#comfort cowboy

[dmitriene]

living far away out from the town with cowboy!price, where landscapes, instead of wooden shops and small decrepit houses turn into boundless, bright green meadows with fragrant flowers and ploughed dark land.

with a small, comfortable cottage with its own small, but good farm with fattened cattle, a small stable and even garden beds for planting, a place where there will definitely be something to do, with john on your side, his heavy hand on the curve of your waist like an anchor.

with lazy mornings under the dim rays of the sun shining through the thin, fluttering curtains, the sharp sound of your spacious bed thumping against the wall reverberates through the bedroom, as john's hairy, bulky body bends over you, strong hands grip the headboard almost till it's cracks, while his broad hips jerk forward.

with your head tilted back onto the soft pillows with melodious, whiny moans slipping past your swollen lips and past the wide open window, john's bushy pelvic brushing against your slick folds as he rearranges your silky cunt, his fat cock pumping into your cervix and your gooey, pulsing walls clenching around him deliciously tightly.

both of you barely speak, all that escapes from your kissed lips are moans and chesty growls, as your nails dig into his back, leaving thin, fresh scarlet scratches on top of his old scars, as john bends further to lick into your panting, slacked mouth.

this is all you could possibly dream of, a quiet life on the outskirts, which will probably become less peaceful in a couple of years, when john will impregnate you with sweet, chubby kids.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[mousechuckles]

cowboys and clouds are my comfort food

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

Touya hadn’t meant to miss the call, hadn’t meant to make you listen to his voicemail box one, two, three times.

Hadn’t meant to make you cry to a silent line.

But when he finally has time to click that voicemail, your sobs crackling through the speaker, he doesn’t let it finish after that first broken I need you.

It doesn’t matter that you haven’t talked in 6 months, doesn’t matter that he’s celebrating a great ride, doesn’t matter that he’s had a couple beers.

What matters is that you’re not picking up, one, two, three calls later.

Doesn’t matter that he’s tearing down the dark road way faster than he should, phone on speaker on his dash and fist beating the steering wheel so hard he’s sure it’ll bruise.

What matters is the one, two, three, four voicemails he leaves telling you he’ll be there in four, three, two minutes.

What matters is the one, two minutes he spends banging on your door before remembering he never returned your key, leaving it open when he tears it wide and rushes in.

The two, three, four leaps it takes to get up your stairs hardly register to him.

All that matters is the sight of you, just you, lying on the bathroom floor, crying so hard that it shakes your whole body.

Because it doesn’t matter if it takes one, two, three, four hours… he’ll be there until it stops.

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 42.1k words | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak | oral (f receiving) | (semi) public sex | vaginal fingering

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck.

a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍

Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke

Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.

If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?

It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.

“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”

The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”

The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.

“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.

“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”

Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.

“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.

The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.

“Is that everything, ma’am?”

Click

You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.

She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”

And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”

You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.

“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”

You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.

“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.

“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.

Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.

“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.

His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.

“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”

His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”

You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.

You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?

He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.

You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. A pair of flared jeans, light in color with stitch work on the sides. With a pair of boots, they make your ass look like a dream—just what you are going for, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.

It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.

You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.

You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.

There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.

You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”

We

We

Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.

Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.

Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.

“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”

You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”

The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.

“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”

Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.

And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.

“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”

There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.

“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.

You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”

Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”

He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.

“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”

He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”

You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.

Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”

You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”

“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”

You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—

“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“

He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”

He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.

Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.

Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!

“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.

Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?

She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”

With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.

“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”

You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—

Know you’re fucked.

“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.

The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.

Two days pass in a blur.

You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.

We’ll get through it

You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.

He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.

When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.

“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”

You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.

Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”

The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”

You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.

“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”

By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.

You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.

Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.

On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.

It doesn’t happen for hours.

Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.

“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.

Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.

You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”

You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.

The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.

He’s here.

“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”

She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.

There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.

“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.

“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.

“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”

Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”

The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?

“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.

“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.

He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.

“You want to get out of here?”

Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.

You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.

One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.

Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.

He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.

And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.

You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.

When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.

His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. He’s lucky for the part of his brain that slips off his hat and sets it on the dashboard. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”

His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.

The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.

He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.

He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

You should have known.

[canisalbus]

you say machete has to be closeted then why's he always wearing them little heels

Maybe he thinks he's a tiny bit nicer looking in them.

[oblivionofthewise]

A car full of cowboys what will they do?

