#big Pookie hours on this rainy day

[bucknastysbabe]

Rating: Explict

Tags: ANGSTFEST, infidelity, Baratheon!reader, Targaryens always have a seat in the cuck chair, Sorry Aem you'll get big titty goth gf soon not big titty disloyal gf, pregnancy sex, WHO IS THE FATHER?, Criston’s delulu and the biggest baby in the world, tiddy sucking, lap riding, the chain and short hair is sexy, pnv!sex, crispy cremepie, crying, sad ending :(

Song in title - ‘Days Go By’, Sean Nicholas Savage

Taglist: @arcielee @aemonds-holy-milk @bambitas @elaratyrell @jamespotterismydaddy @lovelykhaleesiii @peachysunrize @starogeorgina @sugarpoppss2 @towriteloveontheirarms @zaldritzosrose

“Was it worth it?”

Criston frowned. He thought you looked at home astride his lap. Your ringed fingers ran across the chilly golden hands clasped around his neck. He shivered— as if the sigil of his station were attached to his body. Everything felt wrong in this quiet moment.

Aegon was nearly dead and forced through one dreamless poppy sleep after another. The maesters were not sure he could survive the Dragonfire. The Green army made a clear statement and killed a formidable foe at Rook’s Rest. Aemond took on the title of Prince Regent, living out his dreams of ruling the kingdom.

Yet Aemond’s fiery Baratheon wife, you, were here in Criston’s arms. Your hand didn’t move from the chain, eyes locked onto his own. Criston swallowed, guilt rising in his throat. He knew you should be attending to your husband, the Prince who was the closest thing to a son he had. Instead, you sought him out.

“I asked was it worth it?”

Criston huffed, “I don’t know…yes. We still have Vhagar, the Hightower host with Daeron and Tessarion from the south. The Westermen are trying.”

You smiled without mirth, petting his shorn hair, hand on his bearded cheek. Criston looked agonized, weary, almost fearful. His wide brown eyes flicked away. Perhaps you should be attending to Aemond. You liked him too, but you’d long fallen for the marcher between your thighs.

A brief period with Criston as your sworn sword during the engagement had linked the pair of you on a frighteningly deep level. His presence was constantly at your side, a handsome man at your beck and call. You’d grown enamored with the knight— regardless of the strife at court, his oath, and the fact you were promised to another. There was a kinship in lacking a dragon, Crownland outsiders, and mutual feelings of bondage by station.

Aemond took many a trait from his mentor— imposing warrior, sharp of tongue, and never forgot a slight. Both men were regimented and pious, devoted to their faith, and their duties. Yet they’d play dirty, and crawl outside the lines of morality to get their way. Somehow that helped you bond with the serious prince.

You languished in the engagement period, Ser Criston informing you that the prince took your maidenhead seriously. At the time you were hoping enough complaining would drive Ser Cole to action.

Aemond had discarded you after a…heavy session of kissing and petting. He ended up gasping and holding a hand out, declaring he took his vows to the heart. On the other hand, Criston folded after a month or two, sturdy hands up your dress, fingers sliding into your neglected cunt. The kingsguard was guilty and mopey, yet desperately craved your touch, as much as you desired his.

It was a vicious cycle. Feeling guilty from deviance, fucking it out, coddling each other about said deviance then ending up fucking again.

You’d thought he’d break away once you were properly wedded to Aemond, discarding you out of shame and fear. The marcher was moody for a couple of days, eventually being seduced when you knelt and swallowed his cock in an alcove after your husband had upset you. Criston was a sight with his lean thighs trembling, sculpted lips hung open with soft noises, praising you helplessly.

Aemond’s guttural grunts and muffled curses had you satisfied in a vastly different way. He did the job, rough and thorough, the possible evidence laid between you and Criston. It was the subtle swell of life in your stomach. Alas, Aemond had begun filling your womb at the break of war. Likely before the horrid death of Prince Lucerys.

