that way ‘til I’m in my grave.”

“Wrong fuckin’ answer.”

Joel knocked your legs apart, the denim of his jeans dragging against your slick arousal. There was a moment where there was absolutely nothing, a vacancy of sound or touch that deprived your senses. Maybe you were teetering on the edge of delirium, too far gone to know what he was doing behind you, but then you felt everything. The thick head of his cock brushed against your entrance, rubbing between your silken folds in tantalizing strokes. That was the only warning he gave before pushing himself deeper, splitting you open inch by inch. You cried out as your body worked to stretch around his length, and your vision blackened as the sharp pain of the sensation jolted through your veins. 

“Fuck!” You screamed. 

The adjustment to his size was agonizing despite how wet you were. Nothing could have prepared you for the way Joel broke you open, nor was there anything that could have prepared you for how brutal he would become. Thrust after thrust, he assaulted you, completely breaking you and molding you to his cock. The pull of the rope burnt the skin of your wrists as he took you harder, your body lurching against the restraints with each snap of his hips. Joel tugged your body backward, shifting your legs until you were forced to bend at the waist. Words wouldn’t form on your lips, and you dissolved into a heap of wailing cries as he plunged deeper into you. 

“Where’s all that loudmouthin’ now?” Joel grunted, his fingers bruising your hips. “So fuckin’ cock drunk y’can’t even speak?”

Your silence only drove him crazier, his speed quickening mercilessly. The ache inside your core was all-consuming, a burning wildfire inside your stomach. You dropped your head between your shoulders and dug your nails into your palms, keeping yourself grounded. 

“Joel,” you gasped. “Please.”

You failed in your attempts not to beg this man, throwing everything to the wayside as you succumbed to the pulsing ache between your legs. 

“Shut up, brat,” he snapped. 

“Joel!” You sobbed. “I’m gonna—fuck—please. I need to—to…”

The words turned to ash on your tongue as he snaked a hand around your body, his fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit. You yelped at the roughness of his fingers, the sensation alone nearly causing your legs to buckle beneath you. If it weren’t for the ropes holding you firmly in place, you would have fallen to the ground. 

“Poor thing,” he crooned in your ear. “Y’wanna cum? Is that what you want?”

Another drive of his hips. Another draw of his fingers. Tormenting movements that kept you on the edge of ecstasy and suffering. Your arousal pooled down your inner thighs, mixing with the sticky sweat that clung to every inch of your skin. 

“I need it, Joel,” you gasped. “Christ, please!”

“Y’gonna change your mind?”

“N—.”

Joel pinched your clit between his fingers, and your words drowned out under a helpless wail falling from your lips. He pulled you back by your hair, winding it around his fist as he drew his lips down your neck. The sweltering touch of his mouth on your skin and his rough fingers on your sensitive bud were enough to topple you closer to the edge. The furnace igniting inside your stomach wouldn’t stop any time soon, but you still wouldn’t give up. He was always going to be wrong, and you’d rather die than give him the satisfaction. 

“Say it, darlin’. Say the words, and y’can cum all over my cock.”

“Never,” you panted. “Never gonna—.”

He pistoned into you, his cock spearing deeper and deeper, completely paralyzing you. Sobs wracked through your body as you took every thrust, and your mind began to float off into a blissed-out haze that drowned out the noise behind you. 

“Gonna own all this fuckin’ land,” Joel gritted out. “Own it just like I own this fuckin’ pussy.”

Please. Please. You weren’t sure if you repeated the words inside your mind or aloud; either way, Joel only huffed a laugh and continued with his repetitive assaults on your body. Your orgasm began barreling toward you, your core fluttering around him as it sparked beneath your skin. Everything inside you tensed up, and your jaw went slack with an outward cry as you slipped under the rapid release coursing inside your body. 

“Oh fuck!” You sobbed. “Fuck… fuck… fuck!”

Your sex clenched around Joel so hard he choked on a breath, his body rigid against yours as you spasmed beneath his hold. Hot, wet streams of your orgasm drenched his cock as he tore through your orgasm with shallow thrusts. Jole rammed into you over and over again until another wave of pleasure slammed into your body. 

“Fuckin’ brat,” he hissed. “Never said y’could cum, did I?”

His hand vanished from your waist and returned to the welted skin of your ass with a resounding smack. There wasn’t enough air in your lungs to cry out, nor any more tears to shed. You hung against the ropes, limp and pliant, as he took you with abandon. 

With another snap of his hips against yours, Joel spilled into you, his release filling you to the brim as he released a carnal groan. You could barely lift your head to look back at him as he untangled his fingers from your hair and pulled away. 

Every atom inside your body was pulsing with overstimulation, your ass welted and bruised, and your throat raw from screaming. The constant thrum of your heartbeat in your ears smothered the sound of Joel’s belt buckle clanging together, the warmth of his body far removed from yours as you stood on tired legs. Moments passed without a single touch, and you wondered if Joel would leave you there tied to the rack and dripping with cum. 

“Think y’learned your lesson now?” He asked, his voice sounding far away. 

All you could do was wag your head in protest, your eyes pinned down to the floor, fixated on the pool of saliva that had fallen from your lips. Joel appeared beside you, his grey hair dissolved and face red from exertion. He worked at unclasping the rope from the hook, unbinding your wrists until your arms fell limp to your sides. Your body was weightless without the stability of the rope, and you fell forward, anticipating the impact against the cement. Joel was quicker, though, winding a strong arm around your front and holding you up. 

“Easy now, darlin’,” he whispered softly. “Easy.”

Your fingers wrapped around his arm, clinging to anything to escape the impending collapse of your entire body. Your boots scruffed against the cement of the stall, kicking dust into the air around you. With his arm still braced around your chest, he used the other to guide your shorts back up your legs and onto your hips. You hissed as the denim rubbed against your ass, the swell of your skin still prickling with pain no matter how brief the touch was. 

“Can y’stand on your own?” He asked. 

“Mhmm,” you mumbled.

“Attagirl.”

Yet as he released your body, you staggered forward, grasping onto the tie rack for support. Joel waited until you found your balance and offered a hand. You were hesitant but relented silently. He took your wrists in one large hand and began massaging at the reddened skin, working out any tension left from the rope. You stared blankly at him, watching a crease burrow between his eyebrows. You still hated him, right? Right? Something so minimal shouldn’t make your heart pound against your chest, but there you were, speechless as you watched this rough man touch your skin with a tenderness he had yet shown. 

“Suns goin’ down soon,” he muttered, nodding to the sky. 

You peered over your shoulder, surprised to see the sun dipping over the horizon. You hadn’t noticed the pinky hue of the sunset while he fucked you, but now you stared at it in wonderment. 

“Guess it is,” you sighed. “Y’should get your ass off my property ‘fore it gets too late.”

Joel snorted, glancing up at you through thick lashes. In the dwindling sunlight, his eyes had dissolved from onyx back into a glistening amber color, the flecks of rich brown dancing as he looked at you. 

“Stubborn lil’ thing,” he huffed. 

He dropped your hands and straightened to his full height. Perspiration coated his button-up, staining it in dark spots as excess beats of sweat still rolled down his muscular neck. You tamed the flyaways of your hair, trying to minimize the obscenity of your look the longer he stood before you. It was no use after what he had done. 

“Y’ain’t changin’ your mind, huh?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. 

Joel rolled his eyes and shoved a hand into his front pocket. Leaning close, he brought his other hand to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers brush over your cheek before pulling away. 

“Guess I’ll just come back tomorrow and try again.”

“Y’come back here tomorrow, and I’ll shoot you dead, Miller.”

He cracked a grin and began to retreat toward his horse beside the stable. You stood motionless as he mounted the brown mare, slipping the reigns between his hands. Joel gave you a farewell wave before taking off across the flowing fields, his broad figure dissolving into the sunset. You slumped against the wall of the stables, letting your body fall to the ground. A smile slid across your face, taking in the open land before you. 

You didn’t give up. It was all still yours.

[wanderingandfound]

Anytime someone says that in the utopic future we'll get all/most of our produce from our literal front yard I get very very skeptical.

[headspace-hotel]

I will never stop talking about how messed up it is that in North America, short, mown grass surfaces in outdoor urban/suburban environments are seen everywhere and feel right, intuitive, and natural, when plant communities that could be described as "low grassy turf" straight-up did not exist in most of North America prior to European colonization.

Everywhere millions of acres of neglected curbs, swaths of ground separating fast food places or gas stations, spaces surrounding churches, roadsides, ditches, parks, yards, are maintained using carbon-emitting machinery as flat grass surfaces for reasons so obvious to us, we've forgotten them.

It is a labor-intensive, wasteful, effortful ritual of contempt and neglect for the land. A space of mowed grass between a gas station and a road is so utterly empty, so utterly identical to every other space of mowed grass, that the human mind doesn't even process it as "something," it's just space. No one would rest here, no one would sit here, no one uses this space, there is nothing beautiful or life-giving or important or worthy of conscious register here. It may not even occur to the mind that there is "something" in between the gas station and the road.

So many thousands and thousands of acres of space are nothingified like this. Even just a single square foot of space can be so RICH and exploding with life, if you love it. If you tend to it and give it your heart. How much land is never glanced at, hardly walked upon, except to have a lawn mower driven over it. How much life-giving habitat razed into a cruel, butchered parody of a murkily remembered European landscape.

Think how priceless a tiny little garden, a patch of sunbeams in a forest, a small trickle of stream, a single mossy log, can be! A person in communion with nature can love a place by the square inch! No place on Earth ever was "nothing!"

But all around me I see the flat carpets maintained by machines. I see so many precious square inches of Earth ignored and treated as nothing instead of loved and listened to closely and cared for.

How many strawberries could have grown here? How many little mushrooms could have popped out of this soil? How many kinds of lichen and moss could have fit on a medium-size boulder here, before it was all destroyed and made into nothing but a surface to be run over with a lawn mower?

[attapullman]

The Perfect Pink | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: While bartending for Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine's Party, you encounter a pink-cheeked man and his cherry-loving cousins.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: all fluff with alcohol mentions

A Note From Mo: Here is my Pink Lady fic for @thedroneranger's Pick Your Poison event to go with this gorg moodboard! As a part-time mixologist and full-time Bob Floyd lover, this was such a fun concept to play around with and has inspired me to come up with more pink drinks. I've never been a Valentine's girly, but I fully believe this pink-cheeked WSO could convince me otherwise. To everyone who reads this, I love you bunches and bunches, all 365 days in the year!

It’s so pink. Horrendously. Abysmally. Pepto-bismally. PINK.

When you agreed to tend the bar in a pinch, a few bundles of carnations and candy pink paper hearts were your guess for the evening’s decorations. But when you showed up to Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine’s Party holding a crate of soda water and a handful of shakers, your senses flatlined with the amount of pink covering every surface.

Petal pink tablecloths straightened over round tables; a small bouquet of magenta carnations attached to each folding chair and incensing the recreation hall of the retirement home. Heart-covered paper plates and folded napkins set up at each place setting, glittering confetti sprinkled around the tableware. The ceiling isn’t even a reprieve, a rainbow of fuchsia and rose and flamingo and blush balloons filling up every available inch of space.

Suzette on the front desk had complimented your dusky pink sweater - an appropriate choice for the holiday - but set against this backdrop you feel like another decoration. An oversized bauble that also makes cocktails and pours cheap wine.

And now, standing behind this makeshift card-table-turned-bar covered in bubblegum crepe paper, your brain might explode in a cloud of hot pink smoke. Counting out pours and trying not to slice yourself making garnishes is a struggle keeping up with all these orders. While the average age of the party goer may be eighty, they drink more than the 21st birthday bash you bartended last weekend. You’ve been here all of an hour and Mrs. Moscovitz has already downed three fuschia cosmopolitans.

While disappointed you don’t have more romantic Valentine’s Day plans - though, when have you ever had a date on this too pink day? - it’s fun to see who’s turned up to celebrate. White-haired couples are swaying on the makeshift dance floor, every shade of pink and red in their attire. Bridge groups and knitting circles are excitedly chatting at their respective tables, gossiping over who is in attendance and with whom. Even the staff have wide grins splitting their faces, enjoying the festivities that break up the bleak winter. It’s the least you can do to spend the holiday providing beverages for this crowd.

The best part is the families. While romantic love is thick in the air, so is platonic love. Family members of all ages have come out to spend the holiday with the residents. Mr. Gordon’s daughter and her family have driven hours to catch up over pot roast and sparkling cider while his grandson plays trucks over a pile of chocolates he snuck from Suzette.

Orders have slowed down and your eyes keep glancing over to Ms. Floyd’s table. The entire clan has showed up for dinner, dancing, and to take home a batch of her homemade snickerdoodles. Multiple relatives are taking up two entire heart-sprinkled tables. Your focus is mainly on the second table for too far from you, where the grandkids have been relegated to play cards and swap candy hearts to pass the time.

“Why don’t you go ask the pink lady for more cherries.” God, he’s cute. The only guy in this place near your age and his attention is stolen by a pair of toddler girls obsessed with the cherries in their Shirley temples. 

