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latristereina · 4 years ago

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When Catherine of Aragon (1485–1536) moved to England in 1501 to marry her first husband, the Tudor prince Arthur (1486–1502), she brought shoes. Lots of shoes. Her shoemakers, Diego de Madrid and Diego de Valencia, had started to make her shoes when she was two years old and continued to do so until she left for England at the age of sixteen. That year, 1501, they were very busy men. The detailed accounts of Gonzalo de Baeza, Queen Isabel’s treasurer (continuous from Catherine’s birth in 1485 to Isabel’s death in 1504) note that the royal shoemakers crafted fifty-one pairs of soft leather buskins (borçeguies), short boots that came up over her ankles, and sixty-eight pairs of black leather slip- pers (servillas; also spelled xervillas). It is likely that her baggage also included cork-soled platform mules known as chapines, probably covered in velvet and intricate embroidery such as those made for her in 1497: “twelve pairs of chapines from Valencia for the infantas [María and Catherine], six of them one hand high and the other six three fingers high, at 175 [maravedís] each, some of them more, totaling 1,990 [maravedís]”. These chapines were a regal variant of shoes that were a staple of Mediterranean societies, sturdy and very handy to keep skirts from dragging through the muck of medieval streets.

The first glimpses of chapines can be found in sixteenth-century drawings, watercolors, and costume books. Given that fashion is the product of observation, does the fact that feet and shoes are not depicted mean that shoes were not considered fashion? It would be decades after Catherine before women’s shoes stepped forward as part of the fashionable attire of a stylish woman.

With her chapines, Catherine brought something fresh and novel to the Tudor court. She brought Spanishness, and with it a wider cultural horizon that encompassed more than just dozens of pairs of shoes. Her arrival signified England’s arrival on an international stage. More broadly speaking, Catherine’s shoes reveal the “capacity of clothing to organize ideas about cultural change.” They can be used to document the transmittal of a culture of style from her home in Spain at Medina del Campo, through her shoemakers in Valencia and Madrid, and the Muslim culture of Granada that was the source of many of the design elements, and ultimately to her new home at the Tudor court in London. The events celebrating her marriage—the allegorical masques and plays, the highly structured processions through London that marked one’s status, family, and affinity relationships—were the culmination of her transformation from infanta Catalina to Ladie Kateryne of Spayne. English kings sometimes married French-born women, but there had not been a Spanish-born queen of England since Eleanor of Castile (1241–90) married Edward I (1239–1307). By 1501, Spain commanded not just the Iberian peninsula but also the Habsburg domains in Central Europe and the Americas. Catherine’s shoes, hats, hooped skirts, and her hair—in fact, her entire wardrobe—was a visual presentation of her foreignness. It marked the move of the Tudor dynasty from a small insular English realm to one far more broadly European in outlook and ambition.

The visual elements of her style signified foreignness, an exotic southern sensibility that startled, even shocked, the English. Her attire attracted comment almost immediately. The English who attended the festivities celebrating Catherine’s arrival in England noted her “attire after the manor of Spain”:

And aftir theim rode the Princes upon a great mule richely trapped aftir the manour of Spayne, the Duke of Yorke on her right hand and the Legate of Rome on her left hande. She was in riche apparell on her body aftir the manour of her contre, and upon her hed a litill hatte fashounyd like a cardinalles hatte of a praty brede with a lase of golde at this hatt to steye hit, her heere hanging down abowt her shulders, which is faire aburne, and in maner of a coyfe betwene her hede and her hatt of a carnacion colour, and that was fastenyd from the myddis of her hed upwards so as men might weell se all her heere from the myddill parte of her hed downward.

There is no mention of shoes, but the anonymous author commented on just about everything else: the other Spanish ladies in the procession (four from England and four from Spain) also had their hair down, wore a red hat like a cardinal’s hat “as the Princes hade.” But they wore black gowns, with black “kerchiers” on their heads “like unto the fachion of a religious woman aftir the maner of Spayne.”

Sadly, there are no detailed descriptions of the many shoes in her wardrobe and few records of gifts given by Catherine until she married Henry in 1509. But Ruth Matilda Anderson, María M. Carrión, María del Cristo González Marrero, and Elizabeth Semmelhack provide vital clues to just what those shoes might have looked like in the early modern period.

First Catherine would don brightly colored, perhaps embroidered, hose made from Holland linen. In the privacy of her chamber, Catherine had two options: a sandal, perhaps the flat-soled cork the Muslims in Spain called an aqraq, or lightweight slippers (servillas) made of fine leather with a very thin sole and closed backs that could be worn inside a chapín. In more public places she would have worn borçeguies [soft leather buskins]. These calf-high or knee- high boots of cloth or leather fit close to the leg, were wide at the heel and narrow at the toes, and were made in a myriad of colors and sometimes adorned with bands of color. The finest quality buskins were made of cordovan leather (named for the Spanish city Córdoba, the etymological source of the English words “cordovan” and “cordwainer,” the term for a shoemaker), but sheepskin was often used too. Made with turnsole construction (put together inside out and turned right-side-out when finished), they could be soled with goatskin, lined with cloth or fur, and could have a modest platform sole.

The chapín was by far the most distinctive and complex shoe. These thick-soled platform shoes were the status footwear of discriminating women of all ages. The basic style is a shoe that was worn over a slipper out of doors. Most Spanish chapines were closer to an overshoe with an inset strap, made for navigating dirty streets and visible, not hidden under skirts. Chapines were ubiquitous and thus unremarkable; so commonplace that they were essentially unmarked by rank or status. The manufacture calls for five layers of cork fragments pegged together with sharp-pointed pieces of cane, wider at the sides, narrow toward the ends, with a rise at the heel. The bits of cork were then covered with leather, frequently goatskin, with an outer sole that was flat and oval. The vamp sections would be interlined, lined with canvas or goatskin, finished along the upper edge with overhand stitching, with pierced holes for lacing up the shoe. Finally, the chapín was decorated with stamped or stitched patterns, gilt trim, and incised tooling in a Hispano-Muslim style with animal or floral designs.

The wide variety of cork-soled footwear spanned gender and rank, but chapines worn by elite women were distinctive. They were excessively high, gilded, jewel-studded, and often embellished with a metal ring around the base of the shoe, as much for durability as for panache. Each pair of these costly chapines could consume as much as half of yard of richly colored velvet or silk to cover the leather, as well as a dizzying array of embellishment options: hand-painted designs, several ounces of silver-gilt ornaments, gold thread, brocade, filigree, and semi-precious stones. It is not the height of the sole but the opulence of many chapines—embellished with embroidery and studded with gems—that moves the fashion off the street and into the royal court. Catherine’s sister Juana was said to have had more than seventy pairs, thirty-seven of which came from shoemakers in Valencia, a city famed for the manufacture of gilt leather. The Spanish passion for chapines crossed the border to Portugal only when another sister, Isabel, before leaving Spain in 1490 to marry King Afonso of Portugal, tucked into her baggage two pairs of chapines embroidered with gold thread that cost more than three-quarters of the price of a team of mules.

- Theresa Earenfight, The Shoes of an Infanta: Bringing the Sensuous, Not Sensible, “Spanish Style” of Catherine of Aragon to Tudor England

#perioddramaedit #historyedit #women in history #katherine of aragon #katharine of aragon #catherine of aragon #the spanish princess #charlotte hope #fashion #history of fashion #shoes

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lordoffiction · 4 years ago

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Two Souls, One Fate: chapter one.

☞: After spending two days trying to post this, here it is! Hooray!

I really hope you all enjoy this whilst I finish writing the fifth chapter for T.L, because god knows I spent too much time on this. I haven’t wrote in a few months, so please excuse any mistakes I made in this and if it’s shitty! It’ll get better, promise.

Please give me feedback and let me know if you would like to get tagged in this series!

Anyways, enjoy!

WORD COUNT: 5,069

WARNINGS: swearing, mild violence, mentions of suicide.

gif isn’t mine, all credits to the owner.

—————————

Your fingers combed through your hair, bundling it up into an untidy ponytail, pulling the long strands to make sure it was secure and tight enough. You had had long hair for around ten years, it's your pride and joy.

Growing up in an all-male family had made you that way, you grew up a tomboy with your five older brothers and always saw yourself as one of them.

But then that magical moment came when you were ripped from your carefree childhood and brutally slammed into the harsh society and expectations of women, you had begun to hate the idea of acting like a boy. People told you to act more like a “lady”. So you had put away the mud pies, the sword fights, and the wrestling. You began doing make-up, having long hair, and wearing pretty clothes.

But throughout everything, no matter what anyone said, society and snotty people couldn’t take this one thing from you.

Archery.

Your father had taught you from a young age, a sport that made you better even on your worst days. Something that not even the most powerful being in existence could take from you. The thrill of letting go of that arrow, watching it glide through the air before striking its target. It was something you would never get bored of.

You dressed in your normal sportswear, sliding on protective gloves made specially to stop your hands from getting sores as you held the arrow.

Where you lived was a small village, everybody knew everybody. News and gossip spread like wildfire here, so you only imagine that half the village had already heard about your date later tonight.

Reaching over to your bow and your arrow hanging pot, slinging it over your shoulder, you left your small apartment and headed towards the forest. You had a set up shooting range for archery at the corner of it, your dad would make targets for you and set you challenges every day when you were younger. Like swinging targets or shooting whilst you're running.

“G’ morning, dear. Going out to the woods again?”

Your eyes turned to see your elderly neighbour smiling at you, her eyes crinkled at the corners. Her walking stick barely keeping her up properly and her woven hat kept the sunlight out of her eyes.

“Mrs. Genkins,” You smiled at her small frame. Such a fragile woman. “Don’t I spend all my time in those damn woods?”

“Just you be careful, you wouldn’t want to hurt yourself before your date tonight.” Mrs. Genkins waved her walking stick at you slightly in a teasing manner, barely putting it back in time before she loses her balance.

The comment made your eyes roll internally. Of course, people already knew about your date tonight.

“I see news hasn’t lost its way around this place.” Your hand automatically reaching out to her in case she falls, which she brushed away with her wrinkled hands. Though she may be pushing ninety, she sure is one tough little lady when it comes to receiving any help.

“You know people around here, other people's lives are their entertainment. Just make sure this one can handle you, you can’t be single forever, you know?” Mrs. Genkins squinted her eyes at you teasing you from the last man you had dated that went sour once he had realized how unfeminine you are.

“Is he really worth my time is he can’t handle a tough girl like me?” You teased back, giving her a small wink as she cackled at your comment.

“Well, I better be going if I want to miss the morning rush at the morning market. You be safe, dear. And be careful.”

You nodded at her, smiling as you waved her down the road and out of sight. You let your head fall back slightly, closing your eyes with an exasperating sigh. You really need to move somewhere where there isn’t anyone you know or where no-one knows you.

You set off towards the woods, it wasn’t a far walk, only about five minutes from your apartment complex.

You dug your earphones out from your pocket, plugging them into your phone, and playing your latest playlist you had made for when you go do your archery. You began stretching your arms on the way, hooking one arm around the other, and pulling on it to receive a satisfying 'pop'.

Just as you entered the woods, you began to hear faint drumming noises. You brushed it off, perhaps it was something for the song you were listening to, though you never remembered this when you last listened to it yesterday.

Your brows knotted together in confusion as the drumming began to get louder and louder as you went deeper into the forest. The noise became so loud that you ripped your earphones out of your ears, your eyes widening. It wasn’t coming from the music.

It was coming from around you.

As soon as you realised, a small chanting sound echoed with the drumming, syncing with the beat of it.

A cult? You thought.

Your E/C hues quickly began searching around you to see who was doing it but found no one else in the woods with you.

Your fight or flight reflex suddenly kicked in, making you break out into a full-blown sprint into the woods, you tried to fumble with your bow, reaching for one of your arrows in it’s hanging pot behind your back, panting as your fingertips brushed the tip of it.

“C’mon!” You yelled at yourself in frustration.

Suddenly, you began to fall sideways, your ankle giving way beneath you in a twisted mess. The world began to spiral around you as you rolled into the ditch near the pathway you were once walking on.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You felt yourself being thrashed around for a few seconds downhill before finally landing on the flat ground again. You gasped for air, the collision causing you to land onto your back, knocking all the air out of your lungs.

You laid there for a minute, breathing in deeply. Did you really just fucking fall?

Rolling onto your side and going onto your hands and knees once you regained your breath, you looked up at the large hill you just fell from, realising the only way you can get back to the track is if you climb back up again.

“Shit.” You grumbled under your breath, using the nearest tree to pull yourself up to your feet again. Your arrows were scattered around you from the fall, leaning down to pick them up one by one and placing them back in your hanging pot.

As you reached for the last one, but your eyes were caught on a small box under the root of a large tree, surely the largest tree you had seen in these woods before and in your entire life.

It must have been thousands of years old, you could wrap yourself around it at least six or seven times.

“Oh, my...” You gawked the tree up and down, taking it all in before looking back to the box that was intertwined with its roots.

