#marsha horse

[ahorsebyanyothername]

Marsha had some arena time the other day

[hehimdykesrock]

[the-ultimate-squish]

[penvisions]

by the grit of sandpaper {chapter 4}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Chapter Summary: Worried about Joel's reputation from defending you, you try to get some distance. But the man has a way with words and you end up at his place for dinner. If he's so intent on being friends with you and touching you in ways that speed up your heart, why was everyone else getting cutting boards and kitchen utensils crafted by him?

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, illusions to past death, illusions to past trauma, blood, hurtful language, town gossip, rumors, negative feelings, pining, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, lots of feelings, slight angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, two (2} instances of joel miller gently touching reader, intentional flirting, unintentional flirting, talk of pregnancy, talk of birth, talk of labor, casual intimacy, urges to kiss joel miller get their own warning, kissing (!!), yearning, protective joel, protective tommy, marsha gets her own warning now, fluff, this is so unbelievably soft, reader is described as smaller than joel (bc c'mon), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, joel and reader pov

A/N: this chapter was brought to you by arcade fire and euphoria of finishing three essays and watching four lecture videos + taking notes for class

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

The air was stifling inside the room, causing sweat to drip down the small of his back and bead up on his temples. The motion of him moving back and forth, back and forth tiring but satisfying. His hands ached, for the grip they held, holding secure to the object of his attention. His focus was striking, eyes dark and lips parted as he worked.

He had been at it for a long while, body humming with the effort he was putting into the movement. A grunt broadcasting the longer stretches of his back, the harder press of his hips. His arms were straining against the short sleeves of his shirt, the fabric tight around his muscles as they worked.  

Sweat slick arms coated in sawdust as he painstakingly sanded down the planks of wood he had cut to proper dimensions to rest atop counter tops.

Huffing out, he pulled down the mask he had secured over his face, his breath causing the dust from his ministrations to billow up into the air.

No, he thought as he looked it over. Turning the wood over in his hands to inspect it. The fabric of his work gloves hushing over the smooth surface. No, he didn’t think he liked the idea of a circular board for you. He pictured you stood before a larger piece, sturdier. With little soft feet to hold it in place while you chopped expertly away at some herbs or broke down a chicken before roasting it. No, it had to be perfect. It had to feel like you, it had to be the best he could create. And the shape in his hands wasn’t right.

It needed to be perfect, because to him, you were perfect.

“Did you talk to Marsha about me?”

Joel sputtered, the sip of coffee he had just taken dribbling down his chin and shining in his beard.

“Did she apologize for how she’s been spreadin’ rumors?” You offered the kerchief from your back pocket across the space between your horses. They were moving slow, the morning sunlight shining down a warmth that hadn’t been seen for days. His hand grasped at it, the other trying to prevent the liquid from running down his neck and onto his clothing. Despite his rather comical reaction, he was serious as he looked you over.

“No, she was just…more cordial?” You raised a brow, fist tight over the saddle horn raising and opening as you tried to find the appropriate words to describe the weird encounter.

“She didn’t apologize?” Joel pinned you with a stern look, but you were sure it wasn’t really aimed at you if his tone of voice was anything to go by. He had been fine until you brought up Marsha’s name.

“She didn’t apologize.”

“Did- did you tell her to?”

“Yes. I did. She was rude when I was fixing something for her about a month back.”

“About me?” You guided Lowry to a stop, comforting her as she knickered, thrown off a little at the shift in normal protocol. Joel guided his own horse stop beside yours, watching with concern as you dismounted and tied her off to a nearby tree. You began to pace back and forth, the hush of the fallen leaves under your boots mimicking the anxiety that flowed through your veins. “You-you talked about me.”

“Said she was worried about me going out on patrol with you. So I set her straight.” He said as you watched you, pinpointing the tell tale signs in you that he felt too often himself. You removed your wide brimmed hat to rest it atop the empty saddle,

“Because she doesn’t want me to get you killed.”

“Nothin’ you could do would cause that, you don’t have to worry about me. You shouldn’t listen-“

“I did get someone killed. My best friend.” You admitted, mentally berating yourself for just blurting it out. You had planned to calmly tell him about the patrol that had changed your life, set you up on the path you currently walked, your status of the town outsider. But of course you botched it, mouth running as it so often did around him. Wanting to share things with him, of feeling safe and calm enough to say what came to mind around the man.

“You-what?”

“Five years ago.” You settled down on the ground, back against a thick trunk, head in your hands as you told the man you couldn’t get out of your thoughts the thing that made you an outsider within the settlement. It was rather unfortunate. People made it back alive and well for the most part, but in this case it seemed that the blame for what happened had been put on your shoulders. Almost as if you had done so out of jealousy or ill-intentions. The most common rumor was that you hadn’t liked how quickly and well along Aiden and Millie had once arriving and being accepted and offered refuge inside the gates.

But that wasn’t true. Aiden had only ever been a friend, a close one with the way you had to be in order to survive as long as you two did. He had been the only remaining part of your life from Before. You felt more like his guardian than any potential personal connection. He had been young, bus boy in the restaurant you had worked as a chef in. A ten year age difference between you, compelling you to take him with you when it all broke down. You two had been the only ones to make it out of the restaurant, some of the only ones to escape the round up and corralling of people within your small city.

You had been happy, unbelievably happy, when he had told you of his crush on Millie. Feeling like everything you had done and sacrificed was worth it if he could create a life for himself. For people to twist the situation and narrative to something it wasn’t, never sat well with you and proved to have been the cause of the divide between you and a majority of the residents of Jackson. Marsha taking it upon herself to blame you for the grief of her daughter’s lost love.

“We were on Teton and I didn’t notice we had a tail. They followed us and waited until we had scavenged through the village before they came at us.”

But he didn’t turn away, didn’t guide his horse in a complete one eighty and turn back toward the gates, he didn’t take a deep breath or look disturbed by the news at all. Instead, he took you completely by surprise and -

“Do you want to come to mine for dinner tonight?”

Your head shot up, taking in the way he was still atop his horse. The casual air about him as he regarded you with a warm smile. 

“Joel, I just told you I got someone killed and you…invite me over for dinner?”

“Well, yeah. Been meaning too, Ellie wants to-“

“Joel, we shouldn’t be seen together. And you can’t be defending me around town. People are going to think-“

“People aren’t going to think anything, they been saying stuff out of line, and I set them straight. Simple as that.”

“Joel, people don’t like me. But they do like you, I don’t want your association with me to drag that through the mud.”

“I don’t care, you hear me?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Sweetheart, I will defend you until my last breath. You don’t deserve the way they talk about you. You feed them, make sure the meals actually taste good and have nutritional value, you put your admittedly very good looking ass on the line to protect them, and you share the harvest of the trees in your yard.”

“This is serious, Joel.”

“Olive,” He heaved a sigh, chin tucked low before he brought his eyes to yours. They were clear and set, intention behind them as they caught the brittle sunlight. “You are my friend. Friends defend each other and spend time with each other. They care about each other.”

“We are not friends.” You broke eye contact and shoved off from your spot. Feeling foolish for the overly simplified way he described the dynamic you two had. As if it was actually so simple. It was anything but, his reputation on the line the more he talked with you, the more he became your friend within the walls.

His hand caught yours as you walked by, stopping you from getting back to Lowry. He said your real name, stilling you even further with the way it fell from his lips.

“We are friends. I do care. I care a hell ova lot.”

“Not just cause I apparently have a good looking ass?” A weak attempt to lighten the mood, to play off his own easy banter.

“I mean, that might be a part of it. I’m not gonna lie to you.” The lopsided grin he brandished made your heart skip a beat, desire sparkling in your middle. “We’re friends, Olive. I heard the way people reacted when I first showed up, last winter. How they reacted when I showed up again months later with a noticeably more damaged Ellie. I-I know we don’t talk too much about it, but I’ve done some bad things too. Why would I fault you for what you think you’ve done?”

“I did other bad things,” You confessed, watching as he dismounted his own horse, coming to stand in front of you. He didn’t give you the chance to ask him what he was doing or give him one of your looks before he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. Heart tittering, you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your face into his chest. His hands splayed across your lower back, warm and comforting, holding you up while you shared something new and difficult with him. Something you didn’t know you shared with the man.

“Bad, immoral things. To keep us alive before we got here. He was young when it happened, I had ten years on him. Aiden, his name was Aiden. I hadn’t been ready for the responsibility of someone depending on me, especially as everything we knew collapsed around us. But I did it. I did what I had to for us to survive and find a place like Jackson.”

The horses whinnied, sensing the tense emotions flowing from you, but a calming hush from Joel had them minding their own business as they stood tied close together.

“He-he was happy here, it took us so long to find a place that wasn’t just a trap or full of worse people than us. We stayed away from the QZ’s. Too much going on and too little freedom. But here? It was like a breath of fresh air. And he should’ve had a long, happy life the second we walked through those front gates. But instead he got a year of courting a love he never got to marry and was killed because of my oversight and lack of attention.”

“No, sweetheart, that’s not why.” You felt more than heard the deep rumble of his voice, feeling the light scrape of his facial hair along the top of your head as he spoke. “Patrol ain’t easy. It’s long hours on a horse, on foot, on a constant swivel to keep an eye out for any threats to what we have. And we have a lot to be worried about protecting. People tend to forget the reality of the world behind the gates, getting caught up in rumors and gossip and who’s sleeping with who. But you know what’s out here, I know what’s out here. And if they can’t accept the fact that shit happens, that good people die all the time, then that’s on them. That’s not on you. You hear me?”

He held you until your breath evened out, until you pulled away enough to look up at him. Until you leaned up and pressed your lips to the column of his neck. Smiling into the skin there when you felt his hands tighten around you in response.

“Thank you.” You whispered, pulling away slowly, his arms unwinding from around you.

The rest of the route was covered with simple, easy questions.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Blue he had responded, a deep indigo, erring on the side of purple almost. Your was brown, an amber tone that you didn’t say resembled his eyes in the sunlight, but of the way coffee looked before it was mixed with cream and sugar.

“What’s your favorite genre of music?”

Rock, generic and so spot on for him. You had teased him that he probably listened to bands categorized as classic rock and he had barked a laugh so beautiful you hadn’t heard him ask what yours was. Jazz, you had responded. For the sound of strings and wind coalescing in calming crescendo.

Conversation flowed until you were both safe inside the gates, tacking and brushing the horses in the stables. Until he bid you goodbye with a teasing smile that made your heart warm and your stomach flutter.

“You better bring that good looking ass to dinner later, ya hear me?” He said as he walked by the stall where you tended to Lowry. “Wanna see what the personal chef whips up.”

Tingly. You felt so tingly, even if all you had was two tumblers of amber liquid. One while cooking and one with dinner. Ellie had been glued to your side, the teenager eager to learn how to make something that wasn’t breakfast food. She had been attentive when you showed her how to carefully cube the meat to put on some skewers with onion and peppers. Mindful of keeping an eye on the potatoes as they boiled and maybe a little too enthusiastic in mashing them. But the meal was perfect, the sauce you whipped up a delicate balance of spice and tangy.

Bad puns shared at the table and Joel rolling his eyes more times than you could count. His smile so bright as he laughed and sneered in faux disgust at the really terrible ones. It had wound down, Ellie dipping out as clean up began, but neither of you had begrudge her for it. Friends calling on her for an evening in the mess hall, a movie to be played for the town.

Now a third one, on the couch in the living room of the man who surprised you as you spend more and more time with him. A fire crackling in front of you both, Joel down on his knees as he made sure it was fed enough to keep going.

