#sawdust of words
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i just spent ages looking for the post, i swear i posted about it when i broke my beloved fish plate like a year ago, but now he's finally back together! i just have to wait a week or so for the resin to cure , and then i can go in and wipe away the excess gold. even though the process was frustrating and VERY time-consuming and i lost motivation halfway through and let it sit on the shelf unfinished for like 14 months, i'm glad i went to the trouble of learning how to actually kintsugi it with resin and gold instead of rushing it with epoxy and mica powder.
the before pics (freshly broken and after the initial gluing):
#kinda wish i'd gotten pics of him when i'd filled in the voids and done all the coats of resin on top and sanded them down#the different types of resin were different colors and after sanding it had kind of a marbled look#the process basically goes like: filing down sharp edges to create a gap for the gold to show#gluing everything back together with resin mixed with flour and water to make it strong and sticky#filling in the voids with resin mixed with fine sawdust to make it strong (this part took the longest bc you can't put the paste on thickly)#creating a uniform surface with resin mixed with (i think) fine clay powder#creating a smooth finish by alternately painting on layers of pure resin and sanding it down once cured#(the resin will wrinkle if applied too thickly or if it's too humid)#(this is also used to smooth out the rough areas that the resin/clay step couldn't fix)#and finally painting on a final layer of resin and applying gold powder and burnishing it slightly#each layer of resin takes about a week to cure#if my apartment was more humid and if i hadn't lost steam i think this would've taken me... three months#and thats assuming i could work on it every weekend#seriously it's only worth doing if it's a piece you really love#alternatively if you didn't care about looks you could just stop after sticking it together but idk how food safe it would be#ALSO. BIG word of warning.#the uncured resin could give you a really nasty painful rash if you touch it with bare skin#it is not a joke#once it's cured tho it's inert
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get back on your hinges
no thanks i've escaped my doorframe and i'll eat it too
#the silly words on your screen#anon answered#gonna go eat a door real quick#tbh i probably actually could my door is halfway disintegrating into sawdust#lets go#door eating time#wheeeeeeee
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a little peak of my NaNo project today:
#mine#writing#Clay and Sawdust#NaNo#NaNoWriMo#NaNo 2023#i'm still trying to hit today's word count for this specifically so h9oping posting will give me a little more motivation
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"made with love, made with love"
Joanna Newsom performing "Sawdust & Diamonds", Spring Recital, March 22, 2023
#joanna newsom#i thought what words to use to describe this feeling i get listening to and watching her play and she's already said the best truest words#she always does#sawdust and diamonds#spring recital#music#love joanna#jnew#sr: kaceyjohansing on ig
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what if i decide that hazel is a geologist and then sawdust is like ok . . volcanology time 😏🌋. and then they look at igneous rocks together. study the lichen that grows on them. what then
#gay love i bet#this is jokes theyre both aspec or seomthing idk#relationships between humans and creature-folk cant be described with human words#oh i could be silly and make hazel something too .. . . stars in their skin . .. ..#theyre so dusk and sawdust is so dawn 2 me ..#kiddo say#oc posting .. . .. .. ..
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“I wasn't born of a whistle or milked from a thistle at twilight
No, I was all horns and thorns, sprung out fully formed, knock-kneed and upright
So enough of this terror
We deserve to know light
And grow evermore lighter and lighter”
#continually amazed by the devastating emotional artillery of Joanna Newsom’s lyrics#pretty sure I’ve posted this exact verse before but I don’t care I will celebrate this collection of beautiful words every day until I die!#thanks joanna#joanna newsom#ys#sawdust and diamonds
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Been thinking about the day Johnny’s mouth takes him too far while the two of you are fucking and he calls you a slut.
He’s probably done it often enough before with other women and partners. He personally likes a little degradation himself in the moment, so it feels odd to imagine that there are people out there who don’t. He’s a little self-centered that way.
I can imagine him above you pinning you to the bed, both your figures sweat-slicked. Your hands around his shoulders, nails digging into his back as he tries to drill his cock through you and into the mattress. He’d been edging you for a while, working you up to a plateau that he refuses to let you tumble over, and it has you a little more vocal than usual. A little less composed. A little more needy.
He thinks you’re perfect like this, brain leaking from your ears, mouth parted in a perpetual gasp, throat going raw from all your pleadings. Johnny’s naturally a yapper, so he’s probably been providing in depth (we’re talking unabridged War And Peace length) narration of the entire event, and it seems like such a small thing for him to slip the word amongst all the praises he lavishes on you.
He doesn’t understand why you go stiff and shocked underneath him.
“I’m not a slut,” you mutter into the silence when his thrusts stop abruptly. Except you kind of were acting like one, weren’t you? Moaning and gasping, begging. For the first time with Johnny, you feel ashamed. Embarrassed by your reaction to the sex and by your reaction to the word in equal measure.
Credit to himself, Johnny knows when the moment has passed. He slips out of you and gathers you up even against your embarrassed protests—God, you’re fine, it’s not a big deal, it just caught you off guard that’s all!—and apologizes, reaffirms to you that he doesn’t really think such a thing about you. He doesn’t even really believe in sluts; why shouldn’t people do and crave the things that feel good? That’s just human nature, baby.
