#leather cricket bat

[kunalverma0]

Leather Cricket Bat: The Classic Choice for True Cricket Enthusiasts

Cricket has always been a sport deeply rooted in tradition, and one of the most iconic pieces of equipment is the leather cricket bat. While modern innovations have introduced new materials and designs, leather cricket bats continue to captivate players due to their durability, superior performance, and classic appeal. Let’s explore why a leather cricket bat remains a favorite among players.

1. What Is a Leather Cricket Bat?

A leather cricket bat typically refers to a cricket bat made from English or Kashmir willow, designed specifically to strike a leather cricket ball. The term emphasizes the traditional nature of the sport, as the leather ball has been used for centuries. These bats are crafted with great precision to handle the impact and power required when hitting a leather ball, making them an essential tool for serious cricketers.

2. Why Leather Cricket Bats Are Different from Others

Unlike tennis ball bats or those designed for soft balls, leather cricket bats are constructed to withstand the heavy impact of a hard leather ball. They offer a large sweet spot, excellent rebound, and enhanced stroke play. This makes them more suitable for competitive matches and high-performance players who aim for longevity and control over their shots.

3. How to Choose the Right Leather Cricket Bat

When selecting a leather cricket bat, several factors come into play:

Material: Bats made from English willow are generally considered the best due to their superior quality and performance. Kashmir willow, while more affordable, is a great alternative for beginners.

Weight: The weight of the bat is crucial. Heavier bats offer more power, while lighter bats give more control.

Grain Structure: The number of grains on the bat’s surface indicates the maturity of the wood. More grains often mean faster knocking-in and better performance over time.

Handle Type: A bat’s handle can be round or oval, depending on the grip and comfort preference of the player.

4. Maintenance of Leather Cricket Bats

Leather cricket bats require proper care to maintain their performance and extend their lifespan. Regular oiling, knocking-in, and avoiding exposure to extreme conditions are essential to keep the bat in good condition. Many players also opt for toe guards and bat covers to protect the bat from damage during transport and play.

5. The Rise of Custom Leather Cricket Bats

Many players now seek custom leather cricket bats that match their exact specifications. From handle size to weight distribution, customization allows players to get a bat that suits their playing style perfectly. Whether you're a hard-hitter or a precise stroke player, a custom bat can enhance your performance on the field.

Conclusion: Why Leather Cricket Bats Are Still a Top Choice

While cricket equipment has evolved over time, the leather cricket bat remains a symbol of the sport's heritage and quality. Offering unmatched performance, durability, and a sense of tradition, it’s no wonder that serious cricketers still favor these bats. If you’re looking for a bat that enhances your game and delivers consistent results, the leather cricket bat should be at the top of your list. Choose wisely, maintain it well, and enjoy the timeless appeal of this classic piece of cricket gear.

[uzisports]

Gear up for success with the Keeley Worx 11 Junior Batting Gloves in white, designed for young cricketers who seek a blend of protection and performance. These gloves feature high-density foam padding that provides excellent impact protection, allowing junior players to face fast deliveries with confidence. The ergonomic design ensures flexibility, enabling natural hand movements for smooth, controlled batting.

[rebelfell]

made for lovin’ you

older!Eddie Munson x fem!reader

A bad Tinder date gets a whole lot better…

18+ MDNI┃9k

cw: age difference (30s/40s), alcohol, smoking, light choking, softdom!Eddie, face fucking, light hair pulling, fingering, piv sex, finishing inside, and aftercare ‘cos we deserve it ♥️

I’ve been in a Mood and now you all have to suffer.

eddie edit by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple

Holy shit, was this guy boring.

Not terribly surprising, unfortunately. Your expectations weren’t all that high to begin with. Most of your recent forays into online dating had been yielding overwhelmingly middling results and this one was no exception.

He had seemed perfectly nice on the app, when he was nothing but a handful of generic pictures and a smattering of inoffensive text bubbles. But any appeal he held had been in steady decline the moment he took his seat next to you at the bar.

He looked more scared of you than anything—fumbling his words and constantly having to push up his glasses as they slid down the bridge of his sweaty nose. You did what you could to help him relax, coaxing him into the conversation, asking all of those tedious first date questions.

And every single one, he answered with nothing but curt, clipped responses. Making no attempt whatsoever to follow up or ask you literally one single thing about yourself.

Then you made the fatal mistake of asking about work, and suddenly longed for the wall of silence. As soon as he got the chance, he launched into a long and droning explanation of his research on the behavior of crickets.

Acheta Domesticus, not that you asked. And he didn’t so much as smirk at your gesundheit joke.

You might have called it quits entirely by now…if it wasn’t for the guy at the end of the bar.

He had arrived not fifteen minutes after your date did, and slid smoothly onto a stool directly in your eyeline. Which was good, considering you would have snapped your neck trying to get a look at him otherwise.

In a word, he was beautiful. 

Slightly older, with long dark hair that was wavy and ruffled. A short and scruffy beard that only further accentuated the hard line of his jaw where it met the thick, muscular column of his neck.

He was quite literally littered with accessories—a silver hoop that glinted in his nose, leather cuff and chains on his wrists, chunky rings on his fingers that rapped rhythmically on the bar.

Then there were the more permanent accessories in the form of black ink tattoos that covered both his arms and scrawled upwards to peek out from underneath the collar of his t-shirt. A mix of all different styles and designs, ranging in quality from the kitchen scratcher bats on his elbow to the larger and more artful pieces clearly woven in later to complete the tapestry.

You’d certainly never seen him here before, and that was sort of a feat for this place.

West End was one of your favorite places for this sort of date. It was close enough to your place to be convenient, yet far enough that there was no chance of a guy trying to invite himself over to “use the bathroom” or “wait for an Uber” or whatever other excuses they dredged up.

It was actually two businesses in one, sharing the same name, running out of opposite sides of the same building. Causing only mild confusion.

To one side was a wine bar with cozy seating nooks furnished with plush loveseats, sofas and overstuffed armchairs, all a mishmash of vintage styles from thrift shops and flea markets.

But the other side was all modern and industrial—a billiards hall with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and a large, glossy horseshoe bar that surveyed the tables from the center.

You tended to frequent the wine bar with your roommate Robin whenever you found yourselves in need of a moody atmosphere and some low, soft lighting, your evening scored by the crackle of some great vinyl record. But the other side was better for dates because it automatically gave you the out of an activity in case you found the conversation lacking.

And boy was it lacking tonight.

He regarded the pool tables more like they were live alligators and quickly dismissed your offer to play before launching right back into his overly-detailed explanation of the differences in the eating habits of crickets and grasshoppers. You sighed, no longer attempting to disguise your boredom as you propped your elbow on the bar and rested your chin on your hand.

It wasn’t just that his research was boring—though it was. Really, the problem was all of his technical explanations were so dry and devoid of any emotion that it made you wonder if he even enjoyed it. You had more stimulating interactions with the bartender, for crying out loud.

He was new to you too, but he moved behind the bar with such ease it seemed like he’d worked there for years. He’d introduced himself as Steve, a row of pearly white teeth winking at you as he flashed a smile you were sure had won him his fair share of superlatives in high-school. 

His look read more upscale mixologist, sporting a dark gray vest over a crisp white button down. Sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms that flexed with the pour of every drink, and the collar left open to reveal the glint of a gold chain resting on the soft down of his plentiful chest hair.

The hair on his head was shorter and lighter than the other man’s, but it was long enough to curl slightly around his ears and along the nape of his neck. The ends of it were kissed with caramel highlights that shone in the light when he flipped his head back or ran his large hands through the feathered locks whenever a piece fell forward into his bright hazel eyes.

Most importantly, he also seemed to be friends with your current fixation.

They had greeted each other jovially, hands meeting in a tight clasp over the bar before Steve grabbed a bottle of whiskey and started to pour without the other man even having to order. You watched with morbid fascination as those plush lips wrapped around the rim of his glass and his eyes fluttered closed as he took his first sip, the tattoo on his neck bobbing with the swallow. 

Jesus Christ on a cracker…

Suddenly, as though he could sense you watching, his eyes popped open and immediately locked on yours. You started at the sight of the deep brown, almost black, vortexes in the middle of his face, nearly choking on the sip you were taking of your own drink—an excellent Malbec Steve had recommended when you first arrived.

A rush of warmth exploded on your face and you looked away, doing your best to pretend like he hadn’t just caught you blatantly staring at him.

Or that you hadn’t felt that egregious burst of excitement when he did. Did he care that you were looking? Was he looking at you now?

Doesn’t matter, you reminded yourself, trying to return your attention to the man in front of you.

The one you had made an actual plan to come here and meet; the one who was…still talking.

The next bit of your date felt like it took an entire year. You mostly phoned it in, reluctant to admit defeat too quickly. But over and over again, you found your focus drifting either to the stranger at the end of the bar, or to the bartender. And often, those two went hand in hand.

Again, they were either very old friends or both of them were extremely friendly. They talked and joked back and forth in between Steve helping other customers, bouncing from end to end of the bar with ease, charming smile never faltering as he enchanted every person he served.

As for the other man, you’d caught his eye enough times by now that there was no mistaking he was watching you. Though, you suppose that meant he knew you were staring at him as well…

At the end of your first glass of wine, you excused yourself from the bar—needing a break from this guy’s droning voice more than anything.

He nodded, finally taking a sip of his beer he’d barely made any progress on he’d been so entrenched in his recent soliloquy.

The bathrooms at West End were towards the back, down a long hall that obscured them from view of the rest of the bar. It gave the impression of being in an alleyway with black beadboard paneling that came a little over halfway up the wall and an eclectic gallery of pictures.

There were two bathrooms side by side, just single-room stalls adorned with brass apartment numbers rather than gendered signs, and you slipped into the one with no light coming out from underneath the door. And maybe you took a little longer than you probably needed, milking your break for all it was worth. Not stalling, just…taking care of some things.

Things like touching up your lip gloss that needed no touching up since you hadn’t said more than two words in the past half hour. Or like pulling up Tinder on your phone and setting your location to the absolute minimum distance. You know…just on the off-chance someone in the immediate vicinity happened to also have the dating app installed.

No such luck, you found.

A bit more deflated than you had any right to be, you tucked your phone back into your bag and rolled your eyes at yourself as you reached for the doorknob. You didn’t look up until you were almost at the end of the hall and when you did, you found brown eyes looking back at you.

He was headed for the bathroom as you were coming back and he caught you at the start of the long, narrow hallway leading to them. Your eyes met his as you approached and you paused, already anticipating that awkward shuffle of both of you trying to get out of the other’s way.

There was no awkwardness, though. 

Heat pooled low in your belly as he held your gaze, and rather than breezing right by when you came to a stop, he stopped as well and leaned against the wall to let you pass. He was close enough now that you could see his hair was streaked with slivers of silver and more grays tinged the edges of his beard, particularly under his ears behind the hinge of his jaw.

