Tumgik
#dust fuss
sweetingtea · 1 month
Text
TW: IMPLIED MPREG
Istg if this makes you uncomfortable then PLEASE do not read. I warned you. Your mental health is more important!
⚠️PROCEED WITH CAUTION UNDER THE CUT⚠️
Based on @mollymauk-teafleak ‘s AU with the HuskerDust twins! (Sorry for the tag! Just wanted to properly credit!)
I see a lot of posts talking about Husk pawing/kneading/making biscuits at Angel’s chest floof, but consider this: Whenever one or both of the twins are laying on Angel’s chest for whatever reason at all, one or both just start mindlessly kneading at their daddy’s chest while tiny purrs escape the young one’s mouth.
I thought about this on a random Friday at 2 o’clock in the morning and then forgot about it. I am currently typing this on a Sunday turning into Monday at midnight. I was mulling over ways to make brownies, and then the thought came:
✨HUSKERDUST TWINS✨
Anyways, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’m an artist. I could draw it. I want to. However, I’m a busy witch. I got shit to do that’s not my own hyper fixations. Sad :( but that’s life for ya’.
Hope y’all enjoy my thoughts. I love this AU, it’s just too precious.
I’d take this AU on a date if were possible. Give the author of it some luv.
K I’m done.
Typing—I’m done typing, not crying.
This’ll be posted when I wake up :) 💛
Edit, for when I wake up:
Damn y’all, I think I was coming down with a case of baby fever last night and I made the upmost smart decision to look in the HuskerDust tag. The good thing is that this doesn’t just sound like me spitting out complete gibberish, I sound sober, yeah. I like the “kitty(s) kneading their daddy’s chest fluff” and I can just imagine Angel noticing it, loading his brain to process what their crotch-spawn(s) [are] doing, then cry about it. He’d later call in Husk and be like: “HUSKY!! I NEED A CAT TRANSLATION TO WHATEVER IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!!”
But like, in a good way :)
45 notes · View notes
hella1975 · 8 months
Text
realising something bad about someone that means the world to you should be illegal. id like to live blindly actually
#ive been tiptoeing around this realisation for a WHILE now but today was the first time i actually verbatim in my head#went 'i dont like living with my mum'. and the moment i thought it was like no nooononono lets NOT do that#like objectively my mum is my favourite person in the world and i love her more than every other person in my life combined#but LIVING with her in HER HOUSE is just not... it. and it makes me feel awful for even thinking it bc that's her biggest fear#that we're gonna grow up to have the same relationship that she had with her mum and that ISNT what's happening like i could never#be distant from my mum in fact the reason she has such a chokehold on me is BECAUSE there's so much love there#but it would still break her heart to know i felt this way and i just feel so shitty for it. but like? i CANT relax here#like the thing that made me think it this morning wasn't even an explosive thing like it usually is with her#like every shouting screaming argument we've had ive just taken it. but then this morning when nothing exceptional happened#i was just. done. so basically i told u guys she wanted me to hoover today and already yelled about it YESTERDAY which. whatever#and she goes out every thurdsay until lunchtime and i think ive said on here before that the days we're home alone are HUGE flashpoints#bc if she comes home and perceives that not enough chores have been done/one thing has been done wrong she just hits the ROOF#like her temper is entirely disproportional she gives the same energy for the washing up not being put away that another mum would#give for finding drugs in their kids room. ive truly never seen someone maintain a temper like that woman can it's actually impressive#so yeah she was gone this morning and it just always leaves me On Edge it's never a huge thing bc im not SCARED of her but im not relaxed#and i hoovered for an hour and washed up and then also dusted the stairs and did some other tiny irrelevant jobs#and my sister did fuck all. she pulled a sickie off work and stayed in bed while i fussed about what to do with the dogs and shit#and so when my mum came home ig i was expecting some sort of acknowledgement? like not a round of applause#bc obvs it's just chores and the hoovering she literally told me to do but when my sister had been SO unhelpful and it had been#SO on my mind for hours now i was just. waiting for something? and even i didnt know what so it's not even fair#but my mum came home and decided she was in a bad mood and she had a go at my sister for being lazy and not doing the chores she said#she'd do today and she DIDNT yell at me which she sometimes does just do if she's pissed at my sister. but she just got mardy with me?#like she got up and left to go watch TV in her room and i was like 'oh i can watch it with you?' bc sometimes when they row my mum#hints at me and her going somewhere else to bitch about my sister. but she just shook her head and snapped at me for some dumb shit#like TINY shit id missed and then wouldn't even spend time with me and i was just like. are you serious#and THAT was when i had the thought bc i was like there is actually no winning with her temper#and i can never fully relax around her because of it. even when we're getting on she is at any point seconds away from ripping my head off#and it's not nice being around someone like that ALL THE TIME. and i dont mind it when im at uni bc im at my own house in my own life#but when it's HER house and she makes it very clear that it's HER house and we need her and the car if we want to so much as LEAVE#then that's just not a fucking pleasant environment to be in? right? even if it is just me being a baby? ugh idk and i hate this
31 notes · View notes
egginfroggin · 6 months
Text
Pesselle is this close to chaining him to the cot so he can't get himself into stupidly dangerous situations.
Tumblr media
Transcription of the text:
First part:
text, pointing to his right arm: (broken arm)
"It is fine"
"It is not as bad as it looks"
"Really"
"I am fine"
Second part:
text, pointing to Pesselle: (will be a cold day in Hell before she ever believes him)
10 notes · View notes
majikdog · 1 year
Text
Hey, just to throw a kind disclaimer out since there seems to be a lot of issue with this across the board, everyone is free to like or dislike a fictional character. It’s fiction, it’s supposed to be fun- however your sense of fun goes within the reason of not hurting others. And liking a character shouldn’t hurt others, and if someone liking or disliking a fictional character does hurt you, filter tags or block the offending account. Easy as pie, simple as that. Don’t make this into something it isn’t, fandom is supposed to be fun. So have fun. 🖤
23 notes · View notes
transphilza · 2 years
Text
fic’s up! c!emerald duo lovers and angst enjoyers alike this one is for you
It’s as though the day occurred in a vacuum, a time loop of events occurring within themselves infinitely and simultaneously, laid out for Phil to watch and experience, to trudge through like tall grass and shallow waters — just as he rose with the shadows on the morning of November 16th, just as he fell with the sun’s rise and his sword stabbed through his son’s middle, he finds himself damaged and fragile, staring up at the sky as the night fades on the morning of the next day.
