#the age of homespun

[phoenixcatch7]

Torn between the urge to gush about aoc and the urge to scream about totk, so uh.

I don't know about any other link that's had not one, but TWO huge game official... Sequels? (Maybe wind waker link? But one said explicitly it was the descendant, so maybe not...)

But that's not my point.

Breath of the Wild, Age of Calamity, Tears of the Kingdom.

Should we call it the Trifecta of the Wild?

Wild Triforce!

No - the Age of the Wild Kingdom.

#Side note which game would be which under the triforce #I'd say botw would be courage #Aoc would be power #Totk would be wisdom #The chain: so which age are you from? We've got the era of twilight; age of devestation; era of time? Where would you say you're closest? #Soon-to-be-named-Wild; looking down from the sheer cliff he scaled to watch the birds circling over the clear blue ocean #Wearing homespun travelers clothes and stolen bone clubs; tech from a lost civilisation at his side; leather boots soft and worn from #Miles upon miles of untouched land and forest and valley: eh. I don't know what I'd call it. But it's old and it's alive and it's home. #tears of the kingdom #loz totk #botw totk #botw #age of calamity #loz aoc #hw aoc #breath of the wild #✨Age of the Wild Kingdom✨

[dhampling]

oh, mother fem!reader, 3.3k

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau. The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. - It's the mummy fic. cw: lactation, breeding mentions, age regression (?), smut, astarion as a content warning, humping, feeding, afab reader, MUMMY, dadstarion, cockwarming w/c: 3.3k

Astarion looks over his shoulder from the homespun carpet, book limp in hand. 

Like the written word could hold any comparable weight whilst you’re there decalescent and milk-swollen above him.

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau.

The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. The way he strokes something so very gentle at your swollen shin, head stirring as he searches for purchase atop an aching thigh. 

Your eyes leisurely as they cut between the infant latched to your heavy breast and the restless chit by your legs on the ground.

“Hm?”

The youngling gurgles in sleepy succour.

Astarion rolls his head forward with a lazy smile, saccharine in holding his tongue between teeth.

“This. All of this. Dreamy, isn’t it?”

His voice is silken against the low crackle of the fire. The shallow suckling breaths at your chest. 

“Mhm.” 

Your fatigue is wholly joyous in its maudlin haze, your agreement a free and light hum. 

The man at your heel, the child he gave you; the wonder as he watches on - her little face scrunching as she swallows, the hint of a cough as you lightly adjust where she lies in the crook of your arm. A small coo.  

There’s a strange look in his eye. Not the reverent fatherly gaze you’d come to expect from your husband in the months since you’d become a mother. Instead he seems fallible. 

Round-eyed, gentle;- 

Lamblike. The restless sheepling. Marvelling and timid. 

“You’re a vision.” 

Your eyes meet and you dare him to hold the stare in his yielding state. 

You’ve become somewhat of a recluse in spending time with your daughter, and she certainly isn’t begrudging of the tangle of hair atop your head, nor the span of your torso kept so soft and warm on which for her to lie. The heavy swell of your breasts, the intermittent spotting where milk bleeds through your tailored house clothes. 

It’s not that you necessarily feel any certain way about your physical attributes at present but you’ve definitely felt cleaner. Been better presented.

Mother.

Astarion’s face is pure butter, muddled and waxen as his brows draw together. Quietly roused in a moment of recondite.

Whatever runs through his head is new.

Lashings of fresh rain hammer the windowpane. The claw of winter, dark streets; seeping stone. The umber flickers of the fire on the wall. Heat licks the side of your face closest.

Glowing.

She groans a gentle burble. Her lips smack together softly as she finishes and you lift her from your chest, tucking your breast back into your slip and bringing her into the crook of your arm. 

There’s a moment where his head tilts as if to speak.

“She’s tired.” You whisper whilst running a finger along her cheek. Small eyes of glimmering ruby, lids lulling open and closed. More quiet gurgling as she fidgets. 

“I’ll take her. Rest, love.’

Astarion stands from crossed legs, twirling around to lean over the little one; over you. Runs his wiggling fingers over her small frame in little taps. 

‘My darling girl! Princess of the Kingdom Sleep.’

Large hands lift her from your chest into his. A gentle rock as he does so. 

‘This simply won’t do, will it? Let’s take you upstairs.”

He taps her nose on ‘you’. She sneezes violently.

You watch them both from the lounger as he steps through the arch and round the corner, up the spiral staircase and padding softly to your shared chamber. Balmy quiet. More rain. 

Your first Lover’s Day as three feels poignant. 

Despite keeping from the sun - and therefore sleeping the actual day away - in the stormy night your home brims sweet with ardour. A bubble of somnolence; a barge at sea. 

A year of calm. Stillness. Establishing yourselves in your respective newfound freedoms and figuring out who you are; both alone and together. A conscious effort and one rewarded just months earlier with her.

“You’re so… soft with her.’

You don’t hear him reenter the room as he comes behind you and closes the door to the den with two chalices in hand, a bottle in the other. He doesn’t miss the brow quirk.

‘Dealcholised. Don’t worry’ 

The top uncorked.

‘I fail to see the fun in it myself, but ‘needs must’ and all that.”

A hint of the player’s tone. You laze back as he returns to his place at your heel, handing you a glass of honey mead. 

“I’m her mother. Of course I’m soft with her.” 

You take a large sip and recline. 

Astarion snakes an arm around your leg, leaning in and planting a gentle kiss to the flushed skin. 

“You. Her mother.’

He takes a large gulp and swills the sweet tincture around his teeth.

‘I still can’t quite believe it. The baby part, that is -’

A shake of his head. A brief grimace, puzzled yet pleased. Wholly adorative and you can see the retrospective of recent memories fly through his head.  

‘You as a mother on the other hand. As if it were meant -’

Kiss.

‘To’

Kiss.

‘Be.”

His lips close on your shin, habitual breath fanning cool over the hot flesh. 

“Mhm?” 

He looks up at you with those big round eyes once more, a reticent smile. Head tilting to you coyly.

“You. You’re a vision. An absolute vision.” 

“You like it?”

“It’s-’

He falters in that moment of recondite from before. Seeks avail. 

‘I watch you care for her and it makes me weak at the knees. Your little love.’ 

The last words whispered in fond awe. His hands wave around his face in a considered manner. 

‘You provide for her, hells. Nurture her. Hold her close to you in this beautiful,  unconditional love; no matter the hour.’  

Your love for him. He wonders if it will stretch to the words on the tip of his tongue, but he’d be a fool not to try.

‘And I-”

“You think you might want it too?” 

He sags. Still round-eyed, but the corners of his mouth noticeably dip.

“Yes. I- I suppose I do.”

You’re not surprised, though you’re impressed that he voices it so plainly. In your mind every instance he’s retreated into you plays in vivid colour. Each time he’s held you close, so innocently; as a child may a parent. Not often. Not boldly. But the want is there. 

Maybe it’s the taste of the mead, despite the lack of alcohol. Fizzy and heady.

But no. You want this. You want to show him you care in the most innate way you’re able; unearthed in the way you care for her. 

Your darling. The Rogue of the Gate. Brittle-boned and weak following years on years of isolation and hurt but here; eyes aflame, wide open at your heel and healing. 

He runs his hand absentmindedly up and down your leg as you ponder.

“What do you want, my love? Tell me.”

Your voice is pure honey as you keen into his touch a little further. Yielding. Relishing the pads of his cool fingers; a salve to your inflamed limbs. 

The whine from earlier. You remember it. The bridled snare of his tense coil, watching you mothering his child and aching for you to cosset him too. The soft mindless touches. The way you feed her from your breast as you do him from your neck. His knee-jerk rutting against your leg.

He sits in sullen silence for a moment.

Then, his eyes meet yours once more. A wary hand slips up to your thigh; deft fingers circling the doughy inner skin. You part your legs at his touch. 

“It’s okay, darling boy.’

You lean forward from your slouch and hold his head in your hands, legs open; back arched as your thighs remain open. Low and soft as you bring your mouth down.

‘It’s okay. What do you need?’

Astarion shivers. Guttural. Frozen in sheer terror. Lust as you cradle his head close to your aching breasts. Real, unfettered lust. Every sprawling emotion, each moment spent searching for someone to see him with comfort in their eyes in those early hours two hundred years ago. 

He sometimes forgets he’s allowed to feel anything remotely desirable when he’s like this. Forgets he’s with you. Forgets he can covet you and still keep you past dawn.

Old habits die hard. 

‘Come back to me now, sweetheart.’ You whisper, tongue ghosting over the outer contour of his ear as he continues his ministrations at the inner skin of your thigh. Tips flushed red.

‘Come to mummy.”

The groan spilling from his lips is inhuman. The hesitant hand diving between your legs turns to an iron grasp in record time.

Pliable. Ass pert on the sofa cushions. 

“Can I?” He whispers, clutching feverishly at the pillowy skin.

“Use your words, Astarion. Come on.” 

His ear is his soft spot. Tender, sensitive; flushed with blood from waking bites. 

“Can I?”

Your eyes are featherlight as they roll into your skull. Burning cheek, thighs strong.

“Please.’ 

His head lifts from the crease of your knee as he braces himself to stand - eyes meeting yours in a sheer devotion that wracks every inch of your scalding frame. 

‘Come to me.”

You shuffle so there’s room for him atop the cushions, and he crawls into the space between you legs as you hold his arms. Your angel. Forlorn with a lack of direction akin to that on his face when you first met. His eyes weary; heavy in their low-lidded gaze.

The parting of your legs once more. The way he inhales.

“Mother. Mother.”

“I’m here, love. My darling. I’m here.”

Astarion queries the break in your thighs once more with a desperate hand. Leans in closer with a small choked sob.

“What do you need, my love? What can I give you?”

Your ability to provide for him. Enough to make him hard each time - the fact you offer it freely in his home, atop his embroidered cushions; the primal need to comfort him with your body. He resonates with it. Yearns for it. Freely given and given free.

“Can I touch you, please?”

Thighs part as bullrushes in wading season. You think about his pale prick, standing alert in his trousers. 

“Come here.”

You expect his hand to resume the agonising crawl up your thigh, but instead it moves to palm at your wetness quicker than you think. His leaky bride. He searches for evidence of your desire and he finds it in abundance through the cloth of your undergarments, and instead of the typical smarmy response you’d come to anticipate-

He simply gasps. 

Mouth heavy with spit. Thick with joy, lust; ripe having seen the proof of your need for him. To take care of his ruined body and learning mind.

Your hands move to your chest as he looms over you, peeling the slip down from your breasts so you can relieve the ache that wracks them. Heavy. Painful in their retention, nipples distended as wholly engorged with milk.

“Fuck.”

“Swearing in front of mummy? Rather unbecoming, no?” 

His eyes roll back into his skull, this time from jovial relief. He’s still in there. No disassociation, no hurt as you sigh, as your hands move to relieve the ache from your teats; rolling your nipples in practised tandem and riding the air with the subsequent high.

He groans once more. Straddles your lap as his hips move to hump the air by your soft belly. Desperate thrusts. Wanting. Needing more and more of your validation.

It’s not until your aching nipples do something most unexpected that you moan alongside him. Longing. Your lover - his face now spattered with your drips. Forehead, cheekbones; the space between his nose and lips; all adrip with the sweetest fluid he’s ever been baptised with. Milk dribbles from each of your teats and flows into the one neat pearl hanging from each. 

Astarion’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment you feel it deep in your abdomen. 

“You want to taste?’

A meek nod. A solemn promise. Those lips of a charlatan. 

“Can I do something first? Please?”

You wonder how many silken lies have spilled from that tongue in some desperate sense of bravado over the years. How the performance has no audience here any longer.

“Tell me. What do you want?”

You struggle against the moan desperate to spill from your lips. You want nothing more than to become clay in his capable hands, and yet you know you must remain as you are. Stoic. Liberal with a chiding tongue should he need it.

“Will you warm me while I do?”

“Are you hard, my love?”

“Please, mother.’

He lifts your wrist from your chest to the apex of his thighs, manoeuvring your palm by the back of your hand so it presses deep on his aching cock. Hard. Pulsing. Searching for somewhere to bury deep inside and be warm in comfort.

‘Mummy. Please.”

His use of ‘mummy’ throws you a million miles off course on a wayward comet of pure desire, hurtling through a new sky in hearing it in his downy timbre. A mere whisper. You see for a brief moment the small elven boy he once was as he seeks comfort in you, ears out at a point, eyes folded something crestfallen.

Your tits ache as you reach down to free your cunt, rolling the linen down your legs in a sweat-laden stupor and throwing the piece aside as Astarion strokes his cock. 

“Fill me, sweet one. Let me look after you.”

Whatever remaining crumbs of resolve he has dissipate at the sound of your voice, rolling to pull you onto his lap and holding you in a hover above his fat head, slit leaking clear as it rests against his shirt.

There’s a moment where you look at him fondly, as an equal.

Then as you sink onto the pointedly hard length of his weeping cock you see the softening of his face and you want nothing more in all the realms than to baby him like he wants of you. To hold him close, soothe his aching need for your body; for your guidance and wit, for your humour and want. For the way you smell warm, like domestic heaven; so much like someone who cares for him as if he were born directly from you.

A part of him was. The part of him now alive and breathing, asleep upstairs in the cot beside your shared bed.