With a huff, he plopped down onto the cushion beside you, causing you to dip into him from your own spot. The liquid splashed around in your glass and a small sound of surprise whooshed out of your chest as you tried to prevent your body from pressing up against him so completely. One of his hands wrapped around the wrist of the one you had placed on his shoulder to prevent it from happening. The other fixing itself on the back of your head to prevent you from butting against him. But he didn’t let go when your gaze snapped up to his face.

Something glinted in them, his breath puffing out in a hearty chuckle that vibrated through you. Your entire right side felt like it was on fire with the contact of him pressed close. The feel of his pants rough on the part of your thigh that had been exposed as the skirt of your dress rustled up at the movement, revealing that the cloth over your legs were thigh highs and not tights.

“Smooth, Miller.”

“Hush,” His lips quirked up in a smirk. His hand moving from your wrist to take the glass from you and set it beside his on the coffee table. His palm splayed on the exposed skin, and he was suddenly leaning even closer, pulling your legs over his lap completely. The fabric riding higher to expose the tops of your thighs to his searching eyes.

“Oh.” Your breath pushed from your chest at the action. Hand reaching to settle on the side of his neck, skin warm and startling heady thoughts to make your head swim. Make your stomach flutter and your pulse hammer. Bad, oh this was so bad. He was so close, he was so warm, so solid. He was practically curled over you, encasing you in his loose embrace. A warning that sounded more like a plea in the form of his name whispered. “Joel…”

“Hush.” He repeated, his nose bumping against yours as he leaned down. You could smell the alcohol on his breath, wondering if he could smell it on yours. His eyes flashed down to your lips, causing your heart to skip a beat, the brown of them almost eclipsed by how wide his pupils were blown. No doubt matching your own.

“W-we shouldn’t.” It wasn’t even an argument, not really. His top lip brushed yours, the feel of his mustache tickling magnifying the tingles cascading over your body. The smell of him, that heady cedar that made you inhale deeply, reveling in how much comfort it settled into your bones.

“Just, lemme in.” He rasped, lips brushing yours chastely.  A shuttering breath giving away his own nerves. “Please.”

His need for clear consent, the feel of hands on you, of his body pressed up against you was all so dizzying. Your eyes fluttered shut, body absolutely humming. How could you deny him, the man who settled into your thoughts, made a space in your heart that only he could fill. How could you deny him when he smelled so good, felt so warm, asked so sweetly for the one thing you already wanted to give him.

Before you could even finish shaping your mouth around an ‘okay’, his lips were pressed fully against yours. Gentle, chaste, a tame thing.

You pulled back, breathing hard only after a few seconds, eyes flying open. His own were searching yours, his breath fanning over your face. Ensuring that you were okay, that you were still okay with it, with him. With this. A friendship shifting into unknown territory.

His fingers tangled in your hair, scrunching it and pulling it in just the right way to cause a groan to travel up your chest. Pleasure bolted through you, pushing you to reach out and wrap your hands around his neck, forward and into him. Lips crushing against his in deeper kiss as you shifted your legs in his lap, moving them to rest your knees on either side of his thick thighs. His hands gripped your waist, helping to pull you closer.

He moaned out as you settled over his lap, chest to chest, allowing for you to lick into his mouth. Gentle and careful giving way to desperate and urgent as you moved against each other with intention. You could feel the swell of him hard beneath you and you shifted your hips to press down, flush against him everywhere. Swallowing the groan he let out at the action, one of his hands moving underneath the skirt of your dress to-

“JOEL!”

“Fuck,” He growled, hands tightening on you as the sound of his name on a loud shout echoed down the dark street had you pulling away. Fast steps rushing toward the front of his house. The only warning before his front door slammed open, hitting the wall of the entry way. He captured your lips in bruising kiss as his name was shouted again inside the home.

Sighing, you rested your forehead against his, sharing air with him as he closed his eyes. His hands on you clenching as the moment effectively shattered.

Tommy’s form appearing in the doorway to the living room.

“Joel, it’s Maria. The baby- she, the baby’s co- oh!”

You knew how it looked, you pushing off from the older man, him sunken into the couch, both of you trying to catch your breath. The tension in the air, the fire crackling happily in the fireplace, the twin glasses of whisky on the coffee table. The way the skirt of your dress was wrinkled and on of your thigh highs shoved down by your ankle. Joel’s clothing no better, your hands having begun to unbutton the flannel donned. The obvious bulge he moved a hand over to try and hide from view.

“D-don’t.” You warned lightly, leaning down to pull the fabric back up your leg. Moving to put as much distance between you and the man you had just been all over like a teenager. Joel reached for you, aware of the watching gaze of his stunned brother. But you swerved, not allowing his fingers to graze you and shoved past Tommy.

“Olive-“ Joel tried to catch your eyes but you wouldn’t look at him, heart in your throat and stomach twisted up in knots. Tingly, you were still so tingly.

“I-I-I’ll see y’all….later. Tell Maria she can call on me if she needs anything!” And then you were shoving your feet into the unlaced boots, shrugging your coat on and taking off out the still open door into the cool night. Your heart didn’t stop racing even as you crossed the threshold into your own home a few streets over or when you stepped into a scalding shower. Or when your back rested against the cold tiles of the stall and you slid down to sit in the tub underneath the stream.

You just kissed Joel Miller.

It was supposed to be a good thing, you had wanted to, it had been all you could think about, the desire in the back of your mind all the time. But then why did you feel like you just made a huge mistake?

Tommy had come by a few days later, explaining that you would need to take his place on the longer routes Joel was assigned to. Sparse on the roster with so many to rotate the patrols with. Maria, now stable and back at home. A new baby boy to tend to and shower with love. His attention and focus needed here within the gates, not outside of them. His little brother’s worry and anticipation pulling a smile from him.

He had sat up with him far too late, assuring him that he was more than capable, that he was ready, that he would do just fine. The excited chatter had turned somber, memories of time so similar permeating the air and quieting the two men.

“I see you two, when you take off for patrol and when you come back. It’s the same when you’re with Ellie.” Tommy’s voice was low, nearly whispering as he confessed. “It’s the closest I’ve seen you look alive, look like you used to. Before.”

“She makes me feel like I’m alive.”

“She can pull a laugh outta me easy as can be, even if I’m a little pissed off with her.”

“Joel.” Incredulous, almost berating in tone, just his name. Nothing prefacing or following it and it irked him. To hear it spoken in such a manner by his younger brother.

“No, Tommy, no, don't just say my name like that. like it's a whole goddamn conversation that I should know about.”

“Just…be careful, brother. She doesn’t have a lot and I’ve noticed a difference in her since you rolled in.”

Joel recalled the way you had felt in his arms, pressed against him. And then how you had practically fled the scene, how you hadn’t been able to look at him afterwards. Careful, he agreed quietly. He had to be careful, for both your sakes.

Patrols were easy, neither of you mentioned the kiss. Or how one had turned into a handful, how gentle had turned into desperate. Going about the responsibility of ensuring the safter of the settlement like normal. Upon returning one day, Tommy had been waiting at the gates, almost buzzing with excitement as he prompted you both to take a piece of paper from jar. Citing that it was for the annual gift exchange of the holiday season fast approaching.

He felt bad for the relief he had felt when your name wasn’t the one scribbled onto his folded scrap of paper. The three planks of wood he managed to cut from the trunk drying out on his back porch. He checked on them each day before bed, inspecting them to ensure they were safe. One had already been lost to a disease that had rotted in the crack of the tree, seeping into that part of the trunk. He had just sat there with a tumbler of whiskey, lamenting the loss of it. The others wouldn’t be ready for months, he realized, as the holidays loomed on the horizon.

Just like he was doing now, thinking of the planks of wood on the other side of his house. It was one of the few moments he didn’t have anything pressing calling his attention so early, allowing him to take a moment to enjoy his coffee in the crisp air. The leaves were a myriad of colors, scattered along the streets and leaving the trees bare. He idly wondered if this was your favorite time of the year. And if it wasn’t, then what was?

“I know you got me.”

Joel startled where he sat on his front porch, coffee spilling from the mug he had a hand around resting on his knee. The soft voice breaking his reverie, his thoughts of you. But when he focused and looked up, it was Marsha who stood on the top step of his porch. Watching him with an entertained smile, eyes taking him in like she tended to do. He wasn’t blind, he knew the way she watched him. That she harbored a small liking to him, but he had never even thought to give into it. Even if it weren’t for the way she treated you and spread ill-notions of you around town, she wouldn’t be his type.

She had been here ever since the start, been here when the walls first went up and the town of Jackson was established. And he wished he didn’t feel a twinge of jealously and ire for it. But he was only human, someone who had to fight and claw and lose themselves in what the world became. Wishing it had all ended, would end when he lost more and more each day. Pieces of his heart shattering and pieces of his humanity ripped from him. But Marsha, her family, they hadn’t experienced that. And it allowed them to feel like it was completely normal to partake in gossip and petty vendettas.

He realized that being behind the walls allowed him to appreciate more what people endured outside of them. It wasn’t the woman’s fault she hadn’t had to fight for her life, that she hadn’t lost parts of herself to the world as it fell apart and tried to turn anything it could into a twisted version of its original self. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t have to figure out who she was after it all. How to life with herself and the things the world drove her to do.

No, that was him. It was Tommy. It was Ellie. It was you. And she would never understand.

“I was thinking about how you scolded me, and while that was…intense.” The tips of her ears tinged pink, telling him more than her words what she had thought of the interaction. Focused on how his attention had been on her and not on the words he had meant with every fiber of his being. The need to protect you, to stand up for you when you wouldn’t do so overwhelming him in that moment.

“I did try but she…my daughter doesn’t agree…I might need a little more incentive.”

“Ma’am, I’m not interested in playing games.” Joel made to stand up and seek shelter inside, unwilling to take part in whatever the woman was up to.

“It’s not a game, Joel. I just…she did a lot of damage. It’s going to take more than one conversation to settle five years’ worth of tension.” She tried to argue, to explain. But he wasn’t having any of it, too tired for the circles she was bound to lead the conversation.

“You didn’t even apologize, she said you were cordial with her.”

“I…I know. But listen to me, if you agree to help me build shelves in the living room as my gift, I’ll work on shifting the way people talk about her. I’ll intervene or cut them off if they start up about her. I swear to you.” He did stand at that moment, his coffee gone cold and his morning taking a turn for the worst.

“You apologize to her and I’ll think about it. She’s a good girl, she doesn’t deserve the crap y’all put her through.” Joel set her with a look, hoping she understood how serious he was about all this. Because you truly didn’t deserve the status of outsider that you wouldn’t toss around but inevitably felt. You were good, to him, to the town, to Ellie, even to the people who talked behind your back. “You better make sure that whoever drew her name gets her somethin’, you hear me? Apologize to her, I’ll be by to get the dimensions tomorrow.”

Joel turned his back on the woman, not bothering to look over at her to ensure she agreed to his terms before he was safely back in his home. Sighing, he dumped the coffee into the sink and moved into his workspace, anxious and needing to relieve it until he had to begin crossing things off his list.

It’s slow, the way the crafted planks of wood crop up around the settlement. From the first one in Tommy’s kitchen to the one in the creators own. To the ones fawned over in each of the older women’s homes, a rather prominent subject to be heard over the hours spent tending the gardens. Many hands busy preening, clipping, removing, sifting the soil while many mouths form praise around his name: Joel Miller.