I dunno doesn´t look like a fun ride tho

Based on this meme:

Tried to give Luke a different artstyle but he just kinda looks like shit now

[katsettee]

Whoops

[ghouljams]

I wish to hear more about Murphy the feed store guy who is apparently getting freaked out by König paying full price

Murphy is like 70 years old and owns the feed store. The store has a name but nobody uses it because the sign is so old and the paint is so worn that everyone just calls it by the owner's name. "Murphy's" easy. The only thing that's really of note about Murphy or the store is that Murphy loves to haggle.

See every item in the store is slapped with a hilariously high price tag, so high that any farmer with half a brain would look at it and go, "Now hold on, that don't look right to me." But this is Murphy's design. Everyone in town knows that if you go to the feed store you gotta be prepared to haggle, gotta be prepared to stick to your guns and not wilt under Murphy's overgrown catapillar brows and eager grin. It's Goose's favorite part of shopping, and the rest of the 141 find out on their first trip to Murphy's what is expected and why.

One man in town has not gotten the memo. One man is trying to be polite and just pay Murphy for his wares. One man is 7 feet tall and stares Murphy down in a way that makes his stomach churn when he tells him he is happy to pay full price.

"You're sure I can't interest you in a discount?" Murphy asks hesitantly. König tips his head forward looking at the neatly notated order list and the prices. He looks back at Murphy, eyes boring holes into him, expression unreadable behind the bandana mask.

"Nein, I am sure you are asking what is fair." Murphy feels his stomach drop, is this guy trying to intimidate him? Is he trying to say something about his pricing practices? Murphy dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.

"You're a loyal customer, a discount would be-" König holds up a hand to stop him.

"You are very kind, but I am sure you need the money more than I do." Jesus christ. Murphy is starting to sweat. Is this guy trying to say the store is in disrepair? That he thinks business is bad?

"Hey buddy, you a fuckin' moron or what?" Moon asks behind König. Murphy sweats more watching König turn to face her. His eyes sweeping high and then tipping his head down to look at her. König's eyes narrow.

"Ah, hello sister." König says pleasantly, Moon stares up at him with all the patience of a woman parked next to a fire hydrant, "I did not know nuns were allowed to swear."

Murphy tries to motion for Moon to absolutely not respond to that. She blows a bubble with her gum and snaps it at König. "I'll say a Hail Mary later," she tells him, "Who are you supposed to be? Zorro?"

Murphy says a quick prayer: please dear God do not let your disciple start another fight in his store, not with this giant man.

"König, and you are?" The giant asks, tipping his head to the side, his fingers twitching too close to his holster for Murphy's liking.

"You like moonshine König?" Moon pulls a flip phone from her pocket, ignoring König's question.

"I do not know what that is."

"Fantastic." Murphy motions again, desperately, for Moon to maybe stop with the sales pitch. Just for his own health. König turns to look at him mid gesture.

"This is very rude," he tells him, mimicking the gestures Murphy had made, "we are trying to have a conversation."

"Of course," Murphy tells him, holding his hands up placatingly, "don't mind me." König nods, Moon raises a brow at Murphy. It's weird seeing him like this, he's usually so commanding. She looks up at König who is waiting patiently for her to continue their conversation.

Oh she is going to upcharge the hell out of this dumbass.

[smilingdork]

Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.

- Omar Khayyam

[cowgurrrl]

Dear Arkansas Daughter

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: A truce [2.8k]

Warnings: guilt, Andie being a menace, so much yearning, Ellie has an anxiety attack, comfort, June pushing her Mary Oliver agenda once again

You don't speak to Joel all throughout the winter break. You get so busy with family events, work, and painting that you don't even notice it until a song he recommended comes on while you're working, and you reach for your phone to tell him about it. You stared at his contact for a little too long, debating your options, before you finally sighed and threw your phone on your bed. 

Sarah's home for the break. He's probably busy with the girls. The last thing he needs is to hear from you after you got out of his truck without even saying a proper goodbye. The silence feels like a staring contest or a challenge of wills to see who will break no contact first. It sucks, but thankfully, Ellie is none the wiser and even texts you Merry Christmas with a picture of her and Sarah with reindeer ears on the abnormally cold December morning. You reason this is the best-case scenario for a really shitty situation. No reason for anyone to get more involved than they absolutely have to, right?

Andie's reappearance on Texas soil is a welcome reprieve from the guilt. You pick her up from the airport once she gets back from visiting her parents in Dallas and run into her arms like she's a long-lost lover. "You're here!" You yell as you squeeze her tight.

