#Dignity and Impudence

[earthlybeam]

I came up with this idea myself after seeing fan art from a fandom. But I hope you enjoy it. Plus you you wish for any more characters please do ask. Gil-galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor version below. (You are their spouse messing with them mid act of the deed of you giving them head)

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad is a king of immense composure—stoic, regal, and calm under pressure. But even he is not immune to being caught entirely off guard, especially by you his spouse. He had been resting against the smooth headboard of your shared chambers, the moonlight from the open balcony casting silver streaks across his bare chest. His crown had been long abandoned, along with the formal stiffness of the day, and now the great High King of the Noldor was reduced to something far more vulnerable beneath your touch—beneath you.

Your mouth had been working him skillfully, worshipping him in a way no council or battle victory ever could. For all his dignity and restraint, Gil-galad was not above letting his head tip back against the wall, letting soft, breathy groans escape him as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. His large hands, usually so steady when wielding a spear, had found their way to your hair—threading through it but never pushing, just holding. Always the gentleman, even when undone.

He was watching you now, golden eyes darkened with something primal. His chest rose and fell in controlled, measured breaths, though you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. And then—you did it. Mid-act, you pulled back, releasing him with a wet, sinful sound, and he opened his mouth to question you—only to watch in utter disbelief as you brought a delicate hand to your lips and let out a deliberately obnoxious, dramatically loud cough.

“Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with playful mischief. “It’s a little dusty down here.” Dusty. You had called him—the most immaculate, clean, and composed being in all of Middle-earth—dusty. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crashing of the sea against Lindon’s shores. His face remained perfectly still, utterly unreadable—so much so that you almost wondered if you had gone too far. And then… he laughed.

It was not a quiet chuckle, nor one of his rare soft hums of amusement—it was a full, rich, unrestrained laugh that shook his broad shoulders. A sound that seemed to ripple through the air, bright and free, like a glimpse of the carefree young Elf he must have once been.

“You—” he began, voice catching as he tried to regain his usual regal composure. His head fell back for a moment, exposing the elegant line of his throat as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Dusty?” His golden eyes flashed back to you, glinting like sunlight on polished steel. There was warmth there—affection—but something else too. Something dangerous.

“You dare mock your king in such a way?” His voice had dropped, smooth and commanding, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought the smile threatening to return. “I should have you punished for your impudence.”

His fingers tightened slightly in your hair—not harsh, but enough to make your heart skip. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward, towering over you even from his seated position. His expression was calm, but there was a gleam of playful menace beneath it.

“And yet,” he mused softly, lifting your chin with two fingers so your eyes met his, “I find myself in awe of your boldness. To say such a thing to me… You must think yourself very brave.” You bit your lip, suppressing the smile threatening to break free. “I thought you liked my boldness, my king.”

“I do,” he admitted, a rare hint of indulgence creeping into his voice. His thumb brushed gently across your bottom lip, his tone growing darker, silkier. “But such audacity cannot go unanswered.”

Without another word, he guided you back down—slowly, deliberately—until your lips hovered once more over the very place you had so brazenly mocked. “Now,” he commanded softly, the regal weight of his voice settling over you like a velvet shroud, “be a good little thing… and finish what you started.”

And as you obeyed—lips and tongue working to draw out every sound you loved to hear—he let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the warmth of it brushing against the air. Dusty, indeed. You would pay for that.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil, the proud and dignified King of the Woodland Realm, is not a man easily shaken. He has faced down dragons, orcs, and the endless burdens of ruling for centuries—but this… this is new in what you pulled upon him tonight.

The soft golden glow of candlelight bathes the royal chambers, flickering across the elegant lines of his body. His long, silver-blond hair spills over his shoulders as he reclines against the silken sheets, all smooth muscle and effortless grace. His crown—usually worn like a barrier between himself and the world—is absent. Here, with you, he allows himself to be unguarded. For once, he isn’t a king—just a man, completely at your mercy. And what mercy you give him.

