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mimilind · 1 year

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The Stowaway Passenger - Part 1

Pairing: Will Turner x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 1950

Parts: [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

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1. Stowaway

It was only the first day after you left Port Royal, and you had never felt this sick in your life. The smell had much to do with it, closely followed by the torturous heat, the rolling motions of the ship and the pitch darkness in the cargo hold. Had you known the stout freight ship you had chosen for your escape would carry salted fish, you may have thought twice about boarding it, but there was no going back now.

If you survived this, you would be free at last; that was worth any discomfort. And at least you had not thrown up – yet.

You heard a squeaking sound and the hatch opened above you. Cowering behind a crate, you tried to make yourself as tiny as possible, holding your breath.

A tendril of light illuminated your surroundings slightly, and you heard steps on the ladder. A loud, rough voice called down: “Move all the crates from that side to the other. And get on with it, or I’ll make the boatswain whip yer. Lazy bilgerat!”

The hatch shut with a loud wham, and darkness returned. No, not quite. Whomever had been sent down the ladder carried a lantern. You could hear them swear under their breath, obviously annoyed at getting such a meaningless task.

Then it struck you that their task would put you in danger of discovery, and with a pounding heart you hoped they would refuse doing it.

Sadly, you had no such luck. Within moments, you heard grunts and ragged panting as the unlucky sailor began to push the boxes over the wooden deck.

If only you could fit inside one of the crates! But they were nailed firmly shut.

The sounds grew closer as the sailor worked their way towards you, and the light brighter. A whiff of musk hit your nose. To your surprise, it smelled pleasant. Being brought up in a fine home, you had never been this close to a working man, and in other circumstances it might have made you curious.

Not now, however. You were too afraid. Any moment now they would find you, and drag you up to the captain, and what would he do then? Beat you? Keelhaul you? Or… maybe he would force you to walk the plank – pushing you off the ship, bound hands and feet.

Probably not the latter, you thought. You were too easily recognizable as a rich person in your fine clothes, and the captain would realize your family might pay him to get you back in one piece.

Your father would pay, you knew that. If it became known what you had done, it would ruin your family’s status in society forever. Especially considering how long and hard he had worked to procure your marriage.

That marriage… Just the thought of your intended made bile rise in your throat. Going back was not an option. If you were discovered, you must make sure this sailor helped you remain hidden at any cost!

The crate you were hiding behind moved, and you heard a breathless voice: “What the heck?”

His lantern blinded you, so you could not see what he looked like, but you prayed inwardly he was a kind man.

“Shh,” you whispered, a finger against your lips. “Please…”

He moved the lantern closer, moving it up and down as he regarded you. “Who are you?” he murmured after what felt like an eternity, and thank goodness, he kept his voice down!

“I’m someone who needs to escape,” you pleaded. “Can you pretend you never saw me?”

“What’s the point? We’ll make land soon, picking up more cargo. You’ll be found then, if not sooner.”

Darn. Darn darn darn!

“I thought this ship was heading for Europe!” you hissed, despair filling you.

“It is, eventually. But not until the hold’s full.” The sailor placed the lantern on a crate, and for the first time you could see his face. He was a handsome, youngish looking man, a little over twenty-five perhaps. But what caught you off guard was the fact that he only wore a pair of short, cotton breeches.

You tried hard not to stare at his exposed chest, but could not avoid noticing how muscular he was, and how the moisture from his previous exertion made his tanned skin almost glow in the lamplight.

“I’m screwed,” you muttered.

“What are you running from?” he asked curiously.

“Marriage,” you admitted. “My father found a spouse for me. Rich and important. But I just…” You sighed. “I just couldn’t. Not without love.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I’m kind of running away too… I was engaged to the woman I had pined after since childhood, but once it was settled, I realized I’d grown out of love. Somehow, by all the hardship we endured to get each other, we had changed.” His dark eyes filled with sadness. Then he straightened up. “I must continue working, or the captain will have my hide.”

“Need help?” you heard yourself offer, though you had not done an honest day’s work in your life before.

The sailor looked at your clean, smooth hands and embroidered clothes, and his lips twitched. “Sure.” He held out a dirty fist to you. “I’m Will, by the way. Will Turner.”

His hand was warm and felt strong when you shook it and told him your name.

Hearing your surname, Will whistled silently. “Good Lord. I imagine there’s quite a bounty to be had, if the captain brings you back to Port Royal.”

You stared at him, bitterly regretting exposing yourself. “Please…” you whispered, earnestly shaking your head.

“No worries.” His grip on your hand hardened. “Even if I were that cruel, I’d not give the captain the satisfaction. He’s probably the worst captain I’ve known. I hate his guts, but sadly this was the only ship hiring, and I just had to get out of there.”

Breathing out in relief, you pressed his hand in return. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Your eyes met, and suddenly the air felt even hotter than before. You found it hard to breathe and quickly dropped your gaze. “Let’s work then,” you said lamely.

The crates were ridiculously heavy, but by the time you had managed to push one to the other side, Will had already moved three of them.

“How can you do it so fast?” you panted, feeling every muscle in your body protest as you began on another crate.

“I used to be a blacksmith.” He smirked.

No wonder he was so fit, you thought, appreciatively glancing at his broad shoulders when he had his back turned. You felt a flutter of excitement deep within.

When the work was done, you were exhausted and flopped down on a box with shaking arms and legs.

“Thanks for the assistance,” said Will, though he obviously knew you had not done much to ease his task. “I like your spirit. Perhaps I should help you in return.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful! But how?”

“I think you could pass as a deckhand, if you borrow some spare clothes from me. The captain is a lazy lout, and can hardly write. He doesn’t know the names of half the crew he hired.”

“But don’t you think my name would give me away? What if he’s heard of me before?”

“True. Then let’s call you…” He glanced at the crates and grinned. “Casey. Or Carter?”

“Casey Carter sounds good.” You grinned back.

You hid behind the crates again while Will climbed back up, promising to return at night with clothes you could borrow. It would be easier for you to sneak out unnoticed in the protection of darkness.

While waiting, you thought about what you were about to do, and slowly the courage left you. You were a rich brat, with a weak body and no experience of hard labor, and suddenly you felt sure the other sailors would see through your cover immediately and call you out. And what about your seasickness? If you threw up in front of a bunch of rowdy seamen you would probably die of shame. And then you would die again when the captain tossed you overboard.

When Will returned after a few hours, you had bit your nails down to the quick and was a nervous wreck.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” you whispered shakily.

“No worries. I’ll look out for you.” He smiled encouragingly. Such an attractive smile he had!

“Why are you so kind to a stranger?” you asked.

“I told you. I like your spirit.” He squeezed your shoulder.

The clothes Will had brought were a typical sailor’s outfit with breeches, an offwhite shirt and a vest, and a scarf to tie back your hair with. You changed behind the crates, though you told yourself you were being silly, really – your underwear covered almost all of you, and besides, had he not exposed his bare chest to you before? Soon you would share living quarters with the rest of the crew, and you would have to get used to showing a little skin.

The clothes were not too dirty, but not freshly laundered either like you were used to. You did not mind; on the contrary, you liked the exotic, masculine scent impregnated in the garments. You knew Will had worn them.

When you returned to the circle of lamplight, you looked down at yourself critically, thankful the shirt was loose with long sleeves and covered your body effectively. You hoped it was not too obvious you were no real sailor.

There was a glint in Will’s eyes as he regarded you. “Looking good.”

Before you left the cargo hold, he explained to you the work you would do as a deckhand; mostly cleaning the deck and performing lesser chores, and when the ship reached the next port, help carry goods aboard. Will would make sure you were not assigned complicated tasks such as raising sails or climbing the rigging.

You went up the ladder, Will first and you closely behind. He cautiously peeked out before allowing you up.

“Coast is clear,” he whispered, taking your hand to help you.

You drew in a deep breath of the cool night air. How wonderful to be out of that horrible hole!

Will did not release your hand. With you in tow he sneaked over the deserted deck until you came to another hatch, which led to the sleeping quarters. You descended a new ladder, and your stomach sank as you realized the respite from the stuffy, stinking cargo hold had been short lived; here it was almost equally bad, although the stench of salted fish was replaced with that of unwashed humans.

The area was crammed with sleeping people, snoring away in hammocks hanging from the low ceiling. The floor underneath was no less crowded; littered with seaman’s chests, bags, used clothes and, in a corner, a stinking bucket which you suspected you as a deckhand would be assigned to empty.

“Where do I sleep?” you breathed in Will’s ear.

Instead of replying, he pulled you with him to one side, where two empty hammocks hung very close together. “It will be a bit tight, but there was not much room left.” His breath tickled your neck when he whispered.

You nodded, and gratefully accepted his offer to help you get up. He placed his hands on your waist and promptly lifted you onto the swinging bed, as if you weighed hardly anything.

The hammocks were so close you could feel his body heat next to yours when he lay down, but in this strange and frightening situation, that only made you feel safe.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Parts: [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

#will turner #will turner x reader #will turner x you #will turner fanfic #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean fanfiction #potc fanfic #potc fanfiction #potc #The Stowaway Passenger

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itbmojojoejo · 1 year

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A Good Man | Part 6

Pairing: Finan x Ealdorman's Daughter!Reader

Summary: During the aftermath of Eadred's death implications are made, Uhtred orders his group to return to Coccham but y/n doesn't want Finan to go.

Warnings: SLOWBURN. Mentions of blood and violence. References to a dead body, the term brutalised is used. Please let me know if i've missed anything!

Wordcount:3.3k

Part 1 | Part 7 | Other Works

Authors Notes: pfft I don't have anything to say. Other than I may have squealed when writing one part.

Stepping up onto a lip of the lean-to under the cover of darkness Finan silently pulled himself up onto its roof, keeping low he ushered you and Osferth closer. On instinct Osferth dropped to a knee and locked his fingers offering you a boost, you placed a foot into his hands and held your own up to Finan as Osferth stood lifting you into the irishman’s grasp.

Finan helped you climb into your dimly lit room through the window following you in and pushed the shutters closed after whispering for Osferth to stay there.

“We need to burn your clothes, can’t risk anyone finding them stained.” He whispered unfastening the broach ridding you of the cloak, you nodded as your hands shakily came to your sides to work at the laces.

“Let me” Finan offered and he hastily loosened them helping to lift the lilac tunic over your head dropping it to the floor “Uhh..” He quietly grumbled with his hands hovering over your body, this was a precarious enough situation to be caught in with you let alone adding blood covered clothes into the mix.

“It’s fine, just turn around.” You quietly muttered lifting the underdress over your head adding it to the tunic, any other time you’d be nervous to be stood naked in the presence of a man but you were being fuelled by adrenaline. Finan stood with his back to you and gathered up the discarded clothes hearing you rummage in a trunk, he opened the window shutter and looked down to Osferth

“Burn them.” He threw the bundled fabric down and Osferth nodded before jogging off into the darkness.

“You can look at me now.” You whispered shifting on your feet fiddling with the cross at your neck.

The lit candles on the mantle of the cold hearth behind you illuminated the silhouette of your body beneath the thin white linen nightdress you wore, you were beautiful even with dried blood staining your hands and splattered on your face. Finan quietly cleared his throat at the sight glancing around the room, this was not the time to be having thoughts of desire, spotting a small basin and a jug of water he walked over to it.

“Gotta get you cleaned up, do you have a cloth?” He asked

“Uh yes” You retrieved a few cloths from the trunk at the end of the bed and joined him at the basin, you pushed your sleeves up as he poured water into the bowl and wet a square of fabric. The water was cold as you submerged your hands rubbing them clean, Finan’s hand gently came to your chin angling your face towards him. He offered you a small reassuring smile as he dabbed delicately at your cheeks ridding your face of the evidence. He looked to your neck and let out a displeased hum, the skin was darkening showing signs of the attack and he remembered Eadred’s unlaced breeches.

“I’m only asking so I know what happened, did he..” His voice trailed off not sure how to finish his question but you knew what he was asking and responded with a shake of your head, you winced bringing a hand up to the back your head relieved to find no blood when you pulled it back.

“Are you going to be able to cover this?” He queried gently brushing the edge of the growing bruise with the pad of his finger tip

“Oh, um I think so” The thought of wearing a high neck dress in the summer heat was unpleasant but it was a better option than going on trial for the murder of an Ealdorman’s son. Finishing the clean up Finan dashed the dirty water out of the window, putting the bowl back onto its table he avoided his gaze lingering on you too long.

“It’s not going to be easy, but try to get some rest. I’ll talk to Uhtred in the morning alright?”

“You won’t stay?” You quivered looking at him full of worry

“I shouldn’t even know what the inside of this room looks like..” He fretted bringing his hands to his face

“Finan I ca- please don’t lea- what..” You panicked at the thought of being left alone as tears blurred your vision. He gently pulled you into his chest and held you tight as you cried smoothing a hand down your hair.

The adrenaline had started to wear off and you felt a horrible mixture of emotions clogging your brain, filling your stomach and rushing through your veins. The pain in your head turned into an icy cold fear at the repercussions from what you’d done and your breathing quickened, feeling you take a turn for the worse Finan pulled back slightly moving his hands to the sides of your face.

“After me, deep breath in through your nose” You followed his instruction taking a breath until your chest felt like it could burst “Out from your mouth” and you exhaled keeping your eyes on his and repeated the motions with him a couple times more until you had more control over your body again.

“You’re going to be alright, I promise.” He soothed wiping your tears with his thumbs

“But I...” You whispered holding onto his wrists staring at his bronze cross

“Did what you had to survive.” You responded with a small nod tightening your hold on him, he sighed bringing his head down to rest against yours. Closing your eyes at his simple gesture of comfort you resorted to asking once more, the thought of being alone was unbearable.

“Please stay?”

Earlier in the night he had the thought to walk you back in the hopes of being able to finally kiss you, and if you’d asked him to stay then he wondered if there would of been the same hesitation to say yes. Finan felt guilty for not being there to protect you, it wouldn’t of happened if he had just been there.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Stepping away from his hold still grasping his wrists bringing him with you towards the bed behind you, your eyes dropped to his sword belt and you moved to unbuckle it. He silently stopped your hands and removed the belt himself leaning the sword against the bedframe in case he would need it for any reason.

You settled awkwardly laying on your side watching Finan arrange a cushion to sit himself against the headboard still wearing his cuirass. Fighting the trembling that had started in your body you closed your eyes trying to will them away but the image of blood seeping through the gaps in Eadred’s fingers as he held his face flashed on the backs of your eyelids. Finan caught the way you squeezed your eyes tighter together as tears came to you once again.

“Come here, I’ve got you.” He quietly comforted pulling you into his side. With an arm around your back he gently caressed your shoulder and placed a light kiss to the crown of your head and kept his lips resting there, with a small sob you took hold of his other hand and held it against your chest.

You both woke up with a shock and feeling disorientated at the harsh knocking on your door, you jumped up from where you had been warmly nestled against Finan to stand near the door as he hurriedly grabbed his swords and rolled to the other side of your bed barely preventing a loud fall and hid himself there.

You opened the door a crack breathing a sigh of relief at Aethelflaed opening it fully, she glanced around noticing the open shutters letting the first low light of dawn into room and the burnt out candles on the hearth as you closed the door. Turning to face her she took in the marks on your neck and the red bruise across your cheekbone that hadn’t been visible to you or Finan last night.

