#oc: morton

[garlicboyart]

you are all that you make

(old keystone ocs and newer ones, most from a personal project. alt versions/transparent under the cut)

[delopsia]

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away. 

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright. 

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet. 

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal. 

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away. 

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more. 

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent. 

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts. 

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem." 

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid. 

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear. 

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?" 

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath. 

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around. 

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek. 

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside. 

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear. 

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly. 

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light. 

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..." 

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward. 

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch. 

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again. 

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire. 

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below. 

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck." 

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward. 

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock. 

Weak, his hips begin to move. 

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them. 

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard." 

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it." 

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them. 

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut. 

He's trying. 

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please." 

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum." 

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently. 

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him. 

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once. 

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot. 

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with. 

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do. 

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something. 

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans. 

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind. 

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes. 

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot. 

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though." 

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another. 

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same. 

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again. 

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place. 

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh. 

"I can be," Rhett winks. 

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick." 

You can't get to the sink quickly enough. 

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly. 

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear. 

Sure wonder where that came from.

[childofsardior]

"It's max-power Ludwig time, baby!" but it's my very self-indulgent take on him for my personal AU!

I'm going to talk about my personal version of Ludwig related to my very self-indulgent AU - so I'll warn you: you're going to find LOT of comfort/self-indulgent details and stuff here! Canon x OC included!

↓↓↓ Prepare for the infodump below!! ↓↓↓

General Info:

Full name: Ludwig von Koopa. He specifically put the "von" there instead of "van" to sound more like a noble. Chose this name after one of his favorite Human World's composers (after trying out a few different ones) when he was around 7 and stuck with it - yes, Luddy's been a musical nerd since he was an hatchling.

Gender and pronouns: He's a trans man. Pronouns are he/him. Very aware of this since he was very small, started to correct people with his chosen name(s) and right pronouns as soon as he realized that they were all wrong, and probably stupid from his point of view, even his mother - he had to bite her a couple of times before she understood it wasn't a game. Since Tarrasquins are related to dragons, his transition was a bit different from most species. Nowdays he almost never talks about his queer background, except made for people he blindly trust like his siblings - for occasional gender-related or name-related jokes, especially with Lemmy - or with his GF, usually for the same reasons. He's also confident enough to indulge in typically "feminine" behaviours time to time, without feeling ashamed, especially when hanging out with his sister Wendy. He's Ludwig von Koopa after all, he doesn't gives s**t about other people's opinions.

Sexuality: He doesn't like to use labels, but if asked to pick the closest one to describe himself Lud would probably say "something close to pansexual, but only with people smart and sharp enough to catch my attention." Dated a guy when they were teen, for a while. Now he's dating a girl named Estrela. If Estrela was a guy or an enby-koopa, he would litterally not care.

Age: He is currently 19 and a half (in "canonical" years) and the oldest among his siblings. Considering my Royal Koopas maturing faster than Humans and similar creatures during their first 25 years of life, you could compare Ludwig to a 21-23 years old Human in terms of mental maturity. (Could not say the same about sentimental maturity, but only 'cause Ludwig's always been a bit troubled in sharing genuine feelings even with trusted pals, and he has yet to learn how to manage it. But this is has nothing to do with his species development nor his age.) Birthday is November 12th (Scorpio).

Species: Tarrasquin (also known as "Royal Koopas" or "Dragon-Turtles") - that happens to be a powerful and rare species related both to Koopas and Dragons. The lack of horns at a young age and the number of spikes on the shell may point to the subspecies known as Plains/Field Tarrasquin, while some other details could suggest a "mix" with the Vulcanic bloodline. In addition, all the Koopalings seem to share an innate inclination toward magic and some other unusual details never found before in Tarrasquins, such as tail feathers or natural armors protecting the limbs, along with peculiar tiny gem-like scales scattered around their bodies in different patterns.

Physical appearance: He's a yellow-scaled Tarrasquin, resembling mostly the Vulcanic subspecies like Bowser. He's got blue long hair and tail feathers along with a sapphire-colored spiked shell. He has gray-blue eyes, and a single Royal Fang in the middle of his upper jaw - even if a couple of smaller Royal Fangs are recently growing on the sides of his mouth. Like most of his siblings, his head and shoulders are covedered of green scales/skin, and he also has some of it over the back of his hands. Sapphire-like scales appear all around his body, four of which can be clearly seen on his cheeks. He's quite short for his age, but if you compare him to the others you can guess he's among the oldest siblings, considering his body proportions and a more mature appearance.

Personality: Ludwig's arrogance is quite famous around the Dark Lands. He's extremely full of himself, and doesn't miss an occasion to remember you how superior he is. This is how most people see him from the distance. Actually, Ludwig's character is quite more complex than that. He surely likes to mantain his "I'm clearly better than any of you" mask, especially with his enemies, but he's actually way more chill than that if you start to know him - and if he consideres you your equal, he can actually show his softer and sillier side to you, and prove himself a nice company. He doesn't know what proper "anxiety" is, but he's quite nervous and always on the edge - trying to be perfect, to prove himself and his siblings to be the best leader, to prove everyone (but mostly himself, again) he's a great and talented artist and musician, and so on. He's also a bit lunatic, and had to train himself to be patient during the years, considering the amount of tiny Dragon-Turtles running and creating chaos around him. It's not so common for an insult to land on him - since he rarely cares about other people's opinions, even when they have actual good opinions about him - but when it happens he could grow red with anger or just give the cold-shoulders treathment for a while, depending on who you are. He also rarely feel completely calm or relaxed, his mind always trying to fix some problem or coming up with something new even on background, but from time to time he needs a break too and will probably spend some days playing some instrument in his room without a purpose, or playing video games alone or with Larry and Iggy, like he used to do a lot as a kid. Last but not least: he kinda looks like a guy that never cries or gets emotional, but it's inaccurate. Ludwig rarely cries or weep nowdays, but when he does it's always dramatic and theatrical - even his sibs become a bit afraid of him, never knowing what to say or how to help, when he breaks like that; he'll probably just go to his room playing his piano while crying until he's too tired to continue and probably will just fall asleep. But on the brighter emotions, he is also very much easier to be moved by kind actions than it seems. If any of the people he cares about surprise him with a special gift for his birthday, or prepare something cute thinking about what he loves most, or even just giving him a drawing about him and Junior conquering the Sky Kingdom together - this happened for Lud's 18th birthday, and was Junior's gift - he will probably be surprised, a little embarassed but mostly filled with a mute joy he'll do his best to hide... probably failing, considering those big wet eyes.

Hobbies and passions: They say he's a kind of prodigy, being so young yet skilled in dozens of different things - from battle and magical techniques to various arts - but the truth is that he works really, really hard for everything he wants to learn. He's a bit jealous of Iggy and Junior to be faster and more intuitive learners than him. His main passion revolves around music since he was a kid, but he actually likes to do A LOT OF STUFF - some in a "I'm sooo good at it" way, some other just as hobbies. He likes to play videogames (and even used to do it on a competitive level for a short while), enjoys TTRPGs with his siblings, likes to paint with spray paint from time to time, knows how to sew, learned how to fence and he's quite proud about it, loves to pose and even compete with his sibs (mostly Roy and Wendy) in some cool-poses showoffs when they all feel to... he also enjoys to hum and sing when happy, and he literally learned to speak German to make an impression with a perfectly-faked accent when needed. A current inside joke in the family is claiming that naming what Ludwig can't do would take less time to talk about what he can do - Iggy's even taking notes every time they find out something new Lud is not capable of - the first thing wrote down is "Luddy can't be humble". Talking about music only, his favorite genre has always been the classical one, but contrary of what everybody around him think, he actually enjoys a lot of other genres and also has a bunch of favorite contemporary singers and bands among his infinite list of musicians he likes or likes to take inspiration from. He just strongly dislikes that sort of "music" that only consist in "random and horrible noises, like the sort of thing that Larry listens to". He can himself play dozens of instrument, mostly are the classical orchestral ones but he knows how to play a bunch of modern and electric instruments too - he was the one learning-while-teaching Lemmy how to play the electric bass and the electric guitar, after all; his favorite and main instrument is the piano, followed with the violin and the cello just after. He likes to compose - or at least, try to - his own stuff since he was 10, just after learning the piano basic from Kamek and Bowser themselves. His own first pieces were not exactly... melodious, and now his "4th Symphony" is a recurring meme his brothers and sister like to tease him about. But nowdays he's getting quite good, and has even started to conduct a small orchestra on his own, all made of young people from the Dark Lands and all around the near Kingdoms. He's also fantasizing about making this passion his future main occupations, maybe as a composer in the film's industry or something like that...?