Autumn is pivotal time to cleanse the gardens, tend to the waning perennials, prepare and protect the soil to ensure its intact for next years plantings. It’s nearing the end of the season, a dense chill settling over the land and sticking. Much like the frost you can see glittering in the early mornings when you leave for patrol or to help in the mess hall. Hearty, nutritional stews and stocks your specialty provided in the times when fresh isn’t available. But you didn’t mind, it kept you busy.

But you could do without the dotting words of so many for a man who had become something complicated in your life. A kiss, a lapse of judgement that had made it so.

While Joel was ever the same out on patrol, with the sharing of coffee and trading of questions, it was beginning to shift within the town. You hadn’t been hurt before when his attention was pulled before he noticed you, but now having had some of it to yourself you begrudgingly acknowledged that it was beginning to.

Wanting to desperately to be folded into the community, into the social circles that were prevalent all around. And you didn’t like how much you wanted that, knowing it would never be so.

Marsha was hovering close, sitting next to him in meetings and in the mess hall when they both happened to be there. And it irked you, because you weren’t sure what was going on between them. It certainly wasn’t any of your business, but the way that he seemed to always be close to her despite his words of having talked to her about being nicer to you settled heavy in your gut. It was sticky and uncomfortable, to carry about the realization that perhaps…perhaps she had listened to him because they were together.

But just like the worn fabric of his back pockets, it was none of your business.

Neither of you asked about personal stuff like relationships or the nonexistent sex lives you led. Or thought you both led, but the difference in ages revealed a subject off limits apparently. Which was alright, Joel did have a decade or so on you. His beautiful curls a steel gray, while you were just beginning to find streaks of silver in your own hair, more prominent when it was pulled up and away from your face. But you had wanted to know if they were together. If you were being too out of line with your thoughts of the man, of how you felt like you could talk to him, ask him questions, like he was still yours while out on patrol.

And you would take what he would give you, even if it meant you were both acting like the kiss had never happened.

It was felt even more so, the isolation and lack of a personal life as the holidays loomed near. Joel busy now more than ever, that damned little spiral notebook with its never-ending list. Tommy and Maria deep in the life of being parents to a newborn. Even Ellie was smitten with her friends, laughing more and seeming to enjoy herself as she finally began to find her circle. The reality of having pulled Joel’s name for the secret gift exchange burning a hole in your back pocket.

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[its-in-the-woods]

Knife's Edge - Part 1 Johnny's Bar

~* @dichromaniac co-writer/editor *~

Chapter is 8.9k long!

Minors exit/block. Neither of us are responsible for you being here/reading this.

Pairing: Boyd Crowder/Raylan Givens, Ava Crowder/Boyd Crowder

Warnings?: Dinking/alcohol, knife kink, Blood/injury, hand job, blow job, alternative universe, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Canon Divergence, Closeted,

Summary: Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”

Please note... Tag will not spoil anything.. so you've been pre-warned. Canon typical violence/alcohol/swearing/sex etc. Also Canon divergence as this AU.

There will be multiple different ships not mentioned in tags, canon and not canon. As well as various characters from the seasons. Much love <3

The wheels of Raylan's black Lincoln screech to a stop, digging divots into the parking lot, shrouded by plumes of dust. He doesn't waste the time to take the keys out of the ignition, slamming the car door and striding to the weather-beaten porch of Johnny's Place. Raylan throws open the door and the bar is momentarily illuminated around Raylan's stretched shadow before plunging back into a timeless, weary yellow. 

“Boyd,” his shout half covered by the slam of the door back into its shaky jamb. “I know you're in here. You and I are due for a conversation.”

From out of a recessed hallway, Boyd appears, hands raised by his ears, and a well practiced mask of polite pleasantness gracing his face. “Well Raylan Givens, normally I'd suppose you're here to accuse me of involvement in some malfeasance, but seeing how you've recently seen all my sins laid bare, one does wonder to what purpose you darken my doorstep.”

Raylan rolls his eyes at the thesaurus of bullshit coming out of Boyd’s mouth. ‘You know, if you used that mouth for something other than horse shit. You might actually make something out of yourself.”

Boyd lets out a small huff of laughter, as he slides onto one of the bar stools. One hand on his thigh and the other resting against the polished bar. “May I interest you in some of our finest brew?” 

Raylan snorts but he moves his hand off his gun, walking over to stand closer to Boyd. The spiky haired man looked much too relaxed for his liking. “I know what you did Boyd.” 

“Oh? And what may I ask, are you accusing me of now, Raylan?” Boyd puts particular emphasis on his name, his fingers swirling along the bar. 

Raylan groans, finally giving in and leaning against the bar. Briefly pondering the thought of having something to drink, but no, this was a business call after all and he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever yarn Boyd was spinning. “Boyd, you know full well that Arlo didn’t do half the things he said he did.” 

The anger bubbles up now, he can feel it pulling on the collar of his button up. Why he doesn’t just shoot Boyd right where that smug asshole sits is beyond him. 

The corners of Boyd's eyes and mouth twitch before falling slack. The rest of his body follows suit, his rigid posture giving way to a slumped exhaustion. Raylan's eyes follow the disappearing tension in Boyd's neck until it disappears under the collar of his white shirt. Raylan wonders what it would look like to see that wave of motion unobscured. He's struck with the image of a snake shedding its skin. 

“Raylan,” Boyd's voice is barely above a whisper and Raylan tilts his head as Boyd stalks closer, “my opinions on the matter don't hold a candle to Uncle Sam's facts.” Shifting mercurially, Boyd claps his hands, loudly and deliberately next to Raylan's ear. In a flash, he jumps up on the bartop, swings his legs towards the tap wall and leaps down, narrowly missing the well, landing with more agility than Raylan would have given him credit for. 

Raylan feels his right eyebrow betraying him, cocking upwards in interested appreciation. “This ain't between you and the Marshals, the Feds, the locals, the goddamn Dixie Mafia nor Wayne Duffy neither.” Raylan turns and slams both hands onto the bartop, framing Boyd's distant figure.”This is between you and me.” Raylan moves one hand off the polished, warping wood and brings it to his belt.

Boyd’s eyes widen and he reaches for the small of his back. The shiny flash of metal in Raylan's hand hits the counter before Boyd can get a grip on the handle of his .45. Raylan's a quick draw, but Boyd's eyes are faster and when he sees the hateful familiar shape of a Marshal’s star, he turns towards his right, as if the attempt to pull his weapon was only a twist of his body to reach a fresh bottle of bourbon. 

“Seriously Boyd?” Raylan's anger shifts to exasperation and he rolls his eyes. “You thought you were gonna fool me with that little dance move? You're better than that.”  Raylan's voice drops, weighted by the anger he brought in with him, the anger he carries always. “Put it on the bar, son. I'm not in a mood to ask you twice.”

Boyd scoffs, neck tilted back so far the tips of his hair brush his spine. He reaches for two glasses with his free hand and sets them along with the bottle next to Raylan. “I do still believe we have a second amendment right here in Kentucky, and seeing as how you're here officially as a private citizen, one who has aggressively and persistently threatened not only my body, but the well being of those whom I deem near-and-dear, you'll understand my apprehension at being unarmed in your presence.”

“You're infuriating, you know that, right?” Raylan sighs. There's a bottle of Jim at his left elbow, a Colt on his right hip and Boyd Crowder standing between the two. Raylan is paralyzed between the paths that lay before him, a literal fork in the road he can no longer delay. “Have you ever, even once, considered living a life that means you don't have to conceal a weapon on you at all times?”

“I don't know Raylan, have you?” Boyd quips, sharp and quick. He takes advantage of Raylan's surge of anger to walk the short distance through the back bar door back to the stools where Raylan is perched. He takes in the stretched skin around Raylan's eyes where they're threatening to bulge out of his skull, his body weight dropping off the left side of the stool, ready to stand at a moment's notice. Raylan may be able to fool everyone else, but Boyd recognizes the anxiety in his form, unchanged over the long years since he first recognized the signs.

“A show of good faith then.” Boyd reaches for his gun a second time, slowly. Raylan's eyes track every movement, Raylan's eyes grow impossibly wider the closer Boyd's hand get to his belt. Boyd draws the gun out of his waistband and immediately empties the mag and the chamber in fluid, practiced movements before setting it on the counter between them.

Raylan shifts slightly in his seat as he watches the man unload his weapon. The twinge in his stomach making him sit up a little straighter, “If you’re asking me to do the same-”

“I am not asking for anything Raylan,” Boyd cuts him off pouring them both three fingers of Jim. “I am showing you I am not looking for a fight. At least not one where we end up with holes in us, not that you've ever shown any withhold in regards to shooting me.”

Raylan’s tongue pushes at the inside of his mouth, jaw clenching at being cut off. He takes a sip of the drink, the burn warming him as much as his boiling anger. His eyes fixate on the man standing beside him, unloaded gun between them. The silence hangs in the room like coal dust, both fine and thick.

“I was fully prepared to go back into the cell that you love to see me in,” Boyd speaks, looking at the neon sign behind the bar. “I would never have asked Arlo to take the fall for anything that had been done by my hand. But, as you know full well, Arlo isn’t one to be argued with. Your father has treated me better than anyone has right too.”

Raylan takes another sip of the drink, the thought of decking Boyd over his words flickering over his mind. He remembers seeing the man with blood dripping down his nose, him spitting on the ground. Raylan swallows at the twitch in his stomach, his hands itching to grab something, anything that will stop the spiral from creeping over him, dragging him down. 

“Raylan, I know you don’t have many kind words for me. But I am hoping we can converse over this problem without guns,” Boyd says, turning to look at Raylan holding the glass loosely in his hand. He sets it down, moving slightly closer to Raylan, his eyes watching the other man intensely. 

Raylan isn't focused, maybe it’s the alcohol dulling his senses, or the fact Boyd was close enough he can smell stale cigarette smoke and fresh bourbon on the man. He's distracted by the way Boyd’s ever shifting eyes locked on his, his tongue wetting his lips. Then the knife is on his throat, a blade that Boyd keeps tucked under the bar for ease of use, now up against Raylan's neck. 

Each galloping thrum of Raylan's pulse in his carotid threatens to pull the sharp steel deeper into the soft flesh and muscle of his neck. Subconsciously, Raylan twitches into the blade, daring Boyd to finish this never ending waltz between them. It would be fitting to die here, under Boyd's steady hands, throat slit open like the first hog of the season. 

Boyd tsks, eyes spinning under the spell of Raylan's exposed underbelly. Boyd drags his eyes up from the blade to meet Raylan's, his gaze dark with anger, the first warm notes of alcoholic intoxication and familiar challenge. “I told you I was loathe to be unarmed in your presence, Raylan Givens.” His mouth wraps around the name like melting chocolate. “If I was a betting man, I'd say you were slipping.” Boyd drags the knife up, microscopic flakes of dead skin and prickly tips of five o’clock shadow falling like snowflakes onto the shoulder of Raylan's suit jacket.

“Are you happy now? Feel like you've won something?” Raylan’s tongue stumbles over the words as Boyd’s knife wedges into the hollow under his jaw. “You have it all, don't you? Your daddy's little drug empire, your brother's wife, your… My… Arlo’s approval.” Raylan moves, quick-draw reflexes crackling to wrap long fingers around Boyd's wrist, pressing the knife in deeper. “There ain't a damn thing in this world you have, Boyd, that didn't belong to someone else first.”

