Okay Y'all I Was Just Doing Henna And Thinking. I Feel Like Josh Would Do Henna On His Dick. Just Maybe..

Not him acknowledging that no music is out yet lmfao

is blood and custard like blood and cum. idk I can't tell what the lyrics are but

OHHHH MY GODS

Deeper, Deeper, Deeper

Josh x Male! Reader

Warnings: Deepthroat, gagging, spit mentioned, breath play, minor degradation, sub!josh, m!Sub, M/M

Josh was excited for the end of tour, since it meant he could be a little rough with his voice.

The second Josh stepped off stage at their last show, he high-tailed it back to his hotel, not bothering to get out of his stage suit or his makeup. All day he’s thought about one thing, and one thing only: Being done with tour means he can be rough with his throat again. Or, well, you can be rough with his throat again, more accurately.

Josh wouldn’t call himself a deviant, but the man had his kinks. Unfortunately, when you’re a singer, you rarely find the time to risk losing your voice for a few days so you can deepthroat your partner’s cock. It’s one of the things he always looks forward to when taking a break from tour and recording.

He slipped into his hotel room, an excited grin on his face as he saw you waiting for him on the bed. He locked the door behind him and approached you, his hips swaying slightly with each step. The sequins and rhinestones on his jumpsuit glinted under the dim light in the room.

He climbed up onto the bed and right into your lap, that grin still on his face.

“Hi there, baby,” He mumbled, his arousal already growing under his velvet suit. You kissed his cheek, then his lips, knowing exactly what he wanted as he palmed you through your pants.

“My, my,” You spoke, your voice low as you trailed your fingers up to his neck, “You seem rather eager to get my cock down your throat. You really need it that bad, Joshua?”

He inhaled sharply as you lightly squeezed his throat, his eyes flashing with excitement and desire. “Mmm, fuck… Yes I do, baby. I’ve been thinking about it all day long,” He admitted as he groped over your hardening length, feeling it throb beneath your pants.

Leaning down, he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your scent. He popped the button of your pants open and tugged down the zipper, lifting your hips to get them off of you. Josh’s eyes lit up as your cock sprung free, a low whistle escaping his lips, “I never get tired of seeing you like this…”

He laid back on the bed, letting his head hang off the edge. His curly brown hair hung loose, a mess after so many shows. He looked up at you from upside-down with a lust filled gaze, parting his glossy lips in invitation.

As you slowly pushed your cock past his lips, Josh’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a muffled moan around your length. His tongue swirled around the head, teasing the sensitive underside as you slowly pushed more of your cock into his hot, wet mouth. At the same time, you reached out to palm his through his jumpsuit, a dark spot already visible on the fabric by the head of his cock. He rutted against your hand, the sequins and rhinestones of his jumpsuit catching the light.

As your cock hits the back of his throat, his nose was buried between your legs, right in your balls. He inhaled as best as he could at that angle, urging you on with a needy whimper. Despite the gagging sensation, he relaxed his throat to take you as deep as you could go, determined to swallow every inch of your cock.

You growl out a moan as an obscene bulge is visible on his throat from your cock. He whined as you traced it with your fingers, the vibrations sending tingles of pleasure through your length. His hips bucked against your teasing hand, the hard ridge of his clothed erection seeking desperate friction. He tried to bob his head, taking more of your cock in and out of his mouth. Drool dripped from his lips to the plush carpet at your feet, making a mess of his face. You could only imagine what his eyeliner looked like.

One of his hands came up to fondle your balls, rolling them gently in his palm. You groan, and begin slowly face-fucking him as he hung off the bed. On a particularly rough thrust, he gagged loudly, and you pulled off for a moment, letting him gasp in a bit of air.

“You’re doing so fucking good, baby… Wanna keep going?” You asked, stroking his cheek.

He looked up at you with a wild, lust crazed grin, “F-fuck yes… Just like that (Y/N)… Use my fucking throat like a cock sleeve. I can take it,” He rasped, his voice already wrecked. He opened his mouth wide, lolling his tongue out in invitation as he looked up at you with desperate, pleading eyes, urging you to continue.

You complied, and Josh took your cock deep into his throat again. Drool and tears ran down his face as he gagged and choked around your intruding cock. You fucked into his throat with careful thrusts, your balls slapping his face with every thrust forward. His own cock throbbed urgently in his jumpsuit, the wet spot growing larger as his arousal rose. He kept grinding his hips up into your hand, desperate for any friction he could get. The sound of his choked gags, your pleasured grunts, and the slap of skin against skin filled the room.

You knew you were getting close, that band of pleasure getting tighter and tighter with every thrust. You stroked Josh through his jumpsuit, wanting to get him off too. His whimpers and gags are loud, and you knew he’d need air any second. One particularly rough thrust made him moan around your cock, and you were done.

Josh gagged and choked as you buried your cock deep in his throat, your hot seed spilling down his throat. The sensation of you being so far down his throat was what pushed him over the edge, and he came undone with a muffled scream around your pulsing cock. He yanked his head back, gasping and sputtering, your softening dick slipping from his lips with a wet pop.

