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st7rnioioss · 5 months ago

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⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐲

𓂃 ֹ ᮫

˚𝜗𝜚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬... smut, oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, overstimulation and a lot of it, crying, unprotected sex (don’t!!), p in v, fluff, kissing, swearing, dirty talk, kinda breeding kink?, chris being da munch

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ your wrists were writhing and aching above your head, the tie chris had on earlier tightly laced around your hands to keep them together. with your eyes screwed shut and lips parted, angelic noises slipped from your lips every time chris’s nose brushed against your clit. your thighs were bruised and red, the kisses he had left to soothe the burn of his beard now turning into deep marks that’d for sure turn purple later on.

by now your thighs and pussy was aching from the overstimulation he was currently having you go through. chris had your legs heisted onto his shoulders, his hands occasionally grabbing the lush skin of your ass, or keeping your legs from closing around his head. chris was eating you out like there was no tomorrow, and at this point it didn’t seem like he was gonna stop, but not that you cared. “y’taste so good.. could stay here all day.”

“ch-chris.. too much-“ you moaned, attempting to push the aching aside and focus on the pleasure he was providing you, which you succeeded in doing. “no it’s not.. come on doll, you can take a little more. i barely even started,” yeah right he barely just started. you’d already came two times, and you were sure you couldn’t hold out much longer.

chris had started off by loosening his tie, but when you couldn’t stop yourself from pulling and grabbing him by his hair, he knew he had to do something about it. his black button-down was now halfway unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up his forearms, and tie prettily but tightly tangling your wrists together.

“you’re so addictive.. holy shit,” chris’s tongue and lips worked absolutely wonders on your slick pussy, delving his muscle even deeper inside you with every passing second, though it seemed impossible. his sharp nose brushed and rubbed perfectly against your swollen bud here and there, making your legs quiver around the brunettes head.

chris wanted to make you cry—just as much as he loved hearing and seeing his pretty girl cry of laughter because of some lame joke, he loved listening and seeing his doll cry from pleasure. and that was the goal of tonight.

and to his luck, hot tears were staring to well in your waterline, but you managed to blink them away and forget about the overstimulation when his lips and tongue started sucking on your clit.

“f-fuck chris!” you cried out, your thighs instinctively closing around his head, but it only made him groan louder against your spent pussy, the vibrations coiling up your body. “shut up,” he mewled into your skin, pushing your thighs further up your body to access more of your sloppy pussy, messily switching between sucking on your clit, and digging his tongue into your wet walls. your moans were like praise and music to his ears, urging him to keep going.

your back was arched, letting the sweet whimpers being pulled from your lips one after another. it didn’t take more than a few minutes for you to nearly scream his name, your sweet release coating his tongue once more while squeezing his head with your legs when he went back to work on your folds. but he didn’t seem to care at all, the only goal here being brining you to the brink of ecstasy and bliss—he just pushed your legs away from him, his grip like iron when his hands came to cup the underside of your knees, before his strong arms wrapped around them.

“baby i can’t,” you whimpered pathetically, your tone turning weak and exhausted, faulty writhing your wrists and hands together because of the tight knot. “yes you can.. i know you can.”

a trail of tears had slipped from the corners of your eyes, a quiet sob leaving your lips between moans—but chris knew better than to stop. those tears weren’t from actual pain or discomfort, they were from pleasure. you kept on grinding your hips, dumbly searching for his nose to bump into your clit, moaning, and arching your back, and all this was sign enough for chris that you didn’t want it to end. so he continued.

the waterworks kept on coming with every swipe of his tongue that lapped from your seeping hole to your clit, the uncomfortable squeeze of his tie making your tears fall even more frequently. your cheeks were wet and pink, your chest heaving up and down at a rough pace. the sobs you let out caused chris to groan, his hips bucking into the mattress beneath him in attempt to ease his raging boner just a little.

it didn’t take long before another strike of pleasure crashed over your body, a loud cry of his name ripping from your throat. “oh god- christopher don’t stop,” he continued to swipe his tongue over your fluttering walls, tasting your release for the third time, before he flattened his tongue against your sensitive bud. “you okay?” his voice was strained and hoarse almost, quickly letting his lips and tongue slip from your wet cunt to look up at you. the absence of his mouth on you made you whine with a cry, but you managed to look back at him.

his lips and chin were glistening, coated in his own spit and your slick release before he licked his swollen and pink lips clean. “y-yes.” you managed to whimper between sniffles, your toes curling and back arching when he went back to your spent pussy. “wanna feel you cum around my cock so bad,” he mumbled, licking a stripe up your folds, before he gently pressed kisses to your clit, a weak whimper emitted from your lips. suddenly, he withdrew his mouth from you once more, letting go of your knees to hover over you, his hands caressing the sides of your thighs.

“you’re gonna give me one more. i know you can do it angel,” he murmured, pressing wet but soft kisses to your cheek while his hands spread your knees apart. a gasp left your lips, your hands still awkwardly rutting together above your head, but chris didn’t care about them. not right now at least. “o-okay..” you faintly whispered with a turmoil of excitement growing, watching as his fingers slipped from your legs to reach for the button of his dress pants. they were hastily discarded along with his boxers followed by a groan, his fingers now working on the buttons of his shirt.

chris was quickly just as naked as you, his body hovering over yours. your legs were propped up around his waist, your pussy almost eager to take him. “don’t cry doll,” he murmured with a soft smile, looking down at your stained and glistening cheeks. his hands went to cup them, his thumbs wiping the warm tears off your skin. “s’okay..” he slowly retracted his hands from your face, bringing one hand to wrap around your wrists, the other going to line up his sticky tip with your pussy.

“oh my god chris,” you yelped when he carefully thrusted his cock inside of you, one inch after the other—you could practically feel every ridge, every vein of his erection. you looked up at him, your eyes round and glossy before they fluttered shut. chris couldn’t help but let out a string of loud groans, his free hand going to rest on your hip to steady himself a little.

“gosh, you feel so fuckin’ good.. y’look so pretty too,” he murmured huskily, his eyes stuck to your face. when you gave him a small nod, he bottomed out, giving you a minute to adjust to his stretch. “i-it’s okay.. please move,” you whined after a moment, desperately trying to reach out and touch his hair, but to no avail—his fingers around your wrists made it hard to move them at all.

chris kept a slow pace when he started moving, the air in your room turning hot and thick. whimpers and groans, along with the sound of flesh smacking onto flesh, and lewd squelching filling out the silence between the two of you. “s-so good-” you mumbled while your head tipped back, eyes still pinched shut and legs wrapped around chris’s waist while he continued to plow his length into you.

he chuckled between pants, his fingers digging into the plush skin of your hips, the other hand tightening its grip on your wrists to hold you down. “you take me so fucking well..” he groaned, his head dipping down to watch the way your sticky, and soppy walls sucked in his cock, making a whine slip from you every time his tip kissed your cervix, sending you both into a spiral.

the feeling of another orgasm crept up on you, lips parted and agape to let the sinful yet pleasurable moans fall. chris took notice, his hand slipping from your hip to attach his thumb to your clit, the touch feather-light. awkwardly, and trying to chase your high, you attempted to grind your hips in order to make the touch more evident. “p-please christopher, need t’cum so bad..”

chris let out a laugh at your actions, leaning down to press kisses to your neck and cheek, the pace he set on your pussy never faltering. “shh.. calm down. i’ll give it to you babydoll,” his finger pressed harder onto your nub, circling it tightly. another series of whimpers and moans left your lips, your hips meeting his with every jerk.

“christopher please,” you cried, the amount of pleasure you were receiving being overwhelming, allowing hot tears to roll down your cheeks. the sight alone caused chris to groan, letting a whine of your name go past his lips. you were fluttering around his wide stretch drilling into your drooling cunt, the added pleasure making your glassy eyes roll to the back of your skull, face flushed and glistening.

chris’s head was spinning with every heavy breath he let out, the sight of your warm tears coating your pink cheeks, along with your hands writhing under his own making his stomach pool with a certain warmth, feeling your cunt squeeze and clamp around him.

chris’s lips sucked into the side of your neck, adorning your skin with small, red, and wet kisses, his thumb speeding up its pace on your clit while his pace on your spent pussy gradually increased too. “go ahead dollface, it’s okay. cum ‘round my dick..” and as if on cue, your walls spasmed around his length, coating him in the sheen release his tongue was covered in minutes ago. “chris!” a cry of his name was let into the room, echoing with your sobs, and the continuous slapping of skin. eventually your hands stopped writhing, and the restraint of both his tie and hands were completely careless to you.

your sweet noises mixing with the cries you let out only made chris’s pace falter and breath hitch. “p-please cum.. christopher please cum in me.. can’t- can’t take it!” you mindlessly blabbered, opening your wide and teary eyes to look up at him. your words made him dissolve completely into the pleasure of your wet walls enveloping his shaft, looking down at your bleary face as he came. he was completely pushed over the edge, strangled noises and raspy groans of your name slipping past gritted teeth while the hot spurts of cum painted your insides white.