Criston’s dark expression softened as one of his gloved hands palmed your stomach, covered in regal yellow velvet. You stuck to your house colors, preferring shades of yellow to green. The Lord Commander asked, “Do you think…?”

You weren’t sure. He didn’t quite do a good job pulling out before the wedding. He was jealous and angry, especially if Aemond had spent some of his time with you. The kingsguard was reassigned back to Queen Alicent, now severed from constant contact. You remembered Criston’s hands bruising your hips as you barked for the man to ‘pull out, on my stomach!’ He made it about halfway, frantically painting half inside and out of your cunt.

“You’re mine, mine, mine,” he’d half-sobbed.

“You’re changing the subject. There is no telling. Likely anyone would know until they got older. Baratheons come out with black hair. The queen has brown eyes, and Borros is the same. It wouldn’t be shocking,” you looked down at his hand, “There’s more of a chance of my babe being yours if that is what you’re wondering.”

Criston’s eyes didn’t match his slight pout. The man was proud deep down, under all those layers of remorse and responsibility. You placed your hand over his and gritted, “I fear the outcome of this war. I’d more like to end up with a dead lover and husband. A child with no father.”

He snatched your chin, brown eyes shining with unshed tears. Criston growled lowly, “Don’t speak of things like that. We shall win this damnable war. Rhaenyra and that vile Daemon shall die,” the marcher added in a softer tone, “I will be there for the child.”

“Do you not think of absconding?”

His rough hand swept back to caress your inky hair, lips twisting uncomfortably. Criston bit out, “No. Not anymore. My fate relies upon the family that saved me.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing softly, battle-worn hands holding your neck.

“I think of absconding, ah, lest they send me to a black cell.”

Criston murmured angrily against your neck, “Then you ‘retreat’ to Storm’s End. I know your father has no love for Rhaenyra’s claim. Stop. You’re going to make yourself go insane.”

“You make me insane, Criston Cole.”

“I love you,” he pouted, that delicious pity filling his pretty head. You leaned forward to kiss him, soft tits and that slight bump pressing against his loose garments. He wasn't wearing his armor— a simple shirt and dark pants. Criston sighed, head tilting, one hand in your hair, the other sliding down your back.

He groaned soft and sweet, sharing innocent kisses that turned deeper and darker as desire grew. You readjusted on his lap, annoyed with the damn bump. Custom murmured, “When I return, I'll get to see my darling doe all buxom and glowing with my child.” You shivered, pressing your lips into his, lapping into a warm mouth.

Criston’s hands wandered freely, caressing your belly, moving up to grope your tits. He pulled away to breathe teasingly, “Mm- your tits will be gorgeous, you're already blessed as is. He pulled down the hem, exposing your sore chest. You couldn't help but moan and grind on his thigh, squirming with the lavish attention.

“What shall you name the child?” He hummed before sealing his lips around your nipple. Your hand grabbed his shoulder, heaving a soft breath at the flicking of the marcher’s tongue. You stammered, lashes flitting, “Some-thing Valyrian I, fucking smith’s balls, suppose. If it’s a girl, she shall have- Criston! Shall have my mother’s name.”

The man pulled off with a wet pop and smirked, moving to the other budded peak. You cursed and moaned as his fingers plucked at your slick nipple. You gripped at that damned chain of hands, arching into his eager mouth, rutting against his hard thigh. Your shift wedged between your legs was growing damper by the second, sticking uncomfortably to your folds.

Criston groaned and squeezed to the point of pleasure-pain. His soft brown eyes gazed up, mauve lips swollen. The knight still held your tits, thumbing idly. He croaked, “You’re beautiful. I love you,” tears welled up in his eyes, “We shouldn’t do this anymore.”

You knew Criston wasn’t wrong, thumbing a tear from his pretty face. It had been on your mind too. Exhaling softly, you kissed his other fallen tear, tasting the salt. You spoke in a low tone, fearful you may cry, “I know. We shan’t. I just want you to be there.”