There’s a large dark spot on his jumpsuit, while drool, tears, and makeup run down his face as he gulps in much needed air, his chest heaving. “Fuck, (Y/N)…”

His voice was absolutely wrecked, no doubt useless for the next few days. It was worth it though, Josh thought, a dazed, satisfied grin on his messy face as you coddled him.

ME TOO when they showed him an ai photo of him as a pirate i was like ahhh that’s weird

It didn’t even look like him anyways

But the ai art for gvf is out of hand

LITERALLY!! and I felt so bad for people who were trying to get him their ACTUAL art! it's just odd and the fandom really needs to stop

Live Danny Reaction

Inspired by real conversation

many such cases

Reach, Reach, Reaching

Chris Turpin X Jake Kiszka Slash fic

Warnings: M/M, vouyerism, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fingering (m!rec), handjobs

Chris sees something not meant for his eyes. He decides to stick around.

(Note: This is all fiction. I am in no way implying these two are together IRL, this is just me having some fun and writing a fic. Don’t like, don’t read and all that jazz.)

Jake was pent up.

That’s all there was to it. Days and days and weeks of being on the road on tour, cramped in a small bus most days left him with little private time to himself. He always had at least one other member of Mirador with him, and it was starting to frustrate him. He caught a lucky break when the others decided to stick around at a bar instead of heading back to the bus.

He feigned feeling tired, slipping away as soon as he could to the privacy of the bus.

What he didn’t know was that Chris had followed him. It was unlike Jake to turn down a night out, and the blonde was worried that Jake might’ve been sick or feeling off in some way.

He thought he was right when he entered the bus, hearing a whimper, only for the whimper to turn into a moan. Chris felt silly, realizing Jake just wanted some alone time. He knew he should turn around and leave Jake be, but something pulled his feet closer, letting him peek through the crack in the door.

Jake laid on his bunk, one hand gripping the sheets while the other was busy between his legs. His breathing grew heavier as he stroked himself in his boxers, the tip leaving a wet spot.

“Fuck,” He whispered, staring through the crack.

At the same time, Jake’s mind was racing with fantasies. A faceless woman, maybe one from the crowd, on her knees in front of him. She morphed into some faces he had seen before, eventually landing on a blonde. He twitched as he thought harder about this blonde. Her eyes a blue-grey and her hair a soft and familiar style now. He gasped as his fantasy shifted into Chris, causing his cock to twitch in his grip.

“Chris…” he groaned, causing the blonde hiding behind the door to hold back a gasp.

Jake’s hips bucked against his hand as he got closer to his peak, his cock throbbing and leaking. He began thrusting up to meet his hand, the blanket rustling with his movements. His strokes become faster, more urgent, chasing his release. Jake’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth falls open in a silent cry of pleasure as he came hard, his cock twitching in his hand. The front of his shorts move with each spasm, a damp spot forming where his cock head is pressed against the fabric.

Chris slipped away as soon as he could, his face red and the blood all rushing south. Jake? Into him? He almost couldn’t believe it, had he not seen it himself. He vowed to not peep on Jake again, slipping back into the bar to drink the filthy thoughts away.

-

He didn’t last long. The next time Jake had an excuse to not join the others, Chris was following after. He told himself it was just to make sure Jake was alright, but he knew the truth deep down.

This time was different, though. Jake stripped and then climbed into his bunk, on his hands and knees. He pulled out a travel size bottle of lube from his sheets, pouring some on his fingers before pushing them into his ass with a whine. Chris couldn’t help but let his hand trail down to his cock, palming over it.

Jake’s breath hitched as he pushed two fingers knuckle-deep into his hole, curling and scissoring them to stretch himself open. He let his mind wander again as he rocked back against his hand, his moans muffled in his pillow.

“Deeper… fuck… go deeper,” Jake muttered, clearly absorbed in whatever fantasy was in his head.

A third finger was pushed in alongside the other two, pumping them in and out. Jake’s cock hung heavy and hard between his legs, leaking precum onto the blanket beneath him. Chris fucked against his hand, biting his lips as he watched Jake come undone.

Jake’s body tensed and shuddered as he came, his hole clenching around his fingers as sparks of pleasure shot down his spine. He buried his face in the pillow to muffle his cries, his cock pulsing as he shot thick ropes of cum onto the blanket beneath him.

“Fuck- ah! Fuck me!” He gasped out, riding the waves of his intense orgasm while Chris did the same, ruining his pants. Finally spent, Jake collapsed onto the bunk, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He slowly pulled his fingers out of his sensitive hole, a shaky moan escaping his lips at the sensation.

He made no move to clean himself up yet, instead basking in the afterglow of his release. Chris snuck away again, feeling shame wash over him at what he did. When he returned to the bus later, Jake was asleep and cleaned up, no traces of what he had done still left.

Chris had trouble sleeping that night.

-

It happened two more times, Chris catching Jake. Each time he’d shamefully get off, telling himself it would be the last time. But then he’d get drawn in again, getting off to it just like before.

This time, though, he was a bit tipsy by the time Jake headed back to the bus. As he crouched in his usual spot, hand down his pants, he shifted a bit. This caused him to get off-balance, falling against the door with his pants still down.

Jake froze, his eyes widening as he saw Chris stumble into the bunk area. He tugged a blanket over his lap to cover himself, not even daring to breathe. Then he saw Chris’ undone pants, and the shame on his face. Putting two and two together, a blush spread across his cheeks. He was mortified, but also strangely excited that he got caught in such a compromising position.

