Please note: The content on this blog is not safe for minors. The fic posted here is often NSFW, and the author does not abstain from colourful language, or posting spoilers. If you're looking for Stardew aesethetics from my gameplay, please visit @bunniemothsdv as I'm relocating. 🧡
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Multi-chaps
Shiver (yandere!Sebastian x f!Farmer): Ao3 (Complete!) 🌶️
Oneshots: Vanilla
Beware of farmers bearing gifts (Shane x f!Farmer) : Ao3 or Here
Just friends or something (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here
The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Oneshots inspired by After Dark (mods)
Sugar (Sam x f!Farmer): Here (Excerpt) or Ao3 🌶️
Sugarcubes I (Sam x f!Farmer): Here 🌶️
Take the edge off (Alex x f!Farmer): Here 🌶️
Oneshots (Series) inspired by Older Sebastian (mod)
Shadows & Tall Trees (Older!Sebastian x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Holding Water (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Lessons in Drowning (Older!Sebastian x f!Farmer + Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here (Excerpt) 🌶️
I actually don't like having to do this, but I'm going to keep at it because there will be a day in the not-so-distant future when some person is going to see a 250,000 word fanfic with 10k chapters being posted every week, and they're going to go, "You used AI to write this, didn't you?"
So you get my monthly word count data instead, on a tag specifically to validate that this is a human process if I ever need to post a link to my work "proof". Some months are much worse than others. May sucked. May was a struggle. I wrote half as much as April, but I kept writing.
Hector experiencing a bad transformation sequence under the cut. CW: for light body horror.
Wasn't my intention to go this route, but real life circumstances feed the story, sometimes, and there's no sense pulling a punch when looking at the stats for fics with these characters on Ao3 and you realize that you're the only person who's going to read the thing from cover to cover once its done.
I'm going to give it exactly what it demands, and I'm going to give myself exactly what I need. (And I love Hector, believe me: but you only hurt the ones you love, or something.)
(Somewhere in Ch. 7ish)
Val caught her elbow as the shape undulated, the shiver of fur uncertain as the darkness seized around Hector’s figure, and with a shudder of greenery, the animal staggered into the unpruned bushes near the clinic. Thorns scraped runnels through the sound of her cry as she vanished.
The sound the body made as it lunged from the dirt, transformed from animal to human, was an agony in confused layers, torn from a throat that couldn’t hold its shape, because as a wolf entered, a woman emerged — haggard and pink beneath the moon’s gleam, her hair sticking to her forehead in sweaty, serpentine tendrils.
“There’s something wrong with her,” Val said.
Hector raised her head, and then an arm in their direction as if in warning to keep their distance, her teeth bared.
“I am standing… right here,” she said. “At least insult me when I’m out of earshot.”
Title: Shiver (1/9)
Pairing: yandere!Sebastian x f!Farmer
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Words: 7,540
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: yandere tropes, dark romance, slow burn, meta-narrative inspired by House of Leaves, enemies to lovers, power dynamics, fear play, primal play, breath play, degradation, humiliation, invasive thoughts, object insertion, inappropriate use of Greek mythology, references to suicide/suicidal ideation, dub-con, non-con, smoking (cigarettes and marijuana), references to capital punishment, mask kink, praise kink, bondage/restraints, exhibitionism, voyeurism, stalking, surveillance, references to sexual assault, references to grief/death of a parent, pretentious overtures, solarion chronicles references, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, and at least one unreliable narrator
Summary:
So you got a little lost, looking for your “fresh start.” Didn’t you know that guy with the black cat energy crossing your path was only going to trip you up?
Not all houses are haunted, farmer, but sometimes people are.
A Sebastian x f!Farmer Dark Romance, and a love letter to Halloween.
Excerpt available below the cut / Read it at Ao3 >
Desperation Farm[1]: it’s got the right kind of backwater broke-down vibe that clots in your throat when the well kicks up mud and the sewage backs up, and yet that first night you stood there under the descending twilight on the sagging porch, hoping for rain but thirsty anyway.
The water from the sink tastes like rust, but the colder shock to the system is the thought that you could call it whatever you wanted:
The five-acre stretch of farmland, yours by way of your granddad, might not look like much, but wood rot makes mushrooms, and the little ferns poking through the slats in the porch suggest a dogged determination to survive against all odds.
“Isn’t that the title of some horror novel?”[2] Lewis had asked you, one foot on the first step like he wasn’t certain you’d make the night alone in the old place.
You’d smiled, and tipped your head, and gave his hand a firm shake like you knew what you were doing.
“Then I’ll be the final girl in this one,” you told him.
Night descended, and with it the quiet, and then it was just you and the darkness and the thoughts in your head that had nothing to do with axe murderers or critters creeping through the underbrush, round yellow eyes catching the glint of your lantern.
This is starting over, you thought: not a dead end.
But the whole lot of nothing you inherited makes the prospect that you’re wrong a real possibility: the CRT television flickers, the linoleum in the kitchen is peeling, and you’re pretty sure the chimney houses a colony of bats. You see them flying over the overgrown fields in the evening.
It’s bigger on the inside with the addition — a queer proportion issue that doesn’t translate when you walk the perimeter, trying to make sense of the square footage and find several feet missing that should account for a hallway between the living room and kitchen.
Five feet and a pocket dimension are the least of your concerns:
The land’s a ruin — a mess of crumbled paths and gnarled forest, rocky soil and detritus dropped from trees, and all of it’s gone untouched for a generation because you know for a fact that the deed skipped your father and landed in your pocket when grandpa gave his last because he thought you’d need it more than anyone.
It wasn’t a portent, you think to yourself, but that’s hard to believe when you discover that the earth’s tried to reclaim the buildings — the old house and the dilapidated structure to the west of the property whose bones are visible even at a distance.
If grandpa wanted something better for you, you’re not sure if he was joking, or if he buried some secrets out here about living right that you’re supposed to unearth.
Mostly, you think about the quality of darkness, and how the silence stuffs your ears like cotton when you listen for things that are familiar: the hum of the old fridge that stinks like leaky coolant and the absent drone of your computer, quiet now because the internet connection is nonexistent. While you could rewire the building, you can’t remember the age before mesh, and the only thing that’s supported out here is a 56k modem.
The desktop sits in its unopened box by the cold fireplace.
You tell yourself again that there isn’t a point to plugging it in because there’s no one who wants to talk to you on the other end anyway, and if he did, you’ve convinced yourself you wouldn’t want to hear what he has to say. So you’ll take the cicadas and the sound of birdsong at four a.m. instead, and try to wrap your life around these new anthems though they feel misfit like a too-large sweater that you can strangle yourself with.
That’s tomorrow, however, and tomorrow’s another day belonging to a new person, who you might not recognize in the mercury-stained hand-mirror.
Amidst your assortment of unpacked boxes bleeding unsorted paperwork and cold weather clothing, you curl up on the twin bed whose perfume is a combination of musty nostalgia and grandpa’s faded aftershave after propping up the wobbly leg with a Solarion Chronicles manual[3] you no longer need.
You spend the next hour examining the rafters of this building that could be described as “rustic” or “shithole” given your appetite for self-flagellation, with your earbuds shoved in and playing the only album you downloaded before the reception dropped to a shaky single bar.
It’s better than spending the night alone in your head, thinking and rethinking everything you might’ve said, and better still than being woken from your overactive imagination every time there’s a creak or unusual groan.
Focus.
Breathe in through your mouth, and out through your nose, and remember what this place used to be and what it might be again, with a little elbow grease, or TLC, or whatever pop-nasty phrase du jour offers optimism…
Somewhere on the property, there was a cherry blossom tree.
You barely remember it from when you were a kid, though if you squint, you can imagine the heavy reach of gnarled branches with the pink leaves and perfect handholds for fearless children. You’ll need to find it. Tomorrow, maybe. After you water the parsnips.
You drift into slumber, eager for the perfect way exhaustion can become a thief that steals those certain awful things that linger in the way that nightmares sometimes can, long after you’ve abandoned sleep.
It doesn’t come easy. It creeps until all at once, unconsciousness smothers the last vestiges of your worries with the dreamless void that reminds you of crawlspaces and mothball-laden glory boxes and loamy earth beneath your fingernails.
The trajectory between "whoa this is so cool" being the first comment, and then, several hours later, getting a three-page long essay that requires multiple screenshots to catalogue in my journal is the best feeling on the days where it feels like I can't write my way out of a hatbox.