“Are you alright?” She asked kindly, her eyes full of worry

“As alright as I can be Lady.”

“Osferth and Sihtric told...” She started then frowned in confusion “Where is Finan?”

“Uh, I’m here Lady” He whispered standing from his place behind the bed, taking note of his fully clothed form she gave you both a small smile

“You aren’t to worry y/n, nothing has been discovered as of yet. Make sure you cover this” She gestured to her own neck referencing your bruises “And as for your cheek, we’ll say I accidentally caught you with an elbow when you helped me dress for bed.”

“Thank you”

“Get yourself dressed and downstairs for breakfast, your father will be there most likely. Finan you can escort me out under the guise of bringing me information.” Walking around the bed to leave with Aethelflaed, Finan gave your hand a light squeeze before you were left alone in the silent room.

You found yourself fighting off tears as your fingers worked to lace your high neck dresses and your mind flooded once again with the guilt and fear of the night before. You took a deep breath allowing yourself to think of how Finan had comforted you, you had woken up in the exact same position you had fallen asleep in, he held you close all night and that thought alone was enough to calm you. Making your way through the quiet hallways you hesitated before entering the main hall, you had to be strong and collected if you were to appear innocent in what had happened to Eadred because there would no doubt be questions and accusations once his demise was discovered.

Sitting beside your father at the long table you greeted Lady Aethelflaed and Lord Aethelred who didn’t even acknowledge you.

“My dear you look tired, you must make sure to get an earlier night.” Your father greeted lowly.

“I fear all the travelling has caught up to me.”

“Hmm. As long as that’s all it is.”

“What are you implying?” your voice was hushed as you gave him a side glance

“Nothing that hasn’t already been whispered through the courts.”

You looked to him with furrowed brows eyes full of confusion.

“You are too close to the irishman y/n.” He sighed

“Oh for god’s sake father do no-“ You were growing agitated at the now common accusations of your involvement with Finan

“y/n, all I’m asking is that you be careful. Your brother will not be as deaf to these rumours as I have been.” He cut you off with a neutral tone, the mention of your brother made your stomach flip. He had no tolerance for intimacy outside of a marriage bed and had always talked of his hopes for you to marry a respectable Lord.

You sat through the rest of breakfast in silence picking apart the bread on your plate, your appetite was nowhere to be found and you struggled to swallow water, you didn’t want to risk attempting to swallow food with witnesses. Your eyes found Aethelflaed as a guard came rushing in to whisper at Aethelred’s ear and the sounds of unrest from outside leaked into the hall. You watched him rise and make his way outside, following your father as he did the same.

Standing on the steps next to Aethelflaed under the bright morning sky you saw the townsfolk parting to make way for a cart being pulled by a horse, amongst the people you spotted Finan with Uhtred. The cart came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and your breath quickened spotting the blood sodden clothing you knew belonged to Eadred and you dropped your gaze to the floor not wanting to face the results of your self defence again.

“What happened?” Aethelred asked with no signs of concern or real interest

“He looks to of been killed in a robbery gone wrong, Lord.” The guard offered

“Ah, a shame. Well I suppose we should send a messenger ahead of the body to his father in Gleawecestre so they may bury him on his home soil.”

“Do you not think an investigation should take place Lord?” Your father asked

“Investigate? It’s quite clear to see he was bested by a man, he’s been brutalised and all his valuable belongings gone Lord Aelfric.”

“Yes, but, my dau...” Your father looked to Finan in the crowd “Perhaps someone covered up their true intentions?”

“Oh...Ha! Lady y/n my dear, come here.” Aethelred ushered you towards him with a hand looking amused at the suggestion, you stood still looking to Aethelflaed and the onlooking townsfolk “Oh come now, he’s dead he can’t hurt you.”

Finan watched on with an arm crossed at his chest and his hand to his mouth internally cursing Aethelred for what he was unknowingly putting you through and then praised his god for your strength, you held your head high stepping down closer to the cart and looked over Eadred’s form before dropping your head entirely at the sight. Aethelred had been correct in his statement, he did look to of been brutalised far beyond what you had done to him.

“See, she cannot bare the sight, I do not think this was done by or on the orders of her. But I am curious Lady y/n, how did you get this?” He probed poking the bruise on your cheekbone and you scrunched your face up at the jolt of pain.

“It was an accident, your Lady wife caught me with an elbow when I helped her get ready for bed.”

“Ah, you must be more careful wife.” Aethelred directed to Aethelflaed turning away from you to make his way back inside. “As I said, send him back to Lord Ealford.”

Finan watched you be directed back into the hall and didn’t miss the way your father looked at him with disdain.

“Looks like I’ve upset her old man.” He remarked to Uhtred who stood next to him

“That’s because he believes she gave you her maidenhood.” Uhtred muttered looking around the crowd

“Her what now?” Finan’s brows shot up

“So that’s a no?”

“Obviously.” He confirmed

“A kiss then?” Uhtred asked looking to him

“...No.”

“You want to.”

“Even a blind man could see that” Sihtric chuckled on his approach with Osferth.

“Will they investigate Lord?” Osferth asked glancing at the cart still in front of the steps

“No. He’s declared it a robbery. Get your horses ready, we’ll be returning to Coccham today.” Uhtred announced taking a step towards the palace

“Do you think that’s a good idea Lord?” Finan asked

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Uhtred responded, taking in Finan’s disappointed expression he sighed “I know you care for her, but she is not our concern. She can’t be wed to Eadred anymore he’s dead, and there are no other risks to her safety now.”

“Yes but wh-“ He started to make a suggestion

“No buts Finan, we’re going home.”

“Lord.” He nodded reluctantly and walked his way to the stables to help prepare the horses for their journey home.

He was silent and not his usual talkative self as he brushed down his steed with hay and checked over the hooves to make sure they were all in good condition and no repairs needed to be done. Sihtric had tried to start conversation more than once but they all stopped after a sentence or two. Osferth carried their packs from the inn down to the stables and placed them down dusting off his hands, he stood close to Finan and spoke quietly.

“Lady y/n is in her room with the shutters wide open, I can finish off here for you if you wish to say a farewell.”

He shook his head with a downturned mouth carrying on his duty with a sigh.

“You are going to her. I refuse to travel with you this miserable.” Sihtric implored staring at him from over his own horse.

You were sat on the edge of your bed staring at the wooden floor turning your nose up at the one board that’s wood grain wasn’t matching the direction of the others when a noise from outside your window caught your attention, standing you slowly creeped closer to the sill when a body quickly rolled over the edge and landed with a soft thud.

“Wha-!” You exclaimed

“Shh!” He clambered up pressing a finger to his lips

“Finan you cannot scare me like that.” You whispered with a smile holding your chest

“I know I’m sorry but I had to see you before we leave”

“You’re leaving?” your face fell

“Uhtred’s orders. But I came to return this” He held out the thin leather belt housing the now clean dagger he had taken from you the night before

“I do not think it’s such a good idea for me to have that” You put your hands up not wanting to take it

“I disagree, y/n please. It saved your life and I can’t always be here to protect you.”

“Fine.” You resolved swiping it from his hands and put it on the bed behind you

“Do you know when.. If I’ll see you again any time soon?” You stepped closer to him and ran a finger down the bronze cross at his neck

“I don’t know, Uhtred has a habit of sending me off to all sorts of places” He placed his hand over the top of yours rubbing his thumb over your soft skin

“I never said thank you for all that you did last night” You spoke quietly looking into his dark eyes taking another step into his space, you were so close that every inhale had your chest moving against his

“Don’t mention it” He whispered, eyes flickering to your lips then back to your eyes leaning in ever so slightly that the tip of his nose brushed against yours, you felt his breath fan across your skin and ghosted your lips just over his

“I don’t want you to go” Finan stroked the hair away from your face at your words letting his hand trace its way down your spine coming to rest at the small of your back

“I have to.” He sadly responded barely caressing his lips off yours drowning in your calming lavender scent.

You reached a hand around the back of his neck and softly grazed your fingers on his warm skin closing the miniscule gap between you in a tender kiss, it started slowly with the gentle press of his mouth against yours, with a sigh he held you as close as humanly possible melting you into his embrace and deepened the kiss, the taste of his mouth was intoxicating as you let him explore you fully with his tongue and you both lost yourselves completely as the kiss grew more urgent.

A surge of desire washed over you with the threat to consume you wholly causing you to break away breathlessly and rest your head against his, feeling each others warm breath and beating hearts you got lost in his gaze, with every passing moment you felt more fearful to never be near to him again. Finan closed his eyes and took a step back giving your hand on his chest a final squeeze and turned to leave out the window.

You exhaled slowly looking to the floor and smoothed a hand down your dress. Finan stopped looking at his ringed fingers focusing on the one he wore on his little finger, with a small sigh he pulled it free and turned back to you picking your hand up and placing it in your palm. You looked to him with your brows furrowed together.

“I’ll be finding you to get that back.”

You gave him a small smile and he cupped your cheeks leaning back in for another kiss.

End Notes: I just think they're cute.

Taglist: @arcielee @tssf-imagines @bcon24 @finanmoghra

#finan x reader #finan x you #finan tlk #finan fanfic #finan imagine #tlk fanfic

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frodothefair · 9 months

Text

꧁ Of Lembas and Hydrangeas ꧂

CHARACTERS: Frodo & Sam, Sam/Fro implied

SUMMARY: Frodo recalls the quest and has a dissociative episode. Sam helps him through it, and teaches him how to find his way back.

RATING: Mature, for descriptions of PTSD and eating disorder symptoms.

WORDCOUNT: 4.7 k

A/N: I've actually realized that Chapter 8 of Flowers of Mordor could be a standalone piece as well, because it has a fair amount of Sam and Frodo. For context, though, this is a canon-divergent AU where it's Sam and his sister Marigold, not Sam and Rosie, who are helping Frodo at Bag End after the quest, and they do not live with him.

PREVIEW:

Sam began to massage again, wiping a tear with his fist.

“You’re here,” he repeated. “We’re here. In Bag End, Mr. Frodo. It’s August. The tomatoes and the squash have come in, and the melons. We’ll be having some for dessert soon.” His voice cracked. “And today, the sun was very warm. I was sweatin’ buckets, and they were makin’ hay in the fields.”

His fingers were rubbing small, yet insistent circles into tired flesh, coaxing blood to Frodo’s skin. He made his way up to Frodo’s shoulders once again, and then over his torso – avoiding old wounds

꧂

Summer bloomed on, and soon August was on the wane. It was still warm, and Sam wore a thin shirt and breeches as he worked in the garden, while Marigold had not yet exchanged her under-dresses for the ones with long sleeves. Inside Bag End, it was pleasantly cool, and as crop after crop came in of lush peppers, fragrant tomatoes and crisp cucumbers, they continued to eat salads with every meal, and Marigold began to talk of canning.

One warm, late-summer day, Frodo was sitting closer to the windows than usual, and looking out at the greenery past the wine-colored, translucent cloth. Passing by with the laundry, Marigold paused in the doorway and said, “You know, Mr. Frodo, we really ought to get you outside more. It’s such a fine day.”

And before he knew it, he replied that he would not be averse, though the brightness might rather hurt his eyes.

And to that, Marigold responded by disappearing into one of the clothing rooms and emerging with a wide-brimmed hat that he had quite forgotten he owned – for he himself did not garden often.

And so they stationed Frodo outside on the bench, book in hand, in shirtsleeves and hat and in plain view of Sam, toward later in the afternoon when the sun had tipped over the zenith and had spent some of its heat.

“Just a few minutes at a time – that ought to do a body good,” Marigold had said, and disappeared.

She even left a cup of water for him.

Frodo watched Sam hilling the potatoes.

The air was balmy and sweet, and the rich smell of earth and of fresh cut grass filled his lungs. Beyond the hills and the roofs of other hobbit holes, he could, if he squinted, see the glistening Water, and thought of how pleasant it might be to run over the soft, thick grass, stretching his limbs, shaking out the fatigue and plunging straight into the cool river, to the head-shaking and muttering of hobbits walking past. That is, if his body would still obey him, it would have been a fine thing to do.

“May I smoke, Mr. Frodo?”

It had not taken long to get lost in thought, and he had not noticed Sam take a seat beside him.

Sam stretched his legs, putting his arms over the back of the bench, and threw back his head.

Frodo nodded. He liked the flowery, dark smell of pipe weed still, though smoking it now made his heart race.

Sam extracted a pipe from his knapsack, which he had left on the bench before Frodo had gotten there, and struck a match.

The two were silent for a spell.

Whereas Marigold was always fain to comment on things and ask questions, with Sam there was often no need for talking. Having lived and traveled together as much as they had, there were moments when their minds were all but one, forming a cloud that enveloped them away from the world.

“This is what we saved the Shire for, isn’t it, Mr. Frodo?” Sam pulled contentedly at his pipe.

Frodo could not disagree. A cart moved slowly down the road, away by the horizon, and a hobbit in a yard nearby hailed his neighbor. The two then came together to speak over a fence. A goldcrest began to warble in a nearby tree. The mild breeze caressed his skin.

He recalled how he and Faramir had sat, not long ago, on a sunlit wall in Gondor in much the same way, with the stern, proud beauty of the White City rising up behind them. Faramir had spoken with such love for his native land that Frodo could not help but long for the Shire, but also to comprehend just how alike the peoples of Middle Earth really were.

“More than the Shire, Sam,” he mused. “More than just the Shire.”

“True, very true, Mr. Frodo.” Sam nodded. He put aside his pipe, and unwrapped something in a piece of paper.

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “The mallorn tree is right beautiful now. It would be a fine thing to see it. Just like the ones in Lothlorien, it is – bark smooth and silver-gray, and the leaves shimmerin’ in the breeze, green and silver. I’m sure you would like it. We can go together.”

He withdrew a thick, white wafer from the wrapping.

Had it truly been that long? Frodo had first heard of the mallorn flowering in April, and he had told himself many times that he would go see it, and now it was nearly September.

He nodded. “I should like that very much, Sam. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Sam extended the wafer to Frodo.

Frodo shook his head.

Sam took a bite, and closed his eyes. Then another, and another. A sweet, elated feeling spread over his face. He ate, more quickly with every bite now, and by the end, he was eating so fast that his teeth could barely chew and his throat could barely swallow fast enough. Still, when he finished the loaf he looked disappointed, and picked off the crumbs from his chin and the paper, consuming them too.

Sam ate like that often these days – it seemed that where Frodo’s appetite had diminished, Sam’s had correspondingly grown, and he ate each meal like it was his last. Still, Sam’s enjoyment of this particular bread had eclipsed even his usual gusto.

“Sam… what is that?”

Frodo’s curiosity, despite his stomach’s melancholy state, had been aroused.

Sam looked up from folding the paper, and smiled sheepishly.

“Oh, this?” He chuckled. “I’ve been tryin’ to make lembas – and now Rosie and my sisters have joined in. We’ve made it a game of sorts.”

“Lembas?”

Sam picked up one remaining crumb, and licked it off his finger. His elated expression returned.

“Mind you, it’s nothing like real lembas. Just the taste and the feel of it that we’ve been tryin’ to make. But this im’tation is passing fair, I’d say. I think it’s Marigold’s, in fact. I’ll bring more next time so you can try it.”