This part of him however now feels it close. Feels the way your spongy walls yield to him. The way you want to please him and be pleased.

You allow yourself one roll of your hips as you shift to accommodate his sharp length, holding a moan in the back of your throat and wriggling so you sit comfortably above him. This isn’t about the fervent dance to reach a peak. It’s for him.

Leaking teats now at eye level, large droplets of milk freed in your shifting. He pulses inside you as he asks with big round eyes. A taste - and who are you to deny your favourite boy?

With a nod from you, his lids flutter shut and his tongue brushes sharp fangs to lick softly at your nipple. The sweet cloud of nectar dissipates on the surface and his whimper rocks you straight to your core, the brief wince as you feel the kick of his cock inside you.

Hungry. The only way you can describe the sound biting at his throat. 

“So good! So good.”

He nods softly at your encouragement, looking to you once more; seeking permission to take a wholly distended nipple into his waiting mouth. 

You arch forward in response. A gentle ‘yes’.

The veiny flesh of your breast forms a lightning-visceral halo of blues and greens around his soft curls as you look down. Wet kitten licks, soft suckling; coaxing the warmth from within as you card a steady hand through his hair.

His hips begin to roll a little. Your other hand moves to anchor him. 

“Ah-ah. Rest now. My beautiful boy. You’re doing so well. You don’t need to move, do you?”

He shakes his head frantically around your nipple. A furious refute.

“Good. Good boy. Do this for you.”

There’s a moment where he loses himself fully in the taste of you. The sheer mass of your newly-fattened nipples, the way they feel as he pushes against; over them with his cool wet tongue. Soft yet aching. Rubbery. Abundant. Listens to the rain hammering the window.

Then a hand reaches out. Grabs at your clothed waist, palm basking in the body heat; lifting your skirt just a little further up your thighs to gain access to the bud of your swollen clit and smooth the hood up and over. Exposed. Curious as to how far he can go.

When he starts to circle the white-hot flesh you know you have to focus.

This isn’t about you. 

And yet he murmurs something under his breath. You aren’t sure if you’ve heard properly at first.

“Want to feel you cum around me.”

Astarion can’t meet your eyes as he says it. All sense of grandiloquence he’s ever shown anyone lost behind flush cheeks. Vulnerability. 

“Say it again.”

“I want to give to you.”

“You want to give to me, or you want me to give it to you?”

He stops. Looks at you with a bewildered furrow.

“I want you to stop touching me and focus on yourself. Use me, sweetheart. Take your pleasure.”

The furrow remains for a moment or two as he stews in blank thought.

“Talk to me. I can do it, I’m so close already.” He laughs shyly with an eager pulse of his cock.

“You want to spill in me again? Make mummy round once more, sweet one?’

A brisk nod. Desperation deep set as he looks you over.

“It’s okay! You’re allowed to want this, to take it.’ You lean in to his ear once more and bite calmly at the tip.

His eyes screw shut and his lips purse together.

‘I want you to do this.”

And he cums. Hard.

Tries to bounce you on his lap in order to gain some friction in the waves of brutal frustration biting at his core, grunting and wailing as he grabs at whatever of you he can. Hips, ass, thighs; terse and hot.

And you simply coo. 

Refusing to let him move you, nor take solace in the friction you so willingly often provide. His abdomen tenses something staccato as he takes what little purchase he can and tries to push into you further.

And then, he begins to weep. 

Your hand moves to his hair once more, bringing him in to your chest as he attempts to hump you through his climax.

“There now. Good boy.”

Tears as he finishes. Cold-heavy sobs. Mouth absentmindedly searching for the soft of your neck in the rolling haze and biting. Gnawing. Looking for the pulse point now permanently marked by two bloody spots. 

He feels the nod you so freely give and sinks his fangs deep past the skin. 

Ruts up with his now softened cock, suckles like a small lamb. The sluice of his spend pooling on his pelvis. 

“Good boy. Take what you need, always. I’ve got you.”

The haze passes with each sip from you, blood puddling under his tongue and down his perfect throat. The frustration melts into sheer joy as he hugs you close in small peals of laughter. 

“Gods. That was -’ 

He pauses for one last sip before tilting his head to look at yours.

‘That was phenomenal, love.’

You take a moment to look him over for any signs of discomfort, anything that might indicate he’s putting on a front for you; and there’s nothing. No veil. His eyes are empty in post-orgasmic bliss and he looks so incredibly beautiful in such joy.

‘I’m wholly spent. I really am.”

You laugh at his breathy shakes.

“Mummy is here whenever the urge should strike, darling. You know this.”

He rolls his eyes and grins. 

“Oh mother. How could I forget?”

#my writing #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion ancunin #dadstarion #nsft

[luveline]

if you’re ever in the mood to write for kbd again i’d love to ask for an argument fic! i’m a huge hurt/comfort fan and i feel like the arguments you write always feel so realistic and healthy(?) in a way? ily

thank you for your request! im glad u like how i write arguments bcos i find it so difficult, I hope this fills your hurt/comfort needs! kbd | dad!steve x mom!reader

You're tapping your foot on the kitchen floor, annoyed and upset and not sure if you should say anything about it. 

Dove said her first words today. And you found out through Avery, who sits on the kitchen table in front of you with her legs dancing over the edge, clearly unhappy that you're unhappy, her hands stroking your cheeks affectionately. She's only six. You feel terrible that she can tell you're upset. 

"Mom, how can I make you happy?" she asks.

It's something you've said to her a thousand times. She cries, and she's finally at the age where you can ask her what solution she needs. 

You love her, but your patience isn't very strong today. You remove her hands from your face gently and give her a weak smile. 

"I just need to talk to daddy, that's all." 

"I'll go get him!" she says, clambering onto your legs and down onto the ground. 

You don't really like the idea of summoning him for a scolding, and you've been with him long enough to know how to navigate a disagreement without a fuss. But you aren't perfect, and neither is he. When he arrives in the kitchen with a broken baby doll in his hands, he looks so comely, so homespun, and you're still mad. 

"Why didn't you tell me Dove said her first words?" 

His eyes light up, but he swiftly fixes his expression into a more neutral one. "I– sorry, yeah, she said daddy." He grins like he can't help it. He probably can't. "Oh, you should've heard it, she couldn't have sounded less excited to say it, what a doll." 

"But why didn't you tell me?" 

Steve seems to clock where this is heading, then, and puts the doll down on the kitchen counter. "It slipped my mind." 

"Really? Her very first words slipped your mind? Like, that's not extremely important to you?" 

"Of course it's important to me." Steve's eyes narrow, and his eyebrows start to rise. It's not an angry look nor is it cruel, but it rubs you the wrong way. It's sceptical. "But I'm busy all of the time. Which you know."

You're getting more and more irate. It's not his fault, but it feels like his fault in the moment, and you don't like how he's talking to you, and your head hurts. 

"I didn't say you're not busy, but I still think you should've told me when I came in."

"I just– I don't know, I had to give Bethie a bath, and then Dove was fussing. And now her doll's broken. I was busy." 

You sigh. "Sometimes," you say, more depressed than mad, "you act like they're not even mine. You act like they're just your girls. I'm their mom." 

"Do I do that?" he asks, incredulity leaching into his words.

"Steve, you should've told me straight away. She's my baby, I should've found out from you, and not Avery, like an afterthought." 

"I told you, I forgot." 

"I don't care if you forgot– actually, I do, because that's the problem. You shouldn't forget to tell me when my own daughter starts talking–" 

"You're acting like I chose not to tell you. I wasn't not going to tell you, but I have other things on mind! I have a lot to do, in case you forgot!" 

"Like I'm not busy too?" you ask. "Like I don't work all day every day to come home to you. To make sure there's a home to come home to." 

"You're throwing that in my face?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No! No, I'm just saying that I'm busy too, you're not the only one who has to do things, Steve, but the difference is that I would never forget to tell you something like that!" 

"Maybe if you were home, you wouldn't need to shout at me about it. You feel guilty and you're taking it out on me." 

You don't see red or anything so aggressive —no. You just feel like he's slapped you, like he's reached right into the centre of your chest and said the thing that's going to hurt you the most. 

You don't want to cry. You know how it looks, like you're losing, so you're crying, so he'll feel sorry and make you feel better. Steve has known you and loved you for years and he knows the look on your face before tears have even welled up. You twist away from him and cover your face with your hands, your skin hot as a burning hearth. 

And the tears are pathetic. Sniffling, quiet, high-pitched in the back of your throat. It's not fair. It's not fair, you want to stay home too, you want to see their first moments, and you don't get to do it and he's shouting at you and you just want to shrink into nothing right then and there. You're tired, and you're embarrassed at yourself for speaking to him like that. He doesn't deserve it.

"Honey," Steve says, all malice gone. "Honey, don't. It's okay." 

"I'm fine." 

"No, it's okay," he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. 

"Ignore me," you say, "I'm not crying to– I'm just mad." 

"Don't cry," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your crown. "Don't. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." 

Love is so unfortunate, sometimes. He's the only one who you want comfort from, but you're so mad at him. Even if he's right. The anger is as illogical as the love; you want him to go away and you need him to rub your back as you snuffle. 

"It's not fair, Steve. You can't just say that."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know you can't be home. I know I'm the lucky one. I know how much you've given away to let me have what I want," he says, moving so he's face to face with you. 

"Now you'll think I'm crying just to be the one upset," you say with a sob. 

"Only a little bit." He laughs fondly at your frown. "I'm kidding!"

You cry so much he has to wrap his arms around you to keep you together. It's not his fault, but suddenly everything breaks the surface, how guilty you feel for missing out, how annoyed you are at him for knowing that and still giving you a hard time, how annoyed you are at yourself for shouting at him over something he can't control. You cry because you miss the girls, you miss him, and you're tired. There's hundreds of tiny reasons. 

Steve sounds a little emotional himself when he says, "God, I'm sorry." His cheek pressed hard to your ear, his hug tightening. "I'm a dick, making you cry." 

"I'm a dick. I'm sorry," you say, head heavy, tears slowed. 

"It's okay. I know why you're upset. I promise I know. I shouldn't have got so defensive… but I really did forget, honey. I'm sorry, but I did." 

"I know. I'm sorry for being a bitch about it." 

He laughs and pulls back to cup your cheek. "You are not a bitch. You got upset, you're not the antichrist." 

You sniff. Steve pulls the corner of your mouth into an uneven smile and then, slowly, leans in to dot a kiss there. When he moves back, his face is slack. An unhappiness lingers in his lips and his eyes where they're trained on your tacky cheek. 

He moves in for a second kiss. This one is firmer, longer, and you reciprocate with relief. 

"Do you really think that? That I act like they're just my girls?" he asks when he pulls away. 

You duck your head so you don't have to look at him, or face the mean things you'd said. Not just mean, either, but the things you're embarrassed to have thought. 

"Not really. Sometimes I feel like…" You don't want to say it aloud. You rub the skin of his wrist in a fidget. 

"Go on," he says. 

"I worry I'm not choosing the right thing. I would never ask you to give this up… I really wouldn't. But I worry I'll regret not being here."  

Steve wraps his hands in your t-shirt and pulls it toward him. You're becoming more and more intertwined as the conversation progresses, your faces much too close. 

"We've always said," he says slowly, "that you could change your mind. That you could come home, and that I would work. We've always said that. You don't have to be afraid to tell me you've been thinking about it." 

"I haven't." You sniff. "I don't even think I could do it." 

"Are you kidding?" Steve asks. 

A rogue tear races down your cheek. If you speak, you'll sob, so you shake your head and hold onto his wrist for dear life. 

"You're the best mom they ever made," he says, easing closer still, his face imploring, pleading with you, "why would you ever think you can't do it? It’s different to when you’re home, being alone with them, it's fucking hard, and I think you'd struggle to get used to it at first because I still struggle now, but you could do it. I know you could. You could stay at home and look after them if you want to, I want you to do that if it's what you need." 

"This is silly," you say. 

"It's not silly." 

"I've made this all about me. I was angry at you and now you're comforting me." You stroke his cheek with your knuckle. "I'm the one who should be comforting you. You race after the kids all day and then the wife comes home and grabs you by the ear."

"I think I'd kinda like it if you did," he says. 

You both laugh. 

"I'm sorry," you say. 

Steve nods. "Yeah, me too." 

You bite back everything that's hurting. It's only a temporary pain. You'll figure out what you want, and you have your best friend in the world kneeling in front of you, willing to do anything if it'll help. 

"I should be nicer to you," you murmur. 

"You're plenty nice. But if you're still feeling guilty, I'd die for a kiss, sweetheart." 

You wipe your face with your sleeves, wet cheeks, snotty nose, and brush your hair away so you look like someone worth kissing. "Do I look okay?" 

"You look beautiful," Steve says fondly, leaning in for a kiss. His hands bracelet your wrists. "So pretty," he says between kisses. 

"Don't," you chastise lightly, "this is why I keep getting knocked up." 

"In that case," he says against your lips. He deepens the kiss against your charmed laughter, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you still in the face of his ardency. 

You part before things can get heated and he lets you apologise again, though he insists it isn't necessary, your arms over his shoulders, your nose in his hair. He's always been so good like that —Steve doesn't hold a grudge with you (though others may not be so lucky). He stands you up, brushes you down, even wipes your cheeks with a washcloth. It's why you could never send him to work. He's a caretaker down to the bone. 

