#red huckleberry

[pytheon]

[turtlesandfrogs]

Was looking at a huckleberry today, and noticed these ants crawling around the flowers:

A good reminder that not all pollinators are bees or butterflies‐ and some don't even fly!

[pnwnativeplants]

 Vaccinium parvifolium or red huckleberry identification

[occasionaloranges]

the adventures of huckleberry finn - mark twain // seven - taylor swift // moonrise kingdom (2012) dir. wes anderson // @petrichara // the kids aren’t alright - fall out boy // @slugspoon // you’ve got a friend in me - randy newman // friedrich nietzsche // anne with an e (2017) // fredrik backman // the housebuilding song - david ferguson // park bench dedication in central park // emily brontë // luca (2021) dir. enrico casarosa // this town - niall horan // way back when - kodaline// @beetlejuices // winnie the pooh // you & me - feldberg // bank robbers nursery rhyme - goodnight, texas // ribs - lorde // tom sawyer and huckleberry finn // setting the woods on fire - hank williams // @honeytuesday // frog and toad are friends - arnold lobel // bridge to terabithia (2007) dir. gábor csupó

[blink-o-rama]

Sketches of various cartoon sillies, pretty happy with how they turned out!

[kermiethefroog]

first collection of photos from working this summer!! it hasn't been the easiest but it was nice getting to work outdoors

most of these areas are 2-3 years post wildfire at various levels of severity and recovery harvest

[Post 1/5]

[sohannabarberaesque]

Postcards from Snagglepuss

Thoughts on a red-eye flight from Long Beach to Chicago

"I do have to admit, Snagglepuss," Huckleberry Hound remarked on what must have been his third cup of in-flight coffee, "that a winter's diving experiences turned out to be ever remarkable."

"So it was ... SO IT WAS!!" saith I. "Even though there were no mermaid encounters ensuing."

Which had Huck remarking in sheer disbelief that "was it really necessary that a diving vacation had to have a mermaid encounter?"

"Well ... it just came across my head."

"But to be frank about it, Peter Potamus can certainly be quite the one to spark some interest in diving, if you ask me. Somewhat underappreciated a water sport, if you ask me."

Whereupon the stewardess cleared out our coffee-related debris and hubris after what must have seemed quite the coffee-drinking session leaving Long Beach. And we just hope it was decaf, come to think of it. Especially with the plane landing at Chicago Midway Airport in the early morning hours; in fact, we chose Midway for the flight to Chicago inasmuch as it was closer to the Loop area than O'Hare International. Once in Chicago, perhaps some breakfast at Lou Mitchell's in the Loop, the traditional eastern terminal of the legendary Route 66, and discuss some summer plans, maybe a Character Convocation or two. Which will certainly be the subject of the next such Postcard.

*************

@warnerbrosentertainment @jellystone-enjoyer @ultrakeencollectionbreadfan @iheartgod175 @groovybribri @artistic-octopus @archive-archives @themineralyoucrave @thylordshipofbutts @screamingtoosoftly @thebigdingle @warnerbros-blog1 @indigo-corvus @funtasticworld @railguner34 @theweekenddigest @warnerbrosent-blog

[iamanoccasionaldoodler]

Plants are so fucking weird dude. Im sitting here thinking about red vs evergreen huckleberries and how the plants themselves are so incredibly different and we must just call them both huckleberries because their fruits look similar because theres no way they can be that closely related but no. Theyre in the same fucking genus. Like sure its a big genus but my animal obsessed self just cant wrap my head around it. Utterly unreasonable. Thats like if cows and bison were in the same genus

[foldingfittedsheets]

I can’t remember a time in my life where the summers weren’t full of berries to eat. Every trail has at least a few bushes offering their wares to people walking by.

Many of them aren’t monetized, they don’t keep well, not appealing enough for the bother of cultivating them. Salmon berries, huckleberries, thimble berries. We have black and blue berries, too. But you don’t see most of our local berries in the grocery store.

One of my most precious memories with my beloved was our earliest hike together. They didn’t grow up native to the area and exclaimed in alarm when they saw me reach casually toward a bush to pick a berry as we walked by.