“My dear Sam!”

Sam placed the paper back in his knapsack.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Frodo,” he went on, “I couldn’t stand the sight of anything that looked, or felt, or even smelled like lembas at first. I thought I’d eaten enough of it for one lifetime. But lately I’ve been getting a hankering for it, and now it’s all I want. Same as I can’t stop eatin’ whenever I sit down – it’s unnat’ral, I tell you, even for a hobbit. I’m sorry I didna leave you any.”

Sam looked down at his hands – a habit that he shared with Marigold, Frodo realized. They both did it when they were embarrassed.

“It’s alright, Sam,” Frodo replied. “I said I didn’t want it. And you were hungry. We were both hungry.” He looked at Sam significantly. “More hungry than any hobbit had ever been, or likely will be. That’s not a thing you soon forget.”

He reached out toward Sam, and Sam’s hands came to meet his – the rough and brown cradling the smaller and less calloused. But Frodo readjusted his hold, so that their fingers were intertwined.

Sam shifted toward him, and Frodo leaned his head onto his shoulder. And for a while they were those two hobbits once again – huddled together on the side of a dark mountain, a rough, treacherous staircase leading up its side, the wind’s cold, hard fingers prying underneath their cloaks. Gollum was lurking nearby. The two hobbits were eating lembas, its sweet, dry texture caking their tongues.

Frodo felt a coldness in his chest, despite the summer day. His throat tensed up, and he felt dizzy and faint. Sam’s hands, the picket fence, the sky above – they all felt very far away.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” He rallied the last of his strength and got up, unlacing their fingers. “I’ve got to go. It’s getting too hot.”

“Sam, do you have any notion of why Mr. Frodo came in from the outside, made straight for his room and hasn’t been seen since – and it’s been more than an hour?”

Sam looked up. The hilling of the vegetables done, he had been hard at work mending the rabbit-proof fence, which had turned out to be less rabbit-proof than hoped.

“What – what do you mean?” He squinted into the sunlight – balmy and outlining his sister’s figure, her hands at her hips.

“I mean just that,” Marigold replied. “He does that sometimes. Gets up and disappears with nary a word. Stays in his room for an hour or more, then reappears – at times like nothing’s happened, and at times with an odd look in his eye. So that’s why I wonder, did somethin’ happen just before that made him do it? I don’t know him so well as you, so I wonder, was he like that before? When you were doin’ for him at Bag End?”

Sam blinked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Well, no, not that I remember. Did you try knocking?”

“Of course I did.” Marigold clicked her tongue. “But he won’t answer.”

“Won’t answer?”

“Won’t open the door, won’t say a word. But I can hear him breathing in there, and the floorboards creaking, so he can’t be asleep. And he’s not crying or moaning, so I s’ppose he’s not so badly off, but it’s queer. And I wonder if there’s anything we ought to be –”

Sam got up with a decisive start.

“And you didn’t think to just go in?”

“He’s a gentlehobbit, Sam. I can’t just go into his room without permission – leastwise not unless I know there’s an emergency. That’s why I thought –”

But Sam was already walking away, shaking the dirt out of his foot hair.

For it had indeed seemed odd that Frodo left so abruptly, though at first he had tried to pay it no mind. This was Frodo, after all, and Frodo liked to wander off to parts unknown, both in body and mind. But he would always come back, and out of respect, Sam might have done what Marigold did at first, and let him be. But over an hour and no response was another matter entirely. And apparently this was a pattern now, of literally shutting people out?

The Frodo he knew would not do this.

Sam stood outside Frodo’s bedroom, and could feel his heart in his chest.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Silence.

Sam knocked.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Silence again.

Sam brought his ear to the door and thought he could hear some shifting around, as well as a drawn breath – and he let out the breath he was holding.

The door stood hulking between them – a ponderous, heavy door, much like the one to the Mines of Moria, though that one had a clever riddle for a key.

Speak Friend and enter.

A friend would know what to say, but for once in his life Sam was at a loss.

In truth, in the months that followed their return, Frodo had developed an increasing reluctance to speak about his troubles. The closest thing was when he offered Sam and Rosie to come live with him, but even that was couched in a comment about “Number 3 not being made of rubber.” And Sam wasn’t blind – he had seen Frodo and Bag End deteriorate by the day as the deep fatigue and indifference took hold – so had he moved in, caring for Frodo would have been all he wanted to do. But his life was rapidly changing. Not only was there Rosie and their future to think of, but there were many others who suddenly wanted and needed his help, much to his surprise – and he was not adept at refusing. He found himself increasingly being torn in two – or even three or four, so short of actually splitting himself apart, sending Marigold to Bag End was the best thing he could think of. Some even said that, had Marigold been born a lad, she and Sam would have been two peas in a pod.

But there were some things Marigold could not do – at least not yet. So Sam took a breath, and pushed open the door.

“Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon, I’m coming in.”

No guessing of riddles was needed.

Frodo was sitting on the floor against the wall, his legs at sharp angles like the vault of a pitched roof. There was a vacant, faraway look in his eyes.

Sam rushed to his side, falling to his knees and grabbing hold of his hands.

“Mr. Frodo. My dear. What’s the matter? Say something, please.”

Frodo’s hands were cold, like his whole left side had been when he was convalescing from the witch-king’s wound. He looked paler than usual, too, and his pulse was thin.

He did not reply immediately. In fact, despite Sam’s quickness, and despite his hands being in Sam’s, he was still very slow to face his friend, and slower yet to meet his eyes.

“I… don’t quite know, Sam…”

It was like all signals had been slowed and warped. His own voice came from very far away, and he felt Sam’s touch as if through a thick blanket.

“This… sometimes happens… I don’t feel… quite here?”

Sam’s face looked anxious – but his panic was starting to give way. Speaking took some doing – he could not vouch for his own tongue – but the melting of the fear in Sam’s eyes was well worth the effort.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo…” Sam rubbed his master’s hands, and brought them to his lips. His face quaked.

“I’ll be… Alright… Sam... Don’t worry… It’ll pass…”

Of course, “not quite here” did not at all do it justice, but Frodo thought it best not to elaborate. Its hold was slowly lessening, but whenever it began, everything would fall into shadow, and a cold pall would settle over his limbs. His heart would be seized by a nameless fear – and at times he would hear whispers, lose his vision or hearing or speech, and feel like really he might cross over into another realm and not come back… The only thing to do in such moments was to hide, lest he actually lose control and frighten those around him.

In fact, he had frightened a few people when he was mayor of Michel Delving. One of his first spells came on during a meeting with the sheriffs, and his tongue had ceased to obey him altogether. He had managed to play it off as a bout of indigestion, but it was also, in part, why he had resigned as quickly as possible.

But just then he felt too tired and weak, even, to pull his hands out of Sam’s grasp – in fact he could barely feel own hands, or Sam’s. He could not tell Sam to leave him be, either – his tongue felt like tar, and Sam was still plainly worried – so Frodo kept still.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” Sam finally said. “Let’s not have you sitting on the floor, at least. Let’s get you in bed.”

And before Frodo could protest – the bed, in fact, had not been a place of pleasant memories – Sam lifted him up – far more easily than he had done at Mount Doom, and carried him over, thankfully, to the side of the bed where he slept less often.

As Sam put him down, he lingered for a moment, holding Frodo in a gentle embrace, then let him rest against the pillows.

“Goodness, Mr. Frodo.” He shook his head. “ I know Mari’s been tryin’, but we really ought to get you eatin’ more. You’re right skin an’ bones, an’ so light to carry…”

He sat on the bed and rubbed Frodo’s forearms. He looked like he might have kissed Frodo on the forehead – which, Frodo had to admit, would not have been unwelcome. As the cold feeling ebbed, it left an orphan’s yearning to be held.

Sam furrowed his brow, and peered into the other hobbit’s face.

“Mr. Frodo” – his hands methodically, tenderly traveled up his friend’s arms and over his shoulders. “When you say you don’t feel quite there, what do you mean? Is it faint or weak? Or is it somethin’ else?”

Frodo shook his head.

“No.” He squinted – the curtains were not fully drawn, and a sliver of bright light had made its way in. “It’s not… just faint and weak. It’s – hard to explain…”

His eyes fell on a vase of flowers atop the dresser. Blue hydrangeas, cut and brought in by Marigold – their round, downy heads bent over the sides of a wide-lipped, oval vase.

“I feel like I’m… disappearing, Sam… That’s the best way I can explain it. Like I’m fading… And everything’s far away.”

His lips and tongue were still obeying him only reluctantly, and his usual felicity for words was nowhere to be found. Sam��s speech still sounded warped now and again, and it was hard to tell how far away things were – Sam seemed, by turns, both near at hand and a thousand leagues away. He tried to focus on Sam’s face; the rest of the bedroom was, for the moment, less distinct.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo… Even still?”

Sam stopped massaging and took up Frodo’s hands again.

Frodo nodded.

“I feel like I did back then... It happens… When I remember. But not every time.”

In fact, if it did not happen during his and Marigold’s lessons, it was only because he had more control – he could paraphrase past some of the more jagged parts, he could inform, smile, and pause, and used each of these tricks in turn like railings to keep himself upright. But with Sam, his imagination had no such protection: what had happened had happened, and they had shared in every painful part of it.

Tears glimmered in the gardener's eyes. He squeezed Frodo’s hands tight between his.

“But you are here, Mr. Frodo. You’re here. In the Shire. With me. Your Sam.” Tears thickened in his voice with every word. “It’s – No… The past – that’s – that’s gone. You’re here now. Safe. We’re safe.”

“I know, Sam.” Frodo nodded. “I know.”

Sam began to massage again, wiping a tear with his fist.

He paused. His look was less tearful now, and he seemed to have an inkling of an idea.

“But tell me, Mr. Frodo, what do you see? Right here, in this room.”

Frodo looked uncertainly around him. His skin was feeling warmer, and by dint of Sam’s efforts, he felt less like he was wrapped up in a blanket of numbness.

“I see… My bed?.. My dresser?”

Sam nodded, encouragingly.

“Do you remember what the dresser’s made of?”

Frodo tried to remember, but his thoughts did not move fast.

“Mahogany, I think?”

“And what’s on top of your dresser?”

Come to think of it, what was on top of it?

He squinted. Ah, yes.

“A mirror… Blue flowers in a vase.”

“Do you remember where the flowers came from?”

“The garden. We have… a hydrangea bush.”

Sam nodded along to each of his answers.

“And I see you, too, Sam. You’re wearing a linen shirt… And your hair is lighter from being out in the sun… And your hands… They smell like the garden, still…”

With some effort, Frodo raised his hands and put them on top of Sam’s.

“And Marigold... I don’t see her, but I know she’s around here somewhere….”

Sam felt a catch in his throat. Suddenly, he was not so keen on Frodo thinking about Marigold.

He extracted his hands, gently, from underneath Frodo’s, and covered them with his own.

“That’s good, Mr. Frodo. Very good. Now tell me some things you feel. Meanin’ with your body. How do my hands feel, for instance?”

“Your hands, Sam?”

Frodo paused. He looked down.

“Your hands feel good, Sam… Very good. They feel heavy. Warm.”

“And the bed?”

“That feels good too. Soft.”

Frodo suddenly wanted to be under the covers, ensconced away from the world, as if in a cocoon.

He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the warmth, the heaviness, the softness.

It would have been pretty to think, if a world could consist of just such things: of heavy, warm hands, of flowers and dressers, of hay being made in fields – a world populated by Sams and Marigolds and other such kind people. What a beautiful world it would be.

And yet, so much depended on such a world.

Sam drew a quilt around him – a small quilt that had been folded at the foot of the bed.

“And how does this feel?”

Frodo opened his eyes, and ran a hand over the piecework surface. Neat, orderly triangles in lavender, blue and green, the threads running like dashes under his fingers. His mother and his Brandybuck aunts had made it, and it was one of his possessions that had followed him to Bag End.

By Elbereth, Sam knew how to keep things green — how to tend to things in danger of falling apart in the world. If not for Bilbo’s influence, he might never have been one for elaborate flowers, or bushes of complex and delicate rarities, but the garden he kept at Bag End was always spectacularly, gorgeously alive. He knew the immediate wisdom of small truths, how the tiniest details could keep things tied inexplicably, marvelously, together.

In the garden, it was good, clear water, perfectly timed with the sun. It was peaty, wormy dirt, and it was good, thick shade where it needed to be. On their long walk to Mount Doom, it was elvish rope, simple knots, and an outrageous, almost contrarian hope.

And here, hovering above him, it was this earnest string of questions. Which flowers? Remember? Which month? Remember? How does it feel, this quilt?

Small things. Trivialities, really. But they reached out to him from the world on thin, thin strings, then touched him, stitched themselves into his thoughts and bore him up.

Sam could have grown lily-pads in the snow.

“It feels… like someone worked very hard on this,” Frodo replied. “It’s so… intricate.”

Intricate!

A Frodo-word if there ever was one, and not wrenched from him by necessity like “mahogany” and “hydrangea” had been… The felicity for words was coming back.

“And you know who that someone was, don’t you, Mr. Frodo?”

“Of course… I do.”

But he did not want to speak of her. A silent remembrance was enough. He wanted, instead, to think only of this day. He wanted Sam’s hands, and Marigold’s flowers. Intensely, fiercely so, like he had never wanted anything in his life.

He clasped Sam’s hand.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam asked, “Do you think you could do this? When you feel poorly, I mean? Name the things you can see, hear, touch, and smell? No need to go anywhere ‘cept the place you already are – but methinks, you could feel more here.”

Frodo nodded.

“I think I could. If I start early enough.”

He closed his eyes again.

Hear. They had not done that one yet.

He listened for Marigold clattering with dishes in the kitchen, and for her footstep on the floorboards in the hall, but the house was quiet.

“I hear the birds warbling outside,” he said, “And the wood settling, and you breathing, Sam.”

“Oh, Mr. Frodo… My dear…”

Sam suddenly looked as if his strength was spent, and he bent his head low, coming to rest by his beloved master. Frodo wrapped his arms around him.

“My dear Sam.”

He kissed Sam on the forehead.

Sam’s shoulders shook.

“Sam… I am so grateful to you… For everything. Rest a bit. You work so hard.”

He brushed back the soft, sun-blonde hair, and Sam opened his eyes. He looked at Frodo like there was something he wanted and needed – something he could neither understand nor name – but so it went. It was not the first time that Sam had looked at him like that – and in truth, they carried each other. He carried Sam’s pain, too, though in many ways, since it was Sam, it was surprisingly easy. He had only to reassure him with a kind word or a press of the hand, and Sam was quickly glad and strong again, and stubbornly ready to carry enough for two.

“Just… no lembas for me for a while, alright?” Frodo added, his knuckle running over a stubborn cowlick. “Just maybe some blackberries instead?”

