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owlespresso · 1 month

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the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine.

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them.

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn.

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.”

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from?

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip.

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you.

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes.

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain.

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom.

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier.

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake.

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality.

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.”

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely.

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr.

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh.

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.”

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals?

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it.

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do.

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck. He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you.

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling.

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove.

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours.

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other.

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them.

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else.

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance.

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries.

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting.

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare.

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body.

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly.

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think.

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence.

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze.

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.”

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow.

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad. “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he?

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble.

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful.

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t.

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly.

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured.

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused.

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

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rookthorne · 5 months

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⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐧

Bucky knew well enough that your venture to the Christmas market would not leave him unscathed, but still, as your loving husband, he trailed behind you loyally and almost complaint free — until you sprang a surprise on him.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☼ Farmer!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☼ 750

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☼ Fluff

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☼ Just a small, little addition, but no less sweet.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ☼ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Farmer's Market (November) — Masterlist ☼ @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 '𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Christmas market was always an insanely populated and busy event. And, it was loud — all you could hear for miles were people cheering, yelling, and laughing.

People from all over the county and towns over yonder made their way to the largest fair within the state, peddling their wares or stocking up on the items that were fiercely popular just once a year.

You were one of those people, much to your own annoyance. And Bucky’s.

“C’mon, Peach,” Bucky groaned quietly, his eyes darting over the heads of the crowd. “This is ridiculous—please tell me you brought your list with you?”

“Settle petal,” you said back, and you brandished a considerable piece of paper with handwritten notes all over it. “It’s a good thing we brought the truck instead of Colton, or Bee.”

“Fuckin’ tellin’ me,” he mumbled. “Look at all you gotta get–” You slapped him on the shoulder. “Ow!”

“You big, whiny baby.”

Bucky stuck his tongue out at you in retaliation.

The two of you strode down the lanes of stalls and traders, taking in the sights and smells of all the freshly baked goods and newly picked produce; cinnamon and earth mixed with sugar and spice.

A stall of oranges was your first stop, and you filled a box with the best of the best, and when you gestured for Bucky to lift it up and carry it, he looked at you, a curious tilt to his head.

“I want to start making orange jam, or mix it with my peach,” you explained. “Just something new to try, that’s all.”

“Huh. Alright then, angel,” Bucky replied with a shrug. “I’m excited to see what my beautiful wife comes up with.”

Heat crawled up your neck and you ducked your head, muttering, “That’s enough now, c’mon, let’s go.”

Bucky bent and picked up the box, and he carried it while you led him through the stalls full to the brim with vegetables and fruits. Each time something was added, he playfully groaned with exertion and pretended to drop the box. It amused the vendors to no end.

Finally, after what felt like hours on your feet, you finally arrived at the very last few stalls. They were not food or produce vendors, instead, they were piled high to the rafters with knitted crafts — all kinds of dolls, hats, teddies, and toys hung off of rope or were neatly arranged on shelves, proudly showing off the mastery of their creators.

That was when you spotted it; the perfect creation to end the day’s hunt. “Bucky!”

“What–?” He looked around, staring at you wide-eyed, and you pointed towards the furthest stall.

The rows and rows of Santa hats, knitted and created with what looked to be the softest, fluffiest wool, were beckoning you over; a siren’s call. Heedless to resist, and before you could be held back by Bucky’s call to wait, you jogged over — straight towards the Santa hat that was the colour of peaches.

“Peach! Don’t run off on me like that–” Bucky gasped, his arms straining to hold the box. “Goddammit, what’ve you found?”

“Look!” you rushed, holding up the hat.

He stared at it, then at you, and he raised a brow. “No.”

“No?”

“Nope,” he repeated. “Nope, no. No.”

“I think that translates to yes,” you said, shrugging. And before he could protest, you approached the vendor and paid for the hat. The smile could not be wiped from your face when you turned around to walk back to Bucky, and he sighed in defeat. “There we go,” you sang, “now today is almost perfect.”

“Almost?” Bucky asked incredulously. “You’ve been draggin’ me along like a damned mule all day and that’s not enough–? Don’t you dare put that–” Your laughter cut him off, and you reached up towards his head and swiftly tugged the hat over his dark hair. “Agh!”

“There we go,” you said, stepping back and pulling out your phone for a photo. “Now it’s perfect.”

Bucky turned his back to you, nose in the air, and called over his shoulder while he walked away, “I am done with you, Peach—I’m filing for divorce!”

“No you are not!” you yelled back, laughing at the way the pom-pom of his hat swayed with his dramatic walk. “I know you’re peachy keen to wear that all the way home!”

You swore you could feel his eyes roll back into his head in mock annoyance; his smile, too. “No I fuckin’ am not!”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #MB #rookthorne's works

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bumblebeeappletree · 11 months

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For those who enjoy cottagecore, please read what I have to say.