You divert your eyes quickly when you realize he’s talking about you and your pink sweater. The girls giggle shyly, the high pitched squeals of glee as they convince him to go up instead. Fiddling with shakers, wiping down the counter, you try to stay busy as you physically feel him approach the converted bar and your trembling hands.

“Hi!” His smile is thin and nervous and his cheeks are pink, blushing from his little cousins and their antics. Also because you’re much prettier up close and he’s wearing a shirt he’d never normally be caught in if his grandma hadn’t picked it out. 

He’s much cuter at this distance as well. Sandy hair combed neatly, one small strand slipping out behind his ear. Friendly cerulean eyes framed by golden wire spectacles, similar to the ones several of the ex-military men at Rolling Acres are sporting. His thin lips falter slightly as he takes in how well the pink of your sweater compliments your skin. God, he wishes he wasn’t wearing this shirt.

You spring into service mode and grab a fresh cocktail shaker. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m technically up here for some cherries.” You dutifully nod, hoping to hide the fact you’ve been watching him converse with the toddler girls in their matching baby pink dresses most of the night. You make a small dish of cherries up and push it toward him, shaking your head when he attempts to pay. “The thirty-eight cents of cherries is a small expense for a night those two will talk about for weeks. They’re on the house.”

He grabs the dish with a smile, but realizes he now has no excuse to stay by the bar. And while he loves his cousins, he’s on leave for a few more weeks and you’re really pretty. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. He extends his hand with a timid smile. “I’m Bob.”

You reach out and shake his hand back as you introduce yourself, hoping the condensation coating your fingers isn’t too noticeable. He immediately commits your name to memory, happy to replace “The Pink Lady” with a name as fitting to you as yours.

He moves out of the way as a woman in a magenta scarf orders a round for her bingo group. Bob watches as you whir into action, pouring liquors and counting off ounces. The delicate way you garnish each drink so the owner feels special. Your gracious smile when a tip is stuffed into the heart-shaped velvet box provided to you for tips.

When the line at the bar dies down, he sidles back up to your makeshift station. Bob notices the way you eye the decorations warily, still adjusting to the deafening pink of it all. He drums lightly on the blushing pink tablecloth, catching your wide-eyed attention. “Everything all right?”

“Uh, this place is too…pink?” you laugh, gesturing to the overabundance of rosy hues surrounding you. For possibly the first time all night, Bob realizes that while you were the only pink thing that had his attention, it is suffocating in the recreation hall. 

“Yes, yes it is,” he chuckles right back, eyes soaking in the offending decorations. There’s a comfortable air between the two of you, and he decides to push his luck for more time with The Pink Lady.

Bob clears his throat, pulse thrumming through his body. Tonight is his one and only chance to land a date with the pretty bartender.

“So, to go with the theme, what is the pinkest drink you can make me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, his best attempt at flirting. A hint of a giggle escapes as you purse your lips, contemplating his challenge. 

“I can make you a pink lady.” 

He narrows his eyes. “Is that a real drink, or have you named it after yourself?”

“It’s real, I promise.” You’re all smiles at his attention as you combine the gin, applejack, and grenadine with a splash of lemon juice. He really could watch you work for hours.

As you reach for the last ingredient, his eyes bug out. “Is that an egg?” He’s a Navy man, his normal bar only has cocktails with two ingredients. Since when did eggs go in cocktails?

“When you dry shake an egg white it creates this nice foam, adds to the drink.” While he wants to come across as open-minded and cultured, he’s hesitant. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.”

He’s bewitched as you pour the perfectly pink drink into a plastic coup, the creamy white foam rising to top it off. A cherry balances the rim, one that won’t be stolen by his mischievous cousins. As he looks between the freshly poured drink and you, he swears your cheeks are the same happy pink.

You push the drink toward him, excited to share something new with a customer. Always a gamble as a bartender, but worth it when you expand someone’s palate. He gives you a tentative smile, unsure if he’s going to like it, but he really wants to impress you. In return, you give him an encouraging nod, completely unsure of how this will go. He takes a sip, the frothy mixture coating his tongue.

As far as he’s concerned, the drink is named after you. Not too sweet, not too tart, a divinely balanced combination of flavors in a perfect pink concoction. Bob is convinced you would taste just as good, especially with a cherry. The thought makes his brain blank.

“Do you like it?” Your hopeful eyes are endearing. He wants to brush the strand of hair from your cheek and assure you that he likes it, that he’d like anything you made him because you made it. But you’re practically strangers so he stumbles over his words as he promises it’s delicious. 

The bowl of cherries for his cousins still in his hand, Bob stands to the side of the bar and sips his tartly sweet drink, casually keeping up conversation with you as you serve other patrons. You’re glad for the company, enjoying the way he asks about your technique and mutters out the few things he knows about wine from conversations with his aunt. Despite the fact you’re working, it’s the best Valentine’s Day you’ve had in years with this bespectacled man watching you tend bar.

He’s just so cute, blushing his own special pink hue when your eyes connect while you shake up a few martinis.

“Uncle Bob!” There is no mistaking who is calling him over. Two identical heads pouting as they motion him over. His time with you is up. He gives you a sweet smile, trying to memorize every inch of your face, before motioning his hand filled with cherries in their direction. You bittersweetly grin right back, smile lingering as you start on Mr. Nickerson’s two merlots as you watch his broad shoulders walk away.

Oh, how you wish he would come back.

Because it’s a retirement home and not a frat house, by ten the party is wrapping up. You’ve exchanged shy glances with Bob a handful of times, but his family has taken up most of his attention with Navy questions and inquiring when he’s going to visit next. He barely registers the event is over before he’s rummaging through his mom’s handbag with his last attempt at salvaging the night.

You’re cleaning up your supplies when the Floyd clan walks past, all waving good night to you and the staff, thanking you all for a great Valentine’s night. The girls thank you for their cherries, a stem hanging from one’s lip. 

Staggering at the end of the crowd is Bob, his cheeks flushed and palms tingling. He stands in front of your table, rocking on his heels, working up his courage. You give him a warm smile, thanking him for his company, and he completely melts. As he holds up his occupied hand, he hopes this works.

“Forgot to slip this in earlier.” His smile is tense as he jams a few dollars through the absurdly small hole in your improvised tip box. You thank him before both blurting out awkward goodbyes. As he catches up with his family, a pang rings through your chest. Disappointed he’s gone, never to be seen again. 

Bob Floyd, a Valentine’s mirage you will remember fondly.

Once all your things are packed, you square things up with Suzette with your pay for the event and a promise to stop by to visit the residents later in the month. You schlep everything to the car, a mixture of emotions painting your face in the rearview mirror as you make your way back home. The weight of defeat keeping you from bringing anything inside except for that damn tip box you’re hoping will cover groceries for the week.

You pry open the velvet lid and are met with the best surprise.

There, at the bottom of your substitute tip jar, underneath all the singles the elderly stiffed you with, was a scrap of cheap rosy pink napkin. You unfurl it to see neat chicken scratch handwriting, the pen poking through the fabric in spots as he worked to write out his message with a phone number beneath.

I’m here until the 27th. Drinks on me? - Bob

Now that you think about it, maybe you do like pink.

taglist: @berryvanille @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @maryelizabeth13 @petersunderoos96 @rhettsluvr @roosterforme @seitmai @sweetwhispersofchaos @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Unusual home in Port Angeles, WA. It's a 2bd, 2ba manufactured home that was built on-site. But, there's a 2nd older model on the property that is used for lounging and entertaining.

The living room is black & gold. Every inch is decorated, so it's hard to see. There's a wood stove in the corner, but it kind of sticks out.

This is the dining room and it also has a counter for the kitchen. The description says open concept, but it's hard to see.

The kitchen is an odd shape. What is going on with the cabinets? They look lumpy.

There's a small dining area with sliders to the patio.

An open doorway, to the primary bedroom, is in the living room.

It's a good sized room.

Bath #1 seems pretty large and has a jetted soaker tub.

Bd. #2 is an average size.

Bath #2 is a standard 3pc., but it has a very nice sink.

This is the older unit that is used for entertaining and extra space.

They have a pool room.

There's a living room.

And, more games.

There's a kitchen in the unit, also.

They have a 3rd bedroom in here.

Plus, a bath. So, it's basically a 1 bd. home.

And, there's also a little workshop/shed here, too.

The larger unit has a covered patio.

And, an open area.

Plus a nice yard.

The land measures 3.17 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1388-E-Elliott-Creek-Rd-Port-Angeles-WA-98362/215175044_zpid/?

[aheathen-conceivably]

Far atop the dusty downtown of Strangerville stood what felt like a different world. During the decades of the gold rush Eastern settlers had flooded the town and the settlements around it, displacing the people of the land even further as they dug into it for their own ends. The ones who succeeded ended up here, in Shady Acres, where they could look atop the empire they drilled into the ground.

Now, most of the houses sat abandoned, left to the disrepair of time and the harsh desert sands as the promise of ever greater riches took their owners further West to California and Oregon. There were little signs of life on the streets other than a lone truck making its way up the hillside, inhabited by two people who still weren’t quite comfortable being alone together anymore.

Gio directed Jo to pull to the edge of the cliff face, overlooking the town they had just driven from. She struggled to get the turn just right, but it was better than her other practice attempts, so he gave her a quiet smile of approval as she shifted the gear into park. Even from inside the metal truck they could hear the wind howling. It had been their constant companion on these near silent journeys up this road the past few weeks. 

He knew that the road further West was filled with places like this, miles and miles of winding curves and jaw dropping heights that would take a steady hand on the wheel. Antoine had taken one look inside the car and immediately refused to learn how to drive it. So burying whatever remaining fears and anger he had deep inside, Gio had gotten in the passenger seat with Jo and offered to teach her how to drive.

With every lesson, he knew that he was essentially giving her the tools she needed to leave him, the one thing he had been so afraid of that he was willing to lie and cheat to prevent it from happening. Now he felt like all he could do was sit by hope every inch he gave or silent acquiescence would serve to bind her closer to him rather than push her further away. Still in the back of his mind his fears kept nagging, so much so that as the day for her to leave came closer he couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

The wind kept howling, threatening to drown out his voice as he reached toward her. “Jo, mi raccomando…”

She braced herself for the same apology about his lie over the loan that she already had memorized. What more did he want her to say? She had stayed, hadn’t she? Stayed outwardly for Violette but really, quietly and inwardly, for all of them. Because she loved them all, but more than anything, because she loved him.

Only how was she supposed to tell him that? That she had fought back every instinct to leave so that she could stay with him, even if the price to pay to do so was that she would never trust him again. Because he had shown her that she had been wrong about him. He could hurt her, just as well as any other man she had ever known could. Except now that she had let him inside, now that she loved him, he could hurt her all the more. So she had to compensate somehow, to regain some sort of ground to stand on or she would be left weak to him doing it all over again.

“You don’t need to answer, okay?” Her head stayed turned just as he knew it would, and her hand went to the wheel as though the steady the car from the roar of the desert wind. It grew stronger as his voice grew more emotional, shaking the car and whipping across the top of the mesa.

“I can’t make you forgive me for any of what happened, but I’m sorry I didn’t support you and Antoine going on tour, or even really put you in the position where you could have chosen to do it for yourself and not to save us from some choice I made. I just…every time you walk out the door I’m afraid you won’t come home, that you’ll find someone or something else and I’ll never see you again.”

The sun was hitting directly in her eyes, mingling there with the stinging of tears that she tried her hardest to hold back. Only it was too bright, and she couldn’t possibly fight it, so one small tear after another rolled down her face while she stayed staring at it.

Whatever else he said after that was inconsequential as she let the sunbeams dry her unexpected tears; because he had already broken through her carefully constructed armor, made brittle by anger, restlessness, and love. But he couldn’t know that, or it would make everything she had done up to this point meaningless. The portion of the farm that was now hers, betraying Antoine, Zelda’s pained resolve, Violette’s angry confusion. She endured it all in some effort to regain control and hope for her own life; only it was so tenuous that she was convinced a few stray tears could undermine it all, so she made sure her face was completely dry before she turned to face him.

By the time she did so he had gone quiet and only a sliver of his profile could be seen. The rest of him was pretending to study the desert landscape, visibly struggling to adhere to his promise that he wouldn’t speak again until she answered him.

As it always did in moments like this, his vulnerability astounded her. He had meant every word he said, and he had spoken them without pause, trusting her to meet him halfway despite her track record of never having done so before. He had signed over a portion of his lease with a clenched fist only to climb into the passenger seat of his own truck, giving patient instructions with an anxious edge as she drove them further and further from town. Every choice he had made was in pursuit of some twisted idea of love, all the while she was guided by some nebulous idea of strength, the undeniable compulsion to never feel trapped again even if her own love had tried to temper it time and time again.

Jo reached over to touch his face and turn it toward her own. He gave no hesitation as he leaned into her touch, no questions and no judgement for the streaks on her face that must have still been visible from up so close. “Gio, look at me. I’m going to come home, okay?”

She left out that she wished this wasn’t home, some place she had no connection to or hope for, one filled with harsh desert winds barely keeping failed dreams afloat. A land of drought and struggle so incessant that it had almost worn down even her will. Some days it still felt like it was trying to accomplish what it nearly had when she was afloat in that bed, miserable and useless.

