#handmade silk skirts

[centwia]

Buy Now 50% Off | Etsy

[indiatrendzs]

SANDY BEACHES, MUSIC FESTIVALS, BOHO CHIC BOHEMIAN STYLE

Bohemian Summer Style Guide Embrace the carefree spirit of boho chic fashion this summer with effortless shapes, vibrant colors, and laid-back luxe. Whether you’re headed to a music festival, the beach, or simply seeking relaxed summer vibes, channel the modern boho chic aesthetic with these style inspirations: Lightweight Tunics and Caftans Choose lightweight cotton tunics and loose-fit…

[kusumhandicrafts]

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[panchakanya]

Panchakanya's Fusion Fashion with Embroidered Tops and Handcrafted Attire

Panchakanya offers exquisite embroidered tops, including a black V-neck top and floral hand-block kurta. Their collection features Khadi silk kurtas, high-waist skirts, and handmade cotton ladies' shirts, blending tradition and style seamlessly.

For more- https://panchakanya.co.in/

[dannais-dde-daneann]

Archive of 2022: Hot autumn outfit in style of 1944 part 1

[itsonlydana]

"Flower On My Skin" | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

Thranduil gets his hair braided and thinks too much.

warnings/tags: bittersweet, more fluff tho, swf, King Thranduil needs a break

words: 1,9k

an: this is a gift for the lovely @tigereyesf who always comments on my posts on ao3 🤍 the lyrics are from Noah Kahans song "Your needs, my needs'

+ masterlist +

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Thranduil understands that permitting you to be near him might not be wise. It could very well rank among the least advisable decisions he's made in ages.

But he did, he invited you again and again, sending horses and carriages to transport you ever since he found out you traveled all the way from Dale by yourself whenever he sent a letter.

Until he didn't need to anymore.

Not because you wouldn't come, but because you didn't leave.

Never in a million years would anyone have guessed that the stoic Elvenking would invite a human to his palace on more occasions than his own kind and surely no one would have ever thought that he would start courting them.

Yet here he was, sitting in one of his many blooming gardens, swatting away the hand that was currently trying to gather his hair.

"Stop this," Thranduil's stern voice would've had any other shiver in fear of losing their head, though it only makes you giggle.

"Please, let me braid it again," you stable yourself with your hands on his shoulders and lean over, chest pressed against his strong back.

"No, you little nuisance. I shall not! You know of the meeting I will attend later, we do not have the time."

Even though he can't see your face, he knows you roll your eyes at him, he can feel it in the huff you let out before letting go of him. The warmth of your body disappears as you stand up from the bench and throw one challenging look over your shoulder.

Thranduil watches how you lift the skirts of the gown you're wearing, the finest of silks that you've adorned with little handmade bows from the village, and flop down into the grass. There is not one care on your face that the hems will surely stain and that there are perfectly suitable marmor benches all over the garden and only one of those occupied by Thranduil himself.

You seem to ignore them every time you two spend time out here, he noticed you are much more content with your naked feet buried in the high grass and your hair intertwined with the flowers that grow here.

At first, he couldn't understand the fascination you harbored with nature.

Of course, he had a deep appreciation for the forest surrounding his kingdom, the strong resistance of the trees had been an inspiration for the winding halls, the water flowing through the roots and gifting life and the ever so steady wind reminded someone who lived a thousand years that some things, though they change, never completely disappear.

You, on the other hand, could not be separated from nature in any way whatsoever. There had been the flowers, first only on your side of the bed when he'd invited you to sleep next to him, and one day he woke up to find a vase filled with Astilbe flowers on his nightstand and on his vanity as well.

You also spend most of your day either wandering through the woods (which left him restless and worried until you accepted the sword he had his blacksmith forge for you) or meeting him here in the gardens. He would never tell you but before you, he hadn't walked or maker-forbid, sat there for decades.

Now, he found himself soaking sunshine more days than not, reading Elvish poetry to you while you rested curled into his side with one of his hands brushing your hair, or, chasing you on his Elk through the forest, following the sound of your horse and your laughter.

Your infatuation with nature and the stubbornness of pulling him along made him fall for you, deeply and most ardently and he knew that one day he would need to survive the sight of forests and gardens and flowers without the urge to burn them to the ground for outliving you.

As he watches you examine the colorful flowers and gather them in your lap, he isn't sure if he will be able to contain that anger against the gods if the time comes.

You are oblivious to the dark clouds hanging onto his thoughts, he makes sure that you'll never see the heartbreak he lives through while loving you because he knows, he knows that you would do everything in your power to make him happy.

This is who you are, a human that lives and loves and pours all that you are into those around you, he sees it in the gentleness of your hands cupping the flowers before plucking them, in the way your tongue learned a new language for you wouldn't accept not studying it for an answer if you lived here.

You live to love and love to live.

Thranduil shifts, forgetting that there are guards stationed around the gardens who could see their King doing the unthinkable but he doesn't care.