I imagine you listen and nod along to his heartfelt apologies (and of course you know he means them), but he can see the sawdust-sized speck of anxiety in your eye that doesn’t dissipate. He knows that the window of opportunity to snuff out that ember is closing fast, so his method of drowning it out is to pin you down and to show you what real slut behavior looks like.
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my dad with a bottle of dasani is just as good as an emergency eyewash station
#the words of a man who just dumped like a tablespoon of sawdust directly into her eyeballs#like DIRECTLY#infant speaks
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Soft Edges
SYNOPSIS: Logan doesn't know how to relax. So you help him.
PAIRING: Worst!Wolverine x fem!reader (Although minus the quick blip mention about the Void, you could imagine any Logan you'd like)
WC: 2K
WARNINGS: sexually suggestive innuendos; non-explicit descriptions of nakedness; playful banter; kissing; mild swearing; feeeeeelings; honestly, just tooth rotting fluff
A/N: I haven't written anything four hundred and eighty years seven years and I'm honestly kind of nervous about this. I thought my writing muse was long dead and buried. But here it is, seemingly revived. The idea for this story kind of just fell out of my head when I should have been napping while my toddler napped. The story won out. I hope you like it! <3
You wake with a jolt to the sound of Logan’s alarm blaring from his phone. From beside you comes Logan’s low, “Ah, fuck,” before silence reclaims the room.
It’s early, the first rays of morning light just barely peeking above the horizon. You roll over and peer over your pillow to find Logan pulling on a pair of jeans.
“I thought you were off today,” you mumble sleepily, laying your head back down and admiring the way his muscles move as he slips a shirt over his shoulders.
He looks back at you with a soft smile. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, continuing to dress. “Picked up an extra shift at the yard.”
Since returning from the Void, Logan had picked up a smattering of odd jobs to earn money. A couple of months working at a quarry. A per diem for a local contracting company. Currently a lumber yard thirty minutes outside of town. Despite notoriety for helping save the entirety of existence, some employers still had qualms about hiring someone from another universe. Not that he cared. You think he was just happy being useful.
You reach for him and pull him down for a kiss. You can feel the curve of his smile against your lips and it’s these soft moments about him you love the most. “Do you even know how to relax?” you ask, snuggling back down against the rumpled sheets.
“I relax,” he replies, standing up to grab his boots at the end of the bed.
You can’t help the snort that escapes from you. “Name one thing you to do relax,” you counter, watching through half lidded eyes as he sits back down on the bed to lace up his boots.
Logan pretends to think about it and then smirks. “You.”
He chuckles as you whip his pillow at him, your aim off as it sails harmlessly past his head and onto the floor. You hide your smile as he looks down at you, his eyes warm but still tired. “Relaxing really ain’t my style, sweetheart.”
“You deserve it though,” you say, stifling a yawn.
Logan looks down at you for a moment, his smirk fading as something softer settles in his expression, but he doesn’t respond to your statement. He stands and shrugs on his jacket, straightening out the collar before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.
You watch him leave and as you settle down to steal a couple more hours of sleep, you hatch a plan to show him just how nice relaxing can be.
+++
You hum to yourself as you cook, the aroma of roasted potatoes and chicken filling the apartment. You’re just about to start on the green beans when you hear the jingle of Logan’s keys in the lock and the door swings open with a heavy creak.
“In here, babe!” you call from the kitchen.
“I could smell this all the way downstairs,” he comments, tossing his keys on the counter. “What’s this for?”
Logan wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against his frame, nuzzling his nose where your neck and shoulder meet. With a smile, you reach back and lightly scratch your nails through the scruff along his jaw. He smells like sawdust and smoke as you press a light kiss to his cheek.
You savor these moments with him. When you’d first met him, he was distant and wary, years of trauma causing him to be guarded. He warmed up slowly, his touches lingering longer and his words spilling more freely. But now, moments like this—where he’s soft and affectionate—have become more frequent. Logan craves touch and you are more than willing to reciprocate.
“I thought you could use a nice dinner,” you say, your hand still tracing the line of his jaw. “Long day?”
Logan lets out a low grunt in response, his forehead resting against your shoulder. “One of those days where every idiot with a hammer thinks he can DIY,” he mutters, his breath warm against your skin.
You smile and give his head an affectionate pat. “Well, you’re home now and I’ve got everything handled here. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes.”
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Sure you don’t need help?”
“You try and help me, and I’ll beat you with this spoon,” you tease.
Logan laughs and raises his eyebrow. “Promise?”
You smirk, giving him a playful nudge to the ribs with your elbow. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Logan.”
Logan’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the kind of smile that softens all his sharp edges. He gives your waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back, his fingers lingering just a beat longer. “Alright, alright,” he says holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll just go wash up.”
As Logan retreats to the bathroom, you hear the rustle of him changing out of his work clothes and the thud of his boots as he tosses them to the floor. You finish dinner, resuming your quiet humming as you set the table. You finish plating everything when Logan emerges, work clothes changed for a fresh t-shirt and jeans.