But shielded from it all inside the confines of his truck, with only his earnest expression and kind but well worn hands to anchor her down, suddenly it did feel like home. Or at least he did. So in a rare moment, she spoke without a single ounce of pretense or calculation, letting the need to keep herself in control float away on the howling wind. “I promise you, I’m always going to come home. No matter what.”

[cabinporn]

The @huskacreekcabin in Delhi, NY

From the owners Gemma and Nick: “We found Huska Creek Cabin when it was just a shell and spent 5 months in the summer of 2022 restoring the cabin, being mindful to keep its original charm.  Huska Creek Cabin sits on 6.5 acres complete with private meadow and creek.  Once owned by a famous New York playwright who used the cabin as a writing retreat (with no bathroom, kitchen or heat - literally a shell) and featured in a design magazine in the 80s, Huska Creek Cabin has a truly unique feel and is a magical experience. We believe that if a place is thoughtfully designed, it doesn’t matter how big it is. We’ve made sure that every inch of the cabin retains the woodland retreat vibe yet is now fully functional including adding a bathroom, heating system, kitchen and all the mod cons that bring it into the 21st century.”

Photographs by @noahkalina More photos on @cabinporn.

[aditirealestate]

Best Real Estate Company in Noida

Acres N Inches is one of the leading real estate Companies in Noida with a clientele spread not just all over the country but also extending up to the U.S., Canada, Europe, China, Australia, and the Middle East. It has been many quick years of commitment & hard work & most importantly, teamwork. Bhutani cyberthum my pod It has made Acres N Inches the most reliable & customer-centric real estate company in North India by setting the highest moral standards in the Indian Real Estate Industry. Today, the ANI OFFICIALBest Real Estate Company in Noida Your presence all over Urban India through our wisely shortlisted Associated and Employees while giving the most professional and robust service to our Customers all across the world, creating a life-long bond with our Customers, Employees & Business Associates Our company is credited with the very simple yet revolutionary concept of developing transparency in the Indian Real Estate Market. With the visualization of creating an honest and robust environment thereby giving respect & clarity to every stakeholder involved, our main aim is to provide customer satisfaction. The company has a simple yet effective business strategy – “Honesty is still the best policy”.

[fredwkong]

Virgo Season: Daniel

Daniel knew that he was a good man. He’d grown up in a small community in Appalachia, gone to seminary, and started his own ministry in the same community he’d grown up in. One of his sermons, on the evils of liberalism and city life, had gone “viral,” whatever that meant, and Daniel had been overjoyed to receive an invitation to Pastor Blanco’s conference at the Astra Hotel.

Not since seminary had Daniel felt like he was among so many like-minded people. So many good points had been made during just the first week, Daniel had taken enough notes to write a whole year of sermons. Sure, a few people seemed to have left the conference before they were scheduled to, but that just meant that there was more attention left for those who remained, in Daniel’s opinion.

He was immeasurably grateful for the attention he had received thus far. Daniel knew he had a tendency to be a bit more of a follower than a leader, but the speakers, even Pastor Blanco, didn’t seem to mind Daniel’s puppyish, incessant questions and agreement. They encouraged him in a way that Daniel had never felt encouraged before.

Still, there was something about this hotel. Since arriving, Daniel had been plagued by… thoughts that he thought he’d long since rid himself of. He had long, long ago quashed his vanity, or so he’d believed. But suddenly, he was once again catching glimpses of his shapeless body in mirrors, ill-fitting suits doing him no favours. He knew that he should be respected for his mind and his ideas, not for his body, but Daniel’s great vice was that he had always wanted both.

Back in his misspent youth, while struggling with his faith, Daniel had imagined himself with acres of thick, hairless muscle, shining with oil on a stage. Now, in the Astra Hotel, he found himself remembering those moments, and his penis, whose desires he had managed to overcome for over a decade, was responding.

These images kept on coming upon him without warning. He was talking to a hard right lawyer in line to be a federal judge, when he caught a glimpse of his unremarkable body in a nearby mirror and he lost his train of thought, nearly swallowing his tongue as he imagined his reflection shredding his shirt with thick muscle.

One evening, it all became too much. Daniel got down on his knees in his hotel room and began to pray for deliverance from these upsetting images.

He was barely through when he heard a dripping sound coming from his bathroom. It was regular, but not the plink of water hitting porcelain. It was a thicker sound, from large, viscous drops of… something. Daniel went to check on it.

Instead of water, some thick, amber fluid was emerging from the shower head. Each drop pearled up as if from nothing, stretched slowly down, and dropped, splatting onto the shower floor. It had already formed a thick, gooey pile, but was too thick to flow easily into the drain.

Daniel lost his breath. He must be witnessing some kind of a miracle at work. Without hesitation, he stepped into the shower stall and reached his hand out for the next drop as it fell.

The instant it touched his palm, he felt an overwhelming sensation fill him. It was the same as when he thought about muscles. His brain filled with images of himself, but thick, smooth, sexy. Totally in command. His penis hardened in his pants.

This must be some kind of a temptation. Daniel tried to pull his hand away. “No—“ he gasped.

Without warning, the shower turned on, and a torrent of amber goo covered Daniel from head to toe. Every bit of skin it touched lit up with the same erotic pleasure as his hand had, making him writhe in ecstasy.

The coating of goo dissolved Daniel’s clothing, leaving him naked but for the inch-thick coating all over him. It quickly flooded every crevice of his body, and Daniel shuddered as he felt the animate fluid fill up his urethra and anus, even filling up his mouth, nose, and ears. His cock shuddered harder and harder in time with his racing heart, stimulated by the gently flowing goo.

Daniel’s mind filled with images of naked, muscular men, but this time they weren’t only shining with sweat. No, what he now understood he had been missing all his life was this thick, viscous coating all over his body. This was what he truly desired.

As this thought penetrated his soul, Daniel felt a tingle as the goo began to be absorbed into his skin. His muscles began to twitch, jerk, and inflate as more and more thick, amber liquid sank into him. His shoulders widened, his pecs plumped up, and his waist slimmed down as the goo brought Daniel’s body perfectly in line with the fantasy he had held in his mind for so many years.

Finally, just as Daniel thought his mind would break from the pleasure he was experiencing, the remaining layer of thick liquid slackened its grip and sloughed off of him. Suddenly as mobile as water, it drained away, leaving Daniel gasping for air and coughing up the last remnants.

He stepped out of the shower stall and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked… perfect. Like a young bodybuilding god, his body was bulky, yet perfectly aesthetic and totally smooth. He didn’t even have any stubble anywhere below his eyebrows. With each motion, his pumped up muscles and thickened, longer cock bounced, producing a sensation that had Daniel biting back a groan.

The sight of his body and the sensation of his new muscles moving had Daniel suddenly on the edge of an urgent, intense orgasm, his first in years. Before he could stop himself, he was shooting all over the tiles, feeling his muscles spasm more in a way that created a pleasurable feedback loop. As the aftershocks faded away, Daniel found himself looking, puzzled, at the copious load on the floor. Why was the creamy white of his semen tinged with a hint of orange?

Unable to find any clothes to fit him, Daniel fell into bed and was almost immediately unconscious.

The next morning proved that his transformation was no dream. Daniel admired his sweat-sheened muscles at the mirror, unable to tear his eyes away. Somehow, he discovered that his clothes had changed to suit his new body. Along with some business casual clothes, all in 4-way stretch fabrics, was a ton of gym gear, including more types of jockstraps than Daniel had ever imagined existed in the world. Pulling on a jock before his suit pants, Daniel found his thick cock hardening uncontrollably.

None of the other attendees seemed to notice Daniel’s incredible transformation. Or, perhaps, they thought he was a different Appalachian pastor, now with an incredible gym-built body that filled all his clothes nearly to bursting. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself, Daniel felt his cock thicken and ooze slick precum into his jock. It was such a turn-on to know that, unknown to all of these stuffy, stuck-up neoconservatives, Daniel was turning himself on and gently edging himself to the thought of his own body.

Somehow, all these talks that had seemed so interesting just yesterday were sliding from Daniel’s attention. How many different ways were there to say “I fucking hate everyone”? As his eyes drifted around the conference room, Daniel’s attention was suddenly caught by a guy whose attention was equally drifting. He was cute, dark-skinned and smooth-faced, and wearing… a leather baseball cap?

Daniel couldn’t imagine how someone so clearly different from everyone else was in here, and drawing absolutely no attention to himself. During the next break, he caught the guy’s eye and nodded out the door.

From the hall, he watched as the little mixed race twink—why was that word in his head?—started to follow, and then paused, his eyes widening at the sound of another attendee saying something. Probably something homophobic. The guy turned around and headed back to his seat.

Oh well. The conference wasn’t worth Daniel’s time. He may as well head back to his room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Daniel could hear the shower dripping again. As quietly as he could with his big new feet, he stalked into the bathroom to see another splatter of amber goo beginning to form on the shower floor.

Did he want more? Daniel could tell he’d changed. Not just his body, but his mind, too. His faith still felt firm, but different somehow. Temptation didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. If he changed more, he might lose all will to resist.

As he finished that thought, Daniel realised that he’d stepped into the shower without knowing it. He watched, as if in slow motion, as his big, meaty hand reached out for the next drop of pleasurable, life-changing goo.

He whited out as his clothes dissolved into the thick layer of goop this time, feeling himself cum at least twice as amber fluid sank into his skin again. Long after it had all drained away, Dan regained consciousness on all fours, moaning and thrusting like a whore as another load drained out of his low-hanging balls. The layer of cum on the porcelain had a distinct amber colour, but Dan reasoned that it could be the last of the goo draining from his big cock.

Stepping out of the shower, Dan admired his thick muscles, now covered in a layer of dark tattoos. His ass looked phenomenal, framed by bars of black and a scatter of other designs. He licked his lips, looking at himself, and felt some kind of a spurt deep in his hole.

A moment later, his asshole clenched, and Dan watched in the mirror as a bit of amber-tinged slick emerged from between his cheeks, dripping down his thick, hairless legs. Leaning down, still keeping his eyes on the flex and bend of his perfect, tatted body, Dan scooped up a bit of the natural lube and brought his finger to his slick hole.

The push of his thick finger into his ass felt incredible, and before long Dan was lying on the rumpled hotel bed, grunting and groaning as he thrust his fingers into his hungry hole. He came again, and collapsed on top of his fresh, copious load, almost immediately unconscious.

The following morning, all Dan’s suits and business casual clothes were gone. Instead, all he had were some more gym gear and a couple of leather jackets.

The thought of sitting in a conference hall full of stuffy suits who’d look at him like the dirt on their shoes made Dan roll his eyes, so he skipped his planned talks and headed to the hotel gym. It felt good to put his perfect new body through its paces. Just like he’d always imagined, pushing and pulling heavy weights was an incredible rush, at least on par with a good group prayer session. Although, every time he imagined prayer, Dan found himself thinking of EDM beats and grinding against other naked, sweaty male bodies. His tattoos would look so good stretching and warping under the strobes.

Near the end of his session, while Dan was doing a couple of sprints and watching his bare chest flex and bounce in the mirrors, the gym door opened. When he slowed down a few minutes later, Dan spotted the twink from yesterday, his skin distinctly olive-coloured today, and covered in a rubber suit—a gimp suit, said something in the back of Dan’s mind—from his neck down.

Sweat dripping from his overhanging pecs, Dan walked up to the twink, who was warming up on the bikes. Clearly, a gym session in a gimp suit was hard work, judging from the sheen of sweat already coating his pretty face and dripping from his curly dark hair.

“Hey man,” Dan said, enjoying his smooth new voice. “C’mon up to my room after, yeah?” He told the twink where to go, and the kid nodded. Looking into his eyes, Dan had a sudden image of a much older man, the lawyer with whom he had been speaking the other day. Somehow, this submissive, kinky twink had the same eyes as that self-obsessed, white-haired old man.

Come to think of it, Dan hadn’t seen that man for a couple of days, even before his own transformation had begun.

Back in his room, Dan was laying out lube and condoms—since when had he had those?—when he heard the tell-tale drip from the bathroom again. Once again, drops of amber goop were pooling next to the drain.

There was no hesitation this time. Feeling a spurt of orange-tinged precum drool out of his jockstrap, Dan stepped into the shower stall and spread his bare, tattooed arms, waiting for the pleasurable wave of fluid to fill him up.

Either moments or hours later, Dan returned to himself, coughing up the last of the viscous ooze on the shower floor. His hands, on the porcelain beneath him, looked distinctly black-skinned.

Without even looking in the mirror, Dan knew he was a Black man. Not only could he see how the dark brown tint was no longer from mere tattoos, but there seemed to be something different in the way he moved as he rose to his feet and stepped out of the shower. Not to mention the big, thick, Black cock insistently dripping amber precum onto the floor.

Next to the tools he had laid out, Dan found a black leather harness that set off his hairless brown pecs perfectly. He pulled on a jockstrap, too, enjoying the feeling of leaking through it instantly. As he admired himself in the wall mirror, feeling up his smooth Black muscles, there was a tentative knock at the door.