"You're here!" She mimics. Her dark curls tickle your face, and she laughs loudly in your ear, but you don't care. Just having her within the same zip code again makes you feel like a kid. On the drive to your apartment, you sing along to a playlist she curated specifically for your time together— a perfect mix of Beyonce, ABBA, and Joni Mitchell— and talk about everything from her parents to work to Vienna weather. She takes all of five steps into your apartment before she guns for your newest canvases drying against the wall. 

"Those aren't done!" You scold but you couldn't stop her from fawning over them if you tried.

"Are you kidding? These are amazing." She says, gasping when she sees the corner of another one peeking out behind the stack. "Babe!" 

"Alright, alright, calm down. They're still in the early stages. They probably won't look anything like this when they're done." 

"You're right. I'm sure they'll be even better when they're done," she calls as you walk into your bedroom and drop her suitcase at the foot of the bed. You don't have a guest room, and there's no way you're gonna make her sleep on the couch, so you get to have a good old-fashioned sleepover again. You’re secretly really excited just to sit in bed and do nothing with her. When you walk back into the living room, she's holding an old, reworked painting with a fond smile. "Are you going to submit these for exhibition?" She asks, and you shrug as you lean against the back of the couch.

"I don't know. Maybe? They just don't feel done." 

"That's because the longer you stare at something, the more things you want to change about it." 

"It's not a bad thing to want to make sure something's perfect." 

"If you wait for perfection, you'll never make anything, and you know that." She says, cocking an eyebrow at you, and you roll your eyes at how well she knows you. "Isn't that what you tell your students?"

"Oh, God, please don't pull the teacher card on me right now. I'm supposed to be on vacation." You groan, and she laughs.

"Does it count as vacation if we have to go to the student showcase tonight?" She asks.

"Yes, it does because you're here, and I don't have to lecture a group of thirty teenagers about pointillism," you say. "And you really don't have to come. All I have to do is show up to support the kids for a couple of hours and leave. I'll be home before nine, and then we can go out and actually do something fun." 

"Is Hot Single Dad gonna be there?" She asks, waggling her eyebrows at you, and you give her a look.

"You said you'd stop calling him Hot Single Dad."

"Hot Single Dad is so fun, though," she whines. "Also, you're avoiding the question. Is he gonna be there?"

"Ellie's work is being shown, so yeah, most likely, but there will be lots of people there. I doubt we'll even see him." 

"Oh, I'll see him."

"Andrea Lynn," you scold, and she throws her hands up. "We're gonna go and be professional and not cross any lines that could get us in trouble, right?" You think you're saying it more for your own benefit than hers, but she still puts up three fingers and nods.

"Scouts honor." 

The gallery's atrium is buzzing with conversation and excited kids from all across the district. The winter sun set long ago, but the warm lighting of the space makes it feel a little less oppressive. Small trays of refreshments make their rounds as you talk with other teachers and some parents you know. You introduce Andie to each of them, mostly to sing her praises about being a professional musician in Vienna, and she chatters away with anyone about anything. You easily kill half an hour just mingling with people before the exhibition officially starts.

At the hour, someone on the school board (you don't know their name or position, and honestly, you think it's too late to pretend like you care enough to find out) stands on a makeshift stage and says something about the importance of art in academia. You doubt it's a sentiment he actually shares, considering you've never seen him at any other art-related events, but you clap politely anyway. Halfway through his spiel, you just barely catch the sound of squeaky boots coming through the door and turn to see the source without fully thinking it through. 

There, through the crowd of heads, you lock eyes with Joel. Tommy and Ellie are at his side and wave politely. Sarah must've gone home before the New Year. You think you remember him saying something about her working at a clinic in Boston? You're a little disappointed you won't get to meet her, especially after hearing such amazing things, but you can't focus on that. Joel's eyes don't move from yours, even when Ellie and Tommy turn their attention to the speaker at the front. 

His hair has gotten long since the last time you saw him, the curls defiantly sweeping around his ears after an obvious attempt to tame it, and he looks well-rested. Despite the extra length of his hair, his beard has been recently trimmed and the salt-and-pepper stubble well maintained. He's wearing a nice dark green shirt (a Christmas gift?) and a well-broken-in denim jacket. He looks good. Of course, he does. Andie notices you're not paying attention and bumps your shoulder. 

"'S that Hot Single Dad?" She whispers, and you shake your head. 