Raylan pulls the blade away, a single thread of crimson gilding the edge. Raylan twists his grip, Boyd's wrist bending almost to the breaking point and he catches the falling knife with his other hand before it can clatter to the floor. He spins the handle between his fingers, not as familiar as the weight of a gun, but an old habit, easy to fall back into. He presses the steel against Boyd's face, tip of the blade centimeters below the outside of Boyd's eye, resting against the prominence of his cheekbone. Raylan reaches for his bourbon, takes another heavy pull from the glass. 

Boyd’s eyes whirl, always assessing. “There was one thing, once,” he whispers. “And if everything else I came across is a hand-me-down, well that seems fitting for a place like Harlan. She never lets anything go, after all.” He leans forward into the edge, his skin splitting, threads of blood binding together, a mockery of a sacred pact. “Just like you.”

Raylan's face sets in a hard line, the pop of his jaw visible as he sets his glass down. The small drop of blood slides down Boyd’s face, and Raylan wonders what it tastes like. His eyes follow it down along Boyd’s cheek. Raylan’s free hand pulls his gun out quick enough that Boyd tenses, eyes fluttering closed for a second as he places it down on the counter. 

“You think I haven’t let you go?” Raylan spits out at him, trying his damndest not to let his voice crack. “You, Boyd Crowder, the thorn in my side, I can’t let you go ‘cause you keep crawling back.”

He leans the blade in, dragging slightly down around Boyd’s cheek along the five o’clock shadow, coarse hairs pushing out of tanned skin. Raylan's eyes track the small drop of blood running down the indent the steel made. The two of them a breath away, a sharp edge kissing Boyd’s face and a gun thrust against Raylan’s side. 

“You are getting sloppy, Lawman,” Boyd grins, his tongue running over his teeth, the click of the gun echoing against Raylan’s ears. Raylan moves back a hair to see his own gun pressing into his guts. “Are you getting sloppy Raylan, or did you want to be here? Wanted to see if I would put a gun against you and pull the trigger. Give you an actual reason to shoot me, that’s what you want Raylan? This isn’t about your Daddy. This is about you, you and me. It always was Raylan, ever since we dug coal together. You saying I crawled back? You left Raylan Givens. You left all of this. And you could leave any time, go back to Florida. But now you’re standing in my bar, on my turf, trying to threaten me.”

Raylan grinds his teeth looking right at the man who was holding the gun, the knife seeming impotent. He could be fast, take a swipe at Boyd's face, maybe he would drop the gun, but chances are Raylan would end up with the hole in his side. Instead he steps forward leaning his body in against Boyd’s.   

Raylan’s breath echoes across Boyd's skin, reverberating back into his lungs, bourbon and guilt with the added flavors of fresh copper and stale coal dust that lives in the hollow spaces of Boyd's bones that Raylan has never been able to shake the flavor of from his memory. “You’re the one with a gun diggin’ into my guts, after you demanded a civilized conversation. You're a liar, Boyd, always have been, and I'm done expecting you to change.” 

Raylan moves closer, the knife opening the wound another fraction of depth, digging in deeper. “You promised me you'd changed, but here we are, filling this god forsaken bar with more bloodshed.”

Boyd moves his gun hand with Raylan's step, the barrel notched tight into the space between his ribs. “What would you have me be, Raylan? Another one of your pretty damsels, waiting for a knight in shining Stetson and boots that have never kicked shit?” Boyd turns his face, the knife sliding to the edge of his ear. “It's not in my nature to wait to be rescued. I'm going to get what's mine and you and I both know that'll never be found in the bottom of a mine shaft.” He matches Raylan's step, moving forward, their chests pressing together, Boyd’s knee slides between Raylan's thighs, their waltz morphing into a dangerous tango. 

“I could've helped you.” Raylan shifts uncomfortably at Boyd's intrusion into his space. Heat that has nothing to do with bourbon or rage flushes his face. “We could've left together, all those years ago. You could've been free of this mess. Be someone…”

Raylan trails off. For all the words they exchange, there's some that stick in Raylan's heart, never able to escape out into his throat. He wonders if the shape of them died the day the mine collapsed around them, buried under tonnes of grief and fear. 

“Be what, Raylan?” Boyd digs the gun in deeper. “College boy like you should use your words,” Boyd’s volume rises steadily until he's shouting, pressing his thigh in deeper, their hip bones clanging together like shell and clapper of a shift change bell. “We weren't ever going to be anything or anyone but what we are. I thought for a time I could change, but I've wisened up to the notion that no one ever changes, and that includes you.”

Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”

The pressure behind Raylan's eyes breaks, he's unable to hold back the thunderstorm that's been building for years. “Fuck you, Boyd,” Raylan hisses and brings the knife to the edge of his tightly buttoned collar, sliding the edge against the thread holding the top button fast to the white starched fabric. “You don't know everything about me.”

Raylan hears Boyd’s jaw click as the button clatters to the floor. His eyes flash down at the sound of it giving Raylan a moment to use his free hand to twist the gun out from his ribs, and move his body, pinning Boyd to the counter. The gun hits the floor with a clatter and Boyd’s breath knocks out of him with a whoosh. Raylan moves the knife with practiced ease, popping another button. Boyd shifts his weight so that they are pressed together, the thin edge of the knife the only distance between them. 

“I don’t know you?” Boyd smiles, the same smile that caught Raylan’s attention when they were both just kids. Boyd’s hands wrap around Raylan’s wrist holding the knife. “If I don’t know you, why are you here, desecrating the floor of my bar with my shirt buttons?

Raylan tips his head down trying not to meet the man’s eyes as the knife flicks another button off the starched stiff white shirt. 

“Don’t you fuckin dare hide behind your oversized hat.” Boyd tsks, his free hand pushes the hat up so he can look right at Raylan. They're frozen, looking at each other. Their faces may now have lines, gray hair popping out here and there, but underneath the accumulated years, they are still those two teenagers stuck down a mine shaft, alone in the dark with only each other's company against the warm call of death. 

Boyd is taken aback when Raylan moves first, their lips cracking together as the knife clatters to the floor. Boyd’s frozen in place as he feels the other man’s body push hard against his. How many times has he thought about this exact moment? How many times has he wanted to cross this line since Raylan's ignominious return? A line they’d only crossed once when they thought they were dead and buried under their mother soil. Something neither of them had spoken of since, a sin left unspoken in her bosom.

Then Boyd moves, hand coming up to rub against the scruffy stubble that made his stomach twitch. Heat building as he kisses Raylan, tongue pushing against lips and teeth. It's a rough scramble, they are both trying to take the upper hand and unrelenting to let the other in. Raylan has a slight advantage having pinned Boyd to the counter, but Boyd shifts, pulling at the bottom of Raylan’s shirt. 

There's little difference, Boyd understands from his position under Raylan, between the clatter of teeth and straining muscle of tongues from their usual violent confrontations. At least now they're being honest with each other. Boyd tugs at Raylan's shirt hem, desperately grasping at the layers Raylan wears like a mask, he should know. If anyone knows how to wear clothes like armor and expectation, it's Boyd.

Raylan pulls away first, resting his forehead against Boyd's, the sides of their noses pressed together, breath and blood surging together. Boyd's fingers dance along the skin he's exposed above Raylan's belt. He forgives his hands their walk, a path he's never forgotten, over the tight muscle and soft indents of Raylan's torso and wonders if Raylan's skin still tastes the same, like gun oil, adrenaline and rage. Boyd moves his hands up to Raylan's shoulders, pushing his jacket up and off, letting it drift down to the dusty bar floor. 

Raylan's hands are on the surviving buttons of Boyd's shirt, working each one open, his mouth licking the stripe of blood from Boyd's cheek before trailing down, following the path of exposed skin, inch by inch. He wants to take Boyd apart, peel him open and raw. He needs to prove to Boyd that he isn't just a criminal, or his father's son, that the expectations the world settled onto his shoulders are not the man he is, not the only version of himself he could only become. Raylan burns with the desire for Boyd to see the man Raylan knows he could've been if both of them had been brave enough years ago.

Boyd tilts his head forward and growls when all he can see is the top of Raylan's hat. “Goddamn it Raylan,” he snarks, “I told you not to hide.” His fingers twist into the soft material of the Stetson and grins sharper than the knife on the floor when Raylan meets his eyes to see Boyd set the item on top of his own head.

“Well now, I think this just might fit,” Boyd smirks, darkly. “But I can't rightfully say it's my color.”

Raylan growls back, a mix of anger at Boyd's audacity, frustration with the damn waistcoat keeping Boyd armored, and unexpected lust at the vision of him wearing his hat. Raylan drops to his knees, and when Boyd hisses at the sight, his face mirrors Boyd's same wicked grin. Raylan presses his face back into Boyd's neck, the knife sliding up against the dark fabric of his woolen waistcoat, pressing into the flesh of his stomach.

Boyd lets out a small huff, “In any other situation I would consider this teasing the height of rudeness.” 

Raylan slips the knife through the fabric, the soft pop of woven fibers tearing making Boyd's mouth fall open. That same wicked grin falls across Raylan's lips as the knife’s work finally reveals the flesh of Boyd's torso. His mouth follows the small red trail from Boyd’s collarbone down to just above his belt. Boyd’s hands slip into Raylan’s hair as his mouth burns with the taste of copper and coal. Raylan muses that it’s the quietest the other man has been the whole evening, maybe his entire existence, save a few precious exceptions.

Raylan bites the skin right above Boyd’s belt buckle, and he stifles a moan, which pisses off Raylan. He takes the blade and runs it across one side of the V of the man’s hips. small red lines raise, like the mountain borders of a holler, and Boyd’s hips twitch. Raylan has him on edge so easily. 

“If I’d known this would shut you up I’d have done it sooner,” Raylan growls, moving back up to push the remnants of Boyd’s clothes off his shoulders.

Boyd’s hands are under Raylan’s shirt pulling it up and over the man’s head, eyes blown wide as he takes him in.

The door bangs open and both men are frozen in place. Boyd pressed against the bar top, Raylan’s hands on Boyd’s stomach. Johnny’s framed in the sunlight of the doorway. His eyes would be comically wide if it weren’t for the situation he's found himself witnessing.

“The fuck is going on Boyd?” Johnny stutters, rolling into the bar, closing the door behind him. 

Raylan has already grabbed Boyd’s pistol and loaded it, leveling it at Johnny’s head. Boyd glares at Johnny from under the hat, and grabs Raylan's gun off the ground. 

“You walked in at the wrong time, Cousin Johnny,” Boyd spits out, twirling the gun in his hand. 

“Oh, whoa, hold on now,” Johnny stammers, his hands going up, his mouth doing him no favors, as he takes in Boyd’s current state of dress. “Look, I didn’t see anything.”

Raylan’s jaw clicks, as loud as the click of the gun's safety, his shirtless body a tense line. Boyd couldn’t help the flicker of a grin as he watched the man level the pistol at his cousin.

“Like, whatever man.” He shrugs his shoulders against the back of his wheelchair, “Not like we didn’t know in high school.” Johnny stutters out, eyes rolling to focus anywhere but them. Unable to avoid the situation, he glances back at Boyd, eyes shadowed by the wide brim of Raylan's hat, then back to Raylan’s unobscured face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Raylan spits, mirrorring Boyd, he moves in front of the main in the chair, gun hand steady.

Johnny swallows, looking at Boyd almost pleading, then back to Raylan, shaking where he sits. Raylan reaches down and pulls him to standing by the scruff of his dingy tee shirt.

“L-l-look just pretend I didn’t say anything,” Johnny stumbles over his words.