Not with you sitting a few feet away from him, your dress spilled around you, a full smile on your face as you collect the flowers growing there for you, their little heads turning to you as if you are the sun for them as well, and not just for Thranduil.

If you notice him standing up, you give no sign, you don't even stop humming, and the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at this stubbornness is far too strong to stop it.

"Melethril nîn," he says quietly and his shadow falls over your body. The symbolism and fear of him taking away the sun from you has him clench his jaw. His pain is impatient as if it doesn't know he's going to live longer than he wants to and that it has all the time to break him down.

He quickly shuts those thoughts away behind the sight of you tipping your head back to smirk at him.

This is not the time to dwell on the future, not if he can exist in the moments he shares with you instead of fearing the time when he'll have to think back on them.

"Don't tell me you missed me," you tease.

He scoffs and –surprising you enough to let out a squeak– lowers himself onto his knees next to you.

Eye to eye, he feels much more comfortable, despite the stains that he knows now graze his robes.

"You know," he starts and lets his gaze wander over the flowers in your lap, however, you managed to collect this many of them in such a short time awes him, "the meeting can wait."

You catch onto the meaning instantly, your eyes lightening up even more. The golden rays of the setting sun reflect in them and he reaches forward to cup your face in the palm of his hand and gently leans towards you, capturing your lips in a long kiss that has you gasping.

"Now," Thranduil swipes his thumb over your lower lip, as you separate, tugging playfully at it and giving into another kiss before he continues, "Have your way with my hair, my love. I know you did not collect those flowers for any other reason."

You gasp ingeniously. "You are by far the wisest Elf I've ever met," you say and scoot –maker, he makes a note to get another dress just like this made because surely this will be ruined by the time you leave the gardens– behind his back.

While you gather his hair in your hands, this time without him trying to stop you but relaxing into the soft tugging, you mumble: "So wise, they should make you King."

He chuckles at that. "Ah, but I would need a Queen by my side. Do you know where one could find on–ahhh," his teasing words get swallowed by a sigh as your fingers collect some fine hairs on the side of his head and surely completely on accident run over the shell of his ear to the delicate tip.

"Ooops," you sing and just as his body calms, you repeat the action, even have the gall to scratch the skin with your nails and he melts into a puddle.

His ears burn, not just the one your breath hits but the other one as well and he can feel the blood shoot into his face as well, crumbling the stoic and straight-laced composure of the King who is already on his knees.

"You witch," he presses out between his clenched teeth and hears you giggle. "I should have never told you about that," he murmurs more to himself, trying to regulate his heart beating inside his chest like a wild rabbit on the loose.

You laugh once, a "Pah!" while you tug on his hair, "You didn't tell me," you say and he feels something get pushed inside the braid you are working on, "I found out all by myself."

Thinking back to the night that started this completely outrageous behavior trait of you fiddling with his ears whenever he doesn't pay you enough attention or he says something that teases you a bit too much, he can't tell if you are right or him.

A few years ago he would have shut you down completely because the King would never be wrong but now he grumbles under his breath, agreeing that you must be correct.

Then again, there are many new things that you brought into his life.

He laughs more freely, and not just out of spite of viciously.

He cares more, for you, for his son, for nature and sometimes even for the dwarfs he trades with.

He is formed by you, shaped by your untamable ways of never letting a rainy day ruin your mood.

He is nothing but wax in your hands.

Here, sitting in the gardens and letting you weave flowers in his precious hair, he is no King, he is just a soul yearning for your touch, a flower reaching to bloom in your golden light.

Thranduil's eyes flutter shut as you braid and weave and run your hands over his scalp and through his hair.

He may have fallen asleep, lulled into a trance by the warm sun caressing his face and your voice humming a melody as sweet as any words that you speak, because when you let go of the delicate braids and let them fall into the rest of his hair, he opens his eyes to a pink and purple sunset.

The birds sing their last song and the trees rustle, shaking their branches and leaves as if they would ready themselves for the animals coming to rest in them.

There is a pleasantly chilled breeze that comes with nightfall, one that brings the smell of flowers and grass.

"There," you press a gentle kiss to the skin right behind his left ear, "all done."

For a moment Thranduil is disappointed that you are finished but then he turns to find your smile and all is right.

"Thank you, meldanya," he says, already closing in to express his gratitude with a soft kiss.

You nudge your nose against his, eyes shut in contentment. "Thank you, for letting me. Le ni meleth," you say quietly.

"Always," Thranduil's gaze wanders over you, bathed in rosé and golden hues, the cheeks flushed from the air, your hair wild and untamed, and flowers all over your lap. He grabs a few of them, inspecting the stems and probing them with his sharp nails.

"Let me repay the favor," he effortlessly lifts you, smiling wide at the laugh bursting out of you as he sets you between his legs and onto his robes.

"I want my Queen to wear a fitting crown."