“i fucking love you..” he cooed, his hands loosening their grip on your tied wrists when his movements stilled, nestling his face into your neck. he slipped his hands from your skin to wrap around you, holding you tight. you chuckled, exhausted and spent, legs aching and sore. “i love you more chris,” his heart fluttered, playfully biting into your shoulder to which you squealed, gently pushing him off.

“h-how you did that, i don’t know.. but you’re fucking awesome,” he soothed, quickly taking notice of your furrowed brows and frown. “wh-what, what’s wrong?” you let your hands show, still awkwardly rutting against the tie. “hurts.. you put it too tight.” you pouted, watching chris’s cheeks darken. “oh.. right, sorry. let me just- sorry-“ he laughed nervously, quickly undoing the knot and removing the tie from your wrists completely, leaving pecks to your hands. you absolutely adored how he switched up from being almost controlling, to the more nervous and sweet chris.

one thing lead to another, and chris was wrapped up around you in the sheets, his warm and stronger body engulfing you in his arms. the two of you were close to dozing off, skin to skin as you mumbled tiredly about.. well, anything that came to mind. he’d run a warm shower for the two of you a moment ago, now cuddling you up next to him. “you smell like.. like soap,” you mumbled, nuzzling the tip of your nose into his neck, planting a soft kiss. chris chuckled tiredly, kissing you back on the top of your head. “so do you..”

˚𝜗𝜚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬... lol ignore the iffy layout i’m posting from my phone

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @toftomgmf @emely9274 @sturnioloangell @blushsturns @angelicckisses @slut4chris888 @marrykisskilled @sophand4n4 @jazzylalalala @unknvhx @chrisslut04 @sturniolossss @slvtf0rchr1s @blahbel668 @starkeysturniolo @miolos @user1smvtysturniolo @lizzyzzn @sturnslutz @decimatedxdreams @chrissturnioloswife88 @sturn777 @sturniolonationsblog @frankoceanfanpage @priscillaog @courta13 @sweetrelieef @loverboysturn @sturns-mermaid @cutseylady @sofieeeeex @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @mattsturnii @conspiracy-ash

❛❛ © 𝐒𝐓𝟕𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 ❜❜

#🐇་༘࿐ works #chris ₊˚⊹♡#⌗⋆. skater!chris x girly!reader ⋆. 𐙚 ˚#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo blurb #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets fanfic #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo triplets smut

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yearningaces · 16 days ago

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Something's wrong with this cliffside town

Fairly low-key actually. Could be an introduction to a new town, could be a standalone with some very vague implications everywhere. Have fun! :)

Also I dedicate this to every one of you beautiful bastards that held me accountable 🔫.

Thank u💖

It was a nice enough place. Small, dirty, needing repairs… broken glass, and off the hinge doors, peeling paint that faded to sun bleached bone white. The old cottage was less 'rustic', and more 'abandoned' with every passing second you stared at it.

Once it might have been a two story grand little spot with small archways and bright colors, and a spiral staircase to fit in the small loved home leading to a spacious bedroom upstairs. Small, but home.

Now? It was yours.

Per the will of some great great aunt or something or another. A woman you'd met a handful of times, odd and eclectic as she was. She had always taken a shine to you, however. The odd things you'd draw as a child, scolding your folks when they told you to draw 'happier' things. The strange mumblings you'd say, or dreams you'd tell of them seemingly forget. How she adored you, and yet you never knew her at all. Not really.

Now, you had been left this run down place in her will. When she had to abandon it decades ago, she kept the deed. One now safely tucked in your binder of 'important papers'.

Truly though, in a day and age where even renting an apartment is seen as luxury, could you pass up the opportunity to own something? Absolutely not. So, you walked through the halfway hanging off the hinge door, that might have once been blue, and enter the home.

You'll make it a home, you will. With nowhere else in this world to go, you will tear down and build back up and clean and fix and carve out a home for yourself in these walls and floors damnit. You deserve that at least.

Besides, a house on the top of a hill overlooking a vast expanse of coast, striking the rocky edge of the cliff side? Perfect. No beach for tourist to flock to, no crowded neighborhood to overrun until all nature is stripped away and synthetic grass takes its place, there's a town filled with locals a few miles down the other side of the hill. There's mom and pop shops and you haven't seen a single fast food or supermarket or corporate entity. This place could be a paradise but you'll have to make it one.

The inside is alright, mosaic tiles across the kitchen walls, splattered in colorful array along with the regular drywall. Darkwood floors, arched doorways, gotten interrior, as if folks had known your aunt wasn't to return, and those in need came to take. Fine enough, you're probably better off starting from scratch than trying to get rid of things while finding new things.

You'd already reached out to the electric and water company, paid, and got everything turned back on. So, you find the most empty room that has unbroken windows and a door that works, set up your air mattress, and rest after the hellishly long trip. Hoping desperately for a deep, restful sleep.

What you wake remembering instead is faces in the ceiling staring down at you. And the only thought you have come morning is the comforting feeling and odd thought that was once your own soothing you. 'It's okay, they had kind eyes'.

You end up wandering out of the house, needing to clear your fuzzy head and trying to convince yourself it was a really really weird dream.

The pathway down to the local town is best done without a car and gives you a chance to familiarize with the scenery. Rolling fields of green grass, not lush and emerald but thick, and plentiful, and a dark, muddy green. It whispers when the breeze blows by.

There's a sheep farmer who you cross paths with. He seems cheery enough, an older stout man with a red undershirt and black overalls. Carrying a walking stick, wearing an ivy cap, and grinning at you from behind his greying beard. "Mornin' lovely. You must be Elm's decent, right?"

"Sorry you- you knew her?" Your question is laced with confusion and a want for the same knowledge. Something he seems to catch onto immediately. The sheep at his side under his hand, pet along it's back as it grazes peacefully.

"Aye, a proper woman tha' one. Knew them local tellin's an stories like she knew her own reflection." He explains patiently. Nodding to the home up the hill. "Tore my heart through the day she was gone. Happy to have one of her own back, names Angus." The man points a gloved finger at you with a knowing grin. "Don't gotta tell me, I know you. Your auntie spoke of you all times of day. Loved you somethin' fierce tha' one."

The revelation hangs heavy in your head. Someone loved you that much, so much despite your family doing their best to keep you away from her. Why?

"She never told you, did she?" Angus's voice, accented and heavy brings your attention back to him with a confused shake of your head.

"I can't even remember when I ever had a chance to sit and talk to her and be old enough to remember it."

And for some inexplicable reason, his expression just falls into something akin to sorrow. A certain grief, a heavy yearning that makes you feel like you'll cry. As quickly as it was there though, it's gone. Instead, Angus walks over, clapping a large hand on your shoulder and walking, while now guiding you as if you were some lost chick and he was a mother hen, large and looming and tucking you under his wing.

His smile is back, a bit too sharp, yet his sheep follow obediently, flocking to the man in what must be a familiar manner. "Right then, let's get you down to the shops. Easier bein' introduced to every lot than flounderin' on your lonesome."

You fumble slightly, easily caught by the large hand as you try to interrupt his sudden decision. "No, no really I can handle-" your words as rushed as they are don't sway the larger, stout man. Instead he carries on with a bright, knowing grin. "Nonsense." He almost scolds. "I'd be a right sorry bastard to leave you to your own right now. 'sided, you've seen the state of tha' place. I know some good, proper lads. Swing by the shops, down the lumber yard, an' get your home perked right up."

"I don't know if I can afford-"

"You'll not be payin' for nothin'. Consider it a… welcome." Angus finishes with a flourish of his free hand, patting your shoulder once twice, and continuing down the road. "A welcome from a friend of the family. Let me pay my peace knowin' tha' woman's gone. Let me do it my way, by helpin' you. 'sides she ever rise from the grave, it'd be to tell me off for not helpin'." His tone is nothing but adoringly fond as he talks about your aunt Elm. And he seems genuine enough, so why not just accept the help?

That's how you end up in the field a few yards away from your house that day, in a foldout chair someone set out, watching damn near a pack of men and women working on your house. Burly, lean, short, tall, older, and younger. Some others were inside, someone had brought you a warm drink to fight off the frigid chill of the coasts breeze. Another person left you with some sort of small meat pie. All under a grey sky that never did seem to brighten but was no less welcoming.

And everything was ok, for once in your life, you breathed and felt like you almost could belong here. The folks working did so in tandem, together and joking and laughing away as they did so. Among it all, Angus orchestrated things. Sometimes asking you if you preferred one way or the other, other times making choices you found yourself agreeing with. Like it was all some grand plan.

And that plan seemed kicked off when he sends someone your way with a wicked glint in his eye that's equally laced with affection.

"Elm's girl, huh?" The stranger asks as they approach. Apparently your aunt held quite the presence in this town.

"So I've been told." The attempted joke is cautious but still tentatively hopeful. Eying the stranger up and down. Big and strong like, slightly scruffy but well groomed. The shirt stretching as best it could hold across the pair of broad shoulders and chest was definitely an eyecatcher. Beyond that, they were almost domestic looking. A dark undershirt thrown on clearly last minute, dark jeans, muddy boots, and a kindly expression. The curly blond hair and brown eyes seemed almost normal.

Almost.