“You can’t just eat berries! What if it’s poisonous?!”

“It’s not,” I said, puzzled. “I guess there’s some poisonous berries around here but I don’t eat those ones, it’s really easy to tell.”

“Those are safe to eat?”

I laughed and popped it into my mouth only to immediately realize it was horribly unripe. Salmon berries come in two colors you see, orange and red.

I’d mistaken an unripe red berry for a ripe orange one. It had felt soft enough to be ripe but it was so bitter it hurt. So an instant after asserting it was safe to eat I opened my mouth with a “bleh” to let it fall back out.

“They- they’re not poisonous it just wasn’t ripe,” I insisted.

My beloved looked skeptical but scanned the bush and plucked another berry to me. “Try this one.”

The sun shone beautifully through the dappled tree canopy, illuminating the gleaming berry in their hand, a perfect snapshot of a romantic summer moment. I took the berry, my fingers brushing their palm to bring the little fruit up to my lips while looking into their smiling eyes.

I had to spit it out.

It was as overwhelmingly bitter as the last one, but I didn’t mind the way my beloved laughed at me.

[lilgynt]

my room is becoming so much more of a red flag like that’s a power drill on my bed frame i just slept with and then my bedside desk is literally over filling with books (night bitch sharp objects two separate books by camus catcher in the rye and then like. four books on hannibal and that’s only bc the others are already read or in my bag) and i unironically have three copies of silence of the lambs

[frothytundra]

Wordless Wednesday 20 December 2022

Wordless Wednesday 20 December 2022

[aheathen-conceivably]

Against her wishes, Violette started school in late 1931. Now that her Aunt Jo was seemingly back to herself and her father much happier, she wanted to stay at home with them the way she did in New Orleans. Instead she was stuck inside a box, listening as the teacher droned on and on about nothing important. She longed to be let outside, to be allowed to dance by herself or with her Poppa. 

You must stay seated, Miss Duplanchier. You must listen to the teacher, Miss Duplanchier. You must not talk in class, Miss Duplanchier. Every day there seemed to be more rules, more people who told her what to do and more information she didn’t care about. 

Perhaps the time she spent between classes or in the cafeteria could have been better, but she hadn’t trusted any of them from the start. They were just as foreign to her as she was to them, so instead of speaking to anyone other than William she just learned to keep her ears tuned to every sound, until even their perfectly innocent laughs became suspicious.

At first they had been curious, prodding her with friendly if invasive questions the way children often could. They asked where her family had moved from, or why her accent sounded so different from theirs. Their tones held a mix of suspicion and excitement that Violette found confusing. She didn’t know why she sounded “funny" or why her hair "looked like that"; she only knew that this was the way she had always been. They only knew that they had never heard or seen anyone like her before, and the more she responded to their questions with angry glares or cold quips, the more they asked them amongst themselves rather than to her face.

“I talked to my Momma about her. Said she’s seen ‘er Poppa round town asking for work a few months back. Said they came from New Arleen.”

Another girl furrowed her brows, “You mean New Orleans? Like in Huckleberry Finn?”

The girl shook her head and shrugged, unaware of what she meant, “All I know is Momma said her Poppa looks like, you know, like William. She said he’s…”

Violette has heard her own name many times before, but at the sound of the word Poppa, her cheeks flared and her shoulders set, “Don’t you dare say another word about him.”

The whole table turned to look at her and the girl began to stutter, “We weren’t, we just…we were just talking.” But one of the boys seemed emboldened by Violette’s anger and looked at her straight on, “We just wanna know where you came from, alright? I mean maybe if you just stopped actin' weird and talked to us but you walk 'round here like you think you're better than us or something. Jimmy said your parents gotta be from down south but you don't look like any Mexican I ever seen."

Violette narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. She had heard enough curse words to know how to answer, “It's none of your damn business. And at least I ain’t ugly like you.”

The boy withered from her insult, but one of the girls giggled under her breath. Violette turned to walk away, satisfied by the wounded expression she had caused, when the laughing girl jumped to her feet and walked toward her. Violette turned around at the touch of her hand, “Hey, I’m..I’m sorry about Billy. He’s a louse but his parents own the general store so he thinks he’s better than everyone else. I won’t ask no questions if you wanna sit with me.”