Bethie, sweet girl as she is, appears as he's wiping your puffy eyes. She's almost three and a half, and she's the cutest girl in existence if Steve is to be believed. He visibly softens at her entrance alone. 

"Hello, Bethie-baby," he says, "we were wondering where you were. Did you finish your crackers?" 

She's a daddy's girl and she always has been, so it surprises you when she pretty much ignores him and holds her hands up to you. You pick her up, let her settle against your chest. 

"Hey, Beth." 

"Missed you," she says. 

"Oh, you did?" you ask, overjoyed. You sniffle the last of your upset away and lock it down tight. 

She's a quiet baby. You worried she had developmental issues at first (which wouldn't have mattered in terms of love, but worried all the same), though these days your theory is that she doesn't want to speak very much. She likes to communicate in other ways, namely affection, and her face brushes yours as she hugs you. 

You pat her back like she knows she likes. Steve smiles at you from over his shoulders. You wear twin expressions —I'm sorry, I love you, isn't she lovely?

#kisses before dinner universe #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x reader #dad!steve harrington x mom!reader #steve harrington x afab!reader #afab!reader #mom!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fluff

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Wolves at the Door

In a tidy well-built home on the outskirts of a village on the outskirts of the world, lives a doe in homespun skirts. MaryAnne lives in her ancestral home with antlers nailed to the mantle. Aged enough to be an old maid but not old enough for it to be charming, a howling comes for her. 

Oh, the Beast Folk of the north know better than to live alone. Lighting candles in the darkest months. Hanging Evil Eye charms in their windows to ward off wickedness. MaryAnne, all the same, cuts her own firewood and pickles her own vegetables. She survives the winter.

That is until that howling comes. Wolves are at her door. 

Claws scratch at the wood. A long snout snuffles at the windowsill. A voice croons, as they always do, in a plaintive song. In those long months, the villagers and MaryAnne bury their faces in their arms. Stuff their ears with wax. Cluster together if they can. That is how you made it through a winter in the north.

Yet, a howling comes.

That year, MaryAnne forgot to restock her wax. Too late to go out, she curls into a ball on the hard floor, buries her face, and refuses to look up. A voice floats through the cracks.

“Little doe.” A growl. “Why do you hide inside your nest?”

Mustn’t answer. A female wolf casts a long shadow through the window. Backlit by a yellow moon. She has a voice for turning wine to honey. MaryAnne squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

“You’ll turn to dust within these walls. Nothing left but bones.” The voice laughs, guttural and wind-rough. Heavy steps sound from outside, crunching in the snow. “The breeze is fresh. The snow is young. A night for running.”

Mustn't answer to the night.

“They have marked your door with Juniper. Tell me, what makes you so unlucky?”

A whine escapes from deep within MaryAnne’s chest. There is no escaping rumors it seems– even among wolves. A gentle sun-tanned face flashes through her mind’s eye. He is smiling there. The memory frays at the edges in an instant, like crumpling paper by the fire. He is frozen in that eternal melancholy look. Like he knew what was coming.

MaryAnne lets out a second hiccup of sound.

“There you are.” The voice laughs long and harrowed. A scratch drags down her door, rattling the hinges. “Why don’t you come out?”

“Leave me alone!” Her voice is hoarse from disuse. “Leave before I, before I. . . Leave!"

Oh no. She had answered. What a silly girl she was. The beast outside throws her head back and howls. And howls still.

—--------

Days pass in which MaryAnne doesn't hear the howling. She sweeps and mends and peels peas. Sometimes, the doe wakes in the predawn hours, half-frozen and shivering. She stokes the dead embers and looks out. Faded stars and quilted black look back at her. The night is quiet then, peeled to its barest layers and forgiving. An exhale. 

But those aren’t most days. A howling comes at her door. MaryAnne's ears begin to ring with it. She dreams of fangs and rust-colored waters. In the light of day, MaryAnne rubs at her eyes until she sees spots and some curling grin remains. I won’t survive the winter, she thinks. My time has come.

MaryAnne goes to the village Wise Woman. 

She trudges through the glittering snow and ducks behind trees when strangers pass. Mother Grace lived near the outskirts of town too. Though unlike MaryAnne, footprints ring her squat home– deep grooves of movement. MaryAnne follows the grooves and creeps forward like she might fade into her own shadow. 

The house is dark evergreen and churns enormous plumes of smoke. Charms for luck hang in the window and MaryAnne averts her gaze. Some of them look like pawed feet. She hunches her shoulders, tugs at her sleeves, and lifts a hand to the entrance. A door thick as slabs of good brown bread swings open at her touch. 

“Hello?” she calls into the gloom. “I am MaryAnne. Daughter of . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. If there was one thing to know of Mother Grace, it is that she hates tedious things. “Mother Grace, I have come to ask you of the world. I’ve come to ask you what wolves fear.”

“Questions, questions.” A grumbling answers her. “For yourself, child? Or some grand cougar king. Conquering their enemies.”

“For me. Yes. Myself. I am, I’m a doe.” MaryAnne stumbles forward and eyes adjust to the dimness.

“I can smell that.”

An old woman sits before a stone shelf, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by books. An iron stove dominates the living space and the air shimmers with heat. Mother Grace rocks back and forth in her chair. She is entombed in pillows, waiting to remind the young that the winter is long. And bound to grow longer.

MaryAnne repeats her question. “Do you know how to rid yourself of wolves?” How to escape being hunted? She dare not speak those words into existence though. Hunted. Cursed anew.

The woman grumbles under her breath once more. Grey-haired and petite, her rabbit ears hang long and limp down her shoulders. Her milky eyes were unseeing and body bent forward. Yet, her bearing is steady and unflinching. MaryAnne wishes in some distant way she could embody the same self-assured air. A knowledge of herself, good or bad.

Unable to bear it any longer, she repeats herself. “Please. Wolves are at my door. You are the most learned Folk. What do they fear?”

Mother Grace doesn't look at MaryAnne as she speaks. Her voice creaks. “I cannot say. Fear is a shifting thing. Wolves, too, shifting creatures." The Wise Woman grunts a dry laugh. “Hard to separate the two.”

"Ah,” MaryAnne says like she understands, heart sinking to the bottom of her shoes. 

Mother Grace sets her jaw and looks past her. "Go to the mulberry tree at sunset and bow your head. Speak true and earnestly.” The Wise Woman gnashed her gums. “It will show you how to greet a wolf.”

MaryAnne swallows. “Will that save me?” 

The wisewoman does not answer.

—-------

The sun sets in in a purpling line, sending the towns folk scurrying behind their locked doors. The Beast Folk know better than to linger alone after dark. But MaryAnne is Juniper-marked and given a task. She approaches the Mulberry tree in the shadow of a hill. Red ribbons tied in its bare branches and framed by twilight.

MaryAnne bows her head and kneels on the snowy earth, her cheeks pinched with cold. The knees of her pants soaking through.

“How do you escape a wolf?”

The Mulberry bush sways in the wind. The ribbons turn a dull navy in the light and MaryAnne shivers.

Two knotted eyes blink and the nymph bows back. Her hair sticks straight in the air– naked branches reaching for sky. She considers MaryAnne for a long moment. 

“Your father came to me once. Asking questions.” A pause follows that could suck the marrow out of bones. “He could not deter his fate. You may not be able to either."

“Please.” MaryAnne swallows over and over, suppressing the stinging in her eyes. “There is a wolf at my door. She will not leave. She has my scent.”

“Ah,” the Nymph says, pity trapped in her wispy vowels. “A Stray perhaps of their terrible rituals. The Bone Cities are far and often cruel. Come closer, girl. I may teach you to greet a wolf and thus defer her task a while longer.”

—-------

The wind whips against MaryAnne’s walls, battering the sides of her home. The dark wood was tightly joined and held. A syrupy silver light bathed the snow outside and MaryAnne’s eyelids grew heavy. She had been watching her door since she returned from the Mulberry tree.

And it had not ceased since the moon arose. A long cry mixed with the violent gusts of wind. A howling. MaryAnne’s shoulders set in a hard line, back aching and mood even more dour. Let it be over, she prays to the Great Mother Doe. Though, who knew if the starry mother listened. Let the wolf go home empty-handed.

MaryAnne’s head nods to her chest, jerking upright at the first sound. A scratch peels down her front door. Claws against wood. 

“Little doe, why do you hide?” the wolf sings in that beseeching tone. 

MaryAnne does not bother to curl into a ball. She straightens to her full height, nubby horns facing the door as if she might charge. Fangs flash in her mind’s eye and she takes deep breaths. MaryAnne forces her legs to work.

"Good evening," she booms. An imitation of how she imagines governesses speak to future kings. MaryAnne bows before the door, taking her time falling to her knees. Her chest tightens-- a thrum of terrible life. “I am pleased to meet you."

“Pleased?” The wolf sounds amused. Perhaps wolves can always afford that.

“Yes.” In slow increments, MaryAnne brings her wrists near the crack under the door. Bile rises in her throat and she pushes closer. “I see you've come to call on me. Perhaps I may have you over for tea. Do you take it with cream or sugar?”

The laugh is thunderous. A long snuffling follows and MaryAnne thinks she imagines whiskers under the crack.

“You smell like fear. Are you afraid?”

“Always,” MaryAnne says bitterly. “Is that not our nature? You, at our doors. Me inside my home. But you could knock.”

“I have a home too, you know,” the voice purrs. “Many leagues away and by the sea. Perhaps you might enjoy running to it.”

“You may have me over for tea,” she keeps her tone even. “Come back in the morning to exchange invitations. I have stationary you might borrow.”

Hot air blows against her wrist. The wolf audibly inhales. “You think yourself clever. Juniper-marked and clever.”

“What else could I be?” Her voice trembled and she didn’t like the way it broke on the last words.

“I can make a few suggestions.” The crunch of heavy paws against the snow. “Open up the door and I will show you.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” MaryAnne grits out despite herself. Run, run, run. her mind says. Her feet say. But the Mother Doe isn’t there to light her way. “My name is MaryAnne. I would like to invite you to tea.”

The door gives a violent shake, a weight thrown against it. Dust rains from the rafters. The hinges shrieks and the wolf lets out a howl to match. The door holds– as it was meant to.

Life spikes in her chest this time and fills her belly with warmth. MaryAnne holds herself perfectly still, wrists shoved to the crack in the door. 

“I am Shier of the Northern Pack,” the wolf spit out the words. “You may keep your twice-damned tea.”

-----------------

Part 1 of 3

#fantasy fiction #fairy tales #sapphic #short story #part 1 of 3 #my work #anthro

[from-memphis-with-love]

1849 - an Elvis Presley One-Shot

Summary: It's 1849 and the height of the Oregon Trail. Pearl, an innocent and inexperienced young woman, is plucked from the prairie and into a marriage with rough and tumble rancher Elvis Presley. She's practically paralyzed with fear on her wedding night. But all is not what it seems: he is actually loving and kind with her, and, with a little gentle coaxing, she soon comes to find out the true meaning of what her husband affectionately calls his "manly duties."

Beneath a velvet sky embroidered with stars, the sweeping prairie of the Willamette Valley undulated endlessly, its breezy grasses frosted silver in the gentle moonlight, swaying like the swells of a wheat-colored sea. The air, redolent with sagebrush and wildflower nectar, whispered tales yet untold. 

A weathered log cabin, sturdy as an old oak, nestled harmoniously amid the untamed expanse. Inside, flickering candlelight danced upon the rough-hewn walls, casting writhing shadows that capered about. This humble abode was far more than a shelter; it housed two hearts newly joined in matrimony's sacred covenant. 

Upon a mattress of timber and homespun linens lay the newlyweds. The sounds of crickets and distant animals floated on the night air, a natural lullaby straight from the land itself. They reveled in the hushed serenity of their nascent life together.

A stillness Pearl finally punctured with a question. 

"Elvis?" she pouted, her reedy voice not fully her own. "You've stolen the blanket." Mistaking her complaint for invitation, Elvis sidled closer, his sturdy frame a barrier against the cool night air. He slipped his hand atop her opposite side, ensconcing her between his bare chest and muscular arm. "Might I perhaps have them back, please?"

He nuzzled nearer, his tone playful. "Chilly? Lemme warm you up, then."

Now, with mere inches between them, his radiant skin-heat seemed to flow directly into her own, quickening her heartbeat. She swallowed, her voice quavering slightly. "Do you... have a nightshirt, perhaps?"

"A night-what?" His confusion, genuine or feigned, hung in the air between them, charged with the unspoken energy of their touch.

Pearl closed her eyes, seeking refuge in inky darkness, away from the maelstrom roiling within. She wished to be anywhere but perched on the precipice of her wedding night, an apprehensive innocent bound to a man whose depths were only just beginning to unfurl before her. 

Her thoughts meandered to distant places: endless prairies beneath boundless skies, their splendor unfettered and raw. She pictured the wind's caress, laden with wildflower perfume, conveying whispers of age-old tales. How she yearned for freedom, to roam unconstrained by society's fetters!

Her heart ached for the unknown, the thrill of novel faces and locales. Perhaps in a bustling metropolis, pulsating with a mosaic of sounds, she could vanish into the crowd, shedding her naïve bride skin. Or on a lonely mountain peak, inhaling the crisp air, losing herself in nature's majesty, finding peace in its seclusion. 

No, she banished the thought, Elvis Presley never feels fear, and I'm a fool to think otherwise. 