“Come eat, Lo.”
He joins you at the table and gives you an appreciative look as he sits down. “This smells incredible.”
You sit across from, watching as he takes the first bite, a prickle of anxiety setting along your spine as you wait for his reaction. A low groan of pleasure rumbles in his throat. “Fuck, this is good.”
A grin spreads across your face as he takes several more bites like a man starved. “I experimented with the cast iron skillet,” you comment as you watch him. “Looks like it was a solid impulse purchase.”
The two of you settle into a comfortable rhythm, enjoying the meal and sharing small pieces of conversation. Logan helps himself to seconds and as he finishes, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets his gaze on you. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“I wanted to,” you reply simply. “And, like I told you this morning, you deserve it. Let me help you relax, Logan.”
There’s a pause, his expression softening as your words settle over him. You know he’s not one to ask for much and you can tell his savoring this moment. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” His voice is gruff but there’s a tenderness there that makes your chest ache.
“A good something?”
He smiles. “The best somethin’.”
You finish dinner, swatting him away when he offers to help clean up and banishing him to the living room. Dishwasher loaded and leftovers put away, you join him on the couch. “Care to indulge me once more?”
He quirks his eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
+++
Logan stares at you dubiously as you lead him to the bathroom and gesture towards the tub. You flash him a grin as a frown tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just a bath, Logan.”
He eyes the tub as if he’s waiting for it to swallow him whole. He crosses his arms across his chest. “I don’t do baths,” he mutters.
You roll your eyes and place your hand on his chest, gently pushing him further into the bathroom. “Yeah, and you don’t relax either. Just humor me.”
Logan gives you a look—half amused, half reluctant—as he allows you to continue to nudge him closer. He reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck and blows out a sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, “but only if you join me.”
You laugh softly, leaning up to press a kiss to his chin. “Tough bargain, but I accept.”
You turn from him and run the faucet, letting the tap run until you find the temperature sweet spot. Satisfied, you toss in some bath salts, the scent of eucalyptus quickly filling the room. The tension in Logan’s posture eases as you finish preparing the bath, but he still eyes you like he’s not entirely sure what comes next.
Once the tub is filled, you shut off the tap and turn back towards him. “Okay, now strip.”
Logan smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so this is what you really wanted.”
“You’re not that hard to get naked, Logan,” you say with a laugh.
He chuckles, but follows your instruction, pulling his shirt over his head. As you join him in undressing, you can’t help but admire his physique, his muscles flexing and gliding beneath his skin. You shimmy your panties down your hips as he kicks off his pants, leaving you both bare.
You feel his gaze heavy on your skin as you step into the tub and beckon him to join you. He steps in, sitting down so his back is against your chest and he lets out a low groan as the warm water envelopes him. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you cradle him and feel the tension ease from his muscles.
“See?” you say, leaning to press a kiss to his temple. “Isn’t this nice?”
Logan peeks up at you and smirks. “The naked woman helps.”
You grab a washcloth and dip into the water to dampen it before running it over his chest. “You don’t have to admit you like it,” you say, rubbing the cloth in gentle circles along his collarbones. “You’re basically a wet noodle in my arms.”
He makes a wordless noise in the back of his throat and closes his eyes as you continue to wash him. A comfortable silence surrounds you, soft drops and splashes of water and the faint background hum of your apartment the only noises interrupting your space. You continue to wash him, gently massaging his shoulders, arms, down to the long fingers that know how to play you so well. A deep groan rumbles through his chest as you rub your fingers across the skin in between his knuckles.
You eventually let the washcloth sink and wrap your arms Logan’s chest. He molds his arms against yours, lacing your fingers together. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
You shake your head and hold him just a little tighter. “You do, Logan. Despite your past, you’re a good man and you deserve someone to help shoulder your burdens.” Your voice is sincere as you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Or least help you relax every once in a while.”
You soak until the water cools just enough to chill your skin. Reluctantly, you untangle yourself from him and nudge him to stand. He’s already got a towel slung low across his hips as you step out and he doesn’t even let you grab your own before pulling you close.
A yelp dies on your lips as he cradles your face in his hands, thumbs pressing into the corners of your jaw as he tilts your mouth up to him. He inhales deeply through his nose, his lips moving expertly over yours, his tongue seeking the warmth of your kiss.
You lean into him, your fingers trailing along his ribs and pressing into the damp of his skin. Logan kisses you once more, a gentle press to the corner of your mouth before he lets you go.
“So,” he starts slowly, “Now that you’ve shown me how you relax, can I return the favor?”
A mischievous gleam dances in his eyes and he doesn’t give you time to answer before slinging you over this shoulder. Your giggles echo down the hallway as he carries you and he kicks open the bedroom door before setting you down on the bed. You scoot back and stare up at him with an expectant glance.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he says with a grin, “My turn.”
#deadpool and wolverine#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#logan howlett#wolverine#wolverine x reader#wolverine x you#logan x reader#x men
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I swear to every chocolate I’ve ever eaten that once I get a cat I will be posting every day with pictures of it. Like…
My good sirs, would you care to see the light of my life, Madam Tonkernicket Nelly VII?