She snatched her arm away from the offending girl's grasp, "No. I'm not staying in here with him." The girl looked back toward the table, where the boys were giving her a sullen glare, "Do you wanna go outside and play then? Without them?"

Violette thought for a moment and then glanced at the boys, pleased by their ongoing discomfort. She looked back at the girl and nodded her head yes. A look of delight crossed her face and she gestured to the other girl who had spoken before. She looked toward the boys guiltily and then rose to her feet, her cheeks still red and embarrassed from the earlier encounter. Violette took one look at her sullen expression and decided it was just as good as the boy’s wounded ego.

She smiled at the two girls at her elbows and then glared at the boys before walking outside with them at her heels.

[tinta-y-cometas]

Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Florida, Misuri; 30 de noviembre de 1835-Redding, Connecticut; 21 de abril de 1910, más conocido por su seudónimo Mark Twain, fue un escritor, orador y humorista estadounidense. Escribió obras de gran éxito y fama mundial como El príncipe y el mendigo o Un yanqui en la corte del Rey Arturo, pero es conocido sobre todo por su novela Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer y su secuela Las aventuras de Huckleberry Finn.

[pnwnativeplants]

Red huckleberry or Vaccinium parviflorum

[hp-hcs]

(Fine, I’ll do it my damn self: part 5 of my silly lil mlm stories <3)

tmr is just babygirl i don’t make the rules

Watercolors (Chapter One) — tom riddle x male! artistic! hufflepuff! reader

he could manipulate and possess me thus irreversibly changing my trust in people despite it never being mentioned again and i would thank him

yk, i absolutely love chamber of secrets, but who starts a new diary (obtained under questionable circumstances) with ‘my name is’?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Tom Marvolo Riddle had been stuck inside of his diary since he was sixteen years old.

The diary itself, inside, was a perfect replica of Hogwarts, the boundaries stretching out well into the Forbidden Forest. Perfect, except for the fact that it was made solely of parchment and ink, and was completely devoid of color or life.

Tom hated the color of parchment.

The diary passed hands many times over the five subsequent decades. First there was the pathetic, sniveling man—the Malfoy sycophant—who all but groveled at Tom’s feet (metaphorically, of course).

Next was the littlest Weasley, the redheaded girl who bored Tom to (again, metaphorical) death. He could only pretend to be interested in how Dean Thomas held the door open for her so many times before he wanted to bash his head into one of the walls.

(He tried, once. The parchment just ripped and left him with a nasty paper-cut on his forehead. Tom missed the red of blood. Now, he bled only black, dripping ink.)

Then, Harry Potter, the boy fated to defeat him, (or whatever) who turned out to be really quite sweet. As a last fuck you to whom he became in the future, Tom aided Harry in coming out to the littlest Weasley’s mother.

That’ll show Lord Voldemort, the dipshit, Tom thought gleefully.

Eventually though, even lovely Harry became more distant, his newly rediscovered godfather being the rightful center of his attention. Tom supposed he might have been jealous of the acquitted Black in another life, but after fifty years of loneliness he understood the yearning for living, breathing friends rather than just paper that writes back, as Little Weasley once called him.

Then, out of nowhere, came the Hufflepuff boy with a tin of watercolors and an eye for the overlooked.

The first thing this wondrous creature made for Tom was a little stone cottage, complete with a warm hearth, a garden of pumpkins and berries, and an idyllic curl of smoke from the chimney. The cottage sat near the edge of the forest, wonderfully secluded and alive.

Tom had watched as gentle sweeps of a brush, suspended in midair, created a home. One that existed in both the physical diary and the hellish paper prison Tom resided in.

Everything existed.

The warm, brown thatched roof, the colorfully patterned bedspread, and even a fireplace.

When the masterpiece was complete, Tom, although he would never admit it, gorged himself on the garden’s sweet huckleberries and sour raspberries. Afterward, he explored his new house, even going so far as to stick his hand into the flames of the fire.

(They weren’t real. They felt like nothing more than a faint warmth against his skin. Disappointing, Tom supposed. But probably a safety hazard.)