As you may or may not know, cottagecore has stemmed from colonist ideals, is racist, and has ties to tradwives. However I will not go in depth on it as it has already been talked about in a few articles and some posts on tumblr. The articles are here, here, here, and here. The tumblr posts can be found here, here, here, here, and here. However I say this person, Zoe Bee, has done a really good job on her video here as she summed up everything I already linked before.

I will say this article came out more recently if you wanted something newer about tradwives.

In this current day and age it’s understandable to want what cottagecore promotes with its aesthetic. Beautiful flowers as far as the eye can see, a garden you tailored yourself that you like specifically, billowing dresses, cute animals that provide you eggs and milk, and so on. Especially having your own house is very appealing at a time where it’s unattainable for many people. But going out where you’re isolated from everyone, with just yourself and your animals, is not the answer. Going out to land that once belonged to indigenous people who have not been able to go back home is not the answer. Continuing to think of ideals of the past is not the answer.

Instead what we can do is transform cities to be more green, safe for people, and work with the environment around it. This is the answer. To move forward. To think of the future and create it.

One of the first things we should do is improve accessibility. As you know not everyone can walk, see, or hear as a few examples. Having better public transportation is important to ensure everyone is able to get to where they need to. As it stands being in a city, not everyone has enough spoons, or ability, to walk where they can go. Trains are very popular, especially when it comes to going to other cities or towns. However when it comes to North America compared to Europe it’s not as widespread. Trams (or streetcars or trolleys if you’re from North America) are also a wonderful example. We must be able to ensure that entryways are large enough for even the biggest set of wheelchairs to go through. Ramps for easy access are important as well as wheelchairs cannot simply “step up” into vehicles. And this is not just for wheelchairs, it would be good for parents who are taking their baby or small child around in a stroller. There’s also those who use walkers, people with wheeled luggage, carts and so forth.

But most importantly, it is vital for people with disabilities to be part of the designing process of a city, to ensure that their voices are heard and to ensure they take part in that everyday easy access that most abled people already enjoy. Like Braille, audio description, large print, and subtitles as a ready option that’s there from the get go.

Another thing with more access to public transportation, people would need cars less and less. And should they need to go somewhere a train or tram cannot, buses are still options. However with fewer cars, the roads would be used less. Parking lots would be smaller. We could a: make roads and parking lots smaller; b: take out roads and parking lots completely; c: transform roads and parking lots into community spaces; or d: do a mixture of all of the above. Some roads could turn back into the wild environment that existed there before, while we could turn parking lots into more parks. Streets could be like they were before cars became mainstream, where street vendors would sell their wares, where children would play games, and anyone would hang out. Parking lots could become a space for events like farmer’s markets or a place to shoot off fireworks. Or even instead of parks in place of parking lots, it could be transformed into a community garden.

When it comes to housing, apartment complexes are where we should go in cities. To keep from city sprawl, we can go up. We can transform rooftops to community gardens, water harvesting spaces, solar panel spaces, or a community space.

However in some spaces, like in the suburbs, or even some spaces where there are houses in a neighborhood in a city, we can turn them into “pockethoods”. We can turn a neighborhood into a village. In the city we could have tiny houses on the same plot of land one house would typically be on. In a regular neighborhood, picture a series of houses without fencing and the series of backyards turn into a common area.

We can plant more trees alongside sidewalks, both fruit producing and pollen producing, more fruit bearing than pollen bearing, to help keep the allergies down and to keep a variety of plants. We can plant native species in cities, and we can have non-natives in our community gardens, or even inside city farms, for both practical use, such as eating or creating fibers, or enjoyment, like flowers to cut into bouquets. We can create rain gardens to help collect rainwater to put back into our water table.

I know that cottagecore lovers love the idea of going out into the country and perhaps finding a community there, but the cities are here, we’ve been here. It’s people’s homes, their lives. Cities have been around for such a long time, one of the most well known oldest city is Mesopotamia’s Babylon. (Very famous for their hanging gardens I might add.) Most importantly it can be done. Even now we can go talk to neighbors, go to events others are holding, or even create our own events, create a big pot of food to share with others, and have community. We can make a difference and we can have that sense of love. We just need to band together, demand change, and create our change. It can be hard, yes, but it will be so rewarding. This, you might find yourself doing, is something that aligns more with Solarpunk. Something that people look to strive for a brighter future for everyone.

Thank you.

(And thank you so much @cwicseolfor for helping me edit this TT^TT)

#Solarpunk #cottagecore #fun fact the suicide rate in Montana is higher than Wisconsin is because all those ranches are miles away from their neighbors #you are isolated #and we are social creatures #we do not do well with being alone for long periods of time #and cool I’m posting it just in time for Solarpunk Aesthetic Week

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angryschnauzer · 1 year

Text

As Sweet As Honey - Chapter 1

Summary: Finding a new life in a new town, you stumble upon a Honey farmer at the town market. You both have pasts that have shaped the way you now live your lives, but can you find a way of putting them behind you to find happiness?