"Well," they remarked with a grunt, getting down to sit beside the chair, forearms resting across their knees as they looked up at you, seated in your little foldout chair that felt more like a throne of honor today. "You kinda look like her, from the pictures Angus showed me before, tha' is."

"Pictures?" Your incredulous tone isn't missed nor is how you suddenly sit up with amused bewilderment.

The display making the stranger only grin, peering up at you from beneath their dark lashes. "Yeah, pictures. He was sweet on her, apparently. She never wanted to settle down, get married, so he was her best friend. He'd joke that she had the best of both worlds. A man who thought the world of her, an could be sent back home whenever she was sick of his shit."

You sit back in your chair, staring at the house currently being reformed. "Damn."

The steanger shook their head, grinning still while laying back in the grass, and stretching out. "Can't hurt to have someone like Angus lookin' out for you."

"Why's that?" The question comes automatically, falling from your tongue before you can take back the possible insult. "I mean, I'm happy about it, he's been really nice and helpful and I'd have handled today okay, but it's a lot easier when someone else knows everyone and everywhere."

They just keep smiling at you, almost too many teeth, almost too wide, but where your mind should be sending alarm bells, you feel comforted instead. "No, you're allowed to ask. Angus is kinda the 'big man on campus' as you might say. I'd almost call him the mayor on account'a we don't listen to the real mayor o' Cowansoll, Colm, but whatever Angus says goes."

The realization is both startling and not. The more you watch him, the more you could see it. How folks just… listen. That makes you wonder more about the man seated next to you, however. "… So what does that make you? Mayors second hand?"

"Nothin' of the sort. I'm the one Angus calls whenever he's needin' somethin' he can't do." Their hand is held out to you, then. A friendly gesture, seemingly. "Mont."

"Mont?" you repeat back, because what is it with these people and only having one name. No first, last, nickname, nope just one set name. Still, you almost feel like you can't ignore the offered hand, and whenever you actually look into their eyes, you don't want to. Your hand is outstretched, but you pause.

Mont waits a few moments before slowly, gingerly grasping your palm in their hand. Holding it between both of their larger ones as if making some silent vow. They're warm. Warmer than your own hands are, it's a nice difference.

"How bout this," they start, squeezing your hand lightly before finally letting go, even if their fingers do softly trace over your own as they pulls their hands away. "I take you to the best spot to eat, an' can tell you all about this ol' town. The local legends, the stories, the tales. Anythin' you wanna know, I'll say."

Your gaze drifts to the house. "Wouldn't it be rude for me to leave while everyone is working? I still want to help, I feel bad when I'm the only one not doing anything."

It's Angus that's suddenly behind you, a hand on the back of your shoulder as he looms with a kind expression. "Course not, lovely. Go on, now. Make an evenin' of it." His expression hardens slightly as he looks towards Mont. "A single hair, boy." He states gruffly, making Mont chuckle in a low, soft tone while standing. Nodding in agreement all the while.

"Aye, course. Won't let a thing happen to such a lovely creature." Mont swears, hand over their heart with a sincere yet somewhat theatric gesture.

Angus seems settled, however nodding before going back to your home. Back to replacing a busted out window, specifically.

"Well now, approval from the big man himself, right? Shall we?" Mont offers their hand, helping you up from your chair. As you stand however, they don't let go. Instead just moving so your hand rests on their offered arm. The two of you leaving for a early evening stroll.

Between light chatter, and teasing, you learn that they're the butcher in town. Happily detailing how to break down a sheep as it's the most common cuts they handle. They work closely with Angus on handling the large flock of sheep when they can, and for the last few minutes they've been bragging about some tavern in town that sports the 'best' Shepard's pie. Ones they often get for free since they're the one delivering the meat to the place directly.

It's how you spend your evening. Seated by the window, able to just see your house atop the hill, watching it while eating, sharing stories with Mint, learning about the local legends from the 'creatures in the field after dark', to 'the public restroom at the gas station is haunted but ONLY the second stall in the men's bathroom'.

And when you return home and see it's foundation fixed, it's doors hanging proper, windows gleaming from the lightbulbs within that don't flicker, you almost cry. Angus hugs you tight, Mont holds your hand, a sweet group of old ladies bring you hot stoneware containers of different foods, and a quilted blanket they spent the day making, and one of the kids brings you a drawing of a stick figure made to look like you standing next to a square looking house. And all at once you've never felt more at home.

Sleep comes easy that night. The quiet sound of the waves crashing against the cliff side is a quiet constant noise. The shadows linger. The light in the kitchen you forgot about turns itself off.

This is home.

"Folks called it th' witches hut for a long time. Some centuries ago, tha' is." Mont remarks suddenly, watching you staring out the window up the hill. It had been a few weeks since you moved here, and the people welcomed you as if you had always been ment to arrive.

You turn to him suddenly, watching them eat away at their meat stew. The warmth of it a contrast to the cold outside. "… Why?" You finally question when they don't seem to elaborate.

"Some thought a witch lived there. Long time back, someodd before the town really had the name 'Cowansoll'." They add, staring at you in equal confusion now. "One witch died an' passed it to another, is courted by the new generation of the towns spirit to keep them here an so on, goes the tall tale."

"Why would the town... Want that?" You ask given the odd nature of the local tale.

"cause originally it was a druid, but mother church came along an' suddenly 'druids' were simply not 'of nature'. So, witches. Creatures the town wants here, regardless of name." The tone is serious for a moment before Mont shrugs, nudging your shoulder with their own as you both remain leg to leg, huddled in the booth on the same side.

"Does that make me a witch?" The question finally rises up from yoo. Your Cheshire grin and teasing tone is apparent, making Mont only nod. Playfully serious, as if it was all true. "Aye, f'raid tha' means you got a start turnin' folks to frogs. Start with Dunham." Their tone suddenly turns blunt at the seemingly only person in town he dislikes. Some feud between them over something or another they never do explain.

You, however, simply reach out to poke the center of Mort's forehead and simply say the word, "Frog."

"Ribbit." They offer in an equally dry tone before their eyes brighten with a visible mirth and something untold as they watch you.

Days are just like that here.

The clouds are always grey, Angus is somehow there as soon as you say his name, the cluster of old ladies and one old man you've come to recognize always move in a pack, and never can be singled out in memory or in person, always bringing food and crochet or quilted goods. Mort is always a step behind you like a physical shadow, offering to guide you, to your you along some new road you've somehow never seen, the perfect traveling companion. The shops always have just what you need, but you only find it after browsing for at least ten minutes. The church bell rings, even though the building looks on the brink of collapse. And when the dark rolls in, all the lights go out, and you hear a whisper in the back of your head telling you 'don't open the door' every time you grasp the handle when it's after dark. The voice is always slightly different every time, yet achingly familiar.

Always.

And if you see strange figures or faces when you're supposed to be dreaming? It's just part of the towns charm. It's just dreams. Sometimes they look far too similar to the townspeople, the closest always the ever sturdy Angus, and the always present Mort. Sometimes you feel cradled, comforted, adored. Sometimes you're watched from a distance, left to your peace.

Don't question why. Don't listen to the whispers from the grass, the screaming from the cliffside where the sea meets the stones, the faceless you can never remember despite their kindness.

You've been welcomed, like those before you. The house is teaming with life, and it wants to stay that way. So don't leave, but… don't invite anyone else.

Cowansoll only has room for one outsider, and it's you.

#letters of yearning #x reader #gender neutral reader #eldritch x reader #look... i dont know i sat down and did something

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anmorrighan · 13 days ago

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The Heat & the Pulsing Rush (Human!Halbrand/Galadriel)

CHAPTER 2: LET FIRE SOOTHE THEM QUICKLY

Summary: We take a look into Halbrand's past life in the Southlands.

Pairing: Halbrand x Galadriel / Human!Halbrand x Galadriel

Warnings: Language, injury.

Word Count: 3.5K

AO3 Link

The hiss as hot steel met the cool water was like music to Halbrand’s ears. Steam rose upwards as he once again pulled the metal from the water and continued about his work, trying not to think about how this blade would be used in the future. It was the only way he could do the job free of guilt.

This was how he had always made his living in Nénost. Working on the forge and smithing was all he knew. He had done so from an early age with his father’s encouragement and had gone on to become very confident in his craft. Some of the people in the village still seemed to class his as belief in his abilities as arrogance more than anything, but he supposed they weren’t entirely wrong. He was always taught that a bit of self-belief got you a long way, but never assumed it would get him to where he was now.

Nénost lay on the Gurthrant River in Western Núrn, quite close to the Sea of Núrnen itself. The lowlands of Núrn were lush and fertile and perfect for farming, an activity that the village itself utilised to the best of its abilities. Fishing was also one of their primary trades due to being settled right along the Sea of Núrnen’s most western tributary. Life was quiet there even with the odd watchful group of Elves that passed through to make sure that the town’s inhabitants weren’t reverting the evil ways of their ancestors. Halbrand watched them come and go, blissfully unaware of some of the things going on behind closed doors. Some of the people of Nénost were nearly as clueless as the Elves and for that he was relieved. After his parents passed and left behind him and his younger sister, Fíriel, to fend for themselves, he had to make money somehow… or at least that’s what he told himself so that he could get to sleep every night. While Fíriel worked hard in the farmlands, he sweated over the forge day in and day out until his muscles ached and his mind wandered. Whatever thoughts of guilt that came with the work were forced into the furthest corners of his mind with a trip to the tavern in the evenings where he paid for his ale with bloodstained coin.