[plumbob-pudding]

For much of human history, children were dressed similarly or identical to adults and this was true for the Victorian era which saw children dressed in stiff heavy layers that didn't allow for play. By the 1900s, in line with adult styles, children clothing became much less elaborate. Little girls emulated the elongated silhouette fashionable for adult women with drop waist dresses while boys' clothing became increasingly sailor inspired.

The 1910s established children's clothing as separate to adult styles. Sailor outfits were all the rage, particularly for young boys. WW1 meant rationing so hemlines crept up and clothing became less ornate in construction and embellishments.

After the war, in the 1920s, children's fashion remained simple, gone were the velvets and silk of the Victorians, instead sturdy textiles like cotton were used. Layering had also become a thing of the past, outfits were now often simple one pieces.

The Great depression occured in the 1930s and it left many families destitute. Children's clothing was handmade and sturdy fabrics like denim were favoured; "flour sack" dresses also became common place.

By the 1940s, many families had recovered from the depression but WW2 and rationing still meant that clothing had to be handmade with what was available. Many magazines at the time included simple patterns and any fabric was used even old curtains.

The 1950s are defined by the baby boom. Lots more children around increased demand for children's clothing and for a majority of families, life and finances improved after the war therefore they had money to spend. This lead to mass-manufacture of clothing using synthetic fibres..Young girls fashions were increasingly feminine:full skirt dresses,similar to their mothers, with bows and other hair accessories.

Boys' clothing became sturdier to allow for increased physical activity as the government of many countries began to mandate compulsory phys ed due to high levels of poor fitness exposed by the draft.

[pervydollfemme]

i can't wait til i'm finally a trophy wife for my butch <3

going out shopping while he works, from domestic things like groceries to new clothes for myself. decorating our house for holidays; hanging ornaments and lights on a christmas tree, putting pumpkins and spooky string lights on our porch for halloween (and handing out candy to the neighborhood kids in matching costumes). gardening and planting flowers, making sure our house looks welcoming inside and out. going to get my nails and hair done so i always look pretty for him, kissing all over his face when he calls me his beautiful princess, leaving lipgloss or lipstick marks behind.

making him breakfast and packing him a handmade lunch every morning in a silk nightgown and feathered robe, kissing him at his car before he leaves for work (and sometimes getting pinned against it because i look so good - so tempting - our kiss getting heated, going on for a little too long, flushed and breathless when we part. maybe he'd even cup my pussy in his hand, nipping at my neck and whispering about finishing this later). greeting him at the door when he gets home, wrapping him up in a hug and telling him how much i missed him.

sitting on his lap while we talk about our days, his arm wrapped around my waist and hand resting comfortably on my thigh. him telling me about the things he did at work, me telling him about the things i did that day. eating dinner together that way, swinging my legs happily and giggling when he tries to feed me food. domestic weekends together, sometimes staying in and cuddling in bed or on the couch while we watch tv and ordering in; sometimes going out for the day, shopping and going out to eat, him carrying my bags and watching me ramble with hearts in his eyes.

and some less-than-wholesome things, too...

like the hand on my thigh while we're talking at dinner slowly moving higher and higher up until it's under my skirt, pressing against my clit through my panties. rubbing in firm circles while i try my best to keep telling him about my day, my words slowly changing from stuttering to nothing coherent at all, only whining and whimpering, a wet patch spreading across my panties while i start grinding desperately against his fingers. spending the rest of the night spread out on his cock, crying as i'm pounded into the mattress and overstimulated with a vibrator against my clit. so exhausted that i fall asleep with his cock inside me, waking up the next morning sore but sated.

or a sweet weekend at home turning into gentle sex, him fingering me while whatever we were watching plays on in the background. whining and clenching around his fingers when he tells me to keep watching, that i don't want to miss anything, even though my eyes are so teary i can barely see what's going on. maybe even morning sex before he leaves for work because i looked so good he just couldn't help himself, eating me out on the counter until i'm sobbing and begging, holding on to anything i can reach around me for dear life, my thighs tight and shaking around his head.

just!! being his pretty, stay-at-home femme!! his trophy wife who he loves showing off to his coworkers, but isn't afraid to snap at possessively when they show even a small hint of interest in me!! being his forever!! his ring on my finger, his marks on my body, covered in the things he bought for me!! 🥹

[indiatrendzs]

Boho Chic Indian Kurtis, Cotton Tunics, Embroidered Clothing

Indian embroidered kurta are often worn as beach tunics, coverups or styled  with matching leggings and very comfortable as well as flattering to fuller figures. The relaxed fit and loose fitting tunics are great for travel and leisure wear. Team up a hand embroidered indian kurti with a loose-fitting harem pant for a casual outfit perfect for work or a casual day outing. Kurtas can add chic to…

[nyc-looks]

Kelly, 26

“I’m wearing a Comme Des Garçons tartan kilt over a handmade camo skirt, a vintage Ralph Lauren tweed blazer, a bomber jacket I borrowed from my sister, vintage Doc Martens, vintage Gucci purse, a thrifted crochet hat, and a handmade silk sash from @candy.mntn. I’m a maximalist, so I try to mix as many textures, colors, and patterns as possible while still looking cohesive. I almost exclusively shop secondhand these days.”