Somehow, this realization lent her the strength to open her eyes, letting curiosity temper her fears. Yet, the echoes of a strict upbringing whispered doubts, and she might feel more at ease about it all if Elvis kept some of his clothes on—at least for the night. She broached the subject of modesty. “A nightshirt. If you have one in that chest over there, I’d appreciate you wearing it,” she ventured.

Unlike Pearl, Elvis had no such compunctions about their intimacy, nor was he concerned with modesty. His hands, calloused from the laborious toil of ranch work, possessed an innate understanding of the contours that ignited pleasure. His lips held secrets of countless stolen kisses and whispered promises. He cocked a sly smile at her request.

“Honey, you know I don’t own no nightshirt. The closest I come is wearing my long johns in the winter, and now that I got you to keep me warm, I reckon I won’t wear ‘em anymore.”

“Then what, pray tell, shall you wear?”

In one smooth motion, Elvis lifted her until she sat upright before him, noticing with some relief that his trousers remained in place. Strong fingers carded through her hair, treating the auburn strands as delicately as silk. 

"Y’know, the first time I laid eyes on you, you know I imagined you wearin’ nothin’ but your beautiful hair?”

Pearl froze, stunned by the vulnerability his words implied. To be so exposed, with only her hair for modesty, sparked an instinctual alarm...yet also fascination. Like a deer in a rife’s sight, she wrestled with the storm of fear and curiosity Elvis's revelation provoked. 

Firelight danced in his eyes, flecks of gold glittering in that captivating blue. With care, Elvis gathered her hair over her breasts. Though clothed, Pearl shivered at the suggestive act, a blush creeping up her neck. 

"Just like that," he murmured admiringly. "Sweet little rosebuds begging to be kissed. Peekin’ out to me and all."

Sitting there, Pearl felt Elvis's gaze wash over her like sunlight piercing through fog. His words stirred something deep within, blossoming warmth that spread from her cheeks down through her chest. But it didn't stop there. A swirling eddy gripped her belly, intensifying into a molten pull that sunk her deeper into this newfound swell of feeling. No one had told her a wedding night could feel like this. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing away the betrayal of her body's response. 

Noticing her blush, Elvis leaned back, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Seems I might be pushing my luck tonight," he mused, his mouth settling into a bashful grin. He caressed her cheek, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin. “My God, you are so lovely.” Though his touch was gentle, she tensed. "Little Pearly, are you really that nervous?"

Pearl's heart raced, her cheeks burning with a mix of fear and longing as she took in the sight of Elvis's bare chest. The raw exposure of his skin, the dance of muscles beneath, stirred a whirlwind of emotions—curiosity, vulnerability. Fear. An evil desire she wouldn’t dare name. The way he looked stirred a terrible hunger deep within, and she couldn’t help but long for a barrier between them, a shield to temper the intensity of their connection.

With a voice touched by nerves, she mustered the courage to voice her yearning. "I would probably feel better if you put on a shirt," she ventured softly, unaware of the intoxicating effect her request had on Elvis, who looked back at her with a mix of amusement and reverence. "Are you sure you don't have one, Elvis?"

"I can do it with a shirt on, but I reckon I’ll have to take my trousers off sooner or later," he quipped, then caught himself, noting the joke wasn’t helping. "Is there anything else troubling you, darlin'?"

Pearl straightened, clearing her throat. "I’d really appreciate it if you just get on with it, please. I want to get this over with. We can talk afterward, alright?"

Elvis's smile faded, his thumb stilling on her cheek. "Ah, honey, I’m so sorry. I need a good whuppin’, that’s what I need," he said, nudging his nose against hers playfully. He twirled one of her curls around his finger, breathing in her scent. "I’m just a big ole oaf, is what I am. Here I am jokin’ my head off and you’re as nervous as a fawn. I should be making you feel good instead. Makin’ you forget what it is you’re so scared about.” 

Pearl’s eyes crossed trying to peer into his, so she let them flutter closed.

Cupping her face in his rough palms, Elvis lifted his forehead from hers, leaving a ghost of warmth behind. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the tip of her nose. Pearl's heart fluttered at the gentle gesture, her grip tightening on his broad wrists as he guided her back onto the bed. Sinking into the mattress, she felt a mix of trepidation and trust as Elvis settled above her, forearms bracketing her shoulders.

“My wife,” he whispered, chest grazing her breasts as he bent close. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” he murmured, full lips barely brushing hers in a whisper-soft caress. “I’ll make it real nice for you. Pearl, I will never intentionally hurt you. I swear it.”

“Elvis...” She parted her lips to speak, but his mouth stole the words. His breath was warm and sweet with a hint of black coffee as she sucked it in. Soft lips trailed over the contours of her mouth, leaving desire in their wake. But when his probing tongue intruded, Pearl recoiled in shock and apprehension, questioning the unfamiliar invasion. 

Pearl's world narrowed to the feel of his lips. They ignited longings within her, each touch kindling dormant desires. 

Her racing heart stumbled over itself as his tongue gently challenged her limited experience. Fingers digging into his arms, climbing to the solid assurance of his shoulders, she wondered, silently pleading, What's happening to me?

Desire, raw and unbidden, surged within her. Yet a shadow of doubt whispered too, questioning her boldness. Still, as they kissed, warmth bloomed inside her, promising pleasure, promising connection. Though separated by her thin nightgown, his touch blazed lines of fire over her skin, pulling her into a dance between longing and hesitation. 

For the first time, Pearl reveled in the forbidden delight of passionate kisses, a realm unknown to her sheltered life. The caress of his mouth on hers was a dance, each movement stirring longing she hadn't known existed. Every press and yielding response painted a portrait of contradictions—firm yet molten, unyielding yet accommodating. She prayed they would do this part of it frequently, whatever came next.

Catching her lower lip, he rolled it tenderly beneath his tongue, gently nibbling. Oh yes, she adored kissing. Their kisses grew bolder, back and forth, until his chest pressed firmly against hers. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out the owl's hoot outside. Arching against him, she dug her nails into his shoulders, overwhelmed by urgent, indescribable desire. She pressed into his rippling heat with greater intensity, seeking solace in his muscular frame.

Again, he delicately caught her lower lip between his teeth, rolling it tenderly beneath his tongue and gently nibbling on it.

Oh, yes.

She adored kissing him. Their kisses escalated until she was deaf to everything but her pounding heart. Arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders, she was overwhelmed with desire, seeking solace in his heat.

He relinquished his hold on her hair, breaking the kiss to embark on a tantalizing exploration of her face. His lips traced a path along her cheek, leaving a trail of teasing nips and touches that sent delightful shivers coursing through her body. With deliberate intent, he traveled upward, caressing her temple before retracing his path down to her eyelids.

Oh, what sensations!

His mouth against her sensitive skin was pure ecstasy. Venturing to her ear, his breath resonated as he nibbled her earlobe, flicking his tongue along the tender hollow beneath. A soft moan escaped her. Descending to her neck, his kisses made her tremble, breath hitching. She adored his skillful, desiring mouth. His presence enveloped her, intensifying the longing within, and she felt a curious pooling in her lap that startled her. Their hips pressed together, moving slowly, heightening the achingly sweet yearning in her veins. Lost in the moment, she faintly registered his trembling hands worrying the buttons of her gown, finally easing the fabric open. A gentle breeze brushed her bare breasts, sending delicious shivers down her spine - an unfamiliar yet delightful sensation.

A faint whisper of caution echoed in Pearl's mind, a remnant of scriptures urging caution against such intoxicating desire. Yet the allure was too powerful to resist. She surrendered to cascading waves of pleasure, losing herself in the intensity of their connection, exploring the passion dormant within her. The world fell away. All that mattered was the electric current drawing them closer in a dance of yearning and surrender. 

"Good Lord," he rasped, voice thick with desire. "I can’t even breathe, I want you so bad.” 

His scorching tongue blazed a path over her taut, yearning nipple. A jolting shock seized her, stealing her breath, causing her heart to falter. His mouth enveloped her with fervent intensity, sensations reverberating to her toes. Wide-eyed, she glanced down to see his flawless face nestled against her breast. Gradually he retreated, teasingly tugging her nipple, teeth capturing the pulsating bud before releasing, only to repeat the exquisite torment. 

Shock rippled through her, leaving her gasping in disbelief. Yet he drew her back into his mouth, swallowing her essence with unyielding passion. Panic gripped her and she screamed, pushing against him with all her might, cries echoing. What is happening? What unspeakable act is this? Oh mercy!

She felt betrayed. His audacious promises were deceitful lies! He personified sinful, impure yearning. This pleasure was too good to be true. 

As Pearl's piercing screams reverberated through the air, the sound struck Elvis like a lightning bolt, jolting him from his haze. Fear and concern etched his face as he sprang up, heart pounding. Reaching out with trembling hands, he gripped her shoulders urgently, as if to anchor them both. 

"Darlin', what's the matter? Did I hurt you?"

She screamed again, scrambling away and hastily closing her gown with trembling hands, desperately trying to conceal herself - a raw, vulnerable moment, reminding them both of past wounds. 

"Leave me be! Don't you lay a hand on me! You deceived me, you lied!" she cried, anguished.

In the corner, Get Lo, the loyal hound, rose with a mournful howl as footsteps and voices neared the cabin. Fists pounded the sturdy door, causing it to tremble. 

"Boss!" Red's voice echoed. "Hey, boss!" More commotion. "Stand back! I'll kick it down if I have to!"

"No!" Elvis shouted. "It's alright, Red! Don't break down the door!" 

"Show yourself then, damn it! How do I know someone ain't holdin' a gun on ya?"

"God damnit, I'll be right there!" Elvis shot an anxious look at his bride, now wedged into the corner between the headboard and wall. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. One second and I’ll be right back, alright?" 

But she appeared more inclined to a tooth extraction than entertaining that idea. Elvis muttered an oath and went to the door, lifting the bolt and cracking it open to let Red glimpse him in the flickering candlelight. "We're alright. Weren’t nothing, Red. Just a misunderstanding, is all." 

Red's eyes blazed with desert-sun intensity. "A misunderstanding? She nearly shook the soul out of me, Elvis!" His voice held the edge of a man ready to face a nest of rattlers. "A misunderstanding?" 

Elvis bowed his head, a shadow of remorse etching across his face. "I’m sorry, Red. This is my doing, not hers." 

Red shot a knowing look and without a word, Elvis eased the door closed, his hand lingering on the bolt before it fell into place with a gentle thud. He turned slowly, his gaze drawn to the bed. 

Pearl clung to a pillow, her eyes wide pools of darkness against her pale face. Fear and disbelief swirled within those inky depths. 

"You lied!" Her shrill cry pierced the heavy air. 

Brows furrowed, Elvis sank onto the mattress. "Sweetheart, I swear I didn't deceive you. Please, tell me what I did wrong."

She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her shoulders with trembling hands. "You lied! You gave me your word!" Her voice broke on the accusation.

Elvis leaned forward, elbows on knees, straining to read her face in the dim firelight. Though just minutes ago passion had flowed between them, now she recoiled from his touch. Her chin jutted out defiantly. "Why did you lie?"

Steady but tinged with desperation, his voice cut through the tense silence. "What lie?" His eyes searched hers for any glimmer of understanding. He fought to remain calm amidst the storm raging within the room. "Sweetheart, please, tell me what you believe I lied about."

Her lips twisted in bitter disbelief. "Don't play dumb. You said you conducted yourself righteously, like the brethren." She spat out a harsh laugh. "None of them would ever behave as you did. You lied, plain and simple. And I was foolish enough to believe it." 

Elvis ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "I did not lie."

"You most certainly did!" she shrieked, the words piercing the air. "You claimed to be free of impious inclinations!"

Elvis replayed his actions in his mind, struggling to pinpoint his misstep. He could only surmise he had unintentionally caused her harm. "Did I hurt your breasts when I kissed them? I didn't mean to come on too strong." 

She let out a scream, shielding her face with her hands. "Do not speak such vulgar words! I am not married to you! Do you hear me? I am not!"

"Pearl, you’re not talkin’ sense. People don’t marry and unmarry over a misunderstanding. They engage in con-ver-sa-tion," he implored, sounding out the word slowly. “We need to talk this through.”

"Well, I did not enter into a marriage. I was deceived!" 

Elvis sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. "Deceived, married...we have to talk. Please, tell me what I've done."

She persisted in hiding her face behind trembling fingers, oblivious to her gaping gown and the exposed breast it revealed. The nipple he had showered with affection remained erect, illuminated by the flickering fire. It seemed to beckon for more—a request he would gladly oblige if only she were more receptive. 

"You know perfectly well why I'm upset," she accused, voice muffled.

"No, I truly do not," he confessed. Shifting to all fours, he moved closer, examining her tender nipple. Pink and raw, it stood erect, pulsating with her quickened heartbeat. He was too rough, he concluded with regret. 

Grasping her knees, he gently unfolded her legs before straddling her thighs. Palms planted on either side, he focused on her quivering hands. "Pearl, please lower your hands and look at me." 

"No!"

"I promise I won't do it again. Alright? I'm truly sorry. From now on, you hold the reins. Whatever pleases you is exactly how I'll do things, I swear. You just have to tell me what feels nice and what doesn't." 

"Well, that certainly wasn't nice!" 

"Then, you guide me on how you want it, and I'll follow your lead." 