“C-Chris?” Jake mumbled softly, his voice slightly hoarse, “Did you… Were you watching me?”

He waited with bated breath for his response, his heart pounding in his chest. A part of him hoped Chris would say yes, that he’d confess to watching. But another part of him was terrified of possibly ruining the good thing they had.

Chris stood, his face red. He adjusted his pants, clearly still half-hard. He knew he couldn’t deny it.

“Yeah… I… I was.”

He was ready for Jake to yell at him, to hate him for this. Instead, Jake’s quiet words made him do a double take.

“I don’t mind. Y’know, if you keep watching?” His voice was barely above a whisper, “In fact… I kinda… kinda like the idea of being watched like that…”

He sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall away to reveal his naked torso and the tent in his boxers. Jake’s cheeks were flushed, but there was a new intensity in his eyes as he looked at Chris.

“Come in and close the door,” He murmured, gesturing to the spot across from him, “If you want to see… I’ll show you.” There was a slight tremor in his voice, but also a newfound boldness. The air between them was charged with a tension that wasn’t there before, a palpable heat and anticipation.

Chris knew he was giving him a way out. He knew he should take it, should turn and leave. But… He found he didn’t want to say no. Instead, he silently shut the door behind him, and approached Jake’s bunk. He sat at the other end, watching him. He didn’t touch himself yet, giving Jake his full attention.

Jake couldn’t believe this was happening. Emboldened by Chris’ presence, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down, freeing his hard, aching cock. It bobbed slightly as it sprang free, already flushed a deep red. Jake wrapped a hand around it, stroking slowly as he looked up at Chris with half-lidded eyes.

He picked up the pace of his strokes, panting softly as he put on a bit of a show for Chris. The sight of his friend watching him, the heat in his eyes as he took in every inch of Jake’s naked body, only served to turn him on more.

Chris slowly moved his hand to palm his cock through his pants, unsure if he should take his out too.

“I didn’t mean to watch you at first,” He admitted, his eyes never leaving Jake’s hand, “I just… I couldn’t resist.”

Jake shuddered as he felt Chris’ eyes roaming over his body, his gaze burning into his skin. He moved a little faster, more urgently.

“I… I’m glad you didn’t. I think I wanted you to see,” He breathed out, his voice thick with desire.

He spread his legs wider, giving the other man an unobstructed view of his hard cock and heavy balls beneath. Jake’s other hand slid down to cup himself, fondling his sack as he kept stroking.

“Touch yourself for me, Chris,” He urged softly, “I wanna see you too… wanna watch you get off on watching me.” He licked his lips, his chest heaving with each panting breath. The air is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of skin on skin.

Chris did as he was told, as if controlled by Jake’s voice. He shoved his pants and underwear down to his knees, giving himself a few unobstructed strokes.

“Jake… hah…” He groaned, his voice trailing into a whine as he watched Jake play with his balls.

The sight of Chris touching himself for Jake sends a bolt of pure lust straight to his core, making his cock throb and leak even more.

“Fuck, Chris… That’s so hot,” He growled, his voice ragged with desire, “Is that because of me?”

Chris nodded, his breathing heavy and low now.

Jake cupped his balls more firmly, rolling them in his palm as he pumped his shaft faster. The obscene sound of his hand flying over his cock filled the small space, mingling with the creaking of the bunk beneath them and their shared moans and gasps. Brown eyes were glued to Chris’ hand, watching the way his fingers danced over his hard flesh.

He suddenly wondered what it would feel like under his own hand.

“Come closer, Chris,” He urged breathlessly, reaching out a hand towards the blonde.

His cock was flushed a deep, angry red now, the tip an even darker shade as it leaked copious amounts of precum. Jake was teetering on the edge and Chris knew it wouldn’t take much to bring him there. He was hesitant at first, before scooting closer. They were thigh to thigh, and both seemed to wait for the other to make a move.

After a moment, Jake moved first. He slowly trailed his hand over Chris’ thigh, wrapping it around his hard cock and feeling the weight and heat of it in his palm. At the same time, Chris mirrored his movements. Jake shuddered as Chris’ fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock, giving it a slow stroke from base to tip. He let out a low, guttural moan into Chris’ shoulder at the contact, his hips jerking forward into his touch.

His head was tucked into Chris’ shoulder as they jerked each other off, the intimate touch adding to it all. Jake was panting now, breathing in the scent of Chris as he picked up the pace.

“Chris… fuck… you’re so warm and big in my hand…” He moaned, his voice muffled by Chris’ shoulder.

The feeling of their hands on the other’s most intimate place was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure through both of their bodies. Jake nuzzled into his neck, breathing in deeply as he lost himself in the sensation of finally touching Chris, of finally having Chris touch him back. He knew this was crossing a line, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. All he wanted was to keep touching Chris, to feel his skin against his own.

Chris knew he was getting close too, and spoke the first thought that came to his mind.

“ I saw you the other day… you took your fingers so well. Were you imagining it was my cock?”

Jake suddenly let out a choked off cry as Chris’ words sent him over the edge, his cock pulsing in Chris’ hand as he came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from the tip, splattering onto his thigh and a little onto Chris’ too as he rode out the intense waves of his orgasm.