Your shoulder just barely brushed his chest as you passed, eye contact holding until you were looking back at him over your shoulder as you returned to the bar.

He stood there, watching until you’d rounded the corner and were out of sight before he moved. Pulse thrumming, you slid into your seat with his cologne still in your nose, tickling your brain.

By the end of your second glass of wine, you were more than ready to go. Frowning as you took your last sip, you gave Steve a regretful shake of your head when he asked if you wanted another.

And beside you, Dale just requested your checks as he pushed away his beer.

You didn’t bother with feeling annoyed he hadn’t offered to get even one of your drinks. To be fair, you had not been remotely good company as it was, and especially not once the guy at the far end of the bar decided to call it a night.

Your heart sank just a little as you watched him stand and pull on a creased and faded leather jacket. He then headed for the door, his eyes locking with yours one last time as he went.

Beside you, your date cleared his throat loudly to get your attention and your head jerked up as you realized Steve had placed your receipt in front of you to sign. If Dale—wait, was it Dale or Dave?—noticed your fixation, he was too polite (or too chicken) to mention anything about it.

Tabs closed and coats thrown back on, you followed Dale (Drew? Dirk?) outside. The wintry air cut through your tights and you hugged your coat a little tighter around you.

“So, which way are you headed?” you asked, rushing out the words before he could ask the same thing and float the idea of sharing a ride.

“Uptown?” he replied.

“Ahh, I’m the other way.”

A derisive snort made your head whip sideways and your eyes darted to the source, landing first on the glowing orange dot of a cigarette and then on the plush pink lips wrapped around the filter at the other end. The snide comment locked and loaded on your tongue abruptly stalled.

It was him.

He leaned against the brick facade, foot kicked up behind him, watching your whole interaction. It made your cheeks burn with indignation, but the hungry look in his dark eyes made your entire lower half throb. His lips curved like the blade of a knife into a smirk as he stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and dropped it in a planter filled with sand next to him. You stared at him, your mind sort of blank, and his eyes remained fixed on yours as he strode back inside the bar.

“Okay, well…I guess I’m gonna go,” Dale sighed, a little petulantly.

You brought your eyes back to him and plastered on your most professional smile, shaking his hand formally like this was the end of an interview for a job he was never gonna get.

“Sounds good,” you said. “Nice to meet you.”

He frowned as he turned away, but you felt relatively certain you’d navigated that fine.

Surely he hadn’t felt the date warranted any other sort of follow-up or lie about doing it again—you certainly hadn’t been on your A-game. And you shuddered to think that was his.

Once he’d gotten in his Uber, alone, and you had assured him the one you had yet to call was on its way, you tugged your phone out of your coat pocket and checked the time.

Right now, you had two choices. It was still early enough that Robin could probably come pick you up with minimal begging required.

Maybe you two could get fries and milkshakes and watch some garbage reality tv before falling asleep in a little cuddle pile on the couch.

It was the reasonable option.

The logical, safe choice.

But all your dates lately had been so painfully reasonable and logical and safe. There had been no horror stories to regale Robin with at Sunday brunch, nor any explosive sexual exploit the two of you could squeal and giggle over while curled up on your overstuffed sofa.

It was downright boring. And you were growing pretty weary of it.

You glanced down one more time at your phone, still thinking. Your thumb hovered over Robin’s contact info, needing only a single tap to dial, while your index rested on the lock button.

With a subtle flex of your hand, you clicked the screen off and headed back into the bar.

One more drink couldn’t hurt…right?

“Back so soon?”

Steve was already smiling smugly at you as you approached, his eyebrow cocked as you slid back into your original seat and returned his smile with one of your own.

“I decided I couldn’t live without another glass of that Malbec,” you sighed dreamily. 

He nodded, amusement still tugging at his lips as he uncorked the bottle you’d been steadily draining all night and took down a clean glass from one of the wire racks suspended overhead. You pulled your card from your bag and held it out for him to reopen your tab, but Steve waved it off as he placed down the newly filled glass in front of you and slid it smoothly across the bar.

“It’s taken care of, honey,” he said.

“Oh, really?” you chuckled. “By who?”

Steve smirked at your incredulous tone, his muscled forearms flexing as he leaned on them.

You leaned forward as well, crossing your arms under your chest, knowing how nicely it propped up your cleavage. It made the bartender’s eyes flash as he lowered his voice to a leading hum.

“The dirtbag at the end of the bar.”

He nodded his head backwards, making those caramel-kissed locks of his flop across his brow. Your gaze followed Steve’s nod, landing on the wild head of hair and all-consuming brown eyes you’d been distracted by all night. The “dirtbag” in question was staring straight back at you, the corner of his mouth curled as he raised his rocks glass of brown liquor and tipped it to you.

“Is he really a dirtbag?” you asked him, your eyes never dropping the stranger’s gaze.

“Nah,” Steve shook his head. “Just looks like one.”

“Good to know.” 

You hummed to yourself, feeling almost a little cocky as you brought your glass to your lips and took an excruciatingly slow sip. The eyes of the man across the bar watched you intently, a fire burning in them that ignited your very being.

As Steve moved on to another customer, you pulled your eyes from those of the handsome stranger and let them fall briefly to the empty stool beside you. It was about as bold as you were willing to be at the time, but it did the trick. He promptly swiveled in his seat to slide off it and you smirked to yourself as you looked down, pretending to be fascinated by the garnet liquid swirling in your glass as he came around the bar.

“That’s a great Malbec,” he said.

God, his voice.

It made your cheeks (among other things) tingle, smooth and smoky as the whiskey in his glass you could smell as he placed it down beside your wine. The scent of it mixed with his cologne that was dangerously close to becoming your new favorite aroma—something woodsy and heady with a tinge of lightness like a salty sea breeze.

“It is,” you agreed, brow arching as he took the seat beside you. “You’ve had it before?”

“Nah,” he smirked. “You made it look so good, I had Stevie give me a taste. I told him to put your next one on me.”

Both of your brows raised at that. “And how’d you know I was coming back?”

“I didn’t,” he said, taking a cheeky sip of his drink. “I just hoped.”

You felt a smile burgeoning on your lips and pulled your bottom one back with your teeth trying, unsuccessfully, to fight it. He watched it spreading, the tip of his tongue running over the edges of his teeth as he offered you his hand.

You slid your own into his, feeling the exquisite pressure of chunky silver rings pressing on your fingers as he gave them a gentle squeeze.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” you purred right back, offering him your name after a beat.

He repeated it once, all low and rumbly, taking his time with the sound of it in his mouth like it was a piece of chocolate melting on his tongue. Holding your hand a bit longer than necessary.

“So I’m assuming Desperate Dan out there wasn’t your boyfriend?” Eddie asked, chuckling into his next sip. The sound of it spiraled down your back, electrifying your spine.

“Nope,” you sighed heavily. “Just another drop in the Tinder bucket.”

Eddie’s dark eyes gleamed with something like mischief and he made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Well, if that’s the case, I sincerely apologize, sweetheart.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smiled at him. “What for?”

His eyes flickered again, this time taking a long moment to do a sweep up and down your body. Landing on your knees in your tights, flitting back up to your face as she shook his head.

“If someone like you has had to resort to dating apps…we’ve clearly failed as a gender.”

You actually shivered at the words, forcing your shoulders still not to show it as you propped your elbow on the bar and swiped the tips of your nails across your chin and along your jaw to play with your earring. Deepening your voice to a sultry murmur he had to lean in close to hear.

“No argument there.”

You rushed into the bathroom, flapping both your hands back and forth to fan your face and then under your arms. Safely hidden behind the door, your air of detachment could fall away and you could finally let out all the patently un-cool reactions you had been fighting the last hour.

With trembling hands, you pulled your phone out of your bag and fired off a text to Robin.

hey, I’m gonna share my location with you the rest of the night.

wait WHAT? Losera Annoyingus is getting a bang pass?

no he left…

…about an hour ago.

A blue bubble with three blinking dots immediately popped up on the thread and you imagined Robin’s thumbs actually smoking she was typing so furiously fast. But she must decide to abandon her message, because within a split second, a picture of you and her with your faces smushed together came up on the screen as she called you instead.

“Hey,” you whispered, praying your voice didn’t echo too much off the tiled walls.

“Explain,” she demanded. “Now.”

The excitement in her voice only increases your own, your cheeks still impossibly hot as you stand over the sink and fan yourself some more before another layer of sweat can form on your face.

“It’s this guy I met at the bar. He was like, making eyes at me while I was on my date and we started talking after and I just—I don’t know for sure, but it feels like he’s gonna take me home.”

“Is he hot?”

“Yes,” you breathed out a heavy, lustful sigh. “He’s so hot I wanna rip his appendix out.”

“Holy shit,” Robin whistled. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s…I don’t know,” you laughed. “He kind of looks like a Harley that came to life.”

“Alright then, you better go ride him.”

Robin’s snorted laugh makes you cover your own face with your palm. It’s searing hot now, your blood pumping furiously beneath the surface of your skin.

“Well, I have to get back out there to make that happen.”

“Go, go, go—have fun, use protection! Wait, hang on, not in that order!”

You laughed at her warning coming through faintly over the receiver as you mashed the button to end your call. With one last steadying breath, you leaned on the sink and nodded decisively.

“Okay,” you exhaled. “Let’s do this.”

Sage and sea salt filled your nose as you yanked the door open and nearly ran straight into the source of the scent. Eddie leaned against the wall across from the bathroom doors, shoulders shifting subtly as he twisted one of the large rings on his fingers. 

You stood face to face now, hands hovering at your sides as you edged into the hallway.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, tucking his chin to his chest as he looked up at you from under long lashes. “Someone’s in the other one.”

You glanced suspiciously at the second bathroom door, seeing no light coming from underneath it. Eddie winced, still smirking adorably as you turned the knob and pushed it open to reveal it was empty on the other side. He chuckled, holding up his hands in a mock surrender.

“Fine,” he sighed. “You caught me.”

“Thought I was making a break for it?” you asked, pulling the door shut. Eddie’s tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, his eyes roving over you slowly.

“I’d hate to think I scared you off,” he said as he kicked off the wall to stand up straight.

You crossed your arms under your chest, giving him a smile. “I don’t scare so easy.”

He nodded at that, his eyes still taking you in, scanning you like he was reading invisible stats. They lingered a few places you expected, like the curve of your hips and the swell of your chest. But then they landed on other things too, things you weren’t used to people noticing. 

Things like your shoulders, or your calves in your boots, even your fucking ears.

“So…everything alright?” he asked, his voice lowering as he took a step closer.

“Yeah, I was just letting my roommate know I might be gone a while.” You held up your phone and tucked it back inside your bag with another coy smile. He chuckled.

“A while, huh?” Step.