In the immediate aftermath of November 16th, Phil tries at all costs to hold himself together. Technoblade is there when he inevitably falls apart.
32 notes · View notes
finglefungle · 1 year
Text
the rust belt? what's next, the dust belt? the gust belt? the crust belt? the disgust belt? the must belt? the fust belt? the adjust belt? the discussed belt? the fussed belt? the trust belt? the just belt? the robust belt? the combust belt? the unjust belt? THE BELT??
2 notes · View notes
dubiousduckears · 2 years
Text
Don’t know how steadily I’ll be able to keep it up but I laid some queue down
Tumblr media
4 notes · View notes
necrosystem · 1 day
Text
So I personally do not like anime or musicals. I think the reasons why are actually pretty similar. They both overwhelm me and give me a headache.
Let me explain.
CW: I am expressing my distaste for anime and musicals and venting about the fandoms.
I want to preface this with: People who study musical theater work their asses off. They're highly skilled and hard workers who have collectively honed their art over decades, if not centuries.
It's part of a rich culture. I understand this. I'm not hating on people who like musicals or who perform in musicals.
This is my personal experience and why I hate these mediums on a super personal level.
It's all a sensory nightmare.
With musicals I'm expected to follow a story through song and dance.
So I have to listen to this loud ass song that has a million different sounds in it. And these songs are so long.
It's like
WAAAAAAHHHBAMBAMBAM!!
OUR HERO IS THE BEST HERO HE'S THE PROTAGONIST AND EVERYONE LOVES HIM OOOOOWOAAAAAAHAHHHHMMMAAAAAAHHHH.
Ow my ears. That's a cacophony of sound. Yeah ok. I get it. Here's the hero.
AWWAAAOOGGGAAAA! THE HERO IS GONNA SAVE US ALL BAMBAMBAM. WAHWAHWAH. DOOOOOOOOOOOOSH.
Oh ok the song is still going...I'm losing track here. What's going on again?
OOOOOOOUUUUUHHH HERE'S THE BRIDGE WHERE WE EXPLAIN THE TRAGIC BACKSTORY! WWWWOOOOOOP.
Okay. Whew. The song is almost over. I can rela--
WOMPWOMPWOMP!!! LOOK AT OUR BIG SEXY HERO EVERYONE LOVES HIM WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHBBAAAAAAAAMMM!
Okay....well...my central nervous system is on high alert. I'm in hell.
Tumblr media
And like? It happens over and over and over. And I'm expected to follow a plot through this? And my fellow autistics eat this up? How do they not die of sensory overload?
This is like John Mulvaney's What's New Pussycat bit, but worse.
I have a migraine now. I'm confused. I have sensory overload. And I feel like the musical enthusiasts around me have always made me feel like shit for not liking musicals, and I just feel ashamed.
Because I'd love so bad to not have these problems. I'd love to enjoy Beetlejuice, and Hamilton, and whatever the fuck else y'all think I'd love so much.
And anime has the same issues?
And it's from Japan so the culture is entirely different. But I'm in the minority when it comes to being a Westerner who hates anime.
It's beautifully animated and designed and the people who work on them are very talented and skilled.
But something about it just gives me sensory overload. The way anime character enunciate and emphasize every word.
The way each character narrates all of their actions.
"Wow! This bad guy is so OVERPOWERED! I'm hitting him RIGHT NOW and he's not taking ANY damage. He's TOO EVIL to be DEFEATED!"
And the way they literally point out every single thing that happens.
Pointing at objects, people, etc, multiple times even though they're centered right in frame.
Beep beep beep, look in the big red circle! This guy (THIS GUY RIGHT HERE IN THE CURCLE) isn't doing what HIS JOB!
I know. I see that. You pointed it out visually and verbally five times in two seconds, and you have text surrounding it.
I literally could not miss your point if I tried on purpose.
It just feels pandering and condescending to media literacy. There's no nuance. Everything is bright and fast and hits me over the head with a hammer.
It gives me a headache. I'm left overwhelmed and stressed and confused because I saw them point out this tiny little detail and draw so much attention to it and it's largely inconsequential to the overall plot?
It just feels like Dora the Explorer for adults, but much more fast paced.
If I watch anime it's usually older anime, or Studio Ghibli.
And I feel like people think I'm a bad person for not liking their loud cacophony of sound and visuals.
I've been pretty much bullied for not liking anime and musicals.
And I really wanted to like them. I really did try.
But being bullied for it just makes me associate those overwhelming things with traumatic interactions.
I know I'm missing entire cultures and backgrounds and deeply beautiful stories. I know this. I know.
But it also seems like a lot of western animation is now anime themed. That there's always a few musical numbers thrown in.
I know this is largely a personal problem for me and just me.
But it doesn't stop the fact that the world is getting more and more lonely for me on all fronts.
I wish so badly I could like these things. I wish so badly people didn't get mad at me for not liking these things.
I'm sorry. I tried. I really did.
There's few musicals and animes I like, and they're always almost older.
And I like them in SMALL doses. Like seeing them mentioned, fan art, etc.
Musicals I like:
Repo!The Genetic Opera
The Devil's Carnival
Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd
Animes I like:
Sailor Moon (fave)
Monster Masume (okay)
Assassination Classroom (good)
Black Butler (...it used to be a favorite. Grell was an f/o. I kinda low key hate it now tho)
Ouran Highschool Host Club (fave)
I think a lot of it too is that I would love to take acting classes. But I feel like I'm not good enough because I didn't go to school and I didn't join the drama clubs or nerd out with peers.
So here I am, 30, feeling like a loser who would be immediately outcasted because I don't know anything about musicals and musicals literally sensory overload me. So if everyone starts talking about their favorite musicals and stuff I'd just....sit there. And like I guess I'll just never learn these skills because I literally do not and will never belong in these communities.