[fic] The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb (Shane x f!Farmer)
Title: The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb
Pairing: Shane x f!Farmer
Rating: Explicit 🌶️🌶️🌶️
Words: 2,137
Warnings: pwp, p in v, Farmer's a bit of a brat, sooooper light d/s because Shane deserves a treat (and frankly that's how I roll, my dear), slight spoilers for the Immersive Shane Mod by tenthousandcats, references to addiction, references to alcohol, married life looks good from here (i.e. established relationship), barebacking, no beta we die like men
Summary:
When the Farmer suggests that her husband take off that annoying Mermaid pendant if he's going to complain about it, Shane demonstrates just how bothersome the f*cking thing is.
In bed.
OR:
Farmer sets herself up to get smacked in the chin with the token of her husband's affection.
OR!!
They're stupid for each other and I love that for them. Also body fluids.
Notes: Inspired by this set of screens from the Immersive Shane mod by tenthousandcats. So many blessings on their house. Holy shit. The title's a lyric from Rain by Sleep Token.
Read it on Ao3 or below. 😊
“...Yeah, sunshine, I get that’s the practical thing to do but the only way you’re going to get this pendant off me is by prying it off my cold, dead body.”
Shane pauses, the mermaid pendant clutched in his fist. His cheek twitches, but while he controls the smile, he can’t hide the way his gaze glitters just a little bit.
He smoothes his hand down his chest, and standing a little straighter, he uses the three inches in height he has over you to the best effect, making it a challenge:
“I’m not taking it off for shit.”
As if you’d make him do anything of the sort. It looks good on him — that little ‘property of the farmer’ that glints blue and opalescent. You’ve woken up with it an inch from your cheek for three weeks, and maybe this is still the honeymoon phase, but you think he stands a little taller when he hangs it on the outside of his shirt like a declaration:
He’s yours and you’re his.
“Not for anything?” you tease.
He wags his head, gaze dipping to your mouth and back.
“Nope. Although I maybe I have a suggestion for demonstrating just how irritating it actually is.”
“Maybe you’re just sensitive,” you hedge, shrugging one shoulder in a mockery of innocence.
He flashes teeth. It’s your only warning.
“We’ll see.”
The part of you that sometimes wishes you knew your husband in his gridball days doesn’t need to wonder at it for too long.
Your shriek as he lunges for you rings around the first floor of the farmhouse, the world upending as Shane goes low and you go… upside down and over his shoulder, laughing as he charges you top the stairs and into the bedroom.
You swat at the seat of his jeans to no avail, because he braces the backs of your thighs to his chest and all the blood is rushing to your head and you know he’s wearing that diabolical grin he sometimes gets when you’ve made extra Pepper Poppers fresh for him and he’s thinking about eating them all in one sitting.
“Still got it,” he says, flipping you onto the bed.
You land with a whump of feathers and dust, shocked at the show of strength, but not for long because he asks, a little out of breath and a little flushed as he shucks off his hoodie. “Want a demonstration?”
The shirt comes off next, and between the tee-shirt tan and the patch of purple fluff that covers his chest and stomach, you notice that he never fumbles when the belt buckle comes undone.
When he gets like this, he’s hard to contain: the strength in that trunk under a layer of love of your cooking and too many days and nights at the the bottom of a pint, but he’s not shy and Shane doesn’t hide, not when your body on offer makes him that hard.
You love every inch of him — every dip and roll and scar. All of it. No exceptions.
So you stare at each other in amazement for a second, because it’s good being this stupid over each other. It’s fucking perfect even when it isn’t.
“Yoba, yes,” you manage, but the callouses on his hands rasp along your cheek, tilting you upwards to catch a flash of warmth in his grin; that golden glimmer of a man on a winning streak.
“Good answer.”
Shane doesn’t think he’s good at a lot of things, but one thing he’s an expert in is unfastening the snaps on your overalls. In two seconds, you’re half-undressed already, and his kiss slows the world on its axis.
Wet and warm, Shane’s affection is sweet and slow as maple syrup, his tongue thick and lazy when he tastes your mouth, and every breath that puffs against your cheek is as decadent as the heat of his hands on your body —
Skin to skin beneath your shirt to pull top and bra off in a heartbeat, your trousers tugged down your legs, the gusset of your panties tested with the press and rub of two fingers tugging them to the side as he leans over you on the bed.
“You ready?”
One finger slides through your folds.
“You’re going to ruin another pair of my panties.”
“Good.” He nips at your jaw, closing his mouth around a softest patch of flesh below your ear and giving you an experimental suck that makes you moan out loud. The shiver that follows pebbles your nipples when Shane growls, “I want this pussy accessible at all times when you’re wearing coveralls.”
He pushes in with two fingers, spreading them a little bit to test your resistance, and you practically climb up his shoulders as he pulls you onto the bed beside him.
The pendant is warm from his body, sliding off to the side in a way that must be uncomfortable, but Shane gives exactly no fucks the way he’s left you half-undone in the effort to make you come first — to make you come hard.
He curls his fingers, and sinking your fingers into his hair as if you think you’ve got control over the situation, he chuckles into your throat. “You’re already squirming.”
“Whose fault is that?” you groan as he taps into the spot that wakes up so easily to his touch. It’s not going to take long.
His grin is infectious. “I love that I’m the one that gets you this worked up.”
“Don’t let it get to your — to your — oh fuck.”
Shane’s laughter is the best thing when you come — better even than the flex of tendons and the slight protrusions of veins in his arms when you try to grip at him as he keeps pumping into you with his fingers; better even than his thigh between yours pinning you to the bed; better even than the sloppy, dishevelled grin he wears after you’ve given him head —
Granted, while you like seeing him fucked stupid, sometimes you have to make exceptions.
Now, though, his hard-on is poking you in the hip, and you know that this is just the warm up to him proving a point about the fancy bit of jewelry he’s holding between his teeth as you ride out the ebb and flush of pleasure. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, and you know he’s enjoying the aftershocks in your body, spasming around his fingers.
He’s got that small, smug grin again.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” you breathe.
He spits out the pendant, crawling over you and in-between your legs, trapped by your boots and denims, and the weight of his torso pinning you to the comforter — his hands do the rest, finding your wrists and tacking them to the mattress.
“Wasn’t done yet,” he murmurs.
Shane nudges your chin, capturing your bottom lip, all innocence, but the pendant swings free to bump into your chest. As if you didn’t know where this was going.
“Got a problem, farmer — I’ve got you dripping on my cock right now, but I’m a little concerned that if I let go of your wrists, you’re gonna get unruly,” he says.
“Sounds like a problem. What are you going to do about it?”
He grunts, his stubble rasping over your cheek as he kisses you again, rocking your hips against his length like you can soak him before he even arrives at a decision. The movement is limited, but he flexes in a way that gets him groaning into your throat a moment later.
“How ‘bout you be good for one second.”
You grind your hips, and he swears.
“There’s truffle oil in the bedside table, Shane.”
“Fuck me.” He laughs, the sound reverberating through your chest. You pull your boots up the back of his legs, clinging to his lower back, your overalls trailing.
“Trying to but you keep teasing.”
Shane growls. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were winding me up.”
His cock drags slow through your juices, and back again slicking himself with your spend, letting you get a good feel for how hard he is, and how thick.
“Or suggesting that I put it in your —”
“What’s mine is yours, love.”
He freezes, breathing hard.
You kiss his jaw, arching your back to press your breasts into his chest, the tiny movements of your hips excruciating because he won’t bully his cock into the spot you want without begging for it.
He presses his lips together, breathing heavily, getting just irritated enough to make it a thing, but —
The tip of his cockhead notches into right place — just on the edge of easing past the point of entry. You clench. It’s involuntary. You need him. You want it. You’re not above begging, and he knows it.
“Shane.”
He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
Nothing’s more rewarding than that flustered, fighty look slanted in your direction.
In the sweetest, most adoring voice that doesn’t falter when he gives your wrists a squeeze, you ask him from between your teeth, “Will you fuck me raw, please?”
“I love it when you whine like that for —” the rest is lost under his groan as he buries himself inside you, pushing past the brief resistance of tension because you’re still just a little too tight for his girth, and when he bottoms out, you choke out a cry that makes him shudder.
“S’fucking —” he slurs into your neck. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
His balls clench upward, the flex against your ass delicate and warm, but the burn is brief and he flexes once, twice and pulls out in a sure stroke that earns a groan before pushing back in to the hilt.
You catch your breath, blinking back the sting.
This good kind of discomfort reduces you to monosyllables. He’s fighting giving into it, just a little longer.