#this is what will happen#mark my words#cats#ahhhhhhhhh#i need to squeeze one now#like a little ball of loveable sawdust
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for the killers next performance they should play the entirety of sawdust (2007) front to back to an audience of just me. my eyes and ears only.
#cuz ngl when they played songs off of day&age/battle born tonight i was kinda rusty 💀 dont remember those albums as much as i thought ig#but sawdust is core memories. if they played glamorous indie rock and roll or who let you go or under the gun i wouldve been beat for beat#word for word
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carpenter!ellie 😩😩
𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒. ♱
content: ignoring the fact that this request is a tad old, let me indulge in you some headcanons for her! smut, mdni, reader has a child, dork!ellie content, loser!ellie content, general storyline outline, fingering(r!receiving), oral(r!recerving), dom!ellie, rough-handling, mama petname, hint of breeding kink, fluff intertwined. this took a hot minute, sorry for the wait. (2.4k wc)
𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆:
She was a shiny object of secular occupation. Glinted skin, tinted lips, pools of sweat in plaid, and hair like mahogany. It was eye-catching the first time. Stepping through the wide workshop door, the screeches of saws drowned everything out: the thoughts, the plans, the mental image of those kitchen cabinets you wanted done, but she drew everything back in.
Unfortunately, she wasn't the one that pulled you aside to chat about your renovation project. It took a rustic couple of days of contracting and working out blueprints before she was introduced first and foremost. Woodcraft of Wyoming makes customer-supplier relationships their top priority—and Joel made sure to put in nothing but good words.
“Hey.” She had specks of sawdust dusted across her cheeks, and a voice fit for an angel. Even held out her hand to you. “New girl on Goldpine?” Fallen straight to your knees, you were. Gorgeous girls in labor-intense jobs are the fucking sweethearts, and sweet-looking. Your opening thought was to chuckle—for no reason; there was a nervous weight on your chest. “Yeah..” It was airy and soft in the pit of your throat. “That would be me.”
And neither one of you knew how to continue threading the seam after; secluding hands in pockets, avoiding eye contact. Back then, you were simple strangers, so you had no clue that she was a virgin to regular conversations—with girls like you, at least. She communed with older folk, more often. Girls within her dating range are so damn confusing!
Not to mention, the unmentionables: Are you single? Are you gay too? Do you even like girls like her, big heart and small tits? Round eyes and long tears? Forest eyes, or ocean ones? Greyhounds, or tabbies? Do you hate coffee? Do you like video games? If you could bring one thing to a stranded, desolate island in the sea, what would it be—and why? Have you ever skipped town? Would you, if shit went south? This shit is the standard procedure for a girl heartbroken twice-over!
But you—you are the least confusing, and most wanting.
God, and she smells only of wood.
Woodlands, and processed bodies of wood. Something you expect from a girl of her plaid-wearing, converse-pairing type.
Oh, and has about every off-hand item linked to a sage carabiner in her belt loops. Rejects the idea of a purse or a backpack; pockets and loops are the way to go, apparently.
When she discarded her gloves in front of you for the first time, it was a pleasant discovery. They covered her tattoos: graceful, rebellious little things you are sure procured a lecture from her dad, Joel, who owns the place.
𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄:
So, it came. Day utero, a week later: the day she had to go against the odds in her gut. So, let's say you're the cute girl on the block she wants to buy you a drink in the potential, rather near future? Forget it. You barely know each other and she was there on the clock, not to flirt with the client in her own damn house! She was the one responsible for getting your renovation project off the ground—well, deeper in it. That comes first. She had to accommodate every little need you spoke into the autumn air, every little direction.
Her heart did swing, however. She was in your world, and your voice was there too. She escaped into it, and ended up hours further in eveningtide with multiple cuts on her fingertips from lacking focus; your beauty the edge of a sharp saw. There would be a “Fuck!” or an even stronger “Motherfucker!” from her that pierced through the halls.
Again, and again, and again. The first-aid kit sees her face more than anyone else.
Soft memories of you seeped under the band-aids. Memories you think nobody will remember.
It was tedious work. It wore her and everyone involved thin, so that is exactly where you popped in. Pretty outfits and impossibly prettier artisinal platters in your hands, turning heads over the sounds of sawdust. Sunlight seemed to rain in even harder once you sauntered inside.
On her breaks, a camera would be taken out for recreation. Beyond the surrounding green belt of silence stands the backwoods; a cacophonic mural of birdsongs. Birdwatching opportunites. From the sink window, you could spot her. Each chirp that sounded, she took a polaroid camera to a perfect line of sight and snapped a photo, crinkling up her flecked nostrils. Then, you knew she understood the unspoken language of the woods.
She also never engaged much during them, reading the lips of everyone in the room—lingering on one pair the most. Yeah, yours. All the carpenters aiding you had at least something to start a conversation about: whether it be the area, who lives with you, what job you work. Humdrum things that come without thought or genuine intrigue.