“Yeah, you know...it’s pretty late.” Step. “Might be tough to get an Uber.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie shrugged. “I live close.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You were nose to nose now, barely a whisper of space between you, the air thick with the heat radiating off your bodies in the narrow space.

The well worn leather of his jacket sleeve creaked softly as his hand came up to rest on the wall, caging you in with his arm.

“How close?” you asked, breath shuddering as you leaned on the door for support.

“Up the street,” he sighed. “But it’s still too far.”

His warm breath ghosted over your lips as they parted, the smell of the liquor coating his tongue making you feel woozy. Or maybe that was just the effect he was having on you.

He was so close now you could hear the bristly sound his beard made as he scratched at it with blunt fingertips. He’d barely inhaled to ask if he could kiss you when you surged forward to press your lips to his—the roughness of his beard on your chin a welcome abrasion.

Scratching the itch that’s plagued you all night.

It’s a hungry, lawless sort of kiss. Quick and clashing and difficult to tell if it’s actually mean or not—like two dogs play-fighting, both trying to see how much they can get away with before light snarls and soft snaps of their jaws turn to whimpers and whines.

Eddie parried with you for control, his tongue darting in and out of your mouth as he plied you with teasing, playful kisses you fought to deepen, tugging at his shirt. He pushed off the wall and reached down to grab your wrists, pinning them over your head to keep them in place.

The thrill of him trying to restrain you only made you unravel further, straining impatiently against his grasp. Breathless, you stretched out your neck and pushed your face past all his hair to place your lips beside his ear and pant into it.

“Can we go back to—”

“You wanna come back to—”

The both of you chuckled and exhaled with relief as your words and his overlapped, and you felt a sudden rush between your legs from the way Eddie’s eyes blazed with intention.

He released his hold on your wrists and your arms fell limp at your sides. In an instant, he had your hand wrapped tightly in his and was pulling you along as he angled towards the exit.

As you hurried after him out of the hallway and across the bar, you distantly registered music playing, picking out the chugging guitar and bass riffs of some 80s dance song. From behind the bar, Steve caught Eddie’s eye and you saw him offer his friend a two finger salute as the two of you burst through the door, your departure narrated by Paul Stanley’s deep, silky croon.

And tonight, I want to lay at your feet. Cause girl, I was made for you, And girl, you were made for me…

Eddie wasn’t kidding about living close.

Your boots clacked on the sidewalk as he ushered you along under his arm, the quick pace of your walk driven both by the chill in the air and the desire to resume what you started at the bar.

“This is me,” he said, indicating a four-story brick building just a block away from West End.

His place was on the top floor. It was a large studio with high ceilings and many features similar to the bar you’d just left. Half of the space was raised like a platform with a steel wire railing running along the edge. He had his bed up there and what looked like an office, but he’d created a divider of sorts with cube shelves filled with sweats, hoodies and t-shirts.

Promptly, you recalled him telling you he owned a company that designed and distributed merch for independent artists, and how he was constantly receiving samples from suppliers.

The kitchen was simple, sleek cabinetry and stainless steel appliances without a single smudge. A massive butcher’s block with a wooden top and wire racks underneath serving as an island. And a steel rack hanging down from overhead laden with cast iron cookware.

You took a few more careful steps inside, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath from being kissed stupid in the elevator while Eddie flipped some switches that illuminated the space with recessed lighting. Large black-paned windows revealed a view of the city and the night sky outside, some amber light from the street filtering in and casting across the oak floors.

In his living area was a massive brown leather sectional with extra-deep cushions and a chaise at both ends. It faced a plain wall with a screen you assumed went with the projector hanging down from one of the exposed beams overhead.

Every inch of your skin crackled with excitement as he came up behind you and reached around to grip the lapels of your coat and help you out of it, letting his fingertips skim your bare arms as he did. It made you shiver in spite of the warm air you could feel pumping out of the vents.

He hung up your coat next to his on a hook by the front door and you turned to face him as he sauntered back over. His gait was relaxed and casual, like he had all the time in the world. 

Like he wasn’t driving you up the wall with every second you went without his mouth on yours.

“Did you want another drink?”

He gestured in the direction of a liquor cabinet, glass shelves lined with a modest array of wines and spirits, but you shook your head at the offer.

“Not particularly,” you said with a coy grin.

Reaching out and hooking a finger in his belt loop, you whirled yourself into him and slotted your mouth against his, licking into it to taste the smoky remnants of whisky there. He breathed into it deeply, his broad chest expanding with it and chuckling when he felt your hands on his belt.

“Easy there, tiger,” he teased, your lips breaking apart and taking hold of your wrists to still their efforts. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“Hopefully the kind that knows how to fuck.”

You smirked, the tip of your tongue flicking out between your teeth as your face veered in again. Your hips pressed with his and you began to sway back and forth, gently grinding them on him, resuming the dance you’d begun. His face came close, his hands settling on your waist.

“C’mon, honey,” he drawled. “Haven’t you heard good things come to those who wait?”

His lips trailed along the column of your neck, sending a riot of shivers down your spine causing you to release a breathy sigh.

“Sorry, what? All I heard was come.”

Eddie chuckled at that and his breath rushed across your neck as he smiled into your jugular.

“You’re funny,” he sighed. “We’ll see how funny you are when I get done with you.”

It was a miracle your knees didn’t buckle on the spot. Your eyes rolled back in your head, almost seeing the inside of your skull as his hand came up and he placed it around your throat.

“You want this?” he asked, his tone cool and precise, his eyes wandering across your face.

“Yes,” you gasped, all desperate and panting now you were so eager for him to start.

His thumb and middle finger pressed the sides of your throat, slowing the flow of blood just enough to make your head go fuzzy and your body to go just barely limp in his arms. 

“Yes, what?” he growled. You drew a shuddering breath, unrestricted by his expert hold.

“Yes, I want this,” you answered. “I want you.”

Eddie took his time undressing you, softly kissing the new expanse of skin he unveiled with the removal of each piece of clothing.

He nipped lightly at your collar bones as he shed your blouse, canines catching briefly on the chain around your neck. He dragged his lips torturously slow over your stomach as he undid your skirt and it fell to the floor with a soft plop. His breath rush across your thigh as he kneeled to drag down the zippers of your boots, kissing your inseam though your tights all the way down to your ankles.

Every second was a kind of exquisite torture. Your heart hammered behind your ribs, the bones almost rattling with the force of it. And as much as you were dying to grab him by the back of the head and take over, you let yourself slip steadily under the spell of his affections.

You believed what he seemed to be whispering with his eyes in between every indelible kiss he dropped to your buzzing skin. He had you. He would take care of you. You could trust him.

And once you were totally bare in front of him, he held out his hand for you to take and he spun you in a slow circle like a ballerina in a music box, his eyes feasting on every inch of you.

If it was anyone else, you might have shied away. You might have felt some level of shame or concern about being stark naked in front of him while he was still fully clothed. You might have worried he would see something he didn’t like, some flaw or defect you preferred hidden. But the look on his face was nothing short of rapturous.

He walked you over to the couch and kissed you deeply as he removed his clothes. Showing not an ounce of the kind of care and consideration for his own as he did for yours, he stripped them off hastily and discarded them, tossing them away like they were garbage.

Your naked bodies came together in a full press, his arms curling around your form and his hands stroking your skin like he was trying to make sure not a single part of it went untouched.

At last, he sank down onto the sofa and his knees spread apart, his hard cock standing stiff and ready for you. He took your hands in his like he was going to pull you forward onto his lap, but you dropped to your knees instead, tucking your feet under your ass.

You looked up at him expectantly, your eyes darting between his face and his cock, the corners of your mouth curling upwards in a smile as your brows raised with a silent question.

“You sure?” he asked, circling his base with his thumb and forefinger to give a gentle squeeze. “I can take care of you, you know? Fuckin’ love to.”

“Don’t worry,” you said cooly, lashes fluttering as you scooted closer. “You will.”

You placed your hands on his knees and pushed them further apart so you could lean forward to kiss up the inside of his leg. Trying to give him a taste of his own slow, teasing medicine, you worked your way all the way up to the crease of his thigh and turned your head inward.

Eddie’s breath stuttered as your lips met his shaft, poking your tongue out to run it up the length. His head tipped to the side, his ear touching his shoulder to get a better view of you licking at him, halting grunts and gasps tumbling past his lips as yours puckered to kiss it more.

When you were satisfied you’d gotten him sufficiently worked up, you reached out and wrapped your hands around him fully, your fists stacked and twisting gently.

You stroked him off slow and even, your hands squeezing tight around his shaft, mixing your spit and the beginning of his spend that leaked from his tip. He watched you reverently, eyes hooded as he enjoyed your show. And looking up at him, a gooey sort of warmth filled your entire body.

You felt yourself slipping further into that sort of headspace you craved—all pliant and willing, your knees digging into his plush area rug as your legs tingled with numbness.

Your heart raced as you imagined giving yourself up to him completely. 

Letting him take whatever he wanted from you.

As though he sensed it, as though he could read the desperation in your eyes, he cradled your jaw in his large hand and dotingly stroked the side of your face as he tilted his head at you.

“What is it, baby?” he cooed encouragingly. “What do you want? You can tell me.”

“Want you to use me,” you pleaded, fingers still sliding around him. “Use my mouth.”

Eddie gazed at you where you kneeled in front of him, your eyes having gone all big and round and glassy, shining with the tears you were dying for him to make spill down your cheeks.

Begging for it.

“Of course, baby, of course,” he sighed, gripping your chin and swooping in to kiss you deeply.

His firm hold gave you permission to go limp and you let your hands fall from his cock to rest on his muscled thighs, palms coasting over his tattoos and sparse leg hair. He pulled back, keeping your chin grasped in his fingers, holding your face still as he instructed you.

“You slap me three times in a row if you want to stop, okay?” he ordered in a husky rasp. “Do it for me now, so I know you can.”

You obeyed instantly, delivering three strikes to his thigh. His lips curled in a devilish grin. 

“That’s it, just like that,” he hummed in approval. “What a smart girl you are, huh?”

The praise rippled down your back, his words making you tingle all over, much like your calves that were starting to go numb from sitting back on them. He reached around the back of your neck, gently guiding you into position so his cock was pointed directly at your lips. 

His large hands nearly covered your entire head, holding it in his firm grasp, his fingertips digging into your scalp and causing even more shivers. Eyes locked with his, you let your mouth hang open and your tongue loll out fully, reaching almost all the way to your chin. 

Eddie moaned loudly, mesmerized by the pool of spit you’d let collect in your mouth and the way it dribbled past your lips, running down your tongue and dripping onto your chest.

“Fuuuuck,” he chuckled low and rough, touching just the tip of his dick to your wet tongue. “You really want me dead, huh?”

Your eyes danced as you nodded, the motion causing your tongue to brush against his sensitive slit and spread his precum across the flat of it. A sharp gasp punched from his chest, not ready for the sensation, and his whole body shuddered with need. His eyes blazed and his nostrils flared as he gripped tighter around the back of your head and thrust fully into your mouth.