And broadly I feel less connected to the ND and queer communities because of it.
1 note · View note
Text
once I figure out how to make my own clothes it is over for you bitchee
gonna make me some booty shorts and a crop top
0 notes
comiiical · 2 months
Text
.
0 notes
resurgencee · 9 months
Text
Tag Post PT1 ★ |
0 notes
clownaddict · 1 year
Conversation
Me, watching factory workers get turned into paste by various forms for lathes, presses and other spinning machinery: Hehe there is something deeply wrong with me
0 notes
horrorartsworld · 2 months
Note
ok so there is a thought that is scratching the back of my brain..
IMAGINE ALASTOR manspreading, with his smirk maybe looking at shy/reader, and how is trying to not to look at him.
he would be so sneaky and doing that on purpose!!!
like i’m going crazy don’t mind me…
a/n: UGHHH YES!! nothing crazy about it sweetheart that cheeky bastard would try something like this 😭
QUITE LITERALLY did a little mischievous giggle at the thought of this cause…alastor sitting slutty HELL FUCKING YAYEAH
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷
A manspreading man
alastor/shy f!reader
warnings: just a radio demon spreading his legs for jesus
part two !!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Charlie had called everyone down to the lobby for a special meeting in hopes to get the whole crew together to see their individual progression on redemption.
Seeming as though everyone had showed up and settled down right away with no fuss, Alastor sitting in his big pillowy arm chair as you sat across from him on the sofa next to Angel dust and everyone else in their usual spots.
The meeting starting as soon as the last demon sat, but for some reason you couldn’t focus as you noticed out of the corner of your eye at the way Alastor was sitting.
Not his usual prim and proper way that he did but full on in a manspread his body leaning to the side lazily where he had his chin placed in his palm, while his microphones pole rested against his inner thigh, hand always firmly wrapped around the neck of it.
Your eyes working like a pinball machine going back and forth from Alastor to Charlie in a shameful display of checking him out during an important meeting like this one, but something about him sitting like this was a little unusual yet so mysteriously sexy.
As you were deep in your daydream about it Alastor took notice chuckling lowly to himself as he then faced you, playfully lifting his hips up acting like he was adjusting himself when really he wanted to mess with you.
You instantly snapping out of your brain fog as your breath felt like it had been sucker punched out of you, not knowing what to do with yourself in this predicament as you shifted around in your seat uncomfortably as if trying to run away from his mischievous eyes causing Angel to shoot you a confused look because of all your movement.
Alastor’s usual grin forming more of a smirk now as he sees your cheeks turn a bright shade of red enjoying every second of you loosing your composure like this, all from him sitting so openly.
You then did the unspeakable as you raise your hand awkwardly to give a pitiful excuse of why you had to leave the meeting for a moment to run to the little ladies room, when really you needed a second to catch a breather.
Not noticing that a certain someone had followed in the shadows….
“Why’d you run off darling…I was just starting to have some fun~” you jump startled seeing as he was towering over you from behind in the mirror of the bathroom.
“I-I just needed a moment…” stammering as you practically wanted to scold yourself for your silly girly urges, not daring to look up at him out of embarrassment.
“A moment to think about me…hmm?”
2K notes · View notes
hazelfoureyes · 1 month
Text
The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part two)
This is part two! Here is part one. I lied, there is a bit of smut! Oopsie daisy. Inspired by @moonmark98 ‘s story idea of reader trying to forget Alastor and failing. I hadn’t planned a second part initially so I hope you like it 🥺
⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣
You return to earth and spend a year trying to crawl out from under the memory of Alastor. When an employee tells you a terrible past trauma, you end up right back where you started.
<Tags/Warnings/Promises: Alastor x reader, light smut, not as explicit as part one, masturbation, implied childhood trauma, justified homicide regarding said implication, stabbing, death, a realistic description of my former job, gerbil slander, your bitch aunt Sara, hiking as a hobby, guns, shooting, choking, florida weather, mentions of the 2021 Loo Loo Land fire>
minors DNI
“Ooh my, this is highly unusual. Charlie is right, you really shouldn’t be here.” Stolas fretted over you. “Uuunfortunately I don’t have my book at this particular moment however I can just snag it from Blitzy and be back soon.”
“What’s a blitzy?” Angel looked around the room to no one in particular.
“What isn’t he?” Stolas cooed. 
“Wait a minute!” Husk snapped his fingers, “Is that the imp who burned down loo loo land?”
“The very one!”
“He also takes hits out on people on earth, doesn’t he?” Husk gave Stolas a sideways look. Alastor hummed in acknowledgment.
“Ah haha yes” Nervously chuckling, Stolas scratched at the feathers behind his neck, “Anywho! I’ll return shortly and get you back where you belong, little one.” He flashed his kind smile to you before bowing to Charlie and portaling out of the room. 
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Charlie sat beside you on the edge of the bed. You’d been escorted immediately to an empty room upon arrival, sat down while the core staff of the hotel flitted about wildly upon hearing Angel’s recounting of events.
“You smell dirty”, the tiny maid cackled and ran to you before being lifted by her apron by Husk. 
“That is a”, you rubbed your wrists nervously, “complicated question…”
“There’s nowhere safer in all of hell than this room. With Vaggie and me and Alastor”, Charlie brought her hands to her mouth, “or— not Alas- I mean” She looked at Vaggie, “What do I mean??”
“Nothing and no one will lay a finger on you here.” Vaggie was staring at Alastor when she said it.
“I don’t think its fingers anyone’s worried about”, Angel shifted his gaze from Alastor to you and back.  
Alastor turned his head  slowly to meet Angel’s eyes, “Did you say something, Angel Dust?”
He shook his head and quickly left, Niffty and Husk in tow.
“I think you should leave, too.” Vaggie crossed her arms.
Alastor replied by taking a step closer to you, gesturing with his microphone, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. She is safe and sound, barely a bruise on her.” He looked over you, the side of your face still slightly pink from the way you hit the ground hardly an hour ago. He could hear your body sliding across the wooden cabin floor still, what a strangely exciting noise. What else could he drag you across? What surfaces could he slide your over? What noises would they make? What noises would you make?