Sam had told her to stay nearby, and he would call her if he needed. So she lingered close to the bedroom in the hallway, close enough to hear voices but not close enough to know what was being said. Sam had not fully shut the door behind him, and at first, she had tried not to look – in fact had pointedly looked away – but then she heard what could only have been Sam picking Frodo up off the floor and carrying him to the bed. Her curiosity got the better of her, so she inched closer, and witnessed Sam leaning over Frodo, massaging him desperately – tenderly, as the two spoke in hushed tones. Her heart descended, momentarily, to the pit of her stomach – would Sam be angry with her? Should she have sounded the alarm on Frodo’s behavior sooner? The Mrs. Bracegirdle who still lived rent-free in her head began to chide her for her carelessness, and she had to screw her knuckles into her eyes and shake her head until the imaginary midwife – who was quite a bit taller in Marigold’s racing mind – had gone quiet.

When she looked up, Sam and Frodo were lying down together and Frodo was hugging… Sam? Had one of them been a lad, and the other a lass, Marigold would have thought the scene was not one she should be witnessing – but they were two lads, undoubtedly. Good, inseparable friends. But oddly enough, Sam was the one in pieces now, and it was Frodo’s turn to be sincerely concerned, stroking her brother’s hair.

Indeed, there had always been a special intimacy between those two – going back to the days when they would tramp around the Shire and Frodo would join Sam pottering around the garden, and Sam would only pretend to work while the Gaffer’s back was turned. They seemed to understand each other at half a word, and moved like there was an invisible string between them. They even had a way of communicating not just with the eyes and facial expressions, but without doing or saying anything at all.

And despite her childish love for Mr. Frodo, Marigold had never especially been jealous of it all. It seemed silly to be jealous of something so ineffable. Even if it was her in Sam’s place, what Frodo and Sam shared could never be replicated, nor would she want it to be. In fact, in her love for Mr. Frodo, it was part of why she was often content to watch from afar. It was extraordinary to see how Frodo could be with other people. How he could be with Sam.

But now, it would have been a lie to say that she did not wish for it to be her – that she did not wish for her and Sam to trade places. She imagined Frodo close to her breast, the mild weight of his head upon her shoulder. She thought of how it would be to rub his cold, pale limbs to bring the blood back where it belonged, talking to him softly, making her his safe harbor. She touched fingertips to her cheek, then her clavicle – where she might have cradled his head – and felt a prickle over the roof of her mouth and behind her eyes.

Oh, Frodo. Poor Mr. Frodo. What evils have you seen?

She had a feeling that the story she had heard was only the fireside, young ones’ version of the truth.

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autismcupcake · 1 year

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Okay here's my review!

Undergarments: I like that they knew the term smock because that is what the garment was called at the time but like. They didn't wear it under every different outfit. They also didn't mention that men wore a very similar garment and that was their underwear for the whole body. They do know about bum rolls and farthingales and the shape is acceptable for italian women. I really don't like that they called the pair of bodies a corset!! Pairs of bodies are VERY different than corsets. They are heavily boned and current evidence suggests only the VERY upper classes wore them. Corsets are much more lightly boned and were worn by all classes of women! A lower class woman would've worn a kirtle or bodied petticoat which is a skirt with an attached bodice stiffened with layers of fabric. The petticoats were. Bad.

Upper class women: They're being anachronistic with colors and patterns I'm assuming which is fine! Whatever Zach is wearing is really disappointing. I think I get the style of sleeve they're going for but it should really have a shoulder roll and not just be gathered at the top. I've only seen bodices like that on italian images of women from the time when they're laced in front and don't have any sort of stomacher so there should really be front ladder lacing. Eugene looks better but the pattern is a bit weird and I don't know why his ruff is black? But that could be an artistic choice. Keith looks really weird. Ignoring the color and pattern because y'know artistic choices I don't really know what that ruffle on the bodice is for and the bodice itself looks pretty ill fitting. The sleeves aren't great either. They have the ruffle at the cuff which is good but again no shoulder roll! The neckline is alright but you don't tend to see that style of ruff with that sort of neckline. Also while Juliet is a child, she still should be wearing her hair up as even very young girls tended to do

Working class woman: I'm not familiar with clothing worn by medical workers so no comments there but uh. Working class people didn't really follow the trends of the upper class that much. They were VERY far removed from each other apart from servants and sumptuary laws prevented even wealthy merchants to wear things the rich did. It was also looked down upon to try and dress above your station. Keith and Zach did not wear smocks under their clothes which is really disappointing because they noted earlier in the video that all classes wore smocks. They were INTEGRAL in keeping your outer clothes clean which was a necessity. Keith doesn't look the worst but working class people wore lots of colors! Also I think the bodice is cross laced which wasn't really a thing. Spiral lacing or ladder lacing would've been used instead. I'm not really sure what the green gown Zach has is and I've never really seen something like it but it could've existed

Upper class men: I've definitely seen worse. I wish they would've included the peascod belly because it's something really unique to this era and it's very interesting! I also think it would've been fun if they played around more with colors on the stockings because they weren't only white! I'm not quite sure what the black studded v Keith has is and his ruff is a little sad. Zach's breeches are a little too long but that could just be because they weren't made for him

None of this is to say the guys did anything wrong! It's just observations of the discrepancies between what they wore and surviving evidence I've been able to get my grubby hands on in the past two ish years

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luminarai · 4 years

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i just can’t stop thinking about @wickedpact ‘s nicky as shakespeare’s fair youth (despite that the only real experience i have with the bard is that one time i played malvolio in a high school production of twelfth night and had to wear sexy schoolgirl thigh highs bc they couldn’t find proper hose... anyway)

like good ol billy shakespeare sitting in his rooms, dramatically writing sonnets about this pretty italian dude who’s apparently all hot-and-cold, isn’t super into the idea of marrying a woman and having kids for some reason but is super into some other Poet Dude

meanwhile on the other side of town w/ quynh and nicky with the good hair:

(to be fair when you’re trying to learn a new language, getting clobbered by shakespearean sonnets may not be particularly helpful. signed, someone who’s Been There)

and, of course, meanwhile literally outside of that room:

#tog #the old guard #nicky di genova #nicolo di genova #joe al kaysani #yusuf al kaysani #joenicky #kaysanova #andromache the scythian #quynh #my art #this is weirdly probably my least fav drawing of quynh + nicky but one of my best of joe + andy #*le shrug*#the aforementioned thigh highs were from the only sex shop in town and had a satin bow at the back and my drama teacher was VERY sorry #it was fine i wore them under breeches #except in one specific scene but that was a Choice i made #that was a shitty time but i looked great. anyway!#nicky trying to learn english and meeting billy s = that one vine w the guy going 'hello how are you :)' and getting hit by super speed rap #billy s: you won't marry and procreate? you must be so selfish!#nicky who married joe for the 36th time last tuesday: uh huh that's totally the problem yup

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mhysa-leesi · 3 years

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𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝑅𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐻𝑜𝑜𝒹

Pairing: Dark Alpha!Bucky Barnes 𝒳 (femme) Omega!Reader 🐺.

Summary: “To keep your small village protected from would-be attackers, presented Omegas must be sacrificed to the mysterious Alpha in the woods.”

Word Count: 3,514

TW‼: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Smut, Hunting/Stalking, A/B/O Themes, Forced Bonding, Loss of Virginity, Strong Language, and Mentions of Blood and Human Sacrifice. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption--you and only you are. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

AN Cont.: If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION.

A cold wind blew in from the north, making the trees rustle like living things. It was growing colder with every passing day as winter began its arrival. Yule had transformed the fiery hues of autumn twilight to sparkled, frosted mornings and bitter winds. You went to the window. A fine glimmer of glossy frost formed intricate swirls on the glass, as sparkling snow softened the outside world into one flurry.

You looked on as the pale, cold light of winter moonrise illuminated your village as the townsfolk worked under the stars to prepare for the Winter Solstice. You couldn’t help but frown as you watched them place green garland on the fringes of rooftops, and light candles that led into the dark forest, in the shape of carved wolves. This time last winter, you were home with your family; sitting fireside as you and your younger siblings drank sweetened milk and almond honeyed toast. Life had been colorful, full of vibrant greens, warm reds, and soft dusky blues. Now, it was nothing but a black and white night of frost that crawled along the dark outline of barren trees and twig branches. Snowflakes swirled down gently in the ghostly moonlight, and iced shadows crept along the December ground.

“(Y/N)?” a small voice called out from behind.

You turned as Gervaise came to stand next to you, peering out at the snowfall that drifted against the window. Gervaise had been your closest friend since childhood, she had been a plump girl in her youth, but now she was the most beautiful woman in your village. She had long legs that complemented her slender figure, golden hair that shone under sunlight, and azure eyes as blue and clear as the sky itself.

She shivered against the winter-cold that seeped into your bones as she neared the frosted windowpane, “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

You scoffed, “Warmer than I would be out there.”

Truth be told, you were burning from the inside out. A sheen sweat had started to form between your breasts and all of your folds and creases. Gervaise scooted closer and you unthinkingly flinched away, her heat was rolling off of her in waves and the strong scent of her made you lightheaded as tangs of jasmine, rose, and orange blossom overwhelmed your senses.

You moved away as you looked into the room you were being kept in. Women close in age all slept soundly with soft snores, their heated scents interlacing with one another to form a jumbled mess of musk, amber, bergamot, and warm sugar. It was a synchronous heat amongst the presented Omegas in preparations for the village’s annual sacrificial solstice to the White Wolf.

Gervaise nudged your shoulder teasingly, “It won’t be so bad tomorrow, (Y/N),” she tried.

You rolled your eyes, “We’re being sacrificed, Gervaise! How can it not be so bad?”

Her small smile fell as the weighted truth of your words settled on her shoulders, “I’m sorry… I was just trying to make light of it all.”

“I know,” you sighed, “You can’t make light of this, there’s too much darkness.”

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You awoke hours later to the soft murmurs of falling tears as mothers dressed their daughters in traditional white hoods. White, the color of purity, innocence. You scoffed--the virgin’s color. Your own mother came to your bedside, a hood in hand and an expectant look in her eyes. You rubbed your cold feet together and reluctantly dressed.

“It’s not as bad as it seems, my love,” she spoke as she combed your hair.

You looked at the other Omegas in the room, most of whom you’ve grown up with. Idony, Meliora, and Sabine. You teared. You and your siblings used to play with Sabine as children. Idony taught you to weave dolls out of straw and vines. And you and Meliora would harvest wild strawberries together in early summer after long hours at the lake. The thought of never seeing either of them after today was heart-wrenching.

Your mother placed the hood over your head and tucked away stray hairs behind your ears as she took one last, tearful, look at you. She placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and took your hands in hers, pressing a small vial against your palms.

“Put this on once you’re away from the others,” she whispered against your hair, “It’ll hide your scent for a short time, then make your way across the stream, you’ll be safe there until the ceremony is over.”

Before you could ask more, the village mayor entered and ordered you and the other Omegas out into the square. The ceremony had officially begun.

Gervaise squeezed your hand as the mayor lit the great Yule log, the candles sculpted as white wolves. You looked around; Idony was pale in the face, Meliora shed silent tears as she held her hands in prayer, and Sabine’s chest rose and fell in shallow, frightened breaths. You held the vial tight in your hand as you stood stoic; though your pounding heart told another story.

The bells of the church began to toll as midnight quickly approached. The first toll the mayor led you all down the candlelit path that led into the mouth of the forest, the second toll you and the other Omegas were left alone as the full moon shone down on you from above, the third toll was followed by an echoed howl and the beats of your feet as you all ran through the thicket.

You ran and ran until it was only you, the full moon, and the trees. You stopped to rest against a frosted tree, your lungs burned with biting ice as you panted; your breaths coming out as vapored clouds that wisped around your head. You quickly took the vial and rubbed the liquid over your scent glands. The synthetic scent of cracked pepper, spiced ginger, decayed pear, and rotting leaves all toiled together to mask your natural, sweet and warm odor. You took a moment to calm your beating heart and collect your thoughts before bolting through the treeline. You needed to find Gervaise before the perfume wore off.

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Bucky watched from the shadows as he tracked a pretty, golden-haired Omega. Her scent wasn’t unpleasant, but it didn’t ignite a fire deep within his groin, either. He followed the floral scent trail of this next best woman as she wandered aimlessly through the dense grove of pine. The woman’s face was rosy and tear-stained as the cold bit her cheeks and nose. It was pathetic, really. How she sniffled and hiccupped as she held herself against the winter winds or when she tripped and slipped over iced snowdrifts. Bucky was about to make his move when a sweet scent, carried on an icy breeze, caught his attention. The blood in his veins burst into flames as a deep desire awoke in him. Primal lust took over as he abandoned his former prey to hunt for the next. He bounded through the woods, ducking under long branches, and leaping across overgrown oak roots. It was the wildness of it that sent Bucky into a feral frenzy, in all of his years protecting this paltry village, he’d never scented anything as sweet and enthralling as this. Spun sugar, vanilla bean, patchouli, and white pumpkin with caramel glaze. His teeth ached as he took in the sweetness of your scent.

When Bucky finally found you, you were breathless and flushed with heat. Your hand on your stomach as a wave of tightness in your belly coiled and coiled. He scented the air, then. Groaning as he caught wind of your musky-sweet tang. The front of his buckskin breeches tightened uncomfortably as his rut took hold of his body. He wanted you, so he’d have you.

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You whimpered as your cramps inflamed your insides. You were on fire, despite the bitter winter cold. You shed your wolf pelt that hung over your shoulders and loosened the front laces of your bodice, as you slumped against the nearest tree and focused on slowing your racing heart. The faster you calmed down, the faster you’d be able to find Gervaise and get across that damned stream to safety.

Just as your heart began to slow, a heady scent brought on iced winds set it back into panicked motion. An amber woody fragrance, with nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood ensnared your forebrain. You were frozen, scared like a hunted doe as you took in the masculine scent that seemed to scream “Alpha”.

Bucky watched as you looked around, trying to pinpoint his hiding spot. His heart skipped a beat in excitement as you took off into the thicket, leaving your pelt behind on the snowy ground. He chased you, then. Too focused on the hunt to worry about cornering you, too focused on you. He’d chase you down until you fainted from exhaustion if he had to.

You were faster than he expected, more agile and hellbent on escaping him than you had appeared to be. He felt an odd sense of pride as he watched you nimbly dodge and duck under and over every branch and uprooted oak that came into your way. But Bucky had the advantage, this was his territory, not yours. He knew his hunting grounds, not you. So when you came to a skidded stop at a broken bridge, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. But what did surprise him was the little snarl that left you before you broke away from him once more.

You ran and ran until your feet were numb with cold and your lungs frosted over with every breath you took. He was close, too close, and you were forced to abandon the plan on crossing the stream to safety. Gods--you didn’t even know where you were anymore. You could be going in circles and you’d be none the wiser, everything looked the same in this untouched part of the wood. You berated yourself for straying from the path, now you were lost, alone, and being hunted. You began to cry as you thought of your fate, you didn’t want to be sacrificed, you just wanted to go home back to your family. Back to your life.

You were ready to give up, your feet were tired, legs weakened, and your chest burned from the cold. You fell to your knees and looked up to the full moon, exhaustion taking over your thoughts. You were desperate and didn’t have the energy to be surprised at yourself when you began to pray to the moon above.

“Gods above… Please, please, let me live and I’ll devote myself to you. My heart, mind, soul, and body, please,” you prayed.