Lewd sounds filled the room as he pushed his cock past your lips, your mouth flooded with spit that poured out of you and pooled in the wiry thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You felt your body going lax and floppy as you gave yourself over to him, letting him hold your head up as you melted into little more than a puddle.

“That’s it, baby. Just let go, let me take what I need,” he drawled in that smoky voice, beginning a gentle thrust of his hips that pushed him deeper still into your mouth. “You’re doing so well…”

The salty tang of him covered your tongue as your jaw slackened to accommodate more of him, the sounds you were making coming out garbled.

“Christ, you sound so fucking sweet choking on my cock” he groaned. “What a good slut you are, huh? Giving me this mouth, letting me ruin it?”

You gagged loudly as his cock pushed in further until his tip met the back of your throat. He held the back of your head and your nose was nuzzling against the hair at his base, breathing in his thick and heady musk. Far earthier than his cologne, this was a smell that could only be him.

His eyes flitted to your hand clutching at him, your nails digging into the meat of his thigh.

But you made no move to tap out. Another tight spasm of your throat had him throwing his head back, his eyes pinching shut and his lips falling open in a desperate gasp.

“Shit, that feels so good,” he whined softly, his domineering mask slipping ever so slightly—the broken sound only making you go more feral.

Bracing yourself on his thighs, you began to push your head down to meet his thrusts, fucking your own face with his cock so hard that his grip on the back of your head was extraneous.

“Okay, okay—okay,” he grunted, chest heaving as he pulled you off him before he could blow.

His fingers held fast in your hair, squeezing it at the roots. You drew in air in great heaving breaths, panting from the effort, your tongue still hanging out of your mouth and head bobbing as you tried to chase the cock he had to drag you off of.

“You’re a greedy fucking girl, aren’t you, baby?” he chuckled, yanking your head back sharply so you were staring at the ceiling, eyes straining to look at him over the curves of your cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” you gasped back, chest still heaving.

“You want my cum that bad?” he teased lowly, pushing his face against yours and smearing the wetness of your tears across your cheeks.

“Yes, please,” you whined pitifully. “I need it.”

“Oh, you’ll get it,” he assured you, reaching down with his free hand to rub between your legs. “But only if it goes in this needy little pussy.”

Your entire body writhed as his fingers toyed with your swollen clit and dripping folds, scalp stinging where he gripped your hair with his other hand.

A pleasurable wail burst out of you as his thick fingers thrust inside your warm, wet hole and started to scissor relentlessly.

“YES, fuck—come in me. Please, please…”

More tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you begged him, drip, drip, dripping off your chin and onto your heaving chest, rolling down your naked body, leaving wet trails in their wake.

Eddie had to fight the urge to lick your clavicle. 

He hauled you up onto his lap, scooting down so he could plant his feet properly on the floor. Your knees sank into the worn leather of his cushions on either side of his hips and you used all what little strength you had left to reach down and align yourself with him.

“Don’t you hold back—haah—alright?” he said, hissing softly as you sank down on his length. “I want that fucking loser from Tinder to be able to hear you from here. Understand?”

You nodded, hips beginning to slide back and forth, relishing the way his thick cock prodded at your insides and stoked your desire. Eddie let you keep control for a moment, his hands squeezing at the softness of your stomach, molding it with them. He watched you raptly, mesmerized by the undulations of your body, the way you let it writhe and rock and squirm on him until he thought you might come solely from your own movements.

A loud, exhilirated moan burst out of you as he suddenly thrust his hips upwards, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slammed into your g-spot on the first fucking stroke—as if he could see straight through your flesh to aim for it.

The room filled with sounds even more lewd than before—the wet clap of his thighs with your ass cheeks, his balls slapping your soaking pussy, your mound squishing into his pelvis.

Eddie threw his head back, overwhelmed by the sight of every part of you bouncing so prettily on him. And as he exposed his neck, everything in the room went hazy except that thick, taught, muscled column. Sending you feeling.

You clawed at it desperately and drew hot, red streaks down it with your nails that trailed all the way to the middle of his tattooed chest.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Mark me up. Show everybody who owns me—”

He slid his hands back to grip your ass, spreading the fleshy globes wide and stretching your holes further open as he continued to slam his length inside you. He let one side go and delivered a single stinging slap that reverberated throughout your whole body. 

The burn made you keen, arching your back until your chest was flush with his. He reached up to grip the back of your neck, taking your earlobe between his teeth and raking them over it.

“Now that that mouth is free, I wanna hear how good you feel,” he growled.

And if you thought you were loud before, it was nothing compared to now. The combination of his words and the perfect pace being set by his cock sent you instantly toppling over the edge, with Eddie’s own release following right behind.

In that moment, you vowed to send a fruit basket to every single one of his neighbors—an apology for making them think that a woman was getting murdered in the middle of the night two or three stories above their heads. The orgasm he brings you to makes you scream, practically sobbing as you cry out in immeasurable relief while searing hot pleasure ravages your entire body. 

It’s an ascent you’ve never dreamed of reaching the peak of, the feeling spreading to the tips of every extremity, filling you with fire. It feels so good, it almost makes you sad to know you might never feel like this again. And if your brain hadn’t already turned to mush, you might have cared.

As you dwindled down from your high, you slumped forward limp and spent—your body still rippling with the effects, Eddie’s arms coming up to hold you against him as he peppered your shoulder with soft, sweet kisses.

“That’s it,” he breathed out in your ear. “That’s it, baby, just feel it…such a good girl f’me…”

He ran his fingers slowly up and down the column of your spine, creating waves of shivers waiting for your trembling to subside.

His length grew soft inside of you, but he made no move to slide you from his lap or to rush you in the slightest. He let you cling on to him, your face buried in his sweaty neck, his long hair tickling your face, losing yourself in his touch.

Slowly, your breathing grew deep and even, your racing heart slowing in your chest. Eddie turned his head and spoke to you quietly with his warm breath fanning across your cheek.

“You ready to move?” he asked.

You gave a weak nod.

Wobbling on unsteady legs, you stood and his hands quickly moved to the curve of your waist to keep you steady. He took you to the bathroom which looked more like it belonged in a spa than someone’s house, sitting you on the toilet.

From a hook hanging on the back of the door, he produced two bright white waffle weave robes, offering one to you. And as you wrapped the soft material around your shoulders, he turned on one of the faucets and held his fingers underneath it to test the temperature.

Once he’d deemed it warm enough, he took a fluffy washcloth from a little pyramid of them that were rolled up next to the sink basin. He held it under the stream, saturating the cloth and then giving it a gentle twist. You watched his hands every step of the way, mesmerized by the way his veins bulged under his skin and the muscles in his arms flexed as he wrung out the excess water.

He rubbed the warm cloth gently across your face, wiping off the residue of tears and spit and cum and what little was left of your make-up until your bare face shone in the soft lighting. 

Once he had finished, he dropped the cloth into a hamper and cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs gliding easily over your slippery skin.

“So pretty,” he hummed, the words so soft you wondered if you were even meant to hear them.

From one of the drawers in the vanity, he brought out a pot of moisturizer and offered it to you with a smile. You frowned up at him, jutting out your bottom lip in a comical pout, not ready for him to stop taking care of you. It made him chuckle and a bemused smile spread across his lips as he tapped the tips of his fingers in the gel and started to smooth it over your cheeks.

“Come lay down with me?” he asked when he’d finished, head tilting back in the direction of the short set of stairs leading up to where his bed sat.

You nodded and he held out his hand to lead you out of the bathroom. You curled up on top of his dark duvet, your head sinking into the softness of his down pillow that held the faint scent of what you guessed was his tea tree oil shampoo.

The thick mattress dipped as he climbed onto it with you and draped a beige knit blanket over the both of you before he sidled up against your body.

It was…nice. More than nice. Shit, it was as close to perfect as you had felt in a long time.

The feel of his chest expanding and contracting against your back; his steady breath on the nape of your neck; the soft robe wrapped around your body and the comforting weight of the blanket on top of you. Not to mention Eddie’s arm curled securely around your waist. 

Your eyes felt heavy, like your eyelashes suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, and you drifted fully into sleep, succumbing to the relief that had washed over you not twenty feet away.

When you woke, it was still dark out. 

The street noise had lessened significantly and if you had to hazard a guess, it might have been close to one or two in the morning. Eddie’s place was darkened, lit only by orange street light that filtered through his windows and a half-dimmed reading light in the corner.

It was an arc lamp, suspended over a leather Eames chair where you could see that your coat and all of your previously discarded clothes were arranged in a neat little pile. But laid out at the foot of the bed right next to your feet were a pair of black fleece pants and hoodie, both about your size and emblazoned with the names of bands you didn’t recognize.

You sat up slowly, fingers hovering over the thick material as you debated. Were they for you? They looked a little big for Eddie, but maybe he had laid them out for himself? Was it a sign he was about to go to bed and you needed to get moving?

In the end, you slid out from underneath the blanket still draped over you and redressed in your clothes. After pulling your tights and skirt back on, stepping into your boots and zipping them up your calves, pulling your coat back on, you looked around the loft searching for Eddie.

From up here, you could see the bathroom door was open and the light was off…eliminating the only place he could actually be. And then your eyes fell on one of the windows that was cracked open with a short step-ladder built into the wall that had been pulled down in front of it.

You pulled your coat around you tighter the closer you got to the window and tentatively climbed the steps leading up to it. You pushed the large glass pane the rest of the way open and poked your head outside to find Eddie sitting on his terrace, resting with his back to the brick, head tipped back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke from his lips that drifted up towards the stars.

“Hey,” you said softly. His head turned at the sound and a wide smile spread across his lips.

“There she is,” he said in a gentle cheer.

You climbed through the window and a breeze carried the scent of the joint he was holding. You took a seat across from him, leaning back against the metal railing and letting your legs stretch out alongside his. He dropped his hand to rub your calf and he frowned at the realization you had redressed in your tights and boots. His brow furrowed adorably.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

He shook his head and took another drag of the joint before passing it into your waiting fingers.

“The clothes were for you,” he said. “Y’know, if you wanted something to sleep in.”

You paused, the joint just shy of touching your lips. “Like…if I was staying?”

“Would you stay?” he asked, a ribbon of smoke curling in the air as he exhaled.

Your mouth hung open, clouds of your hot breath escaping. “Oh, um…I mean, only if you—”

He cut you off with his lips, slipping his hand around the back of your neck and pulling you into a long kiss. Tiny embers scattered from the joint, being taken by the wind that blew and made the ends of Eddie’s long hair tickle the sides of your face. You pulled apart and he answered solidly.

“I want you to,” he said.

wasn't expecting this to be so long (that's what she said), but I hoped you liked it if you made it this far 🩷 love you, mean it!