Both of you knew Aemond’s pride would be shattered. He was erratic enough to have both of you beheaded and then fed to Vhagar. The prince’s wife fornicating with his surrogate father. It would be another blight next to his title of ‘kinslayer.’ This had to end before they marched to Harrenhal.

“I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Then let us enjoy ourselves a final time, hm?”

Criston inhaled sharply, nosing up along your throat, hands raking up your dress. He muttered, “I suppose if the bitch did it with no repercussions, you can too. To think how much I hated her bastards.” You let him ramble on, hands working off his loose shirt, eyeing the way his gold chain and necklace glimmered against olive skin and dark chest hair.

You shushed the man as your hands grabbed the strings of his breeches. In a soft voice, you replied, “Fate has a way of coming full circle. Do come back alive at the least.” He frowned again, nibbling on his lip when you eased his stiffened prick out. “I will miss this though, do you truly think we can stay away from one another?”

The knight moaned as you pumped him a few times, index finger swiping off his pre, your lips closing around the pearlescent drop. He blabbered, blinking dumbly, “I don't know. For now, this is the last time. C’mon love, you're all wet, need you.”

You smiled as he held up the dress— your hand guided the blunt head of the cock to your dripping entrance. It was an easy slide downward as your hands clasped his strong shoulders, gasping as his cock stretched and filled your cunt.

His dark lashes fluttered, thighs flexing underneath you as he groaned long and low. He held your waist, one hand periodically resting on your tummy. You took his swollen mouth, gently lifting and dropping your hips. The pair of you panted and desperately grabbed at each other, tongues intertwined, whines leaking out of tight throats.

Criston’s hips began to meet yours at a faster pace, fucking moans out of you. He grunted, “Gods— I fucking love you. Thinking about you, us, even if from afar. I shall crawl back if I have to.” You rolled up tight against his frame, forehead plastered to his cheek.

It was barely a whisper.

“I love you too. Very much.”

You realized you were wetting his skin, tears falling as you rode him harder. Criston gently moved your head up, hips stilled while peering in concern. It was an odd occurrence for you to shed tears. His face twisted in sympathetic pain as he asked ”Doe, what are you fretting for?”

Criston’s breath hitched as he took your lips again, both hands cupping your face, calloused thumbs swiping away tears. The chair creaked as you found leverage on your knees, riding him faster and faster— escaping the pain in your heart. He cried out, lips sliding against one another.

“J-Just, don't stop, make it feel real,” came the breathless beg.

The Hand, the Lord Commander, the Knight, the steward’s boy from Blackhaven. Criston Cole sorely missed being the young Knight from the Marches right now. He whimpered at the clenches around his pulsing cock, silky cunt gripping him as you bounced. He felt the hard bump of pregnancy, cock twitching at the visceral reaction it gave him.

You tossed back black hair as Criston pinched and squeezed at your nipple, wetly panting as you took the reins. The man’s eyes scrunched shut as he whined throatily, hand slinking under all that yellow velvet to circle your button. The electric stimulation and his swollen girth had you whining and choking out his name, arms locked around the tan neck.

“Fuck…jus’ like that, close Criston,” you mewled.

He was babbling lowly, likely sonnets of praise and devotion. The pair of you were much too gone to properly kiss— more panting and pressing messy lips wherever possible. Criston bucked up as he thumbed upward roughly on your pearl. You bit down on the meat of his shoulder to keep from howling.

Only the sound of heavy breath, the chair squeaking, and the tell-tale slaps of two bodies writhing filled the room. His free hand dug into your cheek, glossy dark eyes watching your furrowed brows and flushed face. You could feel his prick twitching and swelling more, Criston was close.

You were along with the knight on that razor-thin ledge, thighs and cunt quivering. His incessant touches to your bundle brought more pricks of hot tears to your eyes, mournfully whining, “I love you, fill me up this time, wan’ it.”

