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thechaoscryptid · 6 months

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my writing warm-up today got a little out of hand so pls enjoy some Tav/Astarion (reads gender neutral but you can see my Tav under the cut) hurt/"Astarion's best attempts at comfort but they don't land real well bc he's still not sure how to Relationship and Tav is Unsure About Their Status Generally" from after clearing the Waning Moon (did I accidentally trigger the fight, yes). Takes place before The Hug Scene, but he can have some touching, as a treat.

"I don't think the fire's going to give up any secrets, dove, but you can keep glaring if you'd like." Astarion piles himself at your feet, hesitating only slightly before leaning back between your knees. The camp is silent save for the echoing, animal chittering in the surrounding forest, but you know the tension that lines his shoulders—he does not trust the quiet.

To relax is to bare your belly for gutting; to be vigilant is to survive.

By now, you have had enough of survival to last a lifetime.

The flames crackle, and the embers that dance their way down to the dirt do little to catch your bleary eyes. Exhaustion sings through you, echoing off of your ribs like a dirge from cathedral ceilings.

"Darling?" Astarion's fingers are cool against your ankles. They ease the ache that's built up over the last several days of sprinting across gnarled roots and crumbling brick. The Shadow-Cursed Lands take no prisoners, and though you are by far the weakest among your not-so-merry band, you will not be the link that breaks the chain.

There is too much at stake to fail.

Your dry mouth works as Astarion twists to look up at you, but no words come to mind. The furrow between his brow deepens when your fingers tremble atop his head.

"You're practically falling over," he accuses. "How in the hells do you expect to make it to bed? Why haven't you gone already?"

You shake your head once, mouth twisting in a smile that lands like a slap. "I took first watch."

"You—" He scoffs. "Gods, is everyone in this damned camp a fool? Don't answer that," he continues when you take a deep breath. "'We're all a team, Astarion; we need to look out for one another, you prick.' You've made the point so many times that I think about it when I trance." Draping himself across your thigh, he reaches up to cradle the plane of your throat. "How much magic did that...that beast take out of you? Wretched creature—you should have taken the drink, you know."

"All of it," you rasp. "And quite a few scrolls, in addition."

Astarion curses. "And everyone's all left you alone."

"I volunteered."

"They have eyes. They should use them." Astarion rises, all fluid grace and towering ire as he looms, carding a hand through your mussed braids. "Let me guess—you told them you were fine."

Though you butt your head into his palm like that cat at Last Light he was so enamored with, your eyes narrow as you glance up. "I am. Look, I can stand."

And you do, admirably steady for all of half a second before he pushes your shoulder and your calves knock against the felled tree you've dragged in for a bench. The sudden stop when Astarion grabs your elbows and pulls you into him sends a jolt down your already-frayed nerves.

"Anyone could walk up and take you, and you'd be defenseless," he murmurs. His hands slide down the length of your forearms, and then skim up to your jaw. You allow him to tip your head from side to side, but cannot meet his eyes—you've always found it hard to reconcile their emptiness with his professed concern.

You say, "Is that what you want? To take me?"

And he says, "No."

"Are you hungry, Astarion?"

"Not for you," he says, and he sounds so disgusted that you flinch. "Oh, not—" He clicks his tongue, then sighs. His whole body sags as he attempts to meet your eyes. "Look at me, darling. Chin up."

Though his touch is gentle, there is a poorly-concealed tremor in the fingers that curl in the hollows below your jaw. You look at his mouth, though it's impossible to read when it's lying.

"Oh, you are haunted by something tonight. I'm sorry, if that makes a difference. I only meant I want you strong tomorrow."

You list to your left and whine—it feels pathetic, even on a night such as this—at the undercurrent of sincerity in the apology.

"Come to bed," he says, softening. "Rest. I'll take watch."

"I promis—"

"Look around—no one's going to come for your throat about taking a night off." The world whirls as he twists you in his arms, then wraps them around your stomach as he nuzzles against your pulse. "I might have to get territorial if they did, you know. I do appreciate your willingness to offer it up; I'd hate to see it ruined. It would be a dreadful mess to clean up around camp, wouldn't it?

"And..." he continues, abandoning your neck in favor of walking you a few steps forward, away from the fire and toward his tent. "You sleep so soundly in my bed. I enjoy watching you come alive in the morning."

Your face heats, and you mumble, "Not that soundly."

"You snore."

Smacking lightly at the back of his hands, you squirm back around to face him. What you see does nothing to untangle the tight knot of feeling lashed to your chest: wide eyes gone soft with concern, a hint of mirth in the lines that frame them, and the beginnings of true fondness in his smile.

"What?" he asks when you avert your gaze.

You bite your tongue against the confessions borne on the leaden wings of exhaustion; this is not the place to delve into desires. It is easier to choke down I want more and I love you and We are the same shape of broken—to let them fester where they're branded on your bones—than to watch his eyes shutter against the words.

"I'm tired," you say instead, and it is the truest truth you've ever uttered, "of having to protect everyone."

"So don't." Astarion bends to rest his temple against yours. "Let me be your sword and shield, if only for the night. Rest, dove—you've more than earned it."

Bonus: my Tav, Kestra! She's a human sorcerer specializing in necromantic and cold damage, and based off of one of my original novel characters 🥰

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate 3 #my writing

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moondirti · 1 year

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tender / and what’s left

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronze at this time of day, you know you can't touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: explicit (mdni) word count: 4.3k summary: what gentle has come to mean warnings: smut, canon typical violence, angst, mild gore, mentions of death, very little plot, blowjobs, fingering, joel is not nice - not necessarily. tumblr please don't tag my shit notes: yeah... yeah. i don't know how i feel about this one. i tried something different with the style. that is, i cut down on the purple prose, so let me know what y'all think about that. also, can you tell i struggled with joel's characterisation? idk, it's a mess. but anyway - enjoy!

You’ll never get used to the smell.

Granted, the contrary was a lie you told yourself once things had gone to shit. A painkiller – your harsh reality sliced into digestible portions and force fed through a dry gullet. Mother earth will reclaim what spoils – like putrid carnage buried behind a thick cover of dirt, perfuming crisp air. That nature, prosperous again, would wind itself around humanity’s faults and embellish your end with a lush green.

And maybe it will, one day.

But it takes a while for bodies to burn. You’ve come to accept that’s all you have to look forward to in your lifetime. So, you focus on the scent of sulphur-doused charcoal and try to ignore how flesh sizzles when you throw another corpse into the flame.

Once the weight is offloaded, you trek back over the beaten path to the truck, your fingers tense with the frigid wind. A storm had come screeching through last night, mewling its sombre song while spewing out a flurry of ice onto the decaying buildings of the QZ. The sterility had lasted all of about an hour before the powdery white turned sludge and jaundice-yellow stains popped back up along the streets.

The only salvageable thing about winter, tainted with piss.

Huffing to yourself, you curl your hands to dissuade the frost gnawing on your knuckles and square your shoulders for the next haul. A quick scan of the cargo hold tells you you’re nearly done. There must have been ten or so infected cadavers when the unit had been dropped off – piled atop one another, heads wrapped in bags and arms still bound behind their backs. Joel had divided the work between the two of you – sectioning the heavier builds off for himself – and you’d made quick work disposing of the majority before the stink of death could cling to your blouse.

As for him–

He brushes up behind you, stunted to a slower pace, carrying a body twice his size. You tune in to his laboured breaths, the grunts he makes with each step, muffled behind the bandana he wears as a mask. In your peripheral, you think you spot it slipping – slicked with the sweat that shines down the curve of his nose. His hair is much the same; speckled grey, glistening with sebum and a gruelling day's work.

(You recall what it feels like, clutched in your tight grip. You like pulling at it, borderline violently, whenever you can. Whenever he lets you–)

You stop yourself. The tangent has a viscous momentum you’re all too familiar with. Reeling it in, you tuck it near your gut before it can get away from you. Instead, you choose to single in on the way his back rolls when he throws the weight into the pit – the penultimate corpse. Then, back to the task at hand. The trailer stands empty now, save for the last; a smaller frame, curled in on itself, clad in embroidered jeans and a dirty, purple sweater.

He kept the child for you.

What’s left of one, anyway.

Two seconds pass. You crouch to tie your shoelaces.

(You got them for free – traded off a FEDRA agent with a dependance on oxy. You don’t think you’ll get as lucky with gloves. Winter clothes run like cigarettes here – the theft of your last pair indicative of that fact.)

When you stand back up, the body is still there.

The chain to the trailer latch is tangled. You decide to undo it before you move.

It won’t disappear.

Just deal with it.

It might be the cold, or the sore patch on your palm, singed from hovering too close to the flame. Food poisoning, credit to poorly cooked rat jerky, or the flu. You tell yourself it’s anything apart from what it is. You know he’s staring – can feel the laden look, sparking the frayed nerves along your shoulder. Just deal with it; the sentiment swimming in dark eyes. Deal with it; his rough voice nails into you.

It’s not a kid. Not anymore. Not since a network of fungal threads wiggled their way into the gummy recesses of its brain.

(But its skin is soft. Not one scar on those delicate hands.)

You let your gaze slide across the courtyard. His presence tips the scales of your consciousness, crushing with its force, and you find his brow quicker than you can blink away the wariness in your expression. He’s leaned up against a wall, twisting a spare rag over his fingers. His dry study is indecipherable.

Your jaw clicks.

He steps the slightest bit forward.

With a sharp tug on the body’s ankles, you deflect his intervention and position it so that you can easily heave it onto your bent arms. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be. That, or, it’s the rigour mortis, its joints stiffened to intractable peaks.

Keep your back straight and use your knees.

(Joel taught you how to lift anything. He said it’d come in handy, one day. You still can’t tell what he’s preparing you for.)

When you flip the child into the fire, the bag flies off its head. Its hair is the same shade as yours.

He takes double your shift.

You were a florist, before, operating right outside Boston. It’s easy to forget what it was like: cramped in that two hundred square foot shop, up to your elbows in thorns as humidified air pooled beneath your pits. There’s the vague picture of a book, fatter than your forearm, always propped open on the register counter. Floriography, a guide to the Victorian language, with watercolour illustrations and an empty page dedicated to your scrawled notes on customer orders.

And, there is the memory that accompanies it.

An infatuated friend – no, assignment partner – in your mycology requirement. He’d gifted it to you on your birthday and you’d given a complaisant smile back before going back to the video your professor put on. It didn’t interest you at the time. You were a botany student, desperately clinging to the last shred of your sanity before the end of term, and you did not care about the outdated science of some epidemiologist in 1968.

Perhaps you should’ve.

But–

You remember the flowers.

Post-grad. You’d bring them in from wholesalers in Columbia. Dahlias and daisies by the dozen – thriving boscages, nursed in minerals, tepid water. It was a blend of powdered femininity, a reification of the artificial scent you’d practically bathe in as a kid. Soil a pillow for nectar and dew, their roots still branched in the nourishing mix. And it was marginally obsessive, the way you’d drink all of it in. Like divine ambrosia, hung in a drunken stupor of all-natural proportions.

In the mornings, you’d separate their petals with a gentle hand. You felt as though you could sit forever in that quaintness. It did not feel like a job.

Joel takes double your shift, because you cannot wait to get away from shit-clogged sewers.

He comes back disgruntled, just as the afternoon sinks below the horizon.

The room soaks in an orange tint, a deluge of evening light spilling in from outside. Scotch whiskey burns a trail down your throat, irritatingly concentrated, and you wonder where he got it from. Not many drinks nowadays pool as deep in your belly, are warm enough to strike your inhibitions. You blink, tipsy – malt and smoke clustered on your tongue – and can’t help but smack your lips, the taste reminiscent of the musk you lick from in between his legs.

He comes up behind you, pulling the bottle from your cradle before you can take another swig. You’d set a dirty tumbler out for him too, lipstains smudged against the annealed glass. He pours two fingers worth, then sits back with a weary sigh. It rumbles from somewhere in his chest, hampered with the deep baritone of his own voice.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

This is what life consists of. Busy work and silence.

Anything is better than clicking.

You observe him in your free time.

It’s not often you’re granted the luxury of running your fingers down his face. You have, once, after coming home much too late to see him knocked out, practically blitzed on hydro. You’d discovered his skin – that it matched the way it looks; rough, sun-worn like old leather. It folds up along his forehead, between his brows, etched in a permanent look of exasperation. He’s marked in wrinkles you don’t think will ever go away.

(You’d tried smoothing them out. It was a stupidly sentimental action, founded on the sudden spout of emotion that plagued you that night. You had just been beaten an inch from your life, and wanted to find comfort in the fact that – if anything – he was peacefully at rest. But he looked tired, even in his sleep.)

His eyes are far away, too. His lips, pursed. The way his hair twists on his head suggests that it’d been curly, once upon a time – flipping like waves crashing towards an isolated island. Uncoordinated. Devastating. And his beard is all but an extension of that brutality – patchy and abrasive, particularly when it smooths along your thigh. He’s ruinously handsome; weathered and dry and dark and so, so goddamn handsome.