“What’s this?” You wondered aloud, going onto your knees and tracing your fingers on the corners of the box that you could touch. It was covered in dirt and moss but your curiosity ate you alive, reaching for one of your arrows, you began to jab at the root to loosen it with the end of your arrow.

After a few moments of trying, you finally loosened the root enough to yank the box out from it with a hard tug, causing you to fall backward.

You brushed it with your fingers but the dirt and grime were so thickly coated on it for god knows how long.

“Curious cat, aren’t you?” You spoke to yourself, standing up again and forgetting completely about your training. “This could be a murder weapon or something and you want to take it home with you.” You tusked, tucking the box into your hanging pot.

The journey back home was filled with many emotions, the main one being self-pity for yourself on how you fell down the hill. The second was about the drums that caused you to fall.

—————————

You ringed your hair out as you stepped out of the shower, letting it fall down your back, the water droplets dripping down your skin, and pooling around your feet.

You dried yourself off as you danced to the music playing from your speaker in your small apartment, grabbing the clothes you planned to wear to your date tonight.

What a weird day, huh. You thought back to the drumming and chanting.

You had chosen a pair of black jeans and a cute black top you had recently bought as a treat, the neckline dripping to show your cleavage. The outfit suited your figure beautifully, staring at yourself in the mirror as you tugged on your black, leather heeled Chelsea boots.

You’d only done concealer and mascara for your make-up. Nothing too fancy for a little date.

“Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all.” You smiled at yourself. You had curled your long hair, tucking one side behind your ear.

You looked behind you, seeing the small box you discovered sitting on your kitchen counter. You glanced at the clock on the wall, seeing you still had some time to kill before your date got here.

After a few minutes of running around your apartment and gathering things like a toothbrush, washing up liquid, a small paintbrush, and paper towels; you set up your little workspace on the counter to clean the box.

You dipped the toothbrush in the soapy water, gently scrubbing the dirt from the box, using the paintbrush to brush any specks of dirt off it.

Some time had passed, and you could finally see the beauty beneath the dirt.

“What are these?” You mumbled to yourself, looking at the strange engraved marks on the box. The box looked silver, but you couldn’t be sure.

Carefully prying the box open with your fingertips, you revealed inside a stranger kind of necklace.

Your head tilted to the side and your brows furrowed together as the small spiral pendant looked almost familiar. Like you had owned one before but forgot about it. A very distant memory.

It was silver, in the shape of an upside-down hammer. The leather cord that was with it had deteriorated, falling apart as soon as you picked up the pendant.

You cleaned off the pendant in the soapy water, patting it dry with a paper towel. Quickly going back to your room and grabbing one of your necklaces, you took the chain from it. Going back to the kitchen where you carefully hooped the pendant onto the silver chain.

Should I...

You pondered for a moment, staring at the pendant in your hand. You raised the chain around your neck, clasping it together at the hooks as it hung on your chest. You stilled for a moment, almost expecting something to happen when you put it on.

“Idiot,” You laughed at yourself, going over to where a mirror was to see how it looked on. But as soon as you took a step forwards, it felt like you began falling. You could hear the chants again from the woods, the drums pounding around you, almost deafeningly loud. Your eyes widened in terror as you couldn’t move your body as you fell back, the floor of your apartment swallowing you in a rabbit hole.

Lights surrounded you in all different colors, seeing silhouettes in the corner of your eye. Were they the ones chanting?

Oh god, oh fuck, oh shit.

Your breathing became labored, struggling to get air as you tried desperately to move your limbs.

The drumming and chanting only growing louder the deeper you fell into this rabbit hole.

Silence.

Suddenly the chanting and drums stopped, looking up to see the disfigured sky. You attempted to move your limbs again, gasping when you found you could move.

You kicked your way up to the sky, gasping for air once you broke through.

The sound of lapping waves and squalling seagulls invaded your ears, a sudden chill going over your body.

You looked around you with wide eyes, astonished by your surroundings. You were in the fucking ocean.

“What the fuck?!” You shrieked out, panic set over you as you tried to stay afloat, legs kicking under the water furiously.

“You’re dreaming. You must have gotten a concussion,” you repeated to yourself. “Yeah, yeah. You’re concussed.”

“You there!”

You snapped your head to see a wooden boat sailing towards you, numerous men aboard it as they all peered down at you. One man, in particular, stood at the arch of the boat, big and with a long braided bear. He was bald, tattoos around his head in strange patterns.

“Did you get lost, woman?” He belly laughed, the other men joining in. You were too much in shock to try and even say anything back. “Frode, throw the poor woman a rope.”

One of the men, skinner than the one barking orders, threw a thick rope towards you, splashing into the water in front of you, the water spraying on your face.

You grabbed the rope, unsure whether or not being on a boat with strangers or being in the ocean alone was better. The men heaved you up to the boat, letting your body hit the deck of it like a wet fish.

You panted slightly, trying to calm your thundering heart before it jumped out your throat.

You weren’t facing the men, your eyes locked onto your hands that dug into the wooden deck, trying to desperately grasp onto some kind of reality.

“Holy fuck.” You gasped out.

“Someone get her something to cover herself with!” The bald, bearded man ordered. Someone came over and wrapped some kind of cloak on you, you quickly tied it on your neck, trying to get warm.

“What kind of clothing is she wearing?” Another man spoke.

“A whore, perhaps?” Another replied.

“Whore!?” You repeated, turning to look at the men for the first time. “Who do you think you're calling a whore?”

The expressions on the men’s faces changed as soon as you looked up at them. The sudden change in mood made you want to cower away. Are these cosplayers? Re-enactors? Why did they dress that way?

“Freyja.” The bald one spoke, barely a whisper.

“Freyja?” You repeated. Who?

You’d never heard such a name before, were they calling you that? The men exchanged a look, communicating with their eyes before turning back to you.

“What’s your name?” The bald one asks, his tone in voice changing.

“Y/N,” you reply, beginning to stand up. “Where is this? Where are we right now?”

“Kattegat.” Someone spoke, earning a quick shove by the person next to him.

Your brows frowned together. Kattegat? Maybe you should have paid more attention in geography class when you were in school.

“Tie her up. We must show the Princes, this is an imposter of Freyja.” The bald one spoke again before walking away, his face unreadable.

“Wait!” You exclaimed, looking around as the men closed in on you, starting to grab you. “Get your fucking hands off of me!”

You elbowed the man who grabbed your from behind, hearing a grunt from him as he doubled over, making you flick your long hair out of your face.

“If anyone touches me, I’ll rip your fucking limbs off.” You warned, getting into a fighting stance with your balled fists in the air. You were outnumbered, by many. Before you could even say another word, one of the men quickly backhanded you across the face, knocking you down to the floor where they all cornered you.

—————————

The bald man, whose name you had learned was Magnus, threw you onto the ground with force, causing you to land on your shoulder. A groan left your lips as pain tingled down your arm.

“Don’t fucking throw me, you bald bastard!” You shouted at him, your hands restrained behind your back and your ankles tied together also, restraining you of trying to run off. Your hair had fallen across your face, limiting your view of your surroundings.

The whole hall of people turned to look at you, hearing small whispers about your clothing. The music had stopped playing and the cheers.

Who the fuck were these people?

You could barely make out four men sitting at a large table in front of you, maybe a few feet away, two with fair hair and two with dark.

“What’s the meaning of this, Magnus?” You heard one of them say, his accent making your ears perk up. “Did any of you ask for a thrall for the night?” He directed his question to the men beside him.

“My apologies, Prince Ubbe, but...” The bald man suddenly seemed nervous, unsure of what exactly to say. It made you scoff. A big guy like him was scared of these guys? “We found her in the sea--”

“Spit it out, before I rip your tongue out.” Another man at the table spoke, the threat taking you off guard. His accent was the same.

“We believe she’s an imposter and a volva.”

“An imposter and a volva?” another one of the men at the table snickered. “Sound’s interesting, Ubbe.”

“Who are you calling an imposter?” You sneered at the men. “I don’t even know you.”

“Watch your mouth, whore!” You heard, gasping as one of the men who tied you kicked you in your side.

“Enough.” You heard the first man say, hearing the chair he was sitting in move across the floor. “I asked you what the meaning of this was? You’re spoiling our celebration.”

The bald man grabbed the back of your head, gripping onto your hair as he roughly pulled you onto your knees, making you wince. Your hair moved from your face in the process and you could finally see around you. At the table sat the four men, the Princes, you had gathered.

All handsome— wait. Not the right time.

Their faces were twisted in an expression you had never seen before on someone as soon as they looked at you. The whole of the hall went deathly quiet as eyes were on you.

One of the men at the table stood up abruptly, his hands on the table. He had four twisted braids in his dark hair, his eyes a piercing blue as they stared at you. They were the bluest eyes you had ever seen.

Those eyes. You’d seen them before.

“Freyja.” He said to you. Again with the name.

Your head was tugged back, knocking you out of your trance and filling your chest with rage. Ripping your eye contact from him, you turned your attention to the man behind you.

“Get your hands off me before I break them.” You growled out.

Whispers broke out around you, you scowled at them all. What were they all wearing? Are these Vikings?

Your E/C eyes find their way to the blue ones again, he seemed to tense when you looked at him, his breath catching in his throat. It was like he was a statue.

The one with long brown hair with two braids going into one and green eyes stood up.

“Everybody leave.” Was all he said for everyone to leave the room. “You men can also leave. Get out.”

The men behind you began to leave, Magnus let your hair suddenly go from his grip, letting you land onto your face.

“Fuck.” You whimpered out, a tingling pain going up your nose. The only people left in the large hall were you and the four strange men, you strangely began to feel small.

The blonde man who was at the head of the table began to make his way towards you, his footsteps stopping once in front of you. Was this the one they called Ubbe?

“You,” He kneeled on one knee as he grabbed your jaw with his index finger and thumb. “What is your name?”

You hold your tongue, refusing to tell him. But this only made his grip on your jaw tighten.

“If you want to keep your tongue, I suggest you answer when spoken to.” He said lowly, his eyes just as blue as the man behind him. Were they brothers?

You stare into his eyes, trying to stare him down like a dog but his eyes never faltered. His stare was incredibly intimidating.

You gave an exasperating huff of breath, rolling your eyes to yourself.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

He kept staring at you, his eyes studying your face. His eyes looked sad as if pained as he looked at you. His jaw clenched and unclenched before he spoke again. “Why were you in the sea?”

“I don’t know, one moment I was in my home and the next I was in the water.” You knew this had to do with the necklace and the drumming in the woods. It all has to link up somehow. You went to reach up to grab it but remembered your hands were tied.

His eyes moved from yours as he removed his hand from your jaw, turning to the other men at the table. Your eyes followed. Both the one with blue eyes and the blonde one with fluffy hair were frozen in place still. It’s like they’ve seen a ghost.

The one kneeling in front of you raised his eyebrows at the one with the braids as if asking him what to do. He walked over to the both of you, gawking down at you with his green eyes.

“It’s as if she’d risen from the dead, but how can that be? We saw her body that day.” He said, staring down at you.

“Can someone just explain to me what’s going on?” You pipped up. A loud bang caused you to jump, looking towards the cause of the noise. The blue-eyed man had gotten up, his chair fallen behind him and his hands pressed against the surface of the table. His chest was heaving under his leather armor. His face was twisted with anger and hurt, barely looking at you as he grabbed his crutch.

“I don’t care what you do with her," he looked over to you with eyes so intense, your lips parted as your breath hitched in your throat. You felt your heart dip into your stomach.

Holy shit. Those eyes... Where have you seen them before?

"She's not Freyja." He walked out the hall and passed you, his crutch stabbing into the wood beneath him in anger, he looked as if he was almost snarling as he walked through the doors.

“Ivar--” The one with the green eyes called after him, going to walk after him but the one who was knelt suddenly stood up, holding a hand against his chest.

“Leave him, this must be a shocking sight for him. He needs time.”

“Can you untie me so I can leave?” You cut in, the rope irritating the skin off your wrists. The men ignored you, the blonde fluffy-haired one finally speaking up after this whole time.

“You can’t let her leave.”

—————————

You sat awkwardly in the chair, fiddling with your fingers on your lap as the three men stared at you. The fluffy-haired one had untied you but sat you in the chair at the large table, the green-eyed one threatening that if you tried anything then you’d regret it.

Scary.

They spoke as if you weren’t even there too.

“What kind of clothes is she wearing? She's dressed like a prostitute.” The one with the two braids spoke, cutting an apple slowly with a knife before placing it in his mouth.

Your gaze turned to him, anger rising in your chest. What was with these guys? Do they have no respect?

“Say that again,” You pointed your finger towards him. “and I’ll spoon your eyes out. How can you say anything about what I'm wearing when you’re dressed like a rodent in all those furs?”

The man stared at you for a moment before smirking. Who are you smiling at, you bastard--

“With a mouth like hers, she certainly isn’t Freyja. She wouldn’t dare speak like that.” He said. "Even if she is identical to her."

“That’s because I’m not Freyja. And you do know that this is kidnapping, right? You can get put into jail because of this.”

The brothers exchanged a look.

