#bale twine

[digmark2]

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[scattered-winter]

MY BOOTS ARE STILL WET. :|

[tagging-tulip-town]

Welcome!

hi! I made this just for doing those "tag your oc" things! but for tagging Tulip Town

you can chat with me too but also ask me what I think a certain character would apply to something

my main is @transpuppetboy

[woundedheartwithin]

Just in case anyone was wondering if paracord really is strong and weather resistant, this piece of type iii 550 paracord has been holding this part of the fence together for like three years

The goats and horses push on this part of the fence all the time, and maybe that doesn’t sound so bad but like they routinely tear down entire sections of fence, including this part before I tied it with paracord

[thexgrayxlady]

I should have started from the twine but the top part looks okay.

[vivwritesfics]

Idk if you got this already but,

Rooster with a western rider gf (this is my first time doing this sorry if this is bad)

-🐎(also if no one has taken horse can i)

YES OFC YOU CAN BE HORSE OMG I LOVE THIS (i'm an english rider and my western rider knowledge is little to none lol)

The rest of the Dagger Squad didn't know all that much Rooster's girl. They knew she was slightly younger, knew he saw her as often as she could.

She had never been to The Hard Deck, had never met any of the other naval aviators. It was always Bradley driving his Bronco to see her.

He sat in The Hard Deck, had one single beer with his friends, with Pheonix, Hangman, Bob and the rest of them. "When are you going?" Asked Jake, pointing the pool cue towards him as Bradley walked away.

He grinned and pushed his sunglasses over his eyes. "I'm going to see my girl," he said and walked out of The Hard Deck.

The other aviators watched him go. Only Nat smiled. Only Nat believed him. The rest of them didn't voice it as they went back to their game of pool, but they didn't think Rooster's girl was real. If she was, surely they would have met her.

They didn't know just how busy she was.

But Bradley knew. As he drove down the driveway, past the fields of horses, he knew just how busy she was.

He parked the car outside of the barn and climbed out. Bradley's first stop was always the barn. He walked in, walking over to Chief. The chestnut horse stood with his head over the stable door, whinnying when he saw Bradley.

"Hey, Chief," he muttered, stroking the white stripe down his face. "Where is your mom?"

Chief searched through his pocket. He nosed Bradley's jeans before chewing on his Hawaiian shirt. But Bradley quickly pulled himself from Chiefs mouth without too much damage to the shirt.

It was at that moment when she walked into the barn, a sandy coloured horse behind her. "Hey!" She called as she walked the horse into a stable and shut the door behind her. She hung the rope over the door and ran through the barn, jumping into Bradley's arms.

He held her easily, his hands under her ass. She pulled her hat from her head and kissed him. "Miss you, Roos," she whispered against his lips.

"I missed you too," he said and put her down. As soon as she was on the floor, she took her hat and placed it on Bradley's head. It was one of his favourite things about coming to her farm.

"Are you ready for dinner?" He asked, taking her hand and slowly walking her out of the barn.

She bit her lip, her expression almost guilty. "I will be, Bradley. I just gotta bring in Circe and Linda in from the top fields, throw hay into the back fields, and get changed."

"Anything I can help with?" Bradley asked. He always did ask. A rather large part of him loved working on her farm, loved helping where he could. He wasn't born to be a cowboy, but a cowgirl's husband.

She fished a set of keys from her pocket. "Wanna drive the tractor?"

She knew that was Bradley's favourite part. They loaded the tractor trailer with bales of hay and Bradley set off with her in the passenger seat.

Bradley knew exactly where to go. He'd driven the trails around the fields enough times. He took the tractor to the first of the back fields and stopped.

He jumped out of the tractor and immediately grabbed the bale of hay before she could. "Bradley," she groaned and he put the bale back down. Just so that he could take off his Hawaiian shirt, flex his muscles as he threw the bale into the field.

Immediately, the horses came running. She climbed into the field and cut the twine away from the hay, putting it into the pocket.

They did this for two more fields before Bradley drove her up to the top field. She climbed out of the tractor and walked over to his side. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him again. "Should I meet you at the barn, Cowboy?" She asked as she flicked the brim of the hat, tipping it up slightly.

"You got it, Cowgirl," he said and kissed her, his moustache brushing her top lip. She loved it more than anything. The sight of him in the cowboy hat, wearing the Hawaiian shirt, the feel of his moustache, she loved it.

When she climbed into the field, Bradley drove off. He drove around the fields while she grabbed a hold of the two horses she needed to bring in. "Come on, ladies," she said as she walked them to the gates, taking them to the barn.

Bradley waited at the barn, just as she had asked him to. He leaned against the tractor, the keys in his hand as she walked past with Linda and Circe.

Even while she had the horses, she stopped and kissed him. "Almost done," she promised, taking the hat from his head and placing it back on her own.

Bradley watched her go, watched her walk into the barn and walked Linda and Circe into their stables. She gave them their prepared feed and walked back over to Bradley.

When she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning against him, he slipped the keys into her pocket and held her hips. "Almost ready to go," she said, grinning up at him.

Bradley frowned down at her. "But you look gorgeous already," he said, kissing the inside of her wrist. "C'mon, let me take you out for dinner."

[paper-mario-wiki]

Prove that you grew up on a farm with one sentence (I don't think you're lying about it, I just think this is a fun question).

in one sentence is tricky but i'll try. here goes:

i can open a bale of hay in under 20 seconds with nothing but another piece of bailing twine.

if you know about farm life, you know this is a prerequisite skill to have if you're the type to forget your knife up at the house before heading down to the barn. i hope this proves my credentials.