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronzed at this time of day, you can’t touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

You slide off the chair, onto your knees.

You’ve been around long enough for him to sense what’s coming. His shoulders slouch, slack posture buttressed against the back of his chair, and the movement allows his legs to spread, just so you can slot between two beefy thighs. They ripple with restrained strength when you run your hands along them, muscle apparent even under the cover of his jeans.

“You’re tense.” You remark, slowly ironing closer to the bulge at his crotch.

“Long day.” He responds with a torn exhale.

The unfurling of his zipper puts an end to the short conversation. You ruck his pants to his pelvis, then scoop his cock out from behind his boxers. It’s semi-hard, heavy in your clutch, pulsing as though it aches. You slip to the base – nested in a bush of wild, auburn hair – and tug it until he swells to become velvet-covered iron. He thickens, brims with arousal, head darkening to the colour of a day-old bruise.

It’s when it’s like this–

When you’re on your knees, or back, or stomach, his flesh smelting your insides like you’re metal over brimstone. Your lips wrap around him – stretching taut at cracked corners, your tongue rolling over his frenulum. You will yourself to sink further, to let him touch your tonsils and the enveloping heat there. Your breath hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in, coating his length with a film of saliva, which aids you when you pull back up. Still, he’s too big for you to fully take, so you wrap what you can’t reach and twist it in tandem to your bobbing head.

Spittle pools at your lip, globbing out to splatter on his boxers. You can’t control the gags his girth elicit. It doesn’t matter. His large hand cups your temple, guiding you lower. You hollow your cheeks to accommodate the bludgeoning rhythm of his cock, choking on the smell of sweat and denim. He’s heady, potent with brine. Blurring heat corners your eyes, tears cropping at the sheer indulgence of it all. You don’t know whether he notices as they slip down your cheeks, whether he goes harder because of them.

It’s in these perennial moments, pearlescent prespend seeping down his shaft – a beautiful compliment to his skin – where you’re simultaneously selfish and selfless in a world that is kind to neither. That he feels more alive than ever. Pumping, pounding, like the fibrous sinew of a still-beating heart.

He’s not gentle as he takes. You don’t discourage it.

(You believe he’s forgotten how to be. There’s a certain severance you have to make to survive; a detachment from humanity. You don’t doubt he was a good man, once. You hear it in his cadence, that southern twinge that speaks to days of gentleman-like civility past. It’s excusable. You understand. You can’t complain of the strain he puts on your throat. You too have lost your touch.

But it cannot reduce the red on your ledgers. Gore binds the very books together.)

Cum covers your palette when he spurts his end – a hot, febrile concoction; the ocean lapping up on a beached log, like sand in every crevice. He holds your head down until you swallow, knees spasming against hardwood floors.

You splutter for air when you finally draw away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Joel shifts forward, picking an unknown material off the table above your head. You can’t discern what it is – not until he brings it down to your chin.

Your washcloth. Threadbare and thinning still.

He doesn’t let you speak as he helps you clean the evidence of his sin.

Lilies for restored innocence. Carnations for pure love.

You cycle through your mental index of funeral arrangements as carmine ichor spills from your front.

The operation hadn’t gone according to plan.

Joel said it’d be a quick pillage of a newly empty warehouse; an apparent treasure trove for supplies, left abandoned after a firefly attack drove FEDRA security off its perimeters. Lined wall to wall in crates of salvaged items; he’d heard wind of it through a contact in the agency – some son of a bitch by the name of Liam, trying to pay off a withstanding debt. Easy gains, he’d smiled, you can take your pick of the loot.

The knife lodged in your gut begs to differ.

(You posit another smuggling ring got dealt the same deal. They had come in behind you. Jumped fast, fought dirty – took all the ammo and cigarettes they could carry and left you for dead. Naturally.)

Where the fuck is he?

Vignette shadows edge your vision, throwing everything off kilter. You can hardly process every aspect at once: the pulsing wound, the surge of blood. Nausea encroaches on the site, convulsing in around the jagged blade, cramming your intestines for space. It blazes a fiery path up to your lungs, where your breaths escape in short, shallow increments. Oxygen dwindles. You’d skipped breakfast. Still, you heave as fluorescent lights blink in and out of existence above you.

The concrete floor is unforgiving.

Gladioli, perhaps. For someone who’s proven their strength. Tears glue your lashes shut, and you imagine being buried out in a field of their long stems. Swathed in peach, pink, babydoll colours untainted by grime. You wonder if Joel knows a place.

(You never asked for his favourite flower.)

The stab festers, broiling over with an impassioned heat. It must be hell overturning your system, bubbling up in pus, swaying you from making your peace. All those lives you took. The thorns you’d clipped. Your head is lifted onto a twitching lap. It’s soaked in carnage and smells like him.

Thank god. Felt like it was gonna explode.

“B-Bout– nghn, time.” You cough. You’re able to discern his silhouette through the fog, cloudburst heavy on your lids. It’s sticky, disorienting.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me now. We’ll get t-this fixed. We’ll get this fixed, okay?” He chokes, wrestling with a roll of something. “I gotta take the knife out, baby. It’ll hurt. It–”

“It–It’s okay.”

“No, no. Up, open your eyes, c’mon.”

You were hired to supply a wedding with its finery, back when you first opened shop. It was the gig that promised to put you on the map, insisted upon by a childhood friend who had the money to blow on imports from Holland. You’d spent days fine tuning the arrangements – fussing with leaves, waxing petals, trimming roots. Your cuticles were red, raw by the end.

The next week, all the flowers had wilted. The paraffin you used was the wrong type.

Joel’s voice cracks like a spoiled floret. You burn at the knowledge that it’s your fault.

He doesn’t give you the option to grieve it, twisting the blade out of your abdomen. You lurch forward, thrashing with a warbled scream. Borderline animalistic, the pain tears through you with harrowing intensity.

His hand smooths your hair back in the meanwhile, brushing across your sweaty forehead, winding between the tresses. You shudder under a wave of hypoxia and come to a sobering revelation.

It feels nice.

Something shifts.

He was quiet before. A man of very few words; upon your first meeting – a partnered smuggle run, arranged via Tess – you recall tallying the hours until he spoke. It hit three, prior to your suggestion of something so bewilderingly stupid he just had to pitch in his discontent. You’d smirked it off. It hadn’t been personal.

(Possibly the one insight that allowed you to continue working with him.)

But since your close call, he’s funnelled down to occupy a fraction of his previous presence. You suspect it has everything to do with how you bled out in his arms.

He leaves and returns during your small bouts of restless sleep. You don’t hear from him, or see of him – aside from the rare occurrences when your days intersect; when he comes back, tarnished and tired, to crash on the couch before his next job. You would haul him to bed if you could, yet your gut throbs in barely-healed rage with every exertive move. So, you spend your limited time with him as you’ve grown used to doing – watching.

His nightmares have gotten worse.

You used to experience them in pyretic transitions, suspended in a state of hypnagogia, your consciousness bleary and flickering like old film set ablaze. You’d feel his tremors, could hear his whispered pleads filter in on your own dreams. But they existed as secondary – something to be acknowledged in that post-apocalyptic, apathetic way. I get ‘em too, bud. He never mentioned them, so you wouldn’t ask.

To see him unravel is another thing entirely.

Like corduroy twill being picked apart at the seams. A material made to be durable, to tough out years of erosion. He quivers, forearms contracting over his chest, his brows creasing. Something about Sarah as his hands rub together, clawing at his palms.

You wind your limbs around your middle. It’s frightening, you realise. You’ve come to know this man in the snarled face of adversity – he’s never so much as stuttered, carved in resilient rock. But it had to have come from somewhere, and if not vomit, if not viscera, if not fungi–

Whatever it is that torments him, you pour a glass of water and wait for him to wake.

He doesn’t look at you when he does. You don’t blame him; you’re practically pellucid, yellowing undertones an effect of the lesion that marks your stomach. The only thing you’d gotten out of the warehouse were medical supplies in abundance. You credit only them with your continued survival.

“I’m going back.” Joel says, tapping his index on the glass. You blink, nonplussed at the sudden noise. You recover in half the time, though, and open your mouth to protest. “We left some valuable shit behind.” He interrupts.

“You can’t go alone.”

“You’re staying behind.”

“I’m fine,” You start, then wince with the movement.

He stares at you, incredulous. The silence punctuates his point.

“Tess has a few men holding it down. It should be simple.” And with how he grits it, the words hissed through clenched teeth, it’s evident he means it as an end to the discussion. But doubt maturates, wheezing in the way punctured lungs do, sore under the pierce of cracked ribs. Tension swells from the afflicted site. You can’t control the disillusion in your tone.

“That’s what you said last time.”

Nothing erupts.

Not how you expected it to, anyway. It takes a moment for the blame to meet him, to find its honest meaning. In that time, it hangs between you, echoing, precariously balanced on seething eye contact. Then, his gaze flickers down to your abdomen.

“I’m not the idiot who almost got herself killed.”

It carries all the malice you wished for, and more.

(Whatever tenderness he had left must have bled out with you on that floor.)

He doesn’t die. But then again, that wasn’t what you were concerned about.

Joel makes his first appearance three days later. The return is sporadic, and divided upon many, each time with a small bag of supplies he stuffs underneath the floorboard. The sacking was successful, then–

(He throws a bottle of antibiotics onto the kitchen counter, his jerking shoulder a rough indication that it’s meant for your injury. But when his face catches the light, you’re thrown with the inkling that he might need them more than you.)

–though, nothing is without its faults.

Eggplant purple and violent red blend in a mottled contusion across his cheekbone, painted down to his neck – beyond his collar – hidden to your wandering gape. You’re no stranger to bruises; the world collapsed in on humanity a good twelve years ago, and burst capillaries have become a constant under the macerating weight. Yet it’s another layer stripped, a sheet of titanium snatched off the manifold complexity that is him. You’d never seen the evidence of his pain so clearly illustrated atop his skin.

“Joel–”

“Leave it.” He snaps.

You bite the inside of your cheek, pushing yourself up to sit by the sink. It’s futile to beckon him over, so you wait his pacing out by dousing a rag in leftover alcohol.

“Was there anything even left?” You accuse. He unzips a duffel bag atop the dining room table, ruffling through a layer of bandaids.

“Yes. The rations’ll last us two months, if we sell to the right people.”

“Thrilling.”

Your sarcasm lingers until he finally finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a jar of ground coffee from behind a box of detachable blades. When he walks over to fetch a mug, you grab him by the wrist and wrench him closer.

(You wouldn’t have been able to, had he not let you. You know his strength trumps yours.)

When you touch the makeshift wipe to his face, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“What did this?” The question stretches, losing its structural integrity under your elemental concern. This is all novel territory – you don’t make a habit of licking another’s wounds clean. But his desperate pleas hold possession over you; the restrained distress, the wavering timbre. Stay with me now. We’ll get this fixed.

“Gun.”

Your hand falters over his jaw.

“Butt end.” He adds. “FEDRA was on the scene.”

“Right. Do I even have to say it?” You whisper. ‘Told you so’ titters on the tip of your tongue.

“No.” He concedes.

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, locked in a begrudging dance that pulls you off your feet. Winter has nearly melted to its end, now; the howling gale tapering to a draft that crawls beneath window sills. Somehow still, it penetrates you, even colder than before.

(Joel crackles like a fed furnace, biting at the firm coals of your desire. You unconsciously veer closer, wiggling your hips until your legs cage his. He holds you in place with one large hand, the other gliding beneath the hem of your jeans.)

“You’re hurt–”

“So are you.” He settles. His fingers press up against the plush of your cunt, finding that electric centre. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and likewise, not enough; a defibrillator to your core, one that cannot revive you.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, finding purchase in his broad build. It does nothing dampen the needy moan you make when he pushes your panties to the side, toying with your swollen folds. He spots you, clenching around nothing, soaking the calloused pads of his thumb. It takes place on your clit, then, index and middle inching towards your hole to plug you full.

“Needy fucking thing.” He groans, shoving his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss. Far from it. He doesn’t try to match the pace of your gaping surrendering, preferring to devour you instead. You pant up into his mouth, gyrating with the back and forth of his pumping digits.

He claws out in you your tender-most spots.

(But that’s just it, isn’t it?

He might not be gentle, in the worn definition of the word. The touch that peels petals, reverent, finding delicacy in the finest bits of creation; gold leaf and concentrated fragrance. What you spent so long holding onto – the beauty that’s become obsolete in a post-fungal land.

But you cannot kid yourself.

He’s raw, uninhibited. You’ve seen it – that supplantation of humanity, a measure to rise above the monsters that hunt you. A sore bundle of mortality and death, left unhealed, yet just as capable of flaring when you reach out towards it.