Halbrand continued on with his with his labour, laying the now finished jagged blade next to the others he’d been tasked with making. Once they were cooled, he placed them in an empty chest and bent to lift several of the loose floorboards below his feet. Several other chests lay underneath the smithy, all containing similar weapons. With a grunt he carefully slid the chest down with the others before he stood up again. He wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow just as Coruon, the owner of the blacksmith’s shop, stomped through the entranceway. He was a brusque older man — the same age as his parents were they still alive — with a thick grey beard and a heavily built physique from spending his whole life working a forge. With the Southlands themselves already rundown, he owned one of the only workshops for miles around.

“Them knife-ears are back,” he said gruffly. “Did you put the swords under the floorboards?”

“Of course I did,” he replied, already placing the wooden planks back where they belonged. “It’s not as though we’ve done this many times before.”

“One of these days that loose tongue of yours will get you trouble, Halbrand,” Coruon snapped. “Get to work on those shovels before they come in here to snoop around.”

Halbrand shrugged as he lifted the blade of a shovel into the burning forge. “Of course, Master Coruon. ”

He went about his business, this time shaping shovel blades while Coruon busied himself going through the books for keeping track of what supplies they had. That was where they remained until two Elves entered the smithy. They were dressed in their usual garb of grey cloaks with carved chest pieces. They carried their bows over their shoulders, quivers secured on their backs. Halbrand simply ignored them and continued to hammer one of the shovel blades with his mallet. The distinct ringing filled the room as neither man acknowledged their arrival.

One Elf eventually cleared his throat before greeting the owner. “Coruon.”

“Meldiron, Feredir,” he replied, eyes still fixed on his books. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Halbrand knew these Elves well. They’d been coming to and from the village since he was a child and even before that when his parents were babes themselves. He never interacted with them for more than the had to, only because he disliked how they watched him with such intense eyes, like they knew exactly what he was up to. Even still, this appeared to be false, for he would’ve been taken in chains long ago if that was the case.

“We are just here for our monthly report,” Meldiron replied evenly. “As always.”

“Feels like only yesterday since you graced my doorstep.” When neither Elf responded to his goading, he continued on. “I can’t say that I’ve anything to report in here, Soldiers. Surely you’ve already spoken with Gorneth at the tavern? She might have news.”

“We have and she has nothing much to report. All would appear to be well in Nénost at present.”

Coruon let out a loud ‘ah’ and then chuckled. “Did you hear that, Halbrand? All is well in Nénost — no evil Men or Morgoth-worshipping going on around here.”

Halbrand kept focused on his work but he could feel the Elves watching him closely. “That’s good news then. All is well.”

“All is well.”

Their hounding seemed to do little in deterring the Elves, for Feredir stepped further into the establishment and drew closer to the forge. “What are you making?”

“Shovels,” Halbrand replied evenly, eyes fixed on the embers and flames.

“What for?”

At that point, the Southlander looked away from the forge to find green eyes watching him carefully. His tone was noticeably sarcastic. “For moving soil. Digging, edging, general garden maintenance and farm-work. Surely you have shovels where you come from?”

“You have made many of them,” the Elf stated, nodding his head to the other ten shovels that lay against the wall, freshly forged and ready to be used. “Are you branching out into farm-work, Halbrand?”

He gave him a wry look. “I’ve no interest in farming, Elf, but the farmers asked us to make them fresh tools as the other ones are worn beyond repair.”

This seemed to be enough of an answer for Feredir as he nodded and then continued to idly stroll around the room.

“Do you two need anything else?” Coruon sighed impatiently. “We’ve a big order to fill and I’d rather we could focus on our work and be free of distractions.”

Meldiron seemed to have heard enough despite his stoic expression and nodded. “We will take our leave then.”

Without further ceremony, the two exited the blacksmith’s shop and continued about their duties, leaving Halbrand and Coruon standing in silence.

“Elves,” the latter grumbled once they were gone. “Always eager to stick their noses in my business.”

Halbrand chose to ignore his grumbling and instead asked something he’d been curious about for a while. “What does that buyer of yours want with all these shovels anyway? The weapons make sense to me, but not this.”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

“You weren’t even tempted to ask?”

“Why’re you suddenly so concerned about what my buyer will do with shovels? You didn’t express this much concern when you started forging blades, did you?”

While Halbrand didn’t show it, those words stung. He had done his very best to not think about how the weapons he was forging were going straight into the hands of Orcs whom Coruon was happy to serve. As far as he was told, he had to make these weapons or else find another village in which to live and find another blacksmith willing to mentor him. He should have had the integrity to leave Nénost and relocate with his sister, but instead he remained and worked the forge, crafting weapons that were sure to be used by servants of Sauron. He knew that Coruon was still loyal to him; it was quite evident in the way he spoke and the way he threatened Halbrand’s life should he sell him out to the Elves. That said, he was still confounded as to how the buyer had convinced him to take such a risk and found the idea of blind loyalty alone to be foolish.

So Halbrand kept his head down and his left his integrity at the entrance every morning when he went to work.

“It doesn’t take much intelligence to know what swords will be used for,” Halbrand elaborated. “But I find it curious that we’re putting so much on the line for the buyer and you don’t even know why we’re making them all these shovels. Are the Orcs making their own farms now? We’re mining and being given the steel in secret and forging weapons for them right under the Elves’ noses. Surely he’s got something hanging over your head to get you to risk everything for some…shovels?”

The book his boss had been thumbing through closed with a resounding slam. “He’s got nothing hanging over my head, you whelp. We make these weapons and these shovels because he’ll bring us back to prosperity and out from under the boots of those Elves. When Sauron returns, those who remained loyal will prosper. It’s the only way. That’s why I make them and you’d be wise to shut your mouth and follow orders, lest you want to end up with one of the blades you made in your own gut.”

The master blacksmith’s words took to Halbrand like water to a sponge. He could feel anger seething in his veins as he let himself be chastised. He should have had the honour to step away from this labour, but he wasn’t an honourable man.

Halbrand was no hero, so he returned to the heat of the forge and made the tools of the enemy until the sun set and his working day ended.

o O o

Nightfall meant going to the Gravediggers Tavern for an ale or two. It was the best medicine Halbrand had found for taking his mind off how dire things were in the Southlands. It was also where he and Fíriel usually spent their evenings together. This time, however, she had remained at their shared home, tired from working in the fields all day. So instead, Halbrand sat at the bar counter staring into his third ale of the night and basking in the mild buzz he could feel stirring in his head.

The tavern was busier than usual that night, for the heavy rain outside seemed to urge various groups of workers inside its warm doors. There they would remain until the weather cleared and then they would stumble home. Halbrand wasn’t too bothered either way, but he enjoyed drinking and eating and basking in the warmth of a well-kept fire — it felt different to the heat that exhumed from a forge, far more comforting in a different manner.

He quickly downed the contents of his tankard, the ale now warm on his tongue, and raised his hand for the barkeep’s attention. “Another ale please, love.”

Gorneth rolled her eyes at him before pulling him a fresh drink. “Really working through the drinks tonight, aren’t you?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Aren’t they all long days?”

He let out a chuckle and handed her a few coins. “Yes, unfortunately.”

Later in the night, the drink was nearly empty when a rough hand grasped harshly on to his shoulder. He whipped his head around only to find Coruon’s brown eyes staring back at him. “Come with me. Now.”

Tired, a little drunk, and rather irritated, Halbrand shrugged his hand off. “Piss off, Coruon. I’m trying to enjoy my drink in peace.”

He turned away to bring the tankard back to his lips when he was suddenly pulled from his chair by the back of his collar. The sensation choked him and he gulped, ale spilling from his mouth on to the front of his work-clothes. He vaguely heard Coruon’s grumbling as he heaved him down a small corridor, amused patrons watching as he was hauled away.

“Go easy on him, Coruon!” he heard Gorneth calling after them. “Whatever he’s done can’t be that bad!”

Halbrand found himself abruptly shoved up against a wall with his boss furiously glaring at him. This was certainly not how he thought his evening would go. “What are you—?”

“Shut your mouth before I knock your teeth out,” Coruon growled lowly. “For once, shut up and listen to what I say to you. I’m going to take you into one of the backrooms where a group of our friends are talking to each other about an urgent… matter. It’s a council of sorts, a private one that I’ve granted you entrance into. So come in here, listen to what we have to discuss, and don’t say a word. If you say anything, I’ll throw you and your sister out of Nénost myself! Am I understood?”

“Why can’t you just leave me in peace for one night?”

“Because these are not peaceful times and you’re about to find out way.”

Halbrand couldn’t help but be curious by his statement and the wild look in his eyes. The blatant threat didn’t exactly give him an opportunity to argue either. He allowed himself to be guided into one of the backrooms, in which sitting at a table were a group of three men and one woman. All of them were residents of the village that he knew to see, farmers, miners, shop-owners alike. Whatever conversation they were having suddenly hushed as they entered.