“Ah- Fuck! Chris!” He shouted, his body aching with the force of his release. At the same time, he felt Chris’ cock twitch and swell in his hand before coating his fingers and thigh in his hot seed. The feeling of their cum mixing together, the knowledge that he made Chris lose control like that, it all intensified Jake’s pleasure. He stroked Chris through it, milking him for every last drop of his release as their thighs rub together, smearing the mess between their bodies.

Finally, as the aftershocks began to subside, Jake went limp against Chris, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He was panting heavily, his skin slick with sweat and the evidence of their mutual pleasure. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at Chris, his eyes hazy and satiated. A shy, satisfied smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“That was… fuck, that was amazing, Chris,” He murmured, his voice hoarse from his cries of ecstasy. He leaned in, nuzzling his head against Chris’, “If you ever want to watch me again… the door’s open.”

I think the main reason I relate to josh so much is because I too am a man whore

he's asking if he can hold ur shoulder boulders

6/9/25

oh this was so beautiful. this will be the reason I learn how to line dance

Boots, Beards & Betrayal

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: Danny finds a new pass time while Greta Van Fleet is off from touring that doesn’t involve the Kiszka’s, and they are less than accepting.

Warnings: language, assless chaps, Sassy Sam, Sunglasses at night - indoors, theft if you squint, alcohol consumption, a super bendy, a flexible guy named Ryder, shameless flirting, and the misuse of an Applebees 2 for $20 meal…

AN: This idea was born from seeing a random line dance tiktok while i was talking to @tripthedharmadivine! I actually sent her a very long message that started with "Imagine if you will -" and proceeded to fill her inbox with the most unhinged very shortened rough draft of this. She is a real one because she puts up with me, lol! 💜😘I also need to thank @writingcold because she read it first to make sure it wasn't too out there, and to make sure I dotted all my i's and crossed all my t's. She is an amazing human that one! And she also puts up with all of my harebrained ideas, and usually has some kind of input to make them better! 💜😘 LOVE YOU BOTH LONG TIME!

It all started with a girl.

Well, kind of.

Really, it started with Daniel Wagner following a girl into a honky tonk on a Thursday night - cowboy boots clicking like a metronome for the unhinged, disco ball spinning just a little too fast, the air thick with cheap beer, cigarette ghosts, country twang, and the scent of heartbreak that had been marinating in the floorboards since 1973.

He didn’t even get her name before she disappeared into a sea of denim, rhinestones, and the kind of joy only found in synchronized stomping. She was gone in an instant. Vanished between a man in assless chaps and a woman drinking tequila straight from a glittery boot.

But it didn’t matter. Because something else caught his eye.

Line dancing.

Structured chaos executed with wild precision. Absolute boot-stomping, fringe-flapping anarchy in 4/4 time. The dance floor moved like a single, glittery organism, every heel-toe and clap echoing like gospel. Boots stomped in perfect rhythm to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and something deep in Daniel Wagner’s soul - something dusty and long-dormant, shifted.

He stood there, eyes wide, transfixed. A grown man with calluses from drumsticks and emotional walls like Fort Knox, now practically weeping over a grapevine step.

He didn’t know where the girl went after that.

He didn’t care.

Within minutes, he was in the corner of the bar, hunched over his phone, trying to learn the Electric Slide from a YouTube tutorial titled “Beginner Line Dancing for Southern Moms.” His concentration was absolute. The bar could have been on fire and he wouldn’t have noticed unless the flames tapped to the beat.

And that’s where everything began to fall apart.

~~~~~

By the next Thursday, Daniel had returned.

Voluntarily. Eagerly.

Wearing a pearl snap shirt and a belt buckle so large it could pick up satellite channels. His boots were polished. His confidence was unearned. But dammit, he knew two whole line dances now and half of “Fancy Like.”

The bartenders greeted him with a nod. The DJ called him “New Boots.” A bachelorette party asked for a photo with him after he did the worm during a line dance break. He’d never been more alive.

And like any man in the first stages of a sudden identity crisis, he threw himself in completely.

By week three, he had purchased a denim vest embroidered with “Boot Daddy.”

By week four, he was attending practice. With a group. On purpose. In a church basement where everyone brought snacks in Tupperware and spoke in hushed reverence about the “Chattahoochee Slide Incident of ’19.”

Daniel didn’t understand it all. But he felt it. In his boots. In his bones.

At home, however, things were beginning to unravel.

He stopped replying in the group chat. He missed three rehearsals. He turned off his read receipts.

Josh tried calling him twelve times in one day. Sam drove by his house and swore he saw a hay bale in the driveway. And Jake… Jake refused to speak of it. Every time someone brought up Daniel’s name, he simply looked out the window and whispered, “He was the glue.”

By the fifth week, the others were fully convinced Daniel Wagner had been abducted by the Honky Tonk Underground.

“Guys,” Josh whispered one evening, holding up a blurry photo he’d found online. “This was taken last Saturday. That’s Danny. That’s him. In a hat. A real one. Not ironic. And look at his hips. They’re swaying.”

Sam leaned in, horrified. “He’s become one of them, and he looks... happy.”

Jake’s sunglasses glinted under the overhead light. He hadn’t moved in hours, but now, slowly, mechanically he reached down and pulled on his boots.

The others fell silent.

Josh swallowed. “What are you doing?”

Jake stood, slow and deliberate. He cracked his neck. “We’re going to get our drummer back.”

Sam grabbed the random zucchini laying on the kitchen counter, “Danny would understand,” was all the reason he gave. 

Josh grabbed a tambourine,  “For distraction purposes,” he clarified.

Jake grabbed the keys.

And with all the gravity of a rescue mission gone too far, they climbed into Jake’s jeep - an old thing with too many bumper stickers and a distinct smell of regret - and tore off into the night, following the distant sound of fiddle strings and heartbreak.