“And where would you find one of those?” Asked the one with the long braid, Ubbe, you remembered. “We’re the sons of Ragnar, nobody can tell us what we can or cannot do.”

Your eyebrows frowned, looking at them sideways at you felt dumbfounded.

Who is Ragnar?

“As if I know, or care, who Ragnar is. Let me go.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest. Shit, it was cold here. Even this cloak did nothing to help with your soaking clothes.

Their expressions only looked more confused, as if they were more confused than you are and couldn't understand how you didn't know who Ragnar is.

“Where are you from?” The one eating asked.

“Tell me your names and then I’ll tell you what you want to know.” You cocked an eyebrow at them. If they were stupid enough, they’d tell you so you can report them to the police once you find a way out of here.

God, the air here smells like constant shit. You want to go home already, to your scented candles to cleanse your nose of this stench.

“Curious thing, aren’t you? I’m Hvitserk,” Hvitserk pointed to the other men with the end of his knife. “these are my brothers, Ubbe and Sigurd.”

Ubbe smiled at you as Sigurd only stood still, unsure of what to say to you.

“And the blue-eyed one who walked out?” You asked.

“That was Ivar, our youngest brother.”

“What was his problem?” You quizzed again. Shut up, Y/N. This curiosity is the reason why you’re here in the first place.

Ubbe and Hvitserk looked at you before exchanging a look between them, Sigurd shifting on his feet as he cleared his throat. You noticed his jaw clench and his fists tighten at his sides.

“Well?” You repeated, waiting for an answer from one of them.

“The woman you resemble—” Ubbe began, getting cut off by a nudge from Hvitserk.

“Is it wise to tell her?” He asked his brother lowly, his green eyes looking at you.

“You do not think she deserves to know?”

“She could be deceiving us, a volva like the men said,” Hvitserk warned his brother.

You could only roll your eyes at them as you shifted in the chair, crossing your legs over.

“I don’t know what that is, but I can assure you I'm not deceiving you. I just want to know what’s going on.” You sighed, tucking your hair behind your ears.

“You resemble a woman called ‘Freyja’,” Sigurd spoke suddenly, looking into the bright flame that burned in the hall. His brothers turned to look at him with you. “No, you don’t resemble her. You are her.”

“Who is Freyja?” You asked.

“She was my first love.” He turned to look at you. “And Ivar's.”

Hvitserk and Ubbe sat back in the chairs, staying deadly quiet as their brother spoke to you. Their first love?

“What happened to her?” The question made your heart sink, taking you off guard. Why do you care?

“She died protecting us all. She was the most beautiful and loved woman in Kattegat, every man wanted her hand in marriage. Including all of us,” Sigurd suggested to his brothers, making Ubbe take a sip out of his cup and Hvitserk turn his gaze.

“A king came one day, wanting to trade. But once his eyes set on Freyja, demanding to marry her or risk causing a war between us. We all agreed to go to war, prepared, made an army. She refused to cause a war over her, Freyja had always hated violence.”

Sigurd took a shaky breath, his hands trembling in the light of the fire. The sight was enough to let you know how much he was affected by this.

“She... she was in love with Ivar. The thought of either losing him in battle or by marrying herself off was too much for her to ever bare. The day of the battle, Freyja stood between armies, in the middle of the battle field,” His eyes looked at yours, something flashing over them. “She drove a sword through herself in front of everyone. She did it for her love.”

The words made your breath hitch in your throat.

She killed herself... for him?

Your eyes tore away from Sigurd’s figure, looking anywhere but at the brothers.

No wonder Ivar left, you thought. Imagine seeing the woman you loved kill herself in front of you and then seeing her alive again...

“I’m sorry.” You said quietly, staring at your lap. “But I just want to go home. I have a family there, friends. They’re probably searching for me.”

“It’s dark out now,” Ubbe spoke, clearing his throat as he stood. “You should rest here for the night and begin searching for your way back in the morning. We'll help you.”

You nodded a 'thank you', standing from your chair. Hvitserk looked at your soaking clothes, turning to Sigurd.

"Tell one of the thralls to prepare some clothes for Y/N. She can't sleep in those."

Sigurd nodded, walking down a passageway and out of sight. You could see a grateful look on his face towards his brother for getting him out the room.

"You still haven't told me where you're from." Hvitserk turned his attention to you, leaning back against the table.

"Honestly, I don't think any of you will know where I'm from. But I can tell you I'm not from here. I come from a different time." You uttered, holding the necklace under your cloak, your thumb grazing the lines in it. "Someone or something brought me here, I want to know why."

#vikings #ivar the boneless #reader #ivar x reader #sigurd lothbrok #sigurd x reader #Ubbe Lothbrok #ubbe x reader #hvitserk lothbrok #hvitserk x reader #ivar lothbrok #ragnarssons #hvitserk smut #ubbe smut #ivar smut #sigurd snake in the eye

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tare-anime · 4 years ago

Text

A story about the journey of Pirate Captain Anya in finding her most valuable treasure. A Pirate AU (?) :P (AO3)

Don’t forget to check this magnificent Pirate Captain Anya art by @honeycloverbee

-----------------------------

The sun set high in the blue summer sky. A perfect day to sail on the Black Beauty. The wind picked up the pace, and it made the Jolly Roger flapped proudly on top of their main mast.

The captain of the ship, a girl with pink hair wearing traditional pirate headgear, an eyepatch, pirate robe, hook in her hand, black leather pants, and cute boots. She whistled cheerfully while steering the Black Beauty through the ocean.

Suddenly, her first mate, a tall blond man shouted, "Land ahoy!! 9 o'clock!!"

"Aye!!" Anya Forger, the captain yelled back, "Nice job there, inmate!!"

"First mate! Or just… 'mate'" the blond man, Loid Forger, rolled his eyes, corrected the term, and slid down from the crows nest.

“We’re close to the treasure island, mate! As my magic compass now starts to glow!” The captain was brimming.

“Aye!” First mate Loid answered unenthusiastically.

Suddenly the bright sky turned dark, as the sun was covered with thick heavy thunderstorm clouds. The wind blew harder, and the Black Beauty tried her best to roam the raging sea.

“Stay strong, mate!! We’re so close to our treasure!”

The captain tried her best to steer the Black Beauty and made her sail on course, while the first mate held the sails with all his strength.

Suddenly a strong wave washed the deck of Black Beauty, and the first mate was washed away.

“Oh no! Help me, captain!” Loid flatly called his captain.

“Hang in there mate!!” the captain shouted dramatically, and ran to grab the live preserver. She then threw the live preserver to her mate, and shouted again “Grab it, mate!! I’ll save you!!”

“……..” Loid blinked at the thing thrown at him.

"........."

“Psst…. Papa, use it!” Anya whispered.

With a heavy sigh, Loid took the Bondman rubber buoy, and hung it around his neck. He then wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Suddenly a beautiful ‘aaaaaa’ singing voice could be heard.

Captain Anya gasped dramatically, “The siren!! Help is coming!!”

“Weren’t sirens supposed to be a bad omen for sailors?” Loid thought to himself.

“Look, it’s the mermaid!!” Anya pointed to the edge of the stage, and Loid turned his head towards the direction pointed by his daughter.

His jaw dropped.

From the end of the stage, Yor emerged. She was using a grey rotund costume from head to toe, only her face was showing. Loid could see whiskers protruding from the costume around her face, and she was moving the flippers arms as she waddled forward with difficulties because both of her legs were wrapped tightly around the costume tails, only showing her ankles and feet.

“It’s a frikin’ dugong!” Loid exclaimed.

“Mermaid is actually a dugong, Papa! We need to stay to the science fact,” Anya deadpanned.

The audience started to laugh out loud when they saw “the mermaid”.

Loid felt his face reddened, and not just from the heat.

He kept reminding himself the reason why he did this embarrassing acting in the first place.

A week ago, Anya had come home and relayed the news about a probability of earning a stela star, should she win at the summer festival plays. Unfortunately, back to back missions had prevented him from assisting his daughter and Becky in preparing a play scenario, costumes, and props. He left supervision to Yor, but… now he started to question the decision.

This play scenario made no sense at all.

Plus, he wondered why Eden Academy thought it was a good idea to build the stage in the middle of their courtyard, under direct heat of summer sun, instead making it in their hall where surely there were aircons.

“Hang in there, o brave sailors…. I’ll come and save you….” Yor said her lines stiffly.

She then waddled for several steps towards Loid, but then she tripped and fell flat forward.

Out of reflex, Loid immediately stood up to help his wife, but then he was yanked backward by the buoy tied to a rope, and fell flat on his bottom.

Laughs from the audiences again could be heard.

Yor tried to get up, but the costumes hindered her from doing so. Anya then jumped down from the ‘ship’, approached her mother and tried to help her to no avail.

Loid removed the buoy from his neck, and hurriedly helped his wife to stand. He then noticed how crimson his wife’s face was, and she was sweating profusely.

“You okay?” He whispered.

“..m fine…” Yor whispered back, then she continued her line, “Look…. The magic island appears!”

“Oh!!” Anya then ran to the ‘island’ stage, and lifted up an Aladdin lamp, “I found the treasure!!”

"Huh?" Loid raised his brows, "Magic lamp?"

Captain Anya then started to rub the lamp, and with a dramatic puff of smoke, Becky the genie appeared. She was using a very cute simple summer dress.

“Now there’s a genie?” Loid muttered under his breath, while Yor giggled and whispered, “A very cute one.”

“O brave souls, I shall grant three of your wishes!” Becky said her lines proudly.

“Please give me the most priceless treasure of all time!” Anya then said her first wish.

“Your wish is my command!” Becky then moves her arms dramatically, “Now I’ll marry Mr. Forger, and become your mom!”

Loid gawked, “Huh?”

The black haired girl then ran towards Loid, but before she reached him, she was pulled at the side by his daughter.

“Becky!! You’re supposed to turn my mom into a princess!” Anya whispered to her friend.

“But I want to marry Mr. Forger!”

“Aren’t you supposed to grant my wishes?”

“Yes! And I shall become your mom!”

“I want you as my best friend! I already have a mom! Becky, please stick to the scenario!!” Anya pleaded to her best friend.

The black haired girl sighed, and finally relented, “Fine…. Behold the princess mermaid!!”

On her que, the puff of smoke filled the stage. Loid saw Yor squirming and tugging from inside her costume.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I’m stuck!” his wife whined.

“I’ll rip this costume open then.”

“No! No! Loid, stop! You’ll ruin the dress!”

“You mean you’re wearing another costume inside that?!” he bewilderedly asked.

“I’m supposed to transform into a princess,” she whispered back and struggled even harder. Loid noticed how Yor started to sweat even more and breath heavily.

Unfortunately, the smoke cleared out before Yor managed to shed the dugong costume, and she can only cringed at her failure. She then mouthed her apology to Anya.

Fortunately, the kid immediately thought of an improvised line, and shouted to the audience, “And thus, The Pirate Captain got her most valuable treasure: a family! The Prince as the Father, The Dugong Princess as the Mother, and the Genie as her best friend. They all live happily ever after!”

“Wait, now I’m the prince?? What kind of scenario is this?!” Loid facepalmed.

The audience aaaw-ed and gave them big applause.

All four of them bowed and the curtain closed.

They started to walk out of the stage, when Loid noticed Yor swayed and staggered. He reflexively steadied her.

“Sorry, I suddenly feel a bit dizzy….” she smiled sheepishly.

He frowned and in one swift motion carried his wife bridal style.

“Lo-...Loid!! Put me down!”

“I’m getting you out of this stupid costume right away, or you’re going to get a heat stroke!”

“Carry me too, Mr. Forger!”

“Becky!!”

Loid could only roll his eyes at the antics of these ladies, and hope that at least after enduring all this trouble and embarrassment, Anya would get the Stela Star.

Unfortunately for him, there were no promises of stella stars to begin with. It was just a rumour among the students.

But being able to perform with all of her family and BFF made Anya really happy.

So that one achievement was enough for him.

------------------

Ah… what parents would do for their children's happiness… at the end Anya was right. The most precious treasure IS family. But seriously, what did I just write? I have no idea. Just thrown in pure random things XD

Hope you enjoyed it though ^^

#spy x family #sxf #sxf fics #loid forger #anya forger #becky blackbell #yor forger #twiyor #slice of life #pirate AU #AUpril #comedy

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inforapound · 4 years ago

Text

Ease The Dawn Part 1 Alternate Ending - Ch.1

Thank you to those who messaged and expressed interest in this. Chapter 1 of this alternate ending begins at Chapter 14 of Part 1. A different outcome following Ivar’s accident. The first section is a bit repetitive. Part 1 Ease The Dawn is here - please remember it was my first piece of writing. This was a request from over a year ago.

Pairing - Ivar and Aethelswith Words - 3,400 (others aren’t this long)

Ivar's limp body was being dragged, his head slumped forward and his heavy limbs jostled as Hvitserk, and another warrior named Loni hauled him toward the tent. Heaving him along, both men grunted under the awkward weight of his slack body.

Rushing forward, Brana and Gussr ran to help, stopping to listen to Hvitserk's urgent orders. Paralyzed in place, Aethelswith watched the horrific scene before her. Unable to hold back, her eyes filled with tears and she cried out, pleading for an explanation as to what had happened.