But she watched. When it wasn't birds, it was you. She never meant to lurk on the sides. Sure as hell, she longed to say something—anything, but in the same chorus, not just anything.
She wanted to be the special one out of the bunch.
So, she studied you. Studied herself, next to your existence. Turns out you have more in common—and more chemistry, than a glorified hour of rubbing elbows and licking lips in a bar would provoke or reveal. Thank goodness she chose the route less traveled by.
“You go to museums quite often?” she spoke as she slid up the counter edge, sacrum leaning on the ridge. Convinced your ears were crafting speech from quiet air, you did not notice her. Whatever words she etched into the walls of her throat, practiced in the mirror a ritualistic amount of times, came out too soft. She repeated herself with a nudge, and a satin ribbon on the ends of her last words. Something you notice. “With 'ur son?” It lightened your eyes. “Oh, yeah.” It also lightened the numbed spots in your brain; she is a breath of fresh air. You wore unworn smiles for her. “He loves dinosaurs with his whole damn heart. Well, as he would say—with his whole butt, or whichever weird denominator he uses.” You get her to such an egregious level of delusion, she begins to consider marriage. With anybody, to be clear! Totally isn't limiting her options to you only. She coughs up a laugh. “Tch—he's just got an imaginative word bank. Don't knock'em, mama.” Defending the honor of your capricious son—whose humor is made up entirely of fart jokes—but she slipped in that sly nickname. You assumed she meant no lust, and no love by dropping it, an anxious pause breathing between it, but it sent a shiver right down your spine, and settled in the small of your back. Fucking romanticist.
You already thought she was perfect then.
But somehow, there was a whole lot more packaged perfection sat alone, and unwanted, inside this strange girl with doe eyes. If there was a mountain of boxes to carry in, she wouldn't even let your hands grace the edge of one.
She has an innate sensualism to her. When she did work, and when you did an admissable nothing, she enveloped the eye of your mind. Those little, lustful pit stains drooping from her shirt everytime she lifted her arms, were attractive. The swipes from the backs of her hands across her forehead, or even the covert decisions to unclothe her skin of those sweat-dried graphic shirts and fashioning them into facecloths and raveling back inside them before anyone could glimpse, made you lustful; sweating from the sight. Sunlight was upon her like a heliograph, yet you were the true bitch in heat.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓:
You only ever got together in the late autumn wrap-up of your project. Every prosaic interaction boiled to a point, and for both reaching, yearning hearts, it became too hot to handle. One had bent under the pressure and paltered for courage you couldn't even pry from stone: Ellie, baby-blue plaid and ripped-jeaned on your doorstep—with a bouquet.
Getting you to come to her place was the be-all and end-all to this relationship, and you are fucking glad it is. Learning more about the girl who already ticked all the boxes on being the perfect hitch to your perfect trailer, is exhilarating. Turns out, the endless commodities of nature fit into the palms of her callused hands, are weld into more than only houses. While a handful of you—including some co-workers who freeload on an average—had your fills of old, Texan-style dishes, Joel brought up punctual beats about his daughter, which she cringed at. Wrinkled faces passed around the room.
“C'mon, Ellie. Why don't you run up there and grab yer' guitar you made? Entertain your guest with a song?” Ellie sneered, silverware in her pinch clattering. “Uh—first off Joel, she's not a guest. She's my—” Though complaining, she could barely writhe her words out. The craven, cringing look on her face suggested this was her first time hosting a special guest ever. The words ghost the press of her lips, and only make it out in quiet mumbles. “Date. She is.. my date.”
All the sentient sound in the room died after. Sure made it easier for Ellie to decide that a family gathering was not her style, regardless if you knew everyone, essentially. She was none the wiser, and wiped her plate clean in record time just to gallop her autumn valentine up to her room with sweet and silken things alike crawling in her mind.
Her whispers are lithe on skin. “Think you're like the best fuckin' thing that's ever happened to me.” She had you kneeling into her love; sat in-between her barely-crossed legs, on the bed, close in a huddle and breathing into your neck. Telling you soft devotionals as if you're a bird born in shrouds that she gets to hold; her fingers trying to tangle with yours so that you may never leave. Capturing the memory like she captures a photograph. You spoke even softer. “Yeah?” The confirmation making her smile stupid in your neck. She replaces her teeth with a single, pulse-point kiss, smushing her nose. Everything is a no-brainer now that she has you to herself, for herself.
Of all trees in the forest: you are her one to carve. Ellie—the buried lover, the Ellie she kept swallowing inside, has crawled out at loathing last. This one is all-loving, eating the empty spaces that cling to your body: under the warming ears, in the pearl-shaped dip of your throat, each word that comes out. She creates little shavings of your body with the blades of her tongue, and is humming at the taste. Cleaning you, wetting your untouched skin, creating excuses for your clothes to come off.
Soon, her body is sweating upon yours; two lovers melting into each other. She drags you roughly into her mouth, arousing the bud of your nipple to stand to her lips. It hits her tongue, again and again, and is left with a wet shine. God, that fucking sight alone makes you cross your legs, and hope she does something about the uncomfortable nectar dripping down there.