The twink stared up in awe as Dan opened the door, and didn’t resist as Dan pulled him in by the front of his rubber suit. He mewled pitifully, his bulge pulsing with need, as Dan stood him in the shower and drained the stream of musky sweat mixed with copious precum that had been pooling in the suit. His shiny gloved hands helped pull the suit down below his waist, and he took Dan’s cock like a natural, shuddering through a handsfree orgasm as Dan filled him up with a thick load of amber goo.

“Got you hooked, now,” Dan told the twinky gimp as his new toy cleaned off his oozing Black cock. “Hope you like worshipping at your new temple.”

The twink nodded desperately, and Dan grinned down at him. Life was good, and he couldn’t wait to fuck more of the guys he’d been desperately following around a few days ago. Next time, he’d make sure to face his mirror, so he could get a good look at his perfect body as it shone with exertion and filled up his worshippers with his addictive cum.

Click here to see all of Virgo Season.

If you feel inspired, write a story set at the Astra Hotel and post it @ me to join in. Help me celebrate my birthday by turning more conference attendees into geared up gay kinksters.

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 2: What's Cookin' Good Lookin'?

Summary: After you meet Javier Peña giving a presentation at your elementary school, you get ready to meet him at your co-worker's backyard cookout. You just hope that he remembers you.

Warnings: Mentions of Javi's past with the DEA, mentions of grief/death, mentions of food and alcohol, mentions of blood and needing first aid (nothing major), Javi taking care of you, allusions to sexual tension, you being a sarcastic asshole and Javi being too smitten to care

Word Count: 8.5K

A/N: Shout out to Chucho Peña for being the G.O.AT. And Javi putting his DEA first aid skills to the test. Thank you for the likes and reposts! These two are fun to write.

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Javi couldn’t think of the last time that he had turned on the radio in his truck. It had practically gone untouched since he had returned home to Laredo. But today, on his way back to the Sheriff's Department, he had put music on full volume the whole drive. His brain overflowed with images of you. Your smile, your laugh, God, the way you looked in that damn dress. The sweet smell of you still lingered in his mind as you had gotten only inches away from his lips. “See you on Saturday.” If he had known that today’s trip would have ended like this, he would have become the damn D.A.R.E representative of the office. He was so consumed with thoughts of you, that it wasn’t until he had passed City Hall that he realized he had driven by the Sheriff's Department 15 minutes ago.  

“How’d it go, Peña?” Javier could barely take 3 steps into his office before Carter was already at his door. “You sure look happy.” 

“Hey, look who made it out alive!” A 2nd voice chimed in from outside the office door, Carter’s partner, Detective Miller.

“Told ya it wouldn’t be that bad! Was the hot one there that I told you about? Jesus, I’d go back to do that stupid ass presentation again just to see her.” 

“God I hope she was, she must have been out sick the day I went because all I got were 3 middle aged ladies and disappointment.” Carter and Miller laughed to each other. 

“Definitely would have paid way more attention if she was my fuckin’ teacher, god damn, she is a hot piece of a-” 

Javier was no stranger to his co-workers checking out women on the job, hell, he was guilty of it too. But there was something about the conversation that made his stomach churn with jealousy. 

“She’s got a fucking name, alright? Don’t talk about her like that.” Javier snapped, leaving the two men standing in his doorway stunned. Given his reputation, Carter and Miller thought Javier would be quick to join in on the banter. 

“Jesus, sorry man. Just trying to have some fun.” The two backed out of his office, not expecting such a reaction from him. Carter was just about to open his mouth, hoping to gain some intel from Javier’s trip, but before he could, Miller gave him a silent shake “no”, gesturing to get the hell out before Carter did something else stupid to piss their boss off. 

Despite his interaction with Carter and Miller, Javi spent the rest of the day in a surprisingly good mood. 

Fuck, did he feel… happy?  

It obviously wasn’t a look that Javier wore often, considering that as he left the office for the day and gave a smile, accompanied by “Have a good night!” to the office secretary, she looked up at him with legitimate concern and asked if he was okay.  

Dust swept around his truck as Javi pulled down the dirt driveway to the front of the Peña ranch. The quaint house was nestled amongst acres of farmland, sat in front of a well loved barn where the horses were kept. The porch was lined with a colorful arrangement of flowers and figurines, all lovingly placed by Lucia, and even more lovingly tended to by her husband, Chucho, who swore his best to keep her garden alive after she no longer could. 

The front door let out a faint squeak as Javier made his way through, taking off his shoes and setting down his things before making his way over to the fridge. Reaching at the handle to grab a beer and something to eat, he saw the bright yellow sticky note placed at eye level as he bent down.��

Javi, 

It’s Wednesday. I’m with Las Vengüenzas (The Embarrassments) for cards. Will be back around 9. There’s leftovers in the fridge. Símon is being an ass today. Watch out. 

Love, Pops 

Chucho Peña was notorious for leaving notes everywhere around the house. Javi was pretty sure if he didn’t make a bi-weekly trip around the ranch, the entire thing would be covered in yellow post-it notes. 

After inhaling half of a leftover sandwich, and finishing off his beer, Javi slipped on his boots and made his way out to the barn to round up and feed the horses for the night. Before accepting his new position at the Sheriff's department several months ago, Javi spent the beginning of his time home from the DEA working with his father on the ranch. When he came home from Colombia, he didn’t really have a plan. Just that he couldn’t take working for the DEA any longer. Even after he had leaked the dark, unsettling truth of what had happened with the Cali Cartel and made a point to politely tell the DEA to fuck off, Javi would still receive the occasional call asking him if he would consider coming back to help fight the drug war raging across the border in Mexico. The request to fuck off got less and less polite with each call. 

Still, Javi felt unsettled resigning himself to a life of ranching forever. His body had proved to him that he definitely was not as young as he once was, and he couldn’t help but miss the fact that what he was doing held some sort of significance to make things better. 

When Dean Morris approached Chucho about the new training position opening up for the department, he told the elder Peña that the office was willing to do just about anything to have Javi be a part of their team. No field work, normal office hours, pay raise, and good benefits.  Just providing his expertise and knowledge to new recruits and staff about strategies to stop trafficking across the border. Javier had considered the option of telling him to fuck right off too, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt like an idiot to pass something like this up. He felt guilty leaving his position at the ranch with his dad, but his father assured him “If I could do it all these years while you were gone, I’d sure as hell look like a fool if I couldn’t keep doing it now. Don’t think you’re still getting out of helping while you’re around, though. You can promise your old man you won’t leave me too high and dry. ” 

So here Javi was, making good on his promise. As he opened the gate to the barn, 2 of the horses trotted up to him immediately, knowing that it must be close to dinner time. 3 more slowly followed, leaving one left for Javi to corral. 

Where the hell was he? 

“Son of a bitch.” Javier muttered to himself, noticing that the last horse he was looking for was all the way across the field, perfectly content where he was standing. Chucho was right, Símon was going to be a pain in the ass today. 

“Símon! Get your ass over here! I’m not going all the way out to get you!” 

Nothing. 

“Fine, starve to death, see if I care.” Javi had a sweet spot for animals, but Símon’s unruly antics tended to make the horse an exception to the rule. 

Javi turned his back and made his way to the other 5 horses choosing to give him much less of a hard time. Javi filled the troughs with food, leaving the horses happily munching on their dinner. As he got one last scoop from the bucket to place into the trough, a soft muzzle bumped its way under the scoop, causing the food to fly everywhere. Símon let out a loud whinney, mocking Javier for letting out a startled yell and dropping the remainder of the food all over the floor of the barn. “Stupid ass horse…” Javi grumbled. 

As Javi ventured his way back to the house, several more lights had been turned on inside the house, signaling that his dad must be back from his weekly cards night. 

Kicking his boots off on the back step, Javi greeted his father. “Hey Pops. You were right about Símon. Pendejo scared the shit out of me and knocked a whole scoop of food out of my hand.” 

“Well from what I gather, it seems like that’s a small tarnish on what otherwise seems to be a pretty good day.” Javi could hear the delight in Chucho’s voice from around the corner. He had forgotten that both Maria and Estelle’s husbands were a part of Chucho’s card club, and were probably both delighted to gossip to their husbands about their eventful day at school. 

Javi joined his father in the kitchen, pulling out a chair from the dining room table and plopping himself in it. “Word travels fast, I guess.” 

“Not fast enough for Maria, apparently. She called me as soon as she got home from school to tell me about today. She was delighted to see you, and even more delighted to tell me that apparently you’re now joining me for the cookout that you very adamantly told me you weren’t going to.” Chucho raised his eyebrows and smirked. “I heard she’s a sweet girl.” 

Javi rubbed his hand across the width of his face, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Pops, listen, it’s not that big of a deal, I just met her today. She seemed nice.” 

“Must be a little more than just nice if you’re willing to go through the ringer your mother’s friends are about to put you through on Saturday.” Chucho now delighted in the fact he could tell Javier was becoming increasingly more sheepish as the conversation continued. “Ah, the things we do for love…” 

“Dad, listen I-” 

“I know, I know, you just met her. But let me tell you hijo, I knew from the moment that I laid eyes on your mother, she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The fact that you’re volunteering yourself to talk with your friends and family you’ve been avoiding since you’ve been home just for another chance to see her? She must be something special.” Chucho sighed, and made his way past Javi, extending his arm out to pat him on the shoulder as he passed by. “I just want you to be happy, hijo. Sounds like today was a good start. Well, this old man is off to bed, I may not be beautiful, but I sure need my sleep. Good night, Javi.” 

“Night, Pops.” 

Chucho retreated to this bedroom, leaving Javi alone in the kitchen. Javi stared at the pictures hanging on the wall across from the table. His gaze traveled across the wall noting the variety of framed photos. Him as a toddler in nothing but a cowboy hat and diaper, his mother and father standing next to him holding his diploma from his high school graduation, and Chucho and Lucia slow dancing together at their 25th wedding anniversary party. Javi smiled at the joy and happiness radiating off their faces in the photo.  

Today was a good start. 

You were convinced that time could not have moved any slower than it did between Wednesday and Friday. Exhausted from the end of the school year excitement, you were sure that even a constant IV coffee drip was going to be enough to keep you alive for the next few days. The only thing keeping you going was Saturday. Specifically, Javier Peña. 

Your week became a little more bearable in the moments in the staff lounge you got in between inhaling your lunch, listening to your co-workers drabble bits of information about Javier and the Peña family. You tried to absorb as much of it as you can, without trying to sound too over-eager or ask too many questions. On Wednesday, after your encounter, you asked at lunch how the ladies knew Javi. From there, you had learned that his late mother used to work with the rest of the 3rd grade team before passing about a decade ago (And had been inseparable up until then), he had started his new job at the Sheriff's department a few months ago after returning back to Texas (but you couldn’t figure out where or why he was gone), and they were definitely not a fan of some woman named Lorranie (you weren’t sure why on that either, but the look on their faces told you Lorranie was bad news). If there was one thing your co-workers loved to do, it was talk. While you were happy it provided you with some intel about Javi, the thought of what these ladies had been saying about you behind your back was also petrifying. 

Some way or another, you finally managed to make it to Friday at 4:00 PM, students now all gone from your classroom and headed home for the weekend. With the few ounces of energy you had left, you began to gather your things from your desk to pack up and head out with the promise of Saturday finally on the horizon. 

As you were turning off your lights and closing the door behind you, the 3 Amigas of 3rd grade came strolling up behind you. 

“So, mija, are you excited for tomorrow?” Maria said, giving you a playful nudge in the arm as you joined the group of ladies walking down the hallway towards the parking lot. You could already feel your cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. Of course you were excited for tomorrow. The thought of seeing the tall, broad and handsome man that was Javier Peña was the only thing you through this week. His deep brown eyes, the way his shoulders stretched the back of his navy blue suit, his hands? You had only known this man for less than a week, yet the image of him flooded your brain every day since you met. Not to mention the fact you hadn’t been on a first date (or anything even close to that) since you met Paul almost 3 and a half years ago. It was only now that you felt the nerves swirling around in your stomach, realizing tomorrow you were actually going to see him again. 

“Yeah, I’m really excited! I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I’m uh, actually kind of nervous though.” Your voice began to trail off as the women looked at you with a smirking suspicion. You quickly elaborated, trying not to make it too obvious the reason why you were worked up was because of the one person you were most looking forward to seeing. 

“You know, because this is my first big party I’ve been to since moving here, and I don’t know a lot of people, and want to make a good impression and-” 

“You’ll know us” Linda cut you off with a smile. 

“You’ll know someone else there besides us old broads, too.” Estelle winked. 

“Mija, there is nothing for you to worry about. Just be yourself, and I’m sure that everyone there will love you. Anyways, we’ve already put in a good word for you, so I wouldn’t be too nervous. ”

“Maria, leave the poor girl be! She’s a tough cookie, she can fend for herself!” Linda retorted. She could tell from the look on your face that this conversation was turning out to make you more anxious than expected. “It’ll be a fun time, mija. Drive home safe and we will see you tomorrow.” 

The 4 of you waved and said goodbye as you parted ways to your cars scattered across the parking lot. As you sat down in the driver’s seat, you couldn’t tell if you were covered in sweat from the hot, Texas sun beating through the windows of your car, or because the idea of tomorrow had you a hot mess. 