The men dragged Ivar through the tent door, heaving him onto his bed and Loni rounded the far side to help Hvitserk roll him onto his back. As if moving in slow motion, Aethelswith approached the foot of the bed and scanned his wet clothes and his ash coloured skin void entirely of colour... of life. His lips were deep violet and his eyes were peacefully closed.

"Is he dead?" she covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the burn of another wave of tears in her eyes.

Crouching forward, Hvitserk brought his ear to Ivar's mouth before dropping down and pressing his ear to his chest. His eyes darted side to side listening for sounds of life. Glancing up to Aethelswith, he nodded.

"He is little dead. Little heart. Little breathe," he answered in a thick accent, using the best english he knew.

Pushing through the tent flap, Brana and Gussr hurried in, carrying large rocks; Brana held one, while Gussr managed four. They placed them into the crackling fire and fast words began flowing between the men. Aethelswith's eyes dashed between them, hopelessly attempting to understand. Nodding, Brana approached Aethelswith, tipping her head close.

"Ivar insisted they cut across the frozen lake instead of following the shore back to camp. To save time and return before dark." Pausing, Brana listened to the men continuing to talk. "It sounds like the weight of his chariot broke the ice and he went into the water." She paused again. "It took time to get him out. The ice kept cracking. Ivar's horse and chariot were lost."

Reaching forward, she squeezed Aethelswith's arm. "The Prince is dying from the cold water, My Lady."

The ghastly image of Ivar thrashing in the broken ice flashed through Aethelswith's mind. Her eyes widened and she shook her head unable to process what Brana had told her.

"We must warm him," she whispered, "quickly."

Nodding, Brana returned to the fire and began laying sheets of thick canvas down flat on the ground, layering one on top of the other.

Rounding the bed, Aethelswith stood beside Hvitserk.

"We must undress him."

Hvitserk raised his eyebrows clearly not understanding.

"Remove his wet clothes," she explained, using her arms to motion.

Brana, glancing over her shoulder from the fire, rushed a fast translation for the men. Hvitserk's expression went slack and he nodded his agreement.

Crawling onto her knees beside Ivar, Aethelswith reached for the bindings on his legs. Not wearing his braces in the chariot, his legs were bound tight by leather ties in three places. Her shaky hands fumbled with the first knot and Loni leaned in, motioning for her to move, and pushed a knife under the tie above his knees, cutting them with a crisp snap. Loni set to work on the others moi before he slipped his knife down the front of Ivar's pants. Turning the blade up, he sliced the fabric from Ivar’s groin down to his boot making a smooth ripping sound while Hvitserk started on Ivar's chest armour.

Gussr returned to the tent wearing oversized thick gloves that Aethelswith recognized as the ones blacksmiths wore. Approaching, he quickly exchanged words with Brana before reaching into the fire and picking up one of the rocks. Lowering it onto the center of the linens spread on the ground, Brana wrapped the edges of the fabric around the rock, holding her hands still on either side as if gauging the heat. She nodded to Gussr and he picked up the bundle and headed to the bed.

Moving to her own bed, Aethelswith quickly gathered her fur and wool blanket and rushed back to the men, stopping in place at the sight before her. Void of all signs of life, Ivar lay flat, naked before all of them, looking like a corpse. The wrapped rock was placed high in the crook of his arm near his faint beating heart.

Taking a step closer, Aethelswith’s eyes raked over his immense torso, large shoulders and muscular chest. A small trail of dark hair stretched from his navel down to his displayed member and beneath his groin were his legs. Their appearance was shocking; thin and scrawny without any of the muscle of his upper body. His knees were enlarged and knobby, his thighs bowed with thins whispers of calves attached to misshaped ankles and puffy, swollen feet. The rounded soles, reminded Aethelswith of the feet of a baby with no defined arch or flat bottom, like an adult's from years of carrying the body's weight.

The form of his legs was not the only startling sight, it was their colour, causing her to gasp. They were grey, nearly blue with cold skin that looked like casing on uncooked meat. Biting the flesh on the inside of her cheek, she looked away fighting the urge to be sick.

"No," she cried to herself, shaking her head. She could not let him die like this, vulnerable and exposed, his chest barely moving with his shallow, sporadic breath.

Pushing past the men, she threw the wool blanket over his body, smoothing it around him, before adding and straightening the fur. Grabbing Ivar's furs from the ground beside, she piled those on top of the others. Brana lifted the stack of blankets at the foot of the bed and Gussr placed three more wrapped rocks around him.

Moving a stool from the table, Hvitserk dropped it beside the bed and sat, talking quickly to Loni and Gussr. Nodding, they hurried out of the tent following his orders.

Standing awkwardly at the end of the bed, Aethelswith just stared down at Ivar, waiting.

"Is he still breathing?" she asked quietly, looking over at Hvitserk.

Seeming to understand, he leaned forward hovering his ear over Ivar's mouth. Sitting back on the stool, he looked up.

"Small," he answered again in english.

The feeling of helplessness forced her to pace the small area in the tent, clutching her hands in front of her. Circling back and forth, she watched Brana heat the new load of rocks. Wanting to do more, she stepped back to the bed and dropped to kneel on the grass and began rubbing Ivar's legs through the layers and layers of blankets.

All this time, she thought, sharing one room and here she was running her hands over the most guarded part of his body. She nearly laughed at the horridness of the entire situation as if it could not be real. How could it be real?

Pulling back the furs to add another rock, Brana gasped and Aethelswith lurched over to see. White... his legs were white as bone and his feet had turned a deep blue with barely recognizable black toes. Hvitserk stood, grimacing as he bent closer to look and launched into Norse, shaking his head as he spoke to Brana.

"What is it? Please tell me." Aethelswith looked expectantly to Brana.

"Ivar's blood does not pass through his legs as well as it does the rest of him." Frowning, Brana looked back to the bed. "They may not warm."

Pushing herself up to stand, Aethelswith again stared down at Ivar. Tossing her shall onto the bed, she reached for the laces at her bust and began to untie and open the front of her dress; both Hvitserk and Brana watched her clearly confused.

"I will not sit and watch him freeze," she murmured, bringing each knee up and unstrapping her leather boots, pushing them off at the heels.

Unsure of what to say, Hvitserk stepped back from the bed, allowing her more space.

The cold air hit her skin as she let her dress fall to her feet leaving her standing in only her thin, sheer slip. Stepping around to the side of the bed, Hvitserk backed up further, knocking into Ivar's wooden table. Pulling back the heavy furs, she climbed into the bed beside him, sliding down his side and gasping as her skin made contact with his frigid body.

Ivar, she thought, the most powerful, fiery man she had ever known, now ice-cold. Shuddering, she closed her eyes remembering the heat that emanated from his large hand and sweet mouth the night she cut her thumb cleaning the fish.

Exhaling shakily, she looked up at his peaceful, pale face and slid her arm across his stomach, pulling herself closer against his body. Positioning her legs across his frozen ones, she pulled herself partially over him, resting her cheek on his cold broad chest. Taking another deep breath, she exhaled loudly, holding him as tight as her strength would allow.

Never did she believe she would be this close to him, a man she thought could never be hurt. She sighed loudly against his skin thinking that he was, in fact, human, made of flesh and blood like anyone else. Not the invincible, immortal she had built him up in her mind to be. Closing her eyes, she prayed; she prayed and she prayed. To her god and once through, she prayed to his.

She was aware that the tent flap opened and closed many times and that, at some point, the furs had been pulled back and careful hands had shifted her legs to replace the stones. She did not care who was in the tent or how long she had been there. Laying still, she closed her mind to the world and focused only on the sound of her breath and the slow beat of his tired heart, willing it to strengthen. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump... following him into the darkness, she drifted off to sleep.

—

Looking down at her bare feet standing on ice, she shifted her toes unable to feel the burn of its cold. Disorientated, she looked up and scanned her surroundings. She was alone, a short distance into a large clearing with tall frosted trees forming a heavy guard around the frozen lake she was on. The light was muted and the shadows from the forest were heavy, telling her it was that point in time between night and early morning. Large soft flakes of snow floated down through the air at a speed too gentle to be real. The utter silence buzzed in her ears and a huff from ahead snapped her from her daze.

A gasp slipped from her lips as she looked through the mist and across the ice. Standing in the center of the lake was a magnificent buck, broad and imperial, proudly holding high its enormous antlers. She was no huntress, but she could see fourteen points on it's large rack. He was impressive, terrifying and beautiful and seemed to be watching her. It had no reason to fear her and yet it seemed guarded.

He huffed again and his warm breath shot fog from his nose as he he jerked his head forward with a snort. Shaking the mange of hair on his neck, he straightened, again standing tall and continued to assess her.

Tilting her head to one side, she watched him back, unsure if he was sending a message and wondering how such a majestic creature had evaded death to reach such a size. His sheer scale and immense rack would be the obsession of any man who had ever held a weapon but his evasive ways were surely his method of escaping a violent end.

Suddenly, he whined and dipped his horns, snorting loudly making her think that she should run away, but she did not. She stood still like a statue, eyes locked with his, feeling the sensation of recognition as she stared into his dark eyes.

A sound from behind caused her to turn and look at the edge of the forest. A man stood utterly motionless on the ice. His face was not visible from the shade of the hood on his dark cloak, over which, he wore a vest of chainmail. Standing with his arms raised, he held a bow, the string stretched taut, the arrow aimed directly at the stag.

Gasping, she turned back to the beast, watching him grow more agitated. Snorting and huffing, dipping his head, he bucked the ice with the tips of his antlers. Rearing up on his hind legs, he slammed his hooves down, a sharp crack sounded, followed by the groan of shifting ice.

Looking back to the hooded man, Aethelswith saw that his stance had not changed. She turned back to the stag who slammed his front hooves a second time, grunting an angry groan while the ice beneath cracked further.

"No," she cried to the animal. "Be still. Please."

Turning back to the man at the edge of the forest, she called out.

"Do not do this. Let him live. I beg you."

The bow and arrow held steady and the head of the hooded man turned to look at her dead on. There was no face, only a void of black. Slowly looking back to the stag, his hand on the string pulled.

"No!" Aethelswith screamed, stepping forward to run. With arms raised in the air, she was knocked sharply in the chest, falling forward to her knees.

Mouth open and eyes wide, she made no sound, somehow unable to scream. Reaching up, she touched her chest, feeling the embedded arrow, the pain hot like fire, stabbing through her. Gazing down, she realized she was wearing her white marital dress, soaked in deep red blood. Falling forward onto her hands, the crimson drops pooled on the surface of the ice looking nearly black.

A loud crack rang through the silence followed by a squeal as the stag broke through the frozen lake, crashing into the cold water below. Frothing at the mouth and breath heaving, he thrashed violently in the water, his eyes wild, as he fought, unable to lift his front hooves above the thick edge.

She could do nothing, only watch as he grunted frantically, struggling in the frigid water. After sometime, and her still unable to move, his movements slowed as exhaustion and cold set in. Beginning to tire, he caught his chin on the edge of the broken ice, his head and antlers the only parts visible above the freezing water. Snorting, his cries quieted and his groans became weak and even at a distance, she could see the fear drain from his dark, round eyes.

"I will not leave you," she whispered, slumping onto her side, lowering her cheek to the ice below. The cold bit at her skin as she lay helplessly watching the beautiful stag slip away, down into the darkness, until he was completely gone.

"I am sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes, listening to footsteps coming toward her, crunching over the fresh snow.

—

"My Lady?"

A hand shook her shoulder and she startled awake. Lifting her cheek from his skin, her eyes worked to adjust to the dim tent now lit by burning candles. It was night.

Immediately looking at Ivar, she could see, even in the dull light, small rounds of colour in the center of his cheeks, his lips now a light shade of pink. Shifting her lower limbs, she could feel that his legs were cold but not frozen as they had been.

Brana was bending over her speaking in a soft voice and Aethelswith rubbed her face, attempting to clear the fog of her dream.

"My Lady, come eat something. Please." She motioned with her hands to the table.

"The stones... can we change them?" she asked instead.

"We did not long ago. We will again soon."

"Thank you."

"My lady, you must drink something. Water? Shall I bring it to you here?"

"Yes, thank you." Aethelswith swallowed realizing how dry she felt.

Pulling away from Ivar, she sat up, the cold air on her bare arms and shoulders causing her to shiver. She wanted to return to his side under the blankets.

Taking the cup from Brana, she drank quickly, emptying it and handed it back with an appreciative nod. Her eyes returned to him, studying his features and listening to the sound of his breathing.

"Did he wake?" she looked back up to Brana.

"He stirred but did not wake."

"His legs?" she asked.

"They are better than his toes," Brana replied evenly. "A healer will likely need to remove them."

Shaking her head, Aethelswith breathed out slowly.

"But he lives,” Brana touched her arm, giving her a smile. "Thanks to you."

Aethelswith turned to look at her. "No Brana, thanks to you."

With a flat smile, Brana nodded back.

"Would you like me to collect more furs and make up your bed?"