"Not here." You beg. She seems to want to question you further about it, but she doesn't. You're sure she'll buy you a drink or two to loosen up after this and spill your guts. You sit through the rest of the speech without any more hiccups before you're finally allowed to view the gallery. 

Everyone is all smiles and excited chatter when you enter the colorful room. Thrilled parents take pictures of their kids next to their work, and proud art teachers point out their student's talents to others. There's a wide array of art. Anything from photography, drawings, paintings, sculptures, and even a video of a performance projected onto the wall. You catch bits of people’s conversations and hear a lot of chatter about the artist from your school. You don’t need any more context to know who they’re talking about. You and Andie walk side-by-side in silence as you look at the different works, only talking when you come across one of your kids' works. She makes you take a picture in front of each one, and you feel a little silly, but you can't fight the pride in your chest. 

Andie has always had the unique ability to celebrate you for things you wouldn't celebrate yourself for. In reality, all you did was push them to make the art and consult them through the process, but she reminds you that they might not even have made anything if it weren't for you. It makes you feel special and seen. It makes you wish she lived closer so you could do the same for her by showing up to performances and taking pictures of her in her element so she can cherish them. It makes you forget about Hot Single Dad until Tommy rushes up to you, calling your name. 

"Mr. Miller, it's good to see you." You greet politely, but he's out of breath and looks stressed as he looks at both of you. He softens when he sees Andie and takes a deep breath to pull himself together.

"I don't believe we've met," he charms and offers his hand to Andie. "I'm Tommy, Ellie's uncle." 

"I'm Andie, the forever teacher's pet," she shakes his hand and gives you a look over her shoulder. "Honey, you didn't tell me how handsome Ellie's uncle is." She says. Tommy smirks and looks flattered, but mentioning Ellie brings him back to the moment. 

"Ellie's askin' for you." He says, and you furrow your brows and look behind him.

"Where is she? Is she okay?" 

"She got real upset bout somethin' but wouldn't say. She just said she wanted to talk to you." Fuck, you think. Did she find out? If so, how? There's no way Joel would've told her, especially tonight of all nights. Is she upset about how her art is being shown? Is she mad at you? Possibilities run through your head and twist your stomach into knots, but you don't hesitate to follow Tommy. If she says she needs you, then you need to be there. 

Andie follows closely behind as you and Tommy weave through the crowd until you come to a stairwell off the side of the gallery, away from overlapping voices and bright colors. When the door creaks open and echoes through the empty space, you see Joel and Ellie sitting on a step, tears staining her face. Andie says something about hanging back, and Tommy agrees to wait with her, but all your focus is on the crying kid in front of you. You wait until the door shuts behind you to settle onto the step under theirs and pull Ellie's hand out of her balled-up fist. Joel watches you carefully but doesn't try to stop you. 

"Hey," you say gently, like she's a scared animal. "What's goin' on? I heard you wanted to talk to me." 

"I," she tries, but her voice catches in her throat, and more tears well in her eyes. You rub your thumb across her knuckles and shush her gently. 

"You're alright. Take a breath, okay?" She does, and Joel reaches out to rub her back soothingly. A few more tears fall down Ellie's face as you wait her out. You catch Joel's eyes over her shoulder, and he gives you a grateful look. All you do is nod. 

"I'm not good enough to be here," she finally gets out. "Everyone's work is so much better than mine, and I... I think they made a mistake. I can't compete." 

"That's not true. That's what your anxiety is telling you. That's not even close to the truth." You say firmly. She shakes her head as she looks at her dad.

"We shouldn't have even come." She says, and he pulls her under his arm, kissing her temple.

"Honey, they took your art for a reason. We're not here by accident. We're here because you worked hard and made somethin' so beautiful that they had to show it." 

"He's right," you say. "Hundreds of students apply for this exhibition every year, and every year, hundreds of students get rejected. But not you. You worked and earned your spot here. How many days did you show up early to my classroom to work on it, huh?" You ask, and she wipes her eyes. She seems to calm down a little at your words but still shrugs like she’s unsure of herself. 

"I don't know."

"Ellie, you were in my room for at least a month straight working on this. Somedays, you were painting before I even had a chance to turn on the lights. You got up early and stayed late, and it shows. You made something so wonderful the district couldn't keep it a secret. Do you know how many people are talking about your yellow painting?" 

"People were talking about it?" She asks, and you nod, squeezing her hand.