Pairing: ‘Lucas’ Syverson x Female Reader

Fandom: Henry Cavill, Sandcastle (Movie).

Ongoing Genre: Fluff, Angst, and Smut

Warnings: None for this chapter

Here is my masterlist and AO3

Wordcount: 3073

I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites and put that blog onto notifications, you’ll then get an alert each time i post something new. My AO3 also has my entire back catalogue of stories (going back to 2013).

A Sweet As Honey

Walking slowly through the farmers market you inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air filled with heady scents. From the stall selling baked goods to the one from the fruit farm piled high with berries, you were tempted to buy one of everything. Crafters showed off their wares, hand knitted scarves and carefully crafted leather purses, the array of skills on offer was mind blowing.

Strolling along you turned the corner and saw the bright sign for a honey stand, the retro font proudly proclaiming its name as ‘Akia Honey Farm’. Before you could go any further a familiar face popped into view;

“Hi there Sweetie!”

“Oh hi Mrs Roberts”

The friendly old woman volunteered at the local library, guiding people to the sections they needed, helped at the front desk and was pretty much known as the person that could point you in the right direction of whatever you wanted;

“I had someone asking if i knew of anyone that sold lavender, i didn’t give them your details but took theirs, i know you mentioned that the bushes in your yard are in full bloom”

Taking the piece of paper from her you glanced at it, a single name and number;

“Thanks, i’ll give this Lucas guy a call… the bushes are covered in bees at the moment so they’ll have to wait until they’ve finished feeding”

“I’m sure it’ll be ok, you take care now sweetie!”

Watching the older woman as she walked away she started to chat to other people, you got distracted by a flower stall, being drawn to the bright blooms tied into bunches.

Having made your purchase after much deliberation you recalled your initial intention and approached the honey stand, your attention focused on the produce, so when a soft deep voice greeted you, it made you jump a little;

“Good Morning! Looking for something sweet?”

“OH! Hi!”

The face behind the voice had you mesmerised, the man was tall - at least 6ft - and dressed in soft flannel, blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of mischief and a strong jawline covered in a soft beard. A warm smile spread across his face;

“How are you doing today?”

“Good, great! It's a beautiful morning”

He looked around and smiled again;

“It is indeed, this weather will bring the blossoms out, the bees will love that…”

You were so entranced by the handsome man in front of you, that you’d practically forgotten what you were there for, your brain finally catching up with your heart as you looked down at the produce;

“What would you recommend?”

“Depends what you’re using it for… are you adding it to cereal, or baking?”

“I like to add it to herbal tea, i have herbs in my garden and make my own blends”

He smiled at this and reached over the produce to lift a jar of clear yellow honey;

“You’ll find this the best option then, it’s got a subtle taste and aroma that isn’t overpowering, would you like to try a sample?”

Nodding you watched as he pulled a honey stirrer from an open jar, before nodding to a basket of freshly cut bread to which you picked a piece, holding it out as he drizzled the liquid gold over the soft dough, a small drip landing on your finger. Swapping hands you licked it off your skin before trying it on the bread, the soft flavours hitting your taste buds and making you let out a quiet moan;

“Oh this is so good! I could just lick it off skin , it's so good!…”

The man actually blushed a little at your words and you didn’t know what to say, instead just stuffing the rest of the bread into your mouth and you nodded, muttering like a hamster with its cheeks stuffed that you’d take a jar of it. Noticing that he had other products you moved your attention to those, taking in the beeswax candles before you spotted some waxy fabric squares;

“What are these if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Beeswax Wraps, they’re reusable food wraps, rather than using single use plastic”

“How do they work? They seem really stiff” you frowned at the one in your hand

“Let me show you” he lifted the wrap from your grasp and set an empty bowl on the table in front of you, holding the wrap over it he slowly smoothed it down until it wrapped around the bowl.

“Oh i see! Can i try?”

He passed you another wrap and you tried to mimic his actions, but the fabric wouldn’t behave;

“Why won’t it work?” you muttered to yourself, however you were surprised when he laid his hands over the top of yours;

“You just need to hold it a little longer, let the heat from your palms soften the wax”

You were transfixed by the sheer size of his hands as they covered your own, warm and a little rough from working manual labour, you could have stayed like that all day. When he finally pulled away you had to stop yourself whining at the loss of his touch, but when you looked down your wrap was securely holding around the bowl;

“Oh, it worked!” you picked two fabrics you liked the designs of and handed them over; “Can i take these two as well?”