“— Hurt?” He asks.
You shake your head, the air caught in your throat. It comes out an airy sob: “More.”
“Yoba.” Shane crumbles, and then he frees your wrists to rise to a pushup where that pendant falls free of the spot it had been pressed between your hearts to slap you in the chin. It tickles, and you shrink away as it dances over your skin.
“Fucking annoying, isn’t it?” Shane breathes, but he’s grinning.
“You’re annoying and I still like you,” you manage. You grip the cord, pulling him into you as he chuckles, surprised, and kisses you back.
“I see how it is,” he murmurs, but he gives in, gathering you into him.
It takes three strokes of his thick cock before your arching off the bed, your heels digging into his hips to bring him closer, your hands groping up his shoulders as the only sounds are the squeaking bed and the slap of his hips against your ass. It’s bright and fiery for a second, the stretch too decadent to feel anything but the ripple of friction, and then the strike of pressure against the exact spot that makes you gasp.
He grins against your mouth, knowing he’s in the right vicinity. “I can feel you clenching.”
Your vision spots.
“You’re gonna come for me,” he says.
You grip the cord a little tighter, and he keeps going, “And you’re gonna thank me afterward.”
A half-garbled curse slips out as your fingers loosen, your death grip loosening as you start losing focus. The feeling crests into that liminal edge that teeters on darkness — a shadow behind the vision — and all the world narrows to your point of connection and the slick sounds of Shane’s cock gliding in and out of your body the wetter you get. It’s just friction. It’s just pressure. It’s just the feeling of fitting together in an assembly of discordant pieces that seem to make sense, and doesn’t that make you the lucky one in this arrangement?
You’re dripping, and he’s indulgent, his murmur in your ear making you whimper, “I’ll take being mushy over a bit of jewelry if it means I get to feel you coming on me like this for the rest of my life.”
Release breaks with a sob, your body going rigid in Shane’s arms as the mermaid pendant rocks into you again, its smooth edges knocking into your chin.
He shudders, his hips lurching as his resistance breaks, and with a warm gush, Shane comes.
Sagging, his arms shudder as he sinks his weight onto you, but you wrap your arms around his sweaty shoulders as he mutters, “Like I said. This thing is going exactly nowhere.”
Laughing, you kiss his shoulder, his neck, his cheek.
He glowers, struggling not to smile about it.
“You made your point,” you tell him, giving the string one last tug. “It has its uses.”
Title: Sugarcubes I, or "The one with the pool cue"
Pairing: yandere!Sam x f!Farmer
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Words: 1,394 words
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: oral, references to object insertion, sex in public, vaginal fingering, p in v, pwp, light power dynamics, praise kink, squirting (mention), fisting (mention)
Summary: "He followed me home" is not an excuse, but hey, it works when your boyfriend's a feral golden retriever -- or, the one where Sam and the farmer get freaky in the Saloon's storeroom.
Notes: Drabbles, headcanons, and ficlets from the Sugar universe, featuring Sam x f!Farmer, nicknamed, “Peaches”, in an established relationship (go read Sugar if you want to see where it started.)
There’s a pool cue dusting up against the inside of your thigh. It’s just a brush of wood, but the flesh is tender and the stick goes flying before you register the surprised look on Sam’s face as he considers that the force of the impact has cracked the cue.
“Your thighs did that!” he exclaims.
The clatter gets The Look from Gus, and an eye-roll from Sebastian, and a “Get a room,” from Abigail, but Sam shrugs and grins and picks it up the broken shaft like none of its intentional.
“Damn, peaches,” he says. “Had I known those gams were weapons of mass destruction, I’d have used my face.”
You flush, telling him, “We agreed: not here.”
Sam’s grin widens. “Ask nicely.”
You glare.
“You okay? You’re looking a little flushed,” he teases.
“I thought you put your hand up my skirt,” you tell him under your breath. “Which would be…?”
“Inappropriate,” he mutters, not in the slightest bit chastised. “Maybe I can’t wait until we get home later.”
“Maybe three rounds prior to coming out here to hang out with your friends should have been five.”
“Peaches, I’m so very okay with the chafing. Make it six.”
You roll your eyes.
“Hey!” Sebastian says. “Are we playing or not?”
“Yep!” Sam skips over, taking another cue from the rack. “Let’s make it interesting this time, though — gonna have to pay Gus back, I think.”
“Wager?” Seb cocks an eyebrow.
“Whatever, man. As long as I can keep my girl by my side.” He tilts his head in your direction. “Better than a rabbit’s foot, this one.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” you tell him. “Remember the last ten times Seb wiped the floor with you?”
Sam leans in, his grin wolfish as he steals a kiss. It tingles, tasting of spearmint. “Don’t care. I’m the one getting lucky.”
“Or you could just save your money and find a better use for that pool cue in the back room.”
He’s only stunned for a second, staring as you shrug. And if your timing wasn’t perfect, the strap of your dress falls off your shoulder.
“On second thought —“ He shoves the pool cue at Abi, your hand already wrapped up in his larger one, the fingers warm and gentle, but you know half the fun is in the deception:
He’s lifted you off your toes with two of them alone before.
“— We’ve got a thing we need to take care of. Abi can get this one.”
There isn’t time enough to hear anyone protest, because he’s pulled you through the door into the storage room and with one push, he’s got you pinned against the wall, his mouth on yours, your straps tugged down, and a hip notched into the apex of your thighs for friction.
“Tits,” he murmurs into your skin, which is code for, “Give me them,” but if Sam’s gone monosyllabic, the translation happens with his tongue ring:
One lick with that thing along the column of your throat and you’re already grinding his thigh, the fine line between ‘too much’ and ‘not enough’ lost in the way denim offers friction enough to get you off, but not enough to be as satisfying as having his cock to clench on.
“I really want to fuck you with that thing now,” he says. “Just the end, like it was a dildo. I could watch you come from five feet away like that.”
“It’s not as good as your cock,” you manage, and that’s enough for your panties to be shoved to the side, two fingers buried into your pussy as you climb up his body.
“Fine,” he says, “but you need to squirt for me tonight.”
You almost do, too: Sam’s got the piston and pressure of a guitarist’s fingers, and he knows where to press exactly to make you tear at his hair while you try to keep silent. You bite him, and he chuckles, keeping a steady pace without faltering.
“Love it when you get a little feral. I know you can match my energy if I touch you just right.”
“Asshole.”
He just grins, watching your control slip as he presses a thumb to your clit to add to your frustration.
“Just come quick, baby. It’s not even a thing. I’ll even give you another with my mouth before I slide you down my dick.” He kisses your hip. “You’re sweet as fucking candy when you get all flustered. Just give it to me. Say, ‘Sammy,’ in that breathy little voice that I like. Say, ‘Sammy, please!’”
He pushes your skirt up to watch you clench, the exposure a little unnerving because Sam doesn’t get embarrassed — he’s happy knowing that you’re his, that he can fuck you like this, and that everyone in the whole bar knows it.
“Yoba, so pretty,” he murmurs. “You’re drenching me already. Dripping down my wrist like you want to get fisted in this dingy little back room with everyone out there. Fuck, peaches.”
“Three fingers,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut tightly because the embarrassment feels like dying.
“Nuh uh,” Sam murmurs against your mouth. “You look at me when you come.”
He nudges your cheek.
“Come on.”
He kisses your temple.
“I won’t do anything you don’t like, you know that. I just love seeing you get a little shy.”
You look at those sky blue eyes, shaken at the strength of his words, even at a whisper. Yoba, he’s handsome, and so fucking earnest you might actually consider it.
“Give me three. Fucking. Fingers. Samson.”
He grins, obliging you, the stretch delicious, bordering on discomfort, but he can’t reach deep enough to do damages. He just rubs you, and rubs you, and rubs you, his attention on your face, as he tells you softly, “You’re such a good girl. You’re so soft, baby. You’re so wet for me. I love you so much. Look at how good you take me.”
And you’re coming. Stupidly. Hard. You don’t even know you’re screaming until he clamps a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, your pussy punched out, your knees unable to hold you, and you think for a second he’s going to help out by supporting you with his face because he’s on his knees and lapping at your juices while you bow over him, still twitching on his tongue as he licks up your come.
“S-Sam,” you manage. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing it better,” he says when he surfaces. “Such a good little cunt.”
He gives it a little pat that’s more like a slap, and you buckle into his arms as he laughs.
“Forever so sensitive.”