Apr 2, 2023 ∙ Industry City

[saradika]

— the knight and her lady

knight!fennec shand x princess!reader

rated E - 3.7k

prompts - “can I kiss you?” & fairytale au

tags: medieval/fairytale au, soft sapphic romance, use of weapons in a competition, power dynamic (princess & knight), forbidden love, soft!dom Fen & inexperienced reader, kissing, fingering, implied squirting, oral sex

written for @flightlessangelwings’s Pride Challenge!

You shouldn’t know how to take her apart. It’s not proper, not at your station. If anyone found out, rumors would spread like wildfire. You’d surely be sent home - separated from her.

But your fingers move easily - plucking at buckles and straps. Piece by piece, as fluidly as she had put you together this morning.

(Or - You steal away to your knight, to celebrate a spectacularly-won archery tournament.)

You supposed you should be paying more attention to your host - but you can’t tear your eyes away from the knight in front of you.

The sun glinting off her forge-blackened armor, her movements still fluid even with the extra weight of the steel. Joining the long row of competitions, an ornate longbow slung across her back.

It’s been a long day. A good day - the tournament bringing in visitors for miles. Filling the wooden seats and air with laughter and music. With roasting meat and summery, fruity mead.

But still, you watch.

Fingers clasped, pressed on a knee that bounces with anticipation.

You don’t think he minds. The singularity of your attention, content to sit in near-silence next to you. A month ago you would’ve been ashamed at yourself - ignoring the King like this - but at the moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.

If he had minded, you think that he wouldn’t have taken the flower you had clutched so tightly to your chest. Plucked from the woven crown of greenery and flora around your head, handmade for today.

Telling you he’d “get this where it needed to go” in those few moments before the first event began.

It’s the last event of the afternoon, now - the morning filled with rounds of jousting, the clash of hand-to-hand combat.

You had worried she’d entered both - had felt the butterflies in your stomach when the quiet, silver knight she was seen with so often with took to the field.

But he had been alone. And had been victorious, in the end. A flurry of black slashes with his sword had seen to that.

Part of you wondered if she had attended, if that still would have been true.

The shrill sound of a whistle cuts through the air, as the participants line up. The wave of a green and gold banner as the first arrows fly.

There's the loosening of strings - arrowing flying in arcs towards the target mounds, with their painted red centers. Several falling short, the feathers quivering in the wind, most piercing through cloth and earth within the neat rings.

Scores called out as competitors are eliminated, the judges marking notes down on their scrolls. Those removed make their way to the border, to call out and heckle their friends with the rest of the crowd.

Ser Shand remains for this round, and then the next.

You watch with bated breath as her fingers crook around the string as each round passes. Thinking about last night and the ones before.

A slow, building boldness of wandering mouth and fingers. Stroking over silk and steel, soft sounds swallowed by the night.

Each release sends an arrow flying neatly down the field, landing in the red middle circle again and again. Again and again, until there were only two competitors left on the field.

The suspense was palpable, that teasing chatter dwindling down to nothing. The fabled ‘assassin-turned-knight’ competing with the up-and-coming Lord Calican - this would-be duel that would be spoken about for weeks after.

You had utmost faith in your knight, but you couldn't help the worry as the wind rustled your skirts, tugged at your crown of flowers. Fingers reaching up to pull it down a little tighter, just as the flag waves again.

The crowd holds their breath.

They fire at the same time.

There's an uproar, as the arrows hit. The judges racing to look, Lord Calican turning on Ser Shand. A pointing finger at the mounds, down at her feet. Even from here you can see the arch of her brow, rising in disbelief.

You don't even notice the way your hand drifted down, curling in the soft green velvet of the King's sleeve. Only when his gloved hand comes down to pat against yours, do you realize - letting go quickly and sheepishly.

The small smile he sends your way is kind. As is his answer, as he replies to the advisor next to him - asking if he should step in.

"My knight is not so easily bested." The King boasts, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Here, just watch."

You can just make out the argument. It's clear that her arrow flew straight and true, hitting dead center. His off, just a hair lower on his own target.

Rounding on her to claim that she had taken a step closer while firing - had been out of bounds.

There's a knowing and condescending smile, as he turns red in the face with argumentative anger. Leaving him mid-rant to move a handful of meters back. Close to the edge of the field, before she stops.

Turning - taking barely a second to fit an arrow, aim, and fire.

It flies down the field in silence.

Striking where her first had landed, splintering it down the middle.

The crowd explodes. Shouting and cheering as they all decide the winner on their own. Your voice joins theirs as you find yourself leaping to your feet, leaning against the tall rail in front of you.

Excitement and joy and something else, something honey-sweet swirls in your stomach. Your heart thudding in your chest as you see her turn - finding your eyes in the crowd.

The small smile and wink sent your way.

Striking her target, one last time.