Your apartment was finally starting to feel like home. Pictures of your family hung on the walls, furniture finally delivered, contents of moving boxes unpacked and put away. You were a little too Type A for your own good, and while for the most part, your boxes had been sorted and organized you still didn’t feel settled until everything felt like it had a place. The last thing left to put away was a box marked “CHICAGO” that had sat in the corner of your living room, long after its counterparts had been sorted to their rightful home. You had told yourself that you needed to finally face unpacking this box before the school year came to an end, and with your countdown at 4 days, time was starting to run out. 

After you had finished putting away the contents of your school bag, you changed out your work clothes, tossing them in your hamper and rummaging through your dresser to pull out a pair of black biker shorts and an oversized Chicago Cubs shirt, its logo faded and fraying from all of its wear. On your way back to the living room, you passed through the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. If given a choice, it was always Miller Lite. Growing up with 3 older brothers, it was the beer they would sneak you sips of when your parents weren’t looking. It was the beer you drank in college, knowing that a night drinking most liquors would send you to an early grave the next morning. It was what you drank almost every night for months after finding out you had wasted years of your life with Paul, who couldn’t be bothered to give an apology for what he had done to hurt you. If there was one thing you were, it was a little too stubborn for your own good, and you and Miller Lite had a history you weren’t willing to part ways with now. 

That lead you back to public enemy #1- The “CHICAGO” box. You saw crossed legged on the floor as you rested your hand on your face, the other bringing the beer to your mouth for some liquid courage. The thing that frustrated you the most about this stupid box was that you knew exactly what was inside it. You could probably name where the contents were positioned inside the box. But every time you came close to ripping the packing tape off, you found yourself frozen in fear. If you opened that box, you would be admitting to the fact that when you were faced with the toughest moments in your life, you chose to run. Run half way across the country without looking back. And that- that made you feel a sense of cowardice that hung heavy on your conscience. You’d like to think that you were strong, determined, willing to stand up for yourself. But when it mattered most, you were none of those things. You were far from it. 

So here you were again. You and that damn box. After this week, you didn’t have it in you to intensify the staring contest you had started with an inanimate object, and the prospect of tomorrow was enough to ruin your mood over a stupid container full of things. Exhausted, you sat yourself down on the couch, curled up in a blanket and turned on the TV to watch the next NHL Playoff game. 

There were a lot of things you loved about Texas, but their lack of enthusiasm for hockey was a bit disappointing. When people asked you some of things you missed most about the midwest, a hockey fix was at the top of your list. Growing up with 3 older brothers who all played, you were convinced you came out of the womb with skates on. You were also convinced the need to keep up with your brothers is what fueled the fire for your overly competitive nature. The only downside to your love for hockey was when it came to dating. Being around your brother’s teammates, you constantly heard “how hot it was” or that it was “so sexy” when girls knew about hockey, or sports in general. In reality, whenever you brought up your interest on dates, it backfired. It turned into “Well you only know about it because of your brothers” or “It’s weird that you play hockey, that’s too manly.” One man once made the mistake of taking you on a first date to a skating rink thinking it would be cute to teach you how to skate, until you lapped him several times as he wobbled like a baby deer, and made him storm off in anger because a girl was better at skating than him. His loss. 

Taking another sip of your beer, you could feel your eyelids growing heavy as you leaned your head further and further into your couch pillow. Despite trying your best to stay awake, exhaustion and comfort swept over your body, as you were lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of cheering and bullhorns coming from the TV. 

It wasn’t until you were greeted by a sharp, stiff pain in your back that you realized you had fallen asleep, curled up on your couch, not even making it into bed last night. You grunted and rolled over to look at the clock hanging above your kitchen counter 

10:13 AM

Shit. You were definitely not planning on sleeping in this late. The cookout wasn’t until 2:00, and all you had on your to-do list was to shower and get ready, but the last thing you wanted was for anything to make you late for something you had been looking forward to for the past 3 days. 

After taking what you so lovingly deemed the “3 hour shower” (washing and conditioning your hair, shaving, and scrubbing down every inch of your body), you stood wrapped in your towel, staring at your open closet.  You swiped through several pieces, throwing them down on the bed, bracing yourself for the personal fashion show that was about to ensue. 

Almost an hour later, and half your closet now scattered about on the floor, you were convinced that if you had woken up at 7:00 AM you still would be crunched for time trying to pick out an outfit. What the hell does someone wear to a casual cookout full of a bunch of people they don’t know, and one really hot one that they want to get to know better? 

After a few more combinations, you ruled out shirts and shorts, worrying that you were going to look too informal amongst a group of strangers. You dug back through your pile of dresses, trying a few back on hoping to find a solution. At 12:30, you landed on a baby blue sundress covered in small, white and pink flowers. Considering it was going to be 89 degrees today, you figured the spaghetti straps and knee length cut would be acceptable. It made you feel confident, and even a little sexy. After almost an hour of trying to toe the line between cute and casual, you threw on the dress and give yourself a quick run down in the mirror. Not half bad. You spent the last bit of time in the bathroom finishing your hair and a little bit of makeup, a routine you had down to a science, followed by swearing at yourself under your breath as you shoved the explosion of clothes on your floor back into your closet. 

As you gathered your things, you took one final deep breath for reassurance as you headed out the door and down the steps to the front of your apartment building. You had been to Maria’s house before for her Cinco de Mayo party, recalling directions and that it wasn’t too far of a walk from your house. The whole way there, your hands were balled in fists squeezing your fingers, fueled exclusively by your increasing anxiety as you got closer and closer to Maria’s house. Knowing the social butterfly Maria is, you shouldn’t have been shocked by the massive number of cars lining the street leading up to her residence. As you walked up to the back gate of the house, you took several deep breaths before mustering the courage to make the trek down to the party. With each step across the hot cement of the sidewalk, your brain swirled with questions 

“Is he already there? Is he actually excited about seeing me too, or do the ladies at work just feel bad for me and they’re trying to make me feel better? God, does he even remember that I’m coming or who I am? Fuck, was this dress even a good choice? What if I’m way too dressed up and he thinks I look like an idiot? Jesus, I hope they have alcohol at this thing. 

Your heart raced as you approached the gate to her backyard, with a sign in bright, colorful letters that read “Fiesta this way!”. As you pushed open the gate, you were greeted with the thick scent of meats cooking on the grill, followed by upbeat Latin music and chatter amongst the guests. When you looked around, you were greeted by a sea of unfamiliar faces. You began to walk further into the crowd when a tight embraced wrapped around you from behind. 

“MIJA! I’m so glad you came!” Maria’s familiarity gave you a slight sense of relief. “Listen, I have to go help with the food, but there are lots of drinks in the cooler so help yourself, food should be up in about half an hour! Not everyone is here yet, but if anyone comes looking for you, I’ll be sure to send them your way.” Before you could make any attempt at a comeback, Maria winked at you and escorted herself back to the porch to continue setting up dinner. 

Taking another sweep around the backyard, you made your way over to the drink coolers sitting on the side of the house, when you felt a tug at the bottom of your dress. Surprised, you turned around to see a small freckly face staring back up at you.  

“Extoose me. My big bwother says dat your his teacher and dat sometimes you pway with dem at weecess and dat dey weeelllllyyy want to pway baseball but none of da other gwownups will pway and dey need someone to pitch. Will you pweeeeseeee pway wif us?”

Looking up, you noticed a small group of kids gathered in a cluster now smiling and waving at you. 

“Hi, Alex. Hi, Sophia.” You waved back at two of the kids you knew from your class. “You know it’s okay to come ask me to play, you don’t have to send your little brother.” 

Alex looked at you with a sincerely confused look on his face. “I didn’t know if we were allowed to talk to our teacher if they’re not at school.” 

Sophia slapped him with the wiffle ball bat. “Of course you are, stupid. Teachers don’t live at school. They do real people stuff too.” 

“If I’m so stupid, why didn’t you ask her, Ms. Know-it-all?” 

As the two continued to argue, you took another look around at the party. With the familiar face count only at 3 (being Maria, and Estelle and Linda who you had waved to from afar), you realized that your choices were to either go converse with people you’ve never met, stand alone awkwardly, or go play baseball. The choice seemed easy enough. 

“It’s okay you guys, I’ll play with you. Only for a little bit though, okay?” 

The kids cheered as they placed a bag full of wiffle balls in your hands, glad to have an adult that would be able to throw a semi-hittable pitch. The kids took turns lining up to bat, as you threw towards them. Giving a little extra encouragement to the ones who needed it, you high-fived each kid as you let them have a “homerun” by running as fast as they could around the backyard. Noticing your collection of wiffle balls had dwindled down to zero, you sent the group of kids to scatter around the backyard to collect as many as they could. As you bent down and reached your hand out to pick up one of the balls close to you, a much larger hand set itself on top of yours. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve played, but I don’t think the pitchers are supposed to go out in the field to collect all the balls.” 

Shifting your gaze upwards from the grass, your eyes traveled up the length of the figure standing before you. Tight, dark washed jeans, followed by a white, short sleeved button up, that exposed the tanned skin of his chest. Next, a strong jaw and mustache, and deep, chocolate brown eyes that had lived vividly in your memory since first seeing them a few days ago. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have figured that you’re a teacher by day, MLB pitcher by night.” 

You shrugged your shoulders and mischievously rolled your eyes. “Damn, you caught me. My secret is ruined!” 

Javi shifted the hand that was on top of yours under your palm, engulfing your hand in a gentle grasp, pulling you up to a standing position. 

“Thanks.” you blushed as you brushed your hands down your sides to flatten your dress. You watched as Javi’s eyes darted looking you up and down, his tongue darting out to lick across his bottom lip. 

“Can I uh, get you something to drink?” Javi asked. Noticing that his hand was still holding yours, he shifted his weight and tried to casually place his hands on his hips. 

“Yeah, a beer would be great. Unfortunately, I don’t think they allow players to drink on the field, but it looks like they called someone in from the bullpen to take my place so I should be in the clear.” You both laughed, looking over to see that none of the kids had seemed to care that you had gone missing, and someone else had gladly taken your place as pitcher. 

“I’ll be right back.” As you sat down at the edge of an empty picnic table on the patio, you couldn't help but gawk as Javier’s back turned to yours, revealing just how tight his jeans were and how broadly his shoulders stretched. His trip to get both of you drinks was prolonged by several people coming up to him, either shaking his hand or patting him on the back. You were curious why so many people had such an interest in Javi, and why he didn’t look thrilled about it. 

After a few minutes, Javi made his way back to you, two beers in hand. “Well, you sure seem like a popular guy, Mr. Peña.” He slid your drink across the table to you, letting out a small scoff at your comment. 

“Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been home.” He looked around as if he was checking to see that no one else was coming up to bother him. 

“It’s okay, you don’t need to apologize. Do you mind me asking where you were?” You took a sip of your drink, and traced your thumb along the condensation of the bottle. 

Javi shifted in his seat and continued to look around. “I was uh, I was in Colombia working for the DEA.” It was his turn to take a much longer drink than the one that you just took. 

“Oh shit, like the Drug Enforcement Administration DEA?” 

“Last time I checked, that was the only DEA I knew of.” He looked down at his beer and let out an uncomfortable laugh. You had seen plenty about the happenings in Colombia on the news the past several years. Needless to say, none of it was “feel-good” content. Working for the DEA was one thing, but if he was down in Colombia? He would have really been in the thick of it. Putting two and two together, it now made sense why his trip to get you both drinks had taken so long. 

“Well, um, it does sound like a really interesting job. If you ever want to talk about it, I would love to listen. But I totally get the whole feeling uncomfortable when everyone thinks you’re a hero and wants you to tell them everything when all you want is to not talk about it at all.” You reached out to place your hand on top of his and give him a reassuring smile. He looked back at you with crinkled brows and genuine confusion. You could almost feel his demeanor shift, like you were the first person who had ever considered trying to understand how he felt about the situation he was in. “My dad was a firefighter, I had 2 brothers who were in the military and another brother who’s an EMT. Obviously it’s not fair to compare anyone’s jobs, but they always hated how everyone else felt entitled to their heroism when a lot of the time, they felt far from it.” 

He swallowed and clenched his jaw as his puppy dog brown brown eyes locked with yours. No one had ever even bothered to consider the fact that Javi had no interest in talking about his past. That the last thing he felt like was a hero, that he regretted the things he had done. Yet here you were, holding his hand, reassuring him he didn’t owe you anything. He opened his mouth to speak. 

“It’s okay, really.” You reassured him once more. “The one thing I do want to know…” Your voice trailed as you took another sip of your beer, Javi’s face once again shifting to concern “is how much Maria has told you about me, and how much damage control I need to be doing.” Breaking the silence, you and Javi both laughed to yourselves. You watched as the tension seemed to dissipate from Javi’s body.  

“I could say the same thing. If it makes you feel any better, the only thing I know about you is that you just moved here not that long ago from Chicago, and that Maria was very insistent that I would be an idiot if I tried to do anything to mess up my chances with a gorgeous girl like you.” 