Then he curled up in the big bed, under the vibrant bedspread, and closed his eyes.

For the first time in fifty years, Tom slept.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Chapter Two

i need you all to know that the original title for this was “Tom Riddle is a man-whore(crux)??? (NOT CLICKBAIT)” so-

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 4.7k | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak

After four years away at collage, you’re finally home with the tools and knowledge to save your family ranch. That is, if their ranch hand would stay out of your way.

Or: Ranch hand Joel doesn’t know how to handle the return of his bosses prodigy daughter, her snarky little attitude, or her sinfully tight jeans.

a/n: phew this chapter was hard to write because all i want it for them to kiss already. these two are so at each others throats that i cant WAIT to write that in the form of the devils tango. please let me know what you guys think, comments fuel my desire to write🤍

Masterlink

AO3 Link 🤍

Chapter 2: Northern Attitude

Three days of bad weather pass before Joel is able to get the truck out of the snow to drag your car out of the embankment—but he chooses not to anyway. He’s spent the last three days working and avoiding you, because he can’t keep his head from spouting off about how much you piss him off and how good you look doing it.

And piss him off, you do. The morning after your first night home, Joel was shoveling off the steps and the front driveway when you came out of the house in a pair of pants that look like they have been in your closet for years because god damn, they are tight. He doesn’t miss the look on your face when you find your way into the snow where he’s working. “Like my stupid fucking shoes? I wore them so I’d look nice when I saw my parents—thought there was some delicious cowboy here to impress. But now they are all I have to wear because some bullheaded asshole left my car on the side of the road with all of my belongings in it.”

Him, being the bullheaded asshole instead of the delicious cowboy. He’s fuming, if he wasn’t already panting, he’s sure there would be steam rolling out of his ears right about now. He can't stand you. Cant stand your cocky attitude and the way you hold your hands on your hip’s—those sexy little fucking—Joel! “Should have known better than to show up in the middle of winter in those damn heels. You did that to yourself. You should know the only thing you’re findin’ here is cow shit and snow.” You cross your arms and look over his shoulder. “Yeah—nothing but bullshit here.” He turns to find Tommy, his eyes on your figure in your stupidly tight outfit, he’d always been the bolder of the two. “Nice shoes…y’know, they do seem practical, you’re a few inches above the cold, y’know? Don’t ya think, Joel?” You smile at him and Joel sees red, that trading asshole. “Y’know, I was still gonna pull you out, bullheaded asshole here was the one who insisted we leave you.”

If Joel was a better man, he’d tell his brother to fuck off—but he’s not, so he socks him in the mouth and gives him a nasty bruise and a split lip. Both of you hightail it away from the driveway and Joel gets back to his shoveling.

Since that day, it’s been a non-stop onslaught of demeaning remarks. You sneer at him when you pass him in the halls, so he sticks to the hunting cabin he and Tommy occupy for a whole day. When he comes in for supper, you sneer at him again. “What, do you just hide out all day, doing jack shit?” He started this, he knows that, and there isn’t much he can do since he left you for dead on the side of the road a few days ago. He huffs at you when he sits down across from you while everyone else gets their plates in the kitchen. His voice is somewhere between a whisper and an aggravated shout. “I’ve been taking care of the cattle, what the hell have you been doing all day, huh? With that big fancy degree? Hid in the house all day and do your nails?” The nails in question are a sharp blue color, a homage to the crisp skies as the sun sets amongst the gloomy clouds, radiating dark indigo across the plains. His stomach curls when his brain supplies the image of them wrapped around his cock—both your little hands, manicured and soft and—son of a—“Actually, I think I forgot to check the fences. Miss Lou, do you mind if I pack this up to go?” He did forget, and he should do that, but it could have waited another day. He really needs a reason to get away from your accusing eyes right now, away from the way you unwillingly make him feel ridged all over.

He checks all the fences on the half mile walk to the hunting cabin, eats his supper at the sad little table and tries (he fucking tries, okay?) to keep his hands off himself. It aches, aches when he gets hard, like a damn weight between his legs that makes him feel dizzy from lack of blood in his poor muddled brain. He gets crazy—can't stand the thought of another person having so much control over his senses that he can't control his own bodily functions. He hates that you’ve weaseled your way in to his weaknesses—pretty eyes, smarter than him, hard to get with an attitude. It pisses him off so bad that his body reacts before his mind can gain clarity enough to tell himself no. But how can he, when all he can think about is what this is doing to him.