Like stepping up when you buckle under the horror of your own reality. Wiping your chin of filth. Shaking with you, fading out on his lap, his best efforts centred in on your mutilated centre. The nightmares that plague him, seeking out whatever weakness lies dormant.

If you had to choose, you’d say he favours sunflowers.)

“Joel,” You whine, sinking your face in his neck.

“That’s it… C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

That night, he pulls something out of his bag, tucking it in your pocket as he joins you in bed.

“Hm?” Murmuring, you reach to wrap your hand around his. The fabric in his grasp is thick, knitted.

Gloves.

“Noticed you’ve been cold.”

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writer-of-the-lamb · 4 months

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narilamb caught by shamura - oneshot

as the seemingly wisest, i wonder how they'd react to their brother marrying the thing that dethroned them.

----

Shamura groaned, dumping piles of berry seeds onto a dirt hole, stamping them in with their foot. Ignoring the disgusted gaze of a follower beside them, they watered the mess and brushed their hands off, scowling.

"This is foul." they muttered to the atmosphere, shuffling over to the cult kitchen.

It had only been 2 days since they were dethroned, but Shamura was already over it.

They missed silk cradle, they missed power, fame, knowlegde.

Most of all they missed not having to hear their own brothers rant about how lovely this life was.

Kallamar would pull them aside, beaming about how the lamb had made some infernal crystal decor for him to feel "at home". Repulsion was the nicest word to describe Shamura's thoughts on it.

Leshy was worse - he was dethroned first, being there the longest. He would laugh and laugh about how the lamb was so funny and so welcoming. Wasn't it nice he let him tend the cammelia farm because he was familiar with them?

No.

It was pathetic.

This damned bundle of wool had taken over everyone - even Heket, for god's sake, was snickering along with the lamb whenever he gave a certain mushroom to a dissenter.

Shamura felt like the only sane one in this whole cult. They called them a skeptic, a heretic, even. Shamura felt like they were sitting in some kind of playpen, where everyone blindly listened to some sheep and lived a mundane life.

2 days and they were practically ready to dissent themself.

Frowning, Shamura wondered where exactly the lamb was now; it wasn't like he was patrolling around like usual - if you could even call it patrolling - it was more like a prance.

Their eyes all wandered over to the temple. The vine covered red builing, standing alone in the corner of the cult, surrounded by tabernacles and little flower patches they were certain Leshy found delight in.

Shamura shuffled along to the temple, peeking in through the huge double doors.

A-ha.

The lamb sat atop the alter, kicking his feet and chattering to some figure beside him. Shamura tiled their head, allowing a few eyes to peer in further.

A-ha again.

Narinder, the worst of all siblings they'd had, was standing next to the lamb, taking in his word like he was actually intrested.

A clever plan, Shamura thought. They knew Narinder, and they knew he must have some kind of plan to take that crown again and get them all out of this unholy hellscape.

Shamura watched eagerly as the lamb tugged on his robes as if to adjust them. Narinder moved forward, mumbling something and reaching for the collar.

'Yes!' Shamura thought, 'Now choke the thing and take him out.'

Narinder smoothed the lamb's robes and....

and......

All of Shamura's 8 eyes widened in such a horror you'd think they'd pop out of their head.

Narinder, their Narinder, gave the filthy lamb a kiss.

He kissed him.

In fact, they were still kissing.

Torn between killing themselves and turning blind eyes, Shamura went for a third option and burst through the door.

Narinder pulled away, coughing. The lamb fell off of the alter to the floor with a thud and a small, "Ow!"

"Shamura." Narinder began, arms behind his back.

"Narinder." They replied, watching the lamb pathetically pick himself up and give them a stupid wave. They thought of something, anything, to say, but nothing came.

Shamura exhaled, slowly. "I think...I would like to die. Very badly."

Before Narinder could reply, the lamb gasped. "I do need a sacrifice. Festivals are coming up and I'm too invested in Amdusias' drama with Eligos to kill them..." he mumbled, turning to Narinder.

Shamura's multiple eyes twitched. "I would rather be suffocated in my own web than be sacrificed by a lamb, let alone you." The lamb gasped again, this time in outrage. "Excuse me." he sneered, "You watch it, spider."

Shamura grimaced. "Narinder. Tell it to stop addressing me like that."

Narinder looked between the two, groaning. "Lamb may address you how he pleases.....he's the leader, or whatever..."

"You call it Lamb?" Shamura writhed in disgust.

The lamb chuckled. "He calls me worse than lamb, I'll tell ya that, hone-"

Narinder clamped a hand over the lamb's mouth, sighing.

"Things are different to how they once were." he said simply, embarrassed.

"You are fraternising with your own vessel-" "He's not my 'vessel'."

"Ohh, what is he then?" Shamura seethed, "A plaything?"

Narinder cringed. "Ah, well...."

A pause.

The lamb looked expectantly to him.

"He is....The lamb is my...husband."

Shamura felt a prescence behind them. Multiple followers were cued up in a patient line.

"Oh, come on in gang! Sermon time!" The lamb chirped, ignoring Shamura, who was stunned into silence as followers walked around them.

Leshy poked their shoulder. "You feel stiff." he said, tilting his head.

"Do not touch me."

"Oh! Shamura." he mumbled, spinning around to face the wall. "...so where's Heket?...."

Shamura, with a lack of anything better to do, walked deeper into the temple, face dull and void in sheer incomprehension that their brother was married to that...thing.

"What's wrong?" Kallamar asked from beside them, clutching some kind of crystal trinket.

"I have been made aware Narinder is....associating with it."

"Oh, lamb? Yeah they've been married for ages. I think you're the last to know.."

Shamura's hand gingerly touched their bandaged forehead.

"How is my mind no longer with me, but I still manage to lose it."

#cotl #shamura #leshy #heket #kallamar #narinder #lamb #cult of the lamb #narilamb #i love them sm

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huramuna · 6 months

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the calico bastard - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) part one | next part

summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.

warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter.

wordcount: 2.6k

a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!

wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE

It was a chilly spring day when he arrived— atop his dragon that blotted out the sun.

Harrenhal stood tall, foreboding against the horizon of the Riverlands. It was a tower with a known history of bloodshed and held many ghosts within its hallowed walls.

Recently, it’d been a symbol of the Dance, a game of tug of war between the Rogue Prince and his One-Eyed nephew.

Day after day with Daemon holding Harrenhal, Aemond taunted him by flying in the distance atop his mossy colored war dragon.

Until, one night, Daemon acquiesced. He gathered his forces and left during the hour of the wolf, leaving the original denizens of the ancient stronghold behind.

It was all too fast that Aemond would seize the opportunity— and seize he did.

“Bring out every man with the blood of House Strong in his veins!” he cried out, his voice stringent and unwavering. His dragon grumbled in agreement just outside of the castle’s walls.

His soldiers ripped husbands from their wives, fathers from their children, and sons from their mothers. All were dragged out to the courtyard.

A diminutive lady watched atop the castle ramparts, looking down at the scene. Alysanne Rivers— a bastard of House Strong, as far as she knew.

She looked nothing like her Strong relatives, her hair being almost white in color, tumbling down in billowing curls, likely not been cut drastically since she was born, as it lingered past her bottom. The only reminiscences of the Strong bloodline was the errant streak of brown that ran down the front of her hair.

No two sides of her face were alike— one side had a violet eye with white lashes and a brown eyebrow, the other side having a brown eye with brown lashes and a white eyebrow.

‘The Calico Bastard’ they tended to call her, mostly behind her back— but she didn’t mind. She was rather fond of calico cats.

As she pressed herself belly down on the ramparts, she observed the man below. Tall and chiseled, she could almost feel the hate and contempt eek from his being. It smelled of brimstone.

Her brows perked as he reached to his face, ripping his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire prosthetic underneath. He spoke a few words, too quietly for Alysanne to hear.

Then he unsheathed his sword. She watched with widened eyes as he brought down the blade upon the neck of the first in line— Ser Simon Strong, the oldened head of Harrenhal; now beheaded.

She didn’t retch, but she felt a pit of darkness settle in her stomach. Alysanne had been raised as a bastard usually was; hardly at all. She was treated like a dormouse, her chambers being a closet near the kitchens, her bed a pile of old mattress material.

Her Strong family had treated her with contempt, for the whiteness of her hair and her violet eye— she could only wish to hope that her mother, whomever she may be, never received such treatment.

She’d heard not much about her mother over her eighteen years of life, and such questions would earn her a slap to the face.

She never felt love for the Strong family, not even her father, Lyonel Strong, who had left her for many years of servitude on King Viserys’ council.

The only one to not treat her like dirt beneath her feet was her supposed half-brother, Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones’ Strong. He was the only kind person she’d ever known.

But he was gone now. And apparently, so was the rest of House Strong.

She watched the heads roll into the mud with a detached gaze. No tears would be shed on account of her blood family’s deaths, but she hadn’t seen such ruthlessness firsthand. The only thing comparable was when she heard the screams of her father and brother dying in a fire all those years ago— but she didn’t see them.

As the last man fell, Aemond glanced up at where she was laying. He leaned over and said something incoherent to a Dornishman next to him.

Then she was grabbed. She kicked and growled like an impudent animal, snapping her teeth at the soldiers that drug her from the ramparts, down to the courtyard and before Aemond himself. They let her go, then, and let her adjust herself as Aemond approached her slowly.

The bastard girl glared up at him. And he stared back, his one violet eye wide with a fading madness.

“You were watching,” he started, his voice laced with authority but also… curiosity. “What do you make of this?” he asked then, his arms resting behind his back.

She swallowed nervously as he got a bit closer, to which she took two steps back. “I see the dragon has come to deliver its reckoning upon House Strong.” she bowed her head, averting her gaze as if it pained her to keep eye contact with him.

Aemond’s brow rose. The way she spoke was odd, mysterious, dreamlike, even. Not unlike how his own maddened sister, Queen Helaena, spoke often. “Reckoning,” he repeated, “House Strong has defied the crown for too long.” His tone held a touch of disdain for their audacity to challenge him—an affront that demanded retribution in the form of blood spilled upon already stained grounds.

He stepped closer to her, closing the distance between them. His presence so close was almost suffocating, scalding— like being too close to dragonfire. “And what do you make of this reckoning?” he pressed, searching her mismatched eyes for any recognition that she understood— it was more likely she didn’t.

“You smell of ash and musk, dragon,” she murmured, stepping back once more. She did not like having people in such close proximity to her, it seemed, as her eyes flitted nervously around.

“A reckoning within your right; mere mice burn before a flaming beast.” she said finally, seemingly in a riddle or poem. Her voice was soft, lilting and song-like; not unpleasant upon the ears, but could be unnerving if anyone actually paid attention to the depths of her manic mutterings.

Aemond’s face stayed neutral, his jaw clenched slightly, “And what do you make of this flaming beast? What lies beneath its exterior?” he continued. There was something about this fidgety bastard that intrigued him— perhaps it was how much she looked and acted like his sister. His heart clenched slightly at the thought.

She let out a huff, as if annoyed by his incessant questioning. “A dragon needn’t concern itself with the opinions of mice or birds,” she grumbled. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her dress. “Are you going to kill me, dragon?”

He stared at her for a moment longer, “Hm,” he seemed to mull it over in his mind, “Mayhaps not, for the moment. I am in need of a cupbearer, and you are capable enough.”

Alysanne bristled slightly but said nothing. She just stared down at her feet— they were bare, stained with dirt and dust.

“It seems she knows the power of holding her tongue. I know a few bastards who would do well to learn such a thing,” he added before turning his gaze upward towards two of his men, “Find some handmaidens or servants and have her scrubbed and dressed— I shan’t have my cupbearer looking like…” he appraised her dirty form up and down, “that.”

The two soldiers nodded their heads, “Yes, prince.” they hummed in agreement, one going to grab Alysanne once more.

He roughly pulled her, the coarse leather of his gloves grating against her skin. She hated the feeling, the sensation of being grabbed and strewn about like she was nothing but a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.

Aemond spoke once more, his voice cutting like a whip, “And treat her with respect— she may be a bastard, but she is still a lady, hm?” he glared at the pair of men, his icy stare boring particularly chilly into the one who had so carelessly handled her.

The soldier straightened up, releasing Alysanne from his grip— he left harsh red marks upon her skin, “Yes, my prince— apologies.” he dipped his head.

Seeming satisfied with the answer, he turned around and began walking away.

Alysanne observed him with a tenuous gaze. The way he walked was unnerving— a bit slow, but meticulous. Like a stalking predator.

But he wasn’t just a mere predator, was he? He was the apex, the king of predators, hewn from brimstone and lava deep within the fissures of the Fourteen Flames.

Alysanne had encountered the Targaryen house before— with Daemon having occupied Harrenhal just before.

Daemon was an annoyance to her. She had a distaste for him, even if they did not speak. He would leer at her, looking as if he was undressing her with his eyes.

But Aemond— he felt different. He didn’t leer, nor undress her with his eyes or look upon her as a commodity.