Sam drops, hauling you into his arms ass first and carrying you the ten feet into the deeper storage where he sits you on top of a barrel. The lip digs into your thighs, and dazed, you watch him lapping up your juices from his face, his expression elated as he undoes his buckle, and then his zipper, and he pulls you forward into a kiss to distract you as he snaps your panties off at the hip.
“Won’t be needing those any more,” he says against your mouth, but he’s smiling when he pulls you flush to his chest, his cock brushing your mons, and then your clit to rub it a bit while he holds you in place against him, trembling a little as he pushes in an inch and pulls out, teasing.
“You’re slowing down,” you murmur.
Sam only grins. “Just trying to see how much it takes before you try to snap me in half, baby.”
Your eyes narrow, your hips flexing involuntarily as he pins you one handed, slicking himself with your spend but not pushing in save for just a little bit.
“Or maybe I’m trying to get you to beg me.”
Yoba, but he’s as bad as he is good sometimes. You roll your eyes, but he’s grinning, knowing he’s the winner after all.
“Fine, Sam. Go get the pool cue,” you tell him.
But he just chuckles, licking into you as he sinks home in an easy thrust — snug against your body as he rolls his hips a little, fucking you gently as your legs shake to cling to him.
Your sigh trembles into the kiss, and you oblige him finally, “Please, Sammy.”
[fic] Shadows & Tall Trees (Older!Sebastian x f!Farmer)
Title: Shadows & Tall Trees
Series: The Long Way Home - Part 1/4
Pairing: Sebastian x f!Farmer
Words: 5,773
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: SoftTop!Sebastian, power dynamics, praise kink, edging, p in v, dirty talk, sloppy head, overstimulation, explicit consent, an abundance of body fluids, implied corruption kink, SA mention, references to drugs, references to addiction
Summary:
You’ll say later that the sundress wasn’t premeditated because it was the last clean thing in the closet, thrown on hastily at the first rooster crow without checking the weather channel.
The boots and hat were standards of the inheritance, and you were off feeding the chickens heedless of the grey clouds gathering over the summit.
Between the summer heat and your chores, the day grows shorter the busier you are, and by the time you realized you were starving, you’d made it halfway to town already, thinking of stopping by Gus’ for a quick bite to eat before walking back along the beach.
No one’s faulting you for making bad decisions, farmer, but the dress was white and Sebastian showed up just as the sky broke open.
...
A story that follows Kantrip's Older Sebastian Expansion Black Six-Heart event, or, an Older!Sebastian AU with dark edges, and a healthy dose of kink to make it better.
Read it on Ao3 or below the cut 👇🏻
(Notes on the characterization and presentation are under there too.)
Notes and Forewarnings:
This story follows continuity established by Kantrip’s Older Sebastian Expansion and deviates from canon in the following: he is in his mid-thirties, he is Robin’s younger brother, and he has returned to the valley after a few years in prison.
It’s set in the aftermath of Sebastian’s Black Six Heart event. Amends have been made but not all explanations have been offered. There is some sexual tension and many unanswered questions.
(But maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll see a frog in this weather.)
...
Sebastian's physical description has been informed by the Sebastian's Moto Jacket portrait and sprite, which gives him a shorter haircut, a motorcycle jacket, and a gorgeous five o'clock shadow.
This fic in no way endeavours to depict a real world consensual BDSM relationship.
Okay I'll stfu. Go have fun. ;)
---
Shadows & Tall Trees
---
You’ll say later that the sundress wasn’t premeditated because it was the last clean thing in the closet, thrown on hastily at the first rooster crow without checking the weather channel.
The boots and hat were standards of the inheritance, and you were off feeding the chickens heedless of the grey clouds gathering over the summit.
Between the summer heat and your chores, the day grows shorter the busier you are, and by the time you realized you were starving, you’d made it halfway to town already, thinking of stopping by Gus’ for a quick bite to eat before walking back along the beach.
No one’s faulting you for making bad decisions, farmer, but the dress was white and Sebastian showed up just as the sky broke open.
—
“I should have known you were a portent. You don’t go anywhere unless it’s about to rain.”
Sebastian cracks a half-smile, his steps slowing to a slouch through the sand as he approaches.
The rumble of thunder interrupts his greeting, but the pattern of his mouth’s movements is familiar because the smile he offers feels like an exclusive secret, with all his mysteries tucked away behind it.
“Hey, farmer girl.”
You jump at the boom-krakoom as lightning streaks across the Fern Gills, grey clouds painted black at the edges closing in.
His sleeve brushes your bare arm as he joins you, his hands shoved into his pockets. A lock of hair fans across his forehead — moved by the same wind whipping your skirt around your legs. Ocean spray laps up the pier.
He looks tired.
He hasn’t been sleeping again.
“It’s getting closer. Look at how those clouds are moving.”
The smell of ozone lingers, but you’re not wholly sure its the oncoming storm or his company that turns the air electric.
“I should have figured you’d be out here,” you tell him.
He lifts a shoulder, not making eye-contact. “Thought I’d try to get the best of it for a change. I guess this is my lucky day.”
“Yeah, thunder and lightning.”
“You’re here, actually,” he says, and a touch of pink crests over his cheeks when his gaze slants in your direction —
Lighting across your bare shoulders and the scoop-neck before levelling on your face.
That half-smile makes a reappearance, but this time, your stomach flip-flops Gus’ Grampleton Orange chicken when his attention lingers, leaving your skin pebbled and tingling where the urge to press into him becomes a tug you feel under your ribcage.
“You look good in a dress,” Sebastian says.
And you know that everything up to this moment are just pleasantries; filler for a number of things gone unsaid because you keep running into each other but haven’t talked about it.
He must see it in the way your expression shifts: just a touch of pain.
“Look, I know you said it was okay, but I’ve been thinking about that night and I really wanted to explain —”
“I got your letters, Seb.”
“I know I overstepped.”
“That’s not —”
“I did, and I can’t apologize enough for making you uncomfortable.”
“And you’re going to tell me it’ll never happen again —”
He swallows hard, because he thinks he’s being a fucking paladin. “It won’t.”
“Then you don’t understand.”
You’ve turned to face each other. Three inches of distance between you, but even that’s too much and not enough to continue, so you put another foot between you and wipe your damp palms down your legs.
“Explain it to me, then,” Sebastian says.
This is the worst thing you’ll ever say to him, and you’ve rehearsed it over and over for the past two weeks, but for someone who sticks her hands in the dirt to stay alive, you’ve wished just this once you knew how to grow courage instead. You’d pull it up by the fistful if you could.
And Sebastian, earnest and soft in the grey haze of the oncoming storm remains —
This thing between you unadulterated but undefined because you’re both afraid.
Your voice cracks, “It would have been rape.”
He visibly flinches like you’ve struck him, his lips parting and eyes wide. In an instant, he’s ten years younger and the wear of loss and life and prison melts into the shine of hurt surprise.
His voice is a ragged, halting tatter, “I would never do that to you.”
You reach for him before he falls further into the waiting darkness at the bottom of this awful confession.
“Not you,” you say, but you don’t grip too hard in case he doesn’t get it. “Not you, Seb.”
Your fingers fall to his wrist, holding on loose enough for him to pull away.
“You can’t consent if you’re under the influence,” you explain. “And you were --”
You falter, swallowing hard.
“You were —”
Out of his head.
Fucked beyond recognition.
Chemically-enhanced honesty stripping away the tenderness.
“I really ruined things, didn’t I?”
You both know what he said — that offer with all its soft edges and vulnerability like a warm touch between your legs, leaving you throbbing and terrified, not at the prospect, but that you’d considered it.
It echoes in the back of your mind, still, because you’d asked him to get rid of whatever he’d been smoking.
“…could find something else to do with my mouth.”
He remembers. You can see him replay the moment, and even at a distance, its edges catch the light.
“Y’know… the basement’s got pretty thick walls. And the door locks... Whaddya say we…?”
Seb nods when you don’t answer, his throat bobbing, searching for the truth of it as the scatter of moments slot together in arrangements that you never intended, regardless the precedents.
“So I couldn’t,” you tell him.
He twists, raking those long fingers across the back of his head, blinking away the worst of it as he rotates the situation to see its other facets.
But you wanted to say yes —
Just for a second.
“And maybe it’s naive of me, but I want it to mean something.”
Gaze burning, he draws closer by a step, unable to close the distance because his hands flex open and closed instead of reaching.
He says, “That was never what I intended.”
Because it should have been different — the first time between you, budding into something dark and lovely, nurtured in the quiet moments when no one else was looking.
“I’m sorry.”