Pearl jerked away, a sob catching in her throat. Swirling emotions tightened her chest. "How can I trust you're not lying?" 

Elvis sighed, the sound resonating deep within his broad chest. "Have I ever lied to you?"

The faint scent of leather and tobacco enveloped her as he leaned closer. She inhaled sharply. "Yes." 

He raked a hand through his dark locks. "Sweetheart, let me show you the truth." 

His warm breath grazed her ear, evoking memories of his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh. Goosebumps prickled her arms. "Was it nice at first?" His deep timbre reverberated through her.

"Yes." 

"Well then, we'll only do what feels nice. I promise." His voice was like rich honey, urging her to taste its sweetness. 

She peered at him through splayed fingers. "Do you swear it?"

His eyes smoldered like blue flames. "Honey, I don't just swear it. I'll prove it to you."

His head dipped lower, warm lips finding her breast. She jerked back with a shriek, her elbow catching his ear. 

Elvis recoiled, clutching his head. "Damn it, Pearl Marie! Now I know I didn't hurt you that time!" 

“Scoundrel!” Shame flooded her cheeks. She scrambled to escape, but her nightgown snagged beneath his knees. Strong hands grasped her shoulders. She balled her fists. "Don't touch me! If you do, I won't be responsible. I'll fight like you taught me and I’ll break your nose this time!" 

"Why are you fighting me?" Hurt and frustration etched his rugged features. 

She trembled, anger and confusion swirling within. "Why? You do a thing like that and you ask me why? You lied! You promised to do things proper, but you didn't!"

"A thing like what?" Elvis began to grasp the situation, though he struggled to believe he had it right. "Kissing your breast, you mean?" 

She covered her face again, trembling. "Stop saying things like that!" 

"Like what? Breast? Nipples? Titties? Yer cans?" he started to laugh. She made a keening sound. Get Lo joined in, throwing back his head and emitting a playful bark. 

"Shut up!" Elvis yelled, his frustration mounting. Get Lo continued to howl, but Pearl jumped in surprise and began holding her breath. "Not you, honey." Elvis shot a fierce glare at the howling hound. "Get Lo! I don't need you interfering none!" The hound fell silent and grumbled. 

Elvis figured he had his answer regarding the matter of the breast. He rubbed his face wearily and blinked. "Pearl, do you believe that kissing you there is ungodly?" 

She removed her hands from her face, gaping at him in astonishment. "Of course it is! You promised to do things the regular way, and you lied!"

Realization washed over him. So that’s what this was about. “Well, what is the regular way, Pearl Marie? I guess maybe I ain’t real clear on that.” 

The fire’s amber glow illuminated her face, but darkness still shrouded her eyes. She perched on the edge of the roughhewn log bed, hands folded primly in her lap. 

"You're just supposed to do your... thing!" she insisted, biting her lower lip. 

Elvis cocked his head, his brow furrowing. "My thing? What exactly is my thing?"

She shrank back against the headboard. "Just... you know. And nothing else!" Her words came out in a nervous rush.

Elvis sank back on his heels, disbelief etched on his face. "Is that what your mother told you? Honey, I think there's been a misunderstanding here."

"No, there hasn't!" She sat up straight, her voice sharp. "She spelled it out plain and clear!"

Elvis's mind raced, recalling the tales he'd heard about the strict sects with their restrictive ways. The kinds of places that squeezed the lifeblood out of a man. His gaze drifted to the plain black dresses and gray undergarments piled against the wall. A hollow feeling settled in his gut. 

"Pearl Marie, are you saying the men in your church never touch a woman? They just...do it and leave it at that?"

She turned her face away, her chin quivering. "Yes. And Ma said I should just lie there and meditate, ignore the... goings-on while it happened." 

A laugh burst from Elvis's lips before he could stop it. Hazel eyes flashed accusingly at him and he threw up his hands. "Honey, I ain't laughing at you. I swear it." He struggled to compose himself, leaning back against the sturdy log footboard. Maybe he should change the subject, but he couldn't help it. Laughter shook his body until he had to clutch his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

"I ain't making fun, truly," he managed between fits. "Just had a funny thought is all."

He wiped his eyes, regaining a shred of control until he pictured himself in a black suit and hat, dutifully making sterile love. That image shattered his restraint. He laughed again until his sides ached, finally going limp against the footboard. 

"Well, damn," he muttered, wondering what had set him off in the first place. Wasn't funny at all. The woman he loved wanted to recite psalms while he moved inside her. Heaven forbid he disrupt her concentration. 

"Are you finished?" she asked crisply, buttoning her dress up to her throat once more. 

Elvis looked up at her. "Reckon I am."

"Then let me take this opportunity to inform you that I don't believe we are compatible. Our marriage would be a disaster unless you abandon your sinful desires."

He sat up and met her gaze directly. "That just ain’t gonna happen. Ain’t nothin’ sinful about a man makin’ his woman feel good.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist, dropping her eyes. Longing pierced his chest, for he did love her. But he wouldn't surrender his principles to appease her church's notions of marital duties. There was nothing unholy about wanting to worship every inch of her. If she believed otherwise, well, she was just as confused as the rest of them. He knew she'd be happier once he showed her the truth.

"Remember when I said we're coming at this from different angles?" he began gently. "That it might take some time to find middle ground?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Well, I was righter’n I thought." He gave her a tender look. "But that don't mean we ain't meant for each other. Just means we gotta compromise, both of us."

"I won't compromise my beliefs." 

"Honey, I ain’t concerned with your beliefs. It's your body I got my sights set on," he said, throwing her an innocent look, although looking harmless wasn't one of his natural talents. "We can work this out."

"How? I won't permit the things you did earlier. I won't!"

“Well, tell me something you will allow, and we’ll take it from there.” He leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. With effort, he kept his mind off the image of himself in a suit. "What do the church men do exactly?"

She looked down at him from the side of the bed. "My mother told me that on my wedding night and every night thereafter, I should lie still on my back. She told me that my husband would come to me at night and join me in the darkness under the quilts. He would lift my gown to my hips and fulfill his manly duty swiftly. And there wasn’t much more to it than that," she gulped, her voice trembling. "And if I wished, I think of something else like prayer or meditation until he finished."

Elvis suppressed a chuckle. One stray laugh and she'd never forgive him. Instead he stroked his chin, hiding his smile. 

"Well, now, you see? We already got half of it licked. At least now I know what I can and can’t do," he said. 

Wary hazel eyes searched his face. He realized he'd shaken her world more than he’d thought. It was no laughing matter.

"So you might be willing to compromise?" Hope tinged her voice.

"Well, now..." Elvis considered swiftly."Is kissing like we did before allowed?" 

"Yes," she answered.

He stroked his chin. "Let's see if I got this right. From your collarbone down to your hips, that area's off limits."

"Correct," she nodded.

"But from your hipbones down, that's free territory?" 

"Correct," she confirmed.

"And in the area that’s mine, is there any rules?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

She appeared bewildered. "Rules?"

"Your ma told you their rules. So what do the church men do when they fulfill their duty? Tell me plain so I'm clear."

She shook her head. "She didn't say. They just... do it." She waved her hand dismissively. 

Bingo.

"So, there ain’t no rules how I do my manly business."

"Not that I know of. That’s your business. A wife does not concern herself with such matters," she responded.

Elvis raised an eyebrow. "So, I can do my business as I please?"

She hesitated, sensing a trap but unable to grasp it. In her innocence, she couldn't fathom his motive. Guilt pricked Elvis, but experience had taught him that sometimes conscience was a man's worst enemy. 

"I suppose you can," she finally answered. "It’s your business, after all."

"And you ain’t gonna protest? ‘Cept if I hurt you which I’ll try my damnest not to do." he asked. "Do I have your word? You just gonna think about scripture and let me do my thing? Let me conduct my manly duties as I see fit?”

She blinked at him warily. "You swear you won't engage in vulgar acts above my hips?"

"Honey, not unless you ask," he assured her.

"Why would I ever ask such a thing?" Incredulity filled her voice.

"Just leaving it on the table is all. Do I have your word?"

"Yes, you have my word," she replied.

Elvis suppressed a grin. "One more thing. How much time do I get?" 

She gaped at him, eyes wide. "Well, I don't know. How long does it take?"

"Well, that's the thing. Sometimes longer than others. Can I have all the time I need?" he proposed.

"I... suppose so," she hesitated. 

Elvis raised his hands. "Well, there you go. A com-pro-mise, just like you said. You promise you’re okay with this?"

She eyed the rumpled quilts where she had lain just moments before. A crease formed between her brows. Reluctantly, she nodded, though her pursed lips revealed lingering doubts. 

"I promise," she replied, sounding skeptical. "On the condition that you swear to be content with the brethren's way of conducting ourselves, forever."

Elvis lifted his right hand. "I swear on my mama's grave, I won't lay a hand or lip on you from hips to collar—'less you ask me to."

“Shall I lie back down then?”

“I reckon.” 

With a resigned sigh, she slid back onto the feather mattress. Stiff as a plank, she squeezed her eyes shut and folded her hands over her chest, bracing herself. In a small voice she called out, "Elvis?"

“Yes, darlin’?”

"Don't forget the quilts." 

In response, Elvis reached behind, his fingers brushing against the rough woven quilts. Gripping the edges, he rose to his knees and gently peeled back the layers of fabric. 

"Covered up to your chin?" he asked, his voice a tender whisper. 

She nestled into the quilts' warmth, squeezing her eyes shut as if blocking out the world around her. "Please."

Elvis tugged the quilts up to her chin and slipped underneath beside her. "I can lay my arm over you, can't I? I've done it a million times already," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her cheek.

"Yes. That should be fine.”

With a feather-light touch, Elvis curved his hand around her waist, fingertips pressing into her soft flesh as he drew her closer. "Come here, sweetheart. You're still scared." Propping himself up on his elbow, he gazed down at her closed eyes, placing gentle kisses on each delicate eyelid. "I'm sorry for how I acted before, for shocking you. You know I would never do it on purpose."

She turned her cheek toward his lips, savoring their tender brush against her skin. "And... I'm sorry for hurting your ear. Are you alright?"

"I’m fine," he reassured, his voice low and soothing. 

Elvis started to tenderly brush her hair away from her face, tucking back silken strands behind her ear. "You’re so beautiful it breaks my heart. Have I ever told you that?"

She lifted her lashes, a smile gracing her lips. "Oh, Elvis." She embraced his neck tightly, inhaling his familiar scent. "I apologize for all the cruel things I said."

He held her close, pressing his face against her hair that smelled of waterlilies, feeling as though he possessed all the world's riches in his arms. "It ain’t nothing, I know you didn’t mean it." She pressed her body closer to his, molding her curves against his hard contours. He couldn't help but smile, a spark of desire igniting within.

Kissing. 

Pearl's lips melded with his, sparking an electric current that coursed through every nerve. The celestial stars themselves seemed to pale in comparison to the heavenly sensation surging within her. She yearned for more, quivering in anticipation of his touch. He claimed her mouth once again, exceeding her loftiest expectations. With torturous slowness, he traced her lips, exploring their delicate curves and coaxing soft sighs from her throat. As their bodies pressed together, his chest grazing hers sent delicious shivers dancing across her skin. She dismissed the friction as accidental, though an aching need stirred within her. 

Each kiss scattered her thoughts, shattering her inhibitions. Clinging to him fiercely, she sought to draw him closer still, desperate to merge their souls. Her nails dug crescents into his shoulders, stinging pain he appeared oblivious to. His lips blazed a trail down her neck, igniting an inferno beneath her skin. 

"Oh, Elvis..." she breathed, the words trailing off as emotion choked her voice. 

“What, darlin’? Am I wanderin’ too close to your collar?” 

Sensing the question hanging in the air, tears pricked her eyes. With a single word, she could end this exquisite torture. His taut muscles revealed his readiness to comply. Yet the thought of halting him brought inexplicable sorrow. Her fingertips glided over his shoulders, feeling the power coiled within him—power that belonged to her. 

She recalled his sudden embrace the night before, his body pressing down, dominating yet tender. He could have taken anything, but treated her like fragile glass. Always in control, yet somehow still hers to command.

Last night, when she'd elbowed him in the ear, he'd instinctively withdrawn, putting needed space between them. The irony was not lost on her; she had become a threat to him. But it was his tenderness that stirred her emotions, now bringing tears to her eyes. She was deeply moved by his unwavering care and protective nature. Oh, how she adored him, her heart overflowing with immeasurable love.

"Sweetheart, you're crying. Did I do something wrong?" His words were laced with concern, a genuine desire to understand and make amends. Pearl found herself unable to form a response, emotions rendering her speechless.

"Should I stop?" he asked gently, his voice conveying both worry and willingness to fulfill her wishes. 

“Oh, Elvis!” she finally managed.

His hand slid from her waist, slipping between her and the mattress, pulling her closer against his solid chest. "What's the matter, darlin'? Are you scared? I promise, I'll be gentle with you. Don't be afraid," he whispered in a soothing tone.

"I love you!" she exclaimed, clinging to him, seeking solace in his embrace. "I'm not afraid. It's just... oh, Elvis, I love you so much it hurts." 

He tensed, her words both balm and challenge to his heart. "I love you," she said again, conviction ringing in her voice. "I love you more than words can express."