[wolfer01]

The Perfect Partnership: English Willow Cricket Bats – Combining Power and Precision

Cricket, often referred to as the “gentleman’s game,” is a sport where every element of equipment plays a crucial role in a player’s performance. Among the various gear used by cricketers, the choice of a cricket bat is paramount. One particular variety that has stood the test of time and is favored by professionals and enthusiasts alike is the Leather Cricket Bat English Willow. Renowned for its unique characteristics, this type of bat offers the perfect balance of power and control needed for an exceptional batting performance.

The Essence of English Willow

English willow, scientifically known as Salix alba caerulea, is a specific variety of willow tree that grows predominantly in the United Kingdom. What sets it apart from other woods is its exceptional combination of lightness and strength, making it the wood of choice for crafting high-quality cricket bats.

The Ideal Balance

The essence of a great cricket bat lies in finding the perfect equilibrium between power and control. English willow, with its inherent characteristics, strikes this balance seamlessly. Its lightweight nature ensures that bats made from this wood are easy to maneuver, allowing players to execute both defensive and attacking shots with precision.

Power and Precision

Cricket is a game of strategy and technique, and the choice of bat can significantly impact a player’s performance. English willow cricket bats provide the power needed to strike the ball with authority, ensuring that boundaries are reached effortlessly. Yet, they also offer the control required for delicate and precise strokes, such as the late cut or the perfect cover drive.

Crafting Excellence

Crafting a cricket bat from English willow is an art form that requires skill and expertise. The wood must be carefully selected, dried, and shaped by master craftsmen who understand the nuances of the game and the importance of a well-balanced bat.

Preferred by Professionals

It’s no surprise that professional cricketers worldwide prefer English willow cricket bats. They recognize that these bats offer the optimal blend of power and control, giving them a competitive edge on the field. Whether it’s facing fast bowlers or spinners, the reliability of English willow ensures that every shot is executed with confidence.

A Choice for Enthusiasts

While professionals seek excellence, cricket enthusiasts and amateurs also appreciate the value of a high-quality cricket bat. The Leather Cricket Bat English Willow is a choice that allows players at all levels to enjoy the benefits of a well-crafted bat.

Embrace the Excellence

In the world of cricket, where the fine line between victory and defeat is often determined by a single stroke, the choice of a cricket bat is critical. Embrace the excellence of English willow and experience the perfect balance of power and precision. Whether you’re a professional cricketer or an enthusiast, a Leather Cricket Bat English Willow is an investment in your performance and enjoyment of the game.

Discover the difference that this exceptional wood can make in your cricketing journey. Choose English willow, and elevate your game to new heights, one powerful and precise shot at a time.

[astridsports011]

Cricket bats in Seattle Washington

Highlights Of CRICKET Bat And The Importance Of Bat 

Cricket is a sport that is loved by people all around the world, and one of the most important pieces of equipment for any cricketer is their bat. The cricket bat is the main tool used by the batter to hit the ball and score runs. With so many different types of cricket bats available, it can be difficult to know which one to choose. Here, we will discuss some of the most popular types of cricket bats, where to buy them, and what to look for when purchasing a cricket bat.

Types Of CRICKET BATS And The Best Place To Purchase 

One of the most popular types of cricket bats is the English Willow bat. These bats are made from the finest English willow and are known for their durability, balance, and power. They are ideal for professional and advanced-level players who want a high-quality bat that will last for many seasons. Another popular type of cricket bat is the Kashmir Willow bat. These bats are made from the finest Kashmir willow and are known for their lightweight design and excellent performance. They are perfect for beginners and intermediate-level players who want a high-quality bat that is easy to handle.

If you’re looking to buy a cricket bat, there are many options available to you. You can buy cricket bats at your local sports store or through a number of online cricket bat stores on the Internet. When shopping online, it’s important to make sure that you’re buying from a reputable seller and that you’re getting a high-quality bat. Astrid Sports is also the best website to buy cricket bats, and for years we have been in this industry and are selling a top-quality cricket bat collection. This is a team-driven business that tries hard to make cricket accessories accessible for every cricketer to live their dream happily. 

Things that you need to take care of while purchasing the cricket bats

When purchasing a bat, there are a few key factors to consider:

Material: 

Bats can be made from a variety of materials, including wood, aluminum, and composites. Each material has its own advantages and disadvantages, so it’s important to consider which one will best suit your needs.

Weight: 

The weight of a bat is an important factor to consider, as it can affect your swing and control. A heavier bat will typically generate more power but may be more difficult to control. A lighter bat will be easier to control but may not generate as much power.

Length: 

The length of a bat is also important, as it can affect your swing and control. Most of the time, a longer bat will have more power, but it may be harder to control. A shorter bat will be easier to control but may not generate as much power.

Grip: 

The grip of a bat is also an important factor, as it can affect your comfort and control while swinging. A bat with a good grip will be more comfortable to hold and will help you maintain a better grip on the bat.

Brand and Price: 

Some of the top brands are Louisville Slugger, Rawlings, DeMarini, and Easton. The prices vary based on the material, design, and brand, so it’s important to find a balance between quality and price. Well if you are purchasing cricket bats from ASTRID SPORTS then also you will not find any kind of “room for doubt” because they import the cricket bats directly from the U.S.A. 

Size of the bat – 

The first thing to consider is the size of the bat. You want to make sure that the bat is the right size for you, as this will affect your ability to control and handle the bat. 

Overall, there are many different types of cricket bats available, and the right one for you will depend on your skill level, budget, and personal preferences. Whether you’re an advanced player looking for a high-quality English Willow bat or a beginner looking for a lightweight Kashmir Willow bat, there are plenty of options available to you. With the right cricket bat, you’ll be able to hit the ball with power and precision and enjoy the game of cricket to the fullest. If you’re looking to buy a cricket bat in the USA, Astrid Sports has a wide range Cricket bat in Seattle

 of options online as well as at sports stores. With the right bat, you’ll be able to take your cricket game to the next level and make the most of your time on the field.

Buy the best English and Kashmir willow Cricket bat in Washinton 

[cricketmegamart]

Cricket Mega Mart: Your Guide to find Best Cricket Stores in Los Angeles

Leading cricket retailer Cricket Mega Mart is based in Los Angeles, United States. And Owns a Huge cricket store in Los Angeles where you can purchase many cricketing goods at the lowest costs, we provide English Willow Cricket Bats, Cricket Leather Balls, Cricket Clothing, Cricket Accessories, and more.

[duplicitywrites]

Harry is wiping down the front counter when he notices the boy staring at him.

Full blown, wide-eyed staring—an amusing expression on a precocious boy no older than twelve or thirteen at most, with warm brown irises and a head of cute, lolling curls that must have taken his mother ages to style.

“Hello,” Harry says in a friendly way, giving the boy a little wave.

No response, though a flush of pink seems to be steadily spreading across the boy’s soft, round cheeks.

“Are your parents around?” Harry asks, now cautious, glancing around the mostly deserted parlour.

The boy coughs. Clears his throat with a tiny harrumph that sounds more cricket than croak. “No.” His chest puffs up, his chin tilting with pride. “My father lets me go around on my own.”

Not a reassuring answer, though the use of ‘father’ draws Harry’s attention to the boy’s clothes—definitely posh, from his fancy branded polo shirt to his little leather loafers.

“Wow,” Harry says, pretending to be impressed. “You know, I think I used to run around my neighbourhood at your age.” The Dursleys never batted an eye if he came home late, and probably wouldn’t miss him if he never came home at all. “How old are you?”

The flush is more prominent now, a pretty pink-red that creeps towards the shirt collar.

“Fifteen.”

That’s absolutely a lie. Harry nods like this makes perfect sense, never mind that this kid probably couldn’t even sit in a booth without his feet dangling over the floor.

“Did you want some ice cream?” Harry asks. If he keeps this boy here, at least he’ll be safe until the parents show up.

“My name is Tom,” says the boy. His keen eyes narrow in on Harry’s plastic name tag. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

The way Tom says his name—Harry—is perfectly polite. Rich kid with manners.

[boasamishipper]

LARROQUETTE POLL ROUND ONE RECAP

our original pool of sixteen sexy larroquette characters has been winnowed down to an elite eight. if your faves won the fight, congratulations! pat yourselves on the back for a vote well cast and a propaganda campaign well run. if your faves sadly did not emerge victorious, don't worry: the round one losers will have a bracket of their own after this tournament is over, so they'll all have one more shot at the crown.

let's meet our elite eight!

Billy Ace (Choose Me)

though David Bedford (Blind Date) fought the good fight, Billy Ace (of tall dark and handsome, leather jacket, and motorcycle riding fame) emerged victorious with 18 votes to 12. hopefully David will find consolation in his gigantic pile of teddy bears.

Carl Sack (Boston Legal)

his bitchiness, stoic demeanor and steadfast refusal to take part in the Shenanigans™️ around him have bewitched larroquette nation body and soul: Crane, Poole, and Schmidt senior partner Carl Sack beats serial killer-turned-attorney Joey Heric (The Practice) 33 votes to 9. 'no hard feelings,' says Joey amiably while sharpening his knives. sleep with one eye open, Carl.

Jenkins (The Librarians)

this race saw the highest voter turnout, and while things were close in the beginning, TWW's Lionel Tribbey's faithful cricket bat was no match for Jenkins's sword, or his crossbow, or his lightsaber, or his bow ties, or his clubbing outfit. with 36 votes to 24, our beloved caretaker moves onto the next round, and Lionel Tribbey can take a much needed vacation someplace warm, with as many drinks with little umbrellas in them as his heart desires <3

John Hemingway (The John Larroquette Show)

hemingway during the final hours of the race:

it was close, but our favorite well-read bus depot manager John Hemingway emerged victorious over ex cop turned lawyer curmudgeon with a heart of gold Mike McBride. congratulations john! see you next time, mcbride!

Bob Anderson (Baa Baa Black Sheep)

our good baby-faced second lieutenant took the lead early on and maintained it all the way to the end. rip Captain Stillman. back to commanding officer duty at an alaskan weather station you go.

Mark Bannister (Madhouse)

in a race that led many (my dear friend emily @footnoteinhistory) to ask Why Are You Doing This To Me, sexy yuppie driven to madness Mark Bannister (Madhouse) beats nice handsome single father Don Moore (Summer Rental) 26 votes to 9. Mark may be going onto the next round, but does he have a boat? No? Didn't think so.

Roan Montgomery (Chuck)

another nailbiter of a race, but much like rock beats scissors, legend suave debonair secret agent man (Roan Montgomery) beats cigar-smoking businessman with a predilection for child murder (Lawrence Van Dough) every time. off you go to your next assignment, Agent Montgomery. Mr. Van Dough, back to court-mandated community service on the sprawling lawns of the Rich mansion with you.

Dan Fielding (Night Court)

he couldn't beat a dead man, he couldn't beat a spunky blonde, but by god, our favorite ADA absolutely trounced paranormal detective Wilbur Willis (Second Sight) in a battle of sexiness. good work as always, mr. prosecutor - let's see if you've got what it takes to go all the way!