"I will stay here," Aethelswith replied, shimmying back down beside him, pulling the blankets back up to cover them both. Resting her face back against his chest, she wrapped her arm over is now warm stomach and her leg over his. He lives, she thought, as she closed her eyes and allowed the smell of his skin and steady breathing to carry her back off to sleep.

—

In the suspended space between dreams and the reality of the present, his body felt adrift and behind his closed eyes flickered images of her heart-shaped face. Aethelswith....

In the distance and filtering through were the sounds of muted voices and the morning calls of birds announcing a new day, as if it were like any other, but above all, there was one faint, repetitive sound that drew him in like an arrow hitting straw. It was her…. her soft, sweet breathing, so close, it sounded as if it were inside him. On top of that, the delicate scent of roses and the warmth he felt against his one side drew him up toward to the surface, his skin even ahead of his mind knowing that she lay draped over him, asleep.

He did not dare move or crack open an eye, even wince from the pain that felt like flames searing his feet and legs. He just lay still and like fitting together the jagged pieces of something broken, his mind worked, struggled, to recount the events that placed her in his arms. The images, although fractured; cracking the reigns, driving his skittish horse over the frozen lake, his eyes fixed on the tree line, anxious to return before dark were all that remained of his black memory.

Whatever had occurred, it was surely the Gods who had placed her in his bed, placed her tiny body to his, her perfect face to the skin of his chest. Some reward or distraction from the pain that, by the breath, was growing unbearable. Yet he would bear it...bear it or risk unsettling what he was unable to fully believe could be true - that she was there by his side giving him his first taste of peace.

----

She woke to the feeling of a heavy arm around her, squeezing, a large hand on her lower back radiating heat. Ivar cleared his throat and Aethelswith’s head shot up and she looked at his closed eyes, his brows creased together as he began to cough and hack as if his lungs were being used for the first time. Instinctively, her hand slid higher to rest on his smooth, muscular chest like somehow her touch could soothe him. And, it seemed to.

Shifting away, she turned toward the edge of his bed and pushed herself up as his arm, still around her, tensed, his hand stopping her, holding her in place. She could feel the tips of each of his fingers pressing into to the soft skin above her hip like they, somehow on their own, had discovered that her thin, sheer slip was the only barrier.

Sucking in a breath, she turned back and looked at his questioning face, his eyes open just enough to see out. He somehow looked older and so, so weak, like he had been walking with death while the heavens were deciding whether to take him. Their eyes stayed locked but neither said a word. She felt confronted, conflicted, but above all grateful that he was awake and she was there.

“Stay,” he tried to whisper but it came out as a rasp. His eyes opened wider in what she thought looked like a wordless plea.

“I must go…” she heard herself whisper but realized she was already lowering herself back down toward him, her body not giving her mind a moment to object. Nudging closer, she carefully lay her cheek against his warm skin, her hand finding its place on his chest.

And there they stayed, under the sloped ceiling of their canvas life, their bodies easing and their breathing falling into rhythm and with every slow exhale, all regard for the world beyond faded away. Together, they again, surrendered to sleep.

@youbloodymadgenius @naaladareia @whenimaunicorn @ceridwenofwales @funmadnessandbadassvikings @didiintheblog @londongal2810 @hecohansen31 @blonddnamedhandz @fields-and-fields-of-poppies @redama @where-beauty-goes-to-die @shannygoatgruff @kittybites-94 @ivarsgoddess @lordsexmachine

#ease the dawn #ease the dawn alternate ending #Ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar fanfiction #ivar romance #ivar love #Ivar and Aethelswith

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v-velvetykisscs · 4 years ago

Text

Safety Net

Note: here’s the update after two months. I’m so sorry, I’ve been going through personal stuff and school has been stressing me out like crazy. Hope you like this !!

Chapter 2:

My heartbeat is ringing in my ears. I watch the figures in the passenger seat attentively, whilst inhaling deeply and exhaling once again. 10 minutes have passed inside of this car, and not a single word has been spoken by Historia or either of the people in the driver and passenger seat. My palms are moist and a warm rush passes through my body. I dig my nails into the soft, damp skin of my palms. My eyes divert to the window of the car, following the fleeting street lights with my eyes before screwing my eyes shut. I'm going to be sick. This dread has formed a coiled-up knot in my stomach, I fear it'll travel up my throat and out.

"What is this?" I state firmly.

Historia turns her head away from her black ballet flats to look at me, rigid strands of her golden hair falling onto her face. Her eyes widen and her eyebrows furrow. She purses her lips as she looks away from me.

I stare furiously into the rear-view mirror.

"Who are you guys?"

The man in the driver's seat, pushes his glasses down onto the bridge of his nose and makes eye contact with me. His dark, thick eyebrows are relaxed and his chocolatey eyes pour indirectly into mine.

"So she didn't tell you."

I've seen those eyes somewhere.

"No, why would I be asking?"

As if on cue, he stops at the red light, turning around slowly.

"She's a feisty one, Krista."

He sports a light brown messy hair-do and leather jacket as a replacement for the white shirt, brown waistcoat and black bow tie.

"What the fuck?! I recognise you, you're the bartender I spoke to back there."

"I'm Jean, Sugar Cube." he smirks, quirking an eyebrow.

I spare him a glance before waiting for the other to speak.

"And I'm Armin." A shorter, skinnier man speaks quietly before turning to give me a small smile. He has short, straw-blonde hair and dusty blue eyes.

"Nice to meet you, although this doesn't answer my question."

The red-light fades to green and Jean turns around and pushes the pedal, resuming his driving.

I focus on Historia again, waiting for her to give me a response.

"I swear I was going to tell you-"

"And I was there to make sure that she would, but when I realised you ran into trouble, I got my baby ready for a swift escape." Jean intervenes.

"Who do you work for?"

"I work at Yeager Corporations, Jean and Armin are my colleagues."

"And where are they taking us?"

"The HQ. It's the safest place at the moment." Armin butts in promptly.

"You obviously don't know the first thing about me but I would definitely feel much safer within the walls of my house."

"I'm sure anyone would, but right now we need to make it to HQ, where the boss will know what to do."

...

I eye the pair as they slam the front doors of the vehicle and walk to either side of the car to prompt the doors open for us.

I huff, snatching my messenger bag up from the floor, reaching for the door handle. I hold onto it. Jean notices and frowns a little. He speaks loud enough for me to hear him through the glass with a muffle. "Allow me." he insists. I let go of the door handle and wait for him. He moves to the side and I step out of the car. "Thank you" I fix the neat rows of cars parked opposite us instead of making eye contact.

Historia falls behind and walks besides me.

"Why didn't you tell me anything?"

"Because there's more to it."

"God you sound so morbid. Look, I've covered your ass more times than I seem to recall, so nothing you do shocks me. I know you better than anyone else."

"But this is different."

I pause.

"Different how?"

"We're nearly there, ladies."

"Alright Jean."

She wobbles forward as she tries to walk faster than before to avoid resuming our conversation. I glance at her injured foot; her ankle is bruised and battered with purple and blue. It looks as if it's swelling. I move up next to her and hold her arm, putting it gently around my shoulder to support her. I look away from her. There's an elevator. The boys pause and we walk a few more steps. Armin's finger skims over the numbers. He pushes the button. After a while, the metallic doors slide open smoothly.

Stepping out of the lift, Armin strides forward, his shoes clunking somewhat gracefully onto the white marble tiles. Jean follows quickly behind, not wanting to be the one left behind to tail the group. He puffs his chest out, straightening his posture to make himself seem taller and more intimidating. He turns and gives me a side smirk, but I scoff and roll my eyes, not allowing myself to associate with that heathen. Historia places a hand on your shoulder almost comfortingly, ushering you to follow behind Armin and that cocky bastard Jean. I exhale defeatedly, having no choice but to follow along and play their stupid little game. Historia whimpers, her ankle still being in moderate pain and currently untreated. This left her hopeless at the back, hopping along and trying to keep up with everyone else's paces. I check back on Historia every so often to make sure she's okay, and the lift door shuts, leaving only the cityscape lights to illuminate the room. I think to myself for a moment, how blindingly bright it must be here on a sunny day, the room being mostly white, and white being a reflective colour. Is that why mafia bosses wear sunglasses? I guess we'll never know. Focusing myself again, I turn back around to face the backs of Armin and Jean, whispering to one another, Armin occasionally glancing back at me.

"So.. where are we going?" I ask, feeling quite awkward being sandwiched between these weirdos. There was no response from either of them. Only the low chatter and the monotonous sound of a few keyboards typing away filled the silence. In fact, they both stopped whispering and continued to walk. I narrow my eyes, balling my hands into a fist and beginning to pierce my skin with my nails.

"Hello? I know the two of you aren't fucking deaf." This was a bold move from me, adrenaline rushing through my body as my anger levels continued to rise, them both still ignoring me. These fuckers. I look back at Historia hopelessly, asking for assistance with my eyes. She just stares back blankly at me, trying to keep her own balance whilst walking, leaving me to debate whether I should just throw a tantrum in the middle of the workroom, there and then, oblivious to the consequences.

"What the FUCK is this." I raise my voice this time, close to a yell. They both stop and look at each other, then turning back around to me. The sound of Historia's shoes stopped behind me. I gulped, looking up at the two of them. "Our workroom." Armin would finally reply, scarily calm.

Jean intervenes "It's our condo. We make business here, We drink and eat and socialise. No need to get so worked up, you little lemon. We're nearly there."

I let a short, humourless laugh escape, pulling my lips into a horrid smile. Jean smiles, unbothered by my sour attitude. "Bye Hitch!" Jean exclaims, waving at someone; a woman, in chunky, leather Dr. Martens black boots, red fishnet tights, a red lingerie silk dress with a khaki green jacket. She's carrying a black duffel back over her shoulder. She waves back at him with her free hand, smirking. "You have a goodnight" he says to himself. We make a right turn, down a corridor, past white office doors with plastic plaques. We walk past a red haired man, sliding a piece of paper with printed lettering through one of the transparent plates. "Still on prep duty I see, Floch." Jean blurts as he passes the man.

"Shut up Horseface." he retorts bitterly, sparing a quick glance at me before returning to his job. A few steps away sits a nameless mahogany door. Armin takes a nimble step forward, knocking on the door softly. When no one responds, Jean twists the door handle, leaving the door ajar. He slips through and we follow. The room is illuminated by a dim light dangling from the ceiling, above a round, oak table. The table is littered with playing cards, 3 cans of coke and 3 open packets of potato chips on the surface, crumbs splayed all over. The space smells of cheap lavender diffuser. Two people are sitting at the table, simultaneously turning their heads around to look at the commotion. One of them- a woman- with long brown hair, tied back in a dishevelled ponytail and beige skin, has potato chips crumbs on her face. Her chocolate eyes widen at the sight of us. The other, a man- has a buzz cut with prominent, light green eyes that mirror the woman's expression.

"Oh- Jean! We didn't expect you to pay us a visit. Otherwise I might've thought about saving you some of these." The woman admits, her tone guilty as she looks down at the empty, open crisps packets.

"Oh spare me the apology Sasha, these things have a lot of calories in them anyway. I was hoping you'd know where I can find Jaeger."

"Jaeger? He should be in his office, working late." The man adds.

"Thanks Connie."

Connie nods, craning his neck and swinging his chair back, his hands holding the table as he gazes at me curiously.

"Who's this?"

"Y/n, Y/n L/n." I respond before Jean can

Sasha laughs loudly, seeming to have heard that.

We've now walked back to the main lobby and steered towards a set of a coiling staircase. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing Historia's arm gently. " I'm not letting you go further in the state you're in." I eye Armin, his eyes already fixated on me. "Will you please take care of her?"

Armin nods sharply, walking towards Historia.

"Y/N, I'm okay-" She begins, but I turn around beginning to walk up the steps. "Lead the way" I ordered Jean. At the top, Jean saunters over to a pair of opaque double doors. Next to those are 3 velvet cushion chairs. I stare at him as he brings his fist up on the door, to knock gently.

I gulp.

"Come in." a voice from within says clearly, with a neutral tone.

#fanfic #snk #writing #eren yeager #eren x reader #smut #mafia au #aot s4 #aot #hot #safety net

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witchygagirlwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Cant Love You Back

*Not My Gif*

Because the song was stuck in my hand and apparently I am a fucking narcissist that loves pain so here ya go. @gottaboopthesnoot

There was a time in Kelly's life he was simply coasting through. He'd bust his ass at work then either go home to an empty apartment or go get drunk and go home with a girl whose name he had forgotten by the time he left her place.

That changed the day Chief Boden announced fifty one was getting a new addition. You stood at the front of the room as Boden introduced you. Kelly offered you his hand and from the moment you smiled at him he felt something start to flutter inside him he had never dreamt of giving the light of day.

You fit in as if you'd been a part of the team from the start. Everyone that met you seemed to be drawn to you, Kelly worse of all. He'd find himself scanning for you after a tough call just to see for himself you were fine. After shift would end he'd make any excuse to spend more time with you

--------------------

"So when are you gonna bite the bullet and ask her out?" Matt asked after watching Kelly follow you around like a puppy for two solid months.