“You took her fucking soul, Alastor. In a coerced deal!”
“If I remember correctly, that is exactly what I had been asked to do.” He grinned, taking his monocle off and cleaning it on his sleeve. Vaggie looked to Charlie, who shrunk from her horrified face. “Plus, she’s still alive. Who knows if the deal even counts. I’ve never made one with a living person.” With an exaggerated shrug, Alastor took a seat on the sofa opposite the bed, legs crossed. “Either way, she isn’t anywhere near Val anymore.” His eyes met yours, for the first time since… 
You looked away. He wanted to grab your chin and force you to see him. He wanted to read what was written on your face. Shame? No…yes, but something more. Embarrassment. Confusion. Ah— You clenched your jaw, finally returning his stare. Anger. “Did I not do exactly what I had promised I would? What I had warned you I would?” Your lips curled over your teeth. “While yes, I hadn’t explicitly stated the number of times-“
“Stop talking! No, no. Enough of that.” Charlie waved her arms as if she could dissipate the very topic away, “Alastor could you please give me a moment alone with her?” She looked at him with big, worried eyes, “Please?”
Through gritted teeth Alastor acquiesced, “It is your hotel, Princess. I’ll be just outside the door.” The last sentence was for you, you could feel it like you could feel his shadow still ghosting over your legs.
As soon as the door shut, she closed the distance between you, looking to Vaggie who offered her a supportive nod.
“Seriously, are you hurt? Did he— Did he hurt  you?”
Oh, you wish he had. That’d be easier to say. Easier to process. You wish he’d knocked you around like Val had done earlier. That left you indignant, enraged. But this — whatever this was — you couldn’t find purchase on a reaction. You didn’t even want to think the things bubbling under your consciousness. 
“Just my pride. Uhh,” you shifted, your thighs and cunt sore to the touch, “He really did warn me. Got my okay, kind of. And he didn’t hurt me, except dragging me around and flipping me but-”, You noticed Charlie’s alarmed expression, “I’m physically fine.”
She nodded, her expression still oozing concern, “Well that’s good, then.”
“What… You both seem humanish, but what exactly are-“ You tipped your head in the direction of the door. 
“Well I think Angel is some kind of spider…Husk, not entirely sure honestly”, Charlie looked up as if searching for a memory, “Alastor is a deer. It’s all tied to how people lived and died, I think.”
A deer? You shook your head, “Nothing about that man resembles a prey animal.”
“His death sure did.” Vaggie commented.
“So if I have some weird death I’ll end up here? If I drown… I’ll come back as a fish?” You were mostly thinking out loud, and hadn’t expected Charlie to nod in agreement.
“But don’t think about that! You might still go to heaven. Like Al said, he isn’t even sure the deal is binding.” She beamed and clapped her hands together.
It felt binding. 
When that green light had erupted from beneath you, you thought you could feel him. Not the tentacles, or the memory of his hand. It felt like he was in the light itself, casting shadows on the ceiling in the shape of you. It felt alive, every ray of light a breathe washing over you. 
You looked down at the robe, white and silky. Where were your clothes? Where was your fucking aunt? What about your phone? You had a car, too. Wait, no… did you drive to her house? Or did she…You hadn’t slept since being dragged to hell. Staring at the hem of the sleeve, you tried to focus your mind but suddenly you were wading in cognitive mud.
Shadows gathered near the foot of the bed before you saw Alastor rise out of the cluster. Charlie said something, Vaggie said something but sharper. It sounded far away already. Your body was beginning to feel heavy, an ache settling across your back and thighs.
“Perhaps you should lie down, my dear.” His voice cut through the murky waters of your thoughts. The bed sunk beside you as he pressed a hand down, the other lifting your chin to force eye contact. Vaggie made a loud noise, Charlie a smaller one, a longer one. Was it words? Were they speaking? Your lids were heavy over your eyes, Alastor’s face beginning to blur. His smile looked strained, eyebrows knitted together in an emotion almost recognized. Concern? His grin threw it off. You raised your eyebrows to try and open your eyes wider but the effect was minimal.
You heard yourself groan as an arm hooked under your knees, another catching your shoulders as you fell to the side. It felt like you were floating. Your legs came down slowly, you could feel the robe adjusting around your waist. Your head went back before comfortably straightening. A warmth spread down your neck, leaving goosebumps to runaway down your shoulder. It was dark now, and in the haze you heard from somewhere so close it felt like maybe you had thought it yourself,  “In perpetuity, mon cher.” 
You didn’t recognize the room at first, but when you finally managed to lift yourself out of bed you sighed. Home. You only knew it had been real because of the robe and busted lip. Well, mostly sure. 
 No one noticed you were gone, which wasn’t shocking. Working backwards, you could piece together you had gone to visit your aunt on Saturday morning. You awoke early Monday in your own bed some 60 miles from your aunt's home. Your car had been found abandoned off an old dirt road way outside of town. 
You tried to get back to life, get to work. But you were clearly only half there.
Your aunt was found dead the following weekend, half submerged in a swamp just outside of Tampa. Her funeral was funny. Not “haha” funny, “Say hi to Val for me” kinda funny. When they lowered her into the ground you wondered what she looked like. What's the animal manifestation of a selfish, raging bitch? What’s the most untrustworthy home appliance? 
Probably a gerbil, or a toaster. 
You found yourself doing that a lot, What will they look like in the afterlife?
It took a good six months for you to stop sleeping in the robe. You couldn’t trash it, it was evidence you had been spirited away. It smelled like smoke and baby oil. Like Angel. It was soft on your skin, like—
Oh. It took less time for the dreams to calm down. Maybe a month of waking up in a cold sweat.  
At first they were stressful. Val backhanding you. The feeling of leather chafing against your wrists. The cabin. The real one, not the set.
But then one night they weren’t stressful. You could remember the dream like it had really happened. A large hand cupping your cheek, another roaming past your hips before hooking under your knee. The warmth of a breath on your neck, on your navel. More hands. Everywhere. Your back, your ankle, your neck. 
You woke up and the first feeling you felt was disappointment. It hit you like a truck. 