[urhoneycombwitch]

*me throwing things at the wall to see what sticks*

something, something cowboy eddie in the field just after the sun has risen uh... dew on the grass, warm sunlight with a slight chill to the air... his curls are definitely lighter, maybe shorter cut, and he's got freckles from being outside so much... uh... reader (!) leaving the farmhouse in her nightie (!) to find him... some plot, some sweet talk, blah blah blah

he kneels down in the middle of the field and eats her out (!!!)

foreword: oooohhh baby it’s stickin’ for sure, anon. I tweaked ur plot a bit bc sunset is sexier to me ya feel. tysm for sending this in bc I literally went to the rodeo the other day and have been pondering cowboy!Eddie. Appalachian Eddie specifically… think of the accent alone… let’s hear a little commotion for the low bun with pieces falling out ‘n cowboy hat combo!!!!

cw: feminine nicknames used for R, breasts + V, setup for R receiving oral

wc: 1k

The sun has almost disappeared for the evening, sinking low behind the distant northern mountain range. Everything around you is cast in gold, humming with life; wind hushes through long willow branches, crickets and frogs chorus from the nearby pond.

Your bare feet are near-silent in the grass as you track a path towards the barn, dinner keeping warm on the stove the furthest thing from your mind. 

Eddie said he’d only be ten minutes, snagging his hat from the front door hook and winking at you for good measure- that was a half hour ago. Patience waning with every glance out the farmhouse window, it’s finally eluded you enough to seek Eddie out. 

Soft grass gives way to smooth concrete as you pause at the threshold of the barn, poking your head around the corner to peek. Eddie’s on one knee near some stacked hay bales at the front of the barn, winding twine around the wide span of his hand. 

Quiet snuffling noises from the horse stalls confirm your suspicions- Eddie got distracted after feeding the girls their nightly grain, hence the holdup. You doubt he even realizes the late hour; farm work is never done, and your boy has a blind eye for time.

Doesn’t mean you’ll make it easy on him, though. Intending to sneak up and surprise him, you step inside, cotton nightie swishing around your thighs as you loom closer- until Eddie’s low timbre freezes you in place.

“You better not be out here with no shoes on.”

Eddie rises from the hay-littered ground, starched denim Levi’s pulling tight across his thighs as he turns, one eyebrow cocked. 

His doey brown eyes flick down to your bare feet, and he tsks as he approaches, boots thudding in time with your heart. “You know how I feel about you wearin’ no shoes out here, doll. ‘S not safe. ”

It’s hard to concentrate when he’s so close, filling your lungs with a whole garden of intoxicating smells- cigarette smoke and light sweat, Irish Spring soap from his morning shower, something muskier and warm, too, like a horse that’s been soaking in sunny pastures.

You’re feeling bold, rolling your eyes while Eddie wipes the grime off his fingers with his black handkerchief, knowing he won’t touch you in your freshly line-dried cotton until he deems himself clean enough. “I was walking in the grass- not like I’m going riding or anything. Just came to pick up my stray.”

Eddie fights off a grin when your foot, flecked with blades of grass, arches to tap at his calf. 

There are new freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, lines around his eyes crinkling as you lean in, looking up through your lashes, the picture of innocence as you coo- “Oh, honey. I think you got a sunburn today.”

“Uh huh.” Eddie flicks at the brim of his hat, making room enough to bring his face to yours as he catches your chin between thumb and forefinger. “And I bet butter wouldn’t melt in this pretty mouth’a yours.”

“Wanna find out?” Your voice is impressively steady, but you decide not to push it, shutting up quick as Eddie slides his other hand down the length of your back to rest just above the curve of your ass.

The first kiss he gives you is sweet, almost chaste, plush lips enveloping your bottom one as you’re pulled in tighter, chest flush against his.

The second kiss is decidedly less sweet as he holds you in place, tongue sweeping past your parted lips, swallowing your little noise of delight; he pulls back to sink his teeth into the side of your neck until you’re panting and twisting the checkered flannel of his shirt in tight fists.

“What ‘m I gonna do with you.” Eddie grumbles around kisses and flashes of tongue to the sweet spot just under your ear. He walks you backwards until you hit the barn wall, one hand between your shoulder blades to cushion the blow, the other pinning your hip still. “Skinny dippin’ in the pond, making friends with the barn pests, and now this-”

The tip of Eddie’s boot taps at the top of your bare foot, a reprimand- then digs into your ankle. He gets his way, your legs parting easily so he can press his knee to your clothed core. 

The pressure is good, your head falling back to the wall with a half-whine- but it won’t be enough to get you off.

And Eddit knows it, smug bastard, lust-blown pupils betraying the feigned laziness of his smile as he croons down at you. 

“Don’t think you quite deserve a reward, tonight, baby. You’ve been working my last nerve, makin’ me worry ‘bout you…”

Your arms slide up over the planes of his back, while his hand slides to the back of your skull, threading hair between his long fingers and giving a sharp tug at your roots.

At the soft inside of your thigh, you can feel the hard jut of his cock,filling out and throbbing underneath a layer of denim. With each roll of Eddie’s hips, a path of cooling precum is left behind.

Your slick is seeping into the top of his thigh right now, so you figure you’re even.

Eddie’s still got you by the hair, not too hard but enough to keep your focus on him as he bends to whisper in your ear, brim of his hat bumping into your forehead- “Shoes, next time, missy. I’m not joking.”

For the second time that night, Eddie returns to his knees. His wide, warm hands slip past the hem of your skirt to cup the side of your thighs. To thumb at the edges of your underwear. To make your breath hitch.

Feeling brave again, you reach down to knock his hat to the floor. (It’s an old one. He won’t mind. He’s also a little too busy kissing up the inside of your thigh to care.) Your turn to croon.

“Gonna let me ride your tongue, cowboy?”

[cowboydisaster]

Hi again! Thought of another one….

Arthur finds out that reader has a gift for him for Christmas but he hasn’t gotten them anything. So he has to scramble to think of a gift. He ends up making a handful of drawings of reader including some with their beloved horse. And of course reader is over the moon about it

This one isn’t too clever so if you’re not feelin’ it, it’s ok.