No, he looked at her as if he wanted to remove her skin and see what lies underneath. To remove the outer layer of her being from the bone and tear out her heart—

She snapped herself out of her reverie at the annoyed quip of one of the soldiers that were to escort her.

“You deaf or something, bastard? Get moving,” the man grunted.

A fitting noise for him, as he was nothing but a grunt, behest to a dragon.

A dragon that interested Alysanne, for reasons she didn’t understand. There was an unconscious nagging sensation, deep in her gut when she looked at him. A feeling that elated her and made her feel sickly.

She walked along, being escorted— escorted in her own home. She thought the idea silly, but let them do as they liked. They were stronger than she— let them have their moment of significance.

Prince Aemond, as it turns out, left much of the staff in Harrenhal intact. Scared, but alive.

Her mismatched gaze flitted around as they stepped into the Great Hall. The quivering, huddled bodies of servants, cooks and maids alike stood together.

“Oh, girl, you lived,” the cook, Magga, cried. The older woman broke away from the conglomerate of clucking hens to go embrace Alysanne.

She flinched slightly— girl, Magga had called her. She didn’t even call her by her name. She hardly ever did, and never with such… saccharine sweet reverie.

She fought every instinct within her to run away, growl or do some other animalistic display of fear as Magga enveloped Alysanne in an all encompassing hug, practically suffocating her in her bosom.

“We thought ye dead, girl,” Magga continued, “They said they were butcherin’ all of House Strong. They didn’t do anything to ya, did they?”

Alysanne, once she was finally able to catch her breath, shook her head. She was still confused by Magga’s sudden maternal disposition. The cook always treated Alysanne as a nuisance, an extra mouth to feed that likely didn’t deserve it.

Witnessing death, she supposed, had a funny way of changing people.

Alysanne would give the old cook a fortnight before she was back to calling her a bastard and trying to beat her bloody with a wooden spoon for pilfering honey cakes.

The two guards that had led Alysanne in seemed unmoved by the reunion. One, apparently named Ser Daunton, spoke up, “Which of you is a maid? The prince has deemed that this…” he cleared his throat before speaking, “lady, requires to be bathed and clothed— befitting the station of royal cupbearer.”

A few of the ladies spoke up. Flora and Beth stepped up— sisters from near Maidenpool. “Yes, ser,” Flora, the more talkative of the bunch, murmured, “We will… tend to Lady… Rivers,” she glanced over at her sister, who gave an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

“Very good. I’m sure that the prince will have need of his… cupbearer sooner than later— so do not tarry.” Ser Daunton nodded, his gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword before he turned and left, a nod of his head commanding his companion.

As they walked out of the Great Hall, there was almost a physical sigh in the room.

Flora and Beth walked to Alysanne, the latter finally speaking, “What in the name of the Seven did you do to be spared?” she hissed, pushing Alysanne to the back room while Flora began to heat the water for the bath.

“I did nothing— the dragon, he—,” her voice was cut short as Beth pinched the sensitive skin of her arm.

“He is not an actual dragon, you dumb girl,” she admonished, “He is a prince— more so even than the one that was here before. At least address him with some modicum of respect. You greet him as ‘my prince’ or ‘your grace’— no more of this foolish dragon nonsense.” Beth grumbled, stripping Alysanne of her clothes.

“But he… he is a dragon, he—,”

SMACK.

A sharp hit to her cheek by Beth, “I don’t care if he has horns growing out of his bloody head, or breathes fire— I won’t have you jeopardize our lives by spewing hogwash,” she paused for a moment as she began pulling Alysanne’s hair out from the errant braids she had them in, “I… He is unstable, look what he did to Ser Simon— poor lord couldn’t even raise his sword before the prince took his head. He was just an old man, shameful,” Beth continued, her fingers attempting to unknot her curls, “But we shan’t expect better from a Kinslayer.”

Alysanne winced, her scalp prickly and heated. She didn’t say anything else— she would only dig herself into a deeper hole; it already felt like she was six feet under.

The sisters dragged the odd-eyed lady to the copper tub, now filled with hot water and began to scrub her raw. Her skin pulsed red before finally settling into its normal pallor.

Her hair was run through with a brush, more than half a dozen times before pulling it back into one tight braid that swept to her posterior.

They stuffed her into a modest dress— a blue woolen kirtle with a white undershirt, the sleeves long and puffy.

Alysanne, who hated being touched, squirreled and wriggled all throughout their prodding. She wasn’t a skinny thing by any means— she had a soft core and curvy figure, which was accentuated in the corset they strapped her in.

“Cruel lot of chickens,” she grumbled under her breath, eyeing the two sisters with ire.

“Hm— didn’t know you had a pair o’ hips under those mops, Calico,” Flora hummed, “This might be what the prince wanted you for.”

Alysanne felt her cheeks heat up at the thought— she had been the receiving end of looks of leer and lust a few times, but she staved them off. She had no interest in romance, or whatever her twisted ideology of it was. Nor was she interested in being rutted into like a barn animal.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, her voice quiet, but with a tinge of sharpness, “A dra— a prince has no use for a calico bastard— mayhaps you should visit him instead of I, Flora?”

SMACK.

That earned her another red mark on her cheek— one from each of those shrewd sisters.

“I’d knock you out if you weren’t meant to be somewhere, Calico. Now go, I’d imagine you’re being expected.” Flora snapped, leaving the room.

Beth tagged along, giving Alysanne one last dirty look.

She took a few deep breaths, smoothing down her dress. Once, twice, thrice. With as straight of a posture as she could give, she left the room as well, quickly swept up by Ser Daunton to be escorted to the prince.

Into the dragon’s lair.

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the calico bastard

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blueiskewl · 4 months

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Lost and Found: Bottle Hunter Digs Extraordinary Farmland Treasures

Tom Askjem is a time traveler. Every May to November, he disappears into the bowels of the earth, descends to depths of 13’-plus, and returns to the surface with treasure—bottles and glassware from farming’s past.

After 1,800 pits and hundreds of thousands of relics, Askjem is equal parts archeologist, thrill seeker, and mole. Muscle on dirt, the North Dakota farm boy has turned an addiction into a career, multiple books, and a captivating YouTube channel with millions of views. However, Askjem seeks more than glass.

“I’m digging for adventure, history, and love,” he says. The past is in these holes and there are countless numbers of them across farmland.”

Time to hunt with a master.

The Infection

On the flats of extreme eastern North Dakota’s Traill County, Askjem, 32, prepares for a dig trip. “No mountains and no hills in the Red River Valley,” he describes. “You can see your dog run away for days. The land is mostly featureless, other than a few big cottonwoods and shelter belts where farms used to be.”

A mop of blonde hair sits atop a 6’-tall, lanky frame as Askjem saddles his pony—a Honda Civic. At the current mileage rate, the Civic will be junkyard fodder before it has a scratch: 60,000 backroad miles added to the odometer in the past six months.

Askjem piles layers of gear into the trunk, including three of each tool for insurance: shovels, pronged garden forks, trampoline pads, probe rods, buckets, plastic scoopers, trowels, tents, sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, air mattresses, clothes, and waterproof, Redwing leather work boots.

“It never gets old,” he says, wearing a wide grin. “I caught the infection when I was a kid.”

Digging Bodies

Pushed from the Grand Forks area by the historic Red River flood of 1997, Askjem moved to a farm outside Buxton at six years young. The main property was an 1878 homestead—a progression from sod house to log cabin to the present standing 1898 farmhouse decked in Victorian-era woodwork and hardware.

Surrounded by history, including the skeletons of old wagons and rusting machinery, Askjem explored a 5-acre patch of woods on the property, and chanced on a garbage dump: pop bottles and trash.

Askjem dug.

“I went deep and found stuff going back to 1898. When you’re a kid living in the country, there’s no going down the street and there’s no hanging with friends to play video games—you make your own adventure. I started hitting up all the farmers I could find for leads.”

Behind the wheel of a rattling go-cart, Askjem sought Buxton old-timers and collected tips on abandoned houses. “They all helped me,” he says. “Nobody cared where I hunted because I was just a little kid exploring for all the right reasons.”

“I’ve still got an elementary school journal with an assignment describing my weekend,” he adds. “I wrote, ‘Me and Mom dug up old bodies.’ The teacher marked my paper out of concern,” Askjem describes, with an easy, deep chuckle. “I meant to spell bottles, not bodies. But it shows I was truly hooked.”

Indeed. Wonderfully hooked.

Soft Landing

Why are bottles buried under farmland and old house sites?

Prior to plastic and synthetics, glassware held everything: medicine, hygiene products, alcohol, soda, and beyond. Glass was it.

Additionally, prior to waste disposal services, homeowners discarded trash on-site—in back yard outhouses, trash depressions, burn pits, and wells or cisterns. In short time, the various ground receptacle spots were filled and forgotten.

“Let’s say, for example, a family moved in around 1880,” Askjem explains. “That site likely has two or three outhouse locations prior to World War l. The outhouse spots filled up at a rate according to family size. I dug one farmhouse site that had six outhouses in a 10-year span. Folks went into the outhouses and threw away bottles: medicine, opiates, beer, whiskey. It was convenient and private, and had a soft landing, and got covered quickly. Even now, the bottles often are still preserved.”

“Generally, these houses also had a burn pit and/or dump pit. In the early days, they burned all trash in the stove for heat. Also, homestead bucket wells were filled up with trash and bottles once they were replaced by pump wells. Cisterns also were eventually filled up, but most of those are associated with houses in town.”

And the sites remain, he emphasizes, hiding intact relics beyond the reach of farm machinery or tillage equipment.

X Marks the Spot

Location. Location. Location. Other than a tip or invitation, how does Askjem find dig sites?

X marks the spot, at least in the county courthouse or public library. He spends winters poring over early property transaction documents. “I look at lot sales. If several lots sold for $100 each in 1880, but one sold for $1,000 in 1885, the price climb tells the story and likely represents a building location.”

“I also read old newspaper archives, looking for hotel or business advertisements,” Askjem continues. “Then I can look up the proprietor’s name and keep tightening the scope, narrowing down the exact building location.”

“Every single house is different, but generally, in the countryside, outhouses were 30 paces out the back door. In the city, where most lots were 140’ long, outhouses could be as close as 5-10 paces.”

Confident of a site’s potential, Askjem first asks for permission to dig from the landowner. “Property owners are always so kind to me and I don’t hide anything I find. They’re curious about what is in the ground, just like anybody else.”

Second, he grids out the site. “I put down markers 2 paces apart, maybe 20 paces long. I push probe rods into ground and feel for compaction differences. Depending on the location, I’ll call in and have utility lines marked out for power and gas.”

Decked in Levi’s and a tank-top, it’s time to tunnel.

Claustrophobic Comfort

Shovel in hand, Askjem descends into a layer cake of dirt: black topsoil to brown-colored clay to telltale ash to a use layer containing treasure.

“Generally, I go deep to find old items in quantity. The earliest bottles were used to the last drop by farmers and thrown out empty. Therefore, when they froze in brutal Dakota winters, the glass didn’t break from liquid expansion.”

As Askjem extracts glass vessels from the dirt and grime, his encyclopedic knowledge registers with each find. He recognizes the type, manufacturer, and age. Ink bottles, hygiene bottles, medicine bottles, beer bottles, soda bottles—and far more spill from the holes.

“I find patented medicine bottles across the country, but my favorite are soda bottles because they are unique to their locale and have character. The old soda bottles are usually marked with the bottler and town name because they were returnable.”

The outhouse pits are typically 6’-deep at home sites, with an average size of 6’-by-4’-by-3’. “I’ve dug ghost towns, dug saloons, train depots, and pool halls that were 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 8’ deep. I remember a hotel pit that was 20’-by-20’ and 8’ deep. There was a military fort with pits behind the barracks that was 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 13.5’ deep: That was a week’s worth of digging.”

Askjem’s subterranean realm provides no comfort to the claustrophobic. At 8’-9’, he braces the holes with woodwork. “I’m in a solid clay base that doesn’t cave, but I have a healthy respect for the ground’s limitation. Sometimes, it looks like I’m digging a rabbit hole.”

Preserved in nature’s freezer, the artifacts unearthed by Askjem often are in phenomenal condition.

“Pieces of newspaper can still be read; bottle labels are legible; white lime used in decomposition is visible; and undigested seeds are everywhere. Even 120-year-old human waste sometimes is perfectly preserved and still smells like hell. I wear a hydrogen sulfide respirator in those cases.”

“It’s all there; almost like it was dropped yesterday.”

Ghosts in the Ground

In 2022, Askjem began chronicling his digs via a YouTube channel, Below the Plains, and soon captured millions of views. At two posts per week, he gins footage at a steady rate to feed the algorithm, a tough task considering the ground in his geography is frozen from mid-November to mid-May.