You sneak into the tents, after.

Scattered across the open field, gathered around small campfires. It would be easier to travel back the mile or so into the city, but it was a long-held tradition to stay on the grounds the night before a tournament.

Easier to group up, to celebrate. Less mess to clean when playful song and teasing turned into drunken brawls between sore-losing, mead-filled competitors.

Lifting the crimson flap of the tent emblazoned with her symbol. Large for its size - a nest of pillows and a bedroll tucked off to the side, upon the thick carpet of grass. A wide bench on the far wall, one edge littered with fletching supplies. Two chairs and a sturdy table standing on a coarsely-woven rug.

She's there - still clad in that dark armor. Plucking the archery gloves from her fingers in a way that has your eyes dropping down to her hands again. Watching as they appear from behind the leather, as you hover just inside.

Lingering, until her eyes are lifting. A smile coming then, a flash of pretty teeth between the curve of her lips.

You go to her, letting the flap fall behind you. The tent well-light in the afternoon sun, filtering in pretty shades of red and gold.

“You were incredible.” You tell her, almost shyly. The way you had been watching had felt almost vouyeristic, but maybe that was just the winding of your thoughts, the slow sweep of your eyes.

“I could not lose, with your favor.” Fennec’s fingers work at her armor. Loosening her chestplate enough to dip inside, draw out the rose from where it nestled between her breasts.

Plucked so carefully from your woven crown, the color tipping from pink towards purple. It spins between her fingertips, the hidden meaning not at all lost on her.

“You know…” Her head tilts, then - with the sly curl of a smile, “In some tournaments, the victor is awarded a prize.”

It still stuns you, even though she gives them to you freely.

But you’re familiar with the customs. A favor bestowed, a bag of coin awarded.

“What would you ask for?” You question with a little furrow of your brow - taking those few steps, until you’re reaching the edge of the rug.

“Perhaps a kiss from a fair maiden?” She taps her chin thoughtfully, though her eyes never leave your face. Asking it like a question, though you’re sure she’s been planning this.

Sending up a flutter in your stomach, your heart kicking up a beat.

“Is that all you desire?” You own question comes out breathless, as she steps closer.

Her smile is enigmatic - her rose set down carefully on the table. Your tongue peeking out to wet your lips, eyes dropping to the pretty curve of hers.

Your eyes start to drift shut, the anticipation curling sweetly in your stomach.

But it doesn’t come - the press of her lips. The swipe of a tongue. Instead, there’s the pressure of her fingers ghosting against your hips, her voice in your ear.

“Mm. I didn’t say where, sweetness.”

Her voice is low, throaty. It sends a little shiver up your spine, as her innuendo sinks in. It had your eyes opening, surprise lingering in the pretty part of your lips.

“Your face,” She laughs, but not unkindly. “You are too sweet, little bird.”

Her touch lifts then, fingers catching your chin and tilting it towards her face.

Lips pressing against your cheek, feather-light. Then your jaw, the soft spot under your ear as you melt against her.

“Can I kiss you, princess?” She husks, “Would you let me take what is mine?”

In your head, you answer. An eager affirmative that comes out as a soft whine, instead. Another low, rasping laugh before her mouth is pressing to yours, finally giving you what you need.

Your fingers clench around steel, the heavy leather of her belt. She swallows your sigh, a soft curl of her lips in a hidden smile before she’s tasting you, licking into your mouth.

There had been shock, before - you won’t deny that. Heat rising to your cheeks at her words, so very public.

She loved your sweetness, the arch of your brows, the little intake of air. So very different than the rough and tumble of the other knights and soldiers.

But it didn’t mean you didn’t know. That you didn’t want.

A little fire that you’ve kindled in your belly, all day. The spark starting as she snuck up from the field to find you that morning - fingers brushing over your waist, the curves of your breasts as she helped you lace up the back of your dress.

“Such a pretty thing,” She had cooed, smoothing down the layers of fabric, the spray of stars embroidered across your skirts.

You had thought she meant the dress - until you caught her gaze in the mirror you were facing.

It was a pretty sight - her arms around you. You were sure your thoughts had reflected hers, in that moment.

How easy it would be to slip a hand beneath your skirts - to loosen the laces of your chemise. A thrill has thrummed in your veins, until a knock had sounded at the heavy wooden door.

Mourning the proximity, as she had stepped away.

It makes you want to take her little tease, twist it into something tangible. Pulling back from the warm press of her mouth to murmur a question against her neck.

“Can I kiss you, too?” Your lips brush her neck, that sliver of skin above the cold iron of her gorget.

You can feel the hum of her laugh, as her chin tips up to give you more room, “I’d say you are, princess.”

The way she sighs the title makes you not despise it. No simpering in her tone, nothing to remind you of your duties and promises that you want nothing more than to break.

It has your mouth moving. Pressing kisses to her armor, leaving the ghost of your breath against the cold, dark iron.