~~~

The honky tonk loomed ahead - loud, pulsing, alive. From the outside, it looked harmless enough. Neon lights. A wagon wheel. A banner advertising “Thirsty Thursday Boot Scootin’ Bonanza.”

But the trio knew better.

Inside that barn-shaped dive was a cult. A rhythm-based utopia. Their drummer - their friend - was somewhere in there, two-stepping further from sanity with every chorus of “Friends in Low Places.”

Jake killed the headlights a block away.

They parked in an abandoned Sonic lot and approached on foot, sticking to the shadows like denim-clad ninjas. Sam crawled behind a row of hay bales. Josh rolled unnecessarily across gravel, smearing dust and dirt all over his pants, that somehow made them shimmer and sparkle like glitter. Jake simply walked, slow and deliberate, sunglasses reflecting the honky tonk’s blinding marquee like some kind of country-themed action hero.

As they reached the entrance, they paused.

“Remember,” Jake said, voice low, teeth clenched around a toothpick that he had picked up somewhere along the way. “We go in quiet. Observe. Blend.”

Josh nodded. “Got it. Stealth.”

Sam gave a thumbs up. “I brought disguises.”

He pulled out three mustaches. All the same. All far too large.

Jake blinked. “That won’t work.”

“It will if you believe,” Sam whispered ominously, already sticking his on upside down.

They slipped inside with the slow-motion gravitas of an early 2000s action movie. Boots hit the floor in perfect sync. The bar lights strobed dramatically, though that might’ve just been a power issue. Everything slowed down - the glitter in the air, the whirl of the disco ball, the swirl of fringe and flannel moving as one.

Time didn’t stop, exactly. But it did sway to 4/4 time.

Jake scanned the crowd.

Josh gasped. “There. At the bar. It’s him.”

Daniel Wagner. Wearing a shirt that read “LINE DANCING SAVED MY LIFE.” Laughing with a woman in fringe and a man named Skeeter, who had a full sleeve of cowboy boot tattoos and the confidence of someone who'd line danced through a tornado.

“He’s… happy,” Sam whispered again, like it was the worst thing that could possibly be true.

They didn’t move. Just watched. Observed. Absorbed.

The bar smelled like spilled whiskey, deep-fried regrets, and…. glitter? A banner hung above the stage: “HONKY TONK ROYALTY: Line Dancing King & Queen Showdown”. The stakes? A trophy shaped like a rhinestoned boot, Honky Tonk King & Queen t-shirts, and a $50 gift card to Applebee’s each.

The music was loud. The crowd was louder.

Josh stared wide-eyed from the back of the bar. “...Did that sign say queen?”

Sam elbowed him. “Focus. We’re here for Danny.”

Then, as Sam turned to look at him, without warning - Josh was gone.

He slipped into the crowd, tambourine tucked under his arm, hips beginning to twitch dangerously to the beat. Sam cursed and ran after him. “DON’T YOU DARE CONGA LINE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Jake stayed in his spot.

Watching.

Waiting.

Planning.

They’d come for a rescue.

But the honky tonk had other plans.

Jake adjusted his belt buckle - pointlessly, but aggressively - and stepped into the fray.

The moment he crossed the dance floor’s threshold, something shifted. The lights hit him like judgment. The beat pulsed beneath his boots. A fiddle wailed from the speakers with the kind of violence that sounded… personal.

He was in the belly of the beast.

Line dancers moved in precise formation, parting just enough to let him pass like some kind of denim Moses. A woman in a pink cowboy hat winked at him. A man in sequined overalls offered him a Bud Light. 

Jake didn’t falter, just continued moving.

He stalked forward, sunglasses still on despite the dim lighting, scanning for Daniel - his brother in rhythm, lost to the glittered cult. He passed a couple practicing the “Honky Tonk Hipslap,” a bartender doing shots with a man wearing a bolo tie shaped like a scorpion, and an elderly woman who looked him up and down and whispered, “Gahlee boy, you look like trouble.”

He tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Ma’am,” before he made his way toward the stage for a better view of his surroundings.

Sam, still chasing Josh through the crowd, came to the middle of the dance floor and stopped dead in his tracks.

Daniel. Dead center of the dance floor. Mid-“Tush Push.” Beaming. Alive in a way Sam hadn’t seen since they played Red Rocks. Surrounded by people who were cheering him on like he was homecoming royalty.

Sam’s chest tightened.

And then the music stopped.

A voice boomed over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new challenger.”

The crowd turned.

Sam froze. “I’m not—”

But it was too late. The dance floor had closed in around him. The DJ hit the intro to “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” like it was a war cry. A woman handed Sam a fringed vest. Someone put a solo cup in his hand. The lights dimmed.