Nodding, you manage a strangled, “Me too.”
His laugh falls away on a breath. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Maybe I did in my head.”
It slows him, and as close as he is, you can see the faint lines around his eyes, and maybe the slight cast of silver creeping into his stubble. In another ten years, without losing more time, you think he’ll have earned the crinkle of smile lines…
If maybe you can just get past the first efforts tripping up the stairs of your almost-relationship instead of falling down them.
Sebastian’s smile clears, tentatively at first, with a self-conscious edge as he wrestles with this new revelation.
“It’s messed up that I’m actually flattered, isn’t it?” he says.
You bark a laugh, the sound lost under the crash of waves. It’s brittle, but not broken.
It’s not done yet.
It’s not over.
And in a lower register, “Don’t shake your head at me, farmer.”
“I’m horrified.”
“You’re kind,” he says, but he hovers at a distance like putting his hands on you might leave stains. “And like I said — this dress begs forgiveness of all sorts.”
The wind and the humidity and the oncoming storm all swirls together, demanding a conclusion to this little dance you’ve both been doing — not just today, but for weeks.
It’s the flirting, and the private exchanges stolen from the ordinary when you find him smoking by the railroad tracks, or when you visit his bedroom like the atmosphere isn’t still charged with the leftovers of everything he said before he left for rehab.
All of it rests in the folding space between your bodies as his knuckles find your cheek, a finger crooking beneath your chin to tilt your face up to his.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, but he says it like a promise that he’ll never hurt you, and you don’t know why it makes you want to cry.
Before you can thank him, the first fat drops strike, splashing the wide brim of your straw hat in a warning patter, and then your arms.
“Shit.”
Sebastian peers up, and the sky dumps a bucket over your heads in a torrent.
—
So this is how it is: soaked and running for the treeline, your dress sticking to your legs as white cotton goes from opaque to transparent in an instant, and Seb, somewhere behind you, is doubled-over, laughing at the irony of it.
“I’m never going to catch a break, am I?” he calls over the rain.
You dance on the spot, sinking into the sand as the cold spatter dumps over you in heavy sheets, not wanting to leave him, but also wanting to find shelter immediately.
It’s shocking how cold it is, but not even folding your arms across your chest can spare you the knowledge that your nipples are rock hard under the fabric, or that the rain is heavy enough to sting.
“Seb, please. Let’s go.”
He holds out his arms, tipping his head to the sky, and releases a tired, aggravated sound of complaint — somewhere between a half-groan and a curse that dissolves into the mist of self-deprecating laughter.
“Where’s the romance in that?” he calls back.
“You don’t kiss girls in a downpour. You kiss them in a light spatter.”
He grins, wiping a hand down his face where the water washes away some of the awful tension.
“You’re the expert,” he concedes.
“I’m pragmatic. You try feeding temperamental chickens with a hundred and three degree fever.”
He’s pulling off his jacket as he reaches you, gaze glancing off your curves, the way you’re suddenly exposed to him with zero effort whatsoever a complication you had not anticipated. He hesitates only a moment, your awareness blooming when the smile melts away.
What remains isn’t hard to place:
The slight shadow crossing his expression as Sebastian’s gaze travels up your calves, over your thighs, and over your breasts to your chest, your collar, your face, and back down again to your parted lips:
It’s hunger.
It’s unfinished business.
“Come on, farm girl,” he rasps.
The motorcycle jacket smells like late nights and cigarette smoke when he drapes it around your shoulders. Beneath it lingers the faint echoes of his cologne — leather and clove. It’s warm.
“Let’s get you home.”
“You’re walking me?”
“I’m your insurance policy.”
You don’t get it, but you let him guide you, the hand drifting down from between your shoulder blades to your lower back careful but firm.
“Trust me.”
You do, though. You have always. Your chest tightens at the look on his face, but any lingering melancholy washes away with the rain, lighted on by the brushes of your knuckles when you think he might tangle your fingers together.
He doesn’t, but desire clings like a hopeful cobweb: as stubborn and just as tenacious as you take the winding path back to the farm — the one past Blue Moon Vineyard even though it’s the long way — the mud pulling at your steps in the quiet. Maybe there’s nothing left to say, yet:
Maybe sometimes its the anticipation that needs to be savoured.
—
The old door groans a greeting as you push into the farmhouse interior, intent on a blazing fire and dry clothing, but Seb lingers on the porch, the rain cascading off the roof in sheets. His shirt clings to his torso, his jeans sodden, and water plasters his hair to his forehead, but his gaze hangs onto the mid-distance where the fog gathers above your crops, the corn husks bowing under the weight of the storm. The well is running over.
His voice carries despite the hush of falling water — a television left on a static channel, glowing with dim light, “It’s so quiet out here.”
Your agreement is tentative, “No one for five acres.”
A part of you wonders if the privacy is a luxury; no need for thick walls or locking doors here.
Sebastian’s smile softens. “Great set up for a horror movie.”
You pull off his jacket, leaving puddles where you drape it over a chair in the kitchen. Your dress probably isn’t ruined, but it’s not doing you any favours when you look like you’ve barely survived the dunk tank at the Fall Fair.
“Is this the part where I invite the vampire in?” you ask.
His grin changes his entire face, but fades into reluctant embarrassment. Sebastian opens and closes his hands, helpless.
“I’m drenched.”
Me too, you think, your face prickling with heat. You bite the inside of your lip before you let the innuendo slip.
“I have a dryer and an ulterior motive.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not over your company just yet.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I, uh — really don’t mind going. It’s only a five minute walk back.”
He doesn’t want to stay, you realize. It prickles, confusion chasing complications because you could’ve sworn a minute ago he looked like he wanted to toss your legs over his shoulders.
Sebastian clears his throat, and explains, “I — I’m a man of certain appetites.” His attention flicks to your thighs again, and he pulls in a breath. He smiles sadly. “They don’t always suit everyone’s taste.”
You search him, forgetting how exposed you are because you think you can finally see some of what he’s hiding peeking around the edges.
“This is an intersection,” you tell him carefully. “The lights are red, yellow, and green.”
Your heart hammers.
“What do they mean?” you ask, just to know that you’ve reached this juncture together.
Seb’s hesitation unfurls like a fiddlehead, a crest of pink reappearing below the shadow in his gaze. His shoulders soften. He tilts his head, sizing you up like he’s seeing you for the first time, again.
Roughened by mutual understanding, he answers clearly, “Stop, slow down, and proceed.”
A smile threatens, your pulse fluttering at the possibilities.
“Well, shit,” he breathes. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, farmer girl?”
Just in case there was any confusion, you ask him, “So, should I get on my knees and look down or…?”
His grin lights up the whole room, and softens. “I just want you to follow my lead.”
Finally, Yoba interferes in a way that you’re grateful for as lightning strikes the apricot tree by the frog pond with a crack! that makes Sebastian duck.
He’s over the threshold and still staring at the smouldering ruin of your fruit harvest when he realizes he’s used his body to shield you from the potential threat. Heart leaping against his ribcage, you feel every sharp breath, and every press of his fingertips into your clammy skin.
All those winters where he made jokes about running hot, you’d ignored him, but maybe you shouldn’t have:
His body is a heater. It’s a struggle not to snuggle into his chest. He isn’t moving either.
“Okay, then,” he says, his lips beside your ear as he hand wraps the back of your neck. The heaviness is soothing: one part possessive, one part protective. “Do you have an extra teeshirt?”
You remember to breathe again, his touch falling away with reluctance, though he hovers in the moment, the pair of you dripping puddles between the kitchen and the living room, and dripping awareness too.
You lick your lips. Now or never, farmer —
“I don’t think you’ll need it.”
The flex of his fingers is the only outward reaction to your invitation. Well, that and the slightest pressure against your hip. Sebastian pulls back enough to check in, pupils blown wide and dark. The next lightning strike illuminates, but it’s unnecessary:
He’s standing so close you can feel the way his heart skips.
“You’re shivering,” he says, but the register is lower.
You press your knees together as his hands fan open across your back, seeking connection, fingertips sneaking under the wet fabric.
That secret smile is back, but this time, you share it.
He’s descending before you can finish the thought: “Get me out of these wet clothes, Seb.”
“Say ‘please,’” he murmurs, but any whimpered acquiescence is lost when his lips touch yours. You sigh open as he finds the hem of your dress, fingers seeking the entry point between fabric and flesh, peeling it over your head.
It hits the ground with a slap, but Sebastian’s hands hold you against him by the hips while yours work under his shirt.