A tremor rippled through his sturdy frame. His rough, calloused hand were splayed across her back, yet he treated her like the most precious treasure. Despite his strength, his touch remained gentle and caring. "Oh, darlin’," he whispered, voice quivering. "I love you too. With all that I am and all that I’ve got. But it shouldn't make you sad."

"I'm not sad! I'm happy!" she insisted.

He pressed tender kisses to her other cheek, tasting the salt of her tears. "Well, damn..." Frustration and bewilderment colored his tone, making her giggle uncontrollably. She felt his lips curve into a crooked grin against her skin as he continued trailing kisses along her ear. "Pearl Marie, will I ever understand you? Crying because you're happy. Darlin’, sometimes I swear you’re just plum crazy. You don’t make a lick of sense!"

She tilted her head, surrendering to his kiss, the word "lick" igniting a fervent desire for him to tease her sensitive spots with his tongue once more. As if sensing her need, he found a delectably vulnerable spot just below her ear, eliciting a soft gasp as she melted into his touch. 

"Yes, right there. Just like that. Oh, yes..." she whispered huskily. Her gown began to shift as he tugged it up, initially causing a spike of fear. But then his palm caressed her bare thigh, sending waves of pleasure washing over her.

Each touch felt like butterfly kisses, leaving her skin tingling with anticipation. Her heart pounded against her chest, and her breath turned shallow and unsteady. With feather-light fingertips, he traced a path to the very core of her being, teasing and tantalizing her with every stroke, only to trail away and trace maddeningly sweet patterns along her knees. It was as if her very essence had turned into a molten syrup, yearning to flow and merge with his touch. The quilts shifted, and suddenly she felt the moist, silken press of his lips against her thigh. Startled, she opened her eyes wide and stiffened with a mix of surprise and uncertainty. 

"Elvis, what are you..." Her words faded to a breathless moan as his tongue flickered, tracing delicate spirals that kindled liquid heat low in her belly. 

Through the quilts, his muffled voice vibrated against sensitive flesh. "Just relax, darlin'. I'm tending to business." 

"But, I don't know if..." She clamped her knees together, but his broad shoulders gently eased them apart. 

Pearl clutched the rough-hewn headboard, pulse racing. Was he really going to...? Oh Lord, the man aimed to kiss her there. Shock paralyzed her even as exquisite sensations spread like wildfire across her skin, urging her to surrender. 

"This ain't proper," she managed, but her resolve wavered under the intoxicating caress of his lips. 

He lazily circled her inner thigh, tongue painting glistening trails that seared like summer sun on bare skin. "Hush now, you're sweeter than cherry pie." His warm breath raised gooseflesh. "Let me take care of you."

"Darlin', reckon this here's how it's done?" 

"Elvis, are you sure 'bout this? I... I can't rightly tell."

"Start meditatin’, sweetheart. This here's my territory, not yours. Got it?" 

She closed her eyes, her voice quivering. "Mediating?" she repeated, sounding mighty puzzled. Drawing nearer, he raised his shoulders, leaning in closer to her. "No need to fret, darlin'. Remember what your ma told ya. Jus' lay still and don’t pay me no nevermind." 

He continued his tantalizing journey upwards. She twitched, tightening her grip on the headboard, her gaze fixed on the heavens. 

"I'll holler when I'm done, alright?" 

Done? Pearl felt an intense longing surge through her core. Close her eyes, that's what she was supposed to do. But... oh, dear heavens. "How long will it... will it take?" she managed to inquire. 

Rough palms grasped her backside. Pearl's eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her parted lips. Merciful heavens, he meant to... 

"Just as..." he trailed his tongue along her inner thigh, sending shivers of pleasure with every teasing lick, "just as long as it needs to, darlin'." 

The first slow lap of his tongue drew a shuddering moan. Fingers clutching the sheets, she stared skyward. This couldn't be real. But the wet heat enveloping her dispelled all doubts. 

When he found that one exquisitely sensitive spot, her body jolted as if struck by lightning. "Elvis, I can't..."

"You can, darlin'," he purred before capturing her swollen flesh. 

"E-Elvis?" she stammered, her voice vibrating as if it traveled through her vocal cords on a wild bronco.

"Darlin', this part ain't your concern. Jus' lie still and let me handle my business, ya hear?" 

"Oh God, please..." She twisted handfuls of his hair, no longer caring what was proper. 

His low chuckle vibrated through her very core. "That's my girl. That's the rule," he drawled firmly. "This here's mine to do as I please, without your fussin', right?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Well then? You lie still and quit your worryin'." 

With that declaration, he resumed his gentle lapping, causing her to arch upward uncontrollably. Small, high-pitched sounds escaped her lips. She clung to the headboard, her body rising higher and higher. "Oh my... oh my... mercy, mercy!"

“There’s a girl. Give it to me, darlin’.” 

"Yes. Oh, yes," she breathed out, her hands digging into his scalp. "Oh, my God! Oh, dear heaven. Oh, pardon me! I'm meddling again." 

He chuckled again, the deep rumble shattering her thoughts as his mouth claimed her sensitive flesh. His tongue swirled and flicked, sparking a blaze that raced through her veins. Digging her heels into the mattress, she arched up, surrendering completely as her hips moved with his. Muscles twitching to his rhythm, the pressure built sharper and sharper within her. Just when she thought she couldn't take anymore, his mouth surged, fiercely pulling until she fractured with a cry, sensations bursting in a kaleidoscope of colors. 

She was precious to him. 

Throughout his life, Elvis had longed for a woman to love and make his bride, but only now did he truly grasp the meaning. She was his salvation, a woman woven from delicate lace and sunbeams, with eyes as vast as the summer fields. She was warmth and radiance, the tender blossoms of spring. A beautiful and perfect gift. It felt as if he were discovering love for the first time. And in a way, it was. For Elvis Presley was a tough man with an untouched heart. Until now. 

This girl held his heart in her hands, capable of making it sing with joy or bleed with sorrow. With a single arch of her spine and a lift of her slender hips, she could ignite him with bliss. He adored her. Her guileless urgency and unwavering trust nearly moved him to tears. No reservations. Just pure vulnerability. And as she shattered in climax, he tasted the rhythm of her heartbeats in the sweet throbbing of her flesh. Afterward, he tenderly caressed and kissed her, soothing her delicate sensitivity, easing the ache that lingered. 

When her breaths steadied, he hovered right over her. With her eyelids drooping low and a dreamy smile on her lips, she looked up at him. "Are you done?" 

Elvis leaned in for a kiss. "Nah, sweetheart. I'm just lettin' ya catch yer breath afore we go at it again." 

Her eyes widened. "Again?" 

He grinned and shifted to lie beside her, propping himself up on one arm to get a good look at her face. How beautiful she was, basking in the afterglow of the pleasures he brought to her for the first time! 

Beneath him, she gasped as his finger delved deep into her slick heat, back arching, breasts straining against her thin nightgown. He watched each expression dance across her features - surprise, wonder, rising urgency. Teasing and pulling back, he brought her to the edge again and again. When she arched, nipple grazing his chin, he flicked it lightly. 

She cried out, quivering, "Oh yes!" 

Another deep stroke had her whimpering, begging for more. 

Grinning, he met her gaze. "Want me to show 'em some lovin'?"

"Oh, Elvis. Do it again. Please." 

Elvis lowered his head, gripping her nightgown with his teeth, and pulled it up her slender frame, exposing her bosom. 

Elvis' fingers trembled as he grasped the thin fabric of her nightgown, the white cotton soft like a wisp of cloud between his teeth. With a gentle tug, he peeled back the garment, exposing her bare breasts to the fire's amber glow. Rosy peaks puckered in the chill night air, beckoning his touch.

"Ask me nice, darlin'," he murmured, breath warm against her chest. 

Frustration flared in her eyes. Snatching a fistful of his hair, she wrenched him downward. "Just do it already!"

That sure as shootin' had "please" beat to hell. And he reckoned he had every right to tease her mercilessly before giving her what she desired. 

Elvis swept his tongue slowly around one taut nipple, tracing its shape, feeling it swell beneath the caress of his mouth. A flick of his tongue made her gasp, then he returned to circling, building anticipation. When he finally closed his lips over the bud, its softness overwhelmed him. He suckled gently and was rewarded with the honeyed taste of her skin. 

To his surprise, her body began to writhe, hips undulating, fingers twisting the sheets. The telltale pulsing against his palm revealed she was cresting that peak of ultimate pleasure. Twenty-one years without a lover's intimate touch, and now she came undone in his arms. 

He savored each tremor that wracked her slender frame, the way she arched and cried out with abandon. Elvis brought her to that precipice two more times, worshiping her with his mouth until his own need could be denied no longer.

Rising above her, he gripped her legs behind the knees and nestled against slick, molten heat. Still lost in rapture's haze, she gazed up with heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious to the pain that awaited. The primal urge to plunge ahead warred with his vow to cherish her. 

"This'll hurt just once, darlin'," he whispered, hating himself. "I wish to God it weren't so." 

She blinked, her gaze fixed on his face, her eyes shimmering in the warm glow of the fire. "I understand. Just hold me close through it all," she implored softly. "With you beside me, it won't hurt as much. I won't feel afraid."

Tears blurred his vision. Elvis gathered her in his arms, surrounding her with his strength. She wrapped both arms about his neck, clinging tight. "I'm not scared anymore," she breathed against his cheek.

Though brave in word, her body tensed as he positioned himself at her entrance. In that moment, he would have given all he owned to spare her even the slightest twinge. The not knowing tormented him—how much agony she might suffer as he forged ahead. With infinite care, he nudged inside, felt her passage resist and then give way as she flinched in his embrace. The small cry that escaped her lips shredded his heart.

He buried his face in the silken veil of her hair, cursing the merciless act love demanded of him. To harm the one person who mattered most gutted his soul. 

But the cabin cocooned them in its embrace—the familiar smells of woodsmoke and pine, the fire's soothing crackle, the handcrafted furnishings whispering of shared memories. Their sanctuary through so many storms past would shelter them through this too. 

"Do it," she insisted, though her body still trembled with fear.

Panic jolted through him like lightning. "Jesus, I can't! I'm hurting you!" He started to withdraw, terrified of damaging her delicate frame. She was far smaller and tighter than any woman before. The risk of forcing himself deeper made his blood run cold. "You're too small, sweetheart," he choked out.

But before he could pull away, she lifted her hips, impaling herself upon him in one swift motion. 

Elvis' heart stopped mid-beat. He felt her tight channel give way as she took him fully inside. Fear for her clouded his mind. 

"Oh, God damn," he uttered, his voice laced with a mixture of desire and vulnerability. A soft, fragile laugh escaped her lips, and he felt the tension gradually dissipate from her body. With a tenderness that matched the love he held in his heart, she pressed her damp cheek against his neck. The touch of her wet skin against his sent shivers down his spine. In a hushed whisper, she reassured him, her words carrying a profound truth. "It’s all right now," she murmured. "It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought." 

Pearl gasped, her back arching off the rumpled sheets. Elvis hovered above, his elbows planted on either side of her shoulders, beads of sweat trailing down his furrowed brow. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, eliciting soft mewls and whimpers from his wife. 

"Is this okay?" His voice was gruff, laced with restraint. Pearl's eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide with desire. She nodded, breathless.

Elvis maintained his pace, relishing the slide of skin against skin. Pearl's nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails in their wake. Her thighs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

"Oh!" she cried out, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. "Don't stop, please..."

Elvis complied, quickening his thrusts as Pearl's moans grew louder, more desperate. Her hips bucked to meet his, the bed frame creaking in protest. The musky scent of their lovemaking permeated the air. 

Pearl's inner walls clenched around him as her climax crashed over her. The sensation tipped Elvis over the edge, his own release pulsing through him in waves. He collapsed on top of his wife, their hearts hammering against each other. 

As their breathing slowed, Elvis nuzzled Pearl's neck, inhaling her familiar floral scent. Her fingers lazily combed through his hair. He pressed a tender kiss to her collarbone, overcome with gratitude and awe. 

No longer was he a lonesome wanderer. Pearl had become his sanctuary, a beacon guiding him home. Elvis held his wife close as sleep overtook them. The distant howl of coyotes echoed outside their cabin, but they felt no fear in each others’ arms. Here, tangled together, they had found their own private heaven.

#1849 #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis #elvis presley #elvis fic #elvis fluff #elvis presley smut #elvis smut #elvis fandom

[15-lizards]

i just found your posts and i love youuu! can you write about the costumes of the Baratheon sisters, called Four Storms and their mother plz?

Thinking ab characters mentioned once in the fake history book>>>

Also I’ll do faceclaims/fancasts again cause those were fun

Elenda Caron was smarter than any man in or after the dance. An intelligent and reasonable woman, she was thrust into the role of lady and then regent of storms end, and had to dress seriously to be taken seriously. High necked gowns, natural waists and shapes, puffy/long sleeves, gilded and shining patterns or embroidery that showed off her rank but not overly gaudy. She’s a woman of moderation. Elenda knows how to emulate power and class and she knows how to do it all reasonably. Girlboss I love her

Cassandra was the most ambitious of the sisters, scheming to try and become queen for years. She adored rich velvets and royal colors. Especially Targaryen colors. Her gowns were always full and flowing but with a tight bodice, and every inch was oft covered in fancy lace, patterns, and embroidery. She wasn’t shy or modest about the clothes she wore. And jewelry was her favorite of all. She even had Borros have a special crown made just for her, formed from delicate gold and pearls, which she frequently wore to court. Modesty? Doesn’t know her.