The crowd chanted: “DANCE OFF! DANCE OFF!”

Daniel stepped forward, face flushed, breathless, smiling. “Sam?”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “We came to bring you back.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Then dance for me, bitch.”

And with that, the crowd roared, the beat dropped, and Sam Kiszka - bassist, brother, reluctant savior - was dragged into the most aggressive line dance showdown in honky tonk history.

It started innocent enough.

Sam threw down a decent heel-toe combo. Nothing fancy. An attempt at a little old school mashed potato with a dash of the twist, and a few claps, just trying to keep pace with Daniel’s frighteningly natural rhythm. The crowd whooped, forming a circle like a country-western fight club, drinks sloshing and boots stomping in chaotic support.

Daniel grinned and spun - a perfect lasso-motion with his arms - his fringe cutting through the air like judgment.

Sam mirrored it.

Then Daniel body rolled.

And that’s when everything went sideways.

Sam hesitated. A body roll? Here? In daylight, with his brothers watching? But the crowd cheered. Encouraged him. Demanded it.

He rolled.

It betrayed him.

His back cracked like a haunted attic door. His hips lied about their range of motion. Jake gasped as he heard the crack from the edge of the dance floor. Someone yelled, “OH NO HE DID THE SPINE SHIMMY.”

But Sam kept going.

Fueled by pure spite and one tequila shot he deeply regretted, he doubled down. Hands in the air. Shoulders rolling like he’d been possessed by the ghost of a jazzercise instructor. Daniel answered with a slide, a spin, and a devastating finger-point.

Sam couldn’t lose.

So, naturally, he attempted a pirouette.

Why?

No one knows.

Not even Sam.

He lifted his arms. Planted his foot. Turned - once, twice - too many.

His other boot caught on a discarded cowboy hat. He flailed. Time slowed.

The crowd gasped in one collective inhale as Sam went down, limbs flailing like a noodle in a car wash. He hit the floor with all the grace of a wounded armadillo.

A hush fell.

Then, the DJ whispered reverently: “Fatal pirouette.”

Daniel extended a hand. “Nice try.”

Sam, flat on his back, groaned. “Tell my bass… I died line dancing.”

Jake facepalmed before choking out a laugh.

Josh shouted as he danced the funky chicken, “I TAUGHT HIM THAT SPIN!”

Sam’s head whipped around from the floor.

“No,” he croaked, eyes narrowing like a man who’d seen too much. “No.”

He sprang to his feet with the speed of someone who had absolutely no business springing to their feet.

“There he is!” he barked, pointing like a preacher spotting sin. “Josh, no!”

But it was too late. Josh had fully committed. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, his hair fluffed by the honky tonk air like a shampoo commercial in slow motion. He was doing a cowboy shimmy that felt deeply illegal in at least three states.

Sam tore across the dance floor, dodging boots, fringe, and pure chaos. “I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU START TWERKING—”

Josh cackled and galloped toward the back exit, two-stepping his way into legend.

Sam chased after him, red-faced and limping slightly, yelling, “YOU’RE RUINING OUR FAMILY NAME!”

Sam chased Josh through the back exit, boots skidding over gravel, past a smoldering ashtray and someone’s forgotten purse. But when he rounded the corner—

Nothing.

No Josh.

Just an empty lot lit by the neon hum of a flickering "Longneck Saloon" sign and the faint echo of laughter on the wind. Sam spun in a circle, hands on hips, muttering curses under his breath before trudging back into the honky tonk with the solemn air of a man who had seen things.

And then - there he was.

Daniel.

Cowboy hat tilted just so, arms locked with that same mystery girl, stomping and spinning like he’d been born in a barn and raised by honky tonk angels. His shirt clung to him in all the right places. His smile could light up all of Nashville. The dance floor glowed around him like a stage ordained by heaven and Bud Light.

Sam stopped cold. Jaw slack. Eyes wide.

He was watching a miracle. Or maybe a cult recruitment.

Josh sidled up beside him, whispering with reverence, “…Is he glowing?”

Sam’s fists clenched. “She corrupted him.”

They were just in time for the final round.

Josh shrugged off his jacket with Broadway flair, grabbed the nearest twink - whose name, it turned out, was Ryder - and shouted, “Partner me UP!”

Ryder screamed with delight. They twirled directly into the spotlight, as Josh summoned super bitch telling Danny to “fuck off” as Ryder twirled him around the floor to the sounds of Hank Williams Sr singing “Hey Good Lookin” in  a blur of sequins and commitment.

Sam tried to follow. He really did.

But fate, and someone’s discarded bolo tie had other plans.

He tripped, windmilled, and dominoed straight into three contestants and a bar stool, landing in a pile of denim, feathers, and mild embarrassment. The judge held up a hand. “Eliminated.”

Furious. 

Petty.

Sam resorted to throwing peanut shells on the floor trying to make Danny’s dancing partner slip and fall.

When those failed?

The chair he was sitting in came next.

It arced across the dance floor like a majestic, wooden missile, slow-motion and poetic. The impact was cinematic. Danny and the girl were mid-spin when it struck—shocked betrayal frozen in time as they toppled together like romantic bowling pins.