“Ah- nuh- love you- oh fuck yes,” he groaned.

He snapped first, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he curled forward, hips and chest following, thick ropes of spend filling your already stuffed pussy. The feeling had you shaking and clinging to your lover, thighs given out as he thumbed you over the edge.

You came apart in teary inhales and erotic little sobs on the exhale— sharp and whiny. Criston growled under his breath as your pussy milked him some more, balls forced to push out just a little more, toeing that painful pleasure. He felt ragged, bleak, spent. He wanted to carry you to bed.

You smoothed out his hair, eyes brimming with tears, a painful smile on your face. You needed to leave now and get cleaned up before bed. Before Aemond barged in here asking to discuss the battle. It would have been better if he carried you to bed or a bath.

He took your lips once more as his bigger hands eased your frame off of his softening dick. Your lover’s molten seed leaked from your sore cunt. Ever the protector, he fussed over your state, hands fixing your dress, asking little questions. It stung like a manticore when you pushed Criston’s lovely hands to get him away.

“No more sweet knight, I need to get going. We must refrain now. I can't go around looking like this.”

Criston frowned and repeated himself, “I will be back. I promise.”

“I love you.”

He watched your trembling form exit his chambers in the Hand’s tower. He got up, stepped to the door, then stopped. Criston stifled his sob, locking the door instead. The knight would drink and sit with his thoughts. It was only right for a sinner destined to fail and take others down with him. He grit his teeth and swallowed down the nearest spiced rum bottle, fingers curled around those damn gilded hands.

[giving-myself-to-ashes]

21 Questions

I was tagged by @mothgoths

Rules: answer 21 questions and then tag 21 people who you want to get to know better.

Nickname: Pookie, a nickname from @and-daddy-they-took-my-boot

Zodiac: Scorpio sun and moon

Height: 5′8″

Last movie I saw: I actually don’t remember? Maybe The Grinch over Christmas?

Last thing I googled: “zodiac sun and moon” because I wanted to make sure I was scorpio for both because I couldn’t remember if I was or not

Favourite musician: FOB or P!ATD

Song stuck in my head: Usually the beginning of Centuries by FOB is what stays in my head constantly

Other blogs: I have an herbal/school blog that I posted to like once or twice? 

Do I get asks: Sometimes Mostly it’s ask prompts, but it’s kind of rare.

Following: 941

Amount of sleep: I usually need like at least 8 hours, but like ideally like 9 if I can.

Lucky number: 13

What I’m wearing: Cat socks, catnap pajama pants, black cami, and an oversized grey sweatshirt

Dream job: I would love to work in some type of herb store and/or sewing shop. Having my own of either would be ideal.

Dream trip: I would love to go back to Greece.

Favourite food: I really like salami and don’t have it nearly as much as I should. I also really like 

Play any instruments: No, in 3rd grade I played the viola.

Languages: I studied French for 7ish years in school. I could do some type of sentence structuring, but I couldn’t survive in France.

Favourite songs: Too many, I like so many

Random fact: About me? I broke my toes in middle school but they were never set properly so a couple of my toes are bent to the wrong side a bit.

Describe yourself as aesthetic things: Pretty. Odd. album cover flowers, sitting on an enclosed porch on a rainy day with a cup of coffee in a big sweater playing Scrabble, and some type of sitting in the dark with a cat near a candle type of thing

Tagging (not 21 people): @and-daddy-they-took-my-boot @starshine-robotics @roto-scoped @mikeyflippinway @drink-your-rivers-dry @dragonavis @debenvy @lunarblue21 @mangopeachfuzz @thefuzzhead

[michaelferrell]

My Asheville Brew Tour

If you’re like me, most of your days are planned out, scheduled, items on a calendar to cross off. Recently I was lucky enough to find myself in a unique situation.