"They kept saying they'd be surprised if you didn't win, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your art teacher. I'm saying that because it's true." You say. She chews at her bottom lip and stares at her shoes as she thinks.��

You knew about Ellie's anxiety long before this moment. She's spent many planning periods in your classroom venting or crying about it, and you pointed her to the correct resources. She's in therapy and on medication to help her control it, but it still rears its ugly head every once in a while. With all the teenage emotions and daily battles, you're not surprised that it does. But it does surprise you that she can't see how special she is. She works so fucking hard— sometimes too much— and she gives her all in everything she does. Of course, people are going to recognize that greatness. Of course, she deserves to be here. Of course, she's going to be amazing.

"Every time I look at it, I just see all the bad things about it." She admits, and you sigh. Of course, she treats her work the exact same way you do.

"I do the same thing," you say, and she looks at you with wide eyes like she wasn't expecting you to actually cop to it. "It doesn't matter how much time I spend on it or if I like the concept; I will find a million things wrong with a piece before I can admit that it's a semi-okay piece of work. I have a canvas sitting in my apartment right now that makes me want to throw up every time I look at it." 

"How do you get over it?" 

"I'll let you know the second I figure it out," you say, and she smiles a little now that she knows she's not alone in her internal fight. "You deserve to be here, kid. You are hard-working, creative, and smart. You are going to make so much beautiful art in your life, you won't believe it. And it's true that it won't always be the best, and you won't always love it, but the thing all great artists have, regardless of medium, isn't talent. It's resilience. If you wait for perfection, you'll never make anything, so you have to keep going and making things even when you feel like it's bad because the world needs your art. The world needs you, Ellie." You say, echoing Andie's words from earlier. She takes a deep breath, and the weight on her shoulders seems lighter. Her anxiety rolls away like a wave from the shore. It will be back again and again, but she knows people are going to grab her before she can drown. She knows she's got lighthouses. She knows she's okay. 

"Thank you," she mumbles, and you nod as you squeeze her hand. She relaxes into Joel and looks up at him. "'M sorry."

"You've got nothin' to be sorry for, baby girl. I'm on your team," he says. He looks at you and chews the inside of his cheek. "We're both on your team." It's a peace offering. An end to the challenge. An acknowledgment that you can't ignore each other forever. You take a deep breath and let your free hand squeeze his calf where Ellie can't see, letting him know you know. 

You read a poem once in college about not being afraid of joy and taking advantage of the happiness while it's there. You remember reading the words "Joy is not made to be a crumb" and feeling your chest crack open in that funny way that only art can cause. It couldn't have been longer than two hundred words, and you read it so long ago you're surprised you even remember it, but you're glad you do. You're glad Joel and Ellie came into your life. You're glad you made so many memories with him, and you hope he'll let you in enough to make more as friends. You're glad you called the parent-teacher meeting when you did. 

You decide joy is not made to be a crumb, but neither is affection. In that cold, dingy stairwell in downtown Austin, you think you could paint something about this feeling. You think you could be okay with its imperfections. You think you could even submit it. You think you could win the bet.

TAGLISR: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia

[dmitriene]

thinking about riding cowboy!price — his muscular thighs are spread wide, shabby pants with slightly shabby leather chaps are pulled down enough to fish his fat, thick cock out, opening up complete freedom of action for you and your greedy pussy, which swallows his bulbous cock down to the base with just your cotton panties pushed to the side to expose your sloppy folds and little throbbing clit, making the fabric dig into your skin slightly as you roll your hips forward with each slap of your plush ass back on his thighs.

there's a pungent smell of tobacco and a strong smell of sweat making you scrunch your nose, especially when john cruelly exhales tobacco smoke from his thick cigar in your direction, but you're more focused on how lightheaded his cock makes you, probing against your womb and hitting your cervix with each thrusts upward, as you roll on him and drag your dripping cunny against his pubic hair, as your dainty hands run against his soft, muscular torso, rubbing against thick dark hair there.

the sounds of your satisfied high moans and mewls is the most satisfying music for price in this messed up wooden cabin, the only thing he likes about this fucked up city is your pretty face and welcoming, tight, warm cunny just for him, as you greedily take what you want in your rhythmically pulsing walls, squeezing around his meaty shaft as he throbs and juts in your cervix deliciously, stretching your warmth to match each inch.

— “hhmm, f— feel's so good, john!„ you slur out drunkenly, letting him know just how good his cock let's you feel as your thighs starts to tremble and go numb slightly, so he takes his turn, grunting approvingly with his cigar between his wet lips so as to free his hands, one warm calloused palm sits just right on your hip, gripping the soft, sweaty flesh beneath thin dress to fuck you on his dick, as another smooths your ribs and up to your jiggling tits, open due to the lowered and pulled sleeves of your soft dress, letting his fingers play with your hard little buds, tugging and rolling beneath rough fingertips.