Boyd wanders over, Raylan's service weapon  in hand. “Think it’s a little late, Johnny. But, and this is big but for you now, why don’t we back up a little, take a second to rethink what’s going on here.” He’s talking to Raylan as much as he's addressing his cousin, attempting to diffuse the violence crackling in the air.

Raylan shoves Johnny back into his chair, turning to look at Boyd, brows raised, “You trust this man, Boyd?”

He shifts one eye away from his cousin, up to Raylan. Boyd lowers his borrowed weapon as he goes through infinite calculations, scenarios of “what then,” in a fraction of second before he loosens his grip and holds his hands up, gun balancing on his pointer finger. He sighs, deeply, turning his full attention to Raylan, ignoring the man whose fate they're discussing.

Boyd considers the weapons at his disposal now that he's talked Raylan down from shooting yet another man: Threats, guilt, ultimatums, bribery, guarantees of power, all resting ready at his fingertips. “Well of course I trust my dear cousin Johnny to be the pinnacle of discretion as he always has been when it comes to my affairs,” he turns to Johnny, the unspoken threat clear from his intonation, "he is family after all.”

Johnny almost loses it as he watches the hat nearly slide off his cousin’s head, but chokes his laughter back under a scoff.  He studies Raylan's hard set face, more interested in the man he doesn't know, than the cousin he understands. “Yeah Boyd.” Johnny hocks a loogie into the floor, eyes never leaving Raylan’s, the chamber of Boyd's gun in his hand an abyss in his periphery. “I see you have your priorities. Hat and all. And they don't seem to include family.” Johnny injects venom into the word cousin. He holds his gaze with Raylan for as long as his neck will allow, and wheels himself out of the bar that bears his name, business unheard.

Dewey's at the car waiting for him, and without instruction, wheels Johnny to the passenger side. “That was quick, what happened? What's he gonna do?” Dewey’s mouth runs a mile a minute, never waiting for an answer before asking the next question. He lets Johnny make the transfer between chair and car, puts the chair away and flips into the driver's seat. Johnny has yet to speak. 

“Well hell, Johnny,” Dewey drawls, turning the ignition. “What happened in there? Is Boyd dead or something and you're trying to be all noble and not tell me? Or is he like doing something really bad and you want to protect me from knowing about it?” 

Dewey jumps at Johnny's reaction, a loud raucous laugh that shakes the paneling on the late 80s sedan. Tears stream from Johnny's face, and he grabs the lapels of Dewey's jacket. Instinctively, Dewey turns the steering wheel, the car fishtailing and sputtering across the dirt and gravel. 

“Yeah, Dewey, you absolutely do not want to know what our asshole boss has deemed more important than taking my meeting. “ Johnny lights a cigarette, cranking down the window. “But he's definitely going to regret it. Turn, right, here,” Johnny points to the upcoming unmarked intersection, the first turn on the path towards Ava Crowder's.

Boyd clicks the lock at the front door, Raylan’s gone to take care of the back. Boyd can't stop the wide grin from splitting his face when Raylan returns. His hard lines and smooth movements strike Boyd as something predatory and feline, as Raylan walks back over to the bar to grab his shirt off the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Boyd slithers between Raylan and the bar, eyes tinged with worry.

“Getting dressed and leaving before you go and do whatever you're planning on doing to Johnny. What does it look like?” Raylan huffs, pulling an arm through a sleeve.

Boyd isn’t having any of it, pushes the man back against the bar and pulls the shirt back off, long fingers dragging against Raylan's exposed arm. He looks at Boyd with confusion crossing his face. “We ain't doing this.” 

In a flash, Boyd has the gun up off the bar and in his hand. “We aren’t? You were on your knees in front of me just moments before and I fail to see how the situation has changed, other than you threatening yet another member of my family as is your nature.” 

Raylan’s tongue comes out and licks at his lips, “You know you're still wearing my hat.” 

Boyd’s eyebrows furrow, the realization crossing his face, his mouth opens and closes a couple of times. He grits his teeth, “No, Raylan Givens.” His mouth splits from tight denial to seductive opportunity. “Though I think the saying goes, ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy.’ And if my memory serves me right, that means I'm owed a debt.”

Raylan laughs, truly and deeply with no hint of sarcasm or exasperation. “Now who's getting sloppy, Boyd? I figured you'd come up with something more original than that.”

Boyd’s manic grin falters into a look of mock wounded pride, wide hazel eyes looking up to Raylan. “Explain to me, Deputy US Marshal, why,” Boyd wraps his hand around Raylan's right hip and presses the barrel of the gun into his left, “you went and locked the back door if your intention was not to finish what you started?” 

Boyd surges up, lips and tongue bristling against the stubble under Raylan's jaw as he licks open the fine knife wound. He hums with satisfaction against Raylan's skin; he was right, Raylan still tastes like he remembered, adrenaline and gun oil, but less like Mag's moonshine and more like bourbon. The gun presses deeper into Raylan's jeans, and Boyd moves his hand to the back of Raylan's neck. 

Boyd’s tongue lazily flows up to the edge of Raylan's ear, gathering salt and skin. He wants to burn the taste into his memory, store it in the part of his brain next to where he keeps the images of Raylan at nineteen. “I can keep the hat and the gun if that makes it easier for you.”

Raylan, always fast, disarms Boyd, places the gun on the counter. Both of them weaponless, the tension in the bar shifts from violence to anticipation. Raylan’s hands slip along Boyd’s belt, looking at him with blown out eyes, like if he stares hard enough he can parse through Boyd’s bullshit and read his mind. 

“You can keep the hat, for now. I want it back after,” Raylan teases, his fingers finding the belt buckle and pooping it open with a click. Boyd licks his lips and looks down at Raylan's deft fingers, releasing a small breath. Raylan takes the moment to snatch the pocket watch out of the tatters of Boyd’s waist coat. In one smooth motion, Raylan flips him around so his chest is against the bar, the chain of the watch wrapping around one hand before slipping it over the other. Boyd grunts trying to push back, but Raylan has him pinned.

“Am I being arrested, Deputy Marshal? Or is this some unusually kinky foreplay?” Boyd chuckles as he strains against the chain, deliberately wriggling against Raylan's jeans. He could easily break the chain. Years down a mine shaft left him strong, but he was uncharacteristically attached to the watch. So he allows Raylan the illusion of dominance, for now.

Raylan flips him back around, eyes watching Boyd, dark with a peeking wickedness as if he was getting to unwrap a Christmas present early without permission. “Something like that,” not one to give up the game easily.

Raylan finds the knife again, twirls it around in his fingers. A crooked grin gracing his face as he runs along the seams of the man's vest. Boyd grumbles, “I would have divested myself of my clearly criminal sartorial choices  if you had bothered to ask politely. But something tells me you much prefer watching me bleed a little, Raylan.” Boyd wriggles again lasciviously, pressing his cock into Raylan's through their jeans.

Raylan avoids Boyd's eyes and manic teeth, focusing on each thread snapping against the inevitable bite of honed steel as he drags the blade, ruining what's left of Boyd's precious waistcoat. “And you would know so much about that, being an outlaw and all.” Raylan tugs the metal chain around Boyd's wrists above his head, stretching him out like an animal on a rack, pressing himself into Boyd's deliberant movements. “But I'm supposed to be the lawman, remember?” He ducks his face under the brim of Boyd’s hat, <i>his</i> hat and licks across the shallow cut along Boyd's cheek. 

Boyd squirms, intentionally dragging himself against Raylan, enjoying the way Raylan's breath hitches and his eyelashes flutter. “Oh, you the lawman now? Is that really who you want to be? Right now? Because your badge is on the bar, your gun is on the floor and your hat is on my head.” 

“I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you walked into this bar.” Boyd tugs his hands against Raylan's grip on the metal chain around his wrist. He whispers, “I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you stepped off the flight from Miami.”

Boyd kisses him then, fierce and explosive, like a thousand pounds of emulex all set off at once. One of Raylan’s hands keeps the chain twisted around Boyd’s wrist, the other finds the side of his face. Boyd’s tongue delves into Raylan's mouth, hot against his palate, soft against the sharp edges of his teeth. Boyd moans, and Raylan takes the opportunity to lay his own claim into Boyd's mouth, pressing himself against every surface his own tongue can find. The two men were tasting each other more than kissing. A long stifled fire now burns in the bar between them as they move against each other. Boyd can’t help himself, he wants to be inside this man’s skin, wants to consume Raylan so he can remember every bit of this, in case he never gets to again.

Raylan pulls away, cheeks flushed red, as he rests his forehead against Boyd’s, breath speeding up as he looks for air. “You never shut up do you?” He states,  before he pushes the vest off to the floor. The shirt follows next, sleeves catching on Boyd's wrists, but exposing his chest and shoulders. He purposefully lets the knife dip into the skin along Boyd’s bicep, blood welling up against the black ink of Boyd’s previous poor decisions, chasing after it with his tongue, the iron making him groan. Something about Boyd’s squirming against him, blood dripping down his shoulder, makes Raylan examine his own past choices, following Boyd’s accusations. Had he truly ever wanted to be a lawman? Had he done it to spite Arlo? To spite Boyd?

He tugs the shirt off Boyd’s wrists, and someone he had once considered a friend stands before him shirtless. Mouth open, eyes shadowed by the hat but always on Raylan. Raylan moves back his tongue, licking up more of the blood, going back up and biting at his neck. A strangled hiss escapes Boyd, hips moving slowly against the press of Raylan's body. Raylan groans, grinding back just as hard, <i>Fuck</i>. The room feels hazy, like it's filled with smoke, and the only clear point in his vision is Boyd. 

Raylan picks up the chain and wraps it around Boyd's wrists again. Boyd struggles against the gold metal, trying to get more friction against his own aching need. “Should have known you’d be a tease. Been back for almost three years and it took you this long to be here -” Boyd gasps as Raylan bites into Boyd’s chest. “Keep on like that, you're gonna leave marks that require explanation, not like I am going to be able to direct the accusations at you, Raylan. I have a feeling this could be considered prisoner abuse.”

Raylan lifts his face up from Boyd’s chest, the indents of his teeth blooming red across Boyd’s skin. His jaw clenches and he looks at the unstoppable force that is Boyd. Did he even hear half the stuff that came out of his mouth? Raylan tugs on the chain pulling him from the counter, his other hand applying pressure to Boyd’s shoulder, drawing out a fresh stream of blood.

“And so what?” Raylan pulls again, relishing the small noises he elicits from Boyd in response to the makeshift bondage. “I’m sure you can find a perfectly reasonable explanation for these marks on your chest. Or are those harder to justify than this?” Raylan twists his hand, bringing the edge of the knife against the hateful ink on Boyd’s bicep, etching a second cut into his arm. Unable to resist the thick welling of Boyd’s life seeping out between the layers of flesh, Raylan laps at the split skin. He flicks his eyes back up to Boyd's, “Besides, this wouldn't be the first time you've made excuses for my presence in your life.”

Boyd growls and shivers, unable to resist the effect Raylan has over his physical body, but unwilling to concede any ground in the war they've been waging since birth. “Your marks have always been deeper and less superficial, except for one notable occasion. And while I must admit I don't hate…,” Raylan bites into the dark ink, stuttering Boyd's monologue, “your inventiveness, I do have my current promises and obligations to consider.”

Raylan stops cold, removes the knife, but keeps his grip on the chain. “You mean Ava.” His eyes drill like diamond tipped bits into Boyd's gaze. “You think Johnny is gonna tell? Blow up every lie you've told to that poor woman?” 

Boyd glares at him, his mouth thin lipped, “I never lied to her, unlike you.” The words are short and to the point. “At least I wasn’t sleeping with my ex-wife while stringing her along.”