“Well the first part is true. I moved here at the end of December, so that’s what? 4 months now? And yeah, I’ve lived in or just outside of Chicago my whole life, so it’s definitely taken some adjusting. The 2nd half seems like a bit of an exaggeration.” You had never been good at taking compliments, but you could feel your cheeks flush. 

“Damn, Chicago to Middle-of-Nowhere-Texas? That’s a big move. The 2nd part is definitely not an exaggeration in the slightest. You look…” His eyes shifted over you once more, biting down on his lower lip. “You look beautiful in that dress.” 

“PEÑAAAAAAA! How have you been?! Mierda, it’s been too long, amigo!” A clearly drunk party  goer was standing next to you and raised up a hand holding his beer, extending it towards Javi. As he continued to stumble toward Javi, he lost his balance, and the glass beer bottle he was holding slipped from his hands, shattering on the cement patio. Glass shards and beer foam went flying on contact, and your shin was in the way of the cross fire. 

“Jesus, that hurts, shit!” Looking down at your leg, you watched as blood dripped from the point where a piece of glass lodged its way into your skin. Javi looked like he was about to murder whatever drunken idiot had stumbled his way over to him, but before he could, he had already rushed around to the side of the table you were sitting at. You tried to get up  to get a better look at the damage, but Javi firmly grasped your hips and ran his hands down the sides of your thighs to sit you back in your seat. Well, being insanely turned by a man trying to help you get a piece of beer bottle out of your shin was a new first. 

“Don’t move. I don’t want the glass to shift around anymore and make the cut worse.” His hands still hadn’t left your thighs. 

“Javi, I’m fine. I can walk.” You began to stubbornly protest. You tried to hide the grimace on your face from the pain you felt as you began to stand up again. “Seriously, it’s fine, I’ll go find some first aid stuff and- OH, okay?!” 

Before you could finish your sentence, Javi had scooped you up like it was nothing and was carrying you bridal style towards the house. Your head rested against his chest, coming face to face with unbuttoned flaps of his shirt. His scent overwhelmed you, somehow smelling even better than when you bumped into him just a few days ago. The thumb of the hand that was holding you beneath your legs traced back and forth across your knee. 

“This seems a little unnecessary, don’t ya think?” Trying to hold it together, you looked up at Javi. 

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?” He looked down at you and shook his head with a slight grin on his face. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Javi made his way through the crowded patio to the sliding glass door that led into the house. 

“DIOS MIO, WHAT HAPPENED?!” Maria shrieked, her face darting between you, Javi, and the blood running down your leg. 

“I don’t know what to tell you Maria, the baseball game back there got pretty heated. Those kids are ruthless.” Your sarcasm clearly did not go over well, as Maria’s expression was now flooded with confusion and panic. 

Javi rolled his eyes. “Tell Don he needs to get his drunk-ass together. He dropped a bottle and it shattered, some of the pieces flew into her leg. I’m guessing the first aid kit is still in the upstairs closet by the bathroom?” 

“Yes, mijo, but-” 

“No, Maria, she doesn’t need to go to the hospital, I’ll take care of her.” Boy, have you never been so excited about being injured. 

“I don’t know, Maria, I think I’m dying!” You flopped one of your free hands up to your forehead, doing your best to look like a tragic Renaissance painting. 

You could tell Javi was trying his best not to laugh, knowing that Maria was already halfway to dialing 911. “She’ll be fine, I promise.” 

Javi used his hip to slide open the door, leading you through the kitchen and up the staircase. All jokes aside and adrenaline subsiding, you were now beginning to realize how much pain you were in as your legs jostled while Javi carried you up the stairs. You scrunched your face and bit down on your lip to try and ignore the pain, but it wasn’t doing much. Javi looked down at you, noticing your face. 

“Hermosa, are you okay? We’re almost upstairs, I’m sorry about that pendejo.” 

“Yup, I’ve never been better. I feel great, actually. LOVE having this piece of glass stuck in my leg!” You noticed your sarcasm meter was probably getting a little too high for the situation. “No it’s okay, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.” 

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let you bleed out on the patio.” As you crossed the threshold of the upstairs bathroom, Javi shifted you in his arms and sat you down on the top of the bathroom counter. He gave the top of your knees a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right back, don’t move.” He made his way out of the bathroom, hearing him rummage around through the closet in the hallway. 

“Do I really have a choice?” You heard him chuckle from outside the door. He came back holding a first aid box and a few towels and squatted down in front of your leg dangling off of the countertop. 

“You help women take glass shards out of their legs at barbeques often?” You gestured down at the first aid kit, noting how fast he had found it. 

“Surprisingly, you are the first.” Opening up the kit, he pulled out a few supplies. “I spent a lot of time playing here as a kid, and definitely went through my fair share of band-aids.” Carefully, he placed one of his hands around the back of your leg, pulling it closer towards him. You were surprised that with hands as big as his, he was incredibly gentle. 

Trying to downplay your pain, you looked down at him and asked, “What’s the prognosis, Dr. Peña? Do I get to keep my leg, or are you destined to carry me everywhere for the rest of your life?” 

“As much as I would love to, I think you’re gonna make it out okay.” He plucked a pair of tweezers out of the kit and looked up at you with remorse. “I’m gonna pull it out, but it’s probably gonna hurt. Is that okay?” He rested his free hand on top of your thigh. “You can squeeze my hand if you need to.” 

Without hesitation, you released the hand that was gripping the edge of the counter so hard, your knuckles were turning white. You slowly interlaced his fingers with his, his thumb stroking back and forth over the side of your hand. 

“Okay, whenever you’re ready.” You said, beginning to squeeze his hand tighter. 

“Okay. 3…2…” 

“FUCK! Agh, so much for 1?! Holy shit, that hurt!” You were trying everything in your power to hold back the tears welling in your eyes, trying to be as tough as possible. 

“I could say the same for my hand. Jesus, you’ve got a death grip, hermosa. I’m surprised my fingers aren’t broken.” You released his hand as he laughed and shook it out, now using both to rummage through the first aid kit again. Pulling out some gauze and tape, he carefully wrapped up the cut and tied up the bandage to hold it in place. He was so attentive making sure that you were properly bandaged up, that it wasn’t until he heard your small sniffle that he looked back up at you, noticing a small tear streaming down your face.

Generally, you prided yourself on being pretty damn tough. Growing up with brothers, you learned to play rough and deal with the consequences. More importantly, you hated crying in front of other people. Trying to quickly regain your composure, you tried to subtly wipe the tears off your cheeks, hoping Javi wouldn’t notice. Slowly, he rose up, placing one hand on the counter just outside your hips, the other coming up to your cheek, using his thumb to brush away the wetness under your eyes. 

“I promise I’m not a baby, this shit just really hurt.” You said, trying to defend yourself. His hand cupped the side of your face.

“Cariño, you don’t need to apologize.” He leaned his body in closer to yours, your faces now only inches away. “You’ve been un soldado, if anything.” 

“A what?” You were surprised your brain even had the capacity for questioning at this point. 

“A trooper” Javi leaned in closer, planting a soft kiss on your cheek. “So much so, you’re making it hard for me to try and take care of you, considering how damn stubborn you are.” His words whispered down the side of your neck, followed by another kiss. You could feel your heart racing, your breath becoming heavier with each word. Slowly, his body shifted down between the opening of your legs, his hands wrapping around your injured calf, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your bandage. 

Your mouth hung half open, praying that your brain would concoct a half coherent sentence. Your hand traveled down to brush the top of Javi’s soft, curled hair, forcing his gaze to shift back up to you. “Last time I checked, I don’t think doctors are supposed to kiss their patients” 

He stood back up, both hands now cupping your face as he leaned in and whispered, “well it’s a good thing I’m not really a doctor, am I?” Your mouths met with a magnetic attraction. His hand had now slipped behind your head, raking his fingers through your hair as he pulled you in closer. Your hands that had been grasping the edge of the counter as a form of self control now freed themselves, grasping around Javi’s biceps, reciprocating the closeness you craved. Your body lit up with an electricity that no kiss had ever made you feel before. His hands began traveling down your body, his intensity causing you to let out a small, breathy moan. Your legs slowly wrapped around the small of his back, pulling him tighter. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs as his hands grasped the meat of your thighs as they slowly slid their way under the hem of your dress. 

“JAVI?! MIJA?! IS EVERYTHING OKAY?? DO I NEED TO CAL 911?? THERE BETTER NOT BE BLOOD ON MY BATHMAT, I JUST WASHED IT.” 

Both out of breath, your mouths parted as Maria’s shrill voice carried up the stairs. You had blacked out for the last few minutes, forgetting you were sitting on top of your co-worker’s bathroom counter, door wide open. Javi rested his head in the crook of your shoulder as he whispered “God dammit, Maria…” under his breath.

“Impeccable timing on her part, to be fair.” 

“IF YOU DON’T RESPOND I’M COMING UP THERE AND CALLING THE AMBULANCE!” 

“All good, Maria!” You shouted down, Javi’s face still resting by your neck. “Dr. Peña told me it was a close one, but I’m  gonna make it out alive.” You both giggled. “We’ll be down in a second!” 

“Are you gonna clear me to walk, or am I getting carried again?” You said, giving him a playful nudge.

He gave you a quick kiss. “Just take it easy okay?” Grabbing your wait, he lifted you up and helped you off the counter. He gestured his arm towards the doorway. “After you.” 

After you had hobbled your way down the stairs, you and Javi found empty patio chairs along the fence of the yard. After you had sat down semi-comfortably, Javi started making his way back toward the house. “Drink?” He said, looking back at you and continuing his stride. 

“As long as you don’t drop it on me, absolutely.” 

You were shocked by how quickly the next few hours went by as you sat and talked with Javi. The conversation flowed between you effortlessly as you covered the basic conversations, like your likes and dislikes, favorite things and families. You had even worked up the nerve to tell him how you ended up in Laredo after you broke things off with Paul. Now a few drinks in, your liquid courage had you diving in deeper. 

“So, tell me this, Javi. You are arguably one of the most handsome men I have ever seen. You nursed me back to health from what was clearly a life or death experience, and you have impeccable taste, besides the fact that you haven’t seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, or Star Wars, or E.T., which I will forgive you for, as long as you do good on your promise to watch it with me. You have also proven to be an exceptional kisser. How the hell are you still single? Is there something I’m missing? Are you like, secretly married and have a family, a serial killer, wanted by the FBI, are the people at this party a part of some sort of secret cult that’s gonna kidnap me?! C’mon, there’s gotta be something?!” 

Javi coughed on the beer that he had just sipped down his throat. “Jesus quierda, no! What would make you think that?” 

“You seem too good to be true, there’s gotta be a flaw somewhere, c’mon!!” 

“Well, I’m gonna take the high road and assume you’re not any of those things, I could say the same about you. This is most fun I’ve had since being back home.” 

You raised your eyebrows and gave him a questionable gaze. 

“I’m being serious, hermosa.” You could feel in his words that he meant it. 

“Well I’m glad. This is the most fun I’ve had in a really long time too.” 

You sat in a comfortable silence. Looking around, you noticed that not only had the sun gone down, but the once bustling backyard had now dwindled down to only a few party goers on the patio and a small crowd inside. The last thing you wanted to do was leave, but you also didn’t want to be walking alone at night, half hobbling from your injury. 

“Hey, I’m really sorry, believe me, the last thing I want to do right now is leave, but I probably should start waking home before it gets too late. Not a huge fan of being a woman walking alone in the dark, ya know?” 

Javi quickly set down his beer. “You were going to walk home?!” 

“What, I’m not allowed to walk?! I don’t live that far, and it won’t take that long, I’ll be fine!” You crossed your arms in defiance.

“The shuffle across the yard I watched you take to go to the bathroom an hour ago says otherwise. Hermosa, let me drive you home, please?” 

Too in pain to prove a point, you let out a huff of defeat. “Fine.” 

“Thank you. I know you CAN do it, but I will carry your stubborn ass back before I let you walk. Here.” 

He extended his arm out to help pull you out of your seat. He followed your lead taking slow steps across the yard, leading you out to the street where his truck was parked. Before you could argue, he opened up the passenger side door and lifted you up into the seat. “Just gotta get the keys from my pops and then I’ll be right back. 

“What if I try to make a break for it?” 

“It won’t take me long to catch you.” 

“Touché.” 

Javi closed the door behind him as he headed his way back into the house. Watching him in stride, you really needed to thank whoever made those jeans. 

Javi found his dad amongst his friends at the kitchen table inside, talking and laughing amongst themselves. “Hey Pops, can I have the keys?” 

Chucho took a sip of his beer and looked around at his friends. “Seems like things are going well then, huh?” The men chuckled to one another. “She’s very cute, Javi. Seems like she doesn’t put up with your Mireda either, I’m surprised she wants to spend more time with you!” 

“Well she lives close and walked here and after Don’s clumsy ass still broke a bottle in her leg, I’m not gonna let her walk home. Believe me, I was worried I was gonna have to carry her.” 

“I’m giving you a hard time, Javi. Here, take the keys. Don’t worry about me, I’m sure one of these fine gentleman will give this old man a ride home.” 

“Thanks pop.” Javi took the keys that were outstretched in his father’s hand. As he began to walk back out to the car, he grabbed Javi’s arm. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile like you have tonight. It’s a good look on you, hijo.” 