— “going to feel even better as i creampie this pussy, sweets„ john rumbles out with hoarse purr, just before he takes one last puff of the cigar before quickly pulling it out of his mouth, slamming it against the glass ashtray before bringing his hand back to your rounded hip, squeezing the plush flesh and starting to slam his cock harshly into your sloppy pussy, leaning into your open with delirious mewls mouth and plugging it with tobacco smoke and his tongue, licking into your mouth with fervor as he rearranges your slick, pulsing cunt.

it takes a couple of hard, yet sloppy thrusts, before you both reach your highest as his hand left your tortured, swollen nipple to tug at your hair, tipping your head back as he continued to swallow your moans and suck on your tongue, rough beard scratching your skin as you can't do nothing but scratch his chest in response, slobbering and babbling incoherent — “uh huh — a-ah, ye.. yes, s'good, gonna cum!„ as price let's you cream his fat cock with an arch of your fragile spine.

he lefts your mouth when your cunt starts pulsing and clamping down with a bigger rush of slick and cum, coating his hoarse pubic hair and shaft, strings of saliva stretch from your swollen puffy lips to his, which he licks down, blue irises swallowed with blackness of dilated pupils as he locks how you slide down on his body, your pretty face finding support on his shoulder.

as you arch deeper, presenting your plush ass to the air as his cock spurts ropes of thick seed inside your walls and fat tip presses against your cervix, filling you with warmth till it drips down from your overflowed cunny and his shaft softens, your mind goes blank with just his touch and tart smell in your senses, as john's fingers move from your slightly bruised hip to your ass, dipping to smear his cum against your folds and his cock, raising his hand and looking at shiny, slick mess which brings a wide grin to his lips.

— “wha' a good fucking girl, did so well„ draws his rough smoky voice, and you don't even register it, only a sloppy kiss to your temple and a light pat to your ass, ears buzzing and swallow his last words, which remain silent for you, good for you — “going to keep coming here jus' to breed you, can'' leave such a lovely thing all alone„

[ragnarokhound]

((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed. 

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay? 

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air. 

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive. 

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front. 

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later. 

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape. 

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this. 

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’—  which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down). 

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight. 

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers. 

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes— 

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop. 

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.” 

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror. 

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed. 

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way. 

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.” 

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to. 

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric. 

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch. 

The kiss is— bad. At first. 

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

[ssunbonne]

Dean winchester cowboy!!

[eilarae]

silly twitter thing

[azures-bazar]

Cradle of Forest

Another one with a soft Arthur !

This one was a bit rushed, I'm sorry for my mistakes.

I've made the gif just above using a female model, but don't mind it ! The reader is Gender Neutral here !

Arthur Morgan x GenderNeutral!reader

Word count : 2.25k

Short summary : As you take a break from the gang to get some fresh air, Arthur believes you're going to leave them once and for all.

A/note : The forest around Clemens Point is BIG.

Tags : fluff, Arthur is crying here, anxiety, forest by night, chapter 3, Clemens Point, comfort, moonlight

You finally had time to escape from the rest of the gang, being overwhelmingly exhausted by Sean’s loud voice. MacGuire was drunk and, probably out of a misplaced pride, kept shouting it out loud that night. You could not get any rest after being on guard duty all day long, his tent was unfortunately next to yours. And listening to him brag about the few more whiskeys he could drink before passing out only made you feel nervous, if not angry at him. You liked his attitude and carefree personality. However, that night, you needed some quiet. And he was not willing to give you any sort of rest.

You had silently left the gang for a few minutes, to say the least. This is what you really thought, you just needed to clear your mind. You knew Dutch would not stand a deserter, so you did your best not to be noticed, slipping from your tent like a snake, hiding in the shadows of Clemens Point’s trees. You then proceeded passing between Lenny and Charles, being on guard duty, running a little away from the camp to get closer to Clemens Cove. You liked this place a lot, as it was peaceful enough to make you forget about Dutch’s flaws. The latter had spent a vast majority of his day trying to give you a speech about faith while you were patrolling around the hideout, but you did not feel in the mood.