I was in Asheville, NC for one of my best friend’s wedding. A lot of loved ones were there, but pretty much everyone had to leave the morning after.  That left me in a city known for its craft breweries, on a rainy Sunday, with absolutely no obligations and with one of my other best buds, Chris, aka Pooky. 

Planning this trip from my apartment in Jersey City, I imagined a post-wedding hike through the mountains of Western North Carolina, so I brought my good camera.  Instead it rained and Pooky and I mapped out a walking brewery tour of Asheville.  Hey, you gotta adapt.

It seemed impossible to hit all the breweries; there are a ton, but opening my google maps was enough to get going.  I asked for suggestions on the facebook and while various breweries were hotly debated among my North Carolinian friends, Pooky and I began our adventure.

We had to start somewhere that had food, so we got to Wicked Weed shortly before they opened at noon.  A small line had already formed.  We got in, saddled up to the bar, and they started to fill up.  This was about 12:30 PM:

Pooky and I had our first beers of the day to wash down some sandwiches that lined our stomachs.  I’m not a critic so lemme just say, all beers were good all day long.  This isn’t about that.

At Wicked Weed I had a Napoleon Complex Pale Ale and a Fact or Fiction White Stout.  The Fact or Fiction was the bartender’s favorite and mine as well, from what we tried.

They had the Liverpool game on the TV, which was a nice bonus for this international football fan.

Apparently though, Wicked Weed just sold out to Anheuser-Busch InBev, so I’m glad we got to experience it when it was still cool.

Next up it was Green Man.

At Green Man, I had a Deeks Dark English Mild.  Bitter and lovely.  But a day like this isn’t about the beer, it’s about the company, and I couldn’t have asked for a better companion in Pooky McSween.

Green Man was ultra-modern, ultra-new feeling, but comfortable, and apparently there are two Green Man spaces; the pristine bar where we had a pint each and watched playoff NBA basketball and an older, divey-er, original Green Man space, which we missed.

We got our chance at something divey-er though at Burial:

We were greeted by who else but Chunk and Burt Reynolds on the side of the Burial building..

We had our first flights of the tour at Burial, I mixed porters, sours, pale ales, all my favs.  Names included: Ocean Swallows the Sun, 2 Dollar Pale Ale, Thresher Coffee Ale, Butcher Hook Porter.

And we met some dudes on a bachelor weekend.  What’s up dudes.

After Burial it was time for a snack and coffee break.  Essential.  Good thing Vortex Doughnuts is strategically located right in the middle of this craft beer madness.

Next up was Twin Leaf, where the focus is on the beer, sure, but also the games; big-ass Jenga, fussball, table tennis, all of which we neglected in favor of the kind of conversation that goes from deep to shallow in waves of craft beer infused delight.

I had a Nitro Earthy English Pale Ale, which came with a little glass to hold me over while it settled.  Southern Hospitality.

Last on the agenda, and getting close to dinner, was the Funkatorium, which I was super excited about because this brewery is ALL sours and sours are the new thing and I want to be a hip beer drinker. And I’m developing a taste for them.

I found out recently what a pain in the ass it can be to brew sours in a regular brewery, from talking to the guy at my local craft brewery Departed Soles (Jersey City brewery shout out).  So I guess this is why Wicked Weed (sell-out) has a brewery solely dedicated to sour beers.  It was pretty awesome.

I had a flight consisting of: Botanica, Genesis, Black Angel, and Persistence, and talked with the guy at length about the beers before I selected them, not that I remember what we talked about.

Some pro-tips?  Drink water all day long.  Take a coffee and doughnut(s) break.  Start with a big lunch.  Don’t be afraid to go one-and-done at a brewery, you’re not at a party at a bar, you’re doing a thing.  And most importantly, do this with someone that you actually want to talk to for hours. 

Also, toward the end, don’t be afraid to let your steady buzz turn into drunk, you’re doing a brew tour not antiquing. Leeean into it...