She palms you about it.
“Fuck.”
In the most heavenless regions is where she shines. Literally, and figuratively. Shoving her face into the drenched secret of your spread thighs gets her soaked more than you predicted, or pictured. So when she opens her legs and pushes against you, it presses a premature moan out.
But it would not be alone. When her fingers snag and puncture in your hips, and her cunt—thick with an auburn bush—is smushing against yours, litanies of sounds spill out.
“Goddamn babe,” she huffs into a grunt, pouring all the attention solely on you. Her pussy is just lathering yours—pornographic, visual filth and more; the sounds are all you hear. “This is just what you needed, huh?” She hunches over your handled sillhouette, panting and wiping the thin hairs stuck to her lips. Her rosy face is afflcited by warmth, and shine, stare sleepy and soft. “Fuck—you look so pretty right now.” She said that, and it sounded like a revelation. With her lips curling, teeth showing, hips stilling and fingers trailing on you like you are a treasure, above and below the sea. You end up sharing the toothy smile with her. Then, her breath cuddles in closer. “Don't wanna hurt you,” She kisses your sensitive neck with a promise, unfolding the love letters in her heart. Quietly devouring your neck with wet mouthings and hot words that vibrate into your pounding one. She sucks in a sibilant breath before she continues. “But it's fucking hard not to go insane when you're so fuckin—” She stifles, and her lips pinch your skin; her intentions to mark you so obvious. She could finish you with this alone. “Mhh, so pretty babe.” How she handles you makes you feel pretty.
Customer relationships being the priority makes your pleasure her priority—in a determined tussle. When she manhandled you into some debased position; face down, ass up, you never expected her subsequent decision to put herself at a low level, too. She sits behind you, and the hand once so delicate in practice upon your face is pushing your thigh to make room for herself.
You could say she was the one being debased on her own accord. Her tongue took long, starving strokes of you, licking your pussy from behind. It drips off her tongue, down her chin, gets inside her nostrils. She whispers how much she loves it after doing it, chanting it.
Spanking is also a no-brainer. Something about the impulse gets her going. She whacks her palm across and immediately sinks her fingers in until it soothes, laughing like a fucked-out, pussydrunk maniac when your muscles shiver—her favorite part.
Will finger you if it means showing off those spire tattoos; she knows how bad you keel for them.
“God, she's just swallowin' em up.” The heads of her fingers push in, ease in and ease out. She slides out, and paints your entrance with the arousal coating her intricate digits in circles, intending to be as unapologetic as possible with it, and the sounds. She proudly chuckles when you whine. “Yeah, hear that?” “Mhm.” She made you infatuated with them, if anything.
She would give you another child, and compose all the needed furniture from scratch—if she could.
#✮─── . aestra's bibliotheca#ellie williams#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams smut#dom!ellie#carpenter!ellie#ellie tlou#lesbian#sapphic#ellie williams headcanons#ellie williams fic#ellie williams x fem!reader#ellie williams x you#ellie williams x y/n#ellie williams x female reader#ellie williams imagine
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First Choice - Part 4
Part Four of this Poly141! x fat!reader tw: social anxiety, self-doubt, drinking, more touchy-touchy, reader thinks about sexual acts
In celebration of 200 followers, this part has way more than 650 words. More like 1600. :)
Conversation flowed easily with them despite their sole focus being on you. At some point, Kyle’s hand had drifted onto your thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh gently. John’s arm had slipped from the back of the booth and now rested around your shoulders. You couldn’t be sure, but it seemed Johnny couldn’t keep his feet still and kept tapping yours under the table. The only one who couldn’t seem to relax was Ghost, sitting almost across from you.
His eyes never left you and he mainly seemed to communicate in grunts. At least, he was drinking this time, his glass now empty of his own whiskey. You were careful not to drink too much, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of these beautiful men. But it didn’t keep you from relaxing and feeling the warmth of the two next to you.
Pulling out your phone, you checked the time and groaned. “I really should be going. It’s been great,” you announce, looking to Kyle to move so you could slide out from the booth. “Aw come on. We’re having so much fun. Just a wee longer?” Johnny asks and you turn to him, finding yourself giving in almost immediately. Damn the puppy dog eyes.
“Only a bit longer,” you concede and relax back into the seat. This time when Kyle’s hand lands on your thigh, it’s higher and the heat is searing through your jeans. You let out a soft sound, biting your lip as his hand starts slowly caressing your thigh up and down. He’s not even looking at you when you look up, already deep in conversation with Johnny about some sports game you had no clue about.
John’s arm settled back over your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer so his hand hovers over your breast and you can feel the hair of his arm on your bare collarbone. Your breasts jiggle slightly with your laugh when Johnny makes a joke and you don’t miss the way his pupils dilate ever so slightly before darting back up to your face. He, at least, has the decency to blush, the faint pink color tinging his cheeks.
When the crowd in the bar starts to thin out and you realize even your friends have left for the night, you’re yawning in your seat and now leaned completely against John with his thick arm draped over your shoulders. Kyle’s hand is now tucked between your thick thighs, the side pressed as tightly to your core as he can get it and you hope to whatever higher powers that be that he couldn’t feel the radiating heat or the damp spot that had soaked into your panties.