A hitch in her breath as you begin to lower yourself, reaching the curve were the metal is shaped at her chest. Gathering your skirts in one hand as you reach the bottom of her cuirass.

Her fingers are twisted in the fabric at your shoulders - eyes dark when you glance up. Unable to resist the pull of you on your knees for her, out in this field, stolen away in her tent.

A second, as she blinks - coming back to herself.

“Your dress, little bird-” She protests, knowing how much you had been looking forward to wearing it.

It feels like nothing now. Not even wrinkles or the threat of dirt could sway you.

Your face tips up as the want reflects in your own eyes, “Please. I want to. I’ve thought about it, I-”

You’ve dreamed about it. Tasting her more than just the slip of your fingers against your tongue. Not doing so before because she’s never asked, and you’ve been too shy to.

Wondering if it would be something she’d want - not knowing how to navigate this path with someone who’s bound to you in such a way that made desire and duty so confusing.

Your words are enough. A sharp exhale of breath as she takes a step backwards, the spread of her thighs as she lowers herself to that wooden bench.

It takes no time for you to fit between them. A small glance over your shoulder to make sure the tent flap is closed, before your fingers are slipping beneath her armor.

“I’ll keep watch, sweetness.” She husks, leaning back to let you work, “Don’t you worry.”

You shouldn’t know how to take her apart. It’s not proper, not at your station. If anyone found out, rumors would spread like wildfire. You’d surely be sent home - separated from her.

But your fingers move easily - plucking at buckles and straps. Piece by piece, as fluidly as she had put you together this morning.

Revealing the dyed linen of her surcoat - black and edged with red embroidery. Her cuirass set gently against the edge of the bench as her hips raise enough that you can tug down her trousers, letting them pool around her ankles.

She’s unashamed, thighs parted for you. Hands brace on the bench - watching you as your eyes drift down to where only your fingers have been, in the dark.

Thrilled at the way she glistens, that you did that yourself. Nerves and desire twisting and fluttering in your stomach like the fletching on the arrows, before.

Trying to thinking about when she’s kissed you, like this. How every touch and brush of her tongue brought pleasure you had never known. Thinking that you could do that, that you wanted to - for her.

She murmurs your name as you move. A soft kiss to her center, letting your tongue peek between your lips. Dragging against her slit, tasting the sweet tang of her cunt, unable to help groaning into her as your hand comes to wrap around her calf.

Getting more bold, with each of her shaky breaths. Listening and learning each little sound, determined to do well for her.

Finding the hard, sensitive bud beneath the dark curls - feeling the pinch of her fingers against your shoulder when your tongue flattens against it.

An eager shift forward, pressing yourself further against her. Eyes closing when a moan buzzes in her throat, hands brushing your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. Closing around the crown, bruising the petals with the force of her fingers.

“Stars, sweet girl,” She sighs, a gentle buck of her hips as she urges you, “Look at you, on your knees. You look so pretty, you know that?”

It shoots through you, as you clench around nothing. Unable to help squirming as your fingers trace along her thigh, up and then up.

A look up when she’s silent, only to see the clench of her jaw as she holds her sounds back. Trying to keep quiet, in this open field.

Then you hear it, muffled behind a hand, as your finger sink in. This part you know - eyes closing again as your fingers crook and curl.

Her thighs closing sharply around your shoulders when your lips return to her, a soft suck against her clit.

Tightening around you as her hips start to move, as she tugs you against her. Unable to help the panting, groaning praise.

“Right there, gods - just like that. Yes, my love, yes-”

Your eyes open just in time to watch her fall apart. Tongue pressed against the pulse of her clit as she grips your fingers, coating them with her release.

A moan pulled from her throat, high before she catches it. Her chest heaving as your fingers ease from her when she relaxes, slipping into your mouth before your tongue dips inside her.

Tasting the salty musk of your triumph, thinking you understand in this moment the way she enjoys having you beneath her.

Knowing that you’ll never want to stop, now that you’ve had a taste.

Blinking up at her as she smiles, a small shake of her head.

“Just look at you, pretty girl.”

Her thumb swipes over the slick that’s smeared across your lips, your chin. Pressing it against your bottom lip until they part - cleaning her from her fingers.

Disheveled and eyes blown wide with lust, tasting like her as she stands - swiftly tugging up her trousers before her hand is tucking under your elbow.

Pulling you to your feet as you frown, before she’s whisking you over to her bedroll. Kissing you, her tongue delving into your mouth as she lowers you down onto the pile of pillows.

“Can’t wait to touch you, sweetness.” Her voice is syrupy smooth, low in your ear, “You get so wet from me looking just at you. I bet you are soaked from eating my cunt.”

It makes you tremble, a heat rising in your cheeks at her crude words. A little laugh as she does just like you had dreamed about before.

A hand tucks behind your head as she kisses you. Stroking your tongue as her fingers work at your bodice. Breaking the kiss, only to wrap her lips around a tight nipple, flicking her tongue against it.