Additionally, Askjem has written two in-depth books (Nebraska Soda Bottles 1865-1930 and A History of North Dakota Bottling Operations 1879-1930) and has more on the way. “I put the bottle prices in the books because they can sell for a whole lot and I always tell the landowners. Listing prices draw criticism, but that’s important to me because it helps preserve the item, and preservation of history is what drives me.”

Covered in dust or mud at the end of each day in digging season, Askjem is highly respectful of what he finds—almost reverent after 1,800 digs. “I appreciate everything I uncover because it represents a part of someone’s daily life and existence. There’s nothing wrong with coveting bottles, but I’m really in those holes for the moment of discovery.”

Even when not digging, Askjem is on the move, surfing on the coasts or river diving for lost cargo. In the decades to come, will he continue burrowing into the past? “Twenty years from now, I hope I’m still digging and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now.”

“There’s not an infinite amount of lost bottle sites, but there’s certainly an incredibly high number,” he continues. “There were 300,000 homestead farms in North Dakota with a minimum of one well, one outhouse, and one trash dump. And that doesn’t include towns where most of the population lived. There are millions of these sites in North Dakota and far more in other states.”

Respect to a freewheeling hunter like no other. Bottles draw the eye, but ghosts draw the heart: “The moment never gets old when you uncover a bottle and find that history,” Askjem adds. “Never.”

By CHRIS BENNETT.

#Lost and Found: Bottle Hunter Digs Extraordinary Farmland Treasures #Tom Askjem #glass #glass bottles #ancient glass #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #ancient history #history news #treasure #treasure hunter #antiques #bottle hunter #long post #long reads

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poetthewriter · 5 months

Note

HELLOOOO!!! 🌘 ANON HERE >:333

I was meant to re-send my oneshot request a few days ago but I forgot...

Anyways!

Could I request some esmpS2!Jimmy x gn!reader angst to fluff :3

Like, Jimmy getting bullied by the other empires and the reader finds him in a secluded area sobbing so they comfort him as much as they can

Jimmy ends up sleeping on the reader's lap and it's just adorable :DD (maybe even add someone finding them and just taking a picture, the next day they show it to the reader and tease them about it)

I deeply apologize if this doesn't make any sense TT

Don't overwork yourself and don't forget to take care of yourself aswell! <3

-🌘 anon

The Ruler Of The Taiga

hello again moony! <3 (fun fact I was originally going to make the reader a tropical biome ruler if you would like to see something like that tell me!)

jimmy!E2 x Gn!Reader (Reader is a fox or wolf hybrid but could also read as a dear reader)

𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔= 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔&𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔🥮🍡🍯

The ruler of the taiga, a biome filled with beauty of all sorts, foxes prance around, sweet berries grow along the paths and enchant structures and statues litter the flora grounds. the sound of grainy foot steps march across the lands as you walk with peace, your delicate crown lays atop your hair and the wailing wind makes your cape fly behind you.

a basket rests in you hands and swings as you continue on your way, your biomes berries, fruits, vegetation, and herbs all pile in you basket as the sun starts to fall, as the sky darkens the temperature drops as if the ghosts have come out to play.

because of your empire being well known as the lands of the folk the air is always quiet, the ground you stand on and rule is known for its stories over thousand's of years this place has been known for its magical and haunting aura.

your ears perk up at the sound of the wolfs and coyotes that help you protect your empire howls, hearing the call of the sharp creatures you head back to elk village. paces quicken wanting to reach your home, all the views of the forest pass you as you scower but a flash of color makes you stop in your tracks.

on the soft plush soft fern filled ground the sheriff of the mesa lies, his hands run through his gold hair and his body is tensed. "Jimmy?" you speak up you voice quiet and soft but very welcoming, looking up jimmy sees you staring down at his stressed figure and looks away a little embarrassed putting his hands over his face.

It only takes a few swift moments and you are now sitting beside him you can already see that he is stressed, his posture is weak, his eyes are tired and his hairs is all ruffled. "hey, are you ok?" you voice is gentle making sure he feels at least a little more comfortable.

soon after you talk he dimly responds in a strained voice "I'm fine". its quite obvious he was ether yelling, crying or tired. his body slowly fades in and out of conciseness "I'm sorry for being here Y/n I just needed to get away from things for a bit" he continues speaking voice breaking every few words.

"Hey don't be sorry, I can tell your not fine so you wanna tell me what's wrong?" you hum.

"im just tired of everyone ..."

" i know how hard it can be to deal with everyone, and i know that you know that your alot more then what they say you are"

Your head lays on the dirt of the hill behind you two and you rest an arm over you friend, "its hard when everyone is on you tail but why let the jokes and remarks decide how you feel, am i right?"

"thank you" jimmy looks up again as you lay back in the grass, small berries and wormwood spread out across the glade and jimmy slowly lays back with you, soaking in your presents.

-----------

a smaller male bard walks through the dim taiga in hopes to find you but instead he finds a new sight Infront of him, Oli usually comes by for the wonderful trades you present him but I guess today he's out of luck cause right in front of the jester like man, you and the sheriff himself lay sleeping in peace as the sunrises over the horizon.

Oli snaps a photo of the two of you and laughs quietly with a smirky face.

"photo for a trade" he whispers thinking of the deals he could make with this new found piece of blackmail, as the sun almost reaches above the trees Oli skips away giddily.

A/n I’m sorry this took so long I’ve been working and some stuff has been going on but enough with the exudes I hope to finish the reast of my requests<3

#hermitcraft x reader #og mcyt #hermitcraft #empires smp #jimmy solidarity #x reader #3rd life #empires #empires s1 #empires s2 #mcyt #esmp #empiresblr #mcyt x reader #hermit x reader

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shootybangbang · 3 months

Text

The Nature of Hounds [Part 1/?]

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

Tinkering around with low honor Arthur Morgan. Unedited, feel free to point out errors and give criticism.

------

When you shake the pocket watch, it rattles with the jingle of loose parts. You frown and set it back down on the table. “This is broken. Best I can do is three dollars.”

“Get outta here with that shit.” Arthur taps the metal casing. “This is real gold. You can do at least ten.”

You weigh the watch against your palm.

“Well?”

“Gold plated.”

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“You know I don’t kid when there’s money on the line.”

“Lowest I’ll go on this is nine.”

“Four.”

He gives you a look.

“You think that yokel over in Emerald Ranch’ll give you a better deal?” you ask.

Seamus would buy this fucking watch for no less than fifteen fucking dollars. He’d give the thing a once over, offer a timid “I can give you five”, then buckle at a glare and go triple. And yet here he is. Following the whim of his cock and his own misplaced affections, like a bull with a lead strung through its nose.

“I’ll tell you what. Mr Kuang downstairs used to be a watchmaker. This thing doesn’t sound that busted, and he owes me a favor anyhow. I’ll do you four fifty.”

He raises his eyes up to high heaven and sighs. “Fine.”

“So adding up the rings, the pendant, the cameo, and the, uh… the teeth… I’ve got you totalling seventeen.” You slide a neatly penciled memorandum across the table. “Check my sums if you don’t believe me.”

“I ain’t botherin’ with that.”

“You’re the only one who doesn’t.” You sweep the little pile of stolen goods into a drawer. “Is it because you’re stupid or you’re sweet, I wonder?”

“Prob’ly the first.” He dips his head down to steal a kiss, but you press a stern palm against his shoulder and hold him at arm’s length.

“Not when I’m behind the counter.”

“Take care of this shit later.”

“Down.”

“C’mon—”

“I said down.”

So he steps back with his heart sunk one notch lower. Posts himself near the front door, arms crossed, hat brim tipped low, cleaning the dirt beneath his fingernails with a pocket knife as the rectangle of light spilled from the window begins to tick across the floorboards in a dimming dial. He presides over the thin trickle of customers and peddlers alike with a baleful eye, and it’s not until the bell tower in the square tolls five and you swing open the side gate in a flurry of swirling skirts that he can pull you in by the waist and sink into the frantic kiss that you press him with.

Locked door, shuttered windows. Hurriedly, you flip the sign posted against the glass from OPEN to CLOSED as he flattens your back against the wall and pulls the ribbon at your throat loose with a yank of his teeth. You sift your fingers through his hair, then grip hard, yanking his head back. “Three weeks without a letter, you bastard,” you snarl. “Thought they’d hanged you someplace out west."

“Aw, don’t tell me you was worried.”

“‘Course I was worried. You’re my best earner.”

The smile you flash along the slight is sweet and quick as a fleeting slip of riverlight, and he forces himself to smile back, but the truth remains that he has never come here empty handed. Still fearful of the risk that you might cut him with the same expectant look Dutch has at the end of deals gone wrong and scores lost.

Your eyes shut slow as you kiss him again. He runs his palm up your back as he finds and unclips the clasp of your blouse and the tension in your hand loosens like weakening resolve. It surprises him still, that gentling spread that flows arterial at the simple touch of his hand.

The room tucked behind the storefront is cramped and cluttered with belongings that you have only recently begun letting him examine. When you lead him in, it’s with your hands clutching his neckerchief like reins, tripping over the hazard of table corners and your lone, bystanding chair. You walk backwards into your unmade bed, and he lets you pull him atop you with an obedience he scarcely understands. You fumble to pull down his belt and he yanks down your skirt in a confusion of hands as you work to lay each other bare. “Did you miss me,” you murmur, and he answers not with words but with a violent jerk of his hips, relaying with friction what he does not know how to otherwise.

Arthur cups his hand to your cunt, trails his middle finger along the wet seam like tracing the crest of a wave. In red fantasy, he takes the time to prime you for him, spreads and sucks the soft furl of flesh with his mouth, but you have never had the patience for foreplay. It's as if the unselfish act of pleasuring you were a step too intimate; even in this, a necessary expectation of quid pro quo that you have not the inclination to entertain.

“Come on then, gunslinger,” you growl. Another kiss, fierce and carrying the admonishment of teeth. You jerk the fabric of his shirt up to reveal his chest, then stiffen and splay your hand over the filthy bandage wrapped there. “Christ.”

“It’s nothin’.”

The cloth is stained with old blood that has seeped from the locus of his wound like a rust colored bloom, and is grimy from sweat and travel. You stare at it with revulsion. “Morgan, this is disgusting.”

The prickle of shame that stretches up his spine has transitioned to sullen indignation by the time it reaches his head. “Didn’t figure someone in your line of work to be so goddamned squeamish.” He tries to pull his shirt back down. You grab his wrist.

“Keep this off,” you say. “I’m running you a bath.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #my work #the nature of hounds #this is totally unrelated to talking bird btw

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verysmolnerd · 12 days

Text

You know what? Frik it!!! Some characters are getting booped!! By you!! 🐾🐾🐾

Otto Octavius:

He wasn’t expecting it one bit. He was hard at work and this attack came out of nowhere!

You had caught him overworking so many times, you’ve lost count at this point!

So, when it comes to dragging him away from the desk, you’ve gotten more creative.

There are times where you have lured him away by using your newlywed charm, and then there are times when it’s absolutely bonkers.

You’ve pulled him away with his spinny chair, you’ve even pulled it out from under him.

It gets a laugh out of him every time. Why? Because it shows him how much you care. When he loses track of time, you’re there to remind him.

He sometimes gets excited when he notices what time it is. Because it’s time for your mischief again.

You walked up to his chair and rested a hand on his broad shoulder.

“Hello, my dear. How are-“

You booped him right on his crooked nose. 🐾

What was once a look of adoration turned to one of shock. His eyes are wide and mouths agape; he couldn’t make heads or tails of it!

In fact, the piece of machinery that was in his hand fell to the table.

With the power of the boop, You powered off Otto. Cute and absolutely priceless.

Doc Ock:

How many times must he bolt the entrances down?! It seems like you’re always finding ways in here!!

He seems to close off one exit, and then he turns around to see you -his loving partner who’s more stubborn than they should be- arms open ready to embrace him.

You love him far too much, and he can’t take it at times. He’s no longer in control of his body, his free will is gone. He’s a slave to his own creation.

And yet.. you’re still there, for kisses, for comfort… it’s amazing, gobsmacking even. To have someone who will show him the light when he’s stuck in the darkest pits.

Regardless, he’s working nonstop: welding, wiring, or stealing; Doctor Octopus has been always working. Never resting.

He was placing another one of the components for his containment chamber when he heard a crashing noise.

He huffs when he sees that you had fallen out of the air vents. Scabs, dust, and dirt littered your face; but still a smile grazes your features.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you are quick to rise to your feet.

“For the last time. Get out-“

Boop attack!! 🐾🐾

The arms stop whatever they are doing and fall to the ground, limp.

They soon rise up and become docile for a brief moment. Chirping, nearing you.

And Otto? He’s in shock.

He looks at you with an aghast smile appearing on his face as you both discovered a way to fight the actuator’s influences.

The power of the boop. In the palm of your hand.

Maxim Horvath:

You were practicing alongside him. As per usual, he’s showing that tough love you’re so “ever” fond of.

It’s not like you hate training, it’s just that it gets tedious at times and there’s no banter between the two of you.