[readyforthegarden]

When the Nightingale Sings - Teaser

Coming Fall 2024...

Pairing: Danny Wagner x F!Reader

Synopsis: Medieval AU! In a world where noble alliances dictate futures, you have been betrothed to Prince Emers, a man you barely know and certainly don't love. As you travel towards the royal palace for your impending wedding, your journey is upended, causing you to run straight into a kind, lonesome hunter. With no choice but to trust him, you embark on a journey together towards the nearest village, navigating through the forest and it's perils. As the solace you find in his companionship builds will you choose to honor your duty, or will you abandon everything you've ever know to follow your heart?

Warnings: this fic will contain mentions of death, blood, brief depictions of murder, smut, angst, fluff.

A/N: I’d like to thank @joshsindigostreak for always believing in my AUs and helping me workshop them to find the plot, and a big huge thank you to @earthlysorrows for helping me write through all my brain funks and beta-reading/editing. I truly don’t know what I would do without you!! 💖

“Does the prince not charm you?” Danny asked, the firelight dancing across his tanned skin. You bristled slightly, your memory pouring through the letters you had exchanged with the monarch. 

“He,” you paused, finding the right words. “He is not as verbose when it comes to the written word as I would like.” Danny smirked, knowing the rumors the prince was a dud were proving themselves true. 

“What would you want him to write?” Taking a sip of your ale, you almost snorted into the pint glass. 

“Anything other than the acres of land I lived on or how the castle in Farrynden is one of the best in the world.” you made a face, rolling your eyes. “I once wrote him a letter, telling him that thinking of our upcoming nuptials had my bosoms heaving.” 

“And what was his response?” Danny asked softly.

“His response was to ask if my father had any cattle.” Danny’s smirk fell, his eyes darting over you. His iris's darkened, his tongue licking his lips before he spoke again.

“If you had written me a letter about your heaving bosoms I would write you one back telling you all the ways I would touch them, tease them.” your cheeks reddened as your breath caught in your throat, watching as Danny leaned closer to you, the tip of his nose nearly bumping yours. Feeling a ghost of his breath upon your lips, your eyes fluttered shut, heart pounding calling to him to move just a few more inches so his lips would touch yours.

Taglist: (feel free to add yourself!)

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[headspace-hotel]

Observations have led me to conclude that dandelions are beneficial, vital, and should not be considered invasive species.

The designation of "invasiveness" assumes that a non-native species displaces native ones that provide more and better ecosystem services, or alters the ecosystem in a way that makes it worse for other inhabitants. This is very true of Lonicera maackii and many other nasty invasive species I am familiar with in the southeastern USA

Dandelions, however, almost exclusively establish in areas where other plants can't even survive. They don't bother established ecosystems with biodiversity, but they are super aggressive in heavily manicured areas like lawns.

When I pass through areas of town where there are open spaces and roadsides covered in turfgrass, they are empty and barren, but there are always dandelions. Crack in the pavement? Dandelions. Gravel? Dandelions. Manicured front lawn? Dandelions. Mostly empty flower bed with landscape fabric and that ugly black mulch? DANDELIONS.

Without dandelions, there would be acres and acres and acres of space with no food plants for pollinating insects at all. If dandelions filled a niche that native plants would otherwise fill, the designation as invasive would be legitimate, but instead, they're providing vital essentials for survival in places where no native species can do the job.

They start growing and blooming as soon as the temperature gets above freezing. They penetrate compacted soil up to 20 inches deep and let water and nutrients soak in. Bumble bees, mason bees, and longhorn bees all will visit them. this is a pro-dandelion blog

[painted-bees]

September 23rd 2010

 i)   The tide was lower than Magritte had ever seen it.

  Perhaps ‘seen’ was the wrong word to use. The inky darkness of night swallowed the barren, stoney features of Smelt Bay, as well as the ocean that lapped distantly at its shore. Rather, she heard it; the white noise of the waves breaking unusually far away. All the better, honestly. She wasn’t here to swim. In fact, Smelt Bay was a terrible beach for swimming. It wasn’t just that the frigid coastline lacked in soft, warm sand; the uneven and slippery rockbed that composed the entire stretch of bay was covered, acre by acre, in countless oyster shells. They adorned almost every rock they could cling to, and their razor sharp edges could slice easily through hand and foot like a warm knife through butter. Which is why Magritte plodded along, slowly and carefully, in her brand new hiking boots.

  Raf had cautioned her against clambering around the beach so late at night and, usually, she heeded his anxieties about it. It wasn’t initially her intention to scramble down the bluff and onto the beach; she had only wanted to come out and watch the seafoam crash gently upon the stones. At night, under the moonlight, the contrast between white foam and inky water enchanted her with its otherworldly beauty. However, upon reaching the beach, the tide had been drawn out further than she could see. And so now, she was looking for it. 

  She had the good sense not to stumble forward in the dark, using her phone's flashlight to illuminate the path in front of her. She loved scouring the beach at low tide. Countless crabs of all sizes scuttled and scurried beneath the unnatural light of her phone. Her eyes met with the occasional, chubby pink and purple starfish that had been abandoned by the retreating ocean. Both the crabs and the brightly coloured starfish were a common sight on these beaches and, while she appreciated their company, they failed to make her pause. What did capture her attention was a fat, orange blob of a creature.

  What are you? Magritte stopped to crouch down for a better look, lifting her phone to shine upon it. Oh, just another starfish…   Well, no. Not really. It had one, two, three, four…eight…thirteen legs! She stared at it for a moment of deliberation before extending a tentative forefinger to poke its roughly textured, glistening surface. Before her finger could get within an inch of it, a gentle blanketing wave of frothy ocean fanned out between her and the creature, covering both it and her hiking boots in several inches of freezing water.

 With a startled yelp at the stabbing cold, Magritte bolted upright as she found herself soaked to the ankles.

  “Aw, shit-!” She lifted one foot out, and then the other in an awkward hopping skip, trying in vain to keep her feet up, out of the rogue wave. Apparently, the tide had been a lot closer than she thought. She continued her silly, wet, hop-scotchy walk back towards the bluffs with a self-depreciative chuckle. She expected the wave to recede.

  But it didn’t. 

  Instead, another wave layered itself on top, swallowing her calves, and then another that submerged her past the knee. The arresting shock of the cold was outcompeted by the jolt of fear that kicked her into a frantic scramble. As she abandoned caution, the forceful current of the tide rose past her waistline, shoving her forward and off her feet. The water’s piercing chill bit through her chest, squeezing a sharp gasp from her just as her head was pulled beneath the waves.

  Primal terror possessed her to reach forward with her hands and find purchase on any surface she could grab. Her fingers closed around fists full of jagged oyster shells that held like cement to the stones they were anchored to. As the ripping current suddenly dragged Magritte back, the soft flesh of her grasping palms may as well have been wet tissue for how well they maintained their structure. What little air she held her lungs escaped with the muffled scream that boiled out from her throat. She tumbled like a rag doll as she was pulled backward by the powerful riptide. Her knees and elbows painfully scraped across the oyster-laiden ground in intervals that only served to further disorient her.

  Panic crescendoed, blackening the edges of her vision just in time for her head to break through the surface of the waves. She treaded water with wild, unevenly flailing limbs, drawing in a sharp gasp that was quickly strangled by a fit of wet coughing. Chest, hands, arms, knees, everything burned. And what didn’t burn felt as though it were being needled by cold knives. She couldn’t stop coughing. She couldn’t draw a proper breath. Her head rushed with the sound of waves. Or blood. Her eyes were useless as strangled tears obscured her vision.

  Until, at last, her coughing subsided, and she drew in one…two…three shaky, shallow breaths. She held it for a moment, the best she could.

  And…it was quiet.

  The sound of water lapping at her jawline and behind her ears outcompeted the volume of waves across the distant shore.

 The very distant shore.

 She released her breath, surrendering to over-exerted panting. But, even her starving lungs were too constricted by the freezing water to draw in proper gulps of air. Her breaths were short, sharp, and uneven as she attempted to scan the landscape for signs of the shore.

  She could not see land; not even the light of distant houses. Beneath the starry sky, the world around her seemed unnaturally dark.

  A nervous laugh broke out of her throat, accompanied with a teeth-clattering, quiet little chant. “F-fuck, fuck, f-fuck, fuck.” 

  The searing hot pain of her oyster-inflicted wounds had, at least, subsided rather quickly. She didn’t attempt to move her fingers, let alone ball her hands into fists. She didn’t even dare to look at them. She could barely feel them at all.

  Experimentally, she drew in as deep a breath as she could, and stopped treading water. She felt herself begin to sink, and with more effort than it was worth, she shrugged off her jacket and kicked off her boots. Or rather, her boot, singular. Apparently, she had lost the other one already. Her feet were so numb that she couldn’t feel the difference. Shedding the remaining boot hardly made her more buoyant, but it felt like it helped.

  She attempted to curl her lips into a smile. “O-okay, w…well…If I had to choose…between f-freezing to d-eath or drowning, I’d rather freeze. S-so let's focus on that, I g-uess.”

  Bleak.

  Was there any point in swimming when she couldn’t see the shore? How long could someone survive in water like this? Was she afraid of dying?

  Not nearly as afraid as I was just a few moments ago.

  She should have felt…more upset than this. It seemed strange. Maybe she was just too cold to think properly, but most likely, the reality of her situation hadn’t set in yet. After all, the situation was salvageable. A boat could come along and haul her out of the water. The tide could wash her up onto the shore. There were lots of different little islands around here, she was bound to wash up on the shore of one, right? What were the chances of that happening before she could freeze to death? 

  …How long would it take for the hopelessness to set in? If she could keep making light of the situation, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

  “And, yan-n-no…it’s been a g-good run.”

  …Hasn’t it?

  Truth be told, things had only just started getting really good.   Well, kinda.   This year was a rough patch. Uncle Bill’s passing in late April had really…thrown things askew. But the island was a perfect escape from the fake sympathies, the incessant phone calls, the social obligations…all the stress… It was gonna give them the peace, quiet, and space to properly grieve.   We were gonna start playing music again.   They had only been on the island for a week. The cottage Bill had left to Raf was so nice. It had a piano. It was cute. Warm.

  Of all things, it was the thought of the cottage’s little black wood stove that made Magritte’s eyes water with a sudden stab of helpless dismay. 

  No, why? That’s so stupid.

  Why the stove? Why not the grief of her parents? Why not the fact that she’d never be able to play music again? Why not–

  “Raf.” It came out as a croak that she barely even recognized as her own voice. “S-shit. I’m sorry, Raf. M-man. This was my s-stupid idea. It was my id-dea to come here, it was s-s-supposed to be so good. B-but…th-this is r-really…gonna…wreck you, isn’t it.” 

  There was a long pause as Magritte bobbed uselessly with the waves, trying to will her numb, sluggish limbs to move in a manner that allowed her to survey her surroundings once again for any sign of land. Maybe she should just start swimming in a direction, would that have been better? Would it make her feel warmer? Or…would it just exhaust her faster?

  She was already so tired.

  I don’t want to be anyone’s traumatic loss, I just want to be warm.

  How the hell did this even happen? What caused the ocean to hit her so suddenly, like a river?

 It doesn’t make sense. What if this is just a really bad dream? I could wake up in bed, soft and warm, and held…coffee...and…eggs. Over easy in front of the wood stove. Pyjamas…slippers, but like…not the linoleum kind, it needs to have enough structural integrity for breakfast…to support the…workload and drive me to the–

-PIFFF-

  Magritte hadn’t realised that her eyelids were closed, but the sudden explosive hissing that erupted right beside her caused them to snap wide open. For a second, she thought that something had fallen off the top shelf of her closet. But almost as quickly as she imagined that, the biting cold water encroaching on the corners of her nose and eyes reminded her of where she was. 

-FIFFFFF-

  The same sound again, slightly further away. Panic rejuvenated her for a brief moment until she saw the source of the noise. A jet of pale mist erupted from the surface of the water, and in its wake, a dark, triangular silhouette glided smoothly downward. The wet, rubbery flesh glistened in the moonlight before sinking beneath the rolling waves.

   Whales.

  Magritte attempted to lift her head enough to see if she could spot them again. Sure enough, three or four more of the creatures surfaced silently. The ghostly silhouettes of their dorsal fins were all that gave away their position. These must have been the orcas the neighbours had mentioned. Even Raf once managed to catch a glimpse of them from the shore, but Magritte hadn’t been with him to see it. She had wanted so badly to look at them…

  “Oh…well, thanks for showing up, guys.” Her teeth weren’t clattering anymore, but she could hardly bring her voice above a whisper. For some reason, her throat felt so tight. “Please don’t toss me around like a seal… I’ve seen what you do to them…on t.v.”

  The whales responded with a series of loud, spouting breaths; some nearby, others further away. As she recalled the image of a half flayed seal rag-dolling through the air, anxiety blossomed in the pit of her stomach, Magritte turned her gaze upward and hung it on the three bright stars of Orion’s belt. 

  If making noise is encouraged as a way of deterring bears from harassing hikers, maybe the same was true for whales and swimmers. I can be weird and loud, can’t I?