Just as you were about to laugh at yourself for your foolishness, a flickering candlelight in the nearby distance caught your eye. You mindlessly followed the light that pierced through the dense darkness of night, like a moth to a flame. As you got closer, you saw the lantern-light belonged to a small cottage fringed with winterberries and garland. You were uplifted as you believed the gods had answered your prayer. Without a second thought, your feet began to move on their own through the snow as you raced toward the home. You knocked once, then twice, then thrice. When there was no answer, you apologized to whatever being had heard you pray, before turning the brass doorknob and welcoming yourself inside.

The warmth of a crackling fire embraced you posthaste as you closed the door behind you. You made your way to the fireplace, rubbing your hands over the flame as you warmed yourself. The house was eerily silent as you looked around. You saw the carved candles from your village on the mantelpiece, vases of starry blue, pale pink, and white glory of the snow, and bright yellow winter jasmine were placed on the tabletops, and garland with holly flowers was wrapped around the railing of a small staircase that led upstairs. You made your way up the stairs as curiosity led you on. You called out for the owner of the home once again as you reached the top, but to no avail; the house was empty.

You crept along the creaking floorboards into a small room, illuminated by a single lantern with frosted glass windows. You explored the room. There was a bed, with an oak headboard, and thick, grey, and brown wolf and bear pelts. You sat down on the edge of the bed with a soft bounce as you rested your tired feet. Ahead of you was a wooden chest with intricate images of Yule logs, goats, and boars. Something deep within your gut urges you to go to it, to open it, and look upon its secrets; but the feeling made you uneasy, it made you afraid of what you'd find.

But you knew better than to ignore your gut, so you went to it, opened it, and looked upon its secrets. You nearly screamed as you pulled forth white hood, after white hood, after white hood. Your hands shook as you emptied the chest, white hoods covered the ground like the snow outside. There were more hoods than you could count, most of them much older than you. You sobbed as you slammed the chest shut, too focused on the white hoods before you to notice the slithering notes of amber, nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood that now threatened to constrict, and swallow you whole.

Your body sensed him before your mind did, your hairs stood on end, and your core tightened with primal, animalistic want. You only recognized his imposing presence after it was too late. Your throat dried as you slowly turned around to face the Alpha from the woods. He stood in the doorway, shirtless and steaming, as his heat fought against the cold of winter. To say he was big, would be an understatement. He was wordless as he strode toward you with an urgency driven by desire. You shuffled away, sobbing as he quickly crawled atop of you, trapping you beneath him. You fought against him, slapping and scratching his chest and face as he buried his face in your neck. Deeply inhaling your sickly sweet scent.

“I wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell, ‘Mega,” he said as he nipped the lobe of your ear.

Your heart dropped as he ripped at your bodice like an animal, tossing the ruined fabric aside as he bared your breasts to the air. The Alpha brushed his lips against your neck, your jaw, and mouth as he tasted you. You had never been kissed before, the feeling of it all was foreign as you felt his tongue explore your mouth. You squirmed as he palmed your breast, his thumb flicking and pinching over your sensitive nipple. Bucky let out a low snarl of disapproval as you tried to wriggle away from him, and when you ignored his warning, he bit down on your nipple. You yelped and beat against his back, clawing and punching as you flailed and thrashed. In your struggle you managed to slip out from underneath his body. Then, it was a desperate fight of him dragging you by your ankles, and you kicking wildly and blindly. With luck you landed a strong kick to his face that bloodied his nose. You ran, then. Practically flying down the flight of stairs as you made a beeline for the front door--to your freedom. You felt the cold snow on your toes as one foot met the icy ground, but the other foot was caught.

You fell on your face as Bucky dragged you back into his house. Blood stained his face and a dangerous fire was reflected in his blue eyes. He took you by your neck and forced you down onto the staircase, entrapping you under his weight. Your legs kicked out as he forced himself between your thighs, he snarled again, keeping a tight grip on the back of your neck. He ripped away the remaining pieces of your clothes, ridding you of the white garments, of your innocence, your purity.

He lifted your hips and placed a strong hand on your back, forcing you into an arch. You yipped as you felt a wet warmth lick up your sex. You tried to curl away, but his grip on you was strong and firm. A heat bloomed within your gut as Bucky dipped his tongue between your wet folds, fucking you with his hot tongue. Your brain hazed over as he stroked and rubbed your sweet spot of concentrated pleasure with his thumb. He was devouring you, and you felt your resolve melt away with every delicious flick and swipe of his tongue. You moaned and allowed yourself to arch into his mouth, desperately seeking more pleasure. You ground your cunt on his face and moaned at the feeling of him tightly gripping your hips as he gave you what you wanted--needed.

You clawed at the stairs beneath you as your voice grew shrill, the coil in your belly was beginning to unravel with every lick. Bucky felt you stiffen as he brought you to the edge of your pleasure, he sank his tongue deep inside you until he finally felt you shudder hard against him. You cried out as you came on his tongue, pure white fire ignited in your veins, consuming your thoughts, and burning away any fight you had left. The aftershocks of your pleasure left you shaking and wanting.

Without warning, Bucky buried his thick length in you with one hard stroke; mercilessly tearing through your untouched barrier. For a moment there was only a burning pain as he forced himself deeper. He pulled out a few inches, and then slammed back into you. Again and again. The Alpha above you howled with pleasure as he rutted into you hard and fast. You looked over your shoulder and moaned as you watched his narrow hips thrust against you. His eyes met yours and he bared his teeth as he indulged in his animalistic pleasure. With your mouth agape you felt another spark of pleasure ignite within you, you cried out for him, then, begging him to stoke the fire that threatened to burn, to consume you.

Your scents bled together, creating the beginning knot of your bond; his sandalwood and vanilla notes, duetting your patchouli and caramel glaze in perfect harmony. You whined as he pulled out of you, leaving you empty and clenching. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your weak legs wide as he entered you once more. He reached places that had you blaspheming as you chanted his title like a prayer.

Alpha, Alpha, Alpha…

He added fuel to your evergrowing fire as he reached down to your bundle of nerves, rubbing firm circles as he fucked into your wet cunt. He kissed you again, your lips following his lead as he claimed your mouth with his tongue. You moaned as you tasted yourself on him. His lips trailed down your jaw, peppering wet kisses down your body until he reached the scent gland on your neck. He scented you, then. A low growl left his chest as the base of his cock swelled, your pussy constricting in turn. Your howling moans clashed in dissonance as he pushed you over the edge into white-hot pleasure. Bucky thrusted into you, harder, faster, as his pleasure grew and grew until it finally exploded. As his warmth flooded you another sensation sent your senses into hyperdrive--his teeth sinking into your neck. Your arms and legs instinctively wrapped around him as he bonded you, marking you as his.

You murmured incoherently as your bodies locked together, you were so full of him that you could focus on nothing, but the feel of him locked inside you. Your head lolled to the side as your exhaustion set in, your bones felt heavy as sleep lulled you. You were vaguely aware of the man atop of you, too drunk on mated pleasure to fully acknowledge how his eyes began to once again devour your body.

He kissed your wound, breathing you in as he did, “What’s your name, Omega?”

“(Y/N),” you rasped.

“Bucky,”

As you sobered, the weight of your situation became clearer. All of those white hoods, all of those Omegas that never returned home… Your breathing picked up as panic sparked like lightning in your veins. You shoved on Bucky’s chest as you started to wiggle out from him, tugging on his knot. He snarled and snapped at you and you flinched as unshed tears glossed your eyes.

“Don’t hurt me, please,” you whimpered, “Please, I–I don’t want to die.”

“I’m not going to kill you, I’m going to keep you,”

Keep you? You trembled, “What about all of the other Omegas? What happened to them?”

He cupped your face and traced the bridge of your nose, then the cupid’s bow of your lips, “Them I killed,” he whispered with a ghost of a smile.

#dark bucky x you #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky x y/n #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky smut #dark!bucky x you #dark!bucky barnes #dark!fic #dark!mcu #dark!marvel #alpha!bucky #alpha!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #mcu fanfiction #mcu fic #smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader

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inky-duchess · 4 years

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Fantasy Wardrobe: Peasant's Clothes

So I get a lot of questions about nobles but today I decided to post something about peasants clothes. Peasants will likely make up 80% of any population of a kingdom so its good they look their best.

Fabrics

Though medieval peasants could not source or afford fine fabrics like silk or velvet, their clothes were not as dull as media would have you believe. In fact, peasants often had a range of colours to wear made by natural dyes sourced from the land they worked.

Wool: This was the staple of much of the clothes owned by peasants. It was in supply and it wasn't as costly as most fabrics when undyed. It was also warm.

Linen: Forget about softness. Peasant linen was made of coarser weaves and flax. It was heavier than noble linen.

Fustian: heavy cloth woven from cotton, for menswear.

Leather: Leather was used for boots and shoes rather than killer jackets.

Fur: fur pelts were used to insulate.

Men

Shirt

The shirt is the key to every other item of clothing on this list. The shirt was always worn under everything. It was often made of linen and worn by all classes. The shirt was often embroidered with blackwork and was sometimes even able to peak out from slashings in the garment over it. Shirts were seen as an intimate item of clothing. You should hear about the chaos that occurred when Anne Boleyn found out that Katherine of Aragon was still sewing Henry VIII's shirts.

Tunic

The tunic was worn by all classes. The tunic could be sleeveless or with sleeves. Tunics usually reached the knee or mid thigh when worn in hot climates and could be cut to the hip like a regular shirt today. They were belted at the waist.

Jerkin

The jerkin is a tight fitted jacket worn again over the shirt that is buttoned or laced at the front. The jerkin could be worn with or without sleeves. Leather was a popular material for these to be made and was worn by both classes.

Breeches

Are pants. Most breeches stopped at the knee though some reached the ankle, similar to today's trousers. Breeches could be in laced at the front and were worn by every class of men.

Women

Chemise

The chemise was like a night dress and worn under the dresses here. No woman would attempt to wear stays or a corset without wearing a chemise under them.

Kirtle

The kirtle was technically an under dress to be worn under a grander gown though some women wore it as a gown itself over their chemise. The kirtle could be made of any material and worn by any woman of any rank. It could be laced at the back, front and even, though rarely, the side.

Tunic

The tunic is perhaps the most recoccurring women's garment in history. The tunic was rather like a long t-shirt, worn either sleeveless, with long sleeves or short sleeved. Tunics could reach the ground or fell to the knee. Tunics were worn in ancient times straight up to modern times.

Wimple

Wimples were drapes of material that covered a woman's hair, neck and sometimes her face. With its similarities to hijab, historians suspect that wimples might have been among the fashions that crusaders (dick-heads) brought back. Wimples were often worn to show modesty, with many nuns and religious women taking it as their signature look.

Coif

The coif was a simple cap of linen worn over the hair of a married woman. The coif was a symbol of modesty and a respectable woman.

#Fantasy Wardrobe #Peasants #fantasy fashion #Men's fantasy fashion #women's fashion #Fantasy guides #writing #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writeblr #writer's problems #writer #spilled words #characters #writer's life

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areyoudreaminof · 6 months

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WIP Wednesday

Just a little WIP before the holidays. I hope your holiday and new year is peaceful and stress free. ❤️

The loud knocks and sobs from behind the door wretched Lucien from a deep sleep.

He awoke with a start, momentarily forgetting where he was as the knocking continued. The stirring next to him reminded him where he was.

He was in his bed in the manor, Elain sleeping next to him, sitting up in confusion, with the sheet covering her bare body. “What’s going on?” she asked groggily as they both shot out of bed, throwing on whatever clothing they could find. Lucien slept naked, and he had gotten Elain into the habit. While it was usually the best thing that had ever happened to Lucien, he regretted it slightly as he hopped into a pair of breeches.

Lucien flung the door open, positioning his body in front of Elain’s, but it was only Vassa standing in the hallway. The queen's red hair looked frazzled and her cheeks were streaked with tears. “You have to come downstairs,” she stammered, “it’s terrible.”

Lucien grabbed a dagger off of the dresser, while Elain wrapped her arms around Vassa. Flying down the stairs, they were met with a rather empty looking parlor, Jurian standing away from them, hands behind his back. He looked over his shoulder, “Sofa’s broken.” He grunted, stepping aside.

The bright pink sofa was teetering to one side, a thick wooden foot clearly cracked, and the bottom frame teetering out of the linen underside. Whipping his head back, Lucien caught Vassa’s eye.

“You woke us up for the sofa.” He stated, trying to string the words together. “No one is hurt, we’re not under attack-“

“The sofa is broken, Lucien!” Vassa snapped, gesturing wildly towards the hot pink piece of furniture. “I want to know who did this! Sofas don’t break just like that!” Elain met Lucien’s eye with a wide eyed look, sending pure confusion down the bond.

Jurian sighed as he stomped over, “Vassa, we don’t know how old the sofa was. We sit on it at all hours, we nap on it-“

“No, sitting and napping do not destroy a sofa like that!” Vassa growled. She rounded onto Lucien pointing a finger in his face, “Someone jumped on it! Confess your crimes!” Lucien crossed his eyes as she waved a hand in his face.

“I haven’t done anything, bird brain!” Lucien exclaimed, pushing her hand away. “You’re jumping to conclusions for no-“

“Someone broke the sofa and it certainly wasn’t me-“

“Vassa! That’s enough!”

Lucien, still reeling with shock and utter confusion, turned to Elain, whose voice silenced the squawking bird queen. Tightening the robe around her, Elain sighed deeply as she pulled Lucien back.

“Vassa, Jurian is right. It’s an old style sofa and we’re always on it because it’s the most comfortable. Tomorrow, the boys will try and fix it,” she eyed Lucien and Jurian sternly, “and you and I will look for one in the catalogs and send an order if they can’t. Now, we have had a long few days with all of the negotiating with humans and Spring Court interpersonal drama we can hear all the way down here, so can we please get some rest?”

Lucien threw his arms around Elain and pressed a kiss to her wild curls, if only to get himself to stop laughing. Jurian had the same problem, his eyes wide as he sucked his cheeks in to keep from bursting.

Only Vassa had the composure to reply with a hissing, “Fine.” as the merry band retreated to their rooms.

Lucien and Elain and stripped the moment the door shut behind them, flopping back into bed. Glancing at the clock, Lucien calculated he could try and get a few more hours of sleep and negotiate a mid morning start to the sofa, when he suddenly remembered-

“That sofa is not old at all, is it?”

Elain shrugged as she nestled deeper into the sheets, hitching her leg over his. “Probably a few years old. Sitting parlors usually get newer furniture. It’s the most comfortable one in the house. So of course it wore out.” Lucien snorted with laughter as his hand crept down her spine, ever so slowly. “Oh, of course. We certainly didn’t have anything to do with it, did we?” His hand reached her plump ass as he gave it a squeeze. They’d made love earlier in the evening and in the afternoon, but they were awake again, Lucien thought to himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lucien.” Elain said with indifference, though she flipped over to straddle him, having gotten the same notion he had. “The two of us couldn’t have possibly broken that couch.” Before he could answer her, Elain caught Lucien’s bottom lip with her teeth. “This is much more fun on the sofa.” Elain gasped as she kissed Lucien again, hyper aware of their housemates down the hall.

#elucien #band of exiles #wip

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cappymightwrite · 2 years

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His body was so skeletal and his clothes so rotted that at first Bran took him for another corpse, a dead man propped up so long that the roots had grown over him, under him, and through him.