When you preform a spell correctly, you hear his huff of approval. Yep. That’s your indication.

When it’s time for a break you sit across from him in the fanciest chairs known to man. He has style, you’ll give him that.

He has a critical eye, reading a person is almost second nature to him. He’s been a live for a thousand years, after all.

Nothing seems to catch him off guard anymore, well, you don’t think anything ever did… until later in the evening.

It’s your turn to cook, despite his protests…. So when he took back the stove using magic, you weren’t surprised.

So, you had your own trick up your sleeve as you slowly approach him.

“Whatever you’re trying, I suggest you stop. It’s not going to work-“

Beep bap! Boop attack! 🐾🐾

You laugh at his shocked expression…. But then you start running when the furniture starts floating and is launched at you.

Snidley Whiplash:

With all the criminals piling into the bank, you would think that you’d be shaking in your boots… you’re not.

It’s Snidely and his hang you can see the top hat set atop his proud head as his incompetent criminals part like the sea.

“Give us your money and all of your gold.”

You roll your eyes despite the shouting you’re getting from your boss.

“Or what? You’ll drop an anvil on me?”

An array of clicks could be heard from all the pistols.

“Or we’ll shoot you!”

You can’t even count how many gun muzzles are pointed directly at your head.

Snidely looms over the counter, while you swat away your boss. Silently urging them to call the police. They run away, covering the ulterior motive by saying, “You’re on your own!”

“Hoo hoo,” you almost laugh from his stupid cackle. So you decide to lean forward, challenging him instead.

Snidely starts to lean back, unsure of what you’re planning.

“You think you can oppose, Snidely k Whiplash. Well, thing agai-“

You’ve been hit by🐾🐾 you’ve been struck by🐾🐾a boop criminal!

A blush adorns his face, as does the blinding police sirens outside.

He has heart eyes locked on you while he’s being pushed inside the squad car.

Hugh Weldon:

He had taken you star gazing. A common date, but a lovely one nonetheless.

You happily sit on the blanket while he excitedly tells you everything about the constellations he could see.

You felt like you could be his best student if you weren’t dating. Seeing him smile feels like your lifelong mission… and who are you to deny him of such happiness?

He had draped his coat over your shoulders, smiling with how it essentially swallowed you.

But now, you find that his ways of showing affection are short and sweet while dates are long and romantic. Cute.

He kissed you right before he went to view the stars, leaving you wanting more. So you swore for revenge.

So when he sat next to you, the trap was set.

When he opened his mouth, you got ready to strike.

“I think I saw the Orion constellation-“

He just triggered a boop attack!! 🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

He laughs and allows you to attack him with kisses as well.

You got him back, in the best way.

Comte de Reynaud:

The spring festival is in full swing, and you couldn’t help but notice that the Comte was watching from afar.

You don’t know why it s a shock to you considering that he’s there every single year after his wife left him.

He always looks so gloomy or cold and calculating. Always looking out for his people, never for himself.

Well, it’s about time someone looked out for him.

You made your way over to him, and you find that his demeanor is a tad bit different. He looks uplifting, like he had a sudden change of heart.

And you’re especially shocked when he asks, “May I have this dance?”

He’s not light on his feet, however, when the music slows…. That’s a different story.

He holds you like a man deeply in love and you couldn’t help, but wonder what caused this change.

When the songs softly decrescendo to an end, he pulls you closer.

“I believe that I-“ he stops himself.

Oh hell no! Boop for answers! 🐾🐾

His eyes flutter as he finishes his sentence, “I love you.”

That passionate look in his eyes was the last thing you saw before he claimed your lips…. And your heart.

Kostya:

The landowner makes frequent visits to your humble shop. You find that he does a lot of the manual work himself alongside others.

You know he likes you, by the way he gazes at you from across your shop. Some of the people who work here as well can see the adoration in his eyes. It’s as clear as day.

However, the shy landowner is famously known for holding his own words. Dying with his own verbal desires.

So, if you wanted anything to do with him, it would be on your own accord. You’d make the first move.

It seems like all the patrons are rooting for you as well, as you tap your fingers on your counter; thinking on what to do.

So when he enters the shop the same time he always does, you’re quick to accompany him; offering your help.

Rather than wanting anything, he takes the opportunity to talk to you. He’s very flustered when he admits it.

Honestly, he’s just a flustered mess to begin with.

“I’m sorry, I-“

Take that! Boop attack! 🐾🐾

His mouth is agape and it seems his flushed expression spread to you.

He quickly composes himself and asks you out on a date. That was his plan after all.

The boops brought him out of his shell.

Armand Gamache:

Reading together in the evenings is a common occurrence between you two.

You sit on his lap while he’s facing the fireplace. Three Pines is a cold and grueling place, but when you’re together, the freezing temperatures don’t appear to be all that bitter.

You’re cuddled right up next to him as he reads the page, pausing for you to read as well.

He had chosen another book about escapism. You’ve read so many with him that you don’t remember the names of the books, just the plot.

You don’t mind at all, you wouldn’t trade these moments for anything. Because normally, it ends up being a de-stressor for the both of you.

However, you were feeling a bit of mischief tonight. You’re always antsy when you’re plotting a scheme, he knows it all too well.

“What are you planning?”

And it was at that moment… he got booped. 🐾

He arches a brow, not sure what to make of this at first.

But then he marks the page he left off in and tightened his embrace on you. Peppering you with kisses until you couldn’t breathe.

Then he boops you as well, making you burst out in laughter.

It seems he has a few tricks of his sleeve as well.

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bungalowbear · 8 months

Text

worth it

jedi!nanami x advisor!reader

wc: 600

written for @strawberrystepmom‘s it takes a galaxy collab. ken, you are absolutely space princess coded and i couldn’t resist this idea when it sprung to life in my head. hope you enjoy!

Your skills in acquiring information make you a valuable resource for the royal family of Corellia. As an advisor it isn’t technically one of your duties, but thrice now the princess had been spirited away in the night, and when several rotations passed without her return you were assigned to the task. You rarely ever failed.

You look over your shoulder from your position beside the pilot’s chair and see the princess’s pouty expression. She sits with her arms crossed, face smudged with dirt, and her kavasa blonde hair messily piled atop her head. All that added to the greasy mechanic uniform she wears make her nearly unrecognizable. She looks more like her true self this way, wild and capable, in complete contrast to the prim and proper image of her noble station.

Upon entering the atmosphere, Corellia welcomes you with rolling hills and glistening waters. The ship flies through a mountain pass before lowering onto the landing pad at the edge of the palace. You lead the procession down the ramp with the princess and four guards following behind.

You’re surprised to find someone waiting at the bottom. A welcome face nevertheless. You step aside so that the Jedi can properly greet the princess.

“Your Highness.” He bows at the waist, his cream colored robes rustling in the gentle breeze. “I was dispatched to aid in your safe return, but it appears my services were not required after all.”

“Nanami.” He stands upright when the princess addresses him with warm familiarity. “Unfortunately, my father’s most trusted advisor made quick work of it. I must apologize on her behalf for rendering your presence here useless.”

“No apology necessary, Your Highness. There just so happens to be another matter the advisor and I need to discuss.”

“Yes,” the princess hums, raising her brows playfully in your direction, “I’m sure there is.”

She stuffs her hands in the pockets of the mechanic uniform and chuckles as she walks off, guards dutifully trailing behind her. You watch her go with a fond shake of your head.

“Where did you find her this time?” Nanami asks.

“On some back water planet. Fushiguro had her fronting as a mechanic, stealing parts for his own ship.” You scoff, fingers tightly gripping around the edges of your data pad. “Next time I’m not asking questions. Just gonna blast him right in his—”

“How do you know there’ll be a next time?”

“Because I know them both.” A deep, tired sigh passes through you. “And there will definitely be a next time.”

“Does it ever feel like a burden?”

“What?” you ask.

“Knowing so much.”

“Sometimes.”

Your admission hangs heavily between you. Passion fights to be born with spoken words, but you’ve both always been careful with choosing how to express yourselves.

“But it’s what keeps our meetings ongoing.” You smile, admiring the way his yellow hair turns golden in the sun. “That’s worth it to me.”

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” His brows pull together in concern. “If it starts to not be worth it?”

It always will be, you want to tell him, as long as it’s you.

“I will,” you say instead.

“Good.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, a brief expression of emotion. Only those who know him well enough would notice. You’re thankful to be among the few.

“Now,” you clear your throat, looking down at your data pad, “shall we discuss the Republic’s request for new ships over some refreshments?”

“Lead the way.”

You and Nanami walk side by side into the palace, fingers occasionally brushing. Both aware. Neither pulling away.

#catalog #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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phxntomsdusk · 3 months

Text

Softball!Wilma hc’s

while I struggle to start the fic.. have these.

tags: @lillylvjy , @ax-y10 , @joviepog , @vibestillaxxx , @idontreallyexistyet , @rqvii , @pheliiaa , (ask to be added!)

Softball!Wilma who hated when you started to show up. How the couch would listen to you more than her, how you became the favorite. Until she realized you were the coaches kid

Softball!Wilma who would throw random insults your direction when she was frustrated during a game

Softball!Wilma who found herself paying more attention to you then the other team

Softball!Wilma who struck out for the first time in the season because she couldn’t get her mind off of you

Softball!Wilma who insisted to the couch you stop showing up because you’re a distraction

Softball!Wilma who finally came to terms with her feelings and asked you out by writing it on a ball, sneaking it into your bag before you left

You rummaged through your beg, seeing the bright yellow ball sat there. It confused you, you hadn’t packed that. You grabbed it out, seeing the neat handwriting with a date and time.. and her name. On the back was a small note:

“I know I’ve been mean to you buts it’s because you distracted me. Your beauty distracted me. Date? Please?”

Softball!Wilma who started getting excited when you showed up to practices and games

Softball!Wilma who began to talk to you when she was on bench

Softball!Wilma who stole glances at you when she was in the field

Softball!Wilma who requests help with her eye black before a game, insisting you do it best, but really just what’s to be close to you

Softball!Wilma who winks at you before she pitches her third and final strike, saying she could only do it because you were watching

Softball!Wilma who steals kisses from you before she goes to bat, insisting it helps her

“Wilma! You’re gonna miss your turn, go!” You couldn’t help but giggle as she kept kissing your face, her hands firmly planted on your sides. “Just one more.. I need good luck. You’re my lucky charm.”

Softball!Wilma who let you draw hearts on the grip of her bat and globe, so she can always think of you when she’s playing

Softball!Wilma who drags you to the gas station after a game, making up for lost time by getting you your favorite snacks

You watched as she scanned through the small rows of candy and snacks, a small pile forming in her hand of the things you both liked. “Wilm, you don’t have to, save your money-” She quickly shut you up with a soft kiss, some of the eye black from her face getting onto you. “I didn’t get to see you for nearly 4 hours, please.. it’s my treat, love.”

Softball!Wilma who tries to take you to each of her travel games, no matter how are they are. She’ll beg your parents if she has to

Softball!Wilma who shows up to your house after a rough practice or game, just wanting attention from her love

The sudden knock on your bedroom door threw you off, watching it creak open to reveal an upset looking Wilma. “Hey, Wilm. What’s wrong?” You gestured for her to come closer, which resulted in her plopping atop of you.

A few minutes later she was explaining how she had a rough game, the other team was constantly saying things, and it just got under her skin. Thankfully.. she had you.

“I love you, don’t listen to them. Okay?” You kissed her head softly, seeing as she looked up at you and kissed your jaw. “Okay.. I love you too.”

Softball!Wilma who constantly paints the fields she plays at, and uses the colors of the other teams jerseys for her signature

Softball!Wilma who gives you her old jerseys to wear when she switches teams during a new season / year

Softball!Wilma who has you help name the team during their first practice

Softball!Wilma who sends you constant selfies and pictures from her away games, mostly ones she can’t bring you too

Softball!Wilma who accidentally gets dirt on your clothes as she tries to kiss you after her games

Softball!Wilma who’s nickname for you is “my lucky charm”

You stood on the dugout, cheering loudly as Wilma made yet another home run. She almost immediately rushed to your side as she ran past the plate, scooping you up in her arms and kissing you passionately.

“I couldn’t have done it without, my lucky charm.” She spoke softly, kissing you on the forehead before finally putting you down.