Relationships:

With his siblings: Being the eldest among 8 has not always been easy. Even if Junior has been mostly raised and educated by Bowser, Kamek and a bunch of loyal servants, the other 6 where very much his responsability after their mother sudden disappearance - of course Kamek and the others were taking care of the newly adopted kids, but you know... they needed time to settle in and Ludwig was their main point of reference for a while. So he had to force himself to grow up even faster than before, in terms of responsabilities and leadership. That said, nowdays he still consider himself the leader of the whole "Koopalings" gang - even if most of his siblings can perfectly take care of themselves and often laugh or complain if Lud tryies to impose himself too much, especially when he's doing that in his presumptuous and arrogant way. Still, when things get hard, they all know that they can ask their big brother for help.

Now, for each relationship with the siblings:

Lemmy: They are in good terms. They do not spend too much time together, but when combined can become the Unsufferable Duo Of the Eldest and literally use their Age Superiority to assert dominancte on the others. Lemmy is also one of the few Ludwig can actually confide in, Lemmy being the biggest heart and probably the more emotional mature in the family - but Lemmy's the one EVERYBODY confides in, so it's a bit of cheating.

Roy: They used to fight often when younger, Roy being the only one bold enough to confront the big bro authority. Now they just respect each other, and while Roy trusts Ludwig's cunning brain, Ludwig can fully trust Roy's loyalty, sharpness and strenght, especially for missions that involves fighting and conquering.

Iggy: They are engaged in a mutual, mostly positive rivalry about who is the real family genius. Spoiler: both are, but in different ways. Iggy is an intuitive type, and learns mostly by watching his sourroundings and experimenting, while Ludwig is a studious type, that prefers knowing all about theory before trying things out. Iggy can't really understand music and arts in general - he enjoys them, but in a very "superficial and bland" way, in Ludwig's opinion - and Ludwig can't understand what is so cool about classyfing rocks, animals and plants, and will never get the green-shelled brother curious hyperfixations. Ludwig is also refusing to aknowledge Iggy's higher IQ score than his. But they can actually work together if needed, especially when some project or blueprint or plan needs full-brain power.

Wendy: They get along very well. Their shared passion for music is a good start - when Ludwig tries to compose something more "modern" than usual, it's always to have Wendy singing along with him playing the piano or the violin - but they can generally do various things together and enjoy their mutual company - from going to the SPA to planning the conquest of the next Kingdom. Also, Wendy is probably the only one among them Lud doesn't dare to anger, and also the only one he consider *almost* equal to him.

Morton: Ludwig loves Morton's blind obedience. Then if he thinks too hard about it, he feels bad. Actually, Morton follows Ludwig's lead because he trusts his brother, not because he's a sort of perfectly obedient puppy like some other brother jokes about. The two are in neutral-good terms. They do not spend much time together normally, but during missions Ludwig can count on Morton's natural protective nature to be sure the younger ones won't get too hurt, especially Junior - and this applies to some of the older siblings as well, from time to time.

Larry: The relationship between the two is a bit strange. Like the most of the group, Ludwig can't really stand Larry for too long - the latter is a 13-years-old Royal Koopa acting as an average 13-years-old Human boy most of the times - but as the Big Brother he must set a good example and hide his irritation while he tries to teach his younger brother the art of war and such. But it's hard. Larry is easily distracted and doesn't like to listen to others anyway. Even if Lud manages to get his attention, the azure brother will probably stay on his cellphone all the time. Larry loves to work with and actually playing electronic/techno music, but also trash and YouPipe-worth-meme-songs, "an insult to real music" in Ludwig's opinion. Larry also wants to prove himself as a good leader for the group, even if "lacking with basic leadership knowledge", and tries to fight with Ludwig about it from time to time. When tired or in need of a day off, Ludwig allows Larry to "play the leader for a while", knowing that Wendy or Roy will actually take the real role instead.

Bowser Junior: This one is a complex field to navigate, full of bitterness and mixed feelings. Junior being the only biological child of Bowser makes him the official Heir, but also, somehow, more "important" than the others in terms of social rank and authority. And Ludwig doesn't like this. He can't truly behave normally around Junior; he hates the fact that a child has the right to tell him what to do, especially when he does so in a very bratty and unsufferable way - luckily, Junior is growing up nicer than in the past, but still a kid remains. Ludwig is also jealous of Jr. even if he's never going to admit it aloud, since the little brother still has one parent to take care of him and love him, and this parent is the King of the Koopas himself. "If only I was Bowser's son..." he finds himself thinking about sometimes, but tries not to elaborate further. Ludwig tries to avoid Junior when he can, and Junior does the same since he doesn't like the way Ludwig yaps about everything. But...! Very recently the two have started getting along a bit more. Ludwig noticed Junior proving himself to be much more clever and empathic than he thought, and is now searching for something in common to share. Lud tried to talk Jr into the world of music like he did with most of his siblings, but hasn't been very successful yet. Junior on the other hand convinced his blue brother to paint with him, and Lud discovered that, in fact, he likes it. So they do paint together, from time to time, or wander with Iggy, Morton and Larry around the Dark Lands metro to draw fancy graffiti all together. Ludwig too needs to feel again like a kid or at least a teen time to time.

* * *

With King Bowser: Ludwig is one of the few Koopalings that not address to Lord Bowser as a "father". He was almost 10 years old when they all were officially adopted by the Royal Family, and always saw the King as "the King". He is very loyal to the Crown and likes to think about himself as Bowser's first and most trusted general, and always showes his most serious and adult size when reporting to him. On the other hand, Ludwig feels a bit nervous and insecure in everyday life situations he spends along with the adoptive parent, when Bowser's just acting as Dad-Bowser and not as King-Bowser-Koopa. Behind his back, Bowser desperately and secretly hopes Ludwig will start addressing him as "dad" one day.

With his mother: He had a very good relationship with his mom (OC)- taken aside that short period of time she couldn't understand why he wanted to be "addressed as a boy" - but it ended well anyway. He also liked to think of himself as their mom's favorite child. Now he doesn't want to talk about her, especially with Junior.

With his girlfriend: He and Estrela (OC) met almost a couple of years ago in Ludwig's personal orchestra, and they have been dating for one year now. Before meeting Estrela, Lud had a poor opinion on Koopa Troopas/Common Koopas in general, especially if civilians or commoners. Then he met this super skilled violist, they started to flirt a bit after some time but then Ludwig kind-of-insulted her for trying to reach "a Royal" and... well, she decided to make him pay for that, planning something quite "funny", and in the end Estrela proved the Royal Koopa that even "commoners" can outsmart the "great Ludwig von Koopa". He was startled by this to the point he totally fell in love. They are both enjoying their relationship now, sharing interests and passions and all, joking all the time and being silly together when none can judge them, even if Luddy still has to learn to be less arrogant with his loved ones - lukily for both he's doing enough progresses already to prevent the relationship to become toxic or bad. Ludwig loves Estrela's strong personality and the fact that she can literally - and will likley, if needed - stand up to him from her 1,40 m (around 4.5 ft) of height and cute Common Koopa appearance. And he loves the way she plays the viola, of course. In his mind, maybe influenced by Lord Bowser's way to think, he's already picturing is future wedding... along with their royal palace and personal realm in the Kingom of the Sky.

Relationship with the Mario Bros., Princess Peach and the Mushroom Kingom in general: He strongly dislikes the two plumbers, and do not approve his sib Lemmy's friendship with them. He mostly hates Mario, considering him the real threat among the two. He would very unlikely call a truce between the Koopalings and the two Humans, unless it was his last option. Peach knows him since he hatched - and she tries her best to treat well the young Royal Koopa siblings, since she used to know their mother - but he doesn't really care about this, claming that since he can't remember it, it doesn't count. He is not very excited by the possibility to have Peach as their step-mother, but during her forced staying at Bowser's place after the occasional kidnapping, he sometimes asks her if she wants to take a look at his last music sheets or if she wants to listen to some of his new pieces. And for the Mushroom Kingdom, he merely saw it as the future Dark Lands' personal granary until he met his GF, who's from said Kingdom. Now he is a bit more aware of it, and nervous about eventual future attacks King Bowser could plan against it.

Peculiarities & co.

Ambidextrous: He trained himself to be almost perfectly hambidextrous, mostly thanks to his piano training. Nobody remembers if he was naturally right or left-handed in the beginning.

Senses: In contrast to what his name could suggest, his sharpest sense is hearing - he can not only hear a whisper on the other side of the royal dining room, especially if it's about him or something he may be interested in, but also got an almost-perfect pitch. If he looks like he didn't hear you, he was either too concentrated on his own toughts or just... blantantly ignoring you.