🎄❤️

* ˚ ✦ Icebreak * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader word count: 720 a/n: Just a cute lil' drabble. Merry Christmas' eve! Thank you for another really cute prompt!!

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: ONE day 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

Arthur distinctly remembers the conversation in which you’d both agreed that you wouldn’t be exchanging gifts this year. Alarm bells are going off in his head. Was he supposed to get you a gift anyway? Should he have ignored that conversation entirely? Been a gentleman and got you something nice? Arthur swallows thickly. 

Despite the conversation, Arthur had just found out that you have a gift for him. Sadie has a loud mouth, especially when she’s drunk, and for once, Arthur is grateful for it. At least he has a little time to think of something. He pulls his pocket watch out, glancing at the time. 6:27 PM. A little time. 

In a rush, Arthur jogs into his tent, pulling his journal out of his satchel and placing it on the bed. Beside it, he tosses down a piece of charcoal and a pencil. The camp isn’t in a great financial situation; hence the agreement of no presents. So, he reckons if he can’t buy you something, he’ll just have to make you something. 

Arthur begins drawing, and after a while, the sun fades away, forcing him to switch to lantern light. The side of his hand is caked in lead as he runs the pencil over the pages, capturing the curves of your body, the shine of your smile. He draws his favorite memories of you. The day he gifted you your mare, Sugar. The day you kissed him for the first time. The day he’d brought you to camp. 

Arthur stays up far too late, sketching a handful of pictures of you, taking his time to capture you in the utmost detail. His hand flicks perfectly, catching the waves in your hair, the line of your jaw. Arthur draws you with your mare, with his gelding, with him. 

The group of drawings encapsulate the things that you love the most, and the memories that you hold dear. After finishing half a dozen good drawings, Arthur inspects them, fixing little mistakes, and adding little notes about his love for you. When he’s finished, he takes some old baling twine, tying a little bow around the pages, fixing them until they’re all wrapped up perfectly.

He knows you deserve better, a bracelet of silver or gold. A necklace embedded with gemstones, or a new dress. Those are the things you would have been gifted back in the city. He sighs, looking down at his little homemade gift, knowing that it will just have to do.

— — —

“Alright,” Arthur whispers, pulling out the ribbon-wrapped sketches, “Go on n’ open ‘em.” 

Your eyes open slowly, drifting to the white pages that Arthur is extending out to you. 

Hesitantly, you take them, eyes searching up to Arthur’s for reassurance. He nods, and you smile, pulling the twine ribbon, letting it spiral to the floor. You flip the first paper, recognizing it as being ripped out from Arthur’s journal, and you gasp. 

It’s a beautiful sketch, one of you sitting up in bed, hair draped down your back, a graceful smile on your lips. Even through paper and pencil, Arthur has managed to capture the sparkle in your eyes, the optimism in your countenance. Next to the drawing is a small note. 

Early mornings with my lady.

Your heart warms, and you flip to the next one. You find a sketch of you, laying on the back of your beloved mare, arms wrapped around her neck. The drawings are stunning. Works of art that should be posted in a gallery in Saint Denis, and he’s giving them to you. You know how private Arthur is with his journal, and you’re honored.  

“You like ‘em?” Arthur asks, nervous of your silence as you continue to look through. Tears pool in your eyes as you look up to him, holding up some of the precious gifts. 

“You drew me. Arthur,  I love them.” Sincerity is thick in your voice, and Arthur wipes a tear away from your cheek. 

“Didn’t wanna make you cry.” He jokes. You huff. 

“They’re so beautiful, so meaningful. No one’s ever done anything like this for me. Not in my whole life— not before you.” You whisper. 

Arthur’s arms wrap around you then, pulling you into his chest, shushing away your sniffles. 

“They’re perfect, Arthur.” You murmur against him. He smiles. 

“Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola @calcarius445

[inonibird]

“Aghh, this is taking too long! At least run one of my training programs, doctor—or send me droids to fight!”

Dr. Zorryx’s voice filled the chamber as he spoke over the intercomm. “Your visitors will be along shortly. Be patient.”

Holding the camera in his baleful glare, Grievous stretched his legs and spine to his full height, posturing and knowing full-well he cut a striking figure—more so now than when he first woke to his new body, as his requested modifications had finally been installed on his frame. His faceplate suited him as well as his old mask ever had, carved with dark evocation of his former sigil. So pleased he’d been with the results that he’d insisted on further decoration, until traditional Kaleesh motifs and patterns were subtly worked into various components across the rest of his armorplast chassis. To his credit, the doctor had been obliging. Unlike now. “They are late. I owe them no more patience.”

“Please, Grievous. I must ask that you be respectful when you meet who is coming today. I…I’ll admit I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.” Grievous’ eyes narrowed as Zorryx fumbled his words. “It’s not the usual inspection. This is someone new, and he’s important. He holds tremendous influence.”

The cyborg emitted an audible sneer and resumed pacing. “Pah. Another sniveling investor, like San Hill?”

“Far more powerful than Chairman Hill, I assure you. It is my understanding that his is the mind behind the war in which you will fight.” That gave Grievous pause, if only for a second, as he swung his head back toward the camera with a suspicious twine of his flexible neck. Zorryx sighed. “Please just focus, Grievous. When the time comes, do as you’ve trained. Impress him.”

A derisive snort. “That will not require my focus.”

—

Chapter 6 of Part Six - Grievous of the Sahuldeem series is up!

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

For one word prompts, I'm finally seeing some green in my garden again, so: Sage?

Oh, of course you know how to appeal to me. I hope this brings the vibes <3 ~

There was a variety of sage (still is, most likely) - sanctified – a herb that they would dry hanged from the rafters and tie into bundles like broomstick bristles, its own fibrous stem knotted in noose around the neck and ankles of the bale, burnt at the stakes and raised pitchforks to sweep away the wicked.