Your brain shorts on the realization that abs —
It restarts a moment later when his fingers touch down on your throat. Gentle. The other hand traces a tremor down your spine as your legs threaten to buckle and the taste of him fills your mouth with a sweep of his tongue.
You’ve been kissed before, but not like this —
Not folded into another person who cradles you against him like you’re something precious he might damage with lesser insistence. It’s tender, but his mouth carries a demand that kindles heat between your legs, carrying intention from caress to squeeze as he maps your reactions:
Breast, to rib, to waist, to hip, and into the back of your panties where those long fingers knead the swell of your ass like he was testing the firmness of a peach.
“What colour?” he murmurs.
There’s only one answer. “Green.”
Oh, you think, but his fingers tuck into the front of that little scrap of fabric and they’re off with an efficient tug that leaves you trembling for reasons you hadn’t considered:
He’s had lots of time to think about what he’d do to you if you ever accepted.
“Bedroom,” Sebastian says against your temple, sliding your bra strap off your shoulder, and then the other. The clasp falls apart under his fingers, and somehow you’re naked, and he’s still in jeans and boots —
Gaze trailing down your body with predatory interest.
His attention flicks upwards.
“If you want to.”
You’re nodding, “Upstairs,” but he promises, “Me too,” with a kiss that lingers, while he sweeps under your legs and torso as he gathers you up. His smile is brief and self-deprecating. “And this time I’m sober.”
“So you’ll remember.”
He chuckles. “I’ll last longer.”
There are two flights of stairs to the converted attic, and Sebastian scales them without hesitation, spreading you out on the four poster his sister crafted from the hardwood you collected in the Secret Forest.
It seems fitting, as you sink into the covers, that the rain lashing the windows is like applause for your efforts as he rises to stand above you, hands soothing over your legs. They fall open for him, your nectar dripping as he drinks in the sight, hands soothing the insides of your thighs.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” Seb says, and it carries the burden of years trailing behind him. So many of life’s choices collide into this moment, and you wonder if the benefit of hindsight is sacrificing a future in favour of doing things different.
You murmur, teasing, before he can surrender to that sadness again:
“Do you need instructions?”
Rising, your fingertips follow the trail of hair from his stomach into his waistband, his thumb resting on the clasp of his belt as he contemplates the scene before him — your bedroom, the storm, everything on offer, and what it all means.
When he doesn’t answer, you ask him, quieter, “Do you need a condom?”
That grin reappears, the one that backslides into dangerous territory because the boyishness is missing.
“Farmer girl,” Sebastian says, his voice a smoky rasp. “I think I’m gonna need a whole box of them.”
You suck in a breath, snuffed on his mouth as Seb leans in and crawls you back into a prone position. The kiss doesn’t end because it’s a distraction that takes only half his focus — the rest is in his hands on your body:
Glancing touches with his fingertips to your ribs and stomach to make you shiver, into the hollow of your collarbones and across the delicate bones to be trailed with his mouth later. When he kneads a breast, he traps the nipple between two fingers, tugging until you’re writhing, then soothing it with his tongue.
“This is mine,” he tells you, and you don’t argue. “I’m going to take care of you.”
It’s not like anything you’ve experienced with anyone else, and while his touch shivers along the backs of your knees only to squeeze when he reaches your thighs, he keeps your mouth occupied. The noises you’re making are a symphony of little affirmations that you’re losing control over.
You’re shaking before you know it, the warm rush of heat between your legs wetting the comforter, but if Seb’s noticed, he hasn’t indulged it:
He’s busy chasing a feeling only you can give voice to —
Pleasure and abandon.
Maybe begging.
And when it escapes you, you realize that’s exactly what he’s been waiting for:
That ragged, “Please,” that makes him groan into your throat.
His pants are wet and cold against your legs, the muscles of his torso taut with tension when your fingers find cold metal lanced through his nipples and warm flesh everywhere else.
The weight of him carries a delicious heaviness, his hips buffering further connection because he presses his knee into your thigh to hold you open —
His touch cascades, thumbs tracing along the sensitive inner skin of your forearms to pin your wrists.
“Stay like this,” he murmurs, nuzzling your cheek. He leaves a kiss behind, and another at the connection between your jaw and ear, his breath inviting a trembling rush down your neck. “I don’t want you hiding. Where are the condoms?”
“Bedside table.”
“Got it.”
He nips your neck, his arms a cradle of shade and hard muscle as you relent and offer him better access to your throat, his groan as your hips rock up to meet his caress more satisfying even than what his stubble does to that soft patch of flesh under your jaw, and as he withdraws, he brushes his denim-covered cock against your softest parts.
The friction whites out your vision for a second, the rough scrape and hard tension too much and not enough, because his fly is perfect to grind on.
It’s masochistic to try, but Seb’s dexterity is better, the palm cupping your pussy more determined to dole out pleasure at a cadence that you don’t have a say in.
“Easy, love,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to rush this.”
He holds you there for a moment, his grin turning satisfied when you realize that the tips of his fingers are barely brushing your wetness, his goal control rather than satisfaction when just a little pressure would push your clit into the heel of his hand.
“Sebastian, that is not fair.”
You’re naked and he’s teasing.
“Do you trust me?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel your body throbbing. He’s so still you imagine he can feel every drop of moisture seeping through his fingers.
It comes out on a breath. “Yes.”
He nuzzles your ear, the smile in his voice curling your toes up the backs of his calves when he promises, “Good girls get their pussies eaten first.”
He’s gone with the creak of springs, and cold air rushes in. It’s worse because you’re soaking, your legs shaking a bit from the loss of contact and nervous, suddenly, of disappointing him by being self-conscious.
Your heart’s hammering, your breath a series of sharp little gasps that leave your head swimming.
Are you doing this?
His boots hit the hardwood in two clomps, followed by the clink of his belt buckle, and then the zipper — and when the lightning illuminates his body, you can see some of that tiredness is gone.
In its place is an expression so desperate you barely have time to take in the cut of sex lines above his boxer briefs, the black tattoos above his knees, the size of his cock filling out the front gusset.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, more exclamation than request, but his chuckle ripples through your sex when he cradles your thighs to his head and drags you down the bed.
“Yes, please.” The sound muffles, the flat of his tongue touching down on your over-sensitized clit in a wide, slow lick —
Like he was savouring an ice cream cone.
You arch, your senses firing all at once, your breath caught in your open mouth.
The look Sebastian wears belongs to a man emerging from a drought.
“Fuck.”
And he’s gone —
Off someplace where he can get a little lost and you, you foolish thing, rock into his tongue as it dips inside you and swirls up through your folds, along the swollen edges like your body’s never been touched before, the sensation a shivery crest that turns down everything else to a background hum, and —
Two fingers ease inside you so you’re not empty when he laves over your clit again, the flat of his tongue rubbing a sloppy, steady rhythm.
“S’fucking good,” he says, but it’s a garbled mess underneath the sounds of of his mouth sucking your soul out through that bundle of nerves.
“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” he asks, but he’s already fucking you with his fingers curled upwards to add just the right amount of pressure.
A moan is all the answer you can manage.
“Tell me.”
You think you’re crying. Your face is wet. But the feeling takes you higher —
No one’s ever worshipped you like this:
Like you were something to be savoured, your pleasure a fountain.
He licks his fingers when he pulls them out.
“Can you take three?” he asks.
The edge beckons, everything pulsing with that single question, but you’re nodding, erratic and unsteady, and not asking, “Why so many?”
He presses a kiss to your thigh that shudders into a press of teeth. “I need to get you ready for me.”
You’re going to die, you think —
But two fingers slide out, and a third eases in, and you moan so loud you barely hear the thunder outside. It’s a little stretch, the discomfort brief, because he presses a thumb to your clit and pumps in and out without offering relief when he decides that you can take it, your hips lifting as if he’d let you ride him.
You’re at his mercy, one hand gripping his arm, braced beside your hip, the other gripping the sheets.
“I wish you could see yourself,” he says, lowering his mouth to press a kiss to your mons that makes your stomach jump. “How easily you respond — how damned sexy it is to see you trying to break my fingers when you clench on them. Do you like this? Do you like my tongue?”
The steady, guttural sounds of Seb’s moans mingling with your arousal as his fingers make demands and his mouth soothes them. It’s too much. You’re whimpering at the onslaught, your stomach tensing as his thumb presses into the hood above your clit, holding you in place so you can’t squirm away from overstimulation.
Dark eyes watch you, his chin shining with your slick, but Seb’s grin is all triumph when he asks, “Do you want to come for me?”