Body quirks and special abilities: He is way lighter than it looks like, probably due his shell peculiar conformation and unusual lightness, and sometimes it even seems like gravity isn't working on him as it should - he can in fact jump quite hight, flutter jump and even floating in the air for a short time when fighting. He can also walk on clouds without any power-ups or magic, a privilege usually related to winged or sky-born creatures only, such as Paratroopas or Lakitus. Nobody seems to know why, since Ludwig has no wings (even if he secretly wishes he had) and such. Last but not least, he is also able to control thunders with his own hands when things get really hard - in a similar way Luigi can do after knowing the secret technique in Mario&Luigi Superstar Saga.

Random Facts:

His Royal Fang is one of his weak points. He doesn't really like it, and mostly tries to ignore the fact that, of all the possible Fang patterns, *that* specific one happened to him. Mostly, it makes it hard to play woodwinds instruments - he only plays his portable harmonica without much trouble - drinking from everyday glasses - he almost always drink from straws, but gets easily embarassed if he needs to order one when dining in a fancy restaurant - and kissing his GF. This one specifically frustrates him a lot.

His GF finds his Royal Fang cute.

Like most Tarrasquins, he can purr. But since purring only occurs when they are extremely satisfied or happy or comfortable, it's very rare to hear him purr.

He's base respect for any other living creature not related to him is 0, especially with Goombas or other "simpler species". Once beated, outsmarted or both at the same time, he will probably reconsiderate your existance and include your kind in his "this one earned my respect" list. Hopefully, he'll grow out of this when he gets older and wiser.

He owns something like 14 pianos (one of which is possessed), around his various fortress and all. He wanted a super fancy piano for his 18th birthday, like one with a custom color, made by hand and with his name engraved in gold on the front of it, from the best piano brand of the world. Bowser gifted him a huge, golden pipe organ instead, thinking it would have been cooler.

Ludwig is scared as heck of pipe organs.

In the end, Kamek was the one gifting him his "best piano". Bowser is the one that loves to play it the most.

Ludwig is also scared of deep water. That is funny considering he once piloted a submarine. If asked, he will give a bunch of explanations about that claming that staying inside an advanced submarine is very different from swimming in open sea where you can't see nothing under you. Plus, your hair can't get wet as long as you remain inside of the submarine. His brothers and sister often speculate about how to convince their big brother to learn how to swim.

He likes to act fancy and classy when he's at social events and similar. His pompous attitude helps a lot with that. But he has the tendency of stain his clothing without noticing and does so almost every single time he dines out.

Even with the adult and serious appearance, he would never give up French Fries when there is the option in the menu.

He can also legally buy and drink alchool now, following Dark Land's laws, but even if he enjoys some champagne from time to time, he's more a juice type. His favorite one is orange juice, and always keeps a bottle of it near before an all-day-playing-music session.

He hated brushing his hair when he was a kid, and hated even more the idea of cutting it. His mother gave up when he was 3, and Kamek and some servants tried to run after him once, following the little blue rascal around the whole castle for the whole evening. Kamek was the one that eventually convinced him into taking care of his curly bush of blue feathers - but it took him 2 years.

His natural hair is actually curly, like his mother's was. He straightenes it with an hair straightener after every bath, and uses tons of hair spray every morning to recreate in his iconic hairstyle. This hairstyle was actually heavily inspired by Madame Flurrie's one, after a 12-years-old Ludwig watched one of her theatrical perfomance (on TV) for the first time. He was fascinated by her hair that looked like wings and looked very elegant at the same time, and decided he would have based his personality around that style for the next years.

He didn't know at the time that that specific winged hairstyle was very popular among actors and artist of a certain level, especially from the musical field. When he found out, he was even more amused and claimed it was "destiny" that his tastes happened to be so refined and elegant.

Only recently Lud started to try out new hairstyles, or to be more accurate, some "custom variants of his classic one". He likes to keep them looser when conducting his orchestra or playing in public. He keeps it "sharper" for fights. He would NEVER tie them up.

His GF actually loves when Lud has uncombed hair, and thinks he's way cuter this way. He hates it.

He also loves and hates being called "cute". He actually got angry when Estrela called him "cute" or "adorable" the first times. Now he secretely enjoys it, but still gets quite embarassed.

He'll grow a tuft of feathers under his chin when he'll grow up. Since it's not too common for Koopas to grow facial hair, he will keep it with pride and add it to his style.

When he's sourrounded by his siblings when in need of some peace but can't escape the situation, he takes his professional headphones and put on some classical concerts, german heavy metal music by unknown indie bands or Pure Cosmic Silence, depending how desperate he is.

He loves the smell of ginger. He also likes the smell of gingerbread. One time he ordered a ginger perfume, but the store mixed his order and sent him a very unusual gingerbead perfume instead. He tried it anyway and found it amusing. He would now put gingerbread perfume on himself from time to time. He claims it's a peculiar but great scent, just like him. His siblings mostly thinks he smells like a cookie.

He is also secretly almost-parent-like proud of his siblings any time they manage to do well something he teached them first. This applies mostly with Larry and Junior, especially for the latter being a very quick learner.

He sometimes has a recurrent dream in which he finds out he's actually an only child and goes to party just after. For some *unknown* reasons this mostly happens after spending a very long and tiring day with Junior or Roy.

Four violinists in his orchestra are Piranha Plants, named, respectively, "Todd, Justin, Scott and Ashby". They joined Ludwig's orchestra in an attempt to escape military service, but they didn't know how to play a single thing at first. With time, the quartet became very good with the violin. They will still be present in Ludwig's personal orchestra when he will be a professional composer, as some of the best musicians of the orchestra.

He really dislikes the harpsichord as an instrument. There is not a specific reason about that, he just... really doesn't like the sound it makes, and thinks of it as an overrated baroque instrument. His GF really likes it instead, and they sometimes have silly fights about that.

[ask-the-koopa-family]

I DECIDED to redesign Bowser and Betty's parents in my AU.

And heres a little story about them.

Art is mine dont copy/repost

In a once divided kingdom, the Koopas lived under various clans, each led by powerful leaders. Morton Koopa, the leader of the Koopa Clan, was a formidable and feared warrior known for his brute strength. Olivia Koopa, head of the other Koopas Clan, was a powerful sorceress renowned for her strategic intelligence. The two clans found themselves at war over control of resource-rich lands, and it was amidst a fierce battle that Morton and Olivia first met.

As the war threatened to destroy both clans, the elders decided to end the conflict through an arranged marriage between Morton and Olivia, a common practice among the Koopas to seal alliances. Though reluctant, Morton and Olivia accepted the decision, understanding their responsibilities. Despite the absence of great love between the two, they developed a deep affection and mutual respect over time.

Of course, from this union was born Bowser and Betty. They were their pride and joy. Bowser, with his fiery temperament and fierce desire to prove his strength, and Betty, gentle and thoughtful, perfectly completed the royal family.

One day Olivia and Morton announced to their children that they had to leave for an important royal meeting. Bowser and Betty were young at that time.

Hours passed and night fell, but Olivia and Morton never returned. The rumors says that on their way back, they had been ambushed by a band of traitors. Despite their bravery, they could not survive the attack.

The loss of their parents was a tremendous shock for Bowser and Betty. Overwhelmed by pain and anger, Bowser swore to protect the kingdom. Betty, though devastated, found the strength to support her brother, reminding him of the values and wisdom their parents had instilled in them.

[kiwipineappleparasol]

No Context Will Be Provided

[yahikuro]

eyelashes

[smbliaaa]

so... like him by Tyler the Creator?

Restarted my whole brain

probably not finishing this one so I'm chucking it here

KAY, BAIIIII !!!

[clownngore]

So, i need to open up cheap icon comms in order to pay for travel and food money regarding uni. Just until i pay off the laptop i needed to buy for classes.

If interested message me via discord @Clownngore !!

[carlzy-berryz]

NEVERMIND I KNEW I'd forget something!!

...Here are some koopaling doodles..

It was in a separate file GOD why didn't I notice?!?

[arguablyartworks]

Say hello to Throck S. Morton, also known as "Throcky."

He's a newly awakened Death Mage.

I made this character almost entirely as a joke. Most of his entire personality is skateboards, which is hilarious, because I barely know a single thing about skateboards. I am learning about skateboarding purely to play this character. Amazing.

I drew this in a frenzied rush in the span of about 4 hours after the opening game of our campaign, so it's far from the best I can do, but man, this sure feels similar to the Percy Jump picture, which was definitely an image that served more or less the same general purpose (and, looking at it again, has an extremely similar color palette).

As the story goes, he painted this particular skateboard himself, and he's named it "Basilisk."

[marioandsonicfangirl793-art]

AND NOW WE HAVE THE KOOPA FAMILY! 🔥🔥🔥

King Bowser, his advisor Kamek Magikoopa, his son Prince Bowser Jr., and his adopted children— the Koopalings… with his second wife after Clawdia Koopa-Queen Sheila, the former princess of the Spirit Animal Kingdom— and their daughter Princes Annabelle Koopa!