The smoke was what woke her, herbaceous floral distress signal, thrown through the open (paneless) window, accompanied by salt and circle.

They hoped to lure her out the front ‘door’ - she concluded with groggy post-dream clarity - strategized to trap her between saline force field and stone and mortar.

She stumbled over herself, gathered her few possessions. In time shorter the flames carpeted the threshing covering the floor, climbed into her bed to alight the straw stuffing the mattress, exorcised from there to cross exposed rafters to the mossy thatching comprising the roof-

She left through the vacant fireplace.

From a distance fled she observed the thick grapevine coiling of smoke as it billowed out above the forest canopy from a chimney that had crumbled decades ago.

Fire-licked masonry, tattered and scorched fabrics. Perhaps their malice left the cabin more befitting, well-suited, paralleled - outfitted in ash grey skin and soot ichor stains. The hunting party retreated but she could not return. She wondered who would take up residence in the hollow shell - as such a body must be an invite, must be a vessel (at least that was a lesson she was soon to learn) - but who would cohabitate with the spiders, birds, and other small mammals?

The thick smoke filtered through the pines

All of her grievances aside (packed away once again with her bedroll and cauldron), it smelt rather wonderful-

~

There was another sage (surely must be, still) - common - cultivated in window boxes and allotments, the leaves torn to marinade meats, to infuse healing balms, unbiased towards the dead or the living, transmuting itself for both in order to permeate soft tissue.

Laudna would grab handfuls of the silver-furred leaves; amass them in pocket-lint-lined-bundles of potpourri. Crushed the sage between her fingers, rubbed it on her pulse points, tied it with red twine dried in parcels of cheesecloth that she decorated around her person. Loose in her coin pouch, trinkets, her spell component satchel too, sewn into Pâté’s stuffing, flattened behind her belts and tucked into the front of her bodice and trampled in the soles of her shoes-

Never sure if it was necessity or in her head, not like when she wore flushing and sweating flesh, saturated, awkward teenager dealing with the stubborn stench of puberty or drenched in the fragrance of a farm-girl-butcher’s-daughter composting straw manure and coagulated pigs’ blood –

-not the perfume of The Ladies, certainly, refined with their age, aged mahogany liquor barrel vintage sophisticated palate, finery of silks satin lace velvet layers stored in lacquered marquetry hardwood armoires and mausoleum-sized wardrobes, aired in gilded vase and bouquet’ed marble surroundings, chandeliers ornately framed paintings in alabaster hallways-

She would feel rather self-conscious of it; of her differences - but continued her play with the worms in the forest regardless.

Then, for a short time, she slept with them.

Or rather, she woke to fall onto a heap moving with them, dancing drunken room-spin carpet shag pile of maggots and flies and mosquitoes and pillows of other larvae unidentified, turning familiar faces into fertiliser.

She was not sure if it was the memory, or the actual (un)working order of things

Permanently rotting 

Hard to smell past the end of a decomposing nose

Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to tell for others?

Every time she passed the plant she filled her pockets and hands - ironically unaware of how time had stilled, that she was embalming herself - hoping it would fight the trauma-ever-present smell, that she could throw off the(ir) scent.

~

There is a sage that blooms violet throughout the summer - wild - like early humid evenings with head thrown back in laughter and perspiration jeweling tanned neck, clouds underlit and voluminous as purple-sunset tousled hair.

Imogen points it out with inquisition; at the gatherings of spears of blossoms lanced into soil growing not far from the bank of a river in the sun-bleached and crunching-under-foot tall grasses of an open field.

Seeds from dried out flower heads are carried along the docile breeze, ashes falling in hazing-heat ground fog, smithing dandelion diamond rings to decorate the fingers of the willows that lazily wave, bid farewell to the jewellery that doesn’t fit, allowing it to marry elsewhere between clumps over the grass and charms accumulated at the banks of the gently moving river.

“D’ya know what this is? Smells good.”

She kneels down with her palm held open to the purple blooming sage, presentory, skin offering the tan lines above her knees exposed from the displacement of the tops of her tall leather boots, a dandelion seed catching in the mass of her mane like a feather, her hand not designated to indicating specimen shading above one of her eyes squinted shut and the corner of her mouth raised baring teeth as she looks to Laudna with the midday sun over her shoulder.  

It’s a bit overwhelming, the life and the bliss it elicits.

Laudna walks the few paces over to her, gives a quick inspection with the cast of her shadow.

Smiles in familiarity, nods to the plant in greeting

“Would you like to try it?”

Imogen starts the fire, uses the abundance of dried grasses as kindling. It smells just like the burning cottage had, does so every time. Laudna prunes the wild sage, gathering toothed leaves and small violet petals into her wicker basket, rolls the fragranced stems between the pads of her fingers and inhales, implores the herbal scent to momentarily mask the memory of deterioration as it once had. Imogen sets up the frame for hanging the cauldron, drives the iron spikes into the dry ground, fills it from the river, has to submerge her hand into the gathered water, fingers tweezers removing errant dandelion parachutes that she wipes onto her gauzy dress skirt, skin glistening with the cascading droplets that intuitively follow the scarring of her lightning marks and drip onto the floor, where a lizard with skin like stones flees under the weave of the trodden grass once her footfall returns, retreats for safer ground. Laudna questions whether it will turn to watch the fire or let instinct tell it to keep running-

“You’re quiet…”

Imogen states, offers a softened and upturned corner of her mouth.

Another feather of an airborne seed lands in her hair. A warning arrow shot through the window and puncturing her pillow, innards flying-

“I seem to be having a reflective day, sorry.”

 “Anythin’ you wanna share?”

Imogen wears her empathetic apology in her brow, strained, and Laudna isn’t sure of how legible abstract memories are to her, if the furrow is from an attempt at unknotting the tangles, mostly it feels a weight too unquantifiable to know what to share with intention.

“Not now. I think this is good, something new.”