He cant stop thinking about how much of a bitch you are, about the type of men you probably pulled while off in collage and how you expected some kind of Adonis and what you got was just Joel. Your disappointment in his mere existence does nothing to flag how hard he is when he finally gets his hands in his pants. It should be alarming how fast he’s got himself on the edge on the image of you glaring him down, blackmailing him just so he can be your own personal verbal punching bag.

What the fuck is wrong with him, that being treated like garbage gets him so worked up. Is it because he knows it's something he'll never have? Like nothing else in the world can, you’ve got him hot and stiff in his large hand, after three days of knowing you, his head tipped back against his pillow and his eternal gratefulness that Tommy is still eating supper at the main house. At least he wont have to witness the way Joel’s resolve goes down the drain when he thinks about those pretty eyes, those nimble fingers and that bratty little attitude. He cums when he thinks about your stupid fucking shoes and how angry you are at him that you’re stuck wearing them.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you he still cant get your car out, even if all the fucking snow melts, just so he can watch you walk around in them for a little longer, so he can hate you a little bit more. Maybe his distaste will bleed out the want, but Joel has never been that lucky.

———

It’s damn late by the time Tommy makes it home—or maybe it’s not, but Joel's guilty hand found the neck of a bottle a few moments after washing it clean, so he’s completely lost track of time. Drowning his troubles was the best thing he could come up with, so he tipped the bottle back until it was empty and his head felt like it was in a fish bowl.

The door throws open when he’s leaned all the way back in a chair at the little dining table, his bottle sitting empty in front of him and his mind reeling. “Close the damn door, it’s freezing!” He doesn’t open his eyes, because he’s got the spins and the last thing he wants to do right now is throw up.

“Aint me.” He hears Tommy’s voice somewhere in the living room and he finally peeks an eye open and glances towards the door.

“You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?” It’s you, standing in the doorway and letting in all the cold residing outside of these walls. Joel attempts to lean forward, but his weight wobbles and the chair falls backwards on the hardwood. “This is why this ranch doesn’t make any profit. You spend your days drunk off your ass, don’t you?” Her tone is so accusing and snappy, if Joel had half a mind he would pull himself off this floor and give her a piece of it.

“S’the end of the day, I’m not workin’, ‘n I can do whatever I want.” He pulls himself up using the table and he stand there for a moment, trying to let his head catch up with the rest of his body. “I came down here to tell you I want my car out tomorrow morning first thing. But, by the looks of it you wont be good for a damn thing in the morning.”

He groans and walks over to the door on wobbly legs, his vision is blurry but the drunk part of his brain supplies that you walked all the way here with Tommy just to bark orders at him. So, Tommy is definitely a fucking traitor, getting cozy with you when he knows how irritating Joel finds you to be. Even if you look damn good with those wind bitten red cheeks that would look so good hallowed out around his—c’mon, Joel. “I’ll be up before you, smartass. I have livestock to feed, ‘sides, I told you I'd pull it out when I could. Snow’s still too thick.” Joel uses the door frame to hold him up while you look him over from the porch. “I wasn’t asking you to pull it out, Im telling you.” Telling him? Like he’s not his own goddamned person, who makes decisions around here of his own? Hank asked him over a year ago to manage the ranch on his own—he’s been the one calling the shots here for some time, so what gives you the right to stand on his porch and tell him what he’s going to do?

“You might be the all reining princess in their eyes, but do not push me, Honey. I’m not the one to fuck with,” your eyes narrow and your arms cross over your chest like that might somehow make him second guess his boldness. You take a few steps closer and puff your chest out, point your nose up at him with a hard glare. “What are you going to do about it, huh? Not a damn thing.” Actually, one thing does come to mind and it takes everything in Joels power not to grab you by your hair and bend you over the back of the couch, show you exactly what he’s going to do about it.