[...]

I know that I hung on that windy tree, spear-wounded, nine full nights, given to Óðinn, myself to myself, on that tree that rose from roots that no man ever knows.

[...]

What skin the corpse lord showed was white, save for a bloody blotch that crept up his neck onto his cheek. His white hair was fine and thin as root hair and long enough to brush against the earthen floor. Roots coiled around his legs like wooden serpents. One burrowed through his breeches into the desiccated flesh of his thigh, to emerge again from his shoulder.

[...]

'More serpents lie under the ash Yggdrasil than any dumb blockhead can believe; Góin and Móin – Grafvitnir's sons – Grey-back and Grafvöllud; Ofnir and Sváfnir, I reckon must always bite on the branches of the tree.

[...]

"Are you the three-eyed crow?" Bran heard himself say. A three-eyed crow should have three eyes. He has only one, and that one red. Bran could feel the eye staring at him, shining like a pool of blood in the torchlight. Where his other eye should have been, a thin white root grew from an empty socket, down his cheek, and into his neck.

[...]

Alone she sat out, when the aged one came, the Dread One of the Æsir, and she looked in his eye: 'What do you ask me? Why do you try me? I know it all, Óðinn: where you hid your eye, in the much-famed fountain of Mímir; Mímir sips mead every morning from Corspe-father's pledge: do you know yet, or what?'

[...]

"A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood." The clothes he wore were rotten and faded, spotted with moss and eaten through with worms, but once they had been black.

[...]

He had a wide-brimmed hat that sloped over his face, and he wore a black hooded cloak. He had one eye, and he held a spear in his hand.

[...]

"I have been many things, Bran. Now I am as you see me, and now you will understand why I could not come to you… except in dreams. I have watched you for a long time, watched you with a thousand eyes and one.

[...]

'Now I'm called Óðinn; before I was called Dread; I was called Thund before that, Vigilant and Skilfing, Dangler and Tumult-god, Gaut and Gelding among gods. Ofnir and Sváfnir: I think they've become, all of these, one with me.'

[...]

"I saw your birth, and that of your lord father before you. I saw your first step, heard your first word, was part of your first dream. I was watching when you fell. And now you are come to me at last, Brandon Stark, though the hour is late."

[...]

It's time to declaim from the seat of the sage, by the well of Destiny; I saw and stayed silent, I saw and I pondered: I listened to the speech of men; I heard runes discussed, nor did they omit interpretation, at the High One's hall, in the High One's hall: I heard them say these things.

[...]

"I wore many names when I was quick, but even I once had a mother, and the name she gave me at her breast was Brynden."

[...]

'He is called All-Father in our language, but in Ásgarðr the Old, he has twelve names.'

image from jonathan strange & mr norrell / a dance with dragons, bran iii / hávamál ('the lay of the high one') / adwd, bran iii / grímnismál ('the lay of grímnir') / adwd, bran iii / völuspá ('the prophecy of the seeress') / adwd, bran iii / völsunga saga ('saga of the völsungs') / hávamál ('the lay of the high one') / adwd, bran iii / gylfaginning ('the beguiling of gylfi')

#cappy's thoughts #asoiaf and norse mythology #bloodraven #brynden rivers #odinic asoiaf #bran stark #comparisons #really just the tip of the iceberg in terms of odinic evocations #something to add of my list of future metas i think... 👀🤔👀

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carewyncromwell · 2 years

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“Who is that girl I see staring straight back at me? Why is my reflection someone I don't know? Must I pretend that I'm someone else for all time? When will my reflection show who I am inside?”

~“Reflection (cover)” by Christina Aguilera

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Content Warning: mentions of gender dysmorphia, transphobia, self-harm, and body mutilation under the cut

Fancasting Bella Ramsey, Winona Ryder, and Adrien Brody as Eli Fawcett // tagging Eli’s friends’ players @sirfluffig, @captainhowlreportingforduty and @cursebreakerfarrier because 💛

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Cutting his hair was the first step. For a very long time, Fawcett had just tucked his long hair into a cap, when ere he went to Hogsmeade and played piano at the Three Broomsticks. If he dressed masculinely enough, people treated him the way he liked -- informally, without pretense: like he didn’t need coddling and wouldn’t take offense if someone swore in front of him. That was what Fawcett had assumed his weirdness came down to, in the beginning -- that he just hated protocol and lady-like fashion. But over time, the second-eldest Fawcett child came to see that wasn’t it. He didn’t just want to take off the clothes his grandmother picked out for him at the first opportunity -- there were times he wanted to take his breasts off, right along with them. When his voice came out so much higher than he imagined it being. When he caught himself frequently staring at his male friends’ Adam’s apples while they were talking, loving how much lower their voices had gotten and wishing he could sing that low. Then maybe he could actually join the Frog Choir and not feel strangely out of place...

But that haircut. It was done haphazardly in front of the bathroom mirror in his dormroom with a spare pair of scissors he’d nicked from the Muggle Studies classroom. (Fawcett didn’t trust himself to apply the Severing Charm right to this particular endeavor -- he could use it fine on the Dueling field, sure, but that was done in self-defense, not to cut his own hair.) It certainly wasn’t the neatest job, but it brought Fawcett some short-lived happiness. Even when he came down to breakfast dressed in his usual breeches and Gryffindor jumper and got a lot of confused expressions from his classmates for his unkempt short hair, he was too cheerful to do anything except for pour some extra marmalade on his toast. It was so nice to not have his hair in his face for a change...

From seventh year on, Fawcett stopped wearing dresses and skirts altogether. He solely wore men’s fashion, even when his father and grandmother vehemently disapproved. Some men found it oddly appealing, strangely enough -- Fawcett presumed it just marked him as “unique” among other ladies, which was considered attractive among some men he’d met. His best friend Cayde had even cited that once, hadn’t he -- how “attractive” it was that Fawcett stood apart from the rest? Not that Fawcett had ever wanted to “stand apart” like that -- he loved attention, certainly...but standing apart just because you can’t play the part everyone expects you to play? Because you can never be good enough for them -- can never make them happy, as you are? Didn’t seem like something to be proud of.

It was the day Fawcett ran away that he took another big step -- he stopped introducing himself by his birth name. He’d had to buy a ticket to get on the ship heading to America, so he’d signed his name “Eli Z. Fawcett” on a whim, just as a placeholder. That “placeholder” endured for the rest of Fawcett’s life...and from that point on, people started calling Fawcett -- now “Eli” -- a “him” as well. It was bizarre, at first -- but despite himself, Eli liked not correcting them. It just made things a bit uncomfortable whenever his voice cracked, or when he had to try to explain the bloodstained bedsheets and clothing, or when someone saw him with his shirt off by accident. Those incidents had left Eli with a good chunk of scars -- the worst of which he’d inflicted to himself in the dark of depression, after a particularly long night of drinking.

The morning after, Fawcett found himself in a hospital bed, his chest wound up in many, many thick bandages. He’d also been locked to the bed in handcuffs by the nurses, with the thought that he might be mentally unstable enough to hurt himself again. What was particularly notable, though, was the MACUSA witch who’d stopped by to see him.

“You think ending up in a No-Maj health ward for using a Severing Charm on yourself wasn’t going to get any attention?” she asked. “My coworkers and I had to modify a couple dozen memories in this ward, just to make them not question what kind of knife you must’ve used.”

The petite lady looked down at Fawcett’s mutilated chest, her wrinkled face contorted with pity.

“...You do know there are potions and Transfiguration techniques that can help with such transitions, don’t you?” she said softly.

Eli gave an oddly cavalier smile. “‘Fraid not. Hogwarts doesn’t really focus much on Human Transfiguration, aside from changing hair color and such. Or maybe I just slept through that class -- I wasn’t exactly O-grade material, back in the day...”

The Obliviator regarded Eli with such pity that she insisted on at least helping him patch himself up, before leaving the Hospital. After a couple dozen “Salvio Hexia” enchantments and some Wiggenweld Potion, Eli’s chest was finally healed, though two very dark pink scars under his pectorals remained. The little old lady then proceeded to send Eli a list of ingredients to pick up, which could help him brew several potions to help with his transition.

“My partner found these very helpful, when they were young,” the enclosed letter had said. “Take heart -- you’re a beautiful child, no matter what skin you’re wrapped up in. You deserve to be protected.”

The lady’s suggested methods sadly couldn’t solve all of Eli’s woes -- no potion gave him the voice he wanted, for instance...but over time, his body became less uncomfortable to live in. He was able to stave off the worst of the monthly bleeding, and even started growing hair on his chest. That was something that gave Eli a bizarre happy rush, upon discovering it.

The transition was a journey Eli didn’t think he’d ever truly finish to his satisfaction...but each little step forward still was something, and he resolved to enjoy each of them, however tiny and insignificant they probably were. By the time Eli had reforged connections with his old school friends and reached back out to his brother Enoch, he was himself, in a way he never had been before. He was comfortable in his own skin and more optimistic and resilient than ever -- for despite all of the pain, depression, and self-hatred he’d faced, Eli was determined to not unload that onto the entire world. He would be a ray of sunshine for others who needed it, no matter how fleeting both his act and he himself might be -- and so, in this similarly tiny, insignificant world, he could at least make some kind of a difference.

#fantastic beasts and where to find them #eli fawcett #about eli #graphics #tw: body insecurity #tw: body dysmorphia #tw: self harm

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princess-of-riviaa · 3 years

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Wicked Rose

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Rosa Malvada (OFC)

Summary: Geralt is sent on a mission that sends him to the doorstep of vampire Rosa Malvada. Steamy smut insues.

Warning(s): dirty talk, biting kink, SMUT, blood, both characters are very dominant

Word Count: 3092

There were countless reasons to enjoy an immortal life. The power was intoxicating--there was no greater feeling than knowing you were the greatest threat in any given room. The access to knowledge that stretched across every part of the realm, the secrets that stayed trapped within country borders--all of it there for you to revel in. But the greatest thing of all, the thing that brought satisfaction even in the darkest of nights, was being the kind of monster everyone believed vampires to be.

A regular vampire proved to be a challenging opponent, even for a skilled warrior. The Higher Vampires were impossible to kill. With their wit and strength, they ran circles around mortal men. Not even the legendary witchers could end them; only a Higher Vampire could kill one of his brethren, which had only happened twice in all of history. And Rosa Malvada, Princess of the Higher Vampires, was the most feared and powerful of her entire clan.

Geralt of Rivia, the most famous witcher along the west coast, had been stalking her for three days now. He’d been careful, calculating every movement before he made it. It was cute, actually, how much effort he put into being stealthy. Little did he know Rosa had noted his presence within the first twenty minutes of his days-long hunt. She’d considered draining the blood from his body and burying him in some forgotten part of the woods. Who was he to think that a centuries-old Higher Vampire--a princess of their clan--wouldn’t note his presence? How dare he think she would fall into his trap! But she’d been curious. She’d never seen a witcher hunt, and it had been appealing enough that she’d played the part of a happily oblivious vampire, letting him follow her from town to town, never letting him realize that she was drawing him ever closer to her nest.

The night of the full moon, Geralt had decided to make his attack. He’d been smart enough to drink one of those witcher elixirs he kept on his body--a wise precaution she had to give him credit for. But even that magical potion couldn’t take her down. Not before she found out why he’d been hunting her. Not before she’d have her way with him.

His boots were near-silent as he strode through the abandoned halls of an ancient castle along the coast of Temeria. It had been Rosa’s home since an ancient royal family had decided to abandon it due to the rumors of an evil vampire lurking in the halls at night--a rumor that had proved true, since Rosa had been sloppy enough to leave behind a mess of the guards’ bodies she’d drunk from. The family had been so scared they left with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The belongings they’d left behind were now part of Rosa’s trove.

Geralt pulled out two swords from his back, careful to make his movements as silent as possible. His ears perked up at every breath of the wind. That witcher elixir had heightened his senses, Rosa realized, and if she wasn’t careful, her game of cat and mouse would come to an end much too soon. She watched from the shadows as he stopped at the end of a hallway. He looked like a mountain in all that black armor--a mountain she wanted to climb. The sight of him was distracting--

Until he cocked his head, a predator finally spotting his prey.

“The shadows won’t hide you from me.” He spoke in a whisper, but Rosa heard him perfectly, as if he’d whispered the words in her ear. Rosa stood in a corner of darkness, and with thirty feet of distance between them, she thought it would have been harder for him to spot her. She was impressed.

“What makes you think I’m hiding?” she purred in response, moving through the shadows so he could catch a glimpse of her blood-red eyes.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he admitted as he turned to face her. That perfect face was paler than usual, enough so the veins under the surface of his skin were visible. And those eyes--darker than the shadows that now cloaked Rosa. He was the pure embodiment of death.

Rosa had never wanted a man more.

“Then what are you doing here?” She forced her tone to remain clipped, despite the desire starting to pool between her thighs.

“A descendant of the family who once lived here,” he began. “He’s paid me to return a lost family crest to him.”

Over her dead body. “Everything within these walls belongs to me. If they wanted some family crest, their ancestors should have brought it with them before they fled this place.”

“I’ve been paid to finish the job,” he insisted.

“Whatever amount they’ve promised you, I’ll double it.” She had more than enough gold to spare. Make enough calculated kills, drink from the right kind of people, and inheriting chests of gold becomes as easy as breathing.

“Come out of the dark. Maybe I’ll consider your offer.”

“Drop those blades,” she compromised, “and I’ll go anywhere you want, Witcher.”

Metal clinked against stone, a riotous sound amongst the silence of the dead castle. Geralt’s hands went slack at his sides. It was a mirage. An act of relaxed calm hiding a hunter about to pounce.

Rosa was precise with her movements, careful to never move within his reach even as she evaded the cover of darkness. His eyes slid along her body so sensually that her body burned everywhere he looked. It was almost enough to get her to step towards him. Almost. She lifted her chin higher, confident in the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts that he now took in. Blood-red hair curled down her back, stark against the white dress she wore.

He sniffed audibly before muttering, “I didn’t know vampires could be aroused by anything other than blood.”

He could smell the lust dripping between her thighs. It only made her want him more, somehow.

She retorted, “I didn’t realize witchers could be so attractive.”

Silence filled the air as they stared at each other, both resisting the urge to close the distance between them and take what they both were craving.

“Afraid to want a monster, Witcher?” she taunted.

A warning growl was the only response he gave.

“I’ll pay you to leave empty-handed tonight, to return to the man who paid you and insist that this precious family crest no longer exists.” She took half a step towards him--the only amount of distance she dared to close between them. “I’ll pay you in gold. Or, if there’s another form of payment you’d prefer, I’d happily let you indulge in that too.” The smile that tugged at her lips was flirtatious. It only grew as Geralt’s gaze dropped to her mouth, those darkened pupils missing nothing.

He was silent. A man of few words. That was fine--Rosa would be sure to fill the silence as he filled her tonight.

She spread her arms. An open invitation. All he had to do was take it. “Come on, Geralt. Take what we both want.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Would you prefer it if I beg?” she wondered.

He pounced. Half a second passed before he had her pressed against the wall, her back pressed tightly against his chest. She ground her ass into his hard-on. Oh, fuck. The stories of a witcher’s girth weren’t just stories. One of his hands moved to her hip, grinding her body against his erection, while the other tugged hard enough on her hair to force her to look up and back at him.