Your mouth works over him with a skill that makes even Thranduil, with his centuries of composure, lose himself. His breath hitches—quiet but audible—as your tongue drags along the sensitive underside of his length. One of his hands rests in your hair, long fingers splayed over your scalp, while the other lazily strokes the curve of your jaw, guiding you but never forcing. He is indulgent—until you push him too far.

And you do. Right when he’s on the cusp of letting a rare, pleased sound escape his lips, you stop—his eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, snap open to find you staring at him with a glimmer that immediately puts him on edge. He knows that look.

Then, with all the audacity of someone who clearly values danger, you dramatically cough into your hand. Fake cough. “Sorry, love—” you murmur, your voice dripping with playful innocence, “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room falls into stunned silence.

For a moment—just a moment—Thranduil does not react. His expression is perfectly blank, as though he is trying to process the sheer disrespect you’ve just committed against his very clean, very regal self. And then—his jaw clenches.The hand tangled in your hair tightens—not painfully, but firmly—tipping your head back so you’re forced to look directly into those impossibly sharp, icy-blue eyes. His gaze burns with a dangerous glint, one that promises retribution.

“…Dusty?” His voice is smooth, silk over steel, but there’s an edge lurking beneath it. A dangerous calm. “You dare.” There is no dust—you both know it. This is Thranduil—everything about him is immaculate, from the gleaming marble of his palace to his flawless body. Yet, here you are, mocking the Elvenking while on your knees, no less.

He tilts his head slightly, a slow, elegant motion that makes the long strands of his silver hair shift over his shoulders. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks—dangerous, calculating. “I invite you to repeat that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something lower, silkier, and entirely too calm. Oh, you’re in trouble now.

He releases your hair—only to trail his fingers lightly down the side of your neck, brushing over the sensitive skin with deceptive gentleness. His nails scrape lightly in their wake, sending a shiver down your spine. “It seems,” he continues in that dangerous purr, “you have mistaken my patience for leniency.”

His gaze drifts lower—slow, deliberate—before meeting yours again. His voice is velvet-dipped authority when he speaks next. “Since you find the air here… unsatisfactory, perhaps I should remind you precisely who you kneel before.” Without another word, he shifts forward—a graceful, fluid motion that leaves no doubt as to who is in control. You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your chin, tipping your face up, his thumb brushing along your lower lip.

His expression is calm—too calm—but his eyes? His eyes burn with the promise of vengeance. “Let us see,” he muses quietly, “how much of your cheek remains… when I’m through with you.” And oh—he means it.

Play with fire, melleth nîn, and you will burn. “If it is too dusty for you, my love… perhaps I should have you remain down there a while longer. Until you have adjusted.” His smirk is infuriatingly elegant. And you— you know exactly what you’ve done.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond, ever composed and regal, had been thoroughly immersed in the intimate pleasure of your touch—his body tense beneath your hands, his breath controlled but growing heavier with each passing moment. His long fingers, usually so steady in their grace, now tangled gently in your hair as you worked him with deliberate care, your mouth a warm haven against the cool air of his chamber.

The Elf-lord rarely allowed himself to be undone, but with you—oh, with you—he did not resist. He savored every sensation you offered him, his head tilting back slightly, yet black -threaded hair cascading down his back as a soft sigh slipped from his lips. You knew precisely how to unravel him, slow and patient, until the weight of his centuries-old control began to fray beneath your affection. And then—you struck.

Pausing mid-act, you released him from your mouth, sat back just enough to meet his gaze with a glint of wicked mischief in your eyes. With all the audacity in the world, you raised a hand delicately to your lips and coughed—an exaggerated, melodramatic sound, as if you had spent hours breathing in the dust of ancient scrolls in his study. “Sorry, love,” you said, your voice rich with playful teasing, “it’s a little dusty down here.” The room fell utterly silent.