My hands hurt from days ago of drawing, so l’m gonna take a little break before getting into finishing up my Sonic AU families. I hope you like it!

⚜️❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷💖💝⚜️

Art/OC’s ©️ Me. Characters ©️ Nintendo ⚠️ Please don’t use, repost, trace, or copy my art without my permission.

[dragon-fly34]

🌟The mystery of the royal family (Page 1 to 8)🌟

Comic cover: SMB: The mystery of the royal family I hope you like it, if you don’t like, that not my problem :D

⚠️All characters are my ocs! Don't copy!⚠️

[delopsia]

Please [Rewrite] | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 9,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, begging, handjobs, teasing, grinding in public, riding, unprotected sex, surprise orgasms. Cock warming and edging if you squint. Brief Summary: Getting Rhett to beg isn't as easy as it's cracked up to be.

It's not easy to break down a man like Rhett Abbott.

The kind of blue-collar man who has only ever known one way of life, maybe two, if he's lucky. Expected to be tough from the moment he took his first breath; raised to forget emotion in favor of building up a mountainous, rocky exterior that does not give way when the west wind blows. Thick-skinned and with a backbone made of steel, the kind of man who can roll with the punches but carries just enough humanity to avoid coming off as soulless or dull. 

So strong, yet so afraid of the word 'weak'.  His power, his dominance, clutched tight in an iron fist, never to be let go of, even for a second. Too used to this one way of life that he fears the slightest hint of an unknown, of losing control, getting himself hurt, and being stripped of the precious title of being a man. 

And it's small towns like Wabang that will forever cry about such nonsensical ways of living for the sake of tradition. A place trained to think that change—that weakness is always a bad thing. 

So many generations of passing along crippling expectations have led you to this. 

Here. Gazing into the wide, frightened eyes of a cowboy who has long since tucked himself into the far side of your couch like a cornered animal. 

"Absolutely fuckin' not," you wonder if he knows how pitchy his voice has grown within the past thirty seconds. "I ain't...that's—what kind of man do y' take me for?"

A man who's too horny to be so vanilla, but that's neither here nor there.

Your eyes dart to your laptop screen, still paused on the video that sent him into this downward spiral in the first place, then back up to his pale face. "It's not that bad in the grand scheme of things." And you're about to follow that up with a list of worse suggestions, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

"I ain't beggin' to cum," he blurts it like he won't be able to say no if he doesn't get it out of his mouth quick enough.

Curious, your head tilts to the side. "Not even once?" 

"No. That's..." hesitating. Hasn't gotten to think that far, gears twisting and turning in his head as he searches for the words he wants to say, "It's demeanin'. That's what it is."

You suppose you can guess what his reaction to toy handcuffs would be. 

The conversation drops just as quickly as it was started with closing up your laptop and pressing play on the movie that you've long since forgotten about. Resuming that same steamy scene, the main character grinning at the way her love interest's face contorts as she squeezes him at his base, denying him what she's just worked him up to.

"Say please," she whispers, so eloquently and feather-light that it sticks in your head. 

But you can hardly pay attention because, in the corner of your eye, you've caught him. 

Those ocean-blue eyes have long since fixated on the screen. Shameless. Doesn't realize you've caught the way his cock twitches in his sweats, hand curling into a shaky fist. Clinging to a composure that you've only seen him lose when he's had one too many at the bar. 

...so that's how it's going to be. 

Alright, two can play this game. 

Or maybe you're the only one who's playing because Rhett seems to forget the conversation before the night is over. Blissfully unaware of the plan that's formulating in the back of your mind. Bits and pieces of thoughts and memories coming together to build a grand scheme so elaborate that you catch yourself taking notes on your phone.

And so what if you let him bend you over the kitchen counter when you know full well that your plan explicitly involves denying him sex out of hopes of him getting desperate? You needed the refresher on what makes him tick. 

Starting out slow is the key to flying below Rhett's radar. Observant to a fault, so sensitive to change that he notices the tiny, inconspicuous things, like that time your thermostat was set a degree higher than normal. All you had done was accidentally hit the button one too many times, but there he came, kissing up the back of your neck as he asked if you were cold.

So it's a fine line that you straddle when you begin to take up extra shifts at work. Offhandedly telling him that one of your co-workers is pregnant and needs the help. It's not a total lie. You just...happen to be leaving out the fact that she's only three months along. 

And so what if you start spending more time with your friends? Always seeming to be wrapped up in a new outing that leaves you too sleepy to entertain the sweet cowboy who grinds up against your ass. His lips peppering across every inch of exposed skin he can find, three-day-old scruff tickling you. 

"You sure you're feelin' alright?" He murmurs, and you can't see him, but you can feel the way his eyebrows furrow, laced with a concern that you've seen too many times recently. "Y've been tired all week."

Oh, oh, oh, you shouldn't have looked down. 

Had only been meaning to avoid meeting his eye in the mirror, but now you've found yourself fixated on the forearms that have long since wrapped around your waist. Rippling muscles and protruding veins, putting on a mouth-watering show, all for you. 

"Haven't been sleeping well, I suppose," your weight shifts, leaning back into that familiar, firm chest, tilting your head until your cheek bumps into his. 

The entire point of this plan is to string him out until he's desperate. So worked up and needy that rationality and higher thinking go out the window, too focused on getting what he's craving that he doesn't care about how. The same kind of tunnel vision that he gets when he climbs on the back of a bull fixated on the title, the infamy, the belt buckle that comes with winning the Amelia County Finals. 

But God, settling for toys after he leaves your house just isn't the same as the real thing. 

And maybe that's why you don't stop yourself from pressing your ass against him. 

Can't stop. 

A soft grinding backward that has him twitching up into you, hard cock straining against the thin material of his sweats. Firm. Dripping. All for you to feel and gasp at. Giving in to him one time can't hurt.

Yeah...yeah, one time isn't all that bad. 

"Thought y' were tired," that sinful, hot mouth presses wet kisses at the juncture of your jaw, where it meets your neck. Has long since figured out that it'll make your knees wobble if he does it right. "Not that 'm complainin'."

Your socks slip against the tile floor as you spin in his arms. Noses bumping into one another. So close that you can spot the vague constellations of freckles hidden along his pale face. Not quite as expansive as the ones on his shoulders, but just as marvelous. 

The open palm of your hand flattens against him, blatantly cupping him through his sweats, "I guess it's up to you to keep me from falling asleep then."

Those long eyelashes flutter. Each pass over his iris leaves them a shade darker, shifting like a mood ring. The corner of his lip rises, a chipped canine tooth glinting in the light, "think I can help y' with that." 

You don't make it to the bedroom, finding yourself bent over the arm of the couch as your oversized cowboy fucks you from behind. His thighs trembling against yours, grunting into your ear. So, so sensitive from your lack of rendezvous. You're getting somewhere with him. Making progress. Grinding him down to a neediness that overrides the thoughts drilled into his pretty head. 

But oh, is it difficult. 

Getting out of bed the next morning had might as well be the worst thing you've ever done. Because as soon as you turn around, toothbrush in your mouth as you peek into the bedroom, you meet a pair of sweet blue eyes. Big hands open, fingers wiggling as he tries to lure you back into his arms, tucked up against his naked body. 

"Come back," he whines, squinting to see you through the blinding bathroom light, "'m cold."

You've still got to get yourself dressed and ready to go out; you've got festival plans and friends that will badger you to no end if you cancel on them for the second year in a row. But your sweet cowboy provides such a convincing argument when a yawn breaks across his face, still trying to beckon you back into bed.

"I promised I wouldn't cancel this year," you don't know if you're justifying it to yourself or him, maybe both. "I'm sorry." 

The corners of his eyes fall, almost pouting. Like a puppy who's just been kicked, those big eyes drop down to the bed. Only to flicker back up at you, some insistent spark of hope glinting across his face, "five more minutes?"

...oh, what the hell. 

"Five more minutes," you repeat, and this time, you know you're directing them toward yourself. 

Because Rhett Abbott's arms are like velcro. Nearly impossible to escape once he's curled them around you, securing you to his broad chest as he subjects you to a flurry of thank-you kisses peppered across your cheeks. So soft and ticklish, the kind that has you squirming and dodging his incessant mouth.

As quickly as it starts, it ends. Settling into a comfortable silence as Rhett nuzzles his cold nose against your forehead, absolutely determined to steal your body heat away from you. His icy fingers dancing up and down your back, tracing idle shapes into the skin there. Any colder, and you think he might start getting icicles in his hair. 

And it's only October. Winter isn't even in full swing yet.

"You're so busy anymore," he whispers, not quite meeting your eye, "ain't got to cuddle in forever."

Your hand tangles through his hair, unable to avoid acknowledging the way he nudges into your touch, "I'm sorry." 