“Of course, that's great, thank you”

He packed your purchases into a small paper bag with bees printed on it, handing it over as you paid him and he handed you the change;

“Thank you, and if you get a chance please leave a review online or tag us on social media, that’d be great”

You glanced into the bag and saw he’d put a business card in, nodding you smiled at him;

“Absolutely! One last thing, where did you get that bread? Was it at this market?It's amazing!”

The man smiled, the blush returning to his cheeks;

“Actually i baked it myself”

“Oh… Ok, thanks anyway”

As other customers appeared you took your leave, wishing you hadn’t felt quite as awkward around such a handsome guy.

Your walk home was a pleasant one after spending another couple of hours at the market, you lived on the outskirts of town but as the area was known for its hiking trails there was sidewalk well past the town line meaning you didn’t have to walk on the verge of the road. As you strolled along you absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, remembering to pull up the instagram page for the honey seller, and what you saw stopped you in your tracks;

“Good god…” you muttered as you scrolled through his feed. You weren’t sure if it was deliberate, but almost every other post could be considered a thirst trap; from the reel of him using the hand cranked honey spinning centrifuge and the tight white tank top he wore showing off his impressive arms and torso that seemed to be patterned with the occasional scar, to the close up shots of his hands, whether he was gently letting the bees climb over his palms, to the one where he dipped his finger in a jar of honey and sucked it off, his plump lips wrapping around the digit as he held eye contact with the camera.

When you finally looked up from your phone you realised you’d walked past your house, letting out a small laugh you turned and backtracked the hundred feet or so before you finally stepped into your yard, letting the small white gate shut behind you. For a moment you took in the beautiful flowers and herbs you’d so carefully tended, until your attention moved to the long line of Lavender bushes that ran along the back perimeter of your property. They were teaming with bees feasting on the rich nectar, the hum from the insects, a low background noise that added to the calls of the wild birds and the occasional cry of a deer as it strayed from the woodland.

Once you were settled and had packed away your purchases, your flowers happily in water in an old mason jar in the kitchen window you found the slip of paper Mrs Roberts had given you. Glancing at the purple haze the Lavender gave off you dialled the number and listened to it ring, hearing the automated voicemail before you left a message;

“Hi this is a message for Lucas, Mrs Roberts at the library passed me your number that you were looking for Lavender blooms. I have quite a lot in my yard but they are covered in bees at the moment…” you continued the message, leaving your address and suggesting that he come look to see if it's what he was needing before you committed to anything. Hanging up you set your phone aside before making yourself a tea and grabbing the novel you were halfway through, heading out to the wicker chair you had on your little porch at the side of the house, ready to settle in for a while in the sunshine.

Sy finished packing the last of the equipment away, smiling to himself as he saw the number of boxes of product he was loading into the back of his truck were considerably lighter than they had been that morning. With the takings safely locked away in the glove compartment of his truck he sought out the market organiser and paid for the pitch, before calling out for his German Shepherd that had spent most of the day happily snoozing under the table unbeknown to his customers;

“Akia, c’mon Girl!”

As the dog made the rounds of the last few traders that were still packing away in the late afternoon sunshine, Sy checked his phone. Dismissing the social media notifications he saw that he had a voicemail, listening to it as he opened the passenger side door and Akia jumped into the cab;

“Okay, we’ve got a stop to make on the way home, just round the corner from the hives though”

As he pulled up at the small wooden cottage, Sy spotted how it was nicely painted and the gardens tended to perfectly, but if you looked a little closer there were things that needed to be done; shingles loose on the roof, the driveway needed to be re-gravelled, the gutter pipe was loose from the down spout, meaning the rainwater would run down the end of the porch.

“Wait here girl”

The dog didn’t respond, she was back to snoozing again on the wide seats of the truck, Sy gently shut the door so as not to wake his furry best friend. Opening the small wooden gate he noticed that the hinges were worn and that the latch could do with being oiled, but let it quietly close behind him. As he turned the corner of the house two things immediately came into view; the masses of Lavender bushes that filled the senses, and the owner of the cottage quietly sleeping in a chair on the porch, her book hanging from her hand where she’d nodded off mid chapter.

It took him a moment to recognise you, but as the realisation set in he felt a warmth through his body. Curled in your chair with your feet tucked under your legs, your dress had ridden up and he could see the soft curve of your thighs. Without your jacket he could see how your dress clung to your body, accentuating your breasts. Your mouth sat slightly open, your lips plump, and he could imagine himself running his thumb over your bottom lip as he uttered soft praises.

Realising he was now not only staring, but also standing in a strangers garden as she slept, he shook himself;

“C’mon Sy, you’ve seen the Lavender, time to get going”

Quietly leaving the garden he made a mental note to message you back, before driving the short distance home, as it turned out he lived in the plot next door… it just happened that his fields backed onto your property.