Raylan slaps Boyd across the face with an open hand. Boyd snaps the chain and is pushing Raylan backwards onto a table. He topples backwards, boots slipping, legs akimbo. Boyd slides into the gap between Raylan's legs, fist clenched at his side, and he glares down at the dazed man. 

“You’re a real piece of work Raylan, carved out of stone like some golem figurehead. Would fuck anyone with two legs, but can’t admit when you’re wrong.” Boyd chides at him, fingers pulling the belt out of Raylan’s pants with a thwack. He loops it around Raylan’s neck and pulls the leather through the buckle, dragging the man up, metal digging into his skin. Then he's crashing into Raylan. He bites at Raylan’s lips tasting a small amount of blood coming out of them and tightens the belt around his throat. 

“All I wanted was you,” Boyd whispers in between frenzied kisses, “Even with all that rage you carry in your heart, even after you shot me, after you left. I hated that you came back, acting like you’d never left, like you didn’t leave me here.”

Words are tumbling out of him, the dam which he keeps secret truths behind finally broken. Raylan grabs at Boyd’s back, pulling their bodies together, even as he gasps for air around his own belt. His right arm is covered in Boyd’s blood from where he worked at the tattoo. The words burn like cuts from a blade, but he doesn’t care anymore. Heat from Boyd’s skin is making the ever pressing arousal more noticeable between them. 

“Please shut up,” Raylan groans, his hands trying to find Boyd’s pants. “Just shut up,” he begs. He doesn't want to think about the ways he's hurt Boyd under his skin. Not now when they're pressed together, Boyd holding his air hostage.

Boyd stands back and releases the belt from Raylan's neck to undo the buttons on his jeans. His fingers hesitate at the cool metal of the zipper and the insistent heat he can feel even through the heavy denim. Raylan sits up on his elbows, forehead wrinkled as he takes in Boyd’s mercifully silent figure.

Then, Raylan Givens smiles with all the brightness of the sun, branding another secret into the dingy wood paneling of the bar. Boyd laughs, weightlessly, in a way he hasn't since he was twenty years younger and pulls away to shimmy out of his black jeans and boxers. Boyd thinks Raylan's laugh as he stumbles out of his boots would best be described as a giggle. At that sound, Boyd doesn't miss the weaponry between them, so remains silent, only reflecting Raylan's smile back towards him, like the moon.

Naked and free of his shoes, Boyd crashes on top of Raylan, hands scrambling back for his button and zipper. Raylan wraps an arm around Boyd's waist and twists, switching their positions, Raylan standing and Boyd flat on his back. It's Raylan's turn to embarrass himself, ankles and knees uncooperative in his haste to match Boyd's state of undress.

Raylan and Boyd stare at each other, their eyes taking in the lifetime of changes since the last time they saw each other laid bare. Boyd’s eyes memorize the scars across Raylan's chest, some from knives, at least one a clear gunshot wound. An interesting constellation over one shoulder that Boyd knows from experience could only come from shotgun scatter shot. He stands, arm outstretched, and begins tracing across each silverskin mark on Raylan's torso. 

Raylan is certain he's having an asthma attack. The air is thick and heavy with nothing but Boyd. And he can't breathe in Boyd, he's not oxygen, he's suffocating. And without oxygen a fire can't burn and Raylan doesn't know who will be left in the shadows once the fire burns out. 

“Can I?” Boyd’s voice ripples across what's left of the air and shakes his head, “Would you turn your back to me, Raylan Givens?”

Raylan can feel the hesitation in Boyd's voice, the request for vulnerability more dangerous than blades or guns or sex. His better judgment balks at the request, but better judgment wouldn’t have him standing stark naked in this bar. Swallowing, he turns around, and kicks the piles of clothes away from them.

Boyd's warm palm and calloused fingers follow along the map of pain etched into Raylan's skin. He couldn't remember the last time someone he took to bed had paid them any attention. Of course Boyd would, Boyd thrives on details, needs them to breathe.

Boyd's hand trails down, stopping at a particularly raised scar on Raylan’s lower left side. He traces over it several times, trying to imprint the feeling into his memory, before moving to press his chest into the muscle of Raylan's back. Boyd lets his hands rest on Raylan's hips, gripping at the hard flesh there. It’s easy to push his body against Raylan's, hold him close enough he can feel Raylan's heartbeat quicken against his own. He tries to stifle a groan as his cock slides, dripping, between Raylan's ass cheeks. 

Raylan lets out his own strangled noise and wraps his fist around himself, unable to ignore his own need. Before Raylan can move against himself, Boyd’s hand is there, gripping at his cock as he thrusts slowly between Raylan's legs, the tip nudging against Raylan's balls. Curses fall from both of their lips at the sensations. Raylan bends under the pleasure, hands trying and failing to find purchase against the smooth surface of the table as his partner continues to rut against him.

It's slow at first, Boyd taking his time to feel the weight of the man’s penis in his hand, how his body bends under Boyd’s. Words stick in his throat, coherent thoughts lost, as Boyd holds onto him, unrelenting. How many times has he thought about Raylan over the years, and wondered what he looks like in this moment. His long held fantasies about it would feel like to draw pleasure and pull need out of him finally realized.

Boyd replaces his fingers with his tongue, mapping the shallow paths of scars along Raylan's back. He never stops moving his hand along Raylan's cock, swiping precum from the tip to ease the way. “I've never forgotten,” Boyd confesses into a constellation of scar tissue between Raylan's ribs and hip, the twin of the starburst scar on the front, “what you sound like when I last had you like this.”

Raylan moans again and Boyd almost wishes Johnny would burst in, guns blazing, through the back door and put a bullet in his head, so that the last sound he ever hears is Raylan making that noise for him. Boyd shifts, moving his hand off of Raylan’s back and between his legs to collect his own wetness before returning to grip Raylan tightly, all the easier with the additional lubrication.

Raylan's hips buck into Boyd's hand, the fire within him burns low, more smoke than flame. He wants to lose himself here, become nothing but the honed edge of a knife, valued and maintained, but only for a specific purpose, useful, for <i>him</i>.  “Boyd…” Raylan warns, the heat in his gut, the pressure behind his eyes threatening to break.

Boyd speeds up slightly, his own pleasure put on the back burner as he uses his other hand to cup Raylan’s balls. Rolling in his fingers as he focuses the twist of wrist at the head of the man’s cock. Boyd can feel every flex of Raylan's muscles, the pounding of his heart through his chest as he climbs closer to release. Boyd wants to swallow the grunts Raylan makes as his hips fuck into Boyd’s slick and heavy hand. Boyd’s in his own haze, trying to tattoo those sounds into the folds of his brain matter, wanting to hold onto every sensation so he might draw on them for the rest of his life. 

Raylan’s body is tense, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. He had thought about this for so long, on many lonely nights after Winnoa left, when nothing else managed to release his frustrations. Sitting there with one hand on his cell, and one hand on his cock. Wanting to hear Boyd’s voice but never actually calling. He’s unable to hold back the litany of whimpers, so close to the edge, but resisting the desire to tumble off, never wanting this sensation to end. 

“Boyd,” He grunts out again, the one time he wants the insufferable prick to speak and he’s silent, “Fuck,”

“Let it go Raylan,” Boyd’s voice is wrecked, begging, his hips pressing into the giving flesh of Raylan’s ass. “Want to - need to hear how you sound cumming under me.”

Raylan’s fingers grip into the edge of the table hard enough to splinter the plastic coating, howling as he releases into Boyd's hand, coating him in his thick spend. It’s too much, his eyes squeezing shut as Boyd keeps working him until he’s shivering, knees buckling. Boyd works him slowly until Raylan bucks, trying to pull away, oversensitive but trapped under Boyd’s body. He reluctantly removes his sticky hand as Raylan struggles to stay upright, stars dancing in front of his eyes. 

Boyd lets go of him, watching the usually always uptight man shudder as he leans heavily on the chair. Boyd strokes his own cock as he takes him in, remembering the sound Raylan made the heat in his stomach twisting in knots. Raylan slides to the floor turning towards him, eyes glazed from post orgasmic haze, mouth slightly open as he looks up at Boyd. Boyd smiles as he raises the hand covered in cum to his mouth and licks at it. 

Raylan turns to look at Boyd and can’t believe his eyes. Boyd stands there naked, tongue laving against the webbing of his fingers, sucking Raylan’s cum off his hand, stroking himself with his other. His eyes are half lidded under the hat as he stares down at Raylan's face. Raylan once again ignores his better judgment and gives into his impulses, shuffling over on his knees to settle between Boyd’s legs. Raylan drags Boyd’s hand away, replacing it with his own. His tongue darts out to lap at the free-flowing dribble at the head.  Boyd tastes expectedly salty and interestingly like moonshine. He doesn’t think about it much, choosing to focus on opening his mouth and taking him deeper. Boyd’s face is red, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration as he grips Raylans hair. 

“Fuck,” Boyd whispers as he moves himself in and out of the Raylan’s mouth, testing how much Raylan is willing to give. His eyes unfocus as he swallows Boyd down. Boyd thinks he may be dreaming, his brain challenging the vision of Raylan Fucking Givens on his knees, mouth wrapped like velvet around his dick. 

“Oh, Raylan,” Boyd whispers, as if he's praying, like he's found God again against Raylan's tongue, between his teeth. Boyd’s fingers tighten in Raylan's hair, knuckles turning white. “I would truly be the liar you believe me to be if I didn't admit I've imagined this more times than I can rightfully give number to.” 

Raylan hums and swallows, sucking Boyd in deeper as confessions fall from Boyd’s lips. His teeth scrape lightly against sensitive flesh and Boyd's hips thrust against his cheekbones. Raylan bites back the grin threatening to split his face wide and swirls his tongue, a silent demand for Boyd to repeat the motion. 

He loosens his grip, slides his hand down Raylan's skull to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the shorter hairs at the edges, before pressing bruises into the scar on Raylan's shoulder. Boyd’s toes curl against the wooden floor, splinters cracking into his feet, but his entire world narrows to the heat of Raylan's throat, the motion of his tongue, the graze of his teeth. Boyd answers Raylan's plea and repeats the motion of his hips, steadying Raylan by the shoulder and forces himself deeper down Raylan's willing throat. 

“You taste the same as I remembered, Raylan, did you know that? Some things never change.” Boyd strokes Raylan's cheek with his free hand, swiping away a single tear from Raylan's watering eyes and bringing it up to his lips. 

Raylan doesn't stop moving, the words wash over him, spurring him onwards, quickening his motions. He would say the same, the taste,the feel, the way he spoke, it all felt so familiar. It's as if he had never left, like the twenty years of lost time between them has also burned away. He pushes himself up, pressing his face into the flesh under Boyd’s belly button, nose brushing against the hair sprinkling his abdomen. Boyd’s mouth falls open and his eyes roll back as his hips stutter. Raylan pulls backwards, needing air and one hand works at the base, the other reaching to press teasingly against Boyd's hole. He can feel Boyd’s release splash against the back of his throat and takes down every drop. Boyd moans his name and Raylan gags slightly, hating that his eyes flutter, obscuring Boyd from his vision as he swallows. Boyd pulls himself out,  his thumb swiping over Raylan’s abused lips, the last of his cum dripping across his cheek. 

“Could you be any prettier,” Boyd said, tongue going over his lips. “Fuck, Raylan. Why did we wait so long?”