Present is good, a gift, shared (willingly, in part).

“I don’t dislike it…”

Imogen declares, staring into her cup as she swirls its contents under inquisitive-eyed assessment.

“It sounds like you are warming up for a caveat there.”

She pauses, holds the pottery between her hands on her lap.

“I’m not, s’just new. Tea back home was mostly black and made with lemons and alotta honey or sugar; was cold if the occasion were special-” she tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes read the pattern of the blanket they had laid over the floor. Laudna wonders if there were birthday parties on picnic blankets out in the paddocks, waited by her father, Imogen and her childhood friends drinking sweet tea and running around in daisy crowns “-I guess we had other teas, but they were more for if y’all were sick?”

She doesn’t like to think of that.

The birds and the crickets carry on their background accompaniment, Imogen's hand returning to the other cradling the cup. Laudna feels as though she can see the slow turn of the skin on her exposed thighs from bronzed tan to sun-kissed red, convinced she is observing the freckles multiplying.

“This one is supposed to be good for anxiety.”

Imogen scoffs, it causes a nearby bird in the brush to scatter

“Yeah? Well I’ll report back on that - maybe we should take more with us just in case.”

Laudna laughs agreeably, enthusiastic. She knows how to make plenty of room for sage.

To follow the tea she also makes them a salad with the plant’s greens; a field-foraged thing prepared with borage and dandelion leaves, fleshed out with wild strawberries, a little olive oil and a little cider vinegar, served in a wooden bowl. 

finishes the assemblage with an intentionally random flecking of the wild sage's violet petals, as though the bowl is a miniature diorama of the meadow in which they sit, olive oil babbling brook and cast iron fork fallen-tree bridge ready to present on a plinth, garden plans proposed by the landscaper in the study to a snooty gent stroking his chin and um-ing and ah-ing -

the hidden door that was disguised behind ornate wooden panelling, adjoining the ransacked and emptied floor to ceiling shelves of the study via dark stone corridors to the equipped and practical, cell-like laboratory- 

She thinks that was the layout, at least - worries who she will rouse if she thinks too hard on it. There is comfort in the answer being left immaterial.

“All’a those times I was sittin’ in fields of flowers, I never really thought I could be eatin’ them.”

It is so nice to have someone she adores break up her ruminations.

“You had a lot of quality produce, there wasn’t really the need.”

"I guess not. Honestly, I think I prefer the salad to the tea." 

Imogen licks her teeth, reveals a violet petal plastered over incisor that she shortly removes with a blade-of dry-grass toothpick, re-places the petal on the flat of her tongue, rolling it around her mouth and swallowing it. 

Laudna stares.

"You like the flowers?" she finds herself leaning towards Imogen. Wants to tell her that for years this one was her perfume - pomanders adorned and concealed in tattered layers.

“They’re purple, ‘course I do.” she giggles, resting sat cross-legged with her weight behind her on her palms. Her head rolls towards Laudna, leaves their foreheads almost resting against one another, Laudna able to count each individual eyelash.

Purple, like the deep undertones of her hair. That much Laudna was very aware of.

“I should have guessed that that would be what caught your attention.” She brings her hand up and wraps her bony index finger in a ringlet of Imogen's hair.

“More like your magic, I was thinkin’…” She drawls, tenor lowered and breathy. 

“And the taste?”

Imogen visibly swallows, cheeks flushing a further tint than what the sun has already given - it makes Laudna feel overly aware of the networking of her own heart and veins.

Imogen clears her throat

"’s’good - kinda familiar."

Laudna feels overwhelmed by the compelling need to kiss her - so she does. Her hand with finger still tied in ringlets of hair sprawling over Imogen's chest as she responds with a squeaked moan that reverberates underneath it. Her lungs halt in their expansion as her mouth is sealed with her own, the increasing pulse at the base of her neck decipherable carved runes under the tip of her fingers, her heart thudding against her palm.

Familiar. Laudna can muse on that in the future, certainly.

She sits back from Imogen - already breathless and chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen - and appreciates the sight she helped curate; the picture of her looking a little dazed on their tartan blanket with the surrounding flora densely reaching above her shoulders, crowned in multi-coloured paint strokes.

“Familiar? And here I thought that was your first time eating a flower.”

Causes her to blush furiously

“Don’t you use ma’words against me.” She pushes Laudna playfully at her shoulder, pretends to look away in dissatisfaction, bottom lip pouting.

“I apologise, that is your advantage to keep. My words are but humble ammunition for your armoury.” Laudna exaggeratedly plays acting pious at Imogen’s half-turned back, Imogen turning back to her with one eyebrow raised and a laugh she is clearly trying to keep within her stomach murmuring at the corners of her lips.

"That so? Well alright, how would y’all describe it?" 

She puffs out air towards her head, hairs previously put behind her ear falling back out of (or into, depending on which of them you ask) place, sits forward again, arms folded. Adorable. Laudna is aware of how susceptible Imogen is to her teasing, always so charming and charismatic, and so often a bumbling mess - and it is intoxicating - to exercise any sort of outcome on such a gifted sorceresses’ disposition, is doing her best to learn what the differences and distinctions are between that and her own longer ongoing situation…

Focus.

Despite the more imposing associations, she can still remember

Can still remember her father butchering the pig, her mother in the kitchen slicing its fatty flesh into patchwork diamonds, stuffing the incised indents with sage and garlic and other seasonings, the slab of flesh tied with butcher’s twine around a whole peeled onion and roasted, skin crackling, the three of them sat around the oak table, talking about the small things, Laudna's mother showing off the basket Laudna had weaved that day, presented like a cornucopia on the kitchen table top, holding that weeks offering of vegetables.