“Halbrand can be trusted,” Coruon said without much ceremony as he shut the door behind them. “You all know that he’s been my apprentice since he was a child. He’s good and strong. He can follow orders and keep a secret.”

All of them seemed to take Coruon’s word for gospel, as one of the group — who he knew to be called Ríros — gestured for him to sit. “Before we speak, you should know that this conversation cannot leave this room, nor is it to be discussed with anyone outside of the six of us.”

Ríros seemed to be staring at him and waiting for confirmation, so Halbrand took a seat in the empty chair and nodded. “Of course…”

The red-headed man then leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and clasping his dirty hands together. “They’ve found him.”

“Who exactly?”

“The heir to the throne. Our promised king.”

Despite himself, Halbrand let out the faintest of gasps. If he had consumed more ale, he could have fallen out of his chair. For as long as he could remember, he and his sister had heard tales of the King that would pull them from the darkness and restore the Southlands to their former glory. At this point, they seemed like useless fairytales more than anything, told to children around a fire at night. Some still believed in the King’s eventual return, but he had personally given up hope long ago. Life being bleak and ordinary seemed far more plausible than the idea that a mysterious heir might solve all of their problems and unite them under a single banner. But even still, what Ríros said couldn’t be ignored. There were still enough Southlanders who would bow in support of their King without hesitation.

Halbrand spoke finally, the small shake in his voice evident to all. “The King of the Southlands?” The others nodded and he stumbled over his words. “H-how? Where?”

“He had been residing further north but returned to us about a fortnight ago, along with a small rabble of followers — very small, mind-you — but a handful nonetheless. He’s stationed at a farm house not too far from here and has asked for a few people to be notified of his arrival in Nénost while they try to gather numbers. It’s to be kept quiet until he is well protected lest some don’t take kindly to his arrival.”

“So it’s just us who know? Only those in this room?”

“We’re the trusted few,” Ríros confirmed. “And that is how it’ll remain. He wishes for it to stay that way until he has established himself a bit more. Despite what work the Elves think they’re doing, there are still some in the Southlands who remain loyal to Morgoth. So, we are the small council he’s chosen to keep an eye and ear out for any in Nénost who might wish to harm him and to protect him should it come to that.”

Halbrand’s eyelid twitched slightly and he had to force himself not to glance in Coruon’s direction. He could feel his stare, could practically hear the thoughts he was surely mulling over. These people were all trusted with protecting the alleged King of the Southlands, and yet their traitor sat in this very room.

He cleared his throat before asking. “So what are we to do then?”

“Nothing of note for now,” Coruon grunted. “In future, Ríros and I will be sent to speak with the King and see what his plans are. Everyone here was chosen because we are loyal to the King, able-bodied, and ready to defend him.”

“And we’re sure it is the actual king?” Halbrand asked with a furrowed brow. “And not just some stranger taking us for fools?”

“He bears a pendant around his neck, one engraved with the sigil of the king. They’ve remained within the royal lineage for centuries and passed down to the next in line. He would not have acquired it unless it was through the very hand of his father. He also has some personal records of his the prove it.” Coruon paused and gave Halbrand a hard look. “He is our king, and we will protect him with our lives.”

There was a particular air in the room, one laced with anticipation and excitement, but there was also an element of relief that Halbrand sensed amongst the joy. How long had the people of the Southlands so desperately wanted their King to return? Certainly longer than he could ever comprehend… And yet here he sat now with a group of his people, discussing that very prophecy. How would this change their lives? Would they finally be free of the Elven watchmen? Would they find their villages and towns changing and growing? Would kingdoms of Elves, Dwarves, and Men treat with them and agree to alliances?

He tried to let his thoughts wander to something positive, but in the back of his mind lingered the image of the forge and glowing metal that he shaped with his mallet. He tried not to think of the chests full of blades beneath the floorboards or the hands that made them.

Despite his best efforts to focus on what could be, a shadow remained, sure to consume all.

o O o

Halbrand’s memory slowly faded away and his vision fell into darkness once more. Slowly becoming aware of his body again, he tried to move but couldn’t. Everything hurt, the pain seeping down to his very bones. A distant voice sounded through the haze, growing louder with each passing second.

Through parted and chapped lips, he whispered hoarsely. “Galadriel?”

A hand gently clasped his shoulder, the voice closer still. “Lord Halbrand?”

He said her name again as his eyes opened but Eóith was staring down at him, concern etched across her face as she studied him and noticed his wound.

“All is well, My Lord,” she said kindly, her free hand wrapping tightly around his. “I brought a group back with me to find you. We’re going to take you to the camp. Can you stand?”

Helpful hands urged him up and Halbrand realised that he was indeed surrounded by a small group of Númenórean soldiers. He was vaguely aware of two of them going to fetch the body of his fallen comrade as he stood — albeit uneasily — and offered Eóith a grateful nod. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

“We’d hardly leave you behind. You’re the only reason we survived at all. Quick, mount one of the horses and we can have the healers take a look at you.”

Happy to follow orders, he was helped into a saddle and sat down with a heavy groan. Despite his exhaustion and despite the pain in his side, Halbrand steadied himself and followed his rescuers down the road that led them back to camp.

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tameblog · 2 months ago

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Hi GPODers! My favorite kind of spring cleaning is the type that shakes the dust off and uncovers gems that we lost in the bustle of busier times. When sorting through seed packets unveils the stash of heirloom seeds you forgot about, or digging through a garden shed unburies a pretty pot that you haven’t used in years. Or even better for me, when looking back at garden snapshots from past seasons makes you rediscover photos you intended on sending in to Garden Photo of the Day! Nancy Mellen in Hingham, Massachusetts has shared scenes from her garden through the seasons (Blooming through the Winter, Hurray for Hellebores!, The Beauty of Old Roses, Gardening in Hingham, Fall Beauties From Nancy) as well as photos from her garden travels (Morikami Japanese Garden and Jardin du Luxembourg in August). But some photos still slip through the cracks. Thankfully, it’s never too late to share some colorful photos with the blog. I just found a list of pictures that I meant to send last year. Better late than never. Enjoy… having the gardens of others to look at every morning, makes my day start with a smile. Twinleaf (Jeffersonia diphylla, Zone 5–7) is a stunning spring ephemeral that produces pretty white blooms, but it is the interesting, “twin” leafs that give the plant its name and invite you to take a closer look. Native to North America, it is a plant that more gardeners should consider as habitat destruction and invasive species have made it endangered in some areas of its native range. Another native spring ephemeral from Nancy’s collection, bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis, Zone 3–8) also gets its name from a unique characteristic. When cut, all parts of this plant produce a reddish-orange sap, but a slice through the roots will give you the best view of this colorful substance. Keeping with the theme of white-flowering natives, the dwarf trillium (Trillium pusillum, Zone 5–9) or dwarf wakerobin is a smaller relative to the great white trillium (T. grandiflorum, Zone 4–8) that has very similar flowers on a much larger scale. These flowers will also put on an additional show by aging to pale pink or lavender as the season progresses. As spring continues on, Nancy’s garden erupts into a soothing sea of green. Lush foliage of various shapes, heights, and textures perform before other blooms burst. Early bloomers like bearded iris and salvia inject the space with some floral interest and bright purple. A sensational plant pairing of two very different flowering shrubs. The big, deep red blooms of ‘Hartlage Wine’ calycanthus (Calycanthus x raulstonii ‘Hartlage Wine’, Zone 5–9) are a fabulous contrast to the endless clusters of white and light pink on beautybush (Kolkwitzia amabilis, Zone 4–8). Nancy has an impressive collection of plants that bring a beautiful diversity of colors and forms, but she also repeats particular plants throughout her beds to create some cohesion. This yellow and purple bearded iris is the same as the one paired with salvia above. In this foundation planting it is paired with ‘Caesar’s Brother’ Siberian iris (Iris sibirica ‘Caesar’s Brother’, Zone 3–8). Another very similar bearded iris cultivar elsewhere in the garden gets matched with the colorful foliage of foxglove penstemon (Penstemon digitalis, Zone 3–8). Lastly, a woodland edge absolutely filled with fluffy flowers. A fringe tree (Chionanthus virginicus, Zone 3–9) covered in white blooms on the left and kolkwitzia bringing its clusters of soft pink on the right. The list of photos that Nancy uncovered was extensive enough that we’ll be back in Massachusetts tomorrow to admire even more scenes from her gardens last year. Be sure to keep an eye out for GPOD tomorrow, so you can see even more of Nancy’s stunning blooms and plant highlights. And if you’re sorting through old garden photos as part of your prep and plan for the growing season ahead, consider sending in a batch to the blog! Follow the directions below to submit photos via email, or send me a DM on Instagram: @agirlherdogandtheroad. We want to see YOUR garden! Have photos to share? We’d love to see your garden, a particular collection of plants you love, or a wonderful garden you had the chance to visit! To submit, send 5-10 photos to [email protected] along with some information about the plants in the pictures and where you took the photos. We’d love to hear where you are located, how long you’ve been gardening, successes you are proud of, failures you learned from, hopes for the future, favorite plants, or funny stories from your garden. Have a mobile phone? Tag your photos on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter with #FineGardening! Do you receive the GPOD by email yet? Sign up here. Fine Gardening Recommended Products Planting in a Post-Wild World: Designing Plant Communities for Resilient Landscapes Fine Gardening receives a commission for items purchased through links on this site, including Amazon Associates and other affiliate advertising programs. Featuring gorgeous photography and advice for landscapers, Planting in a Post-Wild World by Thomas Rainer and Claudia West is dedicated to the idea of a new nature—a hybrid of both the wild and the cultivated—that can nourish in our cities and suburbs. Gardener's Supply Company Summerweight Fabric Plant Cover Fine Gardening receives a commission for items purchased through links on this site, including Amazon Associates and other affiliate advertising programs. Ideal for summertime pest control, this garden cover effectively screens out Japanese beetles, potato beetles, cabbage worms, leaf miners, carrot flies and most vine borers. It transmits 97.6% of the light to your plants without allowing heat build-up, and it provides cold protection down to 41° F, to extend your growing season. ARS Telescoping Long Reach Pruner Fine Gardening receives a commission for items purchased through links on this site, including Amazon Associates and other affiliate advertising programs. Telescopes from 4 to 7'. Cut and Hold (160) Blades. Drop forged blades for unsurpassed long lasting sharpness. Lightweight, 2.3 lbs., for continued use. Perfectly balanced for easy pruning. Source link