On its own, your mind wanders. Unleashed, free to roam the possibilities and what ifs. Whether this whole shtick of yours is even worth it or not. If sitting him down and getting to the bottom of his fear is what you should actually be doing. If he would even listen or if he would fly into another stonewalled panic.

And then there are your plans. You've been jittering over the thought of this festival for weeks, but you've missed these arms, this man, even more. Him, the sweet kiss he's pressing to your forehead and the muscles that ripple as he pulls you closer. Like he'll be able to keep you here forever if he tries hard enough. 

"Do you want to come with us?" You mutter, after a moment, or twelve. 

His eyebrows rise, forehead wrinkling with it. "Hm?"

"To the festival, I mean," you're pretty sure you can already hear the answer; he's never been much for these types of events. Not the type to peruse through shops and look at things that you don't technically need. 

Blue eyes dart across your face, searching for something. Or maybe he's thinking, considering. "Well, I ain't got nothin' else planned," he says after a moment. 

Inviting him goes against every bit of meticulous planning you've done these past few weeks. Completely uproots the purpose of your scheme and turns it on its head. But for some reason, you can't bring yourself to be worried about it in the slightest. Holding his big hand as you walk out to your car like it was always meant to work out this way.

Even as you settle behind the steering wheel, fumbling with your keys, the only thing you feel is giddy. 

The car shakes as Rhett all but falls into the passenger seat. Knees knocking into the dash. 

"Holy shit," he swears, legs awkwardly propped against the glove compartment. The seat far too far forward for his stature, quite nearly folding him in half. "Was your last passenger a gnome?"

Over his shoulder, you think you can see his hat sitting on the ground. Knocked clean off his head.

"How many times are you gonna do this before you learn to quit falling into my car?" Your eyes roll on their own accord, twisting the key in the ignition. You've long since lost count of how many times he's done this, foolishly tossing himself into the seat without bothering to check if he's big enough to fit. 

"Dunno," the seat groans as Rhett pushes it as far back as it'll go, freeing himself of his self-made prison. "How many more times are you fixin' to be a gnome chauffeur?"

At least your car doesn't have a busted side mirror from a bar fight, but you'll be saving that comment for another time.

A part of you isn't entirely sure why Rhett agreed to come to this festival. He said he didn't have anything else to do, sure, but if that's the case, then he would have tagged along to a lot, lot more invitations. So what gives? Is he lonely? Longing for the tranquility of being by your side?

Or did he just want to stare at your ass this entire time? 

You can feel him. Heated gaze locked onto your backside as you meander through booth after booth like he'll miss something crucial if he tears his gaze away for too long. Thick arms crossed in front of his chest, biceps straining against his white t-shirt, and chewing on the inside of his cheek. Looks like he just walked out of a damn magazine. 

But he always looks like he just walked out of a magazine, and he's looked you over with that hungry gaze so many times that it shouldn't make your knees wobble. Weakened just by his sheer presence, and it's not fair. 

This wasn't a part of your plan at all. He's the one who's supposed to be so eager and desperate that he throws reason out the window. But instead, it's you who is considering pushing him up against the trunk of this Oak tree, dropping to your knees, and sucking him off right in the middle of this festival. Uncaring of the greedy eyes and unwitting ears who may become witness to it.  

You don't quite recall picking up this knick-knack, a ceramic cow, pink and white in color, and missing one of her legs. It's cold in your palm, just enough to draw you from your stupor, brushing away the heated clouds fogging your thoughts.

If you're aching, then surely he is, too. His sex drive has always been a smidgen higher than your own, raring to go at the drop of a hat. So if you're weak in the knees over his sheer presence, then he must be even worse. 

Your head turns; fully prepared and ready for what darkened gaze you may find. 

...except he's not looking.

No, he's got something small in the palm of his hand, grinning down at it like it's some great discovery. His warm eyes flick up to meet your face, setting your cheeks alight. 

"Found the fella you've been drivin' 'round," he chirps, holding the little thing out for you to see. A three-inch tall gnome with a tall orange hat, oversized nose poking out the bottom. Fits perfectly in his grasp, fluffy, unruly white beard waving in the breeze. "Think I should grow a beard like that?" 

"Only if you wear the funny hat," you wink, just for extra measure. 

The last thing you're expecting is for him to buy it. Carrying the little thing about like it's a faithful companion, only putting it down to fight with you over who is paying for your things because he might just die if you pay for that t-shirt with your own money. Unaware that you'll just stick the cash in his wallet when he's asleep tonight. 

You've been foiled by a two-dollar gnome. 

Takes a good two days for you to get ahold of yourself, fighting urges that aren't helped by the cowboy who keeps reminding you that he's feeling it, too. The both of you dangling by a single thread, waiting to see who breaks first. 

And it's almost you.

God, it's almost you. 

Because Sunday rolls around with a vengeance that torments you from the moment your eyes open in the morning, overcome with a heat so strong that it ought to burn you alive. Biting at an invisible bit, getting yourself off in pure silence while Rhett bustles about in the living room. Mere yards away, one call of his name and you know he'd be on his knees in an instant, eager to taste you on his tongue, but your plan. You can't abandon your plan.

But it's nothing compared to the rodeo. The adrenaline that leaves your hands shaking even after Rhett has fallen off the bull and stumbled out of the arena. Trembling like the leaves in the brutal autumn breeze, crisp but with a sinister bite that you recognize as the beginnings of winter. 

It's the kind of sharpness that almost manages to distract you from the chapped lips kissing up the back of your neck. The vibrations of a cowboy's voice as he murmurs your name over and over like an incantation. A spell thats got you leaning into him, feeling the way he strains against his tattered jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

"Darlin'," blazing breath tickles your ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it, "what d' ya say we got outta here, hm?"

The edges of your composure are crumbling faster than you can glue them back together. Rhyme and reason whisked away by the wind, and suddenly, you can't remember all the reasons why you've been holding out on him. No longer caught up in the possibilities of what Rhett must sound like when he begs.

All you can think of is this. Now. The oversized hands dragging up your sides and the gentle suction at the soft spot of your neck. This man and the faint remnants of his leathery cologne, and how you're going to make it to the truck without getting—

"Rhett!" A familiar voice calls out, spurs echoing down the empty walkway. "Rhett!" 

All of a sudden, your backside is cold as Rhett steps away. Mere seconds before the familiar, gruff face of his best friend comes around the corner. How did he know to look for you behind the concession stands? 

 "The fuck y' doin' out 'ere?" It's dark, but you can still see the way Archie's hands fly up, only to fall back down and smack against his thighs. 

"Fixin' to go home?" Rhett grumbles it like a question, his head tilting to the side.

Archie's silence is...deafening. His shadowy figure is still as can be, and it's not directed at you at all, but even you can feel the daggers he's staring into Rhett's forehead. You don't recall any post-rodeo bonfire being scheduled for tonight, and it's far too quiet for the rodeo to be still going. 

But right as you're beginning to think that the vicious wind has frozen Archie solid, his mouth opens. "Y' done fuckin' forgot 'bout th' paper comin' t' take pictures t'night."

Pictures. 

That's right, the Amelia County newspaper was planning to put the bull riders on the front page. How did you manage to forget about that?

To say that you were saved by the skin of your teeth is an understatement. By the time they let Rhett and the other riders go home for the night, adrenaline has worn off, leaving behind a yawning husk of a man who can hardly keep his eyes open. Struggling to stand upright in the shower as you rinse the shampoo from his hair, too tired to bend you over the nearest surface and break you down.

He's cracking. 

You're cracking. 

Getting up for work in the morning is harder than you ever remember it being, and those extra hours drag by slower than a snail race. You want to go home. Fuck, you want to snuggle up to Rhett on the couch and let his chaste kisses devolve into sloppy ones that trail down your naked chest. But giving up now means all of this was for nothing. 

So you keep drowning yourself in work. Turning down every too-heated kiss and stepping out of his arms before they can start to test the waters. Getting up early to walk back into the gates of hell, away from the heaven that is Rhett Abbott. 

Until once again, your week is over, and Sunday has rolled around with the same vigor as it did before. 

This week's rodeo is different, about two hours away from home, on the border of Wyoming and Idaho. Some tiny town you've never heard of, the kind of place that only recently got two stoplights installed. Home to a whopping three hundred, with incredible landmarks such as a mom-and-pop gas station and a bank that's been set up on the first floor of someone's townhouse. 

The hotel is a floor above the only bar in town. It's not much, just enough space for a queen-sized bed, a television stand, and a bathroom so small Rhett can hardly turn around in it. Still better than driving an hour to a motel whose Google reviews promise a complimentary inclusion of bed bugs.