The moon was shining brightly that night, giving you a clear view of the path that was ahead. A few rays of moonlight guided you through the trees before you would get to your desired destination, you loved the sight of the lake by night. In the end, you decided not to go any further, being far away enough for the camp and hidden between these trees, in a beautiful glade. However, quickly enough, you had noticed someone had been following you.

"Excuse me."

You turned back, quickly recognising Arthur’s voice. He was standing a feet away from you, his arms crossed on his chest. Arthur could not sleep that night either, so he spent some time smoking near the central tree before witnessing you leaving your tent. Despite trusting you, your distant ethereal sight made him drop his cigarette and silently follow you with a set of negative emotions, hiding behind the nearest tree in case you would turn back. However, he had decided to leave his hiding spot to face you.

"Arthur ?" you gasped

"Didn’t know you were a wanderer !" he laughed

"I… I couldn’t sleep."

"Me neither, Y/N. Me neither."

You both sighed, awkwardly looking at each other for a moment before the two of you started chuckling. What a very peculiar place to meet ! However, Arthur’s soft laugh was not forcibly made of happy thoughts, he was releasing a sudden anxiety your short departure had triggered.

"Don’t tell Dutch." you smiled. "You know how he reacts and…-"

"Why would I tell Dutch ?"

"I don’t know, ‘cause you’re like his son and you often tell him everything and… well…"

"And ?"

Arthur tilted his head and dramatically rose his left eyebrow with a smirk. He did really expect you to finish your sentence, but his soft smile and charming glance felt like someone had cursed you, taking away your ability to speak. How handsome he was, you could not deny it ! And these rays of moonlight caressing his broad shoulders and a half of his face were not helping you finding your best words ! You blushed, not being able to voice your thoughts anymore. Arthur felt incomprehension, you could feel how confused he was, still doing his best to display his most beautiful grin.

"And… I can’t even remember what I wanted to say." you shrugged. "You’re gonna take me back to camp, huh ?"

"No. Sean’s not asleep yet."

He chuckled, moving closer to you, gently placing his large hands on your hips. You could feel how sweaty his hands were and, as you placed yours above his arms, you gave him your most concerned look. Arthur was never really talking about his short moments of anxiety, his hands and eyes always spoke for him. The two of you had been close since your induction into the gang, you could easily read his emotions from his gesture or his eyes. At this moment, you knew he had certainly felt a sudden burst of anxiety, judging by his sweaty hands which were still shaking above your hips.

"Is something wrong ?" you asked

"No."

"You sure ?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. He hated having you worry about him. Whenever you would voice your concern, he would tell you he’s not a child to be worried about. Indeed, Arthur was not a child ! But you loved him so much that any single negative emotion coming from him always felt like a stab in the heart. You just wanted his happiness and knew he would not get what he deserved as long as Dutch would belittle him the way he did. You had seen the leader often talking about Arthur as a teenager, Morgan himself appeared to behave differently when he was around him anyway. In a way, you were quite right to worry, since Arthur was not feeling very well.

You quickly looked into his pale eyes, your thumbs stroking his large arms. The way his eyebrows moved, his eyes twitched, his lips softly wobbled… everything made you feel more than concerned about what your favourite Van der Linde boy felt at the moment. You could finally notice a tear roll on his cheek, causing you to quickly move your hands up to his face. However, you had no time to reach his cheeks, Arthur had quickly grabbed you against him, holding you so close that he could easily break your spine.

"Arthur…? What’s wrong ?" you asked, shaking

You heard Arthur sniff a little, his hands firmly clutched onto your shirt. He buried his face into your hair, biting his lips. You felt your heart rate increase as you quickly felt like you were the one responsible. His tears started rolling down your neck, you shakily rubbed his back. You had done something wrong, and you knew it. Even if your escape had probably been harmless, Arthur was left terrified.

"I thought you was gonna leave…" he mumbled

Arthur had one fear since Dutch brought you in, only one. It was to see you leave. He had lost so many other folks due to his lifestyle that the sole idea of seeing your empty tent without any of your belongings was the only thing he dreaded. His lifestyle made him loose Mary, Eliza and Isaac, friends and flings before meeting you. You were his ray of sunlight, the brightest star in his empty sky, the most beautiful flower of his garden. You brought him joy and happiness, he could not even imagine himself without you anymore.

The sole sight of you leaving the hideout made Arthur shiver. He had followed you, deeply terrified you would not come back, dreading your disappearance like plague. Arthur trusted you enough, but he could not trust the rest of the world around you. You could feel how much he loved you as one of his hands moved from your waist to your hair, you shakily hushed him. Arthur was sobbing in your embrace and there was nothing you could do to stop his cries.