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oonajaeadira · 4 years ago

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Long Fall Into Oblivion (Ezra x reader)

(header by sirtadcooper - check out the whole beautiful set here.)

Rating: Mature.

Pairing: Ezra (post-Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: Non-explicit sex. Some swears maybe (think there’s a f*ck in there somewhere, my GOODNESS). A lot of gooey, syrupy, soft fluffety fluff. Author attempts at writing Ezra dialogue. A lot of chewy prose.

A/N: I can’t believe I’m posting this, but here goes. I love Ezra. He is a man of questionable morality and an insufferable tongue and I really shouldn’t. But I really do. I just wanted to give him a try. I’ve softened him up here, putting a few years on him so maybe he’s fluffed up some since the events in the film. Also I just ignored the fade or assumed that aurelac mining was still happening because scarcity/demand. Doesn’t matter. Just wanted to go exploring.

Summary: You take a job as an aurelac prospecting trainee and Ezra shows you the ropes. You’re gonna fall in love with him. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST

________________

Bakhroma is one of the smallest gas giants in the sector, but as you stand on the surface of the Green Moon, it dominates the entire horizon, pulling your focus, threatening to engulf everything around it. You almost feel sorry for the lush moon as you walk through its undergrowth, so gentle and full of beauty, destined many years after you’re gone to give its life to her.

A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?

There’s a painful, sour ache in your heart as you walk back to the camp in twilight, watching the back of Ezra’s helmet bob along in front of you. You’d spent two days digging that claim only to find the weakest aurelac nest you’ve seen yet, only three viable nodes. You’d dug through one of them by accident and completely melted another like an incompetent fool. Kevva’s ass, you were such a disappointment. Three months in the Green and you still can’t cut a blister out properly. Not even once.

Ezra’s shoulders are wide and tense, his one hand splayed out as he walks, running over the tops of the tall ferns, catching one every now and then only to rip the top away, twirl it between his gloved fingers and toss it impatiently aside.

The other two members of your team headed out on a sling this morning, another two will be arriving in a few days. And you wonder if Ez regrets just not cutting his losses and leaving with them, or at least sending you back in exchange for another kip.

You think about shifting through the comm channels, hoping that he’s chattering away in one of them, switched without your knowledge, but it’s a lost cause. You can hear him breathing on the channel between you. It’s not often Ezra has nothing to say.

________________

You thought your father was leaving you an inheritance. It’s not the reason you took care of him through his illness, but you’d dropped everything to be back home with him through his final months. In a way, it was a blessing, a reason to quit the Dasha factory and the terrible working conditions there, come back home and focus on your dad, relive good memories, just spend time. The reconnection lifted your heart, but his death sank it low again. When you learned he had nothing to leave you but a small house and some old vehicles, you sold what you could and traded in the rest.

Then you had nothing. No family, no job, little savings, questionable future. It almost broke your spirit. But the last few months with your father rekindled your love of him as he told you about his years in the Fringe, mining and prospecting. And your heart had said, “what the hell, let’s try that.” So you listened.

It took some time to track down the right inroads, but you were able to find some ads for prospecting teams, in particular those who were willing to take on members in training for a re-distributed cut. With all provisions included--other than suit and gear, which your father’s inheritance neatly covered--it seemed like just as good of a deal as any, and an adventure to boot.

But the reality was, every team you met with was full of hardened men, and while you were not a soft Central woman, you also weren’t overly versed in weaponry and didn’t know if you could defend yourself out in the Fringe against attack if things got crusty.

You were just about ready to admit defeat when you walked into yet another conference bunker and found your match. The first thing you noticed was that he was standing when you arrived, waiting for you politely rather than manspread at the table. Second were his eyes. Deep, brown, and sad. Maybe sad was the wrong word, certainly it seemed by the lines in his face, possibly by the missing arm, that he’d seen enough sadness, but toward you, it read more as concern. You wouldn’t know it until later when he confessed his feelings about this first meeting, but he was worried you wouldn’t choose him. Ezra had a hell of a time hiring partners. He may have been one of the longest-working aurelac diggers out there, but young kippers saw his greying beard and seasoned diggers saw his lacking arm and they all tended to turn around and walk out before he even said hello. So he’d tried to put himself out there as a trainer, show that he had something more to offer.

It didn’t hurt his feelings when you admitted to him later that those qualities were exactly why you chose him. He seemed the opposite of threatening. And his eyes were bright when he smiled at you. With his thrumming baritone and his Fringe twang and his mixed deck of mosaic words, he had a way of speaking that felt like a fluffy blanket curling around you, your brain vibrating with comfort at every new monologue. He was eccentric and perhaps a little jarringly rough in his humor at times, but there was something about him that you trusted immediately, even though you’d come to learn later you probably shouldn’t have if you were being overly cautious.

Not that your judgement ever came to detriment. Not that he ever proved you wrong that way. Not when it came to you. But the man was dangerous when he had to be in a way you hadn’t initially picked up on.

________________

You hadn’t been out in the Green two weeks before you looked up from the bottom of a dig hole to see Ezra standing over you with a thrower.

“You get down and you stay down, understand?”

“Ez? What--”

“I said stay down! Do not make me waste words on mere repetition!” The fuzzy blanket of his voice replaced suddenly by a snarling, snapping brush wolf, a quick change hitting you like a slap in the ear.

There’d been pops and whizzes as shots rang through and you did as your trainer said, face down, the view of your visor giving you nothing but dirt. Your helmet was a chorus of quick breathing from both of you and sweat rolled down your neck as you begged the eyes of Kevva to look down upon your partner. When the crossfire faded, you’d heard Ezra stalk away. Then there were a couple more shots. Then more footsteps returning.

“You are permitted to stand, trinket. All is well as it can be for us. But not so much for our dearly departed friends.” These words were as soothing as much as his previous ones had burned, and he simply went back to working at the dig at hand as if he’d just come back from taking a leak. It wasn’t until you left the site that evening that you tramped past two rotting raiders, gaudily outfitted with broken face shields, left to let the Green take them.

Ezra whistled as he stepped over them, stopping only to harvest their filters and munition rods, which he tossed your way to stow in your pack, and then continued lazily down the path toward camp. Just another day on the job.

He may be a little peculiar and not someone to trifle with, he may have just killed two people without remorse or further comment, but his lack of reassuring words told you that this was just part of the deal. You wear the suit, you use the air scrubber in the tent, you follow the landing pod instructions as written, and you defend yourself against those who wish to harm you. Survival by any and all means is paramount, mundane, and something he has no qualms with on any level.

There was something deep down inside of you that instinctually pulled you to follow him, not just down the literal path before you, but whatever path Ezra chose to wander.

________________

Before you’d left the station with him, he’d taken you to a thrower range to gauge your skill which was decent in theory, but dismal compared with what he could do. No matter, he still patiently taught you how to properly clean and charge a weapon and the best way to breathe and pull the trigger; “like you’re taking hold of a man’s...well... Just go easy and firm.” He suggested you should come and practice every day before lift off and then hope to Kevva that you didn’t have to rely too heavily on it.

“If I find myself in a coffin of my own suit, then feel free to defend yourself as a final means of preservation. Otherwise, when it comes down to shots fired, best to let me do the dirty work. Might as well keep the blood where the blood has been.”

You’d been a little nervous about sharing a freighter pod alone with him, but Ezra was...well, not so much a gentleman as just a comfortable soul.