Round 2 will begin at 12pm CT on 9/16.

[keyplaid]

It was his first day at St. Edmund's Academy, a prestigious boarding school tucked away in the English countryside. The morning sun poured through the tall, paned windows of the dormitory common room, casting golden stripes across the polished oak floor. Thomas sat alone on an ornate chair, back straight, his hands tightly gripping the armrests as if they were anchors. His freshly pressed blazer felt stiff against his shoulders, and the unfamiliar knot of his tie seemed to choke him slightly. He had heard stories about schools like this one — stories of privilege, tradition, and a quiet, simmering rivalry among the boys.

He looked around at the room, filled with old books, trophies, and remnants of past glories: a cricket bat propped against a dusty shelf, oars hanging on the wall, and a leather football resting on a nearby table. Everything in this place seemed to carry a weight of history, a story of some past student who had left a mark, and now it was his turn.

But Thomas wasn’t naive. He knew how these places worked. He’d seen enough boys’ schools to know that there was always a hierarchy, an unspoken order that was established from the very first day. He was determined to stay above it, to rise above the petty rituals of initiation that he knew would come.

“Oi, new kid!” A voice broke through his thoughts. Thomas turned to see three boys, a little older, standing by the door. They wore the same uniform, but their blazers were worn in and their ties hung loose around their necks. One of them, a tall boy with a mess of blond hair and a mischievous grin, stepped forward.

“You’re sitting in Rupert’s chair,” the blond one said, his grin widening. “And Rupert doesn’t like anyone sitting in his chair.”

Thomas felt a surge of irritation but kept his face calm. “I didn’t see a name on it,” he replied coolly.

The other boys snickered. The tall boy's grin disappeared, replaced by a look of mock seriousness. “Oh, we’ve got a funny one, lads,” he said. “What’s your name, then?”

“Thomas,” he replied.

“Well, Thomas,” the boy said, “around here, you earn your place. And today, you’ve earned yourself a little… welcome.”

Before Thomas could react, the three boys rushed forward. He fought back, pushing the first one aside and landing a solid punch to the stomach of the second. But there were too many of them, and they were too quick. Within seconds, they had grabbed his arms, pulling him out of the chair and onto the floor.

“Let go of me!” he shouted, kicking out, but it was no use. The tall boy grabbed the waistband of Thomas’s underwear, peeking out above his shorts. They were plain white briefs, a bit too snug and with the elastic band slightly frayed — an old pair he hadn’t thought twice about that morning. With a practiced yank, the boy pulled them up sharply, the fabric stretching painfully against Thomas’s skin, causing a searing pain to shoot up his back.

The boys erupted in laughter, their eyes gleaming with amusement. “Look at those tighty-whities!” one of them hooted, his voice filled with mockery. “Did your mum pick those out for you?”

The tall boy grinned wider. “Classic choice, Thomas,” he sneered. “Perfect for a mummy’s boy.”

Thomas’s face flushed with embarrassment, but he kept his jaw clenched, refusing to let them see any tears or hear any whimpers. He could feel the fabric cutting in painfully, the underwear riding high up his back, but he forced himself to remain still, to not give them the reaction they wanted. His fists trembled slightly at his sides as he endured their taunts.

Finally, they let go, shoving him back down onto the chair with a satisfied smirk. “Welcome to St. Edmund’s, Thomas,” the blond boy said with a sneer. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

Thomas watched them leave, the laughter still echoing in his ears. His cheeks were burning, but he didn’t cry. He wouldn’t give them that. Slowly, he straightened up, adjusted his uniform, and took a deep breath, his underwear still uncomfortably bunched but ignored.

As he sat there, still feeling the sting of the wedgie, he looked around the room once more. The old trophies, the books, the oars, and the bat all seemed to be watching him, challenging him.

Thomas smiled to himself, a small, determined smile. He wasn’t going to let them break him. Not today, not ever.

[leighsartworks216]

The Viper: Rewritten

Chapter 6

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 7

Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader

AO3 - I recommend reading it there

Warnings: swearing, struggling with emotions

Word Count: 4872

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Jaskier was quiet. He’d hardly said a word since Geralt blew up on him. His fingers would rub against each other every now and again, as if he wished to pluck the strings on his lute, but he did not reach for his instrument. The whole time you set up camp, laying out bedrolls and blankets, setting up a campfire, and so on, he sat silently on a rock you dragged over. He was completely zoned out - not even offering to help when you grunted from the labor or winced from your injuries. He only came back to his senses when you held a strip of dried meat under his nose. He’d startled slightly at the sudden smokey scent of seasoned meat, but he took it with a brief, weak smile nonetheless. But even then, he just looked at the food with a frown.

“You need to eat something,” you urged, as he’d once done for you. “You won’t have the strength to make it down the mountain if you don’t.”

“I didn’t even have the strength to stand up for myself!” he cried. As quickly as it was there, the energy and frustration was gone, swallowed up by the night. “Sorry.” His nimble fingers picked apart the jerky. You watched attentively as he pulled off a bit and ate it.

Once he began eating, you did, too. Your eyes never left the bard, watching him sulk all too knowingly. You were just the same way growing up. You could so easily imagine yourself in Jaskier’s place, sat across from Stuldweck. He would have been comforting you after a failed test on alchemy or monsters, or telling you exactly how to get back at Oalvir for a prank or for some taunting remark from the others, or encouraging you to keep trying on the obstacle course. “So you learn how to.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You learn how to stand up for yourself, for next time.”

He sighed. His whole body hunched forward, closing himself away from the harsh world he found himself in. “Next time…” He stared back at the fire; you’d carefully avoided staring too deep into its cruel flickering. Within the embers, he could see those long, dreary nights spent out in the wild with Geralt, chasing after some creature or another. He continued to long for those adventures. He craved stories and tales and wild escapades. “Next time, I’ll tell him to shove it up his arse.”

You chuckled. He lightened up a bit at the sound. “That’s a good start.”

The higher up you went, the less wildlife that seemed to be around. Now that you were descending the mountain, the crickets seemed more abundant. Their incessant chirping mingled with owls’ cries as they searched alongside bats for food. The high-pitched clicks and chirps of echolocation didn’t bother Jaskier, but they were easily picked up by your sensitive ears. Occasionally something would swoop down to catch its prey.

You couldn’t revel in the harmony of nature for long - you had put off tending to your injuries for long enough as it was. With a sigh and the rest of your jerky gone, you began undoing the straps of your leather armor as easily as the last thousand times before. Half of the buckles undone, you reached inside the chestpiece to feel your ribs. They were tender, but you couldn’t find any signs of fractures.

You undid the other half and tugged it all off. The armor itself was lighter and more flexible compared to Geralt’s. It also had less tears. The only noticeable damage was the long cut down the back. You sighed just thinking about having to stitch it back together; you were never very good at sewing.

Reaching behind you, you ran a hand slowly along your back until you felt the tear in your black tunic. You’d have to fix that, too. A little further, and your fingers brushed against the open, scarred tissue. It stung, and the blood around it was dry and crusted. But it felt clean enough. Your armor must have protected it from dust and dirt when you rolled along the cave floor.

“Are you alright?”

You’d nearly forgotten Jaskier was there, watching as you doffed your armor. You weren’t uncomfortable getting rid of that barrier, of removing that protection; so much so you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

You hummed, wincing as your fingers brushed a tender spot. “From the fight,” you explained. “One of them cut through my armor. Got me pretty good.”

He floundered for a moment. “Do you want some help? I mean, I could- Well, I know how to wrap a bandage or-”

“I’d appreciate it.”

You met his eye across the fire. His eyes did not shine and gleam at every new thing. Self-doubt clouded them, dulling them to a soft cornflower blue. He cleared his throat and jumped up. “Supplies?”

You nodded over to your bag, laying by your bedroll. He reached inside, shifting vials and jars of monster parts and ground herbs aside to find bandages. They weren’t really bandages, per se, but long strips of cloth torn from clothes or bedding, wrapped up into a ball. You also instructed him to find a small container of salve, which looked greenish-yellow in the light. As he brought over the items, you shifted to sit with your back to him, and pulled your shirt over your head. He sat awkwardly beside you on the rock, trying not to stare at your back, as you studied the tear in your tunic.

“U-Uhm, this one?” he asked about the container, holding it over your shoulder so you could see. You glanced at it briefly and nodded.

“You’ll need to gather some and spread it on the cut.” You listened to the clinking of the jar as it was opened. You almost grinned at the thought of Jaskier scrunching his nose up in disgust. “Don’t worry about hurting me.”

He scoffed and began dabbing the salve onto the long, inflamed slash, all the while mumbling to himself. “‘Don’t worry about hurting me.’ Yeah right.” The talking helped him gather his nerves. “What is this stuff anyway?” He took an experimental sniff of the jar’s contents, and found the smell actually not unpleasant.

“That same mixture from before; when I fought Geralt at your camp,” you reminded him. He’d remembered the small amount you’d spread on your cheek, then. He glanced over your shoulder to see the mini scar that ran along your cheek. It distracted him from the mention of his former adventuring buddy. “Celandine and white myrtle - helps with the pain and the infection, to some extent.”

“Smells nice.”

You chuckled. “I always found them to have a bitter smell,” you admitted.

He smelled it again, pausing for a moment to try and smell the bitterness. It was faint, on the edge of his senses. In his next breath of the cool night air, it was gone. He shook his head and gathered up more, gently guiding it within the cut. He tried not to think about how he could see the muscle-y tissue just right there, at his fingertips.

It was quiet as he continued to work. He kept trying to think of ways to fill the silence - what questions he could ask, or if he should hum or whistle a tune. You enjoyed it. You traced your fingers over the fabric in your hands, listening to the wind as it moved through the scattered foliage. After a little while, he finished coating the cut with salve and wiped the excess from his fingers onto his pants (they were dirty, anyway).

“Alright, so just, uhm.” He unraveled a bit of the bandage cloth and tried to figure out how to start wrapping it around. You held out a hand for one end of the roll, and held it to your chest so you could tie the ends together when it was all done. He would pass it around your back, and you’d wrap it around your front, until almost your entire back was safely wrapped up in the cloth. You tied the ends together and threw your shirt back on - you could fix it later.

“Is that alright?” he asked. He’d never actually helped anyone patch themselves up before. Geralt would barely let him know when he’d been hurt; Jaskier usually had to guess from the Witcher’s body language.

You turned your body to once again face the fire. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever had,” you teased, but you were sincere as you thanked him.

He fiddled with his fingers. “Thank you, too, by the way,” he rushed out, as if he would never be able to say it again if he didn’t say it now. You looked at him with those sharp snake eyes, and he floundered a little more. “For, erm, yelling at Geralt, like that.” The gratitude came from him stiff and stumbled, but it was genuine.

You smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

He grinned, too, and eased into the silence that came after.

-

The sound of Jaskier’s boots skidding on uneven gravel followed you down the mountain. You took the lead, eyes and ears constantly looking out for monsters or wild animals. It was hard to hear anything over the crunching-sliding sounds of his boots - a cougar with soft paw pads could easily walk right next to you and you’d not notice. You looked over your shoulder and watched as the bard slid down a steep incline, holding an arm out to balance himself while clutching the strap of his lute. Some steps he took were accentuated with grumbles and winces, undoubtedly from the sharp points of rocks poking through the thin soles.

“After all this time traveling,” you called back, waiting for him to catch up, “you never thought to get better boots?”

“Ah, well, I thought about it.” He reached even ground and trudged his way to your side. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths from the exertion. “Never had the extra coin to actually get any.”

He turned to the path ahead, shoulders falling with a sigh as he saw the next slope and the one after that. You had managed to get halfway down yesterday, but there was still much farther to go. Before he could start the long descent down the mountain, you placed a hand on his chest and stopped him.

“What?”

You looked around, eyes scanning the rocky terrain. Nervously, he did the same. You could feel his heart against your hand, beating wildly.

“What is it? Did you hear something?”

Shaking your head, you make your way over to a bolder. It fell decades ago, eroded by time to be smooth. You sat down. Jaskier watched, astonished, as you began removing your boots.

“Now, wait- Hang on!” His boots scraped along as he rushed to stand in front of you. His hands waved all over, trying to stop you without actually touching you. “You’re going to need those! Viper, wh- You don’t even know what size I am! Your boots might not fit! Or my boots might not fit you!”

You paused for a moment, stopped in the middle of unlacing your travel-worn footwear. He watched as you slid one foot to be next to his. Then, you continued unlacing. “They’ll fit well enough.”

He scoffed and paced around, unable to grasp that you would want to do anything so… chivalrous for him. Saving his life on a whim was one thing - it was probably just instinct that made you throw yourself over him - but to fully go out of your way to ease his (dare he say) suffering just because you could?

In no time at all, you were left barefoot on rough gravel. Unlike him, you did not wince or even flinch as the sharp points dug into your heels. He could only imagine it was because they were so calloused after who-knows-how-long of adventuring. You pressed your boots to his chest, giving him no choice but to hold onto them and accept the gesture.

“Put them on. We’ll worry about new boots when we get into town.” You stepped away from the boulder, waving a hand for him to sit down. He hesitated, staring at the worn down, well-loved boots. You nudged him. “C’mon, jaskier, my feet are hurting.”

He glanced down, realizing fully that you were actually barefoot on a rocky mountain. He rushed to sit down and take off his boots so you’d have something to walk in. All the while, his mind ran rampant.

Had Geralt ever done anything this nice? Had Geralt ever done anything to help Jaskier? Anything that didn’t involve the bard’s near death, that is. The White Wolf never even let him touch his steed, no matter how long he had been walking or how badly his feet ached. But you! You just took off your boots and gave them to him like it was such a simple thing, no more important than passing the salt at a meal. You didn’t even think twice about it, no matter how many complaints he brought up. Hell, he hadn’t even complained about his feet aching or his boots doing very little to protect him with their thin soles; you just noticed!

Another voice, less astonished but just as bitter toward his past companion spoke up: They are not Geralt.

He handed over his boots, still dazed by your altruism and perhaps slightly embarrassed over the act of trading shoes, and watched as you slipped them on without sitting back down. You kicked the toe onto the ground, measuring how much space you were left with, before giving him a nod.

“Better?”

He stepped a couple times. The boots felt odd on his feet, but he could already tell they were built for traveling. His, well, they were mostly for appearance.

“Good. Let’s keep going.”

-

Your feet were hurting by the time you reached the base of the mountain, but sweet relief was found in Bayard. The speckled horse greeted you both with loud whinnies and dramatic head bobbing. You wasted no time in stroking his neck and head, pressing your forehead to his nose.

Jaskier looked between your horse and the one tied up next to it, a mare with a light grey coat and dark hair. “So, is your horse named after a fish, too?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

You snorted. “No, absolutely not.” You walked around the side, running your hand along his coat all the way. “No, his name’s Bayard.”

Jaskier watched with twiddling fingers as you prepared your trusty steed for a ride. “Why Bayard? Isn’t that a bit of a mouth full?” He glanced around at the other hitching posts. Some had horses that no longer had owners. One of them was definitely Roach, but he had a feeling she didn’t really want anything to do with him either. The one hitched up next to yours tried reaching out to nudge his arm. He jumped back, unsure how to really act around such a large, terrifying creature.

You shrugged from underneath Bayard, working on a stubborn buckle. “It was just sort of the first name that came to mind. I think it suits him.” You stood and Bayard nudged his side against you. He was excited to finally stretch his legs. You watched as Jaskier nervously patted the top of the mare’s head. “Can you ride?”

He chuckled, shaking his head and stepping away from Hendrick’s horse as she tried nibbling on his doublet. “No, not at all. Geralt usually rode and I’d just sort of,” he gestured his hand moving along a path, “walk alongside.”

“Well, if you’re going to travel with me, you’ll need to move a bit quicker than that.”

He frowned, almost scoffing as he watched you saddle up the mare with some spare tack laying around. “What, like, run? Cuz these legs aren’t really good for sprints or- or jogging.” You looked around for a moment, searching the ground. You set a log on one end and tested it with your foot. Jaskier watched with a sinking feeling in his gut. “What are you doing?”

“You,” you began, grabbing his arm to drag him to the horse’s side, “are going to learn how to ride.”

“What?!” He flinched away when he accidentally ran into her flank, apologizing on impulse.

You patted his shoulder. “Relax, Jaskier, you’ll do fine. So, what you want to do is hold onto the saddle, right here and here, put your foot in the stirrup like this, and pull yourself up. Okay, good, now swing your leg over the back- careful.” You moved the stump away once he was on, but you kept careful watch. It would be unfortunate if he fell off. Or if the horse bucked him off.

He watched you too, but less in a ‘watching a child so they don’t injure themselves’ way and more of a ‘dear god I’m going to die’ way. His blue eyes practically bulged out of his skull in fright. His hands held onto the horn of the saddle for dear life, afraid to even actually touch the horse. “What do I do now?”

“Name her.” Bayard nudged his nose under your arm as you worked to undo the knot in her lead. You had to shove him away before he panicked Jaskier any more.

“Name her?” he parroted. You could hear his panicked breathlessness. “Like what? Doesn’t somebody own it? Am I stealing a horse right now?”

You chuckled under your breath. It was interesting trying to give the bard a crash course in horses when you worked with them for almost a decade of your life. “No, we aren’t stealing; nobody owns her anymore. And it can be anything.” You handed the lead for him to hold as you untied Bayard’s. “You’re poetic - you’ll think of something.”

“Some-thiing!” Jaskier nearly fell forward in panic as you guided both horses onto the road.

“Calm down.” You slung the lead over the mare’s head. He caught it and held onto it like a lifeline while watching you hoist yourself into Bayard’s saddle like it was nothing. He couldn’t picture himself as at-ease with a horse. “Don’t pull the lead too tight, make sure she has room to move.”

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Bayard can’t carry two people for very long, and I’m not going to wait up for you if I’m on the tail of a contract. So, it’s either this, or I’ll wait for you to walk 2 hours to Hengfors by yourself.”

He sighed, pouting as he worried the leather in his hands. “Fine! But if I fall off, I’m blaming you. Now how do we move these things?”

-

The entire ride was spent teaching Jaskier how to ride. He was a surprisingly fast learner, but he also almost slid off the saddle several times. He also spent a grand majority of the trip brainstorming names for his new steed. Due to her silvery grey coat, he tried some names like ‘Silver’ and ‘Snowflake’. That trailed off into names like ‘Furt’, ‘Furtie’, and ‘Hove’ after his memories of home. (Oxenfurt and Lettenhove, respectfully.) Deeply dissatisfied by any variation of those names, he did a full 180 and decided randomly naming things he saw or thought about would be the best way to name her.

By the time you reached the town and zoned back into his random mutterings, he decided to call her Adhara, after a star he read about as a child.

The first stop in town was to the first armorsmith you saw. You almost slid off the saddle before Bayard even had a chance to stop, eager to get Jaskier some proper boots and get yours back. It cost a mite more than you expected, but you saw the glint in the smith’s eye when he told you the price; he was no doubt asking for more due to your profession. So while Jaskier muttered about how unreasonable that was and tried insisting on paying for it himself, you just handed over the coin and left without another word to the craftsman.

Jaskier noticed during this time how you were different. It was hard to notice the change in Geralt - the Wolf was always moody and miserable; but from the moment you stepped into Hengfors, your face was unreadable, even stern. Your eyes shifted around constantly, and when Jaskier cracked a joke or offered a witty remark, you did not even grace him with a soft grin or huff of laughter. It was all part of the job, he supposed.

Once he was settled with his brand new boots and yours were safely returned to your feet (his old boots only fetched a few crowns from the craftsman), you led your steeds to the nearest inn and showed Jaskier how to properly tie up Adhara and remove her tack. Watching him try to lift the saddle and hang it on the wall hook, you’d never suspect he ever set a foot out into the real world.

He insisted on buying the room since you bought the boots, but you insisted he only get one room. There was no point in spending more coin than necessary and you were accustomed to sleeping on hard floors. Perhaps Melitele decided to show you some grace, though, as the bed in the room was plenty large enough to fit two people.

You both trudged into the room and dropped (or carefully set down, in the case of Jaskier’s lute) everything you carried to the floor. The floors creaked and groaned, and the walls were thin enough to hear somebody breathing on the other side, but a warm place to lay your head was enough reason to relax.

“Oh ho ho ho! You beauty!” Jaskier’s voice came from the corner of the room. You paused in the middle of removing your leather armor, watching with quiet amusement as he moved around behind a screen divider. If you cocked your head just enough, you could see the large bathtub, steam wafting from the basin already filled to the brim with hot water. “I have not bathed in days,” he bemoaned. He rushed to his bags, tugging off his doublet all the while, and pulled out various bottles of oils. He practically dumped all of their strongly perfumed contents in.

You huffed a laugh at his enthusiasm (He silently praised the gods that you felt comfortable enough in here to do so.) and pulled off your chestplate. It would be best to patch it up now. With Jaskier safely behind the screen, cursing to himself as he undressed, you pulled your own shirt off and dropped it to the bed with the armor. You would have plenty of time to fix your gear as the bard allowed himself the comfort of a long, hot soak.

The water shifted and sloshed as Jaskier lowered himself in, all content hums and satisfied groans. He always expressed his emotions so plainly. You envied him for it. Even as a child, emotions were scolded or punished; crying in dark corners was not uncommon in the Viper Keep. It was hard to shake off those grueling years when humans looked at you with such open disdain. A Witcher seen laughing would surely bring more ridicule than one that stayed silent.