Josh and Ryder went down next. Legs tangled. Sass flying.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The DJ whispered, “Y’all… it’s a massacre.”

The honky tonk was chaos - upturned chairs, groaning dancers, peanut shells raining like confetti.  Amid the wreckage, Sam, Josh, and Danny regrouped by the jukebox, breathless and covered in varying degrees of sweat, sawdust, and shame.

Josh rubbed his elbow where he and Ryder had gone down. “You launched a chair, Sam.”

Sam crossed his arms. “It was symbolic.”

“Of what, exactly?” Danny asked, brushing sawdust off his shirt. “Your inability to cope with losing to a guy doing the Cha Cha Slide in cowboy boots?”

“You were glowing,” Sam snapped.

Danny’s brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You had that weird... twinkle thing going on,” Sam mumbled. “It was unnatural. Like you’d been kissed by Dolly Parton herself.”

Josh threw his hands in the air. “You assaulted all of us because Danny found his rhythm and I found a very flexible man named Ryder?”

“He flipped into a dip, Josh!”

Josh smirked, “Twice.”

“Okay, ENOUGH,” Danny said, running a hand through his hair. “We lost. No trophy. No t-shirts. No bragging rights. No Applebee’s gift card! Thanks to Sam’s cowboy WWE debut.”

They stood there, glaring, stewing in collective irritation and disappointment, when a sudden quiet washed over them.

Sam looked around. “Wait… where’s Jake?”

They all turned.

Scan of the bar - no sunglasses at night. No boot scuff trail. No awkward attempt at dancing with a drink in each hand.

Josh frowned. “He was at the bar when we came back in.”

Danny squinted toward the shadows near the back booths. “He’s not with tequila boot lady…”

Sam’s voice dropped. “You don’t think he left, do you?”

They fell silent. Something cold slid down their spines, replacing the whiskey warmth.

Josh glanced at the exit. “C’mon. We better find him before he signs up for karaoke. You know how he gets.”

Danny grabbed his hat. “Or worse - tries to slow dance alone.”

Sam shivered. “The horror.”

But just as they turned toward the exit, a sharp twang split the air.

All three froze.

Heads turned toward the stage where a small crowd had begun to gather, gasping and whispering.

And there he was.

Jake.

Standing dead center under the spotlight, stage lights catching in his hair like some tragic honky tonk messiah. He held a fiddle in his hands - wrong, completely wrong - like it was his SG. His fingers fumbled across the strings with the uncertainty of someone trying to butter toast with a spork.

Josh whispered, horrified, “Is he trying to play that thing?”

Jake squinted. Turned it upside down. Back again.

Then he began to pick.

Random, discordant notes at first - like a drunk mosquito tapping out Morse code.

Danny winced. “This is how revolutions start.”

But then—

Magic.

Like someone flipped a switch or poured moonshine on a gremlin.

The notes twisted into something terrifyingly familiar. Fast. Faster. Too fast.

Orange Blossom Special, but played like he was being chased by demons. The fiddle let out a scream of sonic chaos, and Jake leaned into it like he was summoning ghosts. His foot stomped the beat. The bow blurred in his hand.

Josh’s jaw dropped. “He’s - he’s shredding.”

Danny blinked. “On a fiddle.”

It was unhinged. It was magnificent. It was enough to make Roy Hall dance a jig in his grave and possibly rise to request an encore.

The bar went silent - then erupted.

Boots stomped. Hats flew. Someone screamed, “GET IT, VIOLIN JESUS.”

Sam, jaw clenched, whispered, “He’s possessed.”

Josh just stared. “He’s glowing.”

Danny put a hand to his heart. “I think I’m in love.”

The DJ's voice boomed over the speakers.

“Alright folks, the FINAL round of the line dancing competition is about to begin! Get your partners ready and your boots to stompin’!”

Sam, Josh, and Danny paused, then exchanged looks after noticing Jake was gone again..

"Now where'd he go?" Sam whined as Jake seemed to have disappeared from the stage.

“Maybe he’s in the crowd,” Josh muttered.

“Or backstage?” Danny suggested.

They didn’t see him anywhere. No Jake. No sunglasses. No unnecessary flair. Nothing.

Defeated, they retreated to the bar and claimed a corner with prime viewing. Sam ordered three whiskeys and a bowl of something suspiciously labeled "nacho-adjacent."

Minutes passed.

Competitors twirled. Couples spun. Fringe shimmered under the disco ball. And still - no Jake.

“Maybe he really did leave,” Danny sighed.

“He wouldn’t,” Josh said with conviction, then added, “Unless the bar ran out of bourbon.”

They were just about to give up when it happened.

“DON’T GIVE ME NO LINES, AND KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!” blared from the speakers, somehow played at double speed, nearly indecipherable.

And there on the edge of the dance floor — he emerged.

Jake.

But not just Jake.

Oliver Reed.

Fake beard askew. Cane tucked under one arm. Cowboy hat tipped rakishly to the side. He was dressed in his full, absurd alter ego getup, and his feet were flying.

An Irish jig. A literal, blazing, heel-kicking, toe-tapping jig. To the Georgia Satellites.

His limbs moved faster than physics should allow. The cane twirled. His loafers clicked in rhythmic fury. The entire bar ground to a halt.