She would describe it as herbaceous, sweet, and floral. Peppery, perhaps like a minty aniseed. Earthy. Mulchy. Rich as the soil it grew from. Could also admit to it being 'like the first home I'd made burning down, like the incense I'd crush between my palms and rub behind my ears so as to not offend any people who would be so kind as to get close enough to notice the death’

what she does say is

"nostalgic." 

not a lie - though she hopes in futures she won’t be drowned marinating in it, the complex layering of all of the ingredients and flavours, hopes one can remain dominant, bountiful and nourishing.

Imogen there, seen over the end of a nose that did not rot and fall off. She’s sure that it can change.

[mango-pup]

Practicing being well behaved citizens 😇

At a very fancy yard. Where horses must not poop, or drop hay, or mark the ground, or make noise. The school and jumps are lovely, but I think I like the yards held together with baling twine where horses are horses better.

[sagemonsters]

The Drider & the Shepherd's Daughter

Summary: a fairy tale where Malina, the shepherd's daughter, is tasked with begging a drider for silk for her sisters' dresses... and finds herself desiring more than just the silk.

Status: SFW

Pairing: cis female human x cis female drider

Word Count: 2,579

*

Long ago and far away, there was a shepherd who lived in the mountains with his flock, his dog, his wife, and his three daughters. His name is not important. His dog’s name is not important. His wife’s name is not important either, but his daughters’ names are. The oldest was Claudia, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than the dreams of sapphires. The middle girl was Isolda, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than a clear midsummer sky. And the last and least was Malina, who had a face you wouldn’t look twice at and eyes like fog, and who had killed her mother.

The shepherd and the two elder daughters often reminded Malina of this, because they had watched Malina’s mother die of childbed fever barely a week after Malina had been brought into this world.

She grew into a child of average build, weight, appetite, and sensibilities. She wore her sisters’ hand-me-downs and played with the wooden toys that they outgrew. She learned to hold her tongue rather than talk out of turn, and to observe others carefully. She watched the patterns of birds in the air and sheep on the ground, and feared the howling of the winter wolves. She dreamed the dreams of children everywhere who feel that they are neither wholly understood nor wholly loved; dreams of being spirited away to someplace where her real father and sisters welcomed her, a place where her hand-me-down socks didn’t have holes and her father called her by her name rather than “girl” or “you.” She was, in short, neither monstrous nor mad, and although underloved she was never outright rejected by her family as she changed from a child to a woman.

The local lord had three sons, all spirited young men who were fair of face and had eyes as blue as the faraway ocean. Sometimes they rode through the village on market days and gave flowers to the peasant girls in exchange for kisses.

The eldest of the three young men saw Claudia. He offered her a bundle of bright yellow jonquils, and Claudia kissed him. She twined the flowers into a crown to rest upon her golden hair, and told the boy that she would look much better with a crown of metal and a bridal veil. The eldest of the lord’s sons was already captivated by Claudia’s beauty, but knew well that peasant girls didn’t marry into nobility. Nevertheless, he could not deny her.

“Weave and sew your wedding dress, and come to me again,” the eldest son said. “If it is as beautiful as you are, I will marry you.”

So Claudia returned to the shepherd’s home, and carded and wove the bales of soft white lamb’s wool into cloth, and then cut and sewed the cloth into a dress. But she had no pearls or jewels, and she knew that a peasant’s woolen gown could never rival a satin gown made by a master tailor in one of the southern cities, so she called for Malina.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will eat me from my toes to my head. It’s too dangerous.”

“You killed our mother,” Claudia reminded her. “Fetch the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina hung her head in shame, then packed a basket with bread and cheese and salted mutton, pulled on her hat and shawl, and set out. She climbed the mountain trails, which grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found a canyon crowded with massive spider webs. Antlers protruded from an equally massive storage cocoon beside the entrance.

Malina waited outside the canyon. Only the wind stirred the webbing, and dusk began to fall as the sun set behind the peaks. A chill descended over the mountains, and Malina pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.

There was a chittering noise, followed by the sound of too many legs thudding against the ground. “Are you lost, my dearest?” asked the drider who loomed out of the deepening darkness. She had the torso of an elf and the lower half of a spider the size of a pony, with a multitude of glowing red eyes filling her gray face.

“I’m not lost, Mistress,” Malina said. “I came here looking for you.”

The drider paused, then asked: “What is your name, my dearest?”

Nobody had ever asked Malina her name before. She told the drider.

“Dearest Malina, what do you seek?” the drider asked next.

“My sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina said.

“And what do you offer in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?” asked the drider.

Malina offered her the basket.

“Dearest Malina, I eat my meat raw and wriggling, and I take neither bread nor cheese,” the drider said. “Offer me something else.”

Malina offered her the promise of a lamb from her father’s flock.

“Dearest Malina, a single spring lamb, no matter how tender, is not enough for a bolt of my cloth. Offer me something else.”

“I have nothing else,” Malina admitted. “Unless you desire my life.”

“I do not desire your life,” the drider said. “Will you give me a kiss for a bolt of silken cloth?”

“I will give anything to make my sister happy.”

“Be careful what you say, dearest Malina,” the drider whispered, and approached on her many legs. Malina’s own legs wanted to tremble, but she held her ground. The drider cupped Malina’s face gently with her gray hands, and Malina’s eyes fluttered closed. The human didn’t know if her heart thundered in fear or anticipation, but she could have sworn that it stopped at the soft press of the drider’s lips against her own a moment later. When Malina opened her eyes, the drider presented her with a bolt of silken cloth that shimmered under the moonlight.

“Here is your cloth,” the drider said.

“Thank you,” Malina said. Her lips tingled. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Arachne,” the drider informed her, and sent Malina home down the mountain trails.

Malina arrived before dawn. Her father hadn’t noticed her absence, but Claudia was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the eldest of the lord’s sons. Even with no pearls or jewels, the dress was so beautiful that the young man had no choice but to marry her. Claudia left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle. 

Malina dreamed of Arachne’s lips and hands upon her, and felt a pang of hitherto-unknown desire in the morning when she awoke alone in her bed.