  She attempted to sing a song. Her strangled voice rasped, fruitlessly struggling to be heard above the sounds around her.

  “What are you hunting up there in the stars?

  Is it beasts, or demons, or old battle scars?

  Do you remember the warmth of my palm in yours

  Is it buried in rubble from all of those wars?

  You’ve lost yourself so far, far away

  Searching for ghosts and impossible prey.

  You’ve flown too far from the earth and the sea,

  Please come back…come back…

  …Come back to…”

  As her words drifted, so too did she; down, down, into the cold, quiet void.

  And it embraced her, lovingly.

  ii)

  Raf’s eyes opened to the sound of ocean waves and a dull ache in his neck. Light poured out from the cottage windows, pooling warmly across the sprucewood deck and the white, woven hammock that cradled him. An earbud filled his left ear, but no music played. Either his iphone had come to the end of his playlist, or it had run out its battery life while he slept.

  With a tired groan, he sat up and stretched, gingerly tilting his head to loosen the painful knot in his neck. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he should have expected it after a relaxing joint and some quality tunes. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up. Perhaps it was the chill. It wasn’t cold enough for his breath to hang in the air, but it was chilly enough for him to wish for a sweater–rather than a t-shirt–beneath his jacket.

  Or maybe it was the concussive sound of the waves.

  The ocean wasn’t visible from his cottage. There was a strip of dense forest that lined the property and separated it from the bluffs. Still, the white noise of the ocean could always be heard through the trees. The salt could be smelled on the breeze, and it could be felt collecting in his hair. It must have been exceptionally turbulent out there tonight, for he could hear the waves crashing with an unusually loud clarity.

  Raf lifted his phone and turned on the LED screen to check the time. Its battery life was still good, but as he had suspected, his playlist had played through to the last track. 

  1:34 a.m.

  The corners of Raf’s mouth twitched.

  Magritte hadn’t woken him up to herd him into bed when she came home. Was she pissed off at him for declining to walk with her? 

  In fairness, he had been…difficult to manage the past half year. And it became increasingly obvious that Magritte’s bountiful patience had been running thin over the past month or two. She had begun to adopt his defensive snippiness–not at him, but at the things she knew infringed upon him. Phone calls, text messages, the gestures of concerned friends and colleagues reaching out to see if he was okay. The cold, prying interrogations–thinly veiled by hollow sympathies–querying for available pieces of his uncle’s estate.

  The man’s body hardly had time to grow cold before Ephrem representatives began hounding Raf about the company shares he had inherited. His family in Monaco had gone so far as to request the retrieval of Uncle Bill’s body. “He should be put to rest on home soil”–but his will had detailed what was to be done. By his request, Uncle Bill’s body was kept here, in British Columbia. Raf had to take care of it all; the estate, the funeral, and the vultures.

  All he wanted to do was hide.

  And, in a way, that’s mostly what he did. He managed as much as he could, but once the funeral had been concluded, his energy and willingness to keep on top of things dissolved. He just couldn’t…deal…with the people. Any of them. At some point, they had all stopped resembling human beings, and felt more like a pack of feral dogs with no purpose greater than to sate their gluttony. Every interaction bloodied him with clawing, hungry teeth.

  Magritte picked up the slack for him. It was…beyond her ability, honestly. But she did her best, at the expense of indulging her passions. While he isolated and avoided the torrent of his unwanted responsibilities, Magritte had lived those months constantly on the backfoot, attempting to hold things together and never quite managing to see any of it through properly. It was simply too many balls for her poor little arms to carry, and as she tried to pick up the ones she had dropped, more always spilled out. 

  Last month, it had finally driven her to tears.

  Raf had been woefully inadequate at showing his appreciation for her efforts and, even as he watched her sob in frustration, he found it difficult to provide any meaningful comfort. Nothing broke his heart quite like seeing her cry, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to promise any fun distractions. He couldn’t tell her, in earnest, that things were fine. He couldn’t give her the reward of knowing that she had been able to make everything right and good for him. He could only tell her that he knew she was doing her best, that he was glad to have her with him, and that he loved her. 

  More than anything, he loved her.

  Talk was cheap. He knew that better than anyone. But living in ‘survival mode’ left very little in the way of emotional resources, and he had become very cold, irritable, and distant. Still, Magritte sought out his company. She wished to share good experiences with him and did her best to take care of him despite his diminishing reciprocation over the past few months.

  Retreating to Cortes Island had been her idea. She had never visited the place before, but when Raf described it as a tiny, isolated little community with no supermarkets nor chain restaurants, no hospitals nor police stations, and with the population of a small school, her eyes lit up.

  “It’s perfect! We could just disappear there and take a year–or five–to just…recover from everything!” Her tone had taken on a conspiratorial tone when she added, “We don’t have to tell anyone.”

  She had underestimated the scope of work that accompanied ‘disappearing to a small island for a year’. In contrast, the workload was all his mind could fixate on. But– a body of water separating him from the relentless chaos of the mainland was appealing enough for him to commit to the move. And so, they made their hasty preparations, packed up, and left without a word.

  A week had passed since they moved into the small cottage, and Raf had to admit that the quiet calm of the island was…a relief. 

  He had asked Magritte for a month. A month of nothing; no outings, no plans, no obligations–just rest. It was the closest thing to hibernation he was ever going to experience, and she had agreed to it. It didn’t stop her, though, from inviting him out for walks, and to see the ocean with her. It was the bare minimum, and he should have obliged her more often than he did. But truly, all he wanted to do was stay home, smoke weed, listen to music, and sleep.

  And that’s what he had chosen to do when she invited him to watch the waves with her, some time after 10pm. She didn’t seem bothered when he lazily declined to accompany her, but perhaps she had grown cranky about it during her time out. Seeing him passed out in the hammock, she probably left him to endure the natural consequences of his poor choices, and went to bed without him.

  Honestly, catching a chill and a sore neck was negligible punishment compared to the guilt of disappointing Margie. On the other hand, he had asked her for a month–just one month–to be as lazy and absent as he wanted to be, and she had agreed to it. So if she was pissed off at him–

  Her shoes were not at the front door.

  Usually, Magritte kicked her boots off before entering the house, and rarely brought them inside. Raf opened the door, expecting to see them on the shoe rack, but they weren’t there either. Nor was her jacket strewn over the back of the couch as it should have been.

  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and marched quietly up the steep, narrow little staircase to the second floor. Down the short corridor, his bedroom door was still open and he could see through to his window and the night sky that overlooked the foot of his bed. Peeking his head in, the blankets laid smooth and undisturbed across the mattress, folded over to expose the neatly arranged pillows.

  Raf pulled himself back into the tiny corridor with a bewildered frown.   “Margie?” It wasn’t a yell, but his voice projected loudly enough to be heard throughout the small cottage.

  There was no answer, only the gentle hum of the fridge downstairs, accompanied by the rustling of leaves in the breeze outside. And the crashing of waves upon the unseen shore.

  With an agitated groan Raf dropped back down the stairs, towards the front door, and hastily put on his sneakers. Something at the beach must have captivated her. Maybe some weird sealife, maybe partying campers. Either way, she had lost track of time, and now he had to go find her. At least she couldn’t be disappointed with him if she had chosen to stay  out at a worryingly late hour.

  The beach wasn’t more than a fifteen minute walk away, and all he had to do was follow the gravel road down the slope, onto Potlatch Road, and then down to Smelt Bay. There were no lamps lining the street, and so Raf found himself relying on his phone torch to light the path ahead of him. Despite the darkness, it wasn’t an eerie nor dangerous walk by any means. Accompanied by the singing of crickets, he was comfortably familiar enough with these streets, trusting them even with a lone, wandering Margie. 

  As he made his way briskly down the long, paved length of Potlatch road, his curiosity was tickled by just how close the sound of lapping ocean waves seemed to be. Perhaps it was the way it echoed off the treeline, but it sounded as though it were almost right in front of him.

 Raf rounded the broad corner towards Smelt Bay–and stopped.

  The pavement directly beneath his feet had become gradually more wet, as though a heavy rain had passed through recently. That would have been strange enough on its own. He’d have definitely noticed if it had been raining, and there wouldn’t have been such a clear,  sudden border between dry ground and waterlogged asphalt. He lifted his phone light to shine it further down the road, and frowned.

  Ahead of him, the street was covered in a thin layer of water, seafoam lapping over concrete and into the grassy ditch. As he continued a tentative pace forward, the water wasn’t quite high enough to spill over the rubber soles of his shoes. He walked until Potlatch met with Smelt Bay Road, where he was granted an unobscured view of the beach. The ocean’s waves broke over the bluffs, flooding the street and the grassy plots of land that faced the open bay. 

  “...The hell?” He muttered, barely above a whisper. 

  The ocean had to have risen a fair few feet in order for it to breach the bluffs. Was it possible for the tide to get this high? He watched as an empty bottle, tangled within a plastic bag, washed across the street alongside a random toque and a mess of uprooted reeds. Debris, both natural and unnatural, lined the waterlogged road. An enormous, sea weathered piece of driftwood that had spent years as a reliable landmark on the stony beach–now sat wedged askew in the ditch. A flash flood?

  Tsunami.

  Wait–

  Anxiety closed its claws around his gut, and twisted.

  “Margie?!” He barked out her name in the direction of the beach.

  He took a few automatic strides towards the submerged bluff before halting, and he turned his phone over in his hand. Opening his contact list, he hit Magritte’s number and pressed the phone to his ear. Cell coverage on the island was spotty at best, but to his relief, the call connected. As it rang, he paced, his feet kicking up cold water into his shoes.

  “Come on, answer your phone. I’m not gonna be mad at you, just answer your damn phone.”

  He let it ring until the robotic voice of the phone operator made him hang up.

  And then he tried again, to the same result.

  What the hell could he do?

  What was he supposed to do?

  Don’t catastrophize, it’s not the worst case scenario, it never is.

  Immediately, his brain had filled him with thoughts of Margie getting bowled over by enormous waves and dragged to sea. But, based on the fact that no one else was out inspecting damages or lamenting their losses, things probably hadn’t happened as suddenly nor as violently as his imagination pictured it. Realistically, she likely saw the tide start to come in and watched it from a distance, perhaps with some other folks who were hanging around the area. Plausibly, she was at a campsite somewhere, talking about it over smores and cheap booze. Or something like that.

  But then, why didn’t she answer her phone?

  Raf had already turned around and began walking in the direction of the camping lots. All he had to do was find one that still had a fire going at this time of night. But, as his feet left solid pavement and marched onto the dirt road of the Smelt Bay campsites, he found that the tide had flooded this area as well. The inch of water blanketing the ground turned it into a muddy mess. There were no tents pitched in any of the lots. No campfires, either. Two or three of the lots housed a parked RV, elevated off the ground. Dry, and oblivious to the seawater beneath their tires. None of them showed any signs of waking life.   Magritte wasn’t here.

  Coming upon one of the empty lots, Raf found a sturdy tree stump that had clearly been fashioned for seating, and dropped himself down on it. He buried his face into his hands with a fraught sigh. There had been tents here, he knew that much. The inhabitants likely packed up and abandoned the lots in favour of finding a dry place to spend the night. If the RVs and trailers were still here, clearly there couldn’t have been much of a panic. The waterline hadn’t risen catastrophically.

  Still, Magritte was missing.

  He tried to call her one more time, and was greeted unhelpfully by the operating system once again.

  What if she had gotten home after he had left to find her?

  The thought pulled Raf back onto his feet, and what started as a swift walk home hastened into an anxious jog. 

  The tide, he noted, was slowly receding. A length of road that had been submerged when he first arrived was exposed once again to dry off in the chilly night air. For some reason, the sight of it relieved his anxiety somewhat. There was nothing inherently dangerous about the strange tide; it wasn’t any kind of disaster. Likely, Margie was at home, worried and waiting for him. Her phone battery must have depleted. It would explain why she wasn’t calling him back. 

  It wasn’t long before he was walking down the long, rough, unpaved driveway; under the boughs of spruce and cedar trees and into the clearing of the cottage's wild, grassy property.

  Approaching the house, he called out her name across the yard to no answer. The lights were still on in the living room and kitchen. He climbed the two steps of the porch up to the front door and, calling her name once more, he opened it.

  No response.

  Before stepping inside, he kicked off his muddy shoes and then closed the door behind him. 

  “Margie.” His volume was conversational as he scaled the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor and diligently checked each of the bedrooms. 

  No. She wasn’t here.

  Then…where was she?

  Not the ocean. Not the ocean.   Not in the ocean.

  Sitting down on the foot of the bed, Raf stared at the floor and tried to fight off a wave of despair.

  There was no way.

  There was no fucking way. It would have been beyond cruelty to leave him like this. He wasn’t gonna be able to…it wasn’t something he could handle.

 Steadying himself with a deep breath, he scooted over to his side of the bed, took his laptop up off his night table, and unfolded it on his lap. A phone jack tethered it to the wall behind the nightstand and provided a serviceable internet connection. He opened a browser and typed into the search bar; “How long to wait before making a missing person report?” 

  Apparently the answer was “not at all”.

  Raf looked up the appropriate number to call, picked up the phone, and dialled. >>part iii, iv, and v<<