Raylan grins, feeling dizzy, the world fuzzy around the edges, and leans his head into Boyd’s hand. He knows the afterglow will fade momentarily and he will leave. Part of him wants to stay, kneeling at Boyd’s feet, forehead pressed into his thigh. But the weight of the world returns to Raylan's shoulders and the smoke in Raylan's chest turns back into flame.

Boyd frees his hands from Raylan's face and shoulder, and moves over to the pile of their ruined clothing. He sorts through the pieces, placing Raylan’s clothes beside him. Finally, he removes the hat, turning it in his hands with an unreadable expression on his face before setting it down beside Raylan. He cups Raylan's face with warm hands, tipping his chin up. 

“I’m gonna go find a shirt that isn't cut to shreds and open the doors before any more business associates start asking too many questions about why your car is outside and the door is locked,” Boyd says, hiding his thoughts behind his hundred watt smile. “Don’t go anywhere now Marshal, we aren't finished here yet.”

Raylan watches him leave, and is up on his feet. A twisted knot has crawled into this chest cavity and it’s trying to break out of his throat. He dresses like the place is on fire, grabbing his gun and badge before rushing to the door. He looks behind him at the pieces of Boyd’s clothes, , the two half empty glasses on the bar, the droplets of blood splattered on the bartop and floor. He grits his teeth, memorizes the scene and walks out into the daylight. 

Part two

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Please let us both know if you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Much more is coming😈 Each chapter will be spaced out as we write!

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ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ Marsha?

Send me a “ ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ “ for my muse to tell your muse a pun.

"Why couldn’t the pony sing in the choir? He was a little horse."

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Marsha likes to collect plushies. A majority of her collected plushies are rabbits, unicorns or horses, dogs, sheep, and ducks.

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(NaturalNews) Sens. Marsha Blackburn (R-Tenn.) and Richard Blumenthal (D-Ct.) introduced bipartisan legislation called the "Kids Online Safety Act" (KOSA) that,...

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Continued from X // @timeless-stories

"Hey, you're my girlfriend it's my job to worry about you." and while the reminder of her fathers death was never pleasant, she was going to neglect Marsha because of Stolas' memory. Though currently she was still unaware about Stella even speaking to Marsha. "I already visited Dads grave, I have the day free. We can do stuff together, I'm sure it'll make the day go by faster. Even if it's just...lounging around and watching TV. What's that one show you really like? The one with all the horses?"

After all the times Marsha stuck around for badly bad horror films, it was only fair Octavia took time to learn about Marsha's special interests.

[ahorsebyanyothername]

Marsha!!!

[omegaremix]

Rough Trade, 2021.

The pandemic has been a hellacious dice roll. Since last spring, all of our favorite businesses, diners, take-outs, arcades, specialty shops, record-stores, and venues had all shuttered with no telling other than the governor’s word when they’d re-open - if they’d re-open. I’ve been fortunate to see that all of my -stores on the island have survived with few hiccups. The last time I shopped at one? Summer of 2018 at Mineola’s Mr. Cheapo’s which capped off what was an unprecedented post-surgery record-store victory tour. It was so vitalizing that I promised myself I’d do it again.

For the record, I almost never done any city music shopping, save for when I purchased Sonic Youth’s Sister, Skinny Puppy’s Rabies, and Ministry’s Just Another Fix during a post-senior year city excursion. For one New Year’s Day at Times Square, my friends and I visit another record store and I passed up a chance to buy Anal Cunt’s Morbid Florist. Since then, it was nothing but mail-orders and island stores until now. I always owed it to myself to visit Rough Trade, New York City’s greatest record store for the longest time. Anxiety, scheduling, poor timing, and other personal insecurities kept me from going. New York State’s various business-closing mandates didn’t help either and I know the pandemic era has not been nice to anyone at all. Even my aunt Laura warned me not to take the train. At least, not yet.

And then a wake-up call: they’re closing down their Williamsburg store to re-locate to as-yet undisclosed digs. They announced their target date: March 21st, the final day before shutting their doors until this summer. So when a record store advertises 25% off CD’s, books, and other merchandise to say good-bye, you fucking go. I had bad luck being scheduled off of work on Mondays and Tuesdays, the two days they were closed during the week. Enough was enough. I spoke up and I finally won a Wednesday off at a price of working six-straight opening-and-closing shifts. Now, it’s on. This visit to Rough Trade is the prologue of my second-ever Record Store Victory Tour, which I’m still waiting to bank to make happen.

With a pending return to New York City / Brooklyn in the springtime, so did reminders of a certain someone from Brooklyn whose eclectic music and cultural tastes aligned with mine and a little more; someone I had a distinct connection with. She was on my mind intensely as it’s springtime in the boroughs. I had cut all ties with her not long ago because she slit me deeply and it’s a shame. It’s that time and place that holds her significance, and later visits made me wish I still had someone of her calibre to come join me.

The luxuries of living near the Long Island Expressway / Rt. 495 meant no time wasted getting there. Fifty minutes later with little traffic and only eight blocks remaining, I’m here. Driving through any part of New York City is signing your death wish, whether it’s rolling down the asphalt pothole fields of Junction Ave., or the start-and-stop traffic of 3rd Ave. during rush hour. This time it was the expressway, and driving over the new Kościuszko Bridge which I never seen before. No question that its presence would forever mark this perfect March day. Jumping off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway / Rt. 278 and driving down the narrow 8th St. was not a harrowing experience as long as you slow it. I park it near Marsha P. Johnson State Park, and walk two blocks southeast to finally scratch Rough Trade off my bucket list. I had up until 7PM with a $160.00 head-start burning in my pocket since Christmas 2019. No time to waste…and go.

I walk in and I feel it. I look around, and right away I could tell we don’t have this on Long Island. Rough Trade was the kicker: everything I couldn’t find in other stores I found here. You wouldn’t find Garcia Peoples, Horse Lords, or Sweeping Promises in any too-kind indie store or mall that would rather worship The Beatles, Phish, Jimi Hendrix, "The Dead", "Floyd" or “Zep” as you call them, you fucking Bruce Villanch-Mason Reese cross-breeds. Think Pitchfork, Alt Citizen, Gold Flake Paint, Brooklyn Vegan, and Post Trash. Not to say I never found gold at my local stores, but Rough Trade had that special something-else because us islanders don’t have the same vibe the city stores does. Oh, much better. Even I hoped to see specific titles because this location was city-centric, and at times my wishes almost came true.

First up: the cassettes section. A small selection ensures that I’d already have four in my hand in the first three minutes digging. You sure wouldn’t find Birthing Hips’ Urge To Merge anywhere else but here, right? Clipping’s Visions Of Bodies Being Burned? Nope. What a relief to find Hesitation Wounds’ Chicanery as I blast half of those songs at the gym. To my amazement: finding Kedr Livanskiy’s Ariadne. Too bad it wasn’t the disc version because that would’ve also had January Sun, one of my favorite releases of the Tens, but at least I have her now.

Next up, the used vinyl section; a small tidy amount of it that’s reasonably priced mixed with rock, pop, jazz, blues, reggae, and Latin jazz. On the overheads played various selections of Nancy Sinatra (“These Boots Are Made for Walking”) and with Lee Hazelwood (“Sand”) as I looked for more wins there. Don Patterson’s Movin’ Up!, a summer memory, was finally scratched off the list. Marcio Montarroyos’ Magic Moment was something I wasn’t expecting to find. It featured “Pedro Bonita”, a springtime memory of walking through Central Park, so I took it. The expedition got better when I acquired Dual Action’s “Babe Beer Car Bar” compilation on clear red vinyl (!). That’s one of two Hospital Productions’ releases I took home with me.

On to their 7” section where it started to sting. A good number of these platters were priced at an average of $7.00 and up, even higher. I would’ve loved to take Martin Rev’s “Gutter Rock” home but at $17.00 for only two songs? No dice. Same with the Idles / Heavy Lungs split. But I got my hands on Gong Gong Gong’s “Siren” b/w “Something’s Happening”, another small victory and one of two I found of Wharf Cat Records. At least there’s some Raincoats and Pylon up for grabs, and if anyone wants Brandy’s “Clown Pain” b/w “Rent Quest”, it’s still there. The only normal piece I took home with me was a promotional copy of Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight At The Oasis”. Just the single because it’s all I ever need of hers.

Rough Trade had plenty of new vinyl with many titles going for $25.00-$30.00 each. That was the only section I stayed away from, personally. I wasn’t so much into The Body yet that I didn’t pick up I’ve Seen All I Needed To See, for example, or the many PJ Harvey records they had on display. But some good titles in my eyes were found such as Wharf Cat Records’ ACLU Benefit Compilation. To my surprise: Alan Parker & Madeline Bell’s The Voice of Soul from Themes International. It’s the very first time I’d ever seen a [TV / film / radio] library record; the stuff hip-hop producers look for.

But as mentioned before, all discs were 25% off. Aside from the Christmas money by my generous aunt and uncle from the Brooklyn-youth era, the discounted discs would at least cushion the blow to my wallet.

I started with the used hip-hop section. I immediately grabbed Madvilliany which was the soundtrack to my most vital days at Stony Brook. More Madlib to be had when I grabbed Bandana and Pinata with new favorite Freddie Gibbs. Then, how about two legends with Slick Rick’s The Great Adventures Of… and Eric B & Rakim’s Paid In Full? Saw a copy of A Tribe Called Quest’s We Got It From Here… and that was a must-grab. I found Death Grips’ The Money Store (featured on the very first Omega WUSB show) and I had to have it. The only time I saw Death Grips up for the taking was when West Sayville’s Vinyl Paradise (r.i.p.) stocked several of their titles but gave them up because I felt I spent too much. It’s a start. My final jazz acquisitions were two from Herbie Hancock: Headhunters and The Best Of…. I had a opportunity to grab Headhunters at West Babylon’s Looney Tunes and also Sunlight at Amityville’s High Fidelity but wasn’t too keen on Hancock back then. On a separate note: Lee Moses’ Time And Place caught my eye. It’s one you see everywhere posted on obscure samplist groups and forums. That’s when I realized the mood of the overheads changed from Sinatra / Hazelwood to children’s educational TV theme songs; going from Sesame Street to Reading Rainbow. That was a cringe moment and the staff felt it, too. So they switched it up to something better: Hailu Mergia. Speaking of Awesome Tapes From Africa, I paused to pull the trigger on Nahawa Doumbia. The music is from 1980, but I couldn’t make the judgment here not knowing her music beforehand.

I continued searching through the used disc section, and these next finds I felt not only defined this store but the entire experience as well. I kept going and spotted titles I didn’t expect. Know of Council Estate Electronics? You wouldn’t if you also didn’t know Mr. Godflesh himself (Justin Broadrick). Since I did, Arktika was in the bank. Profligate’s Somewhere Else, the final of two Wharf Cat finds, was nice to see. Then, I see Boy Harsher’s Lesser Man (Extended) in the corner of my eye and immediately I snatched it up. (I noticed that of three copies, two were priced at $21.99 and one for $13.99. Why would I not want the $13.99 copy?) I was happy to get Silent Servant’s Shadows Of Death And Desire but wished it was Negative Fascination instead. But any Silent Servant is better than nothing, and beggars can’t be choosers.