Another market day, the second-eldest of the lord’s sons saw Isolda in the village, and offered her a bundle of bright crimson roses in exchange for a kiss. Isolda accepted, and twined the roses into a crown to rest upon her coppery red hair. She told the lord’s son how fine she would look with a crown of metal and a bridal veil, and this second son, thinking of his brother’s fortune in finding a beautiful wife, posed the same challenge as his elder sibling had done.

Isolda returned home. She did not bother sewing a dress of lamb’s wool, and instead summoned her sister.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will not let me impose on her generosity a second time, and I fear…” She didn’t know what she truly feared, however, and could not continue.

“You killed our mother,” Isolda said, not noticing her younger sister’s hesitance. “Claudia may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Fetch me the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina lowered her eyes to the floor in what might have been shame—but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The young woman packed her basket a second time, and donned her hat and shawl. This time, however, she took her mother’s wedding band and slipped it into her pocket before heading out the door. Once again, Malina climbed the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found the canyon. She waited, and dusk cloaked the mountains in darkness. Arachne emerged from among the webs.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you here?” the drider asked.

“My other sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina admitted, “and I will do anything to make her happy.”

“Be careful of what you say,” Arachne warned. “What will you offer me in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?”

“Will you take my mother’s ring?” Malina asked, and fished the silver band out of her pocket. She held it out, and Arachne approached to inspect it. Malina’s heart once again began to hammer in her chest as she looked at the drider’s lips.

“I place no value in metal,” the drider said eventually. “Offer me something else.”

“Will you take another kiss?” Malina said. And then she surprised herself with: “I would be happy to give it to you.”

After a moment, the drider smiled. “I will take your kiss, but I will ask this of you as well: will you wear my favor, dearest Malina? Will you wear it always and visit me at least once a moon for a year? If this is acceptable, I will give you the cloth.”

“It is very acceptable,” Malina said, and leaned into the drider’s touch. Their lips met for a second time, and this time Malina knew that the thrill in her heart was something very different from fear. When they finally pulled apart, Arachne gave her the bolt of silk. The drider also gave her a shimmering length of ribbon, and tied it gently around her right wrist. Her hands were warm and soft as they brushed against Malina’s.

Malina returned home with the bolt of cloth before dawn. Her father had not noticed her absence, but Isolda was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the second of the lord’s sons, and was married to him shortly thereafter. Isolda left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle, and Malina kept her promise to visit Arachne once a moon.

Finally, the youngest of the lord’s sons came to Malina in the village on market day. He offered her a fistful of daisies plucked from the roadside in exchange for a kiss. Malina blushed and accepted, but the kiss felt awkward and forced. Malina pulled away.

“Do you want to marry me?” the youngest son asked.

Malina hesitated, then shook her head.

The lord’s son didn’t seem to recognize this. He continued: “Your sisters’ wedding gowns were amazing dowries. They said that you gathered the silk from a man-eating drider in the mountains. Fetch me three bolts of this silk, and I won’t ask you to make a dress out of it.”

“Sir,” Malina protested. “I cannot marry you.”

“Yes,” the youngest son agreed, “you aren’t beautiful enough. However, you will fetch me the bolts of spider silk. I command this of you, as the son of your lord.”

“But I can’t,” Malina protested. “I can’t impose on Arachne’s generosity a third time, and ask for three bolts of cloth rather than one. It is too much.”

“Arachne?” the lord’s son asked. “It has a name?”

Malina froze into stillness. 

The lord’s son looked at the shimmering ribbon still tied around Malina’s wrist. “What’s this?” he asked, and reached out to examine her.

Malina pulled away again. “It’s nothing, sir,” she said. “I made it from a scrap of leftover fabric from my sister’s dress.”

“You’re lying!” the lord’s son declared. His eyes narrowed. “You’re in league with the drider! Did you enchant your sisters’ dresses so that my brothers would be made stupid with infatuation? They’re married to worthless peasant girls now! I’m no fool, though; I can tell you’re a witch. Guards! Guards!”

Malina fled the village as fast as she could, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She knew her father would offer her no shelter from the lord’s son, the village church no sanctuary, and so her feet took her along the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with her every leaping step. She did not wait at the canyon mouth as she heard the baying of the lord’s hounds, but slipped into the maze of sticky webbing. She slowed as she navigated between them, and struggled not to fall into the silken traps.

Arachne descended along the canyon wall on a silken line from the spinnerette of her spider abdomen. She looked down at Malina with her many red eyes, and listened to Malina’s panting breaths and the growing cacophony of the hounds and guards.

“Dearest Malina, why do you weep?” the drider asked in her soft voice.

“Arachne, Arachne, the lord’s youngest son called me a witch and said I used magic to enchant his brothers,” Malina said. “I think they want to kill me.”

“Dearest Malina, do you wish them to live?” Arachne asked. Her many eyes glowed bright as bloodied garnets.

“Yes,” Malina said.

“Dearest Malina, do you truly wish it so? Do you truly wish it after their cruelty to you?”

Malina hesitated, and the baying of the hounds and the shouting of the guards drew nearer. They had almost reached the canyon. 

“I wish it so,” Malina whispered.

“Then so it shall be,” the drider said, and spun more webs so that neither human nor hound could enter the canyon without Arachne’s assistance. The guards’ swords tangled and caught in the sticky webbing without cutting it, and the dogs refused to come near. After a time, the pursuers gave up and went away, their voices fading down the mountainside.

And now Malina was alone with Arachne. She could not return to her father’s home, or to the village, and she could not call upon her sisters at the lord’s castle. She was, for the first time, without a family, and her tears stung her eyes more fiercely than ever.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you such sorrow?” Arachne asked, and pulled Malina into her strong gray arms. Malina leaned against her.

“I am lost,” Malina said when she had mastered herself somewhat. “I have nothing. I have nobody.”