Maris was the cleverest and wittiest, but said to be the “least comely” of them. She thought frivolous, extravagant clothing did not suit her, so she preferred to wear plain shift gowns. Long, flat skirts, simple patterns, and natural shapes, waists, and sleeves. Her tendency for simplicity was half her no nonsense and skeptic personality and half her internalized insecurity. After the war, when she spurned marriage for the silent sisters, probably for some peace of mind for once, she wore their typical rough grey homespun. No longer having to worry about her appearance was a relief

Poor Ellyn is the overlooked sister. One of the only mentions of her is at the maidens day ball, when one of her sisters spread a rumor that she asked Aegon a lewd question. She was probably chasing attention and approval, deciding to emulate the elder Cassandra. She wore pretty velvets too, but in simple shapes and lighter colors due to her young age. She begged her mother to be allowed to wear her hair up like the grown women did, so that she might be noticed for once.

Young Floris was the prettiest, even if she was rather frivolous. She didn’t like the shapeless clothing of the stormlands, nor did she enjoy the stiffness of fashion in kings landing. She enjoyed silks, satins, and gauzes, enjoying the way it followed around and clung to her perfectly. Borros was wrapped around her finger, ordering whatever Myrish laced or Lyseni silks she wanted, making her the standout at court and the envy of all the young women (though she may have been compared to a Essosi concubine more than once). She never grew out of this airy attitude, as ofc she died from Child by Old Man disease when she was like 16

#asoiaf #asoiaf hair and clothing #Baratheon women my most favorites ever #also why was floris married at fourteen…she should be at the mall trying on perfume samples

[mooncello]

I haven't posted anything from my COBB yet because it is *highkey* psyching me out. I'm stressin'. I definitely overreached with this one. The first two chapters flowed out a couple months ago, and now I'm staring at my loose outline (chaotic plantser to the max) and wondering how the f*ck I'm gonna do this thing. Write, I guess?

It's so very different in tone and vibes from lost boys. So that's been fun. (Speaking of, I know I said chapter two would be published this week, but it's getting final artistic touches from @iamamythologicalcreature. Will publish when it's ready for y'all!)

Thanks for the tags @thewholelemon, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe & @shrekgogurt. Love seeing your updates. 🩵

Alright, untitled celebrity AU snippet under the cut.

Simon POV, age 26:

Only the booze made me think of Baz more, not less. And then the weed made me horny and reckless. Then Smith turned up. He’s hot. I’ve always thought so, but never acted on it because of my brand. My straight, homespun, golden boy next door image that Davy created, and now I’m fucking handcuffed to it. Someone at the party started reading Baz's poem—the naff one some magazine published—solo cup in one hand, phone in the other, as she stood on a goddamn table, swooning over his use of simile or whatever the fuck, and I went mental. Found Smith in the empty kitchen and just ... attacked his face. I liked it. I liked kissing a dude.

happy april tags! xo

@best--dress, @bookish-bogwitch, @hushed-chorus, @cutestkilla, @artsyunderstudy, @facewithoutheart, @whatevertheweather, @valeffelees, @ileadacharmedlife, @stitchyqueer, @larkral, @emeryhall, @raenestee, @blackberrysummerblog, @shemakesmeforget & @orange-peony

#wipsday #cobb 2024 #simon snow #baz pitch

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 4, 25 janvier 1902, Paris. No. 8. — Groupe de toilettes pour dames, jeunes filles et enfants. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Robe pour fillette de 12 à 13 ans, en homespun beige. Jupe en forme rayée à mi-hauteur de galons marron foncé, fixés par un large biais piqué. Chemisette en panne marron foncé. Boléro carré rayé de galons comme la jupe. Col de panne. Manche écourtée sur un bouffant de liberty blanc; revers empire en panne.

(1) Dress for girls aged 12 to 13, in beige homespun. Mid-length striped skirt with dark brown braids, attached with a wide stitched bias. Dark brown distressed shirt. Square bolero striped with braid like the skirt. Pan collar. Shortened sleeve on a white liberty bouffant; reverse empire broken down.

Matériaux: 3m,50 de lainage; 1m,75 de panne.

—

(2) Peignoir simple pour jeune femme, en cachemire prélat. Des plis pincés vont du col au bas de la jupe; le devant s'ouvre sur un dessous en velours violet très sombre et sur les deux côtés se piquent de petits boutons de velours du même ton foncé. Col et revers en velours; manche évasée.

(2) Simple peignoir for young women, in prelate cashmere. Pinch pleats run from the collar to the bottom of the skirt; the front opens onto a very dark purple velvet underside and on both sides there are small velvet buttons of the same dark tone. Velvet collar and lapels; flared sleeve.

Matériaux: 5 mètres de lainage; 1m,50 de velours.

—

(3) Manteau pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en drap écossais de tons un peu vifs. Collet mi-long, orné de straps de drap noir dessinant des crosses; petite pèlerine très ajustée sur l'épaule par des pinces et bordée de straps.

Toquet de drap blanc garni de velours noir.

(3) Coat for young women or girls, in tartan cloth in slightly bright tones. Mid-length collar, decorated with black cloth straps forming crooks; small cape very fitted on the shoulder with darts and lined with straps.

White cloth cap trimmed with black velvet.

Matériaux: 0m,75 de drap noir; 2m,50 de drap écossais.

—

(4) Dos de la figure 2.

—

(5) Manteau pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en homespun vieux rose, mélangé, autour, straps de drap noir. Pèlerine avec croisillons de straps; col en forme et col rabattant.

(5) Coat for young women or girls, in old pink homespun, mixed, around, black cloth straps. Pilgrim with cross straps; shaped collar and turn-down collar.

Matériaux: 5 mètres d'homespun, 0m,75 de drap noir.

—

(6) Dos de la figure 1.

—

(7) Robe de réception pour jeune femme ou dame d'âge moyen, en serge mélangée "banane". Robe princess garnie en échelle transversale irrégulière de straps de taffetas noir, grand col en forme faisant aussi revers, bordé de velours; écharpe de velours nouée devant et tombant en deux pans très longs; manche finissant au coude sous un parement Louis XV; bouffant de soie ivoire.

Chapeau de feutre beige, garni de plume de coq et de velours vieux rose.

(7) Reception dress for young or middle-aged ladies, in “banana” twill blend. Princess dress trimmed in irregular transverse scale with black taffeta straps, large shaped collar also turning up, edged with velvet; velvet scarf tied in front and falling in two very long sections; sleeve ending at the elbow under a Louis XV facing; ivory silk bouffant.

Beige felt hat, trimmed with rooster feather and old pink velvet.

Matériaux: 6 mètres se sege.

—

(8) Manteau pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en zibeline écossaise de tons fondus. Collet ample bordé d'un large straps de drap grenat et d'une frange. Empiècement frangé et bordé d'un straps. Col roulant doublé de velours grenat.

Tricorne de feutre blanc à bords de velours grenat; nœud aigrette en velours.

(8) Coat for young women or girls, in Scottish sable in melted tones. Loose collar edged with wide garnet cloth straps and fringe. Fringed yoke edged with straps. Roll neck lined with garnet velvet.

White felt tricorn with garnet velvet edges; velvet egret bow.

Matériaux: 3m,80 de zibeline; 0m,30 de drap.

—

(9) Dos de la figure 7.

—

(10) Costume de garçonnet de 10 à 11 ans, en serge bleu marine; culotte collante; blouse rentrée dans la ceinture; manche serrée au poignet par des plis.

(10) Suit for a boy aged 10 to 11, in navy blue serge; sticky panties; blouse tucked into the waistband; sleeve tightened at the wrist with pleats.

Matériaux: 3m,75 de serge.

#La Mode nationale #20th century #1900s #1902 #on this day #January 25 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #color #description #bibliothèque nationale de france #dress #cape #coat #collar #plaid

[dwellordream]

“Slave children, both boys and girls, grew up in a community in which they were cared for by many adults, including their white mistresses. They spent precious little time with their own parents. Sometimes a mother or father had been sold to another plantation, or an enslaved child was sold away from his or her parents. Even when parents and children lived on the same plantation, both parents worked such long days either in the fields or in the big house--the house where the planter and his family lived--that they had little time left to spend with their own children.

Slave girls seldom enjoyed a carefree childhood. Often they were given chores to do at an earlier age than slave boys. By the age of four or five, they were expected to help care for the planter’s children or do small chores around the big house. At six, a young slave girl might be taken into the big house to learn to cook and clean. …By the age of 10, a female slave was considered a half-hand and she began to work longer and harder each day. Girls and boys no longer wore the same simple smocklike shirts. The girls wore dresses, usually made out of coarse cotton homespun or calico, and the boys wore rough-cut trousers. Girls began to work more closely with adult female slaves, and became more keenly aware of the different ways that men and women worked, dressed, and were expected to behave. Perhaps more important, they became fully aware of the power that whites had over their lives.

…After a violent slave revolt in Virginia in 1831, slavery became even more harsh. Slaves could no longer leave their owners’ plantations without special permission and passes; if they were caught without the required pass, punishment was swift, usually a whipping. Even a slave husband visiting his wife on another plantation was punished if caught without a pass. In Mississippi, slaves were prohibited from beating drums or blowing horns for fear they were signaling to revolt. And throughout the South, slaves could not carry guns or other weapons, gather in large groups without permission of their masters, or learn to read and write--though some owners taught their slaves, and a few slaves even attended schools with their masters’ permission.

…Some slave women could not abide the idea of bringing enslaved children into the world. With the help of a sympathetic midwife, pregnant women found ways to induce abortions. If they did not have abortions, some women resorted to killing their newborn infants rather than give the planter more slaves. In less dramatic ways as well, slave women and men resisted their owners--by doing tasks only halfway or by ‘accidentally on purpose’ breaking a mistress’s cherished vase while dusting in the big house. Some slaves also pretended to be ill and unable to work--though eagle-eyed owners and overseers caught on to that trick quickly--and others pretended not to hear a master’s instructions. If they were house servants, slaves got back at their owners by making off with scraps of food and cloth from the big house to share with fellow slaves.

…Southerners regarded the family as the cornerstone of society, the institution that protected all other southern beliefs and traditions, including slavery. Proslavery advocates even declared that men’s authority over women and slaves was ordained by God. As a result, black slave women and white planter women’s lives were intertwined, but not as sisters in spirit. They were both subject to the power of the planter but in very different ways. One was his slave, a human workhouse whom he owned. The other was his wife and the mother of his children, the embodiment of purity, innocence, and maternal love. This maternal love, of course, was supposed to extend to her slaves, though it is hard to understand how any woman so imbued with motherly concern could approve of a system that forcibly separated families and brutally treated both children and their parents.

But white women either kept their misgivings hidden in their diaries, simply accepted the harshness of slavery, or actively supported it as loyal Southerners. Slavery benefited them: The free labor extracted from the slave increased the planter’s wealth and his ability to provide his wife and children with a comfortable way of life. Slavery was a profitable system of labor that enriched all slave owners, from yeoman farmers to wealthy planters. White planter women had reason, too, to perceive their slaves as ‘our family, white and black’---such a rosy view of slavery snuffed out any moral unease they may have felt about owning slaves.

…For a planter’s wife, perhaps the most humiliating--and certainly the most visible--outcome of a sexual liaison between her husband and female slave was the mulatto offspring. Few planter women wanted to acknowledge these children as evidence of their husbands’ unfaithfulness to them. As Mary Boykin Chestnut, a slaveholder’s wife who was a keen observer of southern planter life, tartly remarked, ‘Any lady is ready to tell you who is the father of all the mulatto children in everybody’s household but her own. Those, she seems to think, drop from the clouds.’ But that did not prevent mistresses from mistreating the children of those illicit relations. They sometimes sold these children away from their mothers or treated them viciously.

Despite popular images of the mistress as a genteel lady of leisure who spent her days doing delicate needlework and sipping mint juleps on the veranda, the realities of her life were very different. Just as the family was the cornerstone of society, the planter household was the economic and moral foundation of southern life--and the mistress stood at the center of this foundation. She supervised the entire range of domestic operations on the farm or plantation, from cooking and sewing to ministering to the physical needs and religious salvation of her family and slaves.

…Beyond the big house and the slave quarters lived another group of people whose lives were almost as precarious as those of the slaves: free African-Americans. Their numbers were small compared to their enslaved brothers and sisters. By 1860, there were 250,000 free blacks in the South compared to nearly 4 million African-American slaves. Unlike northern blacks, free blacks in the South risked losing their freedom if they visibly supported antislavery efforts. Many lamented the plight of slaves, and some endangered their lives by working for the Underground Railroad. But most free blacks tried to represent themselves as honest, hard-working people who had no intention of helping to abolish slavery.”

Harriet Sigerman, “‘Those Awful Days’: Women in Bondage.” in An Unfinished Battle: American Women, 1848-1865

#harriet sigerman #slavery #american #history #gender #1850s #1860s #19th century #an unfinished battle

[smallgodseries]

[image description: A beautiful black woman stands in a pastoral setting lit by the morning sun, a single blooming rose to her left. She wears a homespun green skirt, a mustard and brown plaid scarf wraps around her shoulders over a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and poses with her walking stick over her shoulders. Her face and arms show the symmetrical white patches of nonsegmental generalized vitiligo. Text reads, “127, Mirabella, small god of Vitiligo”]

• • • • •

She is beautiful. She has always been beautiful, throughout all of time, throughout all of space, she is beautiful. But beauty, as they say, is only skin deep, and as she is a god of appearances, she focuses so much on the surface that it can seem like she knows nothing else.