He always waited until you were hungry to eat, thinking it rude to eat alone in front of you. He never moved around the pod while you were sleeping, content to keep still with a book in his cot. And if you couldn’t sleep, he was always willing to read to you from whatever impossibly dense old world classic he was digging through for the umpteenth time, letting his voice come up from the deeps and pull you gently under. If you asked permission to turn on the radio, he’d ask you “why Isn’t it on yet, woman,” quietly tolerating your taste in harsh and gleeful babblecore pshcyopop. In the later days of the journey, he’d even come to dance with you from time to time, although both of you were dismal at it and ended up with you in a fit of giggles. It was a sure-fire way to cure a case of the pouts you carried through from the morning fitness sessions when he beat you at pushups. Again.

When it came to privacy in the tight space, he had a habit of turning away without having to be asked or stopping his stream of talk when you went to change clothes, just happily chattering away until you called the all clear. Although he was not squeamish about his own state of undress, should you happen to catch it by accident. While he was respectful of your privacy, he seemed to need none of his own, but neither did he flaunt anything. You might look up from studying the flight manual to notice he was changing into a fresh pair of compression pants, tugging them on haphazardly with one hand, more concerned with telling you the overwhelmingly disgusting manufacturing process of Bits Bars than his own ass hanging out where you might see it. At least he always changed facing away from you which was a kindness.

Until it wasn’t.

After you realized you’d fallen quietly in love with him--a sudden, soft moment on the Green--then you’d admit only privately to yourself that you wouldn’t mind if you accidentally saw a little more than the occasional shirtless attire he might wear around the tent.

But in the pod, the only part of him that had caught your curiosity was his stump, and you’d known Ezra intensely enough over the past couple of weeks where you knew he wouldn’t take offense. Especially if you asked him the right way.

“Will you tell me a story, Ezra?”

“I feel that it is my duty to do so whether you ask me to or not. Shall I choose, or is there something in particular you would like to hear?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, propped up against his cot, going through his kit, cleaning his gear. You waited until he noticed your lack of answer and looked up to meet your eyes. When he saw that you had put your manual down and were focusing all your quiet attention on him, he stopped his busy work.

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute. When he knows you seriously need something from him, that becomes his immediate main priority and all else can wait. It’s only gotten more intense since that day, but there is a trust that resides between you when you look into his eyes, gathering your words as he waits patiently every time to hear whatever you’re going to request of him. There’s always hope there in his big browns, always something specific he’s waiting for you to ask, and every day you get a little bit closer to understanding what it might be. But until then, any question is a welcome one, any query is met with his wish to provide.

“Will you tell me how you lost your arm?”

At first you thought you may have gone too far, that maybe you insulted him, as his eyebrows peaked together and he looked down at his hand. But then, “That is a tale that may cause you some consternation, trinket. The Green is dangerous and unforgiving, and there were times I may not have been a man worthy of fair opinion.”

“My father was a prospector, you know. I’ve heard stories. Have you ever killed anyone?”

He clicked his tongue and screwed up an eye, causing the thin white scar on his cheek to twist. Then he sighed and returned to your locked gaze. “To be honest, I have. Though I have never done so with pleasure, I have killed in defense and out of desperation, and it was out of dispatching a man in this way that I came to lose the second favorite of all my appendages.”

“Second favorite?”

“Well, it depends what you classify as a limb.” He huffed a small laugh, a spark in his eye, trying to diffuse the harsh subject in his own way.

His leaning into baseness never bothered you. There was something earthy about it, gritty and rough, but never lewd. You rewarded his crassness with a smile. “Do you plan on killing me out in the Green?”

“I would hope my murdering days are behind me, and if they are not, you would see me aim a thrower at everyone but you in the course of my spree. You are under my tutelage, and for that, I owe you a duty of care. That is my word by Kevva.”

“Then tell me the story. I like your stories. I promise not to judge now-Ezra by then-Ezra.”

A dimple formed on his cheek, a punctuation mark framing the approaching anecdote on his lips. “Then I will declare myself absolved of any sin heretofore and regale you with a clean and grateful heart.”

________________

You can see the tent through the trees and you realize with some horror that it’s just you and Ezra for the next few nights. If he’s angry with you, and this is how he is when he’s upset, the silence will be unbearable.

Even that little girl he helped out here years ago was probably more capable than you. You feel so lost in this moment, and it’s only made worse by his silence. You fumble with your communicator and hit the mute just in time to choke on a sob.

This isn’t like you. You’re not one to cry when things get rough. You hardly shed a tear when your father died. But the thought of that just brings another sob and as acting as your own psychologist you realize that you are experiencing some displaced sorrow, the odd need to please the leading male in your life, the one that’s walking ahead of you, away from you. If he’d just turn around and throw you his worn weary smile, if he’d just start up a conversation you’d know that there was hope for you, you’d know you didn’t give up everything to be here in a job you couldn’t hack.

You gotta stop this. Or it’s going to be an uncomfortable night.

Shake it off.

Once you enter the tent, the usual dance happens. Ezra reaches up to turn on the air scrubber and you unhook his filter tube from his helmet. When he turns to you, you pull open the zipper cover on his suit and start his zip for him before lifting his helmet up and off. He can pull the zip the rest of the way, but you generally pull the left collar down for him so he can get his arm out. He’s on his own from there as you turn to fuss with your own gear.

________________

You remember it starting easily enough. He was telling you a story about the breeding habits of the Tokovian Musk Owl and you could see he was having trouble with his suit zipper, yanking at it and trying to look down at it even though it was under his chin and his helmet. Without another hand to keep the fabric taut, the zip didn’t want to release, so you simply batted his hand away and started it for him. He didn’t even stop his yammering, just threw in a “thank you” somewhere in between “could hear them screeching” and “for a fuck.” He’d right out asked you the day before if you wouldn’t mind disengaging the filter tube just because it was delicate and he didn’t want to mangle the expensive part trying to pop it out one-handed day after day. And while he could manage the helmet fine enough, his prominent nose thanked you for a smoother removal for sure.

It wasn’t the only routine dance you’d concocted.

There was the harness dance.

While dig days were excruciating, you always looked forward to helping him attach the harness for his prosthesis--a kind of rigid pole attached to a shovel so you didn’t have to do all the hard digging alone. There were a couple of straps that came around his torso with multiple latches and you’d come to really enjoy wrapping your arms around him to fit the straps on. Sure, you could do the job just as easily from behind, but if you embraced him at the front, he’d usually raise his arm and let it come to rest around your shoulders while you worked. If you let yourself dream, it would be easy to imagine that he might be pressing you into him just a little bit.

And there was the harvesting dance.

On a dig, you were the one to mix the fazer and Ezra did the pour. He fished the sack, you cut the cord. You sliced the outer casing and held it open while he did the extraction. And with the flesh-covered stone, he told you every time to “hold it like you love it” so he could cut away the slippery blister before cleaning the gemstone.

It was a beautiful harmony. And the only way it worked. Because once on every dig he urged you to do a solo extraction, and on every dig, you pierced the blister and lost that stone. And on every dig, he squeezed your shoulder and told you it was a wondrous try, that he was proud of you, and there would always be another turn. There was no sarcasm, no pity, just a warm smile and ceaseless optimism even though you just lost both of you thousands in pay.

These were the first touches, these shoulder squeezes that ran down your arm on the let-go. Sometimes he would just reach out and grab onto you like a pole to help himself up, or he might stumble off balance on uneven ground and without the counterweight of his right arm he’d throw his hand out onto you to steady himself. He wasn’t beyond lightly touching the small of your back to encourage you down a path or to take your next try at a gem pull.

This was all part of something you’ve secretly named the left-handed-lover’s dance. Basically, that you keep on his left whenever you can in case he needs your help or has the inclination to reach for you. It started out as just trying to be a good partner. Then it became a passing hope that it was more than just a friendly bond. But you were both here to do a job. He was here to teach you to be an independent prospector and you were here to assist and learn. That was evident at the end of the day; once you were both in the tent and out of the suits he never touched you, never so much as bumped into you or grazed your hand in passing an item or clapped you on the arm after a good joke.

But out in the field all zipped in and helmets on, there was nothing more natural than his gentle hand guiding you or reaching for your assistance, including the day you realized you loved him.

________________

Before you can turn away to strip off your own coverings, Ezra catches your arm, spinning your face into the light. You try to shake him off, not wanting him to catch your eyes puffy from crying and your cheeks still streaked with tears, but his grip is not so gentle now and he yanks you back around to his stormy glare, chin up, brows low. His intensity paralyzes you, rendering you unable to continue your struggle when he catches your eyes with his.

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute.

His gaze travels back and forth between your eyes, waiting for an explanation, a minute so stringent it breaks you down, dissolves you into the tears you’d tried so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I really am trying... I don’t know why I’m such a scuffer at this and I know it would only be right to release you from the contract and tell you to send me back but I don’t want you to, I really wanna stay, I really wanna learn and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your words have an immediate effect, softening him, pulling his glare into concern and wonder, his lips parting just the tiniest bit in surprise.

“This is the reason for your heavy mood? You think I am provoked by your proficiency in the field?”

“I crusted up good today and it seems like you’re not happy about it. Just...know that it means so much to me that...I don’t wanna let you down.”