Softball!Wilma who calls you whenever she gets the chance during her away games

#phxntomsdusk #phxntoms fics #wilma soot #wilma soot x reader #wilma soot x you #wilma soot x y/n #wilma soot headcanons #wilma soot hcs #wilma soot fluff #softball!wilma

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the-fiction-witch · 1 year

Text

Cowboy Rule 48

Media Godless

Character Whitey Winn

Couple Whitey X Reader

Rating Smut

Concept Anonymous asked:Hello I understand stand if you say no but can you do an Whitey Winn x reader smut but it has the the cowboy rule. The cowboy rule is if a girl wears a cowboy's hat she rides or will ride the cowboy.Thank you if you do it. 🥰

Smut Playfull/ riding/ hikis/ kissing/ breast play/ fondling/ bj

I smiled as I finished lacing my dress for the day pulling the ribbons of my dress tight to keep it on me all day. I grabbed the pie cooling in the window and set it in my basket alongside some jars of preserves and a few bottles of honey wine. I picked up my now-loaded basket and headed out of my little house into the dust and dry dirt of Labelle. I glanced to the sky hoping perhaps to see some dark clouds on the horizon as we badly needed some rain but alas the normal dry New Mexico heat was all we received. I headed through town past all the little shops the ladies now ran in order to keep the town going giving the ladies building the church a wave as I went past, till I reached the town square heading over to the familiar building.

'Sheriff, Labelle, New Mexico territory'

Atop two four square windows. The porch with a couple of chairs and a large pile of logs for the burner inside. A small lamp light hung beside the porch steps just before the door.

I hopped up the steps and in through the unlocked door looking around the small office with its three cells lining the far wall. Sheriff Bill Mcnue's desk to my left was empty as per usual, the coat rack to my left alongside a small window, and In Front of me was the large gun cabinet full of shotguns, and pistols, the mirror lining the back of the cabinet. And In Front of the cabinet, the deputy's desk was lined with various paperwork, keys and coffee cups given he'd been on his own so long. And in the small wooden chair behind it laid a comatose deputy whitey Winn.

In his usual mud-covered brown leather boots, his borderline skin-tight jeans with a slight vertical striping in the fabric pulled up to his waist, his two dark brown leather gun Belts sat crossed over his hips so a buckle sat above his pants fly and the other just above his butt allowing him to have a 45. On each hip. The white handles guns sat there slightly moving with his breaths. His 'once' white shirt collar was only just visible, his slightly green half-button overshirt covering him from wrist to neck with a small breast pocket where his silver deputy badge hung. Any skin exposed had enough dirt to set potatoes, so much muck in fact under his nails I was almost convinced he was growing himself garden, his excuse for facial hair slightly graced the corners of his upper lip barely even meeting in the middle with maybe three hairs under his bottom lip and I don't think any on his chin, his hair thick with grease and dirt or slightly matting in sections where he runs his hand thought it but that was all. The familiar scent of sweat, dirt, warm leather and the unfortunate scent of a man who lives alone is eliminated from him like a pile of roadkill tossed to the gutter. His hat was on the desk, his hands on his stomach as he sat in his chair far asleep.

I couldn't help but giggle at the slight setting my basket down on the corner of his desk atop some of his gun magazines. I carefully snuck over to behind his desk leaning down to see him. I smiled and gently rubbed the tip of my nose against his own the first few runs bore no response but soon he began to move Against me too subtly of course until I move and pressed a small kiss to his lips which caused a wide smile across his lips

"Hi" I smiled

He rubbed his nose on my own a little before giving my lips a little kiss "hi" he smiled opening his eyes to see me "what are ya doin' 'ere?" He asks leaning back in his chair

"What? Are you not happy to see me whitey?" I pouted putting my hands on my hips as I stood up straight

He leant forward leaning his arms on his desk and his jaw on his hand "I'm always 'appy to see ya darlin'" he smiled giving me another little kiss

"Cute" I smiled tapping his nose "how have things been?"

"Quiet" he sighed "it's Labelle darlin' nothin' much ever 'appens 'round 'ere" he says leaning back in his chair

"You finished that paperwork bill asked you to do?"

"Jesus Christ y/n- I finished all that lot last week"

"Sorry"

"It's alright. I don't think ya quite get just 'ow dull thin's can be 'round 'ere" he laughed

"I suppose not. Any news?"

"From?"

"Bill?"

"Course not. He'll get back when he gets back. As much as I know darlin'" he shrugs

"Alright, I just hope it's not too much longer it's not fair bill to abandon town for so long"

"It's nothin' I can't 'andle" he smirked

"Not my point. Just because you can doesn't mean you should have too. You only getting paid a deputy salary and frankly, you're doing all the work will bill gone so much" I explained

"I know what ya mean. Don't worry ya'self alright I'll 'ave a word with bill when he's back" he says getting up and giving my forehead a kiss "besides won't be long will bill packs it in, then I'll take over" he says as he wandered over fixing himself another coffee

"What makes you so sure he'll let you?"

"I'm his deputy y/n, it's kinda the whole idea" he laughed

"Then what makes you so sure he'll pack it in soon?"

"He has to at some point and he ain't gettin' any younger. He spends most of his time in the undertakers playin' chess anyhow" he laughed returning to his desk coffee in hand "what's in the basket?" He finally asks honestly I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't even noticed it till now

"Presents" I smiled taking the basket and hiding it from him putting it behind my back

"Ooh? Let me see" he Cooes getting up but I moved back

"There a secret"

"Are they? Come on darlin' let me see"

"No" I giggled bolting across the office but he gave chase rushing around the office trying to catch me as I circled around the desks till he cornered me between the last cells bars and the wooden wall basket still behind me but his arms on the wall and bars so I had nowhere to go

"Let me see"

"No"

"Why not?"

"Secrets"

"Come on darlin', please" he Cooes

"On one condition"

"What condition?"

I simply shrugged and his smile grew before he leant down capturing my lips in a sweet Intense kiss his lips slowly moving Against my own his arm moving from the wall to wrap around my waist his left hand on my left hip wrapped around my back, until we both pulled back for a moment he was breathless staring at my lips before glancing up to my eyes

"'appy?"

"Ummm humm" I nodded

"Good" he Cooes rubbing his nose on my own and snatching my basket returning to his desk so I scampered back too. "Ooooh pie! What kind of pie?"

"Sweet potato pie" I smiled

"Aww ya always make my favourite darlin'"

"Cause you always ask for it" I smiled

"Thank you very much"

"You're welcome"

He happily unpacked the rest of the basket putting all the bits and bobs away in their usual place as well as having himself a slice of pie "ummmm delicious as always darlin" he says giving my cheek a kiss as he ate as he did I couldn't help glancing to his hat still sat on the table so I sneaking began to walk my fingers across the desk towards the hat but before I could even touch the rim he slapped my hand

"Oww!" I complained

"Don't even think about it" he warns sternly giving me a sharp glare picking his hat up and dusting off some dirt

"I just wanted to look"

"Look with ya eyes. Not ya fingers" he warns

"I only wanted a look" I pouted

"No y/n"

"Why not?"

"Breaks the rules"

"Fine. I'm heading home"

"Alright I'll be 'ere a bit longer, did ya want me to … pop by when I'm done?" He suggested

"It's alright whitey I'll be fine all by myself. Have a nice afternoon" I smiled giving him a little kiss taking my basket and headed out

"You too Darlin'" he smiled blowing me a kiss as I left.

I smiled as I scrubbed and washed the little pots and dishes that had mounted up over god only knows how long it had been since whitey did any dishes, christ some of mine were in here from pies and roasts I had sent over to the office for him. I was rather thankful whitey asked for my help in tidying his house as it so desperately needed it and I knew with my oversight he couldn't half-ass it and the place would defiantly be cleaned. While I was scrubbing and cleaning the dishes and bottles, Whitey knelt on the floor cleaning out the fireplace cluttering and clattering the fireplace with the little tools. "How old are some of these?" I asked slightly concerned

"Hum? Ohh No idea darlin' I stopped keeping track" he explained

"You need to learn how to take better care of this place"

"I know, I just don't get a lot of time workin' in the office so much. usually, a soon as I get 'ome I just kinda collapse and sleep"

"Wherever would you be without me" I giggled

"Humm I'd be lost without ya y/n" he cooes giving my cheek a kiss as he came to wash his hands and face given they were now covered in ash and soot from the fireplace.

"you need a bath" I told him

he sighed "I'll take a damn bath when the 'ouse is clean"

"Alright, you fix your bed I'll get started on the laundry" I smiled

"Alright" He smiled heading to his bed and stripping it off "ya know I don't really need to lean to upkeep the 'ouse" He says

"don't you?" I glared sorting his clothes into... well I tried to colours at least original colours some of which were very hard to tell, was this shirt ever white? or was it just grey? I don't know I don't remember it ever being white. "Why not?"

"Well what's the point in me learnin' all the 'ouse stuff. Might as well just get myself a wife"

"Whitey!"

"Ya know what I mean, No point me leanin' it all if ya just gonna move in a month later" he shrugs

I chuckled "whitey when we get married you're going to do chores too"

"Why?" he whines "I'm the 'usband. your 'ot sexy deputy 'usband." He cooes coming to cuddle me "Who works all day while his pretty wife makes nice dinner ready for him to get 'ome"

"Ummm, and cleans the house, looks after the children, all while the husband sits on his ass"

"Yeah" he shrugs

"whitey" I glared turning to face him crossing my arms "if you ever want me to be Mrs Winn, you better learn to do chores and take care of things. Or you ain't got a cat in hells chance of getting anywhere with me" I told him "and you can drop that attitude too"

"I'm just sayin' my little wifey would be the one at 'ome with the children. While I go to work"

"I know but you're still helping. I ain't raising our children, doing all the chores and taking care of you Mr" I told him as I sorted his clothes

"I'll 'elp. got to teach my little boys to shoot as good as their daddy"

"They still have to go to school whitey"

"Why? I didn't"

"My point exactly." I giggled

"fine" He sighed "this is good though, gettin' it all square now. then we'll 'ave no arguments about how we raise our babies when we get married" he smiled giving my cheek a kiss and going to remake his bed with the fresh bedding

"You're not abandoning them like bill does his kids"

"course I won't ya know I won't darlin' I just don't see the point in learnin' all the 'ouse stuff"

"Well you better. You can clean your own damn britches whitey I ain't your wife yet" I told him handing over the pile of laundry for him to do as I took a hot pot outside filling up the steal tub grabbing a washboard from the wall and began washing his shirts and such

"yet" he smiled following me out with his own so we could sit together while we did the laundry "Ya would be if he wrote me back already"

"Still no news then?" I asked

"No, I wrote him over two months ago startin' to get a little worried"

"I'm sure It'll be through soon" I smiled giving his cheek a little kiss, Honestly I was a little worried too. A few months ago whitey penned a letter, with help. To my grandfather the last of my family still living for permission for us to get married but we had yet to hear back anything at all. Frankly, it was the only reason we weren't yet married, even if I'm sure if permission was denied he'd likely marry me anyways. I know he's getting impatient and I had to admit I was too it was such a small but inconvenient hurdle to get over before we could truly start our life together before the jokes and stories of us living together and raising a family could become more than simple tales.

"I wonder if Bill'll give me time off when we get married?" He pondered

"I'm sure he would if you asked nicely" I giggled

"Maybe as we are 'avin' to wait so long" He smirked suggestively

"You get no more than your kisses till after we're married whitey"

"Damn it" he sighed "Come on we've been datin' a year and a 'alf"

"So? not till we're married that's my rules," I told him as I took the clean laundry hanging it all over the line just outside his house. Once all done heading inside with the water pot, as I did I noticed his boots and jacket by the door so I grabbed the brush giving them a dust and a brush cleaning off his leather jacket I then reached for his hat to give it a dust off and a clean however he was just heading in and before I could even lift it from its place on the rack he snatched it out my hand

"No." he snapped setting his pot with my own by the fire

"what?"

"No. no touchin' ya know that" he warns

"I was only going to give it a brush whitey" I complained

"Ya 'ave you're rules darlin' I 'ave mine. Ya don't touch my hat alright?"

"Fine" I sighed "Be like that" I pouted

"I will do. don't get all pouty with me just cause ya can't 'ave what ya want"

"Look who's talking"

"Funny." he chuckled giving my cheek a kiss "No, touchin'" He warns

I smiled as I stood brushing little buttercup, Often times catching whitey across the way taking care of his own horse ted brushing him, feeding him and generally taking care of him. "Eyes front Mr Winn" I told him

"Why? What's the matter little lady? you're not normally so grumpy with me"

"Well I'm working"

"as I am, Can't 'elp if my work's such a good view" he cooes

I finished up with buttercup and went over to help with out with ted "Maybe if you did more work, and not such on the view little ted would be finished up by now?"

"maybe so, But I can't 'elp it" he cooes coming around to pull me into a cuddle peppering my neck and cheek with kisses "ya too damn pretty"

"Am I now?"

"I can't resist ya. and ya know I can't say no to ya darlin'"

"So cuddly today whitey"

"Well I've been in the office all week I've barely seen ya" He complained "or cuddled ya. or kissed ya" he cooes

"True. Guess you've been busy" I giggled grabbing the rim of his hat and bolting across the stable

"Very funny darlin', give it" He says playfully

"No,"

"Very sweet, very cute, now 'and it over"

"No, my hat now" I giggled cuddling it close to my chest

"I ain't playin' darlin' give it" he complained trying to take it but I moved around ted "This ain't funny y/n" He says now getting rather angry with me as whenever he tried to take it I simply moved though the stables to a point where he couldn't reach me. "Y/n! give it back!"