Sunday morning rolled around and you were woken by your phone chiming with a text message, reading it through bleary eyes and you saw that it was the guy that wanted some Lavender, suggesting he come over late morning. Typing out a short reply that you were fine with that, you switched to Instagram and sleepily watched the stories, before one came up for Akia Honey;

“Oh what’s he been up to now?”

Tapping through the tags and shares from the previous day's market, you came to a reel he’d posted just a couple of hours earlier, captions showing he was going to be making honey bread. With clips of him mixing the ingredients by hand, before it cut to him kneading the dough wearing what looked like just an apron and jeans. Well, that and a light dusting of flour your fingers just wanted to dust off and feel the heat of his skin beneath. Shaping a loaf it was then captioned ‘time to shape the buns’ and your eyebrows shot up they almost hit your hairline;

“He can shape my buns any time he likes…” you muttered, your vision transfixed as his massive hands shaped the globes of dough, before he placed them onto the baking tray. The reel ended with a shot of the finished loaves, a steaming mug of coffee sat next to them as the morning sunlight streamed in through the window; “Well, I don't know if I now need sex, carbs, or coffee… thank you very much!” you muttered sarcastically, before you finally threw the covers off and headed for the shower.

You were mid way through your 2nd cup of coffee when you heard footsteps on your porch, and a quiet voice saying ‘no, sit, stay’. Peering out of the window you saw Mr Akia Honey outside, to which he saw you and waved.

Stepping out of the side door you smiled;

“Um, Hi…”

“Morning, you called me about the lavender yesterday? Sorry it took so long to come back to you, the market was really busy”

“You’re Lucas?!”

“Lucas Syverson, but just Sy is fine” the man smiled at you and held his hand out to shake, which you cautiously took, hoping as you shook hands you weren’t shaking too much from nerves. At that moment you heard a quiet woof from behind him, and much to your disappointment he withdrew his hand as he stepped aside; “And this is Akia, my trusty bee-hound”

“Bee-hound? That’s a breed? She looks a lot like a German Shepherd to me”

Laughing Sy shook his head;

“No, she’s actually a rescue that I brought back from overseas but i’ve trained her to scent out wild honey, plus her colouring means that ‘Bee-hound’ fits well”

The dog came up to you slowly and sniffed your hand, before she sat in front of you expectantly;

“If you’re comfortable with dogs, she’s waiting for a head pat…”

“Oh! Of course!” stroking the top of Akia’s head she started to wag her tail, before sneezing once and getting up again; “I guess that’s her way of saying that’s enough?”

Laughing, Sy smiled at you;

“That’s about right. So, the Lavender? I swung by yesterday after i’d finished at the market but you were…”

Your heart dropped into your stomach at what he was about to say;

“Oh god, was that when I was asleep on the chair? I’m so sorry about that”

Again with his soft laugh breaking the tension; “It’s fine, it’s your home, it was a long day, it's the weekend. You can do whatever you want, its me that should be apologising for just turning up without calling first”

You both paused for a moment before you nodded to the purple pushes that ran alongside your property boundary line;

“Anyway, how much Lavender did you need? You can take as much as you like”

The pair of you stepped off the porch and onto the soft grass, Akia taking the chance to explore your yard as she sniffed out behind trees and shrubs. Standing a few feet from the purple haze you watched as Sy slowly extended his hand to the sea of blooms.

“Watch out for… bees…”

Smiling at you he turned back to the insect covered flowers;

“Its fine, they’re my bees anyway” you watched as he let the little striped creatures crawl across his hand before buzzing off elsewhere; “I hadn’t realised that your property backs onto mine”

“It does?”

“This is my field” he nodded to the meadow that surrounded your property; “My cabin is just behind those pines” he nodded into the meadow to which you looked into the distance, just able to see the red tin roof of his home; “You see those little blue spots in the distance? They’re the hives”

He turned back to the Lavender and let out a small sigh;

“I’ve never seen blooms quite this vivid. Would you be offended if I made you an offer?”

You couldn’t help it but an eyebrow shot up your forehead, to which Sy turned almost beet red;

“No, no… not that kind of offer… i mean, i’d like to take all of it, the Lavender that is… oh god…” he laughed and raked his hand down his face before taking a deep breath and putting his hands on his hips;

“This crop of Lavender is amazing. I've been looking to add Lavender to a number of products, but it’s so expensive. I was wondering if we could work out a bartering exchange or something? I noticed you have a few shingles loose on the front of your property that I could fix for you, and I can supply you with as much honey as you could ever wish for…”

Standing there you pretended to mull over his offer, knowing full well you would happily accept whatever terms he wanted;

“Throw in a loaf of that amazing bread and you have yourself a deal”

Grinning, he took your hand and shook it;

“Deal”

Ten minutes later you were watching Sy and Akia walk back to their cabin through the meadow, he’d promised to swing by later that afternoon to harvest some of the lavender and bring his tools to fix the shingles on the front of the house. Now you just need to keep yourself busy until then.