The dreams slowly ramped up until some nights you awoke mid-orgasm. Never in your life had you experienced wet dreams; you didn’t even know women got them.
And it wasn’t always him—- well, not at first. You’d be kissing someone, a stranger or your ex or whoever. You’d have your hands in their hair, enjoying the feeling of their tongue sliding over yours. You’d be positively humming into their mouth. They’d pull you forward, lie you down, tugging your pants down your legs.
When they’d kiss up your arm and nestle into your neck they’d whisper hottily into your ear, “My doe.”
Sometimes you woke up, but many times you didn’t. Many times you grabbed his face and kissed him, letting him take control and direct you. You’d shrink beneath him, allowing him to use your body as he pleased. You’d surrender, you’d melt. He’d fuck you into the ground of god-knows-where, nails cutting into the flesh of your ass as he pulled you up to meet each punishing thrust. There were trees and starlight and you felt the humidity on your skin. 
You’d always squirm away, try to escape the pleasure and he would find joy in pulling you back onto his cock. It felt like a game where you both already knew the outcome. “Going to cum, sweetheart?”, would be the last thing you heard before the real life spasms of your release stirred you awake. 
The first man you took home after returning to earth was sweet. Gentle. Too gentle. You’d try to direct him, to let him know you wouldn’t break but he’d shy away from asserting dominance.
Other partners were more in charge, but it didn’t sit right. If you were going to allow someone control over you, you felt like they had to deserve it. You needed to respect them in some capacity. 
You tried choking during sex, while it did heighten the pleasure their hand felt so small it broke your concentration. Bondage was fun, you got a rush from shibari, but all it did was inform your dreams. 
You tried femdom, and while it was impowering it didn’t scratch that itch. You tried being a sub, but like before you found the people over you as unworthy of you. You didn’t think so highly of yourself, it’s just that autonomy was precious and these people were, well, just people. Mortals.  
Your friends enjoyed your hoe era, self titled, but it was short lived. It had been eight months since you returned when you bought your first real sex toy, and took up hiking. It felt nice to be outdoors, and the days you spent in the forests seemed to make for nights of  less intense dreams. 
Your toy was, ashamedly, selected for its three points of contact. A pink little vibrator, big enough to need some work into you but not painful. The first time you used it you clung to your pillow, heart ballooning against your spiked blood pressure, and screamed a chorus of his name. The two points inside you vibrating in tandem with the small suction cup shape extending from the base doming your clit brought back delicious memories. 
Every time, you felt embarrassed after. You could imagine him hearing you all the way in hell and chuckling at how pathetic you were. Satisfied at how empty you felt after.
It wasn’t just about the sex, you were never a very sexually needy person. You were chasing that feeling of surrender, of being both safe and out of control at the same time. The little bit of danger with the pleasure. But not, “local woman found dead in the woods” kind of danger. “Corrupt your soul and ruin your afterlife” kind of danger.
After a year of being earthside, life had finally calmed. Were you still fucked in your dreams? Yes, but a manageable once or so a month. Your toy was nice, but not necessary. A man, or anyone, hadn’t touched you in months. And that was alright. You felt almost normal, except the mornings you woke up hoping to see a pair of red eyes somewhere in the room. 
You chalked it up to escapism. 
Work had promoted you, twice, which helped distract you from boredom. While performing one of your monthly employee meetings, you met with a young man you’d recently hired. He was still in college, but he had a good head on his shoulders and made quick decisions. You were confident he’d be your equal within the year.
(Implied childhood trauma below the line; not graphic but it’s implied to have happened)
⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹
“Tired?” He asked you while you logged back into your computer. 
You nodded, yawning into the back of your hand, “Spent most of Sunday at Shallow Ridge. Scoping out a good camping spot for when it warms up.”
“No shit, my dad hunts out there. Every Sunday, too.”
“I didn’t take you for the hunting type”, You blinked away the exhaustion and opened his employee file.
“Nah I’m not.” He shook his head, “He used to take me all the time when I was little.”
You nodded, not looking at him and only half listening, “Aww, sounds fun.”
He scoffed. You found the audio file of his graded phone calls, double clicking it. The file seemed corrupted. 
“Not fun?” You absentmindedly asked.
You opened the program to manually find the call file. The silence began to creep over you until you felt your chest heavy under the weight of it.
You finally looked at him. The look in his eyes was distant, the color from his face was gone. 
“Hey”, your tone changed, your subconscious recognizing something before you did.
He snapped back up, looking at you now. His smile didn’t meet his eyes. You didn’t say anything, just pushed your chair from your desk and looked directly at him.
“What?” He averted his gaze.
“You know you can tell me anything, right? You’re not just a resource here. Hell, I see you more than my own flesh and blood.”
He nodded, and when he finally brought his eyes back to yours his composure cracked and tears fell down his cheeks in streams. “It’s fine” he forced a laugh, “It was like a million years ago.”
You took off the rest of the day, and after providing hugs and your own tears and information on company sponsored counseling and resources, you went home.
Well, first you went to the camping store. And then home. Your dreams that week were calm, as if they knew you couldn’t enjoy a romp in a field.
When Saturday night bled into Sunday morning, you drove your car to Shallow Ridge. You placed the keys on the front seat and left your phone under the seat itself.
You waited for four hours, but eventually a truck pulled up and the man you saw in various Facebook photos and tagged family Christmas cards made his way into the dense forest. You circled back on the trail, head dizzy. 
You knew you couldn’t overpower him, but you weren’t trying to win. You just wanted to make him hurt. You’d met men like him before. You’d suffered men like him. Survived men like him. When you two crossed paths on the barely marked trail and you were a beat behind him, you stopped, took out the hunting knife you were told could cut bone, and brought it down into the crook of his neck with both hands.
He whipped around, shock and panic on his face as his hands came back from his shoulder bloody. When he scrambled for his gun you sliced at his chest, then again at his throat but it wasn’t deep enough to stop him. 
As he advanced on you, fumbling with his shotgun, you tumbled backwards. He fell with you, pinning you down beneath the full weight of his body on your stomach. Twisting beneath him you almost got onto your side when you sunk the knife into his inner thigh, remembering the artery there from your mother’s surgery. He got the gun loaded, aimed it at your chest, “Crazy bitch!”