"Oh, Arthur…" you whispered, still shocked by his thoughts about you leaving the gang

"I’m sorry, Y/N…" he sobbed, quickly stepping back while you kept him into your embrace. "I’m… I hate cryin’, you know. And… I hate having you worry ‘bout me."

"Arthur, I was not going to leave !"

Arthur looked down, unable to face you. He was ashamed about being seen crying, especially by his special one. He thought his tears would make him lose all his credibility as a raspy voiced cowboy, as your personal bodyguard and overall pillar. Whenever you felt bad, you could easily talk to him. He would be the one to hold you close, caress your skin, kiss you, even holding you against him until you would fall asleep. He was the one who had been around you since you came, the one who had spent time inside your tent, reassuring you whenever you felt bad, watching over you until you would fall asleep. He was ashamed that his sobs he could barely control would make him look bad.

Your hands quickly moved to his face, forcing him to turn his head towards you. Tears kept flowing on his cheeks, he could not stop them. As your eyes met his, he quickly bit his lower lip and tried looking down, but your hands firmly held his head on place. There was no way for him to run away from your embrace, unless he would use his force. And, since Arthur was terrified of hurting you, you knew he would never do it.

"Listen carefully, Morgan." you said. "I’m never going to leave you. Ever. I love you too much to leave you behind, and I swear, I’ll be with you until I die."

"Really…?" Arthur hiccupped with a smile

"There’s no way I’m leaving such a handsome cowboy behind. No damn way."

Arthur chuckled, ready to disagree with you about his physical appearance. You allowed your hands to move to his shoulders, quite relieved to see him smile. He kept crying behind his grin, not able to stop all these crocodile tears to roll down his cheeks. You gently rubbed his arms, kissing his lips in the process. You could not leave him like that without sharing a kiss !

"I love you, Arthur." you whispered. "More than my anyone in this damn world."

Your relationship was both strange and beautiful to anyone’s eyes, the brightest picture of two folks who never expected to fall for each other. He loved you, his eyes were quick to express it before he would even voice his feelings. He had stars in his eyes, more than the ones the sky had to offer. He loved every single attention you gave him, and a kiss was probably the purest one of them. The best feeling for him to feel better.

"I love you too." he whispered

How hard it was to resist to this beautiful voice ! You smiled, kissing him another time. The scenery was just too perfect for you both not to share at least one kiss ! Arthur held you against him while your lips touched so beautifully, causing you to feel like the two of you had fused into one being. One entity, so pure and so wicked at once. A couple of outlaws, kissing in a beautiful forest under the moonlight… what a sight to be painted ! He did not mind, as long as you were with him.

You spent an hour or two in this forest, enjoying each other’s presence. Arthur kept kissing you, relieved about what you had told him. The forest around you felt like the most beautiful place for you to be at, this small glade felt like a cradle. The cradle of this beautiful small forest near Clemens Point, where the two of you felt home, felt free. No gang, no duty, just the two of you, with the sound of the leaves above your heads. It was perfect, it felt great.

At some time, the two of you started feeling a little tired, heading back to the hideout. Sean was asleep, thankfully. Most of the gang was asleep, only a few night owls like Micah were still sitting by the fire, but they did not bother. Arthur firmly held your hand as you guided him past his tent, quickly hearing Dutch and Molly argue about something while you walked by. As you settled on the broken dock, Arthur sat near you and, a few minutes later, laid down to place his head on your thighs. It was a rather surprising move from this cowboy, but you liked it.

By resting his head on your thighs, Arthur felt safe, and knew you were safe as well. Somehow, it reminded him of his youth, as he used to lay his head on his mother’s thighs when he was a small child, whenever he would cry or simply feel sad about something. He had never done such thing with you before, he never dared. However, that night, as exhausted as he was after this wave of emotions, all he needed was to be with you. Nothing else mattered but feeling you close to him. He even moaned of pleasure, knowing his head rested on your thighs !

You watched the moon shining above the two of you as Arthur closed his eyes. You gently caressed his hair with a smile, enjoying having this tank-shaped cowboy resting on you. You knew Arthur would probably not display such a behaviour afterwards, so you just enjoyed it and allowed him to fall asleep. You kept glancing around to check if nobody was watching, Micah was not to be seen. He was probably drinking some whiskey with Bill, you could hear them talk about something. However, right at this moment, nothing else mattered. It was just Arthur.

Only Arthur.

[ghoulsaint]