Chapter 2 >>>

#syverson x reader #captain syverson #syverson fanfiction #henry cavill

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alexibeeart · 1 year

Link

The pendant is made from seed beads and monofilament thread in the shape of a rectangular column. The pendant transitions in a "dithering" pattern from top to bottom: translucent red, orange, yellow, opaque green, blue, purple, and translucent pink. You can specify a different length of ball chain necklace, otherwise I will include 18" and a closure.

🐝 A Bee 2023 [art tag] [links]

#A Bee art #A Bee craft #A Bee Wares #art for sale #craft for sale #handmade #accessory #jewelry #pendant #rainbow #seed beads #bead threading #dithering #column #rectangle #3D

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beeandheroddobsessions · 1 year

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Inappropriate

Pairing: Elvis x f!reader

Summary: Elvis teaches you a thing or two

Warings: MDNI!! SMUT!! Not a plot in sight fr. Oral (m.recieving). Spanking. Mean!Elvis. Manipulation. Coercion(?) Iressponsible parents fr Elvis is kind of a creep. Innocence kink?

A/N: The shit, in-fact, did not fit. I’m not as upset because i had a good stopping point. Anywho, I’m testing the waters with my smut writings but real talk, i kinda like this one. Let me hush though, Happy reading! - Bee 💕

Trembling. You were trembling.

Sex was a taboo in your world, even at eighteen. Asking about such “an egregious thing for a young lady” would garner harsh looks and curt responses. But you're a growing girl; curiosity couldn’t stay at bay forever. You’d pester about the things you’d hear around the schoolyard in an attempt to ‘keep up’ with your peers, yet those burning questions would garner the same response, “That’s not an appropriate question for you to be askin’.”

After no luck at home and barley any innvitation into a conversation at school, you let the question die off in the cold. Being left in the dark about the act led to you forgetting about it all together.

So how you ended up underneath this handsome devil is a mystery. Well, not entirely; He found you in a tailor shop, picking up a dress that needed hemming. His eyes raked over your form, deciding he’d have you before even knowing your name. You kept your head down while walking, meek and quiet. He liked how you stumbled over your words and apologized for every move you made. He liked that you were timid.

What he really liked was the way your face flustered when the clerk threw a less than tasteful remark your way. Innocence was practically oozing out of the pores on your pretty face, and he intended to drain it dry. The man couldn’t help himself, his conviction didn’t concern him. Shamelessly, he stepped in line with the door as you made your way to the exit. The thud of your body into his made him shiver.

The profuse apologies escaping those soft lips of yours made his pants tighten. He thought of how you’d sound in his bed, wondering if you’d whimper and plead with him. Elvis let you rattle on for a bit, busy studying, looking for something to draw you in. Your hair, or rather the tiny pin holding the style together gave it away.

A music note? Oh, he had it in the bag for sure. The brunett stopped you and introduced himself As if he hadn’t had eyes on you from the start. When you spoke your name, fate was sealed. He gave you a smirk, asking what type of music you liked. Blues was your answer. Hearing this had Elvis wondering what he did to get so lucky. He could work with the blues. An invite for a private performance was all it took.

One thing led to another, and you find yourself wedged between the soft bed and a charming adonis. Though his body hovers over yours, clothes have yet to be shared, a kiss yet to be shed. The intimacy of this scenario would be awkward had it been with anyone else. You’re nervous, and he knows it. How his eyes wander over your features with a knowing look makes you hot—burning with desire. Elvis hasn’t made a move past this; even so, you feel a warmth pool in your belly.

Is this normal? Is this a good thing? Why can’t you look away? The questions you have, accompanied by the position, are overwhelming.

Elvis can see the panic in those big doe eyes and decides to have a little fun.“what’s the matter, honey? Never been up close n’ personal with a man before?”

You can’t lie to save your life, so the shame of inexperience looms over your head. Retreating into yourself and avoiding the inquiry all together seems like the saftest option. Brining your hands to your face as if they’d save you makes Elvis chuckle.

“Oh now, none of that. I asked you a question, little one. I expect an answer.” He says, while removing the makeshift barrier. You open your mouth to speak, hoping that if you oblige, he’ll let up. Before a sound is made, Elvis lowers his head to the crook of your neck. Breath fanning against your skin, raising goosebumps over your body. A small gasp is all you can manage.

The handsome devil squeezes your waist, grip firm as he peppers kisses down your neck and chest, lanidng just above your clevage.

“What’d I say? Hm, sweet baby? Give me an answer.” He demands, peering up to find your gaze.