“Fuck you.” 
He fired.
Your breath left steam as it flitted weakly from your body, frost still on the ground. Your mouth was open as blood held your face to the forest floor. As your vision darkened, you watched the man slump over and onto the ground beside you. His eyes were open and unmoving. 
A burst of green erupted from beneath you, and you smiled as you sank down into the light.
“Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?”
(Part three)
༻Masterlist༺
3K notes · View notes
siixkiing · 1 year
Note
(crossed-worlds) ( Usiku to Wukong)
[ BANDAGE ]:     the sender sits down across from the receiver and begins to bandage their wounds.
☯   𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 | @crossed-worlds  ☯
Tumblr media
“You really don’t have to you know...I’m fine.”
Getting banged up and bruised was nothing new to the golden king, having been through his fair share of injuries from past exploits. It was thank to his immortality that he survived any of it. Not just anyone could walk away from what the Great Sage had endured over his centuries of life. 
Even still, he doubted his words would dissuade the other simian from tending to the many gashes and cuts that were littering his form — not with the look that told him otherwise. A sigh escaping past his lips, he didn’t have the strength really to even fight against Usiku either. Too tired to really fuss like he usually would when one tended to his injuries. Always having viewed it as a waste of time and effort, after all he would heal rather quickly.
Delicate claws of the other reaching out now towards him, a soft noise leaving him at the contact. Even with how ungodly his pain tolerance could be it didn’t mean injuries being touch still didn’t sting here and there. Relaxing slowly.
“...I appreciated it though.”
A small soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips, doing his best to stay still while his companion work’s on dressing up the various areas. Trying not to be too much of hassle for him — after all Usiku was going out of his way for him. Least he could do was not be difficult.
Tumblr media
“So, do I get a treat if I behave myself like a good patient?”
1 note · View note
ceilidho · 2 months
Text
take me home, country road
[ao3]
prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 3) part 1, part 2
-
“Neglecting your husband already?” he asks when you pull away from the arm curling around your waist. It’d migrated there from your back during the walk away from the courthouse. 
“You know I’m not—I’m not some horse that you can just…break in,” you seethe, glaring up at Price. Your arms are crossed tight over your chest, putting the slightest boundary between you and him. It’s more of a mental boundary than anything, a self-soothing gesture; you know it hardly even registers to him because the man still looks down at you with that unimpressed expression, like dealing with a particularly vexing child. 
“I hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly, looking you up and down. It’s a scorching, hungry look and it makes you shift from foot to foot. 
The two of you stand outside the front door of his house, the front door still shut tight. You put up a fuss on the walk from town as the reality of your situation finally sunk in, squirming in his hold until he threatened to just load you over his shoulder and carry you off. His tone leaves little for you to doubt. Nothing about him brooks skepticism; until the end of time, you’ll look at John Price and think, this is a man of action. This is a man that will move heaven and earth. 
You clam up after that, lips pursed shut though turned down at the corners. 
It’s a bigger house than you might’ve expected for a single man, but perhaps it was built with a wife and children in mind. The thought makes you swallow. A wooden two-story thing with a porch out front and an adjacent stable for his two horses with a pen around back. Speckled Appaloosas that look up at the sound of his boots and keys, attentive for all of a few seconds before losing interest. 
You know without asking that Price must have built this house with his own two hands. It’s not shoddy by any means, but his house has that indefinable quality that some places have. Organic. Homegrown, almost. It’s hard to put up against the houses of your youth, but then again, you grew up in the cramped quarters of the city, apartments thick with the scent of sewage on bad days and dust on the good. The two are hardly comparable. It’s even harder to put up against the estates that you’ve spent the better part of the last few years cleaning and learning inside out, but at least his house doesn’t make your stomach turn at the sight. 
There’s a moment when you first turn to him where you wonder if he’ll look for approval in your face, some sign to set him at ease, but when you meet his gaze, it’s steady and impenetrable. Quietly self-assured. It’s incongruent with the machismo you were raised around, the constant need to impress or transcend. It puts you on edge. It makes you almost feel like baring your teeth.
Your comment had come from seeing the horses and the house and the porch with the two rocking chairs, your hackles raising every step closer. Price built his house big enough for children because he anticipated a baby in his future. Children he’d have with his wife, which, though a fuzzy memory as far as memories go, you quietly stepped into the role of not half an hour ago. 
You’ve thought about it before. Motherhood; marriage, domestic living, settling down with a man to start a family. The reality of your life has always made it seem like a problem for the future. Years chipping away like flakes of faded paint off the walls of your bedroom, still living with your aunt and uncle well into adulthood, trying desperately to scrimp and save and stay afloat. Disappointing but not surprising that you’d never been considered the marriable sort, not with scrubbing other people's toilets for a living. 
And now look at you, ring on your finger and whisked home to be bedded. A shiver roles down your spine at the thought and you scowl at Price instead of sinking into the strange thrill. 
When he wraps a hand around your wrist to pull you towards him (his fingers easily overlapping; another thrill), you snap.
“That is quite enough with all the touching!” 
His eyes narrow. “I’ll have more than my hands on you by the end of the night.”
A more proper woman would gasp. You barely hold yours back. 
You know in the back of your mind that you’ve already lost any semblance of an upper hand in this situation. It has long spiraled out of your control. His ring sits on your finger all nice and pretty, and though you signed your marriage license under a different name—your own rather than the name of his actual intended—that Price hadn’t even bothered confirming, you are, for all intents and purposes, his to touch as he pleases. 
“I’m—” your eyes dart around, the urge to bolt a sharp and sudden compulsion lodged in your chest, “—I know I said yes, but I—there’s always the possibility of an a-annulment if we don’t…if…”
You flinch, startled, when he pulls you into his chest only to cup your face again. He has big hands with callused fingers, rough against your skin. Up close, you can see the way his beard is cropped closer than his mustache and mutton chops. It gives him a grim air, almost somber until you catch his eyes staring down at you with an affection that feels unearned, meant for someone else. 