“Dearest Malina, you have me,” Arachne said. “We can travel far from these mountains, and make a home where none can harm or hate us. We will be safe. We will be happy. I promise you this with the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart.”

Malina turned in the drider’s arms to look into her face. “Dearest Arachne, how can I thank you?”

“Will you wear my favor always?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I already do,” Malina answered.

“Will you kiss me?”

“Yes, and I already have.”

“Will you marry me, dearest Malina? Will you call me your wife and cherish me until the end of our days?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I always will,” Malina answered. She reached for the drider and kissed her a third time then, slowly and softly, feeling wholly loved and wholly understood.

*

You can also read this story in the April 2023 edition of the M❤️NSTER magazine, or download a nicely laid out PDF from my own itch.io page (both downloads are free, but please consider tipping where possible).

If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write!

[deluxewhump]

Lawrenceville Baptist

I

(This is an earlier arc for my character Paulo.)

Paulo is a "pet" (pet whump universe) abandoned on a rural road and found by a local community. They are tightly connected by a small church they attend, Lawrenceville Baptist. One of the families, the Sullivans, take Paulo in. Here he meets their two sons, Jesse and Peter, and their friend Sam.

CW: water whump, cold, controlled drowning, dunking into water, multiple whumpers sort of, religion (Christianity) being applied insincerely, drug use implied , restraints

-

Paulo reeled and spluttered, gasping for a breath of winter air in the snowy paddock. Every inhale was a struggle, as it threatened to trigger another uncontrollable bout of coughing. If he went back under now, he was sure he'd drown.

“You’re lucky,” said a boy he’d met two days ago named Samson, whose hand had just been bruising the back of his neck.

“You could have ended up with anyone, lying on the side of the road like that. A cult could’ve picked you up.. Satan-worshippers. They wouldn’t go through all this for you. They’d sacrifice you.”

“Torture you to death,” Peter added thoughtfully. Jesse and Peter, watching him be nearly drowned from the fence, were brothers. Paulo thought they looked nothing alike. He could tell Peter was not only smaller because he was a year or two younger but in general, with a slighter build. Jesse, the elder, was muscular and broad. He had pale skin and black hair, and over his glasses were thick, expressive eyebrows just like his father Glen’s. Peter had ashy brown hair and green eyes, and seemed to watch every move his older brother made as if looking for a cue.

Paulo nodded violently, trying to agree with anything and everything if it meant he might get into their good graces for a moment, just a moment. He had stopped dreaming of getting away from them. There was a reason he was here, and neither them, their parents, or the cops that watched the highway in and out of town were going to let him go without punishing him for darkening their doors at all.

The water Samson kept holding him under was freezing, and the sides of the plastic horse trough were frozen. Water burned in his esophagus, up his nose. One ear felt plugged with it, and he tasted blood when he licked his lips. His wrists were tied behind him with the rough orange twine that held hay bales together. Having his arms immobile made fighting Samson off or pulling himself out of the water on his own impossible.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Peter said. “What’s happened to you. What they made you do.”

Paulo looked up at him, leaned up against the fence next to his brother. There was only calm sadness in his eyes. Why did he allow his friend to do this to him, then? Was he sad to watch him half-drowned, or sad it had to be this way because someone had made him a pet and tainted him?

“No,” agreed Samson. He had curly hair the color of hay and golden skin that made his blue eyes look somehow backlit. His teeth were uniform and straight as razor wire. “You’re right Peter, it’s not his fault.”

Samson knelt on the hardened snow so he was in front of Paulo’s dripping head. He placed a hand on each side of his face so earnestly Paulo thought for a confused and panicked moment he might try to kiss him. “But the wages of sin is death. You don’t want to die, do you?”

“Sam,” Jesse chastised sharply. He wore a paint-spattered canvas jacket like a contractor might wear, had his arms crossed and was making a face of mild disgust, furrowing his dark brows. “Nobody’s gonna die. Don’t say shit like that.”

Samson turned his head sharply to address his friend. Looking at his profile, Paulo saw he had long, golden lashes, a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. His pupils looked too big, like a cat’s before it pounces. His hands partially covered Paulo’s wet ears. “I’m not suggesting that, Jesse,” he said as if he thought it was completely obvious. “I’m not saying that at all. I mean he has to repent. We’re going to help him repent so he can be Saved. All he has to do is show that he means it.”

“Show who? You? You’re just getting off,” Jesse answered. His arms were still crossed and his look of disgust was still intact. Whether it was for his friend or for him in general, Paulo didn’t know. “And he has to desire forgiveness. He has to want it.”

The breeze picked up and soaking wet Paulo shivered violently.

Samson turned back to him with a grin that dimpled his left cheek. “I’ll want it for you until you want it yourself,” he said quietly enough Paulo did not think the other boys had heard— it was meant for him alone. Samson was high, he realized. Or something.

“Please,” he whispered back, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “Don’t drown me. Tell me how.”

“Are you serious? You’re done fucking around?”

Samson was the most interested in Paulo’s sin and subsequent forgiveness, but he seemed the least sincere of all of the people who lived on this road he’d met so far. “Yeah. I’m- I’m trying to do what you all want. If you’d just stop changing the goalpost.”

“I’m not changing your goalpost,” Samson said, and glanced down at Paulo’s bloody lip between his hands. “I’m gauging your resolve. Your faith that we can help you. You want help, don’t you?”

“Sam,” Jesse called impatiently. “It’s freezing. You’re way too fucked up. Put him back in the barn before it gets dark and let’s go inside.”

Samson pretended to consider this before turning Paulo violently by the shoulders and pushing him under the water again, holding him down by the back of his neck before he had a chance to take and hold a deep breath.

It was Jesse that pulled him out, and Sam was on the ground, laughing.

Next

[thexgrayxlady]

I'm working on reupholstering the cat's scratching post and she is so mad at me because of it.