“Okay, okay. I really do need to go now. My friends aren’t even here anymore and that’s saying something,” you chirp, suddenly very awake and aware that you’re in an almost empty bar with four men you’d only met that night. They all look at you like they’d rather eat sawdust than let you go and you feel a warmth creep over you.
“Ahw, bonnie, we couldn’t let you go home on your own. Let us take you home,” Johnny chimes in, soft smile and kind eyes that hold a hint of something else in them. You swallow, looking between each of them. Your gaze lingers on Ghost for a while, noticing the man’s eyes had almost never left you.
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go. It’s not a far walk,” you reply, biting your lip at the reckless decision. These men could be serial killers and you were just inviting them to know exactly where you live. “Why don’t you let Johnny and Ghost take you home? Kyle and I can follow in our truck so they’re not stuck walking back here,” John offers, a warm smile curling up the thick mustache.
At this point, you’re ready for bed and just want to get home. “Sounds good to me,” you reply though the words are manipulated by a yawn. All of you shuffle out of the round booth, both Kyle and John kissing the top of your head like they’d known you for years before disappearing out the door. You wrap your jacket around you again, pulling the zipper together over your belly and getting a little frustrated when it gets caught up on your shirt.
“Lemme,” Ghost grumbled, stepping up to you and taking hold of the jammed zipper. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night and it almost stuns you how deep and growly it is. Your breath hitches as he grabs the zipper, yanking on it and subsequently making your breasts bounce as he accidentally pushes against them. He gets it undone and you mutter a bashful ‘thanks’ before turning on your heel as you finish zipping it up to your throat.
You know they’re meant to be escorting you home, but you’re out the door so fast the two men have to jog to catch up. Johnny’s arm wraps around your waist, fingers pressing into the pudge of your stomach in a way that makes you want to shrivel up. You don’t like anyone touching your stomach, but you’re warring with yourself on whether or not to move his hand, to show that kind of discomfort in front of these men.
You choose to do so anyway, wrapping your fingers around his and lifting his arm up over your head and ducking under it, dropping it at his side. Johnny looks down at you with a furrowed brow. “Don’ like it when people touch you, do you?” he asks as he shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look bothered that you’d removed his arm, but your anxiety rears its ugly head and makes you worried you’d offended him.
“It’s not that I don’t like being touched. It-It’s…complicated. I-I don’t want to talk about it,” you manage to stammer out before picking up your speed. It’s not like you’re going to shake off your two guard dogs whose legs are easily longer than yours by several inches, but you take off anyways.
When your building finally comes into view, you slow your pace and breathe a soft sigh of relief. Your bed was so close, just a few more yards and you could get rid of the guard dogs and curl up in bed. “Well, this is me. Thanks for bringing me home. I really appreciate it.” You were grateful that they’d walked you home. It wasn’t safe this time of night to be wandering around in this part of town.
“We’re walking you to your door, bonnie. Wouldn’t want someone to snatch you up between here and there,” Johnny stated, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You wanted nothing more than to sink into the scent of him, warm and tingly to the nose like oranges and nutmeg, but you shook your head and backed up to the door of your building. “There’s really no need. My neighbors are great.” Lie. Absolute fucking lie. Nestor at the end of the hall on the first floor would, no questions asked, rip you from the hallway if he saw you alone. A chill went down your spine and you conceded the moment you looked into Ghost’s eyes. You didn’t have a choice if they were escorting you all the way up.
You turned and opened the door to the building, looking down the hall to make sure Nestor was in his apartment before slipping in and letting the boys in behind you. You headed to the elevator and punched the up arrow, biting your lip as you tried not to wither under the intense stare of the man in the mask. The elevator had been the selling point for you. It was the only place within your budget that had an elevator and you weren’t about to walk up five flights of stairs multiple times a day.
The lift dinged and you stepped inside, Ghost and Johnny slipping in behind you just to stand with their bodies pressed against your back. Unintentionally, you leaned into them before your eyes widened at your own movement and you straightened so your body pulled away slightly.
The doors dinged and opened allowing you to step out onto your floor. You headed to your unit, digging for your keys in your purse. With a ‘aha!’, you pulled them out and shoved the key into the doorknob, unlocking it. “Would you guys like to come in? I might have some whiskey left?” you offer, turning to look at them. You didn’t know why you were inviting them in, but the sense of safety you had around them had you desperate for them to stay.
“Sure, lemme text Price and Kyle where to come. Go on in, Si-Ghost. I’ll come in in a minute,” Johnny stated, already pulling his phone out and going to stand next to the window at the end of the hall. You opened the door and allowed Ghost in, leaving it unlocked so the others could join once they arrived.
Heading into your kitchen, you stood up on your tippy toes, reaching up so you could pull out five of your good glasses. You were looking for the last one, but it was just out of your reach. Suddenly, you felt what could only be Ghost against your back, pressing you against the counter as he leaned over you to grab the glass.