“I’d like to hear you beg,” he growled.

Yeah, right. She dug her elbow into his stomach hard enough to make his grip loosen on her. A second later he was the one trapped against the wall. She held onto his wrists with a grip so tight not even a witcher’s strength could get him out.

“Sorry, darling, but I don’t beg for anyone.”

Before he could say anything, she licked up the column of his throat. His witcher heart was slow, but his pulse still made her toes curl. She longed to know what he tasted like, longed to know if he tasted better than he would feel when he was balls-deep inside of her.

The sensation of her tongue on his skin made a low growl elicit from the back of his throat, a sound so intoxicating that Rosa did, for a moment, contemplate begging him to fuck her if she had to. She needed this man inside of her, needed him to mark her up and fuck her so well she couldn’t walk right for a day afterwards.

“You don’t beg?” Geralt's voice was a low timber in her ear, making her shiver with arousal. And then his hand was around her throat while the other one went to the sensitive mound between her legs. “Then you’ve never had a Witcher fuck you.”

A moan fell from her lips before she could stop it. Her body was pure reaction now; there was no more room for her pride to decide what she would do. She was merely a reaction to every move Geralt made. She was at his mercy.

In one flash of movement Geralt picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her off through the castle like game he’d just proudly hunted down. He stopped at what was once the duke’s quarters, but had been Rosa’s quarters for centuries now. The room was filled with piles of clothes, books, and gold. Crimson sheets were thrown about the bed on the far wall, which was where Geralt strode for now. He was gentle as he set her down but the look in his eyes was wild and ravenous. She had no doubt her eyes held the same kind of animalistic hunger.

“Ever fucked a vampire before?” she questioned as she sat up and started untying his breeches.

“No,” was his simple reply, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone that made Rosa’s stomach knot with need.

She pulled down his breeches enough for his cock to spring free and--wow. Whether it was the Witcher mutation or Geralt had been blessed by the gods themselves, Rosa didn’t particularly care. Not as her mouth literally watered at the site of his thick, long cock, already glistening with precum. Dark curls swirled around the base of his shaft. A thin vein ran along the length of his cock from base to tip and she practically moaned. She wrapped her hand around his length, softly caressing the velvet of his sensitive skin as she began to jerk him off. He growled in approval. It wasn’t long before her skilled hand had him bucking his hips, desperate for her to increase her pace so he could cum. But she continued her slow assault on his throbbing cock, enamored by the look on his face as she teased him. Precum continued to fall from his tip. It mixed with her hand to make a sinful squelching noise. That, along with Geralt’s grunts and growls, was the only sound in the room.

Rosa finally pulled her hand away when she decided she’d tortured the Witcher long enough. His eyes were lidded, heavy with lust, but they widened with arousal as he watched her lick up every last drop of the precum on her hand. With a growl that promised her unbecoming, he splayed a large hand on her stomach and pushed her back. He climbed over her as she relaxed against the bed. His right leg instantly moved between her own, his knee finding a home against her aching pussy.

“My turn,” he growled before moving to hover over her heat.

“Wait,” she called out, her body already humming with intense heat. “You really want to get me off?”

The look in his golden eyes was answer enough.

“Then let me drink from you.” Her voice was breathy, too overcome with lust to sound normal anymore.

He paused, and that lust in his eyes was replaced by a look of distrust.

“I won’t drink too much,” she promised. “But for a vampire, drinking a partner’s blood while being intimate with them is better than anything else. It’ll make me cum long before eating me out will.”

“Which vein is best?” Geralt asked in a low, curious voice, but there was still hesitancy written all over his face.

“The closer to the heart, the better,” she admitted. “Anywhere would do, but blood from the heart, or anywhere around it…” She closed her eyes as she thought about the intoxicating taste of blood straight from the heart. It had been a long time since she’d let herself indulge in it, since tasting blood that sweet normally sent vampires into a frenzy. But the memory of that nectar on her lips made her legs clench, it was that good.

“You stop when I tell you to,” Geralt demanded. His tone was stern, but he was giving in. Indulging her.

Her heart began to beat faster at the thought of drinking from him. “And if I don’t?” Rosa wondered, opening her eyes to look at him again.

The answer to her question was written in his eyes. If she didn’t stop, if she gave in to the monster inside of her, he’d kill her.

“As you wish,” she complied.

He reached a hand towards her. For a second she thought he was reaching for her neck, wanting to pull her towards him for a kiss, but his hand stopped between her breasts, at the dress still covering them. A second later and the dress was torn to shreds, her breasts falling free. Her nipples were already hard from arousal and a low sound of approval fell from Geralt as he observed it. His eyes scanned the rest of her body with hunger.

“Your turn,” she demanded, longing to see his body in all of its naked, muscled glory.

He rose to his feet and began undressing, teasing her as he moved slowly. All she had to do was spread her legs and one look at the sight of her glistening folds made him rush his movements. His body was a glorious maze of muscles and scars--a picture perfect warrior. Dark curls that matched the hair around his cock swirled around his chest and trailed a path down his stomach. An ancient kind of power and strength radiated off of him. Gods, did she want this man inside of her.

Geralt gave her only a few seconds to take in his naked form before he was on top of her, his mouth devouring hers. His tongue was hungry and demanding as it pushed past her lips and collided with her own. She moaned into his mouth as he ground her hips against hers, his cock rubbing against her clit and sending electricity through her veins. Her arousal spiked, and suddenly she could feel her fangs coming out, and before Geralt could break the kiss, she bit his bottom lip. They both moaned--him at the sensation of being bit for the first time, surprised that it could be so arousing for the victim; and her because his Witcher blood was the finest wine she’d ever tasted. Her legs clenched around his hips as she swallowed the first drop of his blood.

It was then that he chose to plunge deep into her folds. She released a cry of pleasure that made the walls shake. Her walls squeezed around him as he continued to enter her, his cock going ever deeper and farther inside of her. Geralt muttered something in a language Rosa didn’t recognize, but she got the message clear enough from the tone: he was loving this as much as she was. The pain of his cock splitting her open was a welcome hurt. It turned her on and made her walls clench even tighter around his length, which only made his growls and moans deepen.

“Fuck me, Witcher,” she cried out.

He obliged her. His hips began to move at an exhilarating rate and the sensation of his cock penetrating her at such an inhuman speed threw her over the edge in a matter of moments. She threw her head back as she cried out, her fangs only elongating further as she came around his unrelenting cock.

Even after the waves of ecstasy calmed inside of her, Geralt didn’t stop fucking her. His hands had moved to her hips in a deathly grip. She was sure to have bruises from where he held her.

“Let me drink from you,” she cried out.

Without even stopping his thrusts, he tilted his head to the side, inviting her to suck at his throat. She pulled him closer to her and clamped her mouth around the soft skin of his throat, letting her fangs break the skin slowly. His movements became sloppy as she began to drink from him, as if it were as much a turn on for him as it was for her. She drank mouthful after mouthful of his sweet nectar. Her entire body lit on fire as they attacked each other, her with her mouth, and him with his cock. This was how she wanted to die, she decided--her mouth around his throat, him balls deep inside of her. It was the closest to heaven she’d ever get.

Geralt let out a broken moan as his cock spasmed inside of her. A second later his hot seed poured inside of her, dripping down her legs and onto the bed. Geralt came longer than most men did, which must have been another aspect of the Witcher mutation, but she loved it, reveled in every second of it. And when he was done, he collapsed on top of her. She pulled her mouth back and forced her fangs to retract. Blood dripped down his neck and dried on his shoulder.

“I didn’t realize you had a biting kink,” she murmured minutes later.

“Neither did I.” He was on his back beside her now, his eyes closed and a droopy smile on his face.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” she said, admiring the few of a Witcher fucked out beside her.

He let out a humm of agreement, and then his breaths deepened and slowed. She fell asleep beside him, a smile plastered onto her face. It was the best sleep she’d had in decades.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia smut #geralt the witcher #geralt smut #vampire x witcher #the witcher #the witcher smut

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autumnslance · 3 years

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FFXIV Write 2021 #5: Freebie - Passion (Aberrant pt 2) NSFW

((Since some of y’all are thirsty and let’s face it I am deep in this backstory))

Corran fumbled with the door to their room, managing to get it open without dropping Emelia. “Don’t slam it!” She admonished as he kicked it closed behind them.

It was only a few steps to their bed, to drop her on the mattress and follow her down, kissing her once more. Gods, the shape of her mouth fit perfectly against his, and her taste was more delectable than his favorite meal.

She broke the kiss, preventing him from chasing her with a hand against his chest. “Lock the door,” she panted.

Corran grunted in frustration, but got up to do as she bid. As much as he hated pausing now, it was better than possibly being walked in on by their small son; the lock would keep him at bay for a brief time.

Corran yanked his shirt off as he crossed the room, the night air doing little to cool the fever in his skin. He threw the lock and turned back to the bed, eyes already adjusted to the dim light, his breath caught by the sight of her.

“Stop,” he ordered as she finished removing her dress, leaving her in her flimsy petticoat and chemise. Emelia blinked at him, head tilted in her usual quizzical expression while letting the dress fall to the ground. Corran stalked forward, unlacing his breeches. “I want to undress you myself,” he told her, his voice pitched low. He was gratified to see her shiver in response, waiting while he removed his boots so he could drop his pants, left only in his smalls. He saw the tip of her tongue flick over her lips as her gaze took in his arousal through the thin fabric.

Corran fell on her again, mouth finding hers once more, tongue plunging between her lips. He made his way down her neck as he untied and unhooked her remaining clothes, freeing her shoulders to kiss along them. Emelia’s cool hands smoothed over his back and sides, and she made sweet little sounds of pleasure as his lips and teeth raked over familiar sensitive places. “You feel hot as an oven,” she murmured. “Are you all right, love?”

“More than,” Corran replied, freeing her breasts. He cupped and squeezed one, her head falling back as he nipped the stiffened nipple of the other. They weren’t large breasts, but perfect for being held, or taken into his mouth. The shape and feel of them had changed after being used to feed their child, but Corran couldn’t recall anymore how they used to be and he liked them just fine now.

He pushed her clothes down her slender torso and over her hips, which she lifted for him. He pressed kisses to her ribs, her stomach, her sides. His tongue traced along her stretch marks, teasing the sensitive places they led to. She had been so worried about the effects carrying and bearing a child had on her form, but Corran thought the lines and altered shape of her abdomen lovely--further reminders of the love and life they had created together.

Her fingers raked through his hair as he found the waist of her smalls and pulled them down along with her petticoat. He had not quite freed her legs but his impatience won out, helping her kick off the tangle of fabric as he nipped at her inner thighs and over her hips. A needy whine came from her and destroyed what was left of his resolve, his mouth covering her sex.

Emelia arced beneath him, a small cry passing her lips. He grinned against her softness, relishing the scent and taste of her desire as he laved his tongue along her wet folds. He thrust his tongue into her as deep as he could, knowing it wasn’t enough for her but gods he loved how she tasted, how she spread her legs further, inviting him closer and deeper. He made his way up to the sensitive nub at the crown and covered it entirely, sucking and licking at it. She practically wailed, one hand gripping the sheets, the other his scalp. He knew exactly how much pressure to use, how to use his tongue in long strokes to push her swiftly to the brink.

“Gods, Corran, I—” she was writhing in his grasp, breath catching. He hummed an affirmation against her, unrelenting. Usually he liked to draw this out, taking his time while slowly ratcheting up her tension, ensuring she was ready to take him in, but tonight he needed to drink from her and hear her scream for him.

She did, calling his name while her hips bucked as much as he would allow, the heady scent of her release filling his nose, her taste filling his mouth, finally overpowering the aftertaste of Avengret’s blood as he pressed his tongue into Emelia again. He looked up, breathing heavily, watching her. Her midnight hair pooled around her head on the skewed pillows, chest heaving, golden-brown skin slick and shining with sweat as her sparkling dark eyes returned his gaze.

“Perfect,” he growled, rising up to kiss her again, her arms and a leg eagerly wrapping around him as she responded with equal fervor, working his smalls down his legs to free and stroke his throbbing cock.

“Gods, Em,” he moaned, her touch making him dizzy. “Soon as you’re ready—”

“Take me, Cor,” she urged, guiding him. “I need you inside.”

He needed no further encouragement, shifting position and thrusting into her, hilting himself in one swift motion. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. Corran groaned against the curve of her neck; she felt so damned good, wet heat tight around him, soft muscles fluttering and clenching along his length.

“Oh, gods,” she exclaimed as he drew back and thrust again, setting a quick, hard pace. He lifted himself, arms straight with elbows locked, watching her, knowing just the right angles to keep pressure on her clit while also dragging himself over that sweet spot inside her. Emelia’s head tossed, face scrunching, breath coming in gulps and gasps with each rough stroke and her body’s own responses, rocking to meet his every motion. Her nails left scratches down his arms as their bodies slapped wetly against each other, the bed frame creaking and squealing and slamming against the wall.

Her hips stuttered, internal muscles clenching and fluttering wildly as her breath came shorter, her tension building. Corran grinned, sweat dripping from him to splash on the pillows and her. “Th-that’s it,” he managed. “Come, Em; lemme hear you.”

“Cor—!” She lost coherence as she cried out, lifting toward him, her release pulsing around him as he continued his hard pace, falling to his elbows as he did not, could not, let up, his own tension building until the rush of blood in his head nearly drowned out all other sound. She gripped the nape of his neck and his back now, her nails digging into his skin and cutting through the haze of sensation. He reached down and hooked his arm under her leg, opening her further, taking him deeper as he needed more of her, more, more…

There!

He shouted her name, vaguely aware he had pushed her from the previous orgasm to yet another peak as he spilled inside her, Emelia crying out again and clinging to him for dear life as she shook like a leaf, body still jumping against his as they both slowly came down.

Corran rolled and fell to the side, pulling her tight to him, stroking her hair and back, burying his face in the crook of her neck again, idly licking the bruising bite mark he had left there, claiming his mate. He was heaving for air and sweating like the sinner he was, but the raging firestorm in his veins had abated, the Song merely a faint echo in his head and drowned out by the little sounds his wife made as they recovered.

“L-let me up,” she finally said, still shaky.

He growled and held her closer.

“I need to clean up,” she insisted, finally extricating herself while Corran pouted. She could barely stand, wobbling as she snagged her robe and unlocked the door to make her way to the wash.

Corran lay on his back, arms splayed, staring at nothing, head blessedly free from the earlier buzzing, empty of thought beyond the growing awareness of the aftermath of their lovemaking. He eventually forced himself up to pull the soaked coverlet off the bed--they hadn’t even gotten underneath it to the sheets--leaving it in a ball in the corner to be dealt with in the morning. He filled a glass from the pitcher she kept on the nightstand, drinking it swiftly and pouring another to drink at a more normal pace.

By the time Emelia returned, their discarded clothing had been picked up and hung on the correct pegs along the wall to also be dealt with on the morrow while Corran lay among the turned down sheets.

She slid into bed next to him, hands remaining a cooling balm as they ran over his chest. “Zaine’s still sleeping, somehow,” she said. “Though we were loud enough to rouse the dead.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” he teased, pulling her close once more.