“Deep breaths, darling, there’s nothing to fret about just yet. You’ll work yourself into a state like this,” he murmurs, dropping his head to sip a kiss from your lips again. 
You’ve been in a state since the moment you walked into the sheriff’s office and laid eyes on this man. Turned around and knocked sideways, like you’ve walked into a storybook without noticing. If only it hadn’t all been so sudden, you might’ve been able to approach the situation with a clearer head. You might’ve been able to think up some other way out of it beyond giving Price a fake name and waiting anxiously for your true identity to be painstakingly drawn out over the course of a week. 
“Don’t know why you keep working yourself up,” Price says softly, then slots your lips together for another tender kiss. “Figured you might be a little skittish, but…’m gonna be such a good husband for you, honey. Not gonna want for nothing.”
His slow kisses drag out longer than back in the courthouse, languorous and decadent. As if he has all the time in the world now. In a way, he does, now that he’s helped collect your belongings from the inn and brought you home. When you think of pulling away, the hand wrapped around your wrist lets go and slides to your back, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breasts flatten against his chest, pulse skittering like mad when you feel the hardest of his chest against yours and the muscle holding you in place. 
You can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips when the hand on your cheek slides to the nape of your neck and grips, holding you in place. The kiss deepens, the heat on your cheeks feeling palpably hot, vision swimming until your eyes have no choice but to flutter shut. Your suitcase sits forgotten somewhere in the dirt, toppled over onto its side. You pant low, hot breaths into his mouth when he breaks the kiss, letting his lips just hover over yours.
“There we go, darlin’,” Price mumbles against your mouth, sliding the hand on your low back down to grip the plump flesh of your ass through your dress, lips twitching when you make a broken, affronted sound. “Isn’ that better? Not thinkin’ so hard?”
You can’t think at all, in truth. When he kisses you again, your thoughts evaporate up into the clouds, the tongue licking into your mouth dispelling any ideas or notions you might’ve had. It disappears into the heat and lust and the fingers digging into your backside, groping at the flesh there without shame or compunction. You go with him when he clutches you closer, gasping again into his mouth when you feel something hard press against your low belly. He grunts when you twitch against it. 
“John—John—” you gasp, pulling your mouth away and whimpering when he chases after you, letting him steal another wet, slick kiss before your trembling hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “Enough—it’s not—it’s not proper—”
“No prying eyes around here,” he grunts. “‘Sides, who’s going to tell a man he can’t kiss his own wife?”
Trembling all the harder at his words, you dig your nails into his shirt sleeves and hope you pinch the skin underneath. All twisted up inside. The ring on your finger glimmers when it catches the light, brighter even than the sun this close to your face. When Price feels your nails dig into his arms, he groans, fingers pressing harder into your bottom and making you squeak. All the pent up lust finally trickling out of him and into you. 
“C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside.” He finally lets you go after giving your bottom lip one last wet suck, pulling it into his mouth while his half-lidded eyes stare into yours. It’s somehow more intimate than kissing. 
You’re still reeling when he turns around to pick your suitcase off the ground, certain that your knees will give way and send you tumbling as well. Every point of contact on your body sizzles, aches. You watch from outside of yourself as he turns back to you, suitcase in his hand now, eyes still dark and fixed on you. Hungry. Your eyes widen when they flit down to find a thick bulge at the crotch of his pants. 
Like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over your head, you hiss and back up three steps when he takes a step towards you. “Oh no, you don’t take one step closer! I won’t have anything to do with—with that!”
You must look like some feral barn cat, back all puffed up, teeth bared to the man trying to coax you towards him. Price must see it too because he grins, amused. “Still spittin’ mad, huh? Felt those claws in me before, darlin’…gonna love feeling them with nothing between us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” 
Price doesn’t bother clearing anything up, but you intuit it the second he takes another step in your direction, whirling around and sprinting towards the house. It feels counterproductive to seek shelter in the man’s house, but dusty plains stretch out in every direction apart from back into town, where you know not a soul will lift a finger to help you. His house is the only shelter you’re going to get.
You hurry up the porch stairs, tearing open the door before glancing over your shoulder to find Price not far behind. He advances on you at a walking pace, but each stride of his long legs matches two of yours, making you shriek and scurry up the staircase. You dart for the first open door you see, slamming it shut behind you and leaning your whole weight against it. Glancing down, you perk up at the sight of a lock on the door before flipping it.
It’s not long before the sound of boots clomping up the staircase meets your ears, headed straight in your direction. You shake when you hear him pause right outside the door, then startle when he tries the knob. 
“You gonna let me in, darling?” Price asks, grin in his voice. Even raps his knuckle against the door for good measure.
“No,” you snap. 
“Not even for your things? Got your suitcase right here.” You hear him set it down, a little clunk against the wood floor. 
“I can manage like this. I’ve slept in my dress before.”
He pauses. “Have you?”
You tilt your chin up proudly despite the door blocking his view. “Yes, and I don’t mind doing it again. You can just stay on the other side of that door until you…until you put that thing away.”
“Can’t do much about that thing, darling; it’s sort of grown on me over the years anyway,” Price chuckles. “Well, not much I can do with it behind this door. I’ll go tend the horses ‘till suppertime comes ‘round and then come back to tend to you.”
“Licentious…reprobate,” you hiss through the door. 
He laughs, the sound deep in his throat. Your stomach flips. 
The stairs creak under the weight of his boots as he descends back downstairs. You wait until you hear the front door open and shut behind him, until the house is completely quiet save for the blood pumping in your ears before you hastily unlock the door and dart a hand out just to pull your suitcase in. You shut and lock the door as soon as it passes the threshold. 
It takes a while to settle your nerves and for the trembling to subside. In the meantime, you sit on your bottom at the foot of the door, with your back still pressed firmly to the wood, and take stock. There’s a bed in the room, one you hadn’t noticed in your mad scramble to lock yourself in. A bigger bed than the one you’d slept on back at the inn, but just as sparse, with gray flannel sheets and a blue quilt folded and draped over the end of the bed. 