For a breathless moment, Elrond simply stared at you—his expression unreadable, but his lips parted slightly as if he could not quite believe the words that had left your mouth. His keen, discerning eyes, bright and sharp as starlight, held yours in a gaze so intense it sent a shiver down your spine.

It was true—he was immaculate. Always. From the polished leather of his boots to the silk of his robes, though right now he just in silky open robe and certainly in the more intimate areas you now so boldly teased. The very idea that you would dare to call that dusty—when he took the utmost care of himself—was nothing short of blasphemous.

A flicker of something dangerous—amused, yet wholly unyielding—crossed his face. His brows arched ever so slightly, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile, though his voice, when he spoke, was low and measured.

“Dusty?” he repeated, each syllable laced with an elegant disbelief. “You are bold indeed, meleth nín…” His hand, still resting in your hair, shifted subtly—fingers curling just a fraction tighter, as if to remind you precisely who you were teasing. “And here I thought your tongue could be put to far better use than… mockery.”

That soft, velvety voice sent heat pooling low in your stomach. You knew you were playing a dangerous game—a game where Elrond, with all his patience and centuries of restraint, would let you win only so much before he decided to turn the tide. He leaned forward then, the warmth of his body brushing yours as he tilted your chin up with the back of his knuckles, forcing you to hold his gaze. His face was serene—too serene—but the heat in his eyes betrayed him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel entwined, “you require a more thorough… demonstration to remind you how well I tend to what is mine.” Oh, you had awakened something now. And judging by the way his grip firmed against you—possessive, yet achingly tender—you would be learning that lesson very soon.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

Your mouth, warm and eager, had been working him into a state of breathless bliss. His hands, always so steady in the forge, were tangled in your hair, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. For all his grace and composure in public, in private, he was putty in your hands—shivering under every slow, deliberate movement of your mouth. And then—you did it. You stopped. Dramatically.

Pulling back just enough to lock eyes with him, your face the picture of pure mischief. You brought a hand delicately to your mouth and let out the most exaggerated, theatrical cough you could muster. “Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with mock concern. “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room hung in silence.

Celebrimbor blinked once. Twice. His lips parted slightly, as if his brain was trying and failing to process the sheer cheek of your words. His usually sharp, calculating mind—capable of crafting the most intricate designs in Middle-earth—had utterly stalled.

“…Dusty?” he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically high, disbelief etched into every syllable. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, it was as if you had spoken to him in some foreign, incomprehensible tongue. “I—It’s not—I am not—”

His hands fell away from your hair as he glanced down at himself, as if to confirm that, no, there was absolutely nothing remotely dusty about him—least of all there. His skin was smooth, immaculate, and had he not just bathed less than an hour ago? He was an Elf, for Eru’s sake, and Elves did not get dusty.

And yet… here you were. Calling him dusty. His ears, those delicately pointed tips, flushed a pale pink—an unintentional betrayal of how flustered you had made him. He inhaled sharply, a sound caught between indignation and disbelief. “I—this—that’s impossible.”

You bit your lip to hold back a snicker, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. You weren’t sorry. Not even a little bit.

His mouth opened again as if he intended to present an impassioned, logical defense of his cleanliness, but no words came out. For once in his long life, the Lord of Eregion was utterly speechless.

And then—you saw it. That spark in his silver-gray eyes. The slow shift from shock to something else. Something far more dangerous. “Oh…” His voice dropped an octave, smooth as polished mithril. “Dusty, is it?” Your stomach flipped at the sudden change in his tone.

Without another word, he reached forward and grasped your chin, tilting your face upward. There was no trace of his earlier fluster—only the slow, deliberate curve of his mouth as he considered you with a heated, wicked gleam in his eyes.

“You’re awfully bold for someone on their knees,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Perhaps I should give you a better reason to lose your breath, since you seem so… easily distracted.”

And oh—he did. By the time he was through with you, there wasn’t a breath left in your lungs. Dusty or not, he was going to make sure you never forgot just how clean and thorough he could be.