By some catastrophe, the rodeo grounds are far too small for the amount of people traveling to see the event. Already flooded with locals by the time you get there, a sea of fold-out chairs taking up every bit of free space that can be found. Even Cecelia's been outwitted, forced to dig her stash of chairs from the back of Royal's truck. She's brought just enough to seat all of you.

At least, she did. 

"You're in my seat," you grumble, squinting down at the cowboy who has already locked his eyes on the cheese fries you've got in your hand. The fruit of your efforts for standing in line for thirty minutes. 

"I know it," Rhett's big hand pats his thigh, inviting you into what is certainly a trap. 

But all you can think about is how he's supposed to be over by the chutes, warming up for a ride. Your head twists to look over at the empty side of the arena, then back to his stupid, smug face. 

"We got delayed," he continues, seems to have heard your question without you needing to voice it, "Somethin' 'bout technical difficulties." 

You're going to have technical difficulties.

Sitting in his lap isn't anything new. Not by a long shot. But there's something about doing it now. When you're still hanging on to your composure by a singular thread, nearly set off by the wrinkles of his jeans against your thighs. 

A part of you only means to readjust yourself. To squirm a little further backward so that you can comfortably lean against his chest. You don't intend to push your ass into his half-hard cock, but you do, and it's got him choking around the fry he's stolen.

"Oops" is all you can be bothered to provide because, though it wasn't on purpose, you certainly intend on doing it again. 

It's not hard to disguise. Not when Cecelia covers the two of you in a blanket, fussing over your choice of a short-sleeved shirt, saying that just the sight of you is making her cold. Unintentionally handing you the perfect shield, blocking the view of your hips as they begin to squirm. Subtly grinding down into that rapidly growing bulge, basking in the way his breath hitches, a strong arm curling across your waist.

"Y'd better not be tryin' t' get me all riled up, sweetheart," he murmurs, that low tone of his tickling down your sensitive spine. Only serves to spur you on more, squirming against his cock like it'll kill you to stop. And those arms are growing tighter around you, drawing away every bit of that precious wiggle room, but he's shamelessly twitching against you. A soft noise falling from his lips as you fully settle into him now. 

Your head tilts, peering at him through your peripheral. "What're you gonna do about it if I am?" 

If he had a response conjured up, then he must have forgotten how to speak because he doesn't say anything. Just dips his head down and rests against your shoulder, helpless. So needy for something that he has no choice but to lean against you and take what you give him. Grunting under his breath, eyelashes fluttering against your exposed neck. 

The muscles in your neck strain as you crane your head back, "Not gonna stop me?" Your lips brush the lobe of his ear, a visible shiver rolling down his spine. 

Just as quickly as his head dropped, it rises, blank blue eyes staring back at you. Not a thought behind them. "Nuh-uh." 

"Rhett!" Archie's voice slices through the evening air like a knife through butter. His hat waves through the air like a flag. "Get yer ass up outta that chair! We're on!" 

Rhett's head buries back into the juncture of your collar and neck. Unshaven jaw scratching the delicate skin there as he hugs you tight, grumbling. Hardly wants to let you step out of his lap, never mind letting you escape from his wandering arms. But you're getting up anyway. Because the rodeo waits for no one, and he didn't spend the past eight years of his life chasing this dream just to give it up now. 

...that doesn't mean he won't sulk as he walks away. Broad shoulders drooping, hardly has the forethought to readjust himself in his jeans.  

Your chair feels too big now that you're alone in it. Still warm from where he once sat, and if you focus hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can catch the sweet notes of his cologne lingering in the breeze. Wrapping around your senses like a hug on the last day of autumn.

Or maybe that's because he's tearing through the crowd. On a one-way path back to you. 

"Rhett?" You're already rising to your feet; did he forget something? Is the rodeo being called off again? So many questions, and yet you can hardly get anything off your tongue. "What...?"

But you're only met with the chime of his spurs. Darkened eyes anchor you in place, leaving you standing in the grass like a deer in headlights. Helpless to do anything but watch as he stalks closer and closer, not a word leaving his mouth, until, until—

It's the sudden gust of wind that carries those two muttered words to your ears, "forgot somethin'." 

And then his mouth is on yours, and it's the sweetest thing you've felt all afternoon. A mere chaste peck on the lips that steals your breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your brain. 

The bumping of your noses is the only thing to shake you from your stupor. "Still needing that good luck kiss, huh?" 

A cowboy like Rhett shouldn't have the audacity to let his gaze drop to his feet, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with his million-dollar grin. But he does it anyway. Shyly peering back at you through those thick lashes. You know it's merely from the stadium lights, but that doesn't stop you from fooling yourself into believing that his eyes sparkle at the sight of you.

"Can I have 'nother?" He whispers it like a secret, only meant to be shared between the two of you. 

You would consider denying him if you hadn't already lost the ability to do that. Already reaching to curl your hands around his cheeks, drawing him in for just one more. Then you're tilting his head down and pressing another kiss to his forehead. 

"For extra measure," justifying it to yourself more than anything. 

And oh, the things you would give to stop time, just to have him a little longer. 

It feels like entire days pass before you hear his name echo from the speakers. An announcer crowing at the top of his lungs as the chute opens, and Rhett bursts out of it. His right hand held high as he clings to the back of that raging bull. Two thousand pounds of muscle threatening to throw him off. Spiraling clockwise. Never seems to have more than two feet on the ground at once. 

He's sliding. Fuck, fuck, fuck he's starting to lose his grip. But he's still on. Clinging to that thin rope. Numbers rising on the billboard. 

Five seconds.

Six. His hat flies off. You're too frozen to look and see where it went.

Seven. Perry jumps out of his seat. Shoulders blocking your view. Fucking—move! 

A shrill buzz soars through the air. So loud and abrupt that you jump at the sound of it. But Rhett's on his feet already, and so are you. Those eyes are already looking your way, full of something that you can see from all the way over here. A sparkling want, a need, spurred by the adrenaline of a ride. 

A ride that's put him further into the finals. Another advancement that'll take you further away from home. 

But you can't think about that right now. After all, it's hard to worry about whether or not you'll be able to join him for next week's rodeo when you're tearing through a crowd in an unfamiliar arena. Dodging groups, twisting past couples, and squeezing between lines that extend to the parking lot. Your head tilting. Turning. Fighting to remember where that damn riders-only entrance was. 

There he is.

Between the stand-by ambulance and the parking lot. Rubbing the juncture of his left shoulder as he stands on his top-toes, trying to pinpoint you in the crowd. There's a group of girls next to him, dressed their best as they chatter, greedy gazes looking Rhett up and down like he's a tall drink of water in the middle of a desert. 

They're pretty, the kind of girls who can pull just about anyone they want in an event like this, but Rhett's only looking at you. An oversized grin breaks across his face as he darts forward, untamed hair flowing in the breeze, all but slamming into you. 

"D'you know what y' do to me?" That deep voice rumbles into your ear. So ready, so eager that he's speaking before he's pulled you off to some place private. And he's got just enough of your leg between his that he can press that aching bulge against you. Shameless. 

"I have a little bit of an idea," and you had a follow-up to that statement, but Rhett's gotten ahold of your wrist. 

Downright hauling you toward that forbidden riders-only section, past the sign declaring that the general public isn't allowed inside, and beyond. Through crowds and past the chutes, your feet nearly tangling as you try to keep up. Until Rhett's spinning and your back is thumping against a wall before you can realize you're moving backward. 

"Someone's got it bad," you're giggling; oh, the lips on your jaw tickle. A desperate frenzy that you aren't warmed up for and can't squirm out of.

"Yeah, wonder why," but you can feel the way he smiles through his words, so big that he can hardly press another kiss to your skin. Working his way up, up, up, until his chapped lips cover your own. 

Unyielding, his rough stubble scratching against your chin as his hand slides across your cheek. A gentle cradle of your jaw that holds you still. Doesn't let you squirm away from the other arm that wraps around your waist, drawing you near until you're chest to chest. So close that you think you can feel the drum of his heart.

Maybe that's what gets you moving. Your arms rising to wrap around his shoulders, hands tangling in his messy hair, as you lean into the kiss. Lips parting as he hungrily licks into your mouth, such a dizzyingly hot feeling that sends your head spinning. Every bit as strong and commanding as he's ever been. 

And yet, as your hand drops to cup him through those too-tight jeans, he jumps. 

"Fuck," he inhales so sharply that you can feel it against your lips. And it's been so, so long since you last heard that sweet sound. Since the last time you watched his head tilt back, swollen lips glistening under the twinkling lights set up for a collection of booths. Selling knick-knacks, homemade signs, and everything in between. Some little thing for after the rodeo—

shit.

As quickly as it pressed against him, your hand falls away, returning to dangle limply at your side. 

"Wh—" His eyes flash open, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Confused. "Huh?"

