cattle roundup

Slumbering cowboys during the Highwood cattle roundup in the Shonkin Cowcamp bunkhouse, Highwood Mountains, Montana, USA. The cabin is probably about a hundred years old, and has probably sheltered cowboys (and salters) for every yearly roundup since it began in 1913.  

Contributed by Brian Liu.

anonymous asked:


“One thing that annoys me about you,” Luke lifted a single finger, his knuckle nearly framing the triangle shape of your nose, “You put my favorite pair of socks in a different drawer every single time.” 

You thrashed, trying to kick him away from you but to no avail. His relentless fingers weren’t about to be easily dislodged, seeing as his broad figure bent at the waist, his slender hips digging you into the mattress. Being tickled was no high on your list of favorite things, however, it forced the intimate contact you and Luke were so often void of. It forced you to be wrapped in a bubble of pure happiness, your nose scrunched and eyes closed and mind never wanting to leave it’s masked facade.

“Another thing-” He caught your wrist as you went to smack his chest, pinning it near your head. Your body twisted away from his free hand, only to be corralled by his knee, like a weird sort of cattle roundup with you as the target, “-if you burn toast you always give it to me like you intended it that way.”

Luke’s blue eyes drank in every moment of your joy, as if imprinting the slope of your smile against the back of his eyelids and recording the jingle of your giggle. His fingers ceased to wriggle, drawing back against his palm as his smoothed his hands across your sides, nudging your hips up on the tousled sheets. A single tendril of blond hung over his forehead as he carelessly blew at it. Eyes easily drew back against yours as his lips descended to shell over your ear, “And finally? Your feet are always so damn cold in the middle of the night. Why don’t you wear socks?”

Your silence mirrored your outraged, “What? Socks in bed? I’m honestly offended you think I’m such a person.”

The fluffy entirety of his hair fluttered against your skin as his head fell into the crook of your shoulder. His lips curved into your shoulder as he mumbled something incoherent, hands dragging his t-shirt up your torso.

“Get off me you oaf,” You complained, wriggling again. Luke grunted against your skin, catching your hip by pressing his thumbs down. 

He’d rolled over with you on top, the crisp white sheets crinkled in the corners of your shoulders like a cape. His smile was tired and fond as he tugged on the hems, pressuring the fabric over you to coax you against him. You complied, folding your elbows across his chest as he draped the sheet around both of your figures, concealing the heat.

Innocently, you thumbed at this intricate design on the pendant of Luke’s necklace. You knew he was watching as you twisted the chain around your index finger, purposefully dragging the feathery tip of your finger print to his skin. With a wicked smile, you pressed the soles of your feet against his bare calves.

You reveled when he jumped and drew in a sharp hiss, involuntarily holding you tighter. “Like I said,” He bit through gritted teeth, “cold as hell.” 

What?” You forged innocently, dropping the necklace so that it pooled against untouched skin, “just trying to warm up, is all.”

Luke carelessly pushed you from his waist, climbing to suspend himself above you again. Chapped lips wasted no time in mouthing an incomprehensible series of art to the corner of your jaw as his hands crept up your chest. 

“I can think of better ways to do that, darling.”