[weirdchristmas]

Dignity \& Impudence

[dooberific]

❝𝘖𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦❞

pre release wriothesley x afab!reader

genre: nsfw (dacryphilia, creampie, idk how to finish tagging this hehe)

wc: 2.7k

summary: Despite his imposing stature, your lover is the softest and most genuine man you know. His regular praises make it seem like you hung the very stars in the sky, so why his sudden withdrawl?

There was just something different about the flowers of Fontaine. Maybe it had something to do with the land, moist plains sweeping up into sharp mountain peaks that passed a gentle breeze over the winding waterways below. The easy smell of rain, the babbling streams that fed into raging waterfalls that drenched all below in a fine mist. 

They seemed to grow a little differently, proud and tall like the Rainbow roses dotting the hillsides, their very own fine bonnets adorning their heads as their brilliant appearances dazzled passing strangers.

Perhaps that was why the simplicity of the Marcotte slipped under so many eyes, winding through life with a silent elegance and glowing smile so heartfelt and utterly kind that even the most icy of hearts would tremble under the warmth of her gaze. She would never be a rose, nor would she ever entertain the thought of it, laughing away the idea with great mirth dancing in her eyes and a grin lingering on her lips well after the encounter. 

You may never be a rose, but your simplistic and nostalgic charms had catalyzed such a violent reaction that he was sure you had hung the very sun in the sky, elevating its position as a kindness for your own radiance far out shone the largest star in the Teyvat sky. 

But if you were the Marcotte, so delicate and pure, then what was he? Surely he was nothing but a weed in the garden of the gods, a wicked thing who rose from the dirt to strangle the life out of the pretty and soft things around. There was a trail of battered roses in his wake, resentful that the weed had never blossomed into something worthwhile as they had dreamed, that it had spent their precious time, basked in their light, and then left them to wither away in anger. 

But the Marcotte was wild and resilient, your unbreakable and hearty spirit more than strong enough to carry your own burdens with grace and dignity even before you had unfurled your brilliant petals. 

Pure and wild chased by the impure and plotting.

You should resent him for his wickedness, his impudence to dare stand under the same sun as you. He couldn’t help himself, he was little more than a moth drawn to a flame, a weed that kept creeping back into the garden. How long had he waited, chasing fleeting images and the feeling a hand could never hope to emulate, before your own interests had become so entranced that you allowed him closer? 

He would swear it was all unintentional from the beginning, that it had all started as a draw to your magnetic personality. Fleeting kisses of parting after he walked you home at night giving way to deeper intentions as he cornered you against the door and indulged you a little more intimately. The wet slide of his tongue into your mouth, the firmness of his hands trailing down your sides and toying with the hem of your shirt. The little whines from your lips as your fingers carded through his hair, a sting in your calves from standing on your toes as his chapped lips ravaged your neck, your body pressed flush to his own. 

It was such a natural progression until it suddenly wasn’t. Kisses left broken as he hastily departed, a harsh flush creeping to his ears as he apologized and took his leave. The onset of his behavior had left your head spinning with questions. Had you done something wrong? He never acted strangely about you until those last and most private moments together, maybe his interest was waning? If you had grown boring you would understand, it wasn’t like your job or life were particularly riveting—

Too many unasked questions, and too much sleep lost. You were not so shy or proud to confront an issue head on, and while Wriothesley loved that trait of your personality he loved it a little less when it was weaponized against him as you stood at his door, a finger pressed to his lips and a stern yet wary look in your eyes as you shushed his questions and gave him a piece of your own mind.

He really was nothing short of a weed, too cowardly to have confronted the issue before it had become a problem. He was a liar, unable to hold your burning gaze as he forced some half-assed excuse past his lips. He certainly could not tell you that his hasty departures had been the product of your evening rendezvouses which simply stoked the fire that the all consuming thoughts of you kept burning in his veins, of the perverse feeling stirred by the lovesick look in your eyes that was increasingly hard to resist. There would be no kindness in those pretty eyes should you know that he could barely touch you now without getting hard, that a moment too long basking in your presence would surely have him cumming in his pants with the same choked gasp that he so poorly suppressed as he jerked himself off later fantasizing your pretty cunt wrapped around him. 