Instead, he stands there in the frigid air, looking down at you like a pissed off little mouse staring down an alley cat, so fucking brave that he questions if he’s an alley cat at all. “When you can run this ranch by yourself, then you can look down your nose at me, but until then, you’re going to need some taller stupid fucking shoes.” He wouldn’t have the balls to say these things to you if not for the whiskey burning through his veins. Actually, he’s been pretty weary of telling you off, because the last thing he needs is you telling your parents, who obviously would believe you over him. But right now? Fresh off half a bottle and a mind numbing orgasm? He has all the courage in the world.

“I want my car out. I want my things and my clothes. You have until tomorrow night, or my parents can find new ranch hands.” He scoffs and his anxiety only bubbles up a little bit—he’ll pay for it tomorrow, but right now he’s pissed. “Well you better hurry back there and get on it. I’ll tell ya what—I’ll even help you hang up the flyers, hows that sound?” Your face is beat red in an attempt to contain your anger, your eyebrows are drawn together in the kind of pout that makes Joel chub up in his sleep pants. He’d rather sleep out in the snow than to have you see the way your attempt at aggravation works him up, so he starts to close the door on himself. “Better get to it, unless you want to be the one up at four thirty to feed.” He closes the door, turns his body and lets himself slump against the wood. His palm finds the front of his pants and he pushes, attempting to quell the sudden rush of blood that makes his head spin more than the alcohol in his system. “Damn…she’s gettin’ to you, huh?”

It’s Tommy’s obnoxious fucking voice in his head, standing near the hallway to the two small bedrooms. “Fuck off, Tommy, you know how it is for me.” The younger man laughs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I'm just sayin’, it’s kind of funny. Nobody gets under your skin like that. Does fightin’ really do it for you?” His voice is dripping with amusement and Joel wants to punch him again. “It ain’t the fightin’.” Tommy rolls his eyes when Joel reaches into his pants to adjust the discomfort. “Oh, thats right. Your shitty attitude comes sometime after she gets your big ol’—“ Joel growls at him, ”Tommy, if you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’m going to drag you out in the snow and beat your ass.”

It does the trick, because Tommy knows Joel isn’t kidding, he’s always been the stronger of the two, the one who’s always put Tommy in his place and he’s never been afraid to sock him square in his mouth when he runs it like he is now. “You know it bothers me when I can't control it. I can’t hide it. And she just—she—she’s one of them girls you know? The one’s that you don’t stand a chance with but they rub it in your face anyways and I can’t fucking stand it. It’s embarrassin’.”

He leans away from the door and makes his way over to the couch. When he plops down, his head finds his hands and he drags his calloused fingers through his curly, wind whipped locks. “What if you did stand a chance? Been a really long time since you’ve let yourself have anything.” Tommy finds the seat beside him and their heated argument shifts into a tender conversation, one brother to another, one man to his best friend in the whole world. “Ain’t about what I can have, tom, she’s Hanks daughter and I’m double her age, at least. This,” he gestures to himself vaguely. “This is the last thing a girl like her wants to get themselves tied up in. Can’t—one and done it like you can. Takes some…workin’ up to.”

Tommy pushes his shoulder with a small snort. “Always wondered how you got that thing in anyone.” He hasn’t wondered—he’s asked for years, and Joel being the closed off man he is, never had the heart to spill his bed-mates secrets. But there hasn’t been anyone for years, certainly not someone like you who can get him going faster than anyone he’s ever met. “Just—lots of…stretching. Things I can't do during a tumble in the hay, alright? And not everyone wants to deal with that—fuck know’s I don’t.”

Deal with the rejection of someone seeing him naked and kindly (or not so kindly) telling him that they aren’t interested anymore, deal with the look of shock women give him when he’s pressed up against them—when they feel it. He’s tired of it—so he doesn’t try anymore. Having you at his doorstep, flooring that desire in him? He can't deal with that. “I always thought it would be kind of an appeal to women, don’t they like that? I mean, I didn’t get your genes but I’m not doin’ too bad, they seem to like it.” Not doing too bad? To be normal, lead a normal life where he doesn’t have to bring anxieties to a moment he should only bring pleasure? “It ain’t all puppies and rainbows, man…nine times out of ten were good and they’re into it until I get my pants off. Then they hightail it out of there before I even have a chance to explain myself.”