“Fuck, Seb. Please.”
The angle shifts, and in three strokes, everything falls apart as you buck up into him, muscles aching from being under strain for so long, the relief effervescent. Your cunt throbs around his slow-pumping fingers, applying pressure to that spot inside you that pushes you higher — a wave lifting you then pulling you under.
Spotty darkness threatens, but release leaves you floating, exhausted, and a little lightheaded. Your fingers are tingling.
“I knew you were a screamer,” Sebastian chuckles.
“No one’s ever —” you begin, but while he’s slowed, he’s not quite stopped yet. Like he’s keeping the engine going. “Not like that.”
But you can taste your come on his lips when he kisses you again, and softer, on his tongue when he sweeps into your mouth, claiming the confession like he’s shotgunning everything else. He lowers you to the mattress, the sound of a condom wrapper opened and discarded.
“We’re just getting started,” he promises.
You’re still throbbing when the press of his cock pushes against your swollen slit. You buck, crying out, and placing a hand on your chest to hold you down, Sebastian eases in without further resistance.
“I can still feel you coming,” he murmurs, pushing your legs farther apart with a rock of his hips, and tucked into his pelvis when he seats himself to the hilt, your sigh shudders out. “Every aftershock a little tug.”
“Sebastian.” You don’t know if it’s a warning, or a whisper of gratitude.
“Is that what you needed?”
You’re nodding, but any pleas for more he silences with his mouth.
His stubble adds a little burn to his kisses, leaving your lips raw and swollen.
“Wrap your arms around me, farmer girl. I’m going to need you to hold on for this part.”
“Seb —” you start, your focus caught on the feeling of his cock stretching you out. “I need it hard.”
He rocks his hips up, pushing deep and hard to make space enough to pull out a bit and stop. The pause leaves you thrumming, not close enough to rub up against him, and not deep enough to stimulate your g-spot.
Into your ear, his smile leaves a meandering frisson that tightens every muscle when he says, “I know, love.”
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Yellow to slow down, red to stop.”
“Green, fuck,” you breathe, and he chuckles as he grinds his hips up, experimental. Spots dance at the lightest brush of his cockhead against your cerivix, the motion achey with how good it is, bordering on discomfort.
He’s not too big, but at the right angle —
Seb pushes your leg up to hook your knee over his shoulder, and then the other — pulling your hips into his lap with the motion.
“Just let me lead,” he says, and the last thing you see is a glimpse of him kissing your calf before he bows you over, his thumb pressed between your legs at an unforgiving angle, the movement steady as he slips out and pushes in again. It’s easier the next time, and again when he sinks you onto him, guiding you by the hips as you lose your grip and you realize that he’s training your body to take him as deep as you can.
“Good girl,” Seb says.
And then he’s fucking you like you did something to offend him, the slap of his balls against your ass applause for the performance, because you’re clenching before you know it — trying to twist away from the pressure of his thumb on your clit, but he doesn’t let up, not even after you shout some obscenity that earns a chuckle and a hand across your mouth —
A thumb over your lips —
“Open.”
Onto your tongue.
You’re still coming as he settles you down, grinding his hips into yours to sputter around the taste of yourself. Through the fan of his hair, Sebastian says, “Suck on it.” You whimper but do as your told, because the possibility that he’ll stop if you don’t is too awful to consider, and smirking, he cants his hips just so and the next seven thrusts break something open —
A gush. Maybe you’re squirting. Maybe you don’t care so much as your cunt isn’t obeying logic anymore. It answers to the person folding you under him to put you on your knees, those wet fingers circling a nipple as he glides in easily.
“Like this, okay?”
But the next thought is knocked out of your head as Seb finds your clit again to hold you against him as he fucks you harder, the angle perfect. The feeling is different with his hand on your hip and your face in the covers. The only thing left between you is pure sensation when your extremities stop registering anything but the brush of his cock against your g-spot, and how everything tightens. Fuck, the noises you’re making —
A garbled combination of pleas and curses and his name, over and over while he murmurs praises:
“You’re so good. You take me so well. Come for me again, sweetheart. Just like that. I love the way you feel. I love the way you fuck.”
He keeps going until you’re shaking, your arms and legs protesting the angle and you can’t hold yourself up any longer.
His mouth touches down on your shoulder as his movements slow, gathering you to him as the urgency ebbs into the smooth glide of his body into yours — sinuous and undulating, rolling you with his hips. Lacing your fingers together, Sebastian draws you into his chest, guarding you against the night and the rain with the comfort of his embrace.
“One more,” he says, tired, but pleased.
You nod into the comforter, spent, but maybe there’s one more left.
“Together, okay?”
Yes.
He kisses your cheek, and then your knuckles, and when the thrusts become a slow roll, you move with him — water shifting course, eroding old restrictions to carve a new way of doing things. It’s different, being side by side like this, but so much more intimate when his kisses land on the back of your neck. You can still feel how hard he is; how wet you are, even after everything.
“Don’t want it to end,” he confesses.
Your voice comes out a rasp. “We can do it again.”
He pulls you closer, the taste of his skin sweet and smooth when you press your lips to the bicep slung across your chest, smiling.
“I’d like that, farmer.”
“And maybe again after that,” you croak.
Sebastian’s sigh is satisfied, his fingers carding between your thighs one last time in the darkness of your bedroom, your body responding with a gasp and a sigh of anticipation.
“Sounds like a plan requiring hydration,” he murmurs.
You grin as he notches into the spot you like, your head tipping back to his shoulder, the pressure building as his rhythm stutters, his hips flexing at last.
Please note: The content on this blog is not safe for minors. The fic posted here is often NSFW, and the author does not abstain from colourful language, or posting spoilers. If you're looking for Stardew aesethetics from my gameplay, please visit @bunniemothsdv as I'm relocating. 🧡
...
Multi-chaps
Shiver (yandere!Sebastian x f!Farmer): Ao3 (Complete!) 🌶️
Oneshots: Vanilla
Beware of farmers bearing gifts (Shane x f!Farmer) : Ao3 or Here
Just friends or something (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here
The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Oneshots inspired by After Dark (mods)
Sugar (Sam x f!Farmer): Here (Excerpt) or Ao3 🌶️
Sugarcubes I (Sam x f!Farmer): Here 🌶️
Take the edge off (Alex x f!Farmer): Here 🌶️
Oneshots (Series) inspired by Older Sebastian (mod)
Shadows & Tall Trees (Older!Sebastian x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Holding Water (Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here 🌶️
Lessons in Drowning (Older!Sebastian x f!Farmer + Shane x f!Farmer): Ao3 or Here (Excerpt) 🌶️
Title: Sugar
Pairing: yandere!Sam x f!Farmer
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Words: 16,743
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: yandere tropes, stalking, surveillance, oral sex, oversensitivity, dubious consent, extremely dubious consent, non-con, consensual non-con, non-consensual drug use, alcohol consumption, exhibitionism, ownership/possession, a litany of pet names that range from sweet to saccharine to degrading, praise kink, somnophilia, edging, public sex, p in v, some light pet play, Jungian motifs (because fuck it why not with these warnings), and handy recipes to help with your baking.
Summary:
“All that golden retriever energy must have an outlet,” you thought. You didn’t realize just how much of a sick puppy he was.
...
A Sam x f!Farmer Dark Romance, inspired by the Sam After Dark mod.
Excerpt available below the cut / Read it at Ao3 >
What a nice guy, you thought — that bright shock of blond hair and the wild laughter almost manic as he doubled over, hitting the cobbles at full force, his skateboard lost across the square at a rattle. He was still grinning, sun-kissed and shimmering in the spring warmth, dirtied and scuffed but thrilled with his triumph when he crowed,
“Did you see that kickflip!”
And that’s where it started, because the skateboard rolled to a stop against your ankle as you poured over the notice board attached to Pierre’s shop, trying to figure out how to grub out a lunch from a 95g reward for an amethyst with Grandpa’s shitty little pickaxe.
He jogged over, his shirt used as a mop for a sweat revealing a length of tanned stomach and the muscles to compliment it and the top of his boxers had little hearts and —
“You must be the new farmer.” That grin had a devastating glimmer, brilliant white and so deep it showed off dimples. “Damn,” he laughed, looking you over. “If I realized you were going to be this cute, I’d have showered.”