One by one, the other contestants slowed, confused, mesmerized.

Josh’s jaw dropped. “What... what is happening?”

Danny shook his head in awe. “He’s... glowing.”

Sam’s fists clenched. “The honky tonk corrupted him.”

The music hit its final frenzied beat just as the DJ leapt to the mic.

“Well folks, I think we’ve got a clear winner here! Give it up for... OLIVER REED!”

The bar erupted.

Jake bowed. The beard fell off mid-spin.

Nobody cared.

The crowd was still roaring as Jake—er, Oliver Reed strutted off the dance floor, cane twirling and beard now draped over one ear like a rogue opossum.

Sam was the first to intercept him.

“What was that?” he demanded, eyes wild. “You jigged. To Southern rock. In disguise. After vanishing for half an hour!”

Jake blinked, still catching his breath, chest heaving. “I blacked out. I think I heard the spirit of Johnny Cash tell me to take it personally.”

Josh doubled over, laughing so hard he had to lean on a bar stool. “What even is our life right now?”

Danny pointed at Jake’s feet. “You were hovering. I swear to God. I saw sparks.”

Jake grinned, barely able to stand. “I don’t remember anything. Someone just handed me a fiddle and said ‘prove it.’”

Sam threw up his hands. “YOU CAN’T EVEN PLAY THE FIDDLE.”

Jake shrugged. “Apparently I can now. I think the beard unlocked something.”

Josh wiped tears from his eyes. “I—no, I can’t—Sam, please be madder, this is killing me.”

“I am mad!” Sam shouted, gesturing wildly. “You disappeared. We thought you’d been abducted by honky tonk cultists. Then you teleport onto the dance floor dressed like a grandpa and win the whole damn thing??”

Jake patted his shoulder solemnly. “The beard chose me.”

Danny leaned in, still trying to breathe through his laughter. “You okay, Sam? You’re looking a little... emotionally unstable.”

“Don’t. Start with me,” Sam growled, pacing a tight circle. “We were disqualified because of my chair, and somehow you still won with a cane and a jig.”

Josh nudged Jake, eyes sparkling. “You know he’s just mad because he is jealous of Ryder’s bendy flips and dips.”

“Ryder was limber,” Jake acknowledged, nodding.

“DON’T MAKE THIS ABOUT RYDER,” Sam wailed.

“Too late,” Danny said. “This is now Ryder canon.”

Sam turned in place like a malfunctioning Roomba. “I hate this bar. I hate line dancing. I hate Georgia Satellites. And I especially hate that Jake looked good doing that jig.”

Jake slung an arm around his shoulders. “We’re all winners tonight, Sammy-boy. But especially Oliver Reed, and well… interestingly and profoundly me”

Sam let out a long-suffering groan as they exited the bar. 

~~~~~

They all gathered at Applebee’s to cash in the coveted gift card Jake - sorry, Oliver - had won through his stunning display of foot fury and disguise. A true hero’s feast was in order.

Josh, having crowned himself with the neon purple Honky Tonk Queen shirt he’d pilfered from Jake’s prize pile, entered the restaurant with the flair of a man arriving at the Met Gala, finger-gunning the hostess and announcing, “Royalty has arrived.” He refused to sit unless someone pulled out his chair. No one did.

Jake insisted on drinking only from his rhinestoned boot trophy. He brought it in tucked under his arm like a newborn, cleaned it with a napkin, and poured root beer in it with the reverence of a sacred ritual. “It tastes better this way,” he claimed, while clinking it gently against the salt shaker in a lonely toast to himself.

Sam, always on a different wavelength entirely, asked the server if the cook could incorporate the zucchini he’d brought from home into his meal. “It’s organic,” he explained, placing it on the table like an offering. “And emotionally bonded to me.”

The server blinked. “Sir, this is an Applebee’s.”

Danny, ever the oasis of reason among unrelenting nonsense, had quietly ordered a 2-for-$20 meal and was aggressively guarding both plates like a dragon hoarding treasure. The glint in his eye said don’t even think about it.

“No, Sam,” he said, not even looking up from his riblets. “I don’t want to share.”

“But you got the spinach-artichoke dip and the—”

“No.”

Josh tried to flirt with their waitress by telling him he’d just won a major dance competition. When he asked what the prize was, Jake leaned in and said, “A boot and a trauma bond.”

Sam, stewing in his seat, kept muttering things like “I was the real Honky Tonk Queen,” and “If I had better arch support, I would’ve won.” He also started Googling “line dancing legal loopholes.”

Josh, mid-way through a chicken tender, caught sight of himself in the reflection of the napkin holder and whispered, “God, I do look good in purple.”

Jake, still sipping from his trophy, declared, “Oliver Reed never dies. He just line dances into legend.”

Danny sighed, wiping his hands slowly with a napkin. “I should’ve gone home with the mystery girl. Or literally anyone else.”

Josh finally raised his regular glass - he’d given up trying to steal the boot - and made a toast, voice raw from laughing and inhaling mozzarella sticks.

“To chaos, twinks, and aggressive footwork.”

Sam raised his zucchini.

Jake raised his rhinestoned boot.

Danny did not raise anything. He just kept eating, silently accepting the fate of being the only sane man left in Applebee’s.