It’s an embarrassing conversation to have with your brother, but Joel is grateful that he at least has someone he can talk about this with, above all else. The years he’s struggled, the supposed highs that only led to disappointment. It's been one minuscule moment of rejection after another, and he’s not asking for a lot, just to feel what everyone else gets to feel—normal, wanted, less like a freak and more like something to be desired. All for something he can’t change about himself, because believe him he wants to.

“I’m sorry man…I can’t relate, but I know how hard it is for you. One day, some crazy bitch is going to love your…terrifying dick.” He snorts loudly and rolls his eyes at his little brother. “Today ain’t the day, but thanks, Tom…” his head is still spinning and if he doesn’t go to bed soon, he won't make it out to feed before the sun hits the horizon. Tommy heads to his room, but Joel finds a blanket and curls up on the couch with a trash can at his side—just incase he needs to throw up before morning comes and he sobers up.

———

He does make it out to feed. It takes him an hour to get a hundred and fifty heads of cattle fed—he can’t wait till spring when they can be turned out to pasture, when half of them are sold off and the breeding season restarts. The cold, stand still winters drive him crazy on every ranch he’s ever worked, but this one more than most, because the cold is bone deep and there's you now, to drive him crazy in every possible direction.

When he’s done with the cattle, he takes inventory of the feed room, make’s a list to take with himself to town when the roads are cleared, then makes his way over to the stable. If there is one thing he can find solitude in, it’s snorting, fussing, grouchy ass horses early in the morning. They’ll kick at the stalls until he’s filled their feeders, snort cold air at him like they don’t want his company—he finds a lot of himself in the equine’s, misunderstood unless you get to know them like he has. He finds that his favorite place to be is in a saddle, pushing cattle through spring summer and fall, just him and them and all the trust in each other they have to offer.

Once they are fed, he finds his tack bucket and pulls open the stall to a young mare they’d bought last summer. She was ready to break this spring, but Hank had all but given up on the Morgan. So much so that he’d handed Joel her bridle one morning and told him “if you can get through to her, she’s all yours, son.”

She wasn’t a big horse, compared to others over her breed, but she had an untamable mane and tail that Joel has to keep braided or it becomes a rat's nest. She’s all over the place, spooky with a fear of water that Joel can't seem to help her get over. For such a pretty little Palomino, she sure has a lot of fight in her.

“Hey, pissy girl.” He hums when she flicks her tail at him, pulling her head out of her feeder just long enough to look back at him. He’s been the only person she lets in the stall since they got her, the only person who can give her a good brush down and stand behind her without getting a hoof to the chest. “Don’t look at me like that, okay? I had stuff to do before I could bring you guys breakfast. Besides, you’re gettin’ fat.” He pats her on her flank, watches dust come up under his hand. He starts brushing her down when he hears the stable doors come open. He knows it's not Tommy, because he’s in the north field checking on the heifers who are getting ready to calf. They still have a few more weeks, but it's good to keep track in the middle of the kind of storms they’ve been getting. The last thing they need is losing a calf to this kind of cold.

“Joel? You in here?” It’s Hanks booming voice in the desolate stable. “Yeah, I’m in here Hank!” He sets down the brush and steps out of the stall because he knows Hank won't come in it. “I was tryin’ to find you before my daughter did. She been through here yet?” His stomach drops and curls—did she tell him? About the argument they had on his porch last night? That he was drunk off his ass drowning his emotions like he always has? “I don’t know what she might have…told you, but it was at home—the cows were good, animals fed, I wasn’t—“ Hank makes a face and shakes his head. “Son, I ain’t mad at you for nothin’. I told her you’re allowed to have a few drinks when you’re done with your work. She can be very…aggravating, if anyone knows that it's me. I just wanted to apologize before she comes in a raging ball of fire because shes embarrassed about her shoes.”

Embarrassed? She’s embarrassed about walking around in those boots that make her ass look like it was sculpted by gods? Those damn shoes that can get him hard in an instant? “She’s embarrassed about them?”