"Mine now" I giggled "Maybe I'll hop on buttercup take your guns and become a cute little cowgirl" I smiled holding the hat just above my head

"don't ya dare" he warns "Give it back y/n"

"awww do you not think I'd make a cute cowgirl whitey?"

"Ya would look adorable but give me my hat back"

"Humm I'm the fastest shootin' cowgirl in the west," I giggled playfully "Pew pew"

"I ain't playin' y/n give it back."

"why?"

"its the rules darlin' "

"what rule?"

"Ya wear the hat ya better ride the cowboy" He smirked leaning on the wooden collum of the roof of the stable

"what sort of a rule is that?"

"The cowboy rules darlin'." he smirked "Rule 48 ya wear the hat ya ride the cowboy"

"You're making that up"

"No I'm not it's right 'ere in the cowboy 'andbook" he says getting a small book

"wh-where did you have that?" I asked "I know how damn tight your trousers are whitey where did you have that?"

"My pocket." he shrugs "see right here Rule 48 ya wear the hat ya ride the cowboy" he says setting the book in the bag in teds stable

"who made that rule?"

"Fellow boys sick of you girlies stealin' thin's" He says once again trying to take it but I moved back again "Darlin' give it. ya know the rules so 'and it over"

"So what if I was to sit this on my little head I'd have to-"

"Yes you would."

"That goes against my rules"

"its the cowboy rules dalin' been this way for generations. So mine ourways your's" he smirked "Give it."

"Or else what?"

"Else I'm bloody takin' it"

"Not if you can't catch me" I giggled bolting out the stable door and into the dust of town of course he immiedatly bolted after me I imagine the ladies of town likely thought we'd gone insane as we ran around labelled chasing each other like children until I bolted into his house and he soon caught up with me so I smiled and sat his hat on my head "Don't you think I look pretty?" I giggled

he smirked pulling the door shut and locking it behind him "ya shouldn't 'ave done that darlin'"

"I think I look cute"

"ya look very cute. but ya know the rules."

"Okay" I smiled

"O-Okay?"

"I broke the rules" I shrug "Guess the town deputy should punish his little cowgirl correctly"

"humm come 'ere then darlin'" he smirked taking me in his arms pulling me tight to his skinny body leaning down to capture my lips in a kiss more intese then I had ever felt he slipped the hat off my head sitting it on his table as he pulled me closer his arms around my waist giving me utterly no escape from him our kiss so intense and lustful it was clearly the whole of his frustrations where coming out in this meer kiss even moaning into my mouth a little as his hand slipped down to grab my ass though my dress, he pulled back rather suddenly forcing me to his bed I went to lean or lay down but he stopped me kissing my cheek "Ah ah ah. Ya wear the hat ya better ride the cowboy darlin' remember." he smirked turning us around so he could sit on his bed "Ya ain't layin' on ya back to get this over with. You wanted this. Now ya gotta pay the price"

"I wouldn't dream of it whitey" I smiled climbing into his lap settling myself on his thighs the moment I did his cool smirking deminer stopped and his sharp excited breaths broke through as he glanced at my lips and then down biting his lip as he saw how close our bodies where, given after all court time together out privets had never been this close before. And given he had always wanted this even since our earliest courting days I can imagine he was excited. Infact I didn't need to imagine as I felt the shiftening close to my stomach and a sharply spoken sentence came from his lips as he hovered over my own

"We're really gonna do this." He said less stated like a question and more as a statement more as if he was reafirming it to himself

"You said it was the rules," I pouted

"It is! it is." he says "Sorry- I uhh I'm more nervous then I thought I'd be"

"Well, I promise to be gentle. So long as your gentle with me whitey"

"I will." he gave me a sharp kiss "I promise"

"Alright, how would my cowboy like me to ride him then?"

For a moment he seemed utterly shocked at the words coming out of my mouth but he didn't waste his time, kicking off his boots and throwing his belts onto his bedside table moving and getting settled down his bed so he could have his head on his pillow and I knelt fully over his hips with the sheets below us. I don't know why but even in my utter innocence I got a strange confidence from sitting over a nervous, overexctied whitey, that this big strong deputy boy reacted to my every movement, my every word, as if he was made of clay and I could shape him however I wanted. that even though my family had always explained it as being a holster for a boys loaded gun to settle when he pleased, I didn't feel that way at all. I slipped my hands down his shirt towards his pants feeling him stiffen below me more, his hips shifting to work into myu hands, holding his breath as I moved over his stomach. I felt powerful more powerful then I ever had before. he sat up a little and recaptured my lips as I reached the buttons of his pants so I happily kissed back as I slowly undid them each button I unbuttoned caused his lips to somewhat quiver against my own until they where completely undone which caused a soft moan where his tight pants released. he pulled back a moment but only to push his own trousers down as well as his once white cotton underwear down with them, I couldn't help my curiosity moving back slightly to see his much paler hips and prominate V a gracing of hair not to dissimilar to his upper lip, light, thin and patchy to say the least. and of course what drew the most of my attention his hard cock stood tall clearly at the point it couldn't get any harder he smirked a little leaning on his elbows glancing down at himself

"My little cowgirl like the look of her ride?" he smirked

"Ummm humm" I nodded stroking my finger up the shaft testing just how far it was from his base to his tip thinking how exactly he would fit inside me,

"Ummm" He groans biting his bottom lip hard watching me hand

"I'm not hurting you am I whitey?" I asked

"No, ya good darlin' ya fine" he says quickly

"alright" I smiled giving his lips a kiss before then kissing down his neck a little

"Ummmm darlin', you're stallin'" he smirked leaning his head back to give me more space to kiss

"We'll I just want to prepare for my ride," I whispered moving down at first he seemed confused but I pressed a little kiss to his shaft and he froze up his whole body going tense for a second his eyes wide so I gave him another kiss, and then another peppering little kisses along his shaft when I glanced back up his head was rolled back his mouth open "should I?" I began

"Ya fine ya good." he quickly snapped

"well I don't want to keep stalling if your waiting whitey" I giggled licking from base to tip

"Ughh! no no take ya time darlin' I wanna make sure my little cowgirls ready for 'er ride" he smirked

"I was thinking more making sure he was ready for me," I cooed "I thought he could need a little more... lubrication before we start riding"

"Ya could be right darlin', he's gonna need a little more then that then" he smirked

"you think so?" I asked licking from base to tip again which made him physically shudder

"Ummm hummm" he nods biting hard on his lip trying not to moan "please"

"what?" I giggled

"Please darlin" he whines shifting his hips in his desperation I smiled giving his tip a little kiss before I slowly took what I could into my mouth I couldn't take all of it in my mouth so I settled my hand below my mouth to pump up into my mouth as I gently licked and moved my head back and forth slowly of course given I was so new to this but I don't think he cared - "Uhhhh! uuughhh! uuughhhrrr!" moans tumbled from his lips like a waterfall his fingers gripping his sheets his head rolling back "Ughhh! fuck that feels so good" he groans unable to control his hips shifting and working with me which I took as a sign to speed up both my hand and my head gently suckling on him as I did which caused his eyes to roll back and sounds out of him like I'd never heard animalistic I suppose he gave up to trying to keep himself up laying down on his bed writhing with his sheets always in response to my movements and changes in speed or style, it was adorable watching him utterly loose himself his calm strong deminer disappeared completely as he was left utterly at the mercy of my tiny movements even just a flick of my tongue or a squeeze of my hand was enough to force noises and reactions out of him utterly reveling in my new found power. Until I think I hit a breaking point in him as he almost screamed "Y/n! Please! baby stop please! I'm gonna cum!"

I pulled back giggling "You've never called me that before?"

"You've never done that to me before" he gasps

"Alright" I smirked

"Oh fuck I'm already learnin' that looks bad with you" he says slightly scared I smiled and took his hand giving it a soft little kiss letting him settle his hand on my head to gently play with my hair which eh happily did knotting his fingers in my curls until I returned to him taking much more this time as I slowly worked out how to relax my throat allowing almost all of him inside my mouth which caused him to grip my hair slightly guiding me "ughhhhh! stop! stop please!" he begs even if his hand continued guiding me clearly at a point his body was doing one thing and his head another, his head desperate for us to finally make love after all this time but his body already caving in desperate for release, I moved back letting him breathe a little as I climbed out of bed "hey! where do ya think you're goin'" He smirked grabbing my arm

"Just getting comfortable to ride" I smiled unlacing my dress he egarly watched me undoing my dress letting it fall to the floor as well as unlacing my corset, and pushing off my little undergarment shorts leaving me in merely my white underdress and nothing else the dress thin and almost see though my nipples slightly poking though the top of the dress I hadn't noticed given I was battling my dress but he had grasped his erection slowly touching himself to the mere sight of me precum now leaking from his head I giggled and pinned up m hair "shall we?" I smiled

"Absoloutely darlin'" he smirked offering his hand so I took it and he helped me climb back into the bed and ontop of him I got settled on his thighs a moment my little dress around us "I'll guide ya at first okay?" He asks and I nodded "Good, go on then be my cute little cowgirl" he cooes rubbing his nose on my own he held my hips guiding them up and closer for a second one hand left to check himself was in the right position, I held his shoulders a little nervously unsure how it would feel "Okay, down just like a saddle" he says

"Aren't I usually trying to avoid sitting on the hard pointy things on my saddle"

"True" he chuckled I slowly moved down his hands often slightly adjusting my hips until I felt the pressure of his shift cock under me for a moment I moved my hips a little trying to find the sweet spot it being much further back then I thought making me lean almost completely on him before we found it and his tip slipped inside me enough to make us both freeze up a little "There we are," he cooes I held his shoulders tight as I slowly moved my hips lower and lower feeling each inch of him slip inside me until I hit his hips and thighs meaning he was completely inside me I could feel him throbbing inside me with his heartbeat, it felt strange but very pleasurable just having him fill a space I hadn't ever felt filled before. it took a solid minute of us both just getting settled and used to the new sensation before I began to move my hips as if I was riding a horse his hands softly guided me that way too back and forth in small hip movements until I got a stable pace "fuck- I've waited so long for this" he groans his hands moving from my hips to my ass stroking and groping me as I moved "Ummm we on a leisurely stroll baby?" he groans kissing my neck

"why?"

"I don't think either of us 'ave ever ridden this slow" he smirked

"if you want me to go faster just say that whitey" I giggled

"Alright, faster. Please baby" he cooes

I smirked and began moving much faster taking things at a pace that would pleasure me and clearly drove him crazy as he groped and kissed me intensely to hide his moans and groans of pleasure even if some still slipped through

"Fuck- Ughhhhhh! ughhhhh! y/n! Ughhhhhhh! you feel so good!"

"Whitey?"

"Ughhh yeah y/n?" he groans leaving hikis on my neck

"Does this-" I began moving up and down a little to slightly bounce as I ride

"UGHHHH! FUCK! Yes! yes, that's amazing!" he groans digging his nails into my ass helping to bounce me more now our pace rapid and merciless "Uuuuhhhh! uuugggggh! Please! Please... baby stop I'll-"

I immediately smirked getting a little faster and squeezing himself around him which made him moan "The cowgirl decides when we're done riding whitey. and not until" I smirked

"Y/n Ughhhhhh! please I'm so close" he groans "fuck I love ya so much"

"Ughh I love you too whitey" I groaned admittedly slowing down where I knew I was close too he even moved his own hips to work into my movements both of us groaning and moaning until I hit a wave of overwhelming pleasure that made he squeal pulling whitey's hair hard pulling him into my chest as my toes curled and my fingers gripped his hard hard "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Whitey!"

"Ughhhhh fuck! fuck fuck!" he groans against my skin collapsing against me for a moment I just gasped trying to think straight, once my mind returned I glanced down and noticed I'd kinda forced whitey's head into my breasts a little

"Ohh sorry whitey" I giggled letting go of him but he didn't move

"I'm fine" He smiled nuzzling himself there

"Get out of there you" I complained pulling him out "sorry"

"It's fine, ya don't ever need to apologize for forcin' me into your boobs it's not a problem."

"Are you okay? you want me to-"

"Ohh I kinda- when ya were screamin'" he smiled slowly pulling out "That was amazin' darlin'"

"it was, maybe I should steal your hat more often"

"You're more than welcome" he cooes peppering me with little kisses and making me giggle until he all out flipped us over into his bed so we could kiss and cuddle "Ummm I love ya so much, I wanna marry ya so badly"

"You're only sayin' that cause you finally got to have sex with me" "no I mean it, I wanted to marry ya before, now I know just how amazin' it is when we have sex." He cooes playing with my hair

"Sweet, You probably want me out the-"

"No no you're staying 'ere tonight, I want my darlin' in my arms tonight"

"Awww okay whitey," I smiled giving him a soft kiss "Goodnight" I smiled nuzzling into his chest

"Goodnight darlin'" he smiled cuddling me tightly

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