“Oh, trinket, no.” An incredulous huff jumps out of him and his grip on your arm loosens, becomes a splayed warm support behind your shoulder, moving in soothing patterns and you’re instantly relieved that your assumptions were wrong. “You have done no harm in my book. It is not an easy thing to deliver a gem of this ilk into the world unscathed. Your opportunities have been few and scattered and it takes many sticks before a lover becomes a lothario.” He knows the crass humor will make you laugh, knows what to say to lighten your heart, to get you to soften, and bring you into his intimate, conspiratorial mood. “To be perfectly honest, I am selfish to an unrighteous degree, for every gem you burn keeps me in value to you. A worthy sacrifice to guarantee you mightn’t be so quick in your need to fly away from me until your training’s complete.”

This causes a hitch in your breath as you see the welcome turn the conversation he’s taking and you follow the path he’s making for you. “I don’t want to leave you, Ez.”

A smile creeps up one side of his mouth. “Well then I am a happy man. A bargain is struck! Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

A moment hangs between you as he rubs his thumb in slow circles on your shoulder. There’s that look in his eye again, the one where he’s waiting for you to ask the question he wants to hear from you. So close now.

Still, you’re unsure. “I guess I’m lucky I found the one person who wants an incompetent partner.”

“No, I do not, nor is it what I have and I must express my objection to your self-debasement. This work is not for the shiny, and you have not once complained about taking on the meat of the digging or the crawl of my schedule.” His hand comes to your helmet shield and he rakes his thumb across it as if he ached to wipe away one of your staleing tears. “Those bright eyes of yours got a penchant for spotting deposits more skillfully than I could ever manage and that’s not something that can be taught; that’s talent, girl. The blistering?” He shrugs. “Even I can’t manage that without the steady help of your fine hands. You may think that your blunders in education are causing us some financial ruin, but our fortunes are creamy. I assure you, we can afford it.”

That look is still there. He’s waiting. “There’s some ‘us’ and ‘we’ in there, Ez.” Your hands drift to his sides, taking fistfuls of his compression suit top, willing him closer.

The edges of his eyes take on the crinkle you’ve come to find so much comfort in. “So there is.”

You’re almost there. You know what he wants. “Why were you so quiet on the walk back?”

“Because for the next few days we are alone here and I have a mind full of questions I do not know how to ask you.”

“Then let me go first.” A yearning happiness settles in his brown eyes; finally. Finally you’ve found out what it is he needs you to request of him. “If I take this helmet off, are you going to kiss me, Ez?”

His eyes close in contentment and he nods, “Yes. Yes, little jewel. Yes I am, that and more. I hope I have inferred correctly that it is your wish that I do so, because I am in free fall. I feel my orbit ending and my pull to you is complete.”

_______________

“A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?”

Speculating days were some of your favorite times, just wading through the brush and looking for the telltale signs and shoots of an underlying deposit. Sometimes you came upon nests of strange groundling insects or flowers that only grew in secret. There were treasures underfoot on this poisonous moon, but if you remembered to look up as well, you might find some dangerous beauties there too.

On that day--the one where you finally understood your heart--you’d looked up to find that you were on a cliffside overlooking a valley, the canopy a million different hues of green, the gas giant looming over half the sky in a big pink and orange semi-circle. There was a fallen log that served as a perfect seat for the perfect view and you knew Ezra wouldn’t mind if you stole a few moments to sit and to take it in. It’s just the kind of thing he’d appreciate. And you were proven right when he came up behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder to steady himself as he swung one leg then the other over the log, finding a perch next to you, spouting pretty words through the channel link--soft and low--about moons and orbits and obilvions.

“That glowing beauty is Bakhroma. She is quiet and fierce, made up of the unfathomable and the unknowable, always within sight, but out of reach and untouchable unless one would trade the honor with great sacrifice. She reflects the light that is given to her with a patience that is heretofore untold. And the Green Moon upon which we ride follows where she goes like a lovesick fool, spinning around her in a heady kind of adoration, full of secret treasures buried deep down that will ultimately one day belong to her, falling incrementally over eons until he finally loses himself in her, all his glories gladly forfeit to her welcome and inevitable embrace. Alone but together, seemingly eternal, pulled as one by the laws of a mysterious universe.”

The void that came after those words was filled with the beating of your heart, and you were sure he could hear it through the channel.

When he’d landed there beside you, you’d registered how his hand slid off your shoulder, diagonally down across your back, coming to rest at your waist, his arm draped lightly around you. Natural. Easy. Everything was warm--the colors of the sky, the care with which he kept you close as if to better hear the honey sweetness in his prose, the fire burning in your lungs and neck.

Ezra probably didn’t know that you spoke a little Vayok.

Bakh being the Vayok word for adornment. Ornament, Gem. Roma was a modifier, a diminutive. Small. Dear.

Bakhroma. Sentimental bauble. A little jewel.

In other words, a trinket.

All you wanted to do was sit down to take in the view of an entire world for a few moments, but by the time Ezra took your hand and helped you to your feet, all you saw was him.

________________

The helmet is barely off before his lips are sealed to yours in a press of greed. Even if he can’t form words when he kisses you, he can’t help but express his deep relief in a heartbreaking moan. It’s a fight to release yourself from the suit when he keeps pulling you against him and every time you try to get some space between you to work the zipper, he chuckles into your mouth, enjoying the tease and the struggle. It’s simultaneously frustrating and thrilling and you give in for a few moments just to give him what he seems to want so desperately right now.

Ezra kisses like a man starved for air, long, hard, and full of need, peeling his lips away only to come back for another breath of you until his initial want is slaked and he slows, allows for more time between his taking, his mouth starting to mumble against yours, praising you with pet names, telling you how perfect you are to him, how long he’s “fought against my more dubious natures to respect your womanly virtues and take them only when you could see in me a man worth bestowing them on.”

You’re able to use his weakness for monologuing to turn around in his vice-like embrace, finally freeing yourself of the suit and he takes the opportunity to drawl more pretty words in your ear, warning you that “I’m afraid I have been enamored of you overly long and may be extra eager in my attentions. So you just say the word if you need a slow down, gentle one, and I will do my best to comply. Although I will admit it will be a difficult endeavor indeed as I feel I am entering your atmosphere and nothing might quell this burn but finding some drowning place to land.”

Your first impression of him was of a man whose age and temperament and body would not be able to overpower you.

Your first impression was wrong.

Of course, it helps that you are willing.

It doesn’t take long for him to strip you down, and then himself. To kiss you down onto the floor. To find exactly where you like to be touched most and how long it takes for you to break from it. He has so many words for you, so many praises to sing about every part of you that is round or soft or wet, comparing you to things that are sweet and plush or celestial and holy. And when you take his favorite limb in hand--as wondrous as the rest of his body--and guide it to its fit, he plunders and harvests all you have to give him, filing you with himself, for as long as you call for it, as long as you let him. He loves you like he speaks to you: rough and drawn out, full of beautiful tangents and meandering plotlines, but in the end it is beautiful and fulfilling; you may be just a little bit confused how you got to the ending, but you’re completely in awe.

When you lay breathing heavy, staring but not seeing the ceiling of the tent, your consciousness seemingly lifted to see through it to the stars, to the glowing face of Bakhroma, you run hands through rough-chopped hair on a head laying on your chest. He’s listening to your heartbeat, waiting for it to slow down so he can start again. The air is thick--even the air scrubber can’t keep up with all your humidity--and there’s a halo around each bulb of the string lights just barely illuminating the darkness.

“How long, Ez?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been waiting for that.”

“Most likely since the day you walked into my interview. I am a man of simple wants and you had all the right parts for my preferences.”

“For real, Ez.”

He tipped his head up to find you. “What you ask has many true answers, and I stand by the first. I have no qualms telling you of my weakness for a pretty succulence and a kind smile the likes of which you possess. But if you are asking when I knew I would have it, well, that may have been the first day you danced. Or when you asked me to read you to sleep. Or when I understood I wouldn’t let those bastard raiders get near enough to take their turn at your qualities when I had not had them myself. Or when you finally saw me as a viable person to drape your affections on; maybe it was that day too.”

“When I finally saw you as....”

“I have read many tomes and verses but none so full of beautiful passages as your face that day on the cliff. There is a difference of knowing and being. I knew the feel of your pull that day, but found I’d been in orbit all along.”

How he can live this way, twist everything into a tossed away poem...it should be exhausting. Yet you feed off it. You breathe it like air.

After another long cycle of frenzied entanglement and violent euphoria, you ask Ezra if he’d like to move to a cot, maybe get some sleep. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to walk to the dig tomorrow morning,” you confess.

“No need to worry about tomorrow,” he says, wapping his arm around you and dragging you back to him, grumbling into your ear. “We are the only prospectors in this sector and the aurelac will wait. Until our new compatriots arrive, we are officially on hiatus. Recreational mining only. Restricted to the confines of this tent. By order of your supervisor. In the interest of more precious treasures. And I intend to strike it rich.”

“Well. I’m here to assist. And learn.”

“When it comes to this dig, trinket, you are more than competent. I am no longer your trainer. Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

The new contract is struck, signed and sealed in kissing and in touch and a long, slow fall into inevitable oblivion.

#ezra x reader #ezra/reader #ezra prospect #prospect fanfic #prospect fanfiction #pedro pascal #soft #soft ezra

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