Your moan is loud, wanton. Unable to hold yourself back, as she had. She shoot you a look of warning, shushes you before kissing across your chest.

Grateful for her touches, as your desire thuds between your thighs. Completely eclipsing that feeling from before, making it feel no more than a flutter.

Unable to compare to the way you need her, now.

There’s a sweet satisfaction that slices through you, when she dips beneath your smallclothes. The moan into your shoulder as she hovers over you, when she realizes just how right she was.

How the soft cotton is soaked through. How her fingers meet slick skin beneath, no resistance as she immediately sinks two fingers inside.

You gasp at the stretch, teeth biting down on a whine. Unable to see anything other than the bare curves of your breaths, your skirts piled high.

But she leans down to look, a soft purr to her voice, “Oh princess. My needy little thing.”

Telling you how pretty you look with her fingers in you, as her thumb presses against your clit. Your eyes fixed on the teeth that sink into her lip, as she tugs down the cotton to bare you fully.

Watching the shine of her fingers as they pump into you. You’d be embarrassed at how wet you are, how swiftly she builds you up and up, if you hadn’t been waiting for her touch for so long.

A soft cry when her mouth returns to your breasts, the ache as she makes a mark that will be hidden by your bodice. Something just for her - later, before she’s tasting herself on your tongue again.

Swallowing your gasps as you squirm, her fingers pounding and crooking against a place that steals your breath. Pinning you down with a thigh that straddles yours.

Her own soft growls as she sees you start to come undone - the glazed look in your eyes. Remembering how sweet and eager you were for her - wanting to return that feeling a million times over.

“Want to make you come, princess.” Her mouth is against your ear, as your hands fist in her surcoat, “Let me feel you, sweet thing.”

Fennec’s elbow presses into the bedroll as she leans over you. Her fingers keeping their pace as your vision grows hazy. Your senses filled with her and only her, as she presses kiss after kiss to your trembling lips.

Humming low in her throat as your fingers pinch harder into the cloth. A tiny, wrung-out gasp of her name, as something builds and builds - pushing you past a point you didn’t know you had.

And then, it snaps. Pleasure and relief pounds in your veins, the thud of your heart drowning out the sounds of your cries as she catches them with her mouth.

Her fingers unrelenting, dripping with you as she fucks you through the tight pulses of pleasure. Her palm slapping against slick skin as she draws it out, until your fingers untwine. Reaching down to catch her hand, unable to take it any longer.

Thoroughly worn out, overcome with your pleasure. Unable to do more than press a hand against your face as she leans over to look at the mess you made.

Another soft groan at her cat-like smile - fingers tracing against your damp thighs as she revels in this new discovery.

“Gods. I can’t wait to watch you do that again tonight.”

Kissing away your embarrassment, with soft encouragement peppered between each press of her lips. How it slowly fades as she wraps herself up with you, curled together on her bedroll.

Grateful for the way she had pulled your skirts up and out of the way - always looking out for you. Watching over you as you doze, the red and gold speckles of sunlight warm against your face.

It’s easy to forget then, about your worries. Wondering how this story between you would end. How this love that had blossomed between you could ever fully flourish in the sun.

Instead, it’s just a glorious day. An evening to bask in, and celebrate.

Staying sleepy and content until her name is called, and she’s throwing you a look - quickly helping you lace your bodice up. Smoothing down her own clothes while she steps outside.

Coming back with her arms laden with gifts - a sack of gold, a basket of fresh fruit. A heavy bottle of spotchka, tucked under her arm.

“My winnings,” She smiles, with a happy lilt to her voice, “And here I thought I’d already had them.”

You know that right now, your smile mirrors hers.

As she leans down to kiss you, once again.

purple roses can symbolize love at first sight! it can also mean adoration and fascination with someone (& used the term ser in a very ‘ser brienne of tarth’ sort of way)

and lastly - thank you Jey, for hosting this challenge! Such an awesome idea, I was excited for the chance to contribute a fic. 💖

[panchakanya]

Embrace Panchakanya: Cultural Fest 2023 - A Celebration of Art, Culture, and Community

Panchakanya Kala Sanskriti Lok Utsav 2023: A lively event in India (Indore), showcasing our colorful culture through art, music, dance, handmade products, and traditions. Come and enjoy the beauty of Panchakanya's heritage!

For more information- https://panchakanya.co.in/

[thebadgerclan]

Wedding Bells

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x reader

Summary: The many weddings of Aleksander Morozova...

Over his many identities, you were Aleksander’s constant.  Whether you disappeared for a few years together or separately, you always emerged together, or sought each other out soon after.  And every time you took on new names, new titles, new occupations, you also got married.  It didn’t matter that you’d already sworn your vows to one another centuries ago, your newly crafted identities hadn’t, and good society demanded you do so.  And Aleksander certainly wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to once more swear himself to you.