“Certainly not,” she answered, looking down at him. “Though I am curious what brought that on.”

For a wild second he thought of telling her, but dismissed the notion before it even finished forming. He brushed strands of damp hair away from her face and smiled. He would continue to keep her as far from his people’s war as possible; he had decided that from the beginning. “Can’t a man want to swive his beautiful wife he adores with all his heart now and again?”

She laughed, that easy blush blooming on her cheeks once more. “I suppose he can; I know I enjoyed it. Although,” she yawned and settled against him, using his chest as a pillow.

“Although?”

“We were reckless; I’ll have to track myself for the next moon.”

His heart paused for a moment as he realized what she meant. While she often took a medicine to regulate her cycles, he usually wore a skin, or finished outside of her to be on the safe side. That...had not happened tonight, and he wondered how much of that was the dragon’s influence versus his simple, instinctual need for his beloved after the day’s events.

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he said, not realizing immediately he had said it out loud, but then she tilted her head up.

“You want another baby?” She asked, tentative.

Could he maintain his responsibility to the cause, reaffirmed just this day? Probably, though it would be difficult. He had waited long enough, while life itself, he was finding, did not. “Do you?”

She hummed a little, snuggling in again. “It could be nice,” she replied. “I think Zaine would like a brother or sister.”

“Well,” Corran said, licking his suddenly dry lips. “If tonight doesn’t do it, I suppose we’ll just have to try again.” He tilted her chin up to kiss her one more time--gods, he really did love kissing her--and smiled. “Assuming you’re agreeable.”

“I’m sure you’ll convince me,” she replied, lips brushing his as they spoke. They laughed together, and he continued to stroke her back as she settled back down to using him as a pillow.

It took time for Corran to fall asleep, aware of Emelia’s steady breathing and her soft form alongside him, cooling the remaining heat in his blood. When he finally did close his eyes, he dreamed of her laughter while dragon wings beat through the sky.

---

(Direct sequel to Aberrant, Day 2 prompt for the FFXIVWrite2021)

#FFXIVWrite2021 #Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Backstory #Corran Striker #Emelia Striker #sometimes I write smut #Lemons

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faetalwords · 3 years

Text

Faults (Or ; How Eskel Got a Cat)

The Wolves had always told him that his heart was bigger than his brain. First it was Geralt; when Eskel refused to let him take the fall for one of their misadventures in the kitchens back in their fourteenth year. Then it was Rennes, swearing him up and down while forcing Eskel to butcher the griffin chick he’d tried to spare. It came softly from Feliks, a tiny kitten clutched in his own paws- too large to be graceful even in his youth. Vesemir said it with a sigh when he was nursing a bloodied nose from his refusal to just “fucking move” from the fight of a Witcher and recruit.

It was a truth of his life, that the Dragon of Kaer Morhen would die at the fault of his stupid heart. He never could leave well enough alone, couldn’t walk away from a creature in pain without his scars burning like a fresh brand. Even when those same creatures hissed and spit at the sight of his face.

“Come now, there’s no need to be nasty.” The Witcher across the clearing snarled, hurled another insult at him that would have made Lambert proud, and pressed closer to the rock face at his back.

“If you’re gonna kill me how about you either do it or get lost.”

“Why would I kill you?” He had to ask, the other man seemed so sure of his intent to harm… he was injured as well. It wasn’t until the Witcher moved just so that the scent of blood drifted far enough for Eskel to catch.

“Don’t play fucking coy, Honorton. Ain’t a fucking person this side of the Pontar that doesn’t know by now.” Oh. Oh yes, Eskel knew. It had been a massacre. The Witcher’s breath was labored and Eskel had assumed it was the anger;

“Honorton was near two weeks ago. You’re not healing, so what happened?” The cat, because the little Witcher was indeed a Cat, favored his left side. “I really do want to talk.”

“Want me to fucking confess my sins? Well tough shit.”

“For fucks sake I want your side of the story you little bastard.” That made the man draw up short. ‘Like fucking Lambert ’ Eskel thought. “You tell me your side and I’ll share whatever I manage to catch tonight. You’re half starved.” He was half as likely to get a knife in his ribs as an answer but the Witcher seemed to give in.

“They hired me for a leshen and tried to give me ten fucking crowns for it. Told them they’d wish they had the beast back if they didn’t pay me what was agreed. ‘We hid some gold sir witcher, it’s in the barn if you insist on taking our livelihoods’. I believed them. Stupidly.” The cat had taken a seat on a stump that was nearly older than Eskel. “They stabbed me in the back with a pitchfork. They’d kill me for a few crowns and I’m supposed to protect whoresons like that?” It was a rhetorical question, but Eskel bit his tongue anyway. “So yeah, I drew steel and didn’t sheath it until the ground was slick with blood.”

Every man, woman, and…. Child. Almost. Eskel knew the rumors. His hands clenched and released. Anger was a powerful emotion and he tried to let it go. There goes the Butcher of Blaviken…

“You heading somewhere in particular?”

“No.” Too fast.

“I’m gonna go check for game. If you’re still here when I get back I’ll share and take a look at your back. Pitchfork is a nasty wound when it is treated right.” There was no response from the Cat but Eskel left anyway, turning his back to the man but listening intently for the event of a betrayal. He was kind, not a fool. Not usually.

He had a choice to make. It wasn’t a Witcher’s place to absolve a man off his sins. It wasn’t their place to pass judgement on men… nor each other. Shit happens on the path, he rubbed at his scars. It wasn’t his place to judge.

Eskel was genuinely surprised to find the Cat waiting for him on his return. The young man had stripped most of his kit off and left it in a careful stack so that he wore his breeches and a stained white undershirt. There was the faint scent of blood in the air and Eskel huffed a breath to clear it from his senses.

“Got two rabbits, you want to skin them while I look at those wounds?”

“Fine.” The witcher hesitated, be it the shock of an act of kindness or wariness Eskel didn’t know, but he pulled the dingy shirt over his head and took the rabbits from Eskel’s hands. “Jus’… if you kill me like this I’ll be pissed.” He turned his back and knelt in the dirt to take up the task Eskel set for him. Eskel didn’t dare speak of honor- no wolf would kill a man with their back turned; and what a sight that back was.

The wounds were nasty. Four punctures that, in truth, should have killed him. Eskel was gentle when he pressed along the edges of the wounds, two were infected- angry red and fevered under his calloused hands. He traced the second highest and whistled through his teeth. “They almost got your lung here, cat.”

“Yeah.” The cat stilled where he was about to place the first skinned rabbit in a bowl. Eskel rummaged through his pack for some white Rafford’s and a bit of white gull.

“I have silver thistle for a poultice that I can use if you want.” The blade scraped at the inside of a pelt and the Cat half shrugged.

“S’okay.”

Eskel skimmed his fingers over the notches of the other’s spine. He wasn’t simply underfed, he was starving. Witchers grew lean in the months nearing winter, as contracts paid less and game grew thin, Eskel had counted his own ribs more than once. It was a fact of their lives. He wondered how often the cat had been stiffed to be so hungry that he wouldn’t heal.

“Drink this, cat.” he pushed the potion into the witcher’s hands as soon as the second rabbit was gutted. Once it was finished the vial was laid near the bag that Eskel rummaged through for his herbal salves.

“Gaetan.”

“Hm?”

“My name. It’s Gaetan.” Those yellow eyes were trained on the ground, his hands twisted in the fabric of the ruined shirt.

“Well Gaetan, it’s good to meet you. I’m Eskel.”

#gaetan #eskel #the witcher #1000-1500k #fic

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writeblrfantasy · 3 years

Text

pax said he liked my clothing descriptions and i haven't been able stop thinking about that so i put together this compilation!! from acogs, brenin, oots, a short from gkbk i'm working on, and the farlingverse. i hope you love all of these because i'm super proud of all of them <3<3

taglists and ts under the cut

Katya is dressed in a brilliant red velvet gown whose floor length skirt trails behind her. Gold is embroidered onto the hem of the skirt and the bodice, supported by a thin red strap that curves around her neck. Her orange hair covers her shoulders in loose curls, two parts on either side pulled back from her face and secured with a ribbon on her head like always. She wears no jewelry on her pale, freckled skin, and the neckline of the gown teases her breasts.

In a few minutes, one huge golden ring will sit on her right middle finger. Nikolai pictures it now.

Beautiful and mighty, she’s sitting on the old throne of the temple, from when this was the palace and Aspiania was the capital. The fingers of her left hand curl over the white armrests, and she leans her head back onto the red cushion there. Green eyes dulled behind the wire frames of her spectacles have the power to freeze an empire, a whole world.

Nikolai is more interested in the drawn golden sword in her right hand.

Esme is wearing custom made robes in a beautiful mix of red, dark blue, and purple, with a sash and hems of shimmering gold. Embroidery of the sun and moon decorate patches in tiny patterns, stars covering every inch of them.

In traditional Tan style, they wrap around his shoulders and tie at his waist with the knot in the back, the sleeves loose and flared out at the wrists. They go down to his feet, covered in polished black boots. His black hair is sparkled with gold dust, but it’s forever too long and strands fall into his eyes.

He grins when he sees Laurent across the temple for the first time, dopey eyed, as Laurent’s soul evaporates from his body. It’s a remarkable testament to his self-restraint that he doesn’t cross the temple in three strides and tackle Esme to the ground.

Feryn looks truly like an angel, or a god, or grace incarnate. No veil covers her head, but her white hair hangs loose round her face. Cygnus was expecting curls, or a braid with flowers, or an updo with a diamond circlet wrapping her hair. But the reality is plain. And it’s beautiful.

She’s wearing cosmetics, he’s sure, but he can’t see them well. Her brown eyes just look a little brighter than normal, her lashes a little longer, her cheeks a little fuller. She smiles at him with warm eyes and pink lips.

Her gown is something he’s been looking forward to seeing and endlessly imagining ever since she and Lian got engaged. Like her hair, it’s much simpler than expected. The fabric is shiny like satin, the straps thin and the bodice plain like the gown Evan wore to her bridal shower.

Unlike Evan’s, the neckline dips, and the skirt of Feryn’s dress is slim. Feryn must be wearing shoes with tall heels, because Cygnus knows she isn’t naturally this tall. Or perhaps it’s just her posture, the straight back, the easy, content way she holds herself.

Feryn, who asked Cygnus to trust her when he asked what he would be wearing at the play, dresses him in bright red silk robes with drapes over the shoulders that blow out behind him. She says she had them made especially for tonight. Cygnus is rendered speechless, reminded of the luxury he lives as king. Feryn seems only pleased.

The shoulders and collar are decorated in sapphires and embroidered in gold. The robes don’t allow trousers to show that much, so he wears plain black. Feryn chooses polished black shoes with gold trim, and a red and gold clip for his hair.

When he looks in the mirror, he thinks he’s dressed for the most pristine play in the whole country, not Cherie’s little central company.

“Valerie—” Ruby begins, words dying in her throat as Cygnus holds up a hand. A rich sapphire ring adorns on his hand, and that’s not the only finery he’s wearing. His silk jacket of dark green is bejeweled with glittering gems and delicate piping. His boots are shinier than she’s ever seen them, and with his purple cloak and combed hair, he’s obviously going to meet someone important.

Like every other lady in the castle, Ruby allows Feryn to force her into nice clothes. She refuses the robes Feryn brought out, heavy red velvet, and chooses instead black breeches, a fine shirt, and an ornate jacket. The jacket is dull green, trimmed in gold and fastened with gleaming buttons. Ruby pulls on a new pair of black boots and actually gives some thought to her hair, after a moment permitting Feryn to braid it down her back. It’s all tedious to her, but she’ll endure it to keep poor Cygnus company.

“Come in,” came Alea’s voice at my first knock. I opened the door, watching Moureen muttering and fussing over Alea’s dress. The mix of sea greens and blues complimented her beautiful hair, some curls braided into a crown around her head, the rest lying around her shoulders. I couldn’t hold back a grin.

“What?” she asked.

“You look beautiful. I have something for you,” I said, bringing forth the box from behind my back and thrusting it into her hands. I motioned for her to open it.

“Oh, Bren, you didn’t have to—” She opened it, her mouth falling open. “Oh, my—” Alea turned and set the box down, picking up the jade and sapphire teardrop earrings that I’d bought her in the shop. It must’ve been the gods’ will for the dress and earrings to match perfectly, making her green eyes stand out. She looked every bit the duchess, every bit a queen.

Alea was in a stunning gold ballgown that glittered and shone when she moved. The skirt was embellished with pearls and diamonds, dripping and glittering. Her hair was up, a white flower hairpin keeping it out of her eyes. She smiled, and her green eyes looked even more beautiful than ever. I told her so. She laughed like she didn’t believe me.

More footsteps came to the door. I glanced up at Moureen, who was coming in with my freshly shined shoes. Thales hovered in the doorway in front of Lakus. I looked him over, taking in his bright blue jacket, adorned with gold trim and beading. The finished jacket looked much better now than it had during yesterday’s boring afternoon in the store. I found myself catching my breath.

He gave me a small smile. “You look good. The green, uh, looks good.”

I did something with my hands. “Thanks, I guess.” My jacket was well done. Light green and silver, pearl buttons and dark stitching. I chose the silver just to get on Lakus’s nerves, since I knew Danda couldn’t care less about whether people wore gold or not.

Lakus, by contrast, had bright, gaudy orange on. There was so much gold on him I could feel the money, and I grimaced, looking away from him after a glance.

Cerrick doesn’t recognize anyone else in the purples, reds, yellows, but he sees his man in the center of the pack in bright blue and green armor, cloak fluttering out behind him. his horse is gray, mottled with black spots, shorter than the rest. His sword is gleaming in his right hand, black gloves clutching the hilt like one born to it. His braid sticks out of his polished blue helmet, shining in the sun. Cerrick doesn’t care if Olin laughs at him for his reaction, he still curses softly under his breath.

Njord is beautiful.

The knights run a few casual circles around the stadium, waving to the crowd. Cerrick watches the crowd hand their knight of choice bracelets, charms, wreaths with fresh flowers braided into them.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog @chazzawrites @pen-of-roses @47crayons @wickerring @sleepy-night-child @florraisons @faithfire @croctears @inkovert @kait-writes

fv taglist (lmk to be added/removed): @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @magic-is-something-we-create @47crayons @idk-bout-tonight

oots taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @willowiswriting @ninazeniks @magic-is-something-we-create @myhusbandsasemni @ren-c-leyn @justwriteyoudummy @47crayons @yejidoesthings @ettawritesnstudies @faithfire @a-forgotten-dusk @talesfromaurea @ashen-crest

general taglist: @magic-is-something-we-create @myhusbandsasemni @wickerring @directionoftime @47crayons @familiarvillain

gkbk taglist: (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @idk-bout-tonight @ren-c-leyn @crystallized-ink @hysteriwah @denkis-boyfriend @ashen-crest @aconfusedomni @myhusbandsasemni @oshaaru @metanoiamorii @47crayons

#writing #writeblr #wips #my wip #fantasy #fantasy writeblr #fiction #original fiction #lila's wips: fv #lila's wips: oots #lila's wips: acogs #lila's wips: gkbk #wip: brenin #bean's excerpts #lila's excerpts

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