"I forgot," your head nods toward the unoccupied booths as you speak; their surfaces undecorated for the time being, but the moment the rodeo begins to wane, they'll be packed full of more items than you can possibly think of. "We agreed to see the sales booths with your mom, remember?"

"We really gotta stay 'n buy useless junk with my momma?" The corners of his lips turn downward, a perfect pout that you'd like to kiss until it rises back into a smile. 

You try. God, you try. Have already found yourself leaning in to press one, two, three chaste kisses to those perfectly thin lips. But it doesn't disappear, not even a little bit. "But you bought a useless gnome. the other week."

"He ain't useless!" Rhett sputters against your mouth. A little too loud. His voice carrying farther than it should have. "He keeps my cupholder warm."

"It's just another hour, cowboy," smoothing your hands against his chest as you speak in that slow sort of fashion that he once told you he liked. 

"But..." trailing off, his eyes darting down to his feet. Gaze too heavy for him to look at you. A wayward boot kicks at the gravel, stirring up a small plume of dust. "Please?" 

So faint. So quiet that you don't know if you've made it up in your head or not. "I'm sorry?" 

Rhett's shoulders stiffen, his breath catching in his throat. It's dark back here, but it's hard to miss the way he peeks up at you, a hint of red lingering in the tips of his ears. 

"Please?" Barely audible. A tiny noise that's carried away with the wind, but you've heard it. You know you've heard it because his Adam's apple is bobbing, and he's fully turning his head away from you now. "I'll...that, that thing you wanted...we can try—I want..."

It's shaky. Uncertain. Hardly sounds real. But it's there. 

There's something about the wait that's made this all the more sweet. 

A mouth-watering expanse of pale skin and rippling muscle, defined from a lifetime of manual labor, so rarely put on display like this. That thin sheen of sweat glistening as his hips squirm against this wine-red hotel comforter. The same one that he's clutching between white knuckles, clinging to it like he's seconds away from floating up to the ceiling. 

"Does that feel good?" You ask, hand tightening around his pretty, leaking shaft. So wet that he hardly needed you to drizzle that packet of lubricant over him, leaving him with a glide so slick that every pass of your hand squelches.

Untamed locks of hair bounce with his nod, "uhuh." 

The toned muscles of his stomach flex as he bucks up into your touch, chasing the sweetness of your touch. A whine rolls off his tongue, long and drawn out; you're not moving fast enough for his liking, but the hand that's gingerly rolling his balls in your palm is just enough to keep him from fussing. 

"Feels good," he rushes out, in between breaths, "fuck, it feels good."

He's yet to tell you, but you can already tell that he's close. Know it in the way that his jaw has slackened and in the way he's forgotten to blink. Too focused on the feeling to think of anything else. 

"Do you wanna cum?" Cooing in the softest voice you can muster, temporarily allowing your eyes to dart back to the mess that lies between his legs. Where his cock head has long since flushed a shade of ruby red, raging and desperate for a relief that has yet to come. "Talk to me, cowboy." 

"Uhuh," if he hadn't just spoken a moment ago, you'd think he forgot how to talk. 

But 'uhuh' isn't what you're looking for. No, no, no, you haven't spent the past weeks in sexual misery just for a huffed noise. 

"What do you say?" You're fighting to keep that smug grin at bay, the corners of your lips wobbling. The throbbing length in your hand feels too real to be a dream, but the edges of your vision have that trademark fuzziness that comes with the subconscious wanderings of your mind. 

This is too perfect to be true. 

But the widening of Rhett's eyes is so him. A detail that your wildest dreams could never capture. Always missing the fragments of uncertainty, the waver in his breath, and the anxious tongue that pokes out to wet his chapped lips. "I..."

Your hand stops firm at his base. Squeezing. Unmoving even as his hips jerk upward, seeking more of a touch that he doesn't receive. 

"Baby," he grunts, voice suddenly so worn and ragged that you hardly recognize it. 

Curious, you tilt your head, "hm?"

"'s fuckin' mean," that weak chuckle vibrates all the way down his belly and up into your hand, but despite the back-and-forth rocking of his head, he refuses to crack fully. Taping himself back together at the seams, clinging for that little bit of power that he was so desperate to hand over earlier. 

"All you gotta do is say please," you whisper, thumb swiping up to collect a bead of precum rolling down the underside of him. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

...maybe this will convince him. 

Your grip slips off his cock, letting it audibly slap against his belly as one of your hands reach for that forgotten bottle of lube, the other taking hold of his wrist. He doesn't fight when you drizzle some of it over his fingers, even idly rubs them together to spread the fluid before it begins to drip into his palm. Makes it so, so easy for you to scoot further up until you're comfortably straddling his belly, able to guide those perfectly shaped digits between your legs.

He doesn't need any further help. Dipping his fingertips between your folds, stroking down to circle around your entrance. The delicate pressure of them punches a gasp from your lips, that aching stretch so dizzyingly perfect. 

"So tight," he muses, absolutely fixated on the way his index finger disappears into you. So, so much thicker than your own, and not one of your toys can curl to stroke against your walls like Rhett does. Rubbing past a spongey bundle of nerves that has your thighs tightening around him, only for him to slip out and nudge two back into you. 

The palms of your hands settle on his chest, just about the only thing you can do to brace your weight as he pumps those fingers into your cunt. Shamelessly paced, trying his damndest to work you up just as quickly as you did to him, and fuck is it working. Rough pads of his fingers swirl around sensitive nerves while his thumb rises to nudge against your clit. A touch that doesn't fully make contact but sends you jumping as if it did. 

"Rhett," whimpering high in your throat, oh, you've missed this feeling.

On its own, the corner of his lip rises. Smug. "Can feel y' pulsin' 'round my fingers, darlin'." 

And you can feel a heat bubbling up in your lower belly. Arising with a certain kind of fury that has you growing wetter around him. Only makes it easier for him to quicken his pace, fucking those thick fingers into your pussy with a fervor that makes your heart skip a beat. 

"Hold on, hold on," you sputter, and as abrupt as it is, Rhett freezes. Letting you drag his hand out from between your legs in favor of you reaching for his neglected cock. Has long since leaked a small puddle of precum onto his belly, still just as red and angry as it was when you last touched him.

You don't know if Rhett's the first to gasp or if it's you, but that first nudge of his cock head against your dripping sex is enough to have both of your mouths opening. Sensitive. So, so sensitive.

God, sinking down on him is even worse. Because there's an aching stretch that comes with the fat head of his cock, already splitting you wide and setting a tremble in your thighs. Only worsened by the calloused palms that smooth across them on their way up to settle on your hips. 

Rhett's always been big, not obscenely so, but thick in all the right places. Enough to have you shivering but not enough to have you struggling to take him. But fuck is it a tremendous task to keep yourself steady whilst you sink down on him. Forced to take it slow, to feel the way he twitches inside of you, blunt tip pushing deeper and deeper and deeper.

The hands resting on your hips rise, sliding behind your naked back until familiar, warm arms can comfortably curl around you. "C'mere," Rhett whispers, and it doesn't take much more for you to lean down. 

Your forearms brace against his broad chest as your mouths meet. Lazy. More of a clash of lips than anything else, too focused on chasing a breath that neither of you can catch. Your head spinning from the lack of oxygen as he slides further into you. That coil winding tighter and tighter—

"Fuck," you breathe as your hips come flush together. So full of him that it aches. "Rhett..."

It's only when you lean back onto your haunches that you realize how his eyes have glazed over, caught in a hazy trance that shatters when you involuntarily clench around him. His hips jerking upward, jostling himself inside of you. So eager for you to start moving. 

But that's not what you were going for at all.

"What are...?" Rhett's question evaporates as you guide his still-wet fingers back between your legs, "What're y' doin'?" 

Confused about your intentions. Yet his thumb presses to your clit all the same, almost eager to feel it throbbing under the pad of his finger. Gradually gaining confidence on its own, doesn't need your guidance for him to start toying with the little button in earnest. A gentle sort of pressure that has you clenching around his cock, sends him into a twitching spasm that nudges against your walls just right. 

"Y' ain't movin'," he observes aloud. Like it's something you haven't noticed. 

"I know," wriggling from side to side, if only to selfishly chase the sensation of him moving inside of you. "And I'm not planning to."

Eyelashes flutter. Incredulous. "Huh?" 

"Not until you say please," because you didn't work this long and hard to give up now, but God, you've been craving the stretch of him. The ache that comes with having his cock wedged so deeply in your cunt, taking up every bit of space you have to offer and then some. 

Those eyebrows furrow in the same fashion as when he climbs onto the back of an angry bull. The kind of reckless determination that glues him to the back of that thousand-pound animal, ready to win or go down trying. 

You recognize that look so well that you're hardly surprised when his thumb aggressively changes gears. Working your clit with a fervor you haven't seen in weeks, massaging exactly how you like it. Not too direct but just enough to have your thighs clamping around his hips, head tilting backward.