Ohh this…this was intense. Should there be a pulse down there? You have no clue. What you do know is that you aren’t about to look this man in the eye if you don't have to. His effect on your body is something you can’t explain, even if you wanted to. The hand on your waist travels to your thigh. Dangerously close to the hem of your dangerously short dress. His expression is calm, but the words that leave his mouth are serious.

“Honeybee, m’not gon ask ya again. Ya ignore me one more time, m’gon bend you over my knee.”

Though curious to discover what he means, the fear of being unprepared for something like that has you scrambling for an answer. You don’t even remember the question? ‘Have you ever’…what the hell was it? Panic sets in as you realize he’d distracted you on purpose.

The silence is enough for Elvis to start moving. You blink and are suddenly hoisted off of the bed that offered you some sense of security. Elvis is amused, eager to see how you’d handle this. He slides to the edge of the bed, planting his feet and, just as promised, bends you over his knee. He feels your breasts flush against his lap and shudders. This was going to be fun.

“you can count can’t ya?” He asks, eyebrow raised.

You can’t do much but nod, hoping he isn’t serious about this. The sting against your ass proves you wrong; a yelp escapes your throat. Remembering his initial demand, you sputter out the number as best you can.

“O-one”

Elvis tsks at you, taunting further. His hand soothes the burn as he shakes his head. “No, no, baby. That one don’t count. I told ya when I ask a question, ya answer it. Startin to think there ain’t much up in that pretty little head of yours.”

You can practically feel the smug look on his face. “M’sorry Elvis-” THWACK.

That one hurt worse than the first. He’s got you right where he wants you. Unsure of what to do, looking to him for guidence. It shakes him up real good, seeing you plead for help with your eyes; truly a thrilling experience for him. he likes playing with your psyche. Should you count to two? Or was that the new number oned? You were helpless.

His cool rings matched with the breeze rolling over your now warm backside leaves you in a spiral, adding to the already intese wave of desire. He is the escense of perfection right now. Something primal has you dripping, wanting more.

Much like any other time you feel this way, mother’s words float through your head. Inappropriate. To crave more of whatever this was, to feel this way. It was a sin. Urges were a temtation, same as the man who has you hunched over.

If your mother could see you now, “Unladylike,” she’d say. “Whorish,” your father would sneer. the guilt was beginning set in. You couldn’t do this. what would everyone think? If she found out, mama wuld surley tell the entire congregation of your sin. Daddy would surley disown you for even looking at a man like this. little by little, the lust you’re feeling starts to disapate.

Another delicious sting pulls you from the confines of your mind. Slick begins to leak through the white lace adorning your lower half. “Ya like this. Dontcha, baby? Like havin’ me discipline ya? Teachin’ ya some manners?”

You try to resist his accusation, shaking your head as if you hadn’t already been caught.

“No? Ya don’t like it?” He presses further, smirk everlasting as he continues to caress your ass. “No, I—um, I d-dont.” You sputter, attempting to sound as convincing as possible. Elvis nods but doesn’t say much “Mm, mhm.”

Without warning, he runs two fingers over your panties, stopping right above that little bundle of nerves, doing nothing more than adding a little pressure.

The moan that escapes you teeters on pornographic. Never in your eighteen years on this earth have you made a sound like that. You have one thought bouncing around. Inappropriate, my ass; this is magic.

Just as quickly as he gave you a taste of bliss, he rips it away. You keen and wiggle your hips, needing a sliver of friction. Elvis is tickled pink; his laughs do nothing to quell the fire he’s lit.

“See honey, ya do like it. S’okay, mama, I’ll break ya in real nice.” With that, he sits you up and admires his work. Pride swells in his chest as he takes it all in. Your begging eyes, reddened face, slick thighs, twiddling thumbs, it’s got him hot, real hot. you feel small under his stare. He flashes a crooked smile and spreads his legs a bit. “Ya wanna meet little Elvis, honey? Ya might wanna get to know him before we start havin’ fun.”

Your response flies out of your mouth before you can even think “Like…Like sex?”

Elvis nods his head, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it might’ve been, for any other soul, but not for y/n.

Still, you take this as an opportunity to find out what you’re working with; your eyes shift to his pants. Again, fear washes over your body, ‘little,’ he says.

“Elvis, I don’t think-” you choke on your words, feeling like the room is spinning. Guilt nips at you again, but you're a big girl now. He looks at you expectantly, waiting for the second half of that sentence.

“i—yes, I do. I’m—M’jus scared. Ain’t never seen a man before.”

When he hears ‘scared,’ Elvis’s features soften, and he sits up, fumbling over his words, same as you, “Honey, I ain’t gon hurt ya if that’s what your thinkin’, I know—I k-know I jus’ t-tanned ya up bu-but I wasn’t a-actually hurtin’ ya was I? If I d-did m’sor-”

You giggle at his change in demeanour and shake your head. “No, Elvis it ain’t that. Jus.. well my mama says that what we’re fixin’ to do ain’t appropriate. says it ain’t ladylike. This is what whores-”

Elvis is quick to shut you up with a hungry kiss. It’s far from graceful, teeth clashing, tounges fumbling, but it’s enough to shoo away the last bit of doubt. When you pull back for air, he begins to reassure you.