***

The first wedding would always be the most special; when you were Y/N and Aleksander, just two young people in love.  Your father had been hesitant to grant your hand to Aleksander, but you’d worn him down, insisting you had no need for wealth or fancy clothes when you had the man you loved.  And that was true, all you needed was your Sasha.  Your gown was handmade by your mother, shimmering gold, the skirts fluttering on the wind, your hair arranged in a simple braid.  You wore no veil, no crown of pearls, but you had no need for such frivolities.

The ceremony was held in the chapel of Sankt Ilya, your groom-to-be standing at the altar.  One side of the church was full of your family and friends, the other was bare except for your soon to be mother-in-law.  The thorn wood crowns were placed on your heads and your vows were exchanged.  Old Ravkan was still the tongue of the land, and you felt tears building in your eyes as Aleksander swore devotion and fidelity to you.  When his lips touched yours and the priest declared you wed, you knew that your life would never be the same.

***

The second wedding was nearly 30 years later.  The Fold was what drove you and your husband into hiding, and in that time, he had shared his immortality with you.  You entered society once more as Staski and Rosa, a lieutenant’s son and his betrothed.  Rumor had it that Staski was distantly related to the Darkling that had created the Unsea and was committed to expanding the budding Second Army.  

Your wedding was a quiet affair, vows sworn before the King’s Apparat in the silence of an empty church.  It felt wrong, you said, to promise to love Staski rather than Aleksander, but later that night, in the comforting embrace of your husband’s arms, he whispered those same words in Old Ravkan, your true name in your ear.

***

The third wedding was the one that presented a challenge.  You’d had to disappear separately for the first time, coming back to Os Alta under the name of Elsabet, the niece of the recently deceased count, and Arkady, the son of the recently deceased Darkling.  Your reppearances were staggered as well: Aleksander returning to Os Alta only a week after his departure, appearing to be mourning his father, and you entering the city from your former residence in Os Kervo to take up the mantle of your late uncle.

The public hadn’t known that Staski and Rosa had a son, which prompted the policy that a Darkling and his heir never lived at the Little Palace together.  The people accepted it as truth, acknowledged the risk of assassination, and that was that.  But that wasn’t the complication.  The way Ravkan society ran at the time: a woman could not accept her own engagement.  Her father, brother, or other male relative had to accept it on her behalf.  And since you had no one to do so….

Aleksander petitioned the King.  You were a woman who had been thrust into a position of power with no training, you had never been to the capital before, but above all, you were in love.  King Ivan was sympathetic to your plea, and accepted Aleksander’s engagement on your behalf.  Beyond that, he hosted the wedding at the Royal Chapel, refusing to let you see the bill.  It was your most extravagant wedding to date: your gown was billowing gold silk, a tiara of diamonds in your hair.  Your husband was dressed in similar finery, but his smile when he beheld you outshone all the chapel’s finery

*** Your fourth and fifth weddings were muted, almost somber affairs.  Ravka was at war, the Grisha were persecuted, the Second Army’s growth had been stunted by the war.  There was no time nor resources for an elaborate ceremony.  Yet you still wanted to swear your vows to your husband, to proclaim your love for him.  So you found a priest and were wed.  For your fourth wedding, you didn’t even have a priest: you exchanged your vows by firelight, using your true names for the first time in nearly a century.

***

The sixth wedding was the grandest to date.  It wasn’t every day that the General of the Second Army got married, now was it.  The Grisha were finally respected, the Second Army was secure, and no expense was spared.  Your husband wore his black kefta, and you wore one of glittering gold, a train trailing five feet behind you.  You walked yourself down the aisle, smiling the entire time, and Aleksander kissed your forehead when you reached him.

You used the traditional Grisha vows, but as you danced–you’d never had a wedding reception before, never had the time, never had the money–you cooed the same Old Ravkan words in your husband’s ear.  “I have married you six times now,” Aleksander said, holding you close.  “But I will never tire of marrying you.  Ya lyublyu tebya, moye serdtse.”  I love you, my heart.

You weren’t sure what it was, but you had a feeling that this marriage would be the longest lasting, the one that lasted for the rest of your lives.  You’d used your true names this time, speaking your husband’s name before others for the first time in centuries.  “The next time we’re in that chapel,” Aleksander said.  “It will be when I make you my queen.”  Your eyes widened, and he kissed you deeply.

“Queen Y/N and King Aleksander of Ravka.  We will bring peace at last.”  “Sasha, you don’t mean-”  “Shh, not here, my little wife.  Besides, the time isn’t right yet.  But when it is…”  Your husband leaned in close, kissing the place before your ear.  “Moya tsaritsa, I shall worship you.”  You shuddered, and Aleksander smirked.  “I love you very much, my darling wife,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear.  “I have loved you since I married you in Sankt Ilya’s Chapel, and I will love you for the rest of my immortal life.”

Your knees went weak when he kissed you again, and Aleksander swept you into his arms.  He then carried you to your rooms, where he gave you the wedding night you hadn’t had since your first wedding.  And three years later, you stood in the Royal Chapel once more, where you were crowned Queen Eternal of Ravka.