The rest of the furniture in the room—two end tables, a chest of drawers, a desk, and two chairs situated in the corner of the room—appears so consistent in its design that you have to wonder if Price made them by hand as well. Hardly a reason to question it. You think to yourself that you’ll have to ask him how he finds the time only to quickly shake that thought away. Can’t be getting too chummy, certainly not if you don’t expect to be around in a month’s time. Hopefully less than that. 
You chew on your lip at the thought of fleeing in the night.
It trickles into your thoughts while you open your suitcase on the bed and riffle around for your nightwear. Price will likely keep you under lock and key for at least the first week of your marriage, giving you little opportunity to take off any time soon. If only you’d held your tongue and played the demure bride, he might’ve had some cause to trust you. Certainly not now, after your most recent display. 
Your own stupid fault, as usual. It’s not the first time your temper has gotten the better of you. You’ve faced worse consequences for it. 
Outside the window on the far end of the room, a horse whinnies. You pause, remembering that Price hadn’t gone very far. When you glance out curiously, you see him letting the horses into the pen, giving one a good rub down the bridge of its nose. The horses seem to melt under his touch. 
It’s strange watching him from far away. From a distance, it’s hard to reconcile him with the man that bent you over his desk not an hour ago and tanned your bottom. You cringe at the memory. It’s not that Price doesn’t seem like a man that would take his wife over his knee if he saw fit to do so, but you still can’t imagine yourself as that woman. When you think about it, it feels like a play, something you saw happen to someone else. Not you wailing and squirming like a cat in heat. 
As if feeling your stare, he glances up at the window and winks when he catches your eye. With a squeak, you leap away from the window, scurrying back over to the bed. 
A couple hours pass in restless contemplation, practically biting your nails to the quick. Eyeing the windowsill like you still might go over there just to check on what Price is up to outside. You hear him come back into the house once or twice, tensing up at the sound of his boots, only to be left vaguely disappointed when you hear him leave and the screen door slam shut behind him. 
You spend so long holed up in the bedroom that you miss lunch entirely. Below you, you hear Price puttering around downstairs in the kitchen—the sound of a knife chopping vegetables and then the sizzle of meat on a pan. The hunger pangs nearly make you break, but you’ve gone without food before. 
Your heart skips a beat when you hear him ascend the staircase again and place something just outside of your door. He doesn’t try coaxing you out this time, just heads back down the stairs and out the front door. Again, you ignore the pang of disappointment; ignore the urge to open the door and holler down the stairs for him to stay gone. 
He leaves anyway. 
Curiosity needles at you though, so you open the door up a crack when you’re sure you’re alone. There’s a plate at the foot of the door with vegetables and meat, slightly cooled but still fresh, the plate still warm. He must’ve known you wouldn’t try coming downstairs and fixed you up a plate. 
You eat in silence at the desk, bad mood ripening. Angry at yourself and everyone else. Even John. Especially John. The audacity of fixing you up a plate, of thinking of you in the first place. Irritated enough to stand boldly by the window this time, hand clutched in the curtain, tracking the movement of his shoulders and hips when he moves with the horses and fetches water from the well. You lose sight of him a couple times as he finishes up the day’s chores around the house, but the flutter in your belly always settles when he comes back into view. 
It’s easy to let yourself admire him from afar, somehow less humiliating without his eyes on you. He’s a solid man, body carved into its shape from the rough labor that’s part and parcel of living out on the frontier. A wide back tapering down to lean, narrow hips and thick, muscled thighs hewn from lifting and pulling and all manner of physical work. You bite your lip when you remember what it felt like to cling to that back and dig your nails into his arms. 
You give your head a shake. It’s dangerous to let a thought like that latch on. 
In the few hours between lunch and sunset, you occupy yourself by reading one of the books stowed away in your suitcase. Then get bored and refold your clothes. The horses bray when they’re taken into the stables for the evening. The crickets out in the bushes in the yard chirp as the sun sets pink in the far distance. It’s quieter out here in the plains than back in the city, you think, something you haven’t yet had the time to appreciate. 
When Price comes in for the night, you’re firm in your resolve to keep the door shut. If lunch at the door was just an attempt to butter you up, he has another thing coming. In a house this big, there’s likely a guest room or somewhere else to sleep—a sofa or a sleeping bag tucked away under the stairs. He’ll just have to make do while you take the bedroom. There’ll be no sharing a bed with the man that grabbed your backside like a piece of meat. 
He doesn’t come up the stairs right away. Like before, you hear him rustle up supper, spatula scraping against a pan and knife coming down on a chopping block again and again. Not enough time has passed since lunch for you to feel more than peckish. You’re thankful for that when you hear him sit down to eat. 
The knock at the door startles you. You hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. “Ready to talk now?”
You stare balefully at the door. “No.”
“We have to figure this out sometime, darling.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’m sorry if I gave you a fright earlier, but, honey, that’s how husbands kiss their wives. Nothing improper about it.”
“I’m not frightened, I’m just not—we don’t need to do any of that,” you huff, embarrassed all over again. “You’ve hardly given me any time to even think. I didn’t know you from Adam this morning and now we’re married.”
Price sighs, the sound muffled through the door. “What am I going to do with you, honey?” It’s said to himself, a fond exasperation that puts you on edge all over again. He has no right to be amused with you, no right to be delighted and charmed by your ire. 
“Well, you can sleep somewhere else for the time being. I’d prefer the bed to myself.”
He lets out a low, dark laugh. “There’s not a chance in hell that I’m sleeping anywhere but with my wife from this point on. You oughta come to terms with that quick.”
“Well then, you can sleep out there because I’m not unlocking the door!”
He lets out a mean sound, almost mocking. “Yeah, ‘bout time I addressed that, huh?”
His words make you frown until you hear a floorboard creak as Price does something on the other side of the door. Then the doorknob jiggles. Horrified, you watch as the door unlocks and the knob turns, your husband’s body filling out the door frame. You’d forgotten how well he could fill one out. He almost has to duck to come inside, mused hair from working outside all day brushing against the top of the frame. 
“Always put a key on the top of the door, just in case,” he explains, pinching the little silver key between his thumb and forefinger before shutting the door. Your heart jumps when he locks it behind him. “Ready to talk now, honey?”
2K notes · View notes