“You ain’t gon be a whore for nobody but me. Alright? Put that pile of horseshit outta your mind.” You nod your head, and he mimics you.

With that out of the way, Elvis starts to undo his belt. You’re on the edge of your seat; this would be the first time you’d ever seen a man in his most natural state. It’s riveting. He shimmies out of his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles before kicking them off completely. You’re shocked to find he isn’t wearing underwear.

His cock slaps against his stomach, earning a mewl from you. There was no doubt that Elvis was blessed; the print in those pants left little to the imaginatiou, but the display before you is mouthwatering. He’s Uncut, thick, veins that run along the lenght, an angry red tip, with balls heavy, and ready to spill. There’s hair, but it’s neatly kept.

Elvis lazily strokes himself, watching you burn the image into your memory. You didn’t think this is what it would be like. Schoolyard talk had you stuck with the image of a worm between every mans legs.

“Can…can I touch it?” you ask, wanting to explore this new territory. Elvis gives you a cheeky grin and nods, taking your hand in his, replacing it with his own. He lets out a groan when your fingers wrap around him. He’s heavy in your hands, never mind how he’d feel inside you. Elvis begins to guide you, growing more impatient by the second. “Move your hand jus like that, baby.”

You do as told, afraid of making any moves without help. Elvis’s hands glide down your spine as he watches you, concentration never breaking. “Go on and wrap your pretty lips round the tip, like ya would a sucker. No teeth though, darlin’.”

Hesitantly, you lean down. Uncertain of what to expect, your tongue swipes over the small hole, testing the waters. Elvis takes a sharp breath; scared to have done something wrong, you quickly pull away.

“I—m’sorry, I jus-”

Elvis pulls you into him, giving you a gentle kiss. “Felt good, mama. Real good. Keep goin’,” he reassures, wanting nothing more than your mouth on his aching cock. With a nod, you resume your ministrations. You swirl your tongue around his tip before wrapping around him entirely. The taste of pre-cum sends your eyes to the back of your head.

“That’s a good girl, I knew ya knew how to listen.”

Too focused on the task at hand, the teasing goes unnoticed. How much of him could you take? Elvis is taken by surprise when you attempt to find out. His head lulls back. Hands tangle in your tresses as you gag around him. “Fuck, honey. Ya learn quick.”

On your way back up, Elvis tightens his grip on your hair, sending you back down. “Stay right there, babydoll. G-Goddamnit, that’s a good girl!”

Looking up through your lashes, you find him with lips parted, eyes closed, and chest beginning to rise and fall a little faster. The sight makes you shift to create a bit of friction. As he holds you in that same spot, air becomes scarce. Tears well in your eyes; you tap his thigh, hoping he’ll give you a breather. Elvis’s eyes open, and his features set in a pout.

“Ya need air, baby?” He asks, seeming genuine.

Nodding frantically, you move to pull off, but he keeps you locked in place. “Then breath through your nose. Gotta be able to suck me good n’ proper. Can’t do that if youre runnin’ for air all the time.”

Realizing he’s serious, you have no choice but to redirect your breathing. When you finally get the hang of it, Elvis wastes no time moving. Your head bobbing just wasn’t enough, his hips buck up, speed increasing as he focuses on his release. The sound of you choking only spurs the musician on further. Obsceneites leave his mouth with little shame.

“Come on honey, shit, I know ya got it in ya.”

“Feels so damn good, princess.”

“Gonna taste me for days, sweetheart.”

You whine around his cock, sending a pleasant shock through his body. Pants and grunts escape the star above you, leaving your underwear far past the point of no return. Elvis can’t help but use you to chase his high. Having someone so innocent, so malleable, so willing, sends him careening toward that ledge much quicker than he had intended.

His core tightens, and his thrusts lose their rhythmic pace. Elvis is more than vocal as he abuses your poor throat. His thighs clench, and his toes curl; he’s so close. Bliss brings him to the moon, the only word leaving his mouth is your name. Wondering what the effect would be, you graze your fingertips over his balls. That does it. With a yelp, Elvis stills and spills down your throat, the option to spit taken away.

He pulls you off with a ‘pop.’ He sees a fucking mess. Your hair’s disheveled, drool is everywhere, mascara cascading down your cheeks. You do indeed look like a whore, and Elvis loves every second of it. He pulls you onto his lap, arms snaking around your waist.

“Your mama’s a goddamn liar. That was the most ladylike thing I’ve ever seen. Now, s’time for me to show ya how a man takes care of his lady.”

Taglist: @powerofelvis @prayerstopresley

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