As I was still reeling from the Boy Harsher grab: two from Pharmakon (Bestial Burden and Devour) and two from Uniform (The Long Walk and Shame) all in the same gasp. I almost went into cardiac arrest and died from seeing them in stock. Would Rough Trade’s staffers cut from labeling their stock to find me lying on the floor and call for an ambulance to Maimonides Hospital is up for debate. One final round in searching still continued in the used disc section. Zola Jesus had her own divider and saw what they offered. Okovi featuring “Veka” was in my possession and that’s five Sacred Bones titles I’d purchased. In fact, I attempted to order from them online a few months ago but money issues made it a bad idea. Those five made up half of that order. Rough Trade’s shelves were littered with -Bones stuff and they're both from Brooklyn, so they’re really riding that golden stallion out towards the sunset, are they?

Other wild cards I knew enough to buy started with Mr. Elevator’s Goodbye Blue Sky, a personal favorite from last year’s pandemic blues. Here’s two titles rather to be found in city stores and not on the island: Lithics’ Tower Of Age and Deeper’s 2018 self-titled album (the latter for $1.75). Idles’ Joy As An Act Of Resistance was plentiful and a lauded release, so I found a copy that included a bonus disc of their live performance at the store. And as a general rule, you can’t pick up Idles without also getting the conflicting Sleaford Mods’ 2018 e.p. Plus, I loved Tame Impala’s Currents, so I got it to spite everyone who thought their psych-rock era was better.

More? Sure. Soundgarden’s expanded Ultramega OK (including the same-titled e.p.) was in my hands. During the new-vinyl round I was thrilled to find some Akitsa records but passed them up, so I got some black metal diet with Darkthrone’s A Blaze In The Northern Sky. Finally (or so I thought), I nabbed the Electric Dress album from Merzbow, Carlos Giffoni, and Jim O’ Rourke also for $1.50. Peak hipster era. I thought to myself that I may have gotten it with my previous RRRecords mail-orders, but thankfully I was wrong. As I thumbed through that side of the bins, there it was staring at me, literally: Tops’ I Feel Alive. Jane Penny’s green-eyed look of disbelief on her face was looking at me because I passed up on the cassette, and now she’s waited for me again at the disc bins. “I Feel Alive” was a great pandemic-blues tune for me, but I didn’t know them enough to go for it. Our apologies, Jane.

Rough Trade had a few other sections as well. “Cheap Thrills!” their shelves said. That was their lower-priced new vinyl section mixed in with other used vinyl singles. One quick peek and I found Long Island white-label heroes Q-Ball & Curt Cazal. It wasn’t “Makin’ Moves”, but I wish it was. To my right is their rarities box. That’s where the big money copies are. It was where I saw a copy of Albert King’s Born Under A Bad Sign for a painful $110.00. Another copy found in-store cuts the pain away by another $50.00 less. Also on that side of their store, you’d find their bar / cafe disused indefinitely. Their live space has been cordoned off and so has most of their listening rooms. What wasn’t lost, however, was another flight of steel steps leading up to their book section; the shelves spread evenly of well-categorized books about music history, art, New York City, gender / sexuality, The 33 1/3 Series, and no shortage of copies of Cosey Fanni Tutti’s Art, Sex, Music or Kim Gordon’s No Icon to go around. The most ironic thing printed on paper? Kara Simsek’s So You Think You’re a Hipster?; of course of all places in a Williamsburg / Bushwick record store. En route upstairs are where the box sets and staff picks are. With two weeks to go, get those licks in at their operational photo booth and then see the pics- posted of how much fun the best of Brooklyn are having...assuming they’re not dying inside by rising rent prices).

By then, I was spent. I felt like there was nothing else to comb over. So I packed it in and gave my stack to purple-haired Janie, dressed in a pink long-sleeve and purple felt pants. As she counted everything up, I had second thoughts. I knew it was now or never, so I decided to give two titles I originally passed up a second chance. I ran to grab J Dilla’s Donuts and Discharge’s Protest And Survive: The Anthology. And that was that. She said I qualified for a free tote. (Are you offering a credit check for a bank loan, too?) and dashed one more time for a shirt. That was also 25%, too. I wasn’t leaving here without a fucking t-shirt.

She thanked me for my purchase, and I thanked her for her kindness. I left Rough Trade feeling -$417.00 happier. That’s what music-shopping therapy does to you. This venture had made me forget all of the recent depressing ills and anxious troubles I’ve had because it’s self-maintenance, healing, and power unto yourself. The return to Brooklyn was a much-needed reprieve outside of the daily toxicity experienced on the island that offers nothing that I really want that the city has. That, my friends and allies, is what you call happiness. New people, new experiences, opportunities, and fun. That’s what brings me it. I never felt it in such a long time.

Not since last March was when I set foot in Central Park and immediately turned back because sundown approached. Two weeks later, most of the world shut down flat and I didn’t return until now. I wasn’t the only one affected by cautionary stay-at-home mandates and city-wide closures, but things are much better now than last year when people died everywhere left and right. People and businesses are slowly out and open again with more information, confidence, and vigilance to live their lives and keep the damage to a minimum. The time was right to take precautionaries, to breathe again, and get back into it. I know I’ll get back into Rough Trade when they re-open, likely as my city go-to for everything I practiced and preached on Omega WUSB. They were on a whole new level, a level I wished other island stores would follow. It might arguably top my final visit at Tower Records before their closure.

I drive home through the tight Brooklyn streets and start the nerve-wrenching path home starting at the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The movement panned to a cripple getting on Rt. 278, but seeing the colors change on the Kościuszko Bridge showed its’ new second life at night; a sight to behold. A chilly, mid-Forties coldness dominated the ride home as I said ‘goodbye’ to the New York City skyline of clear pitch-black skies and ‘hello’ to the wide-open L.I.E. roads.

I finally arrive home with the trace of lucky green transparent on my fresh cotton threads; the new notes that'll define the next couple of years. I unpack my goods and let everyone know how my day was as I wait for the flattery from my friends and allies at WUSB. Spring is finally here. It’s a chance for renewal. The vaccines are coming and so’s the money. I’m here to win it all. Place your bets.

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Pinata

Uniform: The Long Walk

Herbie Hancock: Headhunters

Slick Rick: The Great Adventures Of…

Idles: Joy As An Act Of Resistance / Live at Rough Trade

Sleaford Mods: self-titled e.p.

Death Grips: The Money Store

Discharge: Protest And Survive: The Anthology

Silent Servant: Shadows Of Death And Desire

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Bandana

Eric B & Rakim: Paid In Full

Pharmakon: Bestial Burden

Boy Harsher: Lesser Man

Lithics: Tower Of Age

Uniform: Shame

Soundgarden: Ultramega OK

Profligate: Somewhere Else

Madvillain: Madvillainy

Herbie Hancock: The Best Of…

Mr. Elevator: Goodbye Blue Sky

Zola Jesus: Okovi

Deeper: self-titled

Tame Impala: Currents

Lee Moses: Time And Place

Darkthrone: A Blaze In The Northern Sky

Council Estate Electronics: Arktika

A Tribe Called Quest: We Got It From Here…Thank You For Your Service

Pharmakon: Devour

Merzbow & Carlos Giffoni & Jim O’Rourke: Electric Dress

Hesitation Wounds: Chicanery (CS)

Kedr Livanskiy: Ariadne (CS)

clipping.: Visions Of Bodies Being Burned (CS)

J Dilla: Donuts (CS)

Birthing Hips: Urge To Merge (CS)

Marcio Montarroyos: Magic Moment (LP)

Don Patterson: Movin’ Up! (LP”)

Dual Action: Babe Beer Bar Car (double LP)

Gong Gong Gong: “Siren b/w “Something’s Happening” (7”)

Maria Muldaur: “Midnight At The Oasis” (7”)

Q-Ball & Curt Cazal: “Repertoire” (12”)

[godzilla-reads]

3 things asks: 32-37, please!

32. 3 Months You Enjoy the Most

April

October

December

33. 3 Scented Candles That You Love the Most (I love this one)

Lavender Rose

Dragon’s Blood

Egyptian Amber

34. 3 People in History That Inspire You the Most

Beatrix Potter

Malcolm X

Marsha P. Johnson

35. 3 Vegetables You Like the Taste Of

Cucumbers

Asparagus

Cauliflower

36. 3 Ways of Traveling That You Enjoy the Most

Train

Kayak/Canoe

Horse

37. 3 Languages You Would Love to Learn

ASL (American Sign Language)

Spanish

Japanese

Thank you for these!!

[horsesarecreatures]

Does anyone know what happened with Marsha Parksinson from Canterbury Arabians? Curious because after the 133 Polish Arabians were seized, she got 60 back after Dr. Hennecke of the body condition scale testified that the Humane Society misused it and the horses weren't emaciated. 

[finncomet]

☄️ Finn drifted in and out of conciousness, until he finally began to succumb to a feverish dream - perhaps it would be considered a nightmare if Finn's current reality hadn't been so much worse. He had no idea how he was still alive. He had been bleeding nonstop for hours, and the pain was unbearable, excruciating. How could he go on like this? Death would've been a relief, but he wasn't allowing himself that option regardless. He had to stay alive.  He promised Marsha he wouldn't leave, even if she walked away from him. Maybe she was smart to do so.

As the dreamscape took over his mind, he found himself sitting in the bathtub in his old treehouse. He was fully clothed, and rather than submerged in water, Finn realized he was buried up to the chest in dirt. There was enough to cover where his wound had been - a butterfly wouldn't leave his left eye alone, either. It was... uncomfortable. He couldn't move much, though at least his arms were free.

He felt something hit him in the back, and glanced over his shoulder to see Death himself holding a shovel. The spirit looked sad, somehow. How could a horse skull look sad? And he didn't say anything, just made a gesture for Finn to get up.

"I can't. I'm-" Finn strained at the dirt with a small grunt, to no avail. "I'm stuck."

He then realized Death was no longer behind him, but heard a familiar voice in front of him instead. He returned his gaze forward to see Jake wearing Death’s hat. “I’m not responsible for you, man,” was all he said.

Finn’s heartbeat quickened in panic. What the heck did that mean?! He began to feel something warm spilling from his mouth, and his left eye. Blood.

“Jake, help me out here!” Finn struggled some more. His brother only shook his head, looking just as sad as the horse skull.

Suddenly, two snakes appeared directly in front of Finn’s line of vision. A matching pair of hands held each side of his face, as the snakes leaned in to kiss him above his eye. The butterfly flew away and a daisy-like bloom grew where his eye should’ve been.

Life held out her hands and Finn took them in his own, as she lifted him from the dirt. 🦋

[greatrunner]

Re-watching Early Edition, and I'm kinda laughing at the characterization of Marsha Hobson.

I get the feeling that we're supposed to dislike her because she kicked Gary out of their house, and quickly divorced him thereafter.

But, like, I don't (personally). Gary is, for the most part, absentminded and tends to operate on a self-involved level unless the circumstances require that he think about others.

(example: He hears about Marissa's issues with getting a guide dog, but when the paper allows him to win horse bets, he's not really all that concerned about it, until she's on her way home. He gives her his winnings, and what started out as self-fulfillment turned into gesture of helping his friend.)

I can imagine, given his age and the period he grew up, the end goal of marriage and kids was enough for him. Whereas, Marsha (once she was portrayed as short-haired power suit wearing woman of the 90s, instead of curly haired, hippe-esque, Kyra Sedgwick, who initially portrayed her in the Pilot), wanted more than that, and acted on it.

She harbors no real ill-will about Gary and hopes he gets on, whereas Gary feels he got thrown for a loop and ambushed by her sudden decision. Lack of communication? Most likely. Thinking his particular view of their marriage was shared, also likely.

The whole time I'm watching him bring up the "I wanted to have kids with her" point repeatedly, I find myself thinking, "Look into adoption, perhaps?" And "She clearly didn't wanna be a mom."