But you're not moving. 

Fuck, you can't. Not when all you want is to chase the feeling, pushing further against his hand, unable to even think about drawing yourself away from it. Your vision is blurring, nearly makes you miss the way Rhett's lips part, whining at the way your pussy spasms around him. A perfect hell. 

And then you hear it, the whisper of an ever-so-faint, "please." 

"What did you say?" You can feel how your eyebrows raise, blinking away that blurriness to get a better look at his face. 

"Really?" Rhett's squint dissolves the moment you shift on top of him, his eyelashes fluttering once more. "Okay—fine." 

His head rolls against the pillow, gaze skittering around the room like he's searching for something. A hidden camera. An escape. Something to save him. But he doesn't find it. Has no choice but to look back up at you, a sudden wateriness in his eye, as he whispers. 

"Please fuck me."

Not another word needs to be said. 

Finally, finally, you draw yourself upward, teeth sinking into your lower lip, and the cowboy beneath you just about squeaks. A choked-off noise that rips out of his throat when you pull halfway off of him. Sends you sinking back down on him quicker than you should. Such a sudden thing that it makes your head spin, only worsened when you repeat it, weakly searching for the only rhythm that you can handle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rhett's sputtering, in his own little world, unfocused eyes rolling. 

If the image in your head had been a work of art, then you have no idea what to call this. The thick veins of his neck protruding, sweat running down his chest as his back arches up from the bed. Desperately chasing your every thrust, keening high in his throat, uncaring of who may hear or how far it may travel into the hotel hallway. 

"Is this what you wanted?" Your question punctuated by the lewd slap of skin on skin. God, you don't know if it was you who was being tortured or him. 

Brown curls bounce against the pillow as his head nods, mouth moving, but only a garbled cry comes out. Something torn between a "please" and a whimper. 

He's got no right to be hitting the little bundle of nerves within your walls, rubbing against them with every rise and fall of your hips. An indirect massage that has you biting back a noise. If Rhett wanted his control back, he could take it right here and now because your head is floating higher and higher into the clouds. Only able to focus on this, this, this. 

But he doesn't. 

"Wanna cum," he croaks, lucid if only for a moment, "'m gonna—I wanna..."

There's a tremble in your arms that wasn't there before, the kind of shaking that works its way through your entire body. Thighs shivering, weakened by the drag of his plush cock head inside you. And his thumb is still working around your clit, in those same frantic spirals, and it's too much, it's so, so...

You don't know how it happens.

One moment you're being greeted by his hip bones against your ass, and the next, you're clamping down around him like a vice. Mouth falling open with a silent cry as you cum around his cock. The edges of your vision go white. A ringing blooms in your ears that nearly covers up the wail beneath you. 

The cry of a cowboy who doesn't quite know what to do. Brought so, so close to the edge by the involuntary spasming of your pussy, but not quite enough to give him what he wants. Forced to lay beneath you and whimper until you can pry your eyes open once more. 

"Please." He pants, cheeks so red that he matches the comforter.

But what's meant to be a one-word plea devolves before you can comprehend what he was trying to say. "Please, please, please let me cum," he babbles, his head rocking back and forth, the hand on your hip squeezing tight. "Please, I need it, I need it, I want, please, I—" 

You're not ready to move, but you're pulling yourself off him anyway. Downright collapsing next to him, mattress springs squealing at the sudden weight. It feels like ice has formed in the joints of your hand, struggling to wrap your fingers around the flushed length lying against his belly. So heavy that you can feel the way he throbs.

"Darlin'..." there's more to Rhett's sentence, but it never comes out. His heaving chest effectively revoking his ability to speak.

"I've got you," delicate, your hand begins to move. Stroking him in that loose, lazy sort of way that doesn't overwhelm him too quickly. Drawing that pretty whimper right out of him, so beyond the point of trying to swallow his noises down. 

It's the kind of loud, unmistakable noise that you've spent months coaxing out of him. One of your favorite sounds of his, selfishly proud that it's you who is able to draw it out of him. Not the girls who bat their lashes at him at the rodeos. Not the girl who has had her eyes on him ever since she came back from college. 

Only you. 

Nobody else gets to lay him back and make him beg to cum. You're the only one who gets to hear the way he cries out when your palm runs over his sensitive tip. Only your eyes get to watch how he jerks up into your fist, too impatient to wait. So close that his jaw trembles with it.

Large fingers wrap around your other hand, fumbling with it until he can hold it. Squeezing. Like you'll leave if he doesn't keep you grounded here, with him. "I'm..."

"It's okay," you soothe, wrist flicking a little quicker, in the way you know he does to himself. His jaw falls open, another one of those whimpers gracing your ears. Back arching up off the bed, the muscles in his thighs trembling. Jerking up into your touch like its the only thing he's ever wanted.

"Wanna—I'm..." he's rattling on, muttering little things that don't quite meet your ear. A red flush spreading down his neck and into his chest, the hand in yours squeezing tight. 

Your grip tightens by a mere fraction. "Cum for me, Rhett."

Blue eyes roll backward. His mouth agape as he tips off the edge, a dizzying melody of whines rattling out of his throat as thick ropes of white paint his belly. Coating your hand, unintentionally spreading it down his throbbing cock, creates some sickly wet noise that seems to echo through the room. 

And for a moment, that's the only sound in the room. Your wet hand works his softening cock as he comes down from his high, drawing those soft whimpers out of him like it's your job. Shuddered breaths soar through the air, suddenly so sensitive that he's squirming up the bed to escape your grasp.

His bicep flexes as he pulls your laced hands toward himself, drawing you into him. Soft blue eyes still glazed over as he rolls onto his side, rubbing his nose against your arm. Yet his hand doesn't let go of yours, even as you try to pull it away in favor of wiping away the stray tear that's run down his flushed cheek. The back of your cum covered hand will have to do because he's not letting go. 

"You still with me?" You ask, your voice soft as you lean in to press a kiss to his sweaty forehead. Lazy, his head nods, the corner of his lip rising. Not a full smile, but it's a start. "Will you let me get a cloth to clean us up?" 

As quickly as his lip rose, it falls into a pout. 

But his hand unlaces with yours, freeing you to drag your exhausted frame off the bed and to the bathroom. Only takes you a minute to run a cloth beneath warm water, but it had might as well take an entire hour because Rhett's already reaching for you. Hand lazily waving in your direction, falling to the mattress with an audible thump.

"I'm here," you whisper, running the cloth across his belly, "I'm here," 

It's only when the wet material runs over his messy cock that you get a noise out of him. A soft little "ah" accompanied by the unhappy wriggle of his hips. So oversensitive that he can hardly stand it when you rub the inside of his thighs, chasing off remnants of lube. 

You can't be done quickly enough. Settling for tossing the cloth into the sink because there's a cowboy who needs your attention more. He's already squirmed under the sheets, his big, needy arms opening up to welcome you in. Eagerly wraps them around you and pulls you as close as he can get, cold nose nuzzling against yours.

"Are you alright?" You murmur, stroking his hair out of his face. In the back of your mind, you already know he's okay. He would have used his safe word if he wasn't, but you're asking anyway.

Humming, he leans in to steal a chaste peck from your lips, then another, and another, until he's stolen a total of six of them, "'m alright, doll."

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be?" It's too easy to comb your fingers through his hair, a tangled mess from tonight's escapades. Will surely be a bitch to brush out in the morning, but you'll worry about that when you get there.

For a moment, he's quiet, and then, "I...think I liked it?"

"Yeah?" You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Determined to fit himself into the small space and disappear completely. "Maybe we'll have to give it a second try then."

"Mm 'kay." And that's the last thing you get out of him before his eyes flutter shut. 

There's no doubt that he'll ultimately get you back for this. Use all of this pent-up desperation to wring you dry and remind you of just how competitive he can be. You haven't a doubt that you'll soon be waking up to lips kissing down your naked chest, eager to give you a taste of your own medicine. 

And that's alright. 

Because it's not easy for you to break a man like Rhett Abbott. 

But oh, when you do. 

[scrubbynicole]

🔹HEHEHE HAII EVERYNYAN HELLOO!!! i finally managed to make a reference sheet for my goofy koopa oc!! this little fella is pretty much based off of me LOL!!! i hope that you guys like her :33 she is a very joyous and an energetic goober of mine!!

[ask-the-koopa-family]

Morton Sr and Olivia first meeting at war...💥💥💥

((Bowser parents in my AU))

Art is mine dont copy/repost

#bowser

#supermariobros

#supermariofanart

#marioocs

#supermarioocs

#mortonsrkoopa

#oliviakoopa

#bowserparents

[kichiliarr]

Mike Pompompurin will always live in my heart, and his stupid ugly boyfailure boyfriend i guess