The heat of him against your back has your thighs clenching together while you watch his thick digits wrap around the glass and you wonder briefly what they’d feel like inside you. He takes a step back once he has the cup and holds it out to you.
You turn back to him while trying to fight off the blush coloring your cheeks. You murmur a thanks and wrap your own fingers around the glass.
Of course, that would be when the other three burst loudly through the door.
I wasn't intending for this to become a whole story, but it's really stuck with me over the last week or so.
<- Part Three Part Five ->
#captain john price#call of duty x reader#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#poly!141#simon riley x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#kyle gaz x reader#kyle gaz#kyle garrick#kyle gaz x you#john price x reader#john price#john price x plus size reader#john price x you#Johnny soap mactavish x plus size reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x you#simon riley#simon riley x plus size reader#kyle Garrick x plus size reader#tradgedyinwaves
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Simon Riley ran the local butcher shop, a quiet man with rough hands and a sharp blade. He worked with a precision that spoke of years of practice, his hands skilled in the art of cutting, though his hazel eyes never revealed what went on behind them.
His work was methodical and precise, each cut of meat as clean and deliberate as the way he carried himself. He moved with purpose, his hands steady, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he carved through bone and sinew with ease. The heavy scent of meat and sawdust filled the air, the rhythmic thwack of a cleaver slicing through bone echoing through the small shop.
You came into his small shop every Friday afternoon, more out of habit than necessity, drawn by something unexplainable about the way he moved, the quiet power in his every motion. The apron he wore was always stained from the day’s work, but somehow, it only added to his allure. She often caught his eyes on her, the familiar hazel gaze always lingering when he thought she wouldn’t notice. His attention was demanding, had a weight to it and you loved how he followed you with his eyes. There was an unspoken tension between you, something that lingered in the air like the scent of iron.
One day, as you reached for your package, your fingers brushed his, and the brief contact sent a shiver through you. His voice, deep and rough, broke the silence. “You keep comin’ back, love. You like my meat so much, eh?” The question hung in the air, as heavy as the cleaver in his hand, and though you couldn’t find the words to respond, blushing deeply, the way his eyes darkened told you that he already knew the answer.
betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#call of duty#ghost cod#cod#simon riley x you#ghost#ghost x you#simon ghost riley x you#cod fluff#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley headcanons#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley fluff#simon ghost riley comfort#simon riley comfort#cod x you#cod mw2#ghost fluff#ghost call of duty#ghost mw2#cod fanfic#simon riley x reader#cod ghost#cod x reader#betweenstorms#call of duty x reader#stormy writes#butcher!ghost#butcher!simon
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You Keep Sawdust for Starlight.
includes— hawks x reader. comfort. minors dni.
warnings— gn!reader.
"I wish you could bring me with you," Keigo whispers.
"You're already with me."
"No— like," he waves away a palm. It pushes the air forcefully around in a small wisp. "Like, I wish you could shrink me down and stuff me into your shirt pocket. Somethin’ real cute like that."
Keigo's lips are pursed when he speaks, boyish and gesticulate. Although his words barely peak over the sound of your breathing, they are enough to startle you from the lullaby daze and candlelit, pillowfort days. Your hand pauses twirling a clump of feathery, dust blonde hair around its index, releasing it gently and opting to gingerly prop up your body behind you.
Your bed sheets are blue and the velvet fabric tickles your palms and fingertips. They're sapphire, splattered by glittered specks sewn in shades of yellow across its surface. Night sky, imitation Van Gogh.
You can vet its authenticity; because unlike its painted namesake, your sheets remain intact. The comforter cradles you both in its arms, the fabric creasing like soft, blue waves, pushing and pulling you in its tides each time you shift beside him.
Your eyes flick and click to watch Keigo's.
He continues staring upwards at the popcorn ceiling as if the divots were countless stars, draped by curtains of black lashes. If tonight were colder, you might catch his breath.
"All those fancy places you go for work, and you wish you could come follow me around," you deadpan, brows stitched.
"Well, yeah." Keigo swallows and his Adam's apple bobs handsomely with each word like a fishing lure. You opt not to bite.
His nails scritch at the scruff of his beard, contemplative with viscous, syrupy thoughts.
“You always seem to be getting yourself into some trouble or another,” Keigo smiles a wet smile at the thought, still gazing up against the popcorn sky.
“People worry about you, you know," he says. "Worry if you’re safe. Worry if you’re you. You know I’ll be the first to tell you that you’re not exactly convincing.”
At that, Keigo folds two calloused hands, one over the other, against his sweater-clad chest, and exhales through his nose as he meets your eyes.
Many moons ago, you might have startled at how wide Keigo’s eyes looked when they reach yours, the black holes at their center swelling and fattening up. Tonight, you let them swallow you without fear of becoming lodged in their throat.
“I’ll think about it,” you sigh.
“I know you always think of me,” he says.
“You did say I’m predictable, didn’t you?”
You press your lips to his cheek, sticky and sweet. Keigo only opens his eyes again once you retreat back to lay beside him.
“Think of me a little while longer,” Keigo says. “And I promise I’ll follow you wherever you go.”
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