As you dug through your stuff, you allowed yourself to breathe in the strong smells. They were overwhelming at first, especially with senses as sensitive as yours, but they soon became bearable. “Is that sandalwood?” you called across the room.

“Mhm.” He sighed, spreading out in the water and resting his head on the edge of the tub. He wondered behind closed eyes and private screens what you were moving around the room for, what you were doing. Did Witchers ever rest? “And vanilla.”

With the sewing kit in hand, you gracelessly plopped onto the mattress. It was soft and springy. Your muscles relaxed instantly against the clean fabrics. You readied a thick needle with leather thread and pulled the chestplate into your lap. The cut was clean, which meant it would be easy to fix. And while you’d never been the best at sewing, you were plenty good enough now not to poke your fingers or misalign the edges. “It smells nice.”

He sat up in the tub, water shifting around him as he moved to see what you were doing. His eyes glanced over the bandages around your torso only briefly. “You think so?”

You hummed, nodding as you pulled the thread through. “I don’t get many opportunities to smell something sweet on my travels.”

“Don’t pass by many bakeries, then?”

“No,” you chuckled. “I try to avoid towns whenever possible.”

“How come?” he asked before he could stop himself. Your pointed glance was all the answer he needed. He forgot how unwelcome Witchers were, when the couple he knew were so… Well, he couldn’t say normal, but when you’re around oddities and strangeness all the time, it becomes normal. To him, they were just people. Strange, brave people. “Feel free to use it then, if you’d like,” he offered. The water announced his gestures. “Wash away all that Witchery-ness.”

You pulled taught another thread, leaning in closer to focus on what you were doing. It was a bad habit. Stuldweck always grabbed you by your collar and sat you up straight when he caught you doing it. You sat up a little straighter.

“I wouldn’t wish to waste your expensive oils. Monster guts have a difficult stench to cover,” you dismissed. You tied a knot at the end of your repair, cutting off the excess with a knife. As you worked to thread a smaller needle with cotton thread, you added, “Besides, I think it smells much nicer on you.”

Jaskier stared at you for a minute, trying to think. When he could not cobble together the words, despite how fast his mind raced with a mixed bag of teasing remarks, self-deprecating put-downs, and ways to assure that you surely would also smell nice if you bathed in sandalwood and vanilla, he leaned back into his bath, rested his head against the rim, and stared at the ceiling.

-

You woke up to a dark, empty room. It was disorienting at first; you pulled your knife from under your pillow on reflex. Jaskier and his lute were nowhere to be found, but the smell of sandalwood and vanilla lingered in the air. All his other belongings were still dropped to the floor with your own.

Sharp spikes of pain shot up your spine as you sat up. You carefully prodded at your back, now covered by the patched up shirt. The cut was sensitive, but it would heal well enough. Another scar for the collection, atop an old training injury no less.

The door creaked slowly open on its rusty hinges. Your hand tightened around your blade, prepared to fend off intruders even in your post-nap drowsiness. You sighed when you saw Jaskier poke his head in. He stopped trying to be sneaky once he saw you were awake.

“Ah, good! You’re up.” He sauntered inside with an easy confidence, a slight pep in his step. He dropped his lute onto the bed by your feet and a small pouch full of coins in your lap. “I have just earned enough money for dinner,” he sang proudly.

As you tugged open the bag, he struck a match to light the lamp by the bed. Coins were packed so tightly inside that they didn’t have room to shift or clink together. You raised an eyebrow at the amount. “And drinks.”

He waved his hands about. “Yes, well, I may have stopped by a few of the taverns around town.”

You looked up at him. He cracked under the pressure.

“Or, maybe, all of them.” He sighed, dropping to sit next to you on the bed. He gestured to his shoes. “You spent a lot on these boots! I felt bad!”

You cinched up the purse and tossed it into his lap. “You bought the room,” you reminded him.

“And it definitely didn’t cost as much.” He nudged your arm, jumping up excitedly. “C’mon, Viper! Meat and mead on me!”

Part of you wanted to decline. It wanted to remain completely self-reliant. It wanted to keep some distance between you and the bard, especially when you let your guard down around him so easily. It wanted you to build your walls taller and stronger.

But then he looked at you with those bright, hopeful eyes, and that little part of you fizzled out. You sighed, but you pushed the blankets aside and pulled on your boots. He rambled about his concerts while you pulled your armor back on and holstered your daggers, telling you about drunk patrons who fell over themselves singing along or women who waited until he finished singing to flirt with him. You offered your own input when he took a breath.

You ate and drank more that night than you had in months.

---

Tag List:

@writeawaythepain

@sleepyqueerenergy

@lastwandastan

@adozenforks

@plaguedoctorsnake

@solomonsimp

@cool-ontherun-world

[cricketbatblogss]

Mastering Your Game: Expert Tips for Using an English Willow Cricket Bat

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Consistency in your bat swing is key to mastering batting with an English willow bat. Focus on generating bat speed through a smooth and controlled swing motion, aiming to connect with the ball cleanly each time. Moreover, develop an understanding of shot selection based on the ball's trajectory and your positioning, maximizing the bat's potential in various game situations.

4. Maintaining Your English Willow Bat

A well-maintained bat performs better and lasts longer. Regularly inspect your English willow bat for any signs of damage or wear, such as cracks or loose grains. Keep it clean and dry after each use, and periodically apply bat oil to preserve its natural moisture and resilience. Proper maintenance ensures your bat remains in optimal condition, enhancing its performance on the field.

5. Utilizing Training Drills and Techniques

To hone your batting skills with an English willow bat, incorporate specific training drills and techniques into your practice regimen. Work on improving your timing, footwork, and shot execution through structured drills that simulate match scenarios. Utilize coaching resources and feedback to refine your technique and capitalize on the bat's capabilities effectively.

Conclusion

In conclusion, mastering the art of batting with an English willow bat requires dedication, technique refinement, and an understanding of its unique attributes. By implementing these expert tips into your training routine, you can elevate your batting performance and maximize the potential of your English willow bat on the cricket field. Whether you're aiming for precision shots or powerful strokes, the right approach will enhance your overall gameplay and enjoyment of the sport.

[uzisports]

Unleash your inner beast with the Kookaburra Beast 4.1 Junior Batting Gloves (2022 edition), designed to provide young cricketers with top-notch protection and performance. These gloves feature high-density foam padding that offers excellent impact absorption, ensuring your hands are well-protected against fast bowlers. The dynamic design allows for enhanced flexibility, enabling young players to swing the bat with confidence and precision.

[aurorauroboros]

[image Description: a chart titled “you’re in a horror movie”. The word Horror is in a bloody font. There are chibi versions of jason and michael myers, one on either side of the text.

First column is titled The Killer. It reads: Birth month

Jan- Jason V

Feb- Freddy K

Mar- Chucky

Apr- Pinhead

May- Wolf Man

Jun- Dracula

Jul- Zombie House

Aug- Pennywise

Sept- The Thing

Oct- Michael Myers

Nov- Xenomorph

Dec- Leather Face

The second column is titled Your Protector. It reads: 1st initial of your first name

A- Ash

B- Pick a friend

C- Pet cat

D- Trusty dog

E- Dr Loomis

F- A cop

G-Pick a friend

H-Pick a friend

I- On your own

J- Tommy Jarvis

K- The jock

L-Laurie Strode

M- R.J. Macready

N- Nancy Thompson

O- On your own

P- Sidney Prescott

Q- Cheerleader

R- Ripley

S- Shaun and Ed T- T800

U- On your own

V- Van Helsing

W- Pick a friend

X- On your own

Z- On your own

Z- Zombie friend

The third column is titled Weapon. It reads: Birthday

1st-3rd -Handgun

4th-6th -Samurai sword

7th-9th -Cricket bat

10th-12th -Nunchucks

13th-14th -Machete

15th-17th -Gatling gun

18th-20th -Good cardio

21st-23rd -Survival Instincts

24th-26th -Frying pan

27th-28th -Shotgun

30th-31st -Water pistol

Small text on the bottom of the image reads “Never stay dead”. End ID]

[wolfer01]

Explore and Shop Online for English Willow Cricket Bats at the Best Price from WOLFER

In the world of cricket, where every shot and stroke resonates with a legacy of excellence, the choice of your cricket bat can make all the difference. Introducing WOLFER, a name synonymous with cricketing prowess and craftsmanship. Elevating your game to new heights, WOLFER offers an extensive range of English Willow cricket bats, available for online shopping at the best prices.

The Essence of English Willow: Cricket aficionados understand the significance of the English Willow, revered for its superior quality and performance on the field. The unique properties of English Willow bats, including their impeccable balance, powerful strokes, and exceptional durability, make them the preferred choice of professional cricketers and aspiring talents alike.

Your One-Stop Online Cricket Bat Shop: At WOLFER, we understand that your cricket bat is an extension of your skills and aspirations. Our online cricket bat shop is designed to cater to the diverse needs and preferences of cricketers at all levels. Whether you’re a seasoned player seeking the perfect blade or a young talent looking for the ideal bat to kickstart your journey, WOLFER’s wide range of English Willow cricket bats has something for everyone.

Quality Craftsmanship: WOLFER takes immense pride in the craftsmanship that goes into each and every cricket bat we offer. Our English Willow cricket bats are meticulously crafted to maximize performance, striking the perfect balance between power, precision, and finesse. Each bat is a testament to the fusion of tradition and innovation, resulting in a tool that empowers cricketers to excel on the field.

Choose Your Perfect Bat: One of the joys of shopping online for cricket bats from WOLFER is the ability to choose the perfect bat that aligns with your playing style and preferences. Our range includes options that cater to various playing techniques, ensuring that you can find a bat that complements your strengths and enhances your performance.

Best Price and Value: WOLFER is committed to offering the best value for your investment. Our online cricket bat shop ensures that you can access a premium range of English Willow cricket bats at competitive prices. We believe that quality should never be compromised, and with WOLFER, you can be confident that you’re getting the best bang for your buck.

A Symbol of Excellence: Every English Willow cricket bat from WOLFER carries with it a legacy of excellence and a commitment to quality. When you wield a WOLFER bat, you’re not just holding a piece of equipment; you’re embracing the spirit of cricketing greatness and unleashing your potential on the pitch.

In Conclusion: WOLFER’s online cricket bat shop offers cricket enthusiasts the opportunity to shop for the finest English Willow cricket bats at the best prices. Elevate your game, make your shots count, and experience the thrill of playing with a bat that embodies the craftsmanship, innovation, and legacy of cricket. Choose WOLFER for a cricket bat that’s more than just equipment — it’s a companion on your journey to cricketing excellence.

[astridsports011]

SG manufactured cricket leather ball is made of premium grade 1 rubberized cork, known for being water-resistant and excellent shape retention.