He sparkled, radiating a guileless sort of charm that knocked you completely off guard — from the saggy, worn-in denims hanging off his hips, to the ratty teeshirt clinging to broad shoulders. But the real killer were those baby blue eyes; they glittered like sunshine on the Gem Sea on a clear day, and more, he had the buoyant energy of a golden retriever puppy — a tower of a man in a six foot two frame, fresh into his twenties, if you’d give him a day.
“Hey,” he said, and stuck out a hand for a shake.
Disarmed, you matched your desk job-tender fingers for callouses as he gave you a squeeze, thumb running over your knuckles without dropping your gaze.
You’d think he’d be trouble, if it weren’t for the way he dipped in like he was sharing a secret and said, “I’m Sam,” and blushed a little, and added, “It’s short for Samson. But no one knows that.”
It came out of your mouth without effort: “It’ll be our little secret.”
Farmer, you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t give a little kick — that snap and rattle of tension like the snare on a drum loosing a butterfly flutter of nerves in your belly, sweet like honey, and oh, so yummy when he smiled like he agreed.
He didn’t let go of your hand until you told him your name, and even then he lingered like your attention was a ray falling from the heavens and he was a sunflower.
“This yours?”
You played it coy, stepping on the tail of his skateboard to pop it into your fingers, but he caught your elbow as if you might lose your balance, the board forgotten.
“Careful,” he said. “Don’t wanna damage the merch.”
Or maybe it was just strategy, feeling you out for weaknesses — a lack of coordination, or maybe trying to paint you the damsel in distress. Whatever it was, those little touches warmed you up like melted butter, sinking into his space with the affectations of a shy lover intent on staying close but not too close to be too forward.
Flirting, your honour: you swear, that’s all you intended.
“Maybe you can teach me sometime.” You shrugged a shoulder, and looked up at him through your lashes for just a second before turning away because the grin he offered made you feel reckless.
“Not afraid of a little danger. I get it,” he said.
“Maybe I’m into that,” you returned.
His grin showed off a flash of canines.
All too quickly, you were pulling away before you could do something to embarrass yourself.
“I’d better get back,” you told him. “Still trying to unpack.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “I mean it. We’re practically neighbours.”
You were already strolling back to the dirt road that led to grandpa’s place — so you called to him over your shoulder, “Just name the day. I’ll be there, Samson.”
The look he gave you just then made you shiver, a cloud passing across those blue sky eyes like a storm might’ve been brewing someplace off in the distance. No such thing, you thought — just your imagination. A trick of the light.
He scrubbed up the back of his head, showing off a lean bicep, and gestured broadly towards Gus’ place —
“It’s Friday. We shoot pool at the Saloon, usually — come by after sundown and we can split a pizza, or something.”
You stopped yourself from asking if he liked sweet things, because desserts were your specialty, if you could get the right ingredients — or maybe even grow them.
You’d save it: a question for later, maybe, the insinuation maybe too much, too soon, too thirsty for a guy-next-door type with scruffy edges and a warm disposition.
You bet he’d be a good kisser.
“I’ll be there,” you told him, because you felt lighter than you had in forever as he watched you walk away, the weight of his gaze a caress that lingered in your inlets and alcoves, the will to know your secrets stronger even then than what you thought you wanted to offer.
Sam.
Yeah, maybe you’d end up liking this place, you thought. Or at least the company.
🌟Hello and welcome to Spa Weekend 2026! This event will take place on the second weekend of June (12th to 14th). This is a mini event for the under-utilised SDV Spa, celebrating "Global Wellness Day" on June 13th.
In our opinion, there's not enough fics in the spa so if you wanna help us change that we will be extremely grateful 💞We welcome every character; the more the merrier! Everyone deserves some spa relaxation 💙
All tags can be included specially the smut tags >:)
More rules, prompts and the AO3 collection below!
It’s a bit of a short notice, but we believe in you!
Rules:
Your work can be any length; drop a short drabble or commit to a 5k piece!
Your work on AO3 has to be tagged with the The Spa (Stardew Valley) tag. It is not a common tag yet, so you will have to write it out yourself. Hopefully after this event it will get tag-wrangled! (First fic with this tag belongs to Th3Watchr)
You can use our prompts or create something of your own, as long as it focuses on the spa. There is no limitation on fic ratings or contents; be sure to tag accordingly.
Include at least one Stardew Valley NPC - they can be from basegame or from story mods (such as Ridgeside etc.)
The collection stays open for a month after the event concludes, so even if you can’t make it on time for the event, you can add your work to it!
There will be a round-up post at the end of the event; if you want to be included, @the event on your tumblr post. We will make sure to reblog and add you to the post!
If you post your work after June 14th, you will not be included in the tumblr round-up, sorry!
If you have any questions, feel free to send asks or reach us here: @just-jellyfishing @mercurymk
i was a huuuuge fan of your "take the edge off" one shot. such a fan that me and my friend would routinely talk about it and sing it praises. i was wondering if you would ever plan on uploading it elsewhere? or if the removal was intentional and something had happened.
Looks like I need to update my fic index.
Take the edge off is still here, but since I reshuffled pseuds, some of the links on my index are borked.
hey boy don't kill yourself. green's dictionary of slang is available online and allows you to explore 500 years of english vulgarity. you can search by part of speech, source, time period, etymology, and usage. there's a whole category for gay slang. they even have specific citations listed so you can see the exact context for yourself. boy did you know that in 1927 "to kneel at the altar" was slang for "to sodomize"
Princess: an effeminate and relatively youthful male homosexual or lesbian (1931-4)
Daffodil: effeminate young man (1925)
To throw a fuck into: to have sex with (1919)
Top sergeant: a masculine lesbian (1939) [‘she takes command of the girls’ privates’]
Lily: penis (1919)
Wolf: sexually aggressive man (1847); a homosexual top (1918)
Soul kiss: a deep kiss, involving putting one’s tongue into one’s partner’s mouth (1907)
Tom: a lesbian (1909); [in 'old tom'] prostitute catering to lesbians (1966)
Church mouse: a male homosexual who frequents crowded churches in order to fondle any potential sex partners. (1941)
Discover one's gender: to accept or acknowledge one’s homosexuality (1941) / Lose one's gender: To return to living as a heterosexual
Minty: a masculine lesbian (1941)
Also a lot of early 20th century vulgarity is recorded in Letter from My Father, which is a collection of letters published by a man who's dad was, in short, a major slut and human disaster who wrote about his sex life for his son. It's insane. You can find copies of it online & it's a wild fucking read (literally!) and I think a really interesting look at the life of a person who goes against our stereotypes of what people in the past were "supposed" to be like.
Anyways feel free to add y'all's favs to this post. & if you use this for gay historical fanfic please share with the class
#OH THIS IS EXTREMELY EXTREMELY HELPFUL#writing#resources#saving for later#maybe i should move my 1920s story from '25 to '27 because..... bro..........
note for writers: these are dated to the first time they were recorded, not necessarily to their first use. I imagine for many of these, they came about naturally through spoken language before they were written down anywhere. This is especially true of more underground slang because it's probably being recorded (in ways we still have) the least. So if you wanna use a term but it's a little off date-wise, give yourself some wiggle room.
also gonna take this moment to highlight two more i found recently:
Best boy: a sweetheart, a boyfriend, a husband. (1893) [w the obvious equivalent term 'best girl']
Honeydripper or honeydrips: a sexual partner (1917)
Like. Honeydripper?????? That's so horny I can't stop thinking about it. We need to bring THAT back
The way I need to scrutinize these screenshots to makes sure there's nothing I shouldn't be sharing 😅
Total Story Word Count (so far): 53,944 words
Total Chapters (so far): 8, currently in the second to last scene of Act I
Longest Chapter (so far): 11,831 words
...And a spoiler-free bite of Val and Riley beneath the cut for flavour. (Or, "It might be the apocalypse but we're still making jokes.")
“I’m fine,” she said for the fourth time since they’d met her, which cheapened the lie in their opinion, though they didn’t voice it.
“I’m not helping.” Val pulled with her, the farmer dragged backwards from the force of their combined strength. “I’m just speeding up the process.”
Which didn’t earn a protest. Progress, they thought, came with patience and a little determination.
The bucket swung free, slopping water over the edge, and if they weren’t misreading, Riley’s attention drifted towards their biceps. To their credit, Val did not flex; they just… held the tension on the bucket while the farmer side-eyed the effects of their effort.
“Thanks,” she said, her freckles stark against her pallor. Then she licked her lips — a momentary blip before she darkened again.
“That’s an effort to distraction,” she said, looking away.
It was working, they decided.
“One does not learn the particulars of an intricate new dance by just showing up and shaking their ass, Farmer.”