When Kelly cut his eyes at him he raised both hands defensively "Just saying man. It's painfully obvious how you feel. I can't blame you she's a great woman and beautiful. I think she feels the same but you're her Lieutenant and she's not going to admit anything that may make her seem as if she's ladder climbing"

"That you or Gabby talking?" Kelly asked looking out into the bay where you were currently helping Gabby and Sylvie restock their rig. "Little bit of both. I'm just saying Kelly you've changed since she got here and it's not bad changes. Go with your gut. It's never led you wrong"

Kelly felt Matt patt his shoulder before hearing his footsteps walk away. Had he changed that much since meeting you? When he thought about it he didn't remember the last time he'd drank over a couple beer and he'd been content with an empty bed knowing he'd see you the following shift

You threw him off balance in the best way possible. You wouldn't blink an eye going into a fire but volunteered in the n.i.c.u. on your days off. You were a perfect combination of that fire he'd always crave and the peace that he desperately needed.

Hearing your laughter drew him out his thoughts and he glanced up to see you walking into the common room laughing about something Slyvie had said. When your eyes met his you smiled even further "Hey Kelly" "Hey Y/N can i talk to you for a minute?" The moment he asked Slyvie and Gabby shared a look then made up some excuse to be scarce.

"What's up?" You asked smiling up at him and Jesus christ he felt like a teenager with their first crush "You think you may wanna grab dinner with me sometime?" "Kelly Severide are you asking me out?" You questioned and he nearly blushed "Yeah?" You took a step closer to him and leaned up to leave a kiss on his cheek "good cause I am doing absolutely nothing Friday night and I have a new outfit sitting in my closet that desperately needs to see the light of day"

"About frickin time!" Both of you both turned when you heard Mouch who was sitting on the couch watching t.v. but it was apparent he'd seen your exchange. "Excuse me?" You asked with a laugh so Mouch shrugged "I had the two and a half month mark in the betting pool"

Your mouth fell open in shock and Kelly couldn't help but laugh when you recovered enough to say "That's it! I'm calling sergeant Platt!" and Mouch started backtracking trying his best to apologize but you winked at Kelly then ran off already dialing on your phone.

--------------------

Kelly pulled up in front of your apartment building around seven and slowly walked inside. Your apartment was on the second floor so headed for the elevator while he sent you a text that he was on the way up.

By the time he stepped off the elevator you were standing in the hall waiting on him. You were wearing black ankle boots with a black dress and a red leather jacket. Your hair was down in loose curls around your face and he'd never seen a more beautiful sight. "Wow" he breathed and a smile spread across your face "Does that mean you like?" He nodded quickly "Very much"

--------------------

The night went by too quick in Kelly's opinion. The two of you went to dinner and a movie then stopped at Molly's for a drink before he took you home. When he walked in with his arm around your waist it just felt right. Otis slid two drinks across the bar with a smile "These are from Mouch and Trudy" you leaned back in your seat and spotted the two so you raised your bottle to them with a smile then turned back to Kelly "So Severide I was going to wait until you take me home but you owe me a kiss. I mean i technically kissed you first"

"Is that right?" He asked with a smirk that only deepened when you said "oh yeah definitely. I mean I've heard that you're some sort of ladies man yet all night the furthest you've went is home my hand or putting your arm around me" he cut you off mid sentence with a kiss. The kiss was gentle, barely a brush of the lips but when he pulled back a smile was on both of your faces "So does that mean this is going to be more than one date?" He asked and was answered by you grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss.

-------------------------

The first time you told Kelly you loved him was after a huge fight between the two of you. You'd been staying at his place more and more so he was on the verge of asking you to move in but it just so happened a friend of yours had stopped by the firehouse to catch up. That friend just so happened to be male and Kelly's jealousy flared up.

The night had ended with you storming out of his apartment slamming the door behind you. You didn't answer any of his calls or texts and when he came over to your place you opened the door long enough to say "Kelly if you care about me at all you'll leave"

The next day he was miserable walking into fifty one. He spotted your car and prayed you'd talk to him but you stayed close to either Gabby and Sylvie or once they left on a call you walked over to where Herrman was sitting and struck up a conversation with him.

A call came out for an apartment fire with civilians trapped. Kelly was watching you take your orders from Matt and wanted nothing more than to tell you to be safe before you went in but didn't want to distract you if you were still upset. You started to walk past him but stopped just long enough to say "I love you Kelly" then jogged to catch up with your crew who were headed in. He had just a few seconds to process what you'd said before heading in the other entrance with Cruz.

The moment the building was cleared you were outside helping roll the hoses up. Kelly had just got through talking with Matt and chief Boden when he saw you. He caught your hand when you bent down to pick up another hose and the moment your eyes met his he said "I love you too. I'm sorry i was a jealous asshole. I've just never felt this way" you rolled your eyes but the smile you had told him all he needed to know even before you said "Good because neither have I. I'm not going anywhere Kelly"

----------------------

You and Kelly were coming up on your two year anniversary. Your present had been sitting in the top drawer of his dresser for weeks. Gabby had went with him to help pick out what cut and style of ring she thought you'd like and of course she'd somehow managed to find out your ring size as well.

He had everything planned. Where he was going to take you, what he was going to say. The thing about plans is that sometimes the unexpected happens.

--------------------

The call had been simple enough. A warehouse had caught fire on the south side. You'd went in with Matt to clear the base floor where a few workers were trapped. You were following close behind Matt "Fire Department call out!" The haze of smoke was bad enough you could barely see in front of you.

You took another step and heard the crack right before your footing gave way. One moment you were falling the next you felt a sharp pain rip through your abdomen. You looked down to see a piece of rebar sticking out an inch above your navel. Your hands were shaking as you touched the wound trying to apply pressure but the slightest movement ripped a scream from your lips. "Y/N!" You could hear Matt's voice and knew you just had to hold on.

A moment later you heard him across the radio "Floor collapsed. Y/N's hurt. I need assistance" when his face appeared next to you the look on your face told you everything you needed to know about your injury. "Matt if something happens. Help Kelly please" you begged him your only thoughts being what would happen to the man you loved. Gabby told you how bad he'd gotten about Shay had been killed. You didn't want him falling in that hole. "Hey don't talk like that. You'll be fine. Your anniversary is in two weeks you'll be on your feet by then"

Matt's hand found yours and gripped it tight. You could hear voices and knew everyone was working their way to you.

Kelly was fighting to get inside to your side but Boden called him back "You'll be in the way. Let them get her out then you can ride with them to med" it took everything in him to not argue. The moment he saw Cruz and Capp emerge he ran to your side feeling himself weaken when he saw how severely injured you were.

"Hey baby" you managed weakly as he climbed into the ambulance next to you while Gabby worked to stop the flow of blood. "Hey beautiful" he said with a smile that was marred by the tears flowing down his face. Every bump the ambulance hit caused a grimace to flash across your face. "Kelly I don't want to die" you whispered right as your grip on his hand loosened and the heart monitor on you flat lined.

--------------------

"If love could have saved Y/N she would have lived forever. Love from her aunt and uncle who raised her, from her family at firehouse fifty one and from her loving boyfriend. Sadly fate as it seemed had other plans. We don't know why she was taken from us so soon and as we grieve today may the loving warmth of her spirit live on in all of us she held close"

Kelly sat in the front of the church staring at the photo of you that had been chosen. Those eyes he loved looking into that never opened again after you whispered how you didn't want to die. That smile that always made even his worse day better that he'd never see again. He never got to ask you to marry him. He never got to see you pregnant with his child. He'd never get to tell you again just how much you meant to him.

He'd love you every day for the rest of his life. If only he could manage to love you back to this world then maybe his heart wouldn't feel like it had been ripped out his chest the moment you took your last breath.

#kelly severide x reader #chicago fire fanfic #one chicago fanfic #kelly severide x you #kelly severide fanfiction

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seilune · 4 years ago

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Seilune’s Body Aesthetic

Bold what applies. Italicize what sometimes applies.

[ BODY ] Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Toned thighs. Soft Thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Toned arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Small waist. Average waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Narrow shoulders. Broad shoulders. Average shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight. Big ears. Slim Ears

[ HEIGHT ] Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. (147.32 cm) 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m

[ SKIN ] Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Moles. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scars. Birthmarks

[ EYES ] Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Violet. Pink. Green. Gold. Hazel. Amber. Crimson. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Deep-set. Squinty. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

[ HAIR ] Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Afro. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Past hip-length. Buzz cut. Bald. Weave. Hair extensions. Jaw length. Layered. Mohawk. Dreadlocks. Box braids. Faux locks. White (Silver). Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Blonde. Strawberry Blonde. Ombre. Ash brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Red. Auburn. Green. Dyed. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows. Plucked eyebrows.

[ TATTOOS / PIERCINGS ] Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. Back tattoo. Shoulder blade tattoo. One tattoo. Two tattoos. Face tattoo. Hand tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoos. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercings. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Top of the ear. Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretched out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

[ COSMETICS ] Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Nude lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears war paint from time to time. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Rarely wears make-up. Never wears make up. Wears awesome masks!

[ SCENT ] Floral. Herbal. Earthy. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather. Fur. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Cold. Fresh. Metal. Rain. Chemicals. Wood.

[ CLOTHES ]Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/Form-fitting dress. Cardigans. Tunic. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports-T-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Leather jacket. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. High slit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Waistcoat. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers/Boxer-Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Bikini. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Light colors. White. Black. Dark colours. Fur/Fauxfur. Revealing clothing. Heavy armor. Medium armor. Light Armor. Magnificent hats. Dumb Hats.

[ SHOES ] Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes. Leather boots. Steel-Toed Boots.

Tagged by: @mythraltia on my FFXIV blog. Thank you!

Tagging: @shatteredevocation @unabashedrebel @lunethdawnseeker @wildname @dardillien-ward @mothervvoid @veari @suramarelf @sentinel-lovi @nimuehdraemberfury @eleeria @flamehaired @oathkeeperblackdawn @grandpa-swagger @eluari @ratonwolfmane @leahdarkspear @josiehastings @kat-hawke @zaennicus @anierous-sunblade @jinx4karma @jiraki-the-hybrid @felthier @fel-temptation @celassa @lady-elizriel @jack-of-all-trades-ffxiv @draenei-tales @barirnshadowwind @shamanofthewilds @karangafeatherspear @hazriels @windup-astra @elezendad @hadleythefox @thalsianiii @mist-and-sparks @ithaerielbrenagh @thedudeffxiv @kiyi-ghale and anyone else who would like to do it. Feel free to tag me! xo

#dash games #muse info #seilune #seilune astrande

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bates--boy · 4 years ago

Text

One would think that in such a restaurant bar such as this, -- a branch-off of a four-star tourist-trap hotel, a hub of travel-weary businesspeople and high school socialites with fake IDs, all in top-brand suits and casuals and shoes -- the drinks would be the nectar milked from the teats of whatever deities represented alcoholic drinks.

But they’re shit. They’re absolute shit.

Still, Peter sat hunched over his glass of gin, musing without amusement how it would be no different if he just went to any old convenience store with a medical shelf, buy a bottle of rubbing alcohol with a high isopropyl content and down that, instead. No, there would be one difference: it wouldn’t taste as watered-down.

He planted the slice of lemon in his mouth, nibbling it to mitigate some of the taste of disappointment, scrolling through his home feed to stave off the awful mood of being wrung dry by the bearded, buff barbarian in a sleek black button-up, and the faceless corporation that he worked for. But some part of him was looking to feed his foul mood, or maybe he was feeling adventurous, because he mulled over whether or not he should order a glass of champagne and keep the train of minor bad decisions going. It was the weekend, after all, and he wouldn’t need to be back to work for another week.

When he forced another sip of the gin down his throat, Peter was ready to decide against it when a flute appeared before him, anyhow. “Er...” Peter said, reaching for the waiter’s arm to stop him from popping open the bottle. “I didn’t order this.”

The waiter across the room. “Courtesy of the gentleman over there.”

Furrowing his brow, Peter turned his stool in the direction the server pointed out, ignoring the gentle pop of the undone cork and the hiss of bubbles.

Immediately, a hand rose above the crowd, the crystal whiskey glass capturing what light it could in this dimly-lit cave and twinkling many colors like a beacon in a gray sea.

Either the distance and the low lights must be to blame, or Peter must be forgiven for being mean, but the guy looked like a bore.

Average rectangular frame, his receding and lackluster dark hair snipped into a budget hair style, slacks that were reminiscent of the private high schools of every wild child’s nightmare. Only thing about the man that stood out (at least from across the room) was the well-worn leather jacket with its tarnished buckles, a vintage beauty that spoke to Peter’s tendency for nostalgia.

But a jacket ain’t enough to impress, so Peter turned back to the server to order him to take the drink back, only to find that the man had already disappeared, leaving the filled flute and the open bottle on the bar table.

“Ah, shit...” Peter mumbled. He picked up the flute and lifted it, lips curled in a half-assed grin to the “gentleman”, whose own face seemed to brightened. And then...