That isn’t so.

She knows the innocent delight of a child seeing a person with patterns on them, wondering why they don’t have patterns of their own, wishing at night to see the oracular markings form on their own skin, believing in some abstract way that the swirls and scrimshaw are the badges of age, that puberty will be followed by a second, even more intricate, transformation, skin turning as individual as a fingerprint.

She knows the heartbreak of a teen whose childhood wishes, made or unmade, are answered by the structure of their skin, who finds themselves mocked and outcast by their peers for being in some way different, for being marked. She knows how often she is repudiated, how often those she touches hate and reject her. She knows every form of foundation and pancake makeup, and how deeply the shadow of the surface can cut.

She knows she is beloved, and she knows she is unwanted, and she carries both these burdens both gracefully and gladly. She is what she is. She is what she is, and she is the small god of a human condition; she cannot change, even if she wanted to.

And she does not want to.

She is a god of beauty and a god of understanding, and she would not change if she were given the opportunity. Her faithful, willing or no, still need her, and as long as she is needed, she endures.

And she loves.

• • • • •

Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

#Small Gods #smallgodseries #Seanan McGuire #Lee Moyer #icons and stories

[emerging-jew]

i hope it's okay to reply to your post about tallitot. my congregation is very progressive & it's common for people of all genders & bnei mitzvah age to wear a tallit ..... finding the size / style that feels right to you ( silk scarf around the back of your neck ? wool shawl over shoulders ? open floor plan hoodie in homespun ? ) is quite nice. it introduces new kippah color coordinating opportunities / problems. i have a huge linen tallit in earth tones that feels like wearing the landscape we live in, even though it represents the sky. putting it on is another bracha for the day ( A+ ). you learn to gather in your tzitzit for ahavah rabah without looking. & don't worry if your tzitzit touch the ground, but take care not to step on them. & if this mitzvah is accessible enough to you, maybe you will like tying your own tzitzit ? it's pretty cool ( & introduces more question ). i guess in a more orthodox congregation, if there are no women wearing tallitot / kippot, maybe it would be least stressful to try wearing the same style that the men do ? but i'm happy for you for wanting to know more. i'm feeling similarly about tefillin lately. anyway mazel tov !

Thank you anon! I'm excited for me too

I have a wool tallit that never gets used. I'm thinking this afternoon I'm going to pick up a siddur and try saying a few prayers with it in the morning

My home congregation (reform) no one wears them hardly any my new congregation(MO) I'm trying out so far ive only seen men. I was the only afab person with a kippah there but no one protested so they might be fine with me wearing a tallit. They consistently get my they/them pronouns right so that's a good sign

#jumblr #Jewish #anon

[wrishwrosh]

Top five favorite books and or fics ?

ooooo thank you evil question im gonna do books AND fics bc i love to proselytize :))) both in no particular order because picking just five is hard enough

books:

- moby dick by herman melville. truly one of the funniest wildest most fascinating books ive ever read. feels like playing tag with herman melville. i often think about how much more delightful it would be if i was operating with an 1851 set of pop culture references bc i could tell like 2/3 of the jokes were going over my head (if anyone has context for the running joke about tall kentuckians pls hit me up).

- ghost wall by sarah moss. hauntingggggg. haunting as hell. i think about it often

- postcards by annie proulx. im a proulx completionist and i do think this is her most delightful book prosewise (close range is a close second i would not describe it as delightful but its def masterful. two for one. everybody go read proulx.)

- wolf hall by hilary mantel. rip hilary the goat no one else should ever have bothered writing historical fiction. i love this whole trilogy (you already know the end! he gets beheaded! and it works so well!) but the first one is the weirdest and the most ambitious and my favorite.

- the age of homespun by laurel thatcher ulrich. yeah its a dense tome about early new england material culture. yeah it quantifiably changed the trajectory of my life. its LAUREL

fics:

raajenboagen by oplopanax (hockey rpf) the definitive omegaverse and the definitive historical au and the definitive romance. highly recommend if you like deeply thoughtful religious and cultural worldbuilding with your omegaverse or if you, like me, were obsessed with prairie blizzards as a child

soldier’s heart by alex51324 (downton abbey) i literally wrote a whole explainer one time on how much i love this fic. just finished my yearly reread, it still fucks

stretch out your hand, my captain by thegooddoctor (the terror) killer writing about gender and historical queerness and repression and also prose so good i genuinely think about it all the time

jeeves and the club for inverts by triedunture (jeeves & wooster) i am realizing that all these are historicals. oops well i like what i like. anyway anyone who can do wodehouse pastiche this good is a national treasure

down by the brazos by ionthesparrow (hockey rpf) you guys know that thing where the setting is a character. this does that for gulf coast texas, a place i have never been, in a way that makes me literally able to smell the water

#ask game #long post #if anybody reads any of these you have to come tell me #i am FROTHING at the MOUTH to discuss these #which was my criteria for picking favs there are probably a million more that i could put on these lists

[futuristicsaladparadise]

The more research I do into ancient and bronze age clothing, the more I realize that a most clothing pieces are just rectangles of cloth draped and secured in different ways.

For this particular outfit, I made a T-tunic (no shoulder seams, when laid out, it looks like a capital T) of yellow cloth (saffron was imported to Ireland early on, and it was basically the national color until various laws forbade the wearing of it), hand embroidered. Her skirt is a fat quarter of homespun rolled down over her belt (yes, bronze age people had patterns like this), and her cloak/brat is another quarter yard of blue wool, much like the plaids/arisaids of ancient Scotland.

This is definitely not the final look, but it's coming together. I still need to put together her tools, like a drop spindle and scissors or knife, needle case and comb, and I'd like to embellish her brat to be more like how they are historically described. I also need to make up my mind if I'm wanting an everyday or special occasion outfit.

#american girl dolls #my dolls #sewing #ag

[cogitoergofun]

On opening night of the Stronger Men’s Conference in Springfield, Missouri, in April, an Army tank squatted incongruously on a church chancel. Not one of the pastors, sports figures or niche Christian influencers who sermonized about masculinity throughout the well-attended event, which was a literal come-to-Jesus affair with a power-ballad band and pep talks, remarked on it. Presumably the tank stood for the masculine virtue of lethality. Or maybe rigid defensiveness.

Other totems of virility, including Motocross champions, Fight Club references and a formal prize for densest chest hair, were on hand like citronella candles to shoo away gay vibes. To a crowd that looked all-male, Pastor Levi Lusko, a former porn addict, unfurled a highly disturbing sermon on how much he loves sex. He cited an old lyric by T-Pain and Flo Rida to explain Eve’s allure to Adam: Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur.

But in spite of this camp machismo signaling, none of the speakers opened culture-war fire. Talk of politics was scant, even when Republican Senator Josh Hawley of Missouri, one of the featured speakers, took the stage.

Hawley committed to the bit. The senator, whose book Manhood: The Masculine Virtues America Needs came out shortly after the conference, can preach. On the morning of the conference’s second day, in a neo-televangelical Hillsong style, Hawley delivered a bona fide sermon enjoining men to find their purpose. His reading of Judges even took some clever turns, identifying — as some evangelicals do — a “pre-incarnate Jesus” in the Old Testament. No matter what worldly troubles the guys were facing, Hawley assured them, they each had a divine calling: to become mighty men of valor.

With homespun anecdotes about farming and marriage, Hawley also managed, for a time, to curb his trademark Stanford-Yale pomposity. He was no doubt playing to the audience of churchgoing men in Springfield. He skipped the suit and the sneer. And he called out, almost persuasively, to his blue-collar relatives: “My cousin Jordan, who’s an electrician, and my cousin Aaron, who’s a builder!”

Pretty soon, though, Hawley was into lamentations — about the rates of mental illness, drug abuse and, especially, suicide among young men without college degrees. “This is a generation that is living increasingly without purpose or place, without meaning, without direction.” At top volume, he summarized: “It is the calamity of our age that so few men feel a sense of purpose anymore!”

Hawley, a graduate of Stanford University and Yale Law School, is hardly the first white man with hyper-elite credentials to express worry about his gender. Concerns about American masculinity go back to the beginning of the country, to John Adams and Alexander Hamilton, and have been a particular fixation of the ruling class.

But in one crucial way, Hawley is different from his predecessors. Before Hawley, masculinist philosophers tended to locate the calamity of manhood among the overly refined, the gentlemen in their hard collars and high hats. These pretty boys, they believed, desperately needed time on horseback or football fields to put hair on their chests. These days, elites like Hawley see a crisis among the proletariat. It’s an unexpected flip-flop, as workers and farmers, whom Hawley now faults for a lack of virility, were once the honest, plain-talking family men whose manliness was held up as exemplary to neurotic snobs.

Why doesn’t Hawley take his pitch to elites? He didn’t respond to a request for an interview on the topic, but perhaps it’s because men without college educations are much more imperiled by mental illness, addiction and suicidality than college-educated men. They’re less contented. They’re less employed. And, for Hawley, that means they’re a riper political target — more easily sold on far-right memes and “woke”-bashing flexes as a way to cure what ails them.

When Hawley calls working-man woe “male malaise,” he’s got to be the first to use that fey French word of the Carter era to designate a problem-that-has-no-name among burly electricians and builders. But if he intends to make common cause with them, he must continue to style himself, somehow, as one of them — albeit the fully-realized, highest-end, zillion-threadcount version.

But, though Hawley is marketing his masculinity crisis to a new audience, his arguments draw substantially on those of the white, rich, Ivy League-educated pundits who came before him. In reviewing the history of American manhood, it’s astounding to discover how long masculinity has been framed as “in crisis”; in the telling of these writers, it’s never not been in crisis. From the 18th-century elite to Hawley and his conservative confrères, the project of defining and protecting American “manhood” doubles as a way to define and protect some obscure American essence — and these men, whether in wartime or peacetime, whether in traditional or untraditional societies, cannot stop worrying that they’re losing their authority over it.

[budapestbug]

The folk costumes of several villages around Szécsény (#Hollókő, Rimóc, Lóc) show numerous similar characteristics. Colourful ribbons embellish the girls’ braids, while the composite headdress and headkerchief of married women covers part of their foreheads. The young girls wear light-coloured beads, the middle-aged women wear blue and green necklaces, but it is considered improper for older women to wear any beads at all. The shirt is usually made of linen, although they also used tulle. On top of that goes the narrowly folded shawl, so that most of the shirt remains visible. The embroidered leather bodice was worn mostly by the more prosperous people. Women liked to use blue-dyed material for skirts, as its dark colour set off the apron, which reached almost all the way around the short skirt, so short that its wearer’s calf was visible above the top of the boot. Many people have admired the varied and beautiful headdresses of the {344.} Palots women. Shoulder shawls were not worn from the beginning of the century, and as a consequence, the bodice neck became closed and was richly ornamented. The skirt is the most characteristic part of the local costume. It reached to mid-calf or even to the ankle, and is made of heavy brocade and velvet with ornate fringes for holiday use, or of lighter blue-dyed material for everyday use. A homespun apron, patterned with red, was tied in the front.

[bubblesandgutz]

Every Record I Own - Day 780: Loose Fur s/t

Every so often one of those albums comes along that completely alters your musical tastes. For me, Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was one of those records. I already liked a lot of Americana and singer-songwriter stuff, but Yankee Hotel Foxtrot took the homespun sound that I liked and ran it through a modern lens. This sonic update wasn't necessarily a wholesale embrace of the 21st century---their songs battled environmental noise, industrial static, stylistic option paralysis, soul-less technology, and the bombardment of stimuli in the Information Age. It was a record of beautiful songs that were built up and dismantled in the studio, with vestiges of dissonant clutter and ornate embellishments deftly woven in and out of the mix by Jim O'Rourke.

I'd watched the documentary on the making of the album, I Am Trying To Break Your Heart, before hearing the actual record. Watching the band navigate the songwriting process, the label pressure, the inner band struggles, Jeff Tweedy's migraines and panic attacks, and the underlying quest to move forward artistically in a marketplace that doesn't value vision all lent an additional layer of mystique to both the album and the band.

There were snippets of other Wilco songs scattered throughout the documentary, and I was obsessed with tracking them down. I bought all the other Wilco albums. I bought bootleg CDs of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot outtakes. But the song I was hunting for, "Not For The Season," was nowhere to be found.

Then in 2003, it showed up on the debut album by Loose Fur under the title "Laminate Cat." Loose Fur was a side project featuring Jeff Tweedy, new Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche, and Jim O'Rourke. I came for "Laminated Cat," but I stayed for the strange protracted jams, unusual drum textures, synth forays, blissed out fingerpicked guitar, and off-kilter O'Rourke melodies. This wasn't a Tweedy-centric project---it sounded like three adventurous musicians having fun in the studio.

But it also sounded like the more adventurous parts of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, except instead of treating it as another layer that could be faded in and out of the mix, these exploratory moments were the focus of the songs. A big part of the magic of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot involves what Kotche and O'Rourke brought to the mix, and on Loose Fur we hear what happens when those musicians' skills and ideas are given equal weight to Tweedy's songwriting.

#loosefur #everyrecordiown