Hank cracks a soft smile and puts his hands on his hips. “Most of that fire comes from a hurt place. She's all bark and no bite—“ Joel scoffs. “She just about bit my head off last night. I might have said some things I shouldn’t have.” Hank has always been understanding and kind the entire time Joel has known him. “I know, we talked about it. She said I need new ranch hands and I told her I don’t trust anyone to run this ranch but you. Don’t worry, I won't let her run you off. I really thought college would set her straight, but she’s still got that stubborn attitude of hers. Just—keep yourself busy and she’ll give up eventually. Don’t be afraid to defend yourself, either. I’m not going to get mad at you for standing up to her.”

Its more of a relief than he thought it would be to hear Hank stick up for him. You must have ran home to tattle on him, but knowing Hank has his back eases the anxiousness built up in him from the night before. “Anyways…when you see her, maybe Tommy can take her to get her things until we can get her car out, so she can get off of everyones back.” It’s going to have to be Tommy—there's no way in hell Joel can handle being in a car with her by himself with his current situation. “Absolutely, thank you Hank.” The man heads out the door with a genuine smile. “Don’t be too late for breakfast! Louise made fresh jam.”

Breakfast sounds like a dream to his empty stomach, so he gets back to the task at hand so he can spare himself a few minutes of downtime to eat before he gets back to work. He steps back into the stall, runs his hand across the top of his horse's back and sighs. “Maybe I should cut her some slack, huh Cersei? You’re kind of a bitch, but you’re still my favorite girl.” The horse nickers at him, flicks her tail and waits patiently for him to get back to brushing out her winter coat.

———

It’s breakfast when he finally sets eyes on you again, but you aren’t in those damn shoes—you’re barefoot like that's somehow any better. You’re barefoot in what looks like an old pair of your pajamas, like you just rolled out of bed when it’s already eight in the morning. “Look what the cat dragged in.” You sneer at him a little when he sits down across from you with his plate. Tommy hasn’t made it inside yet and Hank and Louise are in the living-room after they’ve already finished eating.

“I’ve been up for hours, what were you doing? Cant learn to manage a ranch if you sleep until eight in the morning.” Joel feels like he has the upper hand, and based on the look on your face, you know it too. “That’s what I have you for, to do all the grunt shit I don’t want to. I slept like a baby.” Joel on the other hand tossed and turned all night, willing away his morning wood for hours until he finally gave in and wrapped his hand around himself in the dark of his room under his soft quilt, where your prying eyes couldn’t reach.

It’s the only damn thing keeping him from chubbing up in his jeans, looking at you across the table in a pair of sleep shorts that ride up and leave little to his imagination. He thinks about how easy it would be to pull them aside and slip his fingers through your lips—if he would be able to get you wet. It’s enough to get him excited, so he tries to find a way out before it becomes too big of a problem.

“Where are you going?” He looks down at his plate, devising a plan to leave with it, so he can at least finish his breakfast. “Uhm…I have a lot to do today, figured I would get back to it while the day is young.” You push your chair back and stand as well, Joel’s eyes must have a mind of their own because they track up your bare thighs to the bottom of your shorts that have ridden up so much the fabric is pulled tight along the outline of your center—goddamn he can fucking see your pussy. He makes a sharp sound, choking on the spit building up in his mouth as it waters.

“You aren’t doing anything until you get my car out, you hear me? I’m not walking around another second like this.” You gesture to yourself—Joel couldn’t agree more. You need to wear clothes that fit you if he wants to keep his dick to himself. “Tommy is going to take you, he’ll be in soon.” You shake your head at him with a huff. “No, I don’t want Tommy taking me, he’s not the one responsible for leaving my car in the snow. You are getting my car out.”

He wants to argue some more, but arguing with you makes him horny and the last thing he needs is to be that worked up in a car with you for an extended period of time.

“Fuck—alright, fine—give me fifteen minutes and I’ll meet you at the truck.”

It’s a shit ass excuse to run back to the cabin and spend ten minutes jacking off as fast as he can fucking manage so he can control himself in the truck. It’s a futile attempt to control the way Hanks spitfire of a daughter makes him hotter than the surface of the sun.

You are going to be the death of him.