“Ah, shit!” Peter hissed under his breath as he watched the other man rise out of his seat god fucking damn it. And despite his attempt to look casual, the guy sure was legging it, a quarter of the way to Peter’s table by the time Peter had drained half the flute. And maybe the bubbles were getting to Peter’s head, because in the blink of an eye, the gentleman was easing himself onto the seat next to Peter, resting his elbows on the table, giving an oozing, schmoozing smile as Peter hurried to refill his glass.

“I had a feeling you’d like the top-quality stuff,” the gentleman said.

The “top-quality” stuff tasted like diet off-brand grape soda two years past its expiration date, but still... “Thank you,” Peter murmured. His gratitude was genuine; at least he wouldn’t have to waste money on what he knew was going to be an awful drink thanks to the generosity of the other man. That didn’t change the fact that he kept his head down, eyes on his phone screen, his voice soft from immediate withdrawal of this conversation.

Of course, the gentleman took it as modesty, and leaned in a bit closer. “You know, it’s been pretty hard finding a lady so refined around here.”

Peter almost choked on the drink, barely catching himself. He cleared his throat, reaching for the folded napkin left with the bottle to dab away the drops on his lips. Thank god for Vice lipstick.

Peter knew he could never hope for the rich baritone of James Earl Jones or Vin Diesel, but he had something, so he used it when he lifted his head and returned the gentleman’s grin. “Why, thank you, sir.” Then, he waited for the not-all-that-feminine deep voice to register on the other man’s voice, for the man’s eyes to go clear and see all the subtle masculine traits hidden underneath the fashion, like the beginnings of an angular jaw despite the youthful plump and rosiness of Peter’s cheeks, or the broadness of Peter’s lean shoulders to make up for the lack of bodybuilder muscles, or a chest that was flat beyond bee-sting A cups. He waited for...

Well, Peter didn’t know what reaction he was waiting for -- confused, maybe over-the-top like the man apologizing profusely or toppling from his chair to get away, or red in the face and foamy at the mouth, as if Peter’s mere existence in a dress was to cheat him out of an unrequested drink -- but he didn’t expect the heat in the man’s eyes to burn brighter, or the flash of white teeth as the man briefly nibbled his bottom lip.

For a moment, Peter froze, his mouth cinching close, his jaw locking, something besides the cheap grape juice curdling in his gut. He lowered the glass and tried to wade through the conflicting storms of his hunger for attention and the electrical fright that made him want to zap right out of the room. He gazed around, telepathically calling for an adult, any adult, to come intervene.

The man curled his fingers around Peter’s chin and tilted his head back to him, taking in Peter’s wider eyes and, once more, mistaking it for whatever Peter didn’t even want to know. The man’s brow quirked. He lowered his hand to Peter’s forearm. How can a hand be so dry yet so clammy? “I guess you don’t really do this often, do you?”

When Peter slowly and silently shook his head, something alit even brighter in the man’s eyes. “Wait... would I be the first?”

Peter would have answered, would have said “no”, not because he had experience with this before, but because he had no experience with this before and he wasn’t planning on doing so ever. But he was frozen further with shock, stunned at the eager in the question, as if the gentleman wanted a resounding “yes”. He swallowed against the tightness of his throat.

The gentleman chuckled before Peter could say anything. “Wow.... well, alright, then! Don’t worry, I can make your first time here splendid, so you know how to do this right. Do you want to name your price here, or over dinner, or in the room?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want--” He blinked, feeling his mouth fall open. “Wait, what?”

The gentleman reached over Peter to get the napkin. He flicked it open, and both of them watched as the plastic card with the hotel’s blue and lavender logo landed on the surface. The man picked up the key card, and the gleam on the man’s wrist finally caught Peter’s eyes. A large, silver watch studded with diamonds around the face. What also hadn’t passed Peter’s notice was the twinkle of the golden band around the other man’s finger.

The storm in Peter’s head brewed more violently, as fire burned under his skin and spread all over his face. He wondered what part of his ensemble -- a brown cashmere jacket, a baby blue skater dress, and black boots no taller than his ankles (wait, was it the fishnet stockings?!) -- gave this guy the idea that Peter was in that part of the field. He imagined that somewhere out there, a wife and two and a half kids were tucked away in a picket fence property, waiting for the return of this piece of shit. And enthralled by the fury that the last thought wrought, Peter developed an urge to throw the drink into this man’s face, followed by a fist with the full force of four tons of steel and concrete.

And centered in the wild storm, still and resolute like a shelter promising protection from the lethal weather, was another bad idea.

Peter kept his eyes wide, holding on to some semblance of his dissipating shock and confusion to help sell the act. He took another tentative sip of his drink. “Oh, well, okay. We can just go to your room, if you want. We can also make it a party if we have another one of these...” He picked up the open bottle and slowly swirled it, tilting his head.

The man nodded and raised a hand to grab the waiter’s attention.

---

Excitement set Peter’s fingertips tingling.

It came not from the bottle of champagne passed between himself and John (not really the guy’s name), nor from the smacking wet lips and the pawing hands John pressed against whatever part of Peter’s body he could reach (at least he had enough decency to not try to kiss Peter’s mouth). It came from the idea taking root within Peter’s skull. Through the buzz, Peter realized that the idea was a fuzzy picture that needed further development. So, he sharpened the image, turning it over as the two men stumbled arm-in-arm out the elevator and down the hall. A familiar stoicism settled in his chest as he tried to work out all the kinks, thought over the many ways this could go wrong and how to prevent them or weasel his way out of them. He felt like he was on the battlefield again in trying to make this foolproof.

That stony, removed feeling crumbled to dust when John stopped in front of a door and fumbled to stick his keycard in the slot with drunk hands. Oh shit, came the sobering thought once again. I’m really going to do this.

The door beeped and John reached behind him to grab Peter’s wrist. Peter let out a series of yelps as John tugged him inside, slammed the door shut, shoved Peter against the door, and locked him in place by tangling his legs with Peter’s legs and wrapping an arm around the small of Peter’s back. And then, to the Sealander’s utter, stomach-dropping horror, came the humping.

It shouldn’t have surprised Peter, since he knew what John was after, but to so suddenly be thumping against the wooden door while some drunkard ground...pound...rubbed? What was John even thinking he was doing? He was doing something with his pulsing ere..ction against Peters pelvis, and whatever it was, Peter’s body was stunned, the lights above them blinding his eyes as he tried to turn his head away, with a thought ringing loud:

I can’t do this.

Ican’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothis

And his fort called to him, ready to put some force in his fight whenever he was ready, reminding him that he had no need to succumb to the sickening, sinking terror and regret. And, oh, how much easier it would make things, to just bash John’s nose in or throat punch him, watch him struggle to breath until he fell unconscious, or punch him in the chest and hope that it was the right moment, the split second between heartbeats...

Then John’s other hand slid up the wall, and Peter caught the shine of his wedding band before John tangled his fingers into Peter’s hair, tugging to angle his head and expose his neck. The fear rot into anger, the anger into dogged and vengeful determination, as Peter felt John reach down to tug at his skirt, and slobber against his neck, “So, how much?”

Peter grabbed onto that moment of clarity, calmed himself with it to think clearly, and began wriggling and shifting his body until John was dry humping Peter’s outer thigh. He let out a flat p.or.n star moan, louder and more strained than John’s muffled grunting, and tugged at the shell of John’s ear with his teeth. “That depends, sweetheart: what do you want, and how long you can go.” And because he was feeling silly, he dropped one of the bottles -- it was mostly empty, anyway -- and used his free hand to smack the tragically tiny bump through John’s slacks that must have to pass for John’s ass cheek. It felt like hitting a brick wall.

But it worked. John backed off enough for Peter to guide them away from the door and to sit his gentleman caller on a nearby chair. He then mounted John’s lap with enough space between them that Peter wouldn’t feel John’s enthusiasm between his legs again, and wrenched the cork out of the second bottle with his teeth. John laid out his demands in a tone that sounded like suggestions, snaking a hand up Peter’s skirt. Peter tossed out some high bullshit numbers to demands he forgot the moment they were spoken, putting the bottle to John’s lips and taking John’s hand off his thigh to suck on one of his fingers (and hoping that the bathroom had complementary mouthwash). With the deal made and already forgotten on Peter’s part, Peter slid off John’s lap and unlaced his boots.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Peter said, toeing his footwear off and shrugging out of his jacket, “I’d like to get freshened up for you. Get the stuff ready for us?” When John tugged out a condom and packet of lube from his pocket with a nod, Peter skipped off to the bathroom.

He closed the door and went to the sink. He turned the water on, and then began the shakes. With trembling fingers and unsteady hands, Peter tried to splash cold water on his face, multiple times, and only stopped once the temperature made his teeth chatter worse and after getting water all over the sink top, the floor, and some of his hair that fell to his face. He straightened, yanking a hand towel from the rack and patting his face dry, then wetting a corner of it to wipe down his neck and collarbone and legs, not caring that it was wetting his stockings as long as the feeling can be scrubbed off.

The towel dropped to the floor; Peter searched frantically for the mouthwash and, finding it, guzzled half the tiny bottle and swishing it until it burned into his gums. He spat, and felt so awful for the housekeeper who will have to come in and clean his mess, but when he straightened from the bowl and looked at the mess reflected in the mirror, Peter’s focused was on one thing:

He was going to do this.

He was already nauseous, still stunned by the feel of another man’s erection to the point of being dizzy, but he was in a foul enough mood to want to go through with it.

So, he left the bathroom, finding John standing in the middle of the room, holding a phone to his ear.

“--sweetie, I’ll be home in a couple days, then we can take that vacation.”

Peter approached John’s back, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as he pressed himself against John’s jacket, nestled his chin on John’s shoulder, and ran his palms up and down John’s thighs (not exactly touching anywhere near the pitch tent) then his hips, and then the brick wall that was his ass. It felt mechanical, like Peter playing airport security, but the grazing hands were enough to draw out a sharp gasp from his... client.

“Listen, I’ll have to call you tomorrow, I need to get some rest for tomorrow’s meeting. Love you, bye!”

John tossed the phone on the bed. He gave a shiver as Peter’s hands roamed higher and massage his chest through his shirt.

Peter kissed John’s shoulder through the jacket. “Hey, you promised me that you’ll make my first time doing this splendid, right?” he murmured.

“Mhm,” John moaned.

Peter nuzzled his nose along the back of John’s neck, breathed on it, whispering, “Well... what if I don’t want splendid? What if I want real? What if I want...” he disguised the chuckle over this utter bullshit as a breathy, needy moan. “Wild?”

John furrowed his eyebrows. “Wild?”

Peter grabbed the jacket’s lapels and yanked them back, wrenching the fabric down until it bunched messily around John’s wrist and bound them behind his back. This could have gone south quickly; maybe John wasn’t into bondage, maybe he was repulsed by it. Maybe he found the idea infuriating, that some fresh-faced streetwalker new to the game and too stupid to ask for money upfront thinks he’s so special, thinks he’s so cute, that he can just change up the terms and, worse, dominate? And maybe Peter was hoping for that, hoping that John would be so turned off that he’d throw Peter out.

But then Peter grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and yanked his head back. The man let out a choked whimper, his hips twitching forward.

“How much would you cough up to make this unforgettable for me?” Peter grunted, toying with John’s belt and holding in a shudder as he felt the cock push against the fabric.

John opened his eyes, and Peter could see them rolled to the back of his head. “You can clear out my bank account.”

It would be a lie to say that Peter wasn’t tempted, to reverse course and make this a real transaction. Why the fuck should he care about some faceless woman far away, it wasn’t Peter’s marriage in the ruins. And maybe a night of getting laid would do his foul mood some good; probably not a good lay, but how the hell would Peter know the difference?

Plus, who wouldn’t want to be swimming in coin for a night of feigned passion?

Then the phone started to buzz, and the groan John howled out wasn’t pleasure. “God, I hope that bitch isn’t calling me, again.”

Peter pressed his tongue to his cheek. Nope, none of that was worth it.

He unfastened the belt and trailed enticing kisses along John’s shoulder, up to behind his ear as he worked the button and fly. He tugged the pants down to the ankles, ordering John to step out of them. He led John to the bed and pushed him facedown on the mattress, and went back to take out the belt from the discarded pants. When he returned to the bed, Peter looked down on the sprawling figure with his ass in the air. If he pulled down John’s unremarkable undies down to his ankles, Peter could just leave him like that, since by the time John hobbled his way to the door and managed to get it open, Peter would be long gone. But Peter had to be careful, see how far and how much he could take this.

Standing beside the bed, Peter freed John from his temporary restraints and flipped him onto his back. A hip jutting out, with his teeth biting on his bottom lip, Peter wound one end of the belt around a hand and yanked, snapping the belt. He’d think that with all the times he’s posed like this in front of the camera, it would come easily to him now, but maybe it’s too different when the viewer was right there, and could see his face. Yet, for all the awkwardness Peter felt, John didn’t seem to sense it, gazing up at Peter with glazed-over eyes.

Peter moved John’s hands up to the bed post. Once the watch and ring came off and were set on the bedside table, muscle memory took over, and Peter could almost smell the salt of the sea and the rust of his fort as he looped the belt around the wrists and the wooden post like the many times he secured items to his platform. One final tug, and the leather was biting into John’s limb, already rubbing the skin red as John squirmed to get comfortable. Peter’s hands trailed down John’s arm, down his torso, going to his lap and digging fingernails into the flesh, feeling nothing when John’s breath hitch and came out in a low hiss, still feeling removed when he released John’s thigh and left nail marks.

‘Oh, god,” John rasped, his head lolling to the side. “Oh, please fuck me, Mistress.”

Peter wanted him to shut up, so he stepped back, hiking his skirt up to tug off his boxer briefs and stockings, overly aware of John watching him. He separated the garments, balling the underwear up in his fist. “Open your mouth. Now.”

John’s mouth dropped open, his eyes rolled back once more at the taste of Peter’s fabric being stuffed inside. Surreptitiously, Peter tucked his skirt between his thighs to add another layer of barrier between his own exposure and John as he half-straddled the man’s lap. He hooked his finger through John’s neck tie and undid it, forcing his shaking hands to steady so tying the accessory around John’s eyes wouldn’t be sloppy. He leaned down until he was cheek to cheek with John.

“I’m going to make the next few hours worth every cent, my filthy little slut.” Oh, how Peter was glad John couldn’t see his face twist with self-degrading disgust. He sent out an apology to all the stars of his old favorite stag films for failing them. “Let me get the lube warmed up and the condom ready, then you can make me cum as many times as you can before I even let you.”

He swung his leg back over John, leaving the bastard shivering with glee as he backed away from the bed.

The timer was set.

Peter skipped over to the pants, crouching and digging out the wallet he felt in the back pocket. He pulled out the pink wads of kronor and shoved it in his pocket. He stared at the corners of the credit cards poking out of their sleeves, and looked towards the panting, writhing mess on the bed.

You can clear out my bank account.

But he shook his head clear of the temptation and stood up, returning to the bedside; might as well minimize the potential jail time as much as possible. With great care, Peter picked up the watch and ring and placed them in the pocket so they wouldn’t clink. He stared at his client, taking a deep, quiet breath.

And finally: insurance.

He hooked his fingers in John’s waistband, his face twisting up once more. Do it like a band-aid... like a band-aid... Pursing his lips against the rising bile, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away, Peter whipped the underwear down. He filled his lungs again, holding it in as he cracked an eyelid open and pulled his phone out.

It’s the same equipment that you have, Peter. The reminder did next to nothing to help quell the screech as his eyes met the swollen and stiff member, uncomfortably pink against the pallor of John’s legs, oozing precum.

“Holy fucking shit,” Peter cringed. He tapped on the camera, made sure that the shutter feature and the flash were both off, and aimed at the sad view that made his skin crawled. He bent down to plant a couple more kisses along John’s calf. It was an odd place to show affection to, but as long as John thought it was still leading to something, and Peter didn’t have to touch his genitals, it would do. He rose from the bed and swiped the leather jacket, draping it over his arm and picking up his own jacket and boots.

In the next breath, Peter was out the door, feeling the coldness within him snap and fall into pieces when it clicked closed behind him.

He did it.

He turned and walked off, leaving behind the muffled noise from John as it turned from confusion to protestation to outright fury, but growing ever softer as Peter legged it. His free hand patted the bulge in his dress pocket as he rounded the corner, and the shakes returned, making the air coming into his lungs shallow, making his skin prickle and his vision tunnel and sway.

When something pushed up his throat, Peter feared it was vomit, or a scream, or a cry. It definitely had to be a cry, as the sensation of John’s dick between his legs burned all over. But it was a laugh. He laughed. Because it shouldn’t have been that easy, but he did it! And --

He stumbled to the nearest trash can, knocking the top off and emptying his stomach in the refuse.

When it was over and Peter came up for air, he wiped his mouth and looked around, feeling so separated from this plane. This called for a celebration.

He rummaged through his jacket pocket, the cashmere one he came in, and pulled out the shades. Then he clipped on the watch and pulled out the wad of cash, setting the jackets and boots down on the floor next to his feet. Raising the phone up, he tilted his head and stuck his little tongue out.

#life thus far ( story )#droid noodles ( writing )#ain't safe for lookin'#er...#long post #vomit tw #ask me to tag because uuuh #sinday #alcoholism tw #e-boy

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weshallc · 4 years ago

Text

BERNS NIGHT (Revisited)

Call the Midwife AU Crown Jewels fic (this one actually has Bernie in! She must have been in panto or something in January missed a few chapters)

CHAPTER FOUR: There In Thy Scanty Mantle Clad.

“There, in Thy Scanty Mantle Clad, Thy Snawie Bosom Sunward Spread.” To a Mountain Daisy by Robert Burns 1786

"I Hear Your Footsteps in the Streets, it Won't Be Long Until We Meet. It's Obvious." Oblivious by Aztec Camera 1983

“Ouch, be careful!”

“Well stand still, Paddy,” Trixie scolded, “and I won’t accidentally prick you.”

“Is this really necessary?” whined the publican, not for the first time that hour.

“You want it the right length, don’t you?” admonished the determined dressmaker.

“That’s too short.” Paddy grumbled, swaying unsteadily on the rickety foot stool.

“No, it’s not.”

Patsy interrupted the squabbling confirming the kilt should hang from the top of the hip and finish at the top of the knee.

“This one is too high.” Paddy fiddled with the waistband.

“No, it’s not! It sits at the navel.” Getting up from her knees, Trixie playfully poked Paddy in the belly button.

The temporary male model wasn’t amused, and Delia felt some sympathy. “Right Doc, take it off now, so Chummy can alter it.”

Paddy hopped off the footstool, the green and blue checked woollen garment swaying around his thighs. He grabbed his jeans and headed out of Patsy’s studio towards the downstairs loo. Patsy, Delia and Trixie didn’t wait until he had closed the door behind him before they burst into giggles.

Saturday 25th January 2020

Bernie wouldn’t want anyone to accuse her of being ungrateful, but she would have much rather spent her birthday at work. To be back in Poplar-on-Tweaven working behind the bar with Paddy rather than traipsing around Newcastle city centre with Trixie.

Saturday’s were usually fun at the Crown. Sundays you could always predict to be busy, due to the temptation of Violet’s Sunday lunches and the let’s have a nice day in the country crowd. Saturday’s were more unpredictable a lot depending on whether there was a match on. The football crowd had made Bernie nervous at first, but she had taken her lead from Val, who seemed to know the right mix between flirting and being one of the lads. She even surprised herself with her knowledge of the offside-rule and recognising a few players when they came in during the off-season.

“So, what about this one?” Trixie’s irritated voice broke through Bernie’s wistfulness. They were standing in Fenwick’s department store. Her friend was holding up a black mini dress bearing a large faint gold and red criss-cross pattern.

“Isn’t it a bit tartanie?” Bernie screwed up her nose.

Trixie tried very hard not to give anything away. “What’s wrong with tartan, your Scottish, don’t you just love tartan?”

Bernie bit her lip and tried to keep a level of calmness in her voice, “I am not that kinda Scottish.”

Trixie clanged the hanger back onto the rail in frustration. Bernie felt a twinge of guilt for exasperating her well-meaning friend.

“I will probably just wear my good jeans and a sparkly top, Trixie.” Bernie tried to reassure, with little success.

“But, Paddy is taking you out somewhere nice tonight, surely you want to look the part?”

Bernie took a deep breath, “The part?...the part of Paddy’s date! I am thinking jeans and a nice wee top will do just fine, Trixie.”

It was several hours later, Bernie was looking at herself in the oak Cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom. The little black dress with the red and gold criss-crosses did look quite nice on and it did have pockets, so that was a bonus. She heaved up her 40 denier black tights one last time. Why did they never make the small, small enough? She smiled, knowing if Chummy were in the room she would ask why they didn’t make extra large, extra enough.

A frown reflected back at her as she fiddled with her hair. Trixie had insisted on styling it with a mountain of product she had brought back from Boots. As a result, it now seemed to flick out in all directions. The would-be stylist had been very pleased with the finished article, and Bernie had smiled and made positive noises. She really wanted to put a brush through it and tie it back in a scrunchie like she did most days. Trixie’s sixth sense clicked in and she growled, “Leave it.”

They set out, tottering the short distance from Bernie’s cottage to the Crown Inn. Arm-in-arm, more for stability than out of friendship. Trixie in nine months of living just outside of Poplar had still not mastered walking on cobbles in heels. Bernie more used to ankle boots and trainers had let Trixie talk her into buying a pair of black below-the-knee boots in the January sales. Until today, the labels hadn’t been removed. She was convinced the young saleswoman and her friend had been in collusion. Eventually the overwhelming smell of leather, shoe polish and sweaty feet on an empty stomach had rendered the usually stubborn Bernie vulnerable. Well-honed sales techniques and Trixie’s promise of a Greggs’ vegan sausage roll to offset the purchase of leather eventually triumphed. These boots were definitely not made for walking, Bernie decided. She was however glad of the extra fabric as the north wind whistled around her shorter than usual hem line.

As if sensing her friend's awkwardness, Trixie squeezed her arm a little more tightly. “You look amazing, just don’t scuff those killer, fuck-me boots on the cobbles.”

This warning unsurprisingly had the opposite effect than intended, as Bernie stuttered to an abrupt halt and dropped her friend's arm.

“What?” Bernie shrieked in horror. Trixie grabbed back hold of her stabilizer and dragged her along, laughing so infectiously that Bernie couldn’t help but succumb.

“Why are you so tarted up anyway for a night in the Crown?”

“It’s your birthday and I thought you would be having a drink before heading off with Paddy. Just because it is a country pub doesn’t mean everyone has to always wear wellies and a jumper with a hole in it.”

Bernie’s mock indignation at Trixie’s jibe resulted in a snort as she tried to hold in a laugh. They were still sniggering as Trixie lunged forward and steadied herself by slapping her hand heavily against the inn’s bay window. She pulled herself up and then slapped her hand against the window one more time. Bernie, who was still giggling, just shrugged at her friend's clumsy behaviour.

“Bit slippy there, have to tell Paddy about that.” Trixie straightened up and smiled nervously.

“OK.” Bernie nodded somewhat bemused as she pushed open the large wooden doors of the old inn.

Bernie later couldn’t recall if it was her eyes that first alerted her that something was different; the darkness giving the game away. Or it could have been her ears as they picked up the deep drone of the bagpipes. Maybe it was neither. Her skin tingling with goosebumps was more than likely the first sign that all was not as it should be.

After that initial physical reaction, her mind seemed to give up trying to make any sense of anything. It all became a blur. She remembered Trixie pushing her in the back and into the bar and placing something around her shoulders. There had definitely been cheering and then a very tuneless rendition of Happy Birthday accompanied by the bagpipes and a small band.

The pipes - bashful Kevin and his wee dog. At first she had thought Paddy or somebody had bought her a pet for her birthday. The poor wee thing was used to sitting and looking cute outside the town hall. Raising a paw every time someone dropped a coin in Kev’s mug. The animal had become a little overwhelmed by the commotion and sheer volume of people. Realizing that the lady who had just come through the door must be somehow responsible for the change in ambience; he could not resist jumping up at the new arrival with great enthusiasm. His owner was horrified, but unsure what was more important; to reprimand his charge or keep playing. Fortunately, the situation was resolved when a large pair of hands gently scooped up the tiny mongrel and calmed him down by whispering in his ear and letting him lick his face.

Bernie remembered Violet telling Reggie to take the excited guest through the back for a biscuit. The commotion had given Bernie time to take it all in, the low lighting, the table centres made up of thistles and blue and purple hyacinths, each with a thick white candle, flames dancing a jig on every table. The black, royal blue and red tartan tablecloths and a larger trestle table covered with a different checked pattern, a lighter blue and green with gold.

Bernie wasn’t given long to take it all in, as she was overwhelmed by hugs and kisses. Mostly from people she knew like the Noakes’, Fred, Jane, Phyllis and Julia along with a few she didn’t know, which was a bit disconcerting. Along with the displays of affection, cards and packages that were also pressed into her. Finding it very difficult to accept all the hugs from her friends and free herself from those who weren’t, Bernie found it impossible to balance all the gifts too. Fortunately Trixie had been prepared for this and took on the role of a lady-in-waiting, as if Bernie had suddenly been crowned the Princess of Poplar. The village's newest resident relished her role as best friend, relieving Bernie of her burdens as swiftly as she received them. Trixie may have had a colourful life, but she did like to be of use.

It was Val who finally rescued her from the wall of wellwishers. Taking Bernie by the hand, she took her behind the bar and up the stairs to the living accommodation. “Are you ready for your present?”

Exasperated by the recent unexpected events and not knowing what to expect next, Bernie just shrugged her shoulders. Secretly she was enjoying the calm of the Turner flat and not being the centre of attention. Val gave her a quick squeeze and told her, “Happy birthday, chick.” Opening the door to Paddy’s living room she added winking,

“You’re welcome.”

#call the midwife #berns night revisited #my grumpy girl is back

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