There was no question of want, he needed you. He needed to defile you with every dirty thought that ever dizzied his head, to have you fucked dumb on his cock and begging for more because you knew he couldn’t resist. What a shitty lover he felt like, having let you think you had ever done a thing wrong when it was just his own self disgust that he couldn’t keep it together that was wedging you apart. 

Maybe just once he could show you, and if you hated him for it he could beg for your forgiveness. Just this once he would kiss you like always, whispers of reassurance passing between you that there was nothing wrong with you, you were perfect. Just this once would he not fight the onslaught of debauched feelings that flooded him the moment you sighed against his lips, parting your own at the gentle tease of his tongue. He would kiss you deeply and with no regrets or holds, making your head spin from the lack of oxygen as the feeling of his warm hands settling on your body as he pressed you against the wall. He wouldn’t make some shitty excuse to leave when he felt his pants tighten, nor would he apologize for the moment he grinded his hips deeply against your own in search of that heavenly bit of friction only you could provide. 

He swallowed your surprised gasp, hell bent on smothering you with every ounce of his affection with sloppy kisses and a tangle of tongue. One hand settled at the nape of your neck anchoring you to him as the other hooked under your thigh, drawing it up to rest at his hip as he pressed deeper between your legs and you whimpered at the roll of his hips against the apex of your thighs. 

He broke away from your lips, his forehead pressed flush to your own. Your cheeks were tinged pink, eyes dazed as your lip quivered from the greedy breaths you sucked in. His voice was deeper, huskier and tainted with lust.

“I want you.” 

Your own voice was shaky as you replied.

“Then you may have me.”

Your sheer stockings and well pressed skirts were hardly more than heaps of fabric on his floor, pearl buttons of your blouse scattered if not clinging to mere threads. A blind stumble through the house had left a trail of what was easiest to remove. Had it not been for his insistence to do right by you and take you in his bed he was assured he would have bent you over the nearest surface and had his way with you. 

He swore deeply to any archon that would listen that he would be the most devout follower should they let him remember your disheveled look in the clearest of details, from the smear of your lipstick and the swollen lips he had indulged himself in to the sweeping curves of your body that he had marred with his teeth which now burned the angry red of ruptured capillaries. His kisses were smothering as his hands explored every inch of newly exposed skin, leaving a trail of chills from his cold fingers. He was a gentleman even in the most dirty of moments, all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as he waited for you confirmation as if he was still hesitant to think it anymore than a vivid dream to unclip your bra and lathe his tongue over the delicate flesh beneath, to drag his fingers over the soaked fabric of your panties and press his thumb harshly against that little bud of flesh that made your hips jerk in his grasp.

He was sure the sinful noise that parted your lips the moment he pressed your panties aside and flattened his tongue against your weeping cunt had been permanently seared into his brain right alongside the taste of you. The clamp of your pretty thighs against the side of his head only encouraged his efforts, calloused hands easily prying you open as he tongue teased past your lips and his nose pressed against your clit. Your shaky cries that it was too much fell on deaf ears, your fingers fisting into his hair to pull him off a stark contrast to the way your pretty hips grinded against his face begging for more. 

He wasn’t so heartless to stop when he knew what was best for you. It wasn’t like you knew, and the flush on your cheeks as you had so softly admitted to him your intact virginity had him questioning if you had ever pleasured yourself at all. It was his duty now to show you what needed, to strip you of every ounce of purity, to fuck you so good you would never consider another man to be capable. 

You could taste yourself on his lips, a bitter combination lost quickly on your mind as he dragged your panties down and pressed his calloused fingers into your cunt. His fingers felt thick and rough as he gave a few experimental pumps into your wet heat before burying them to the knuckle and curling them into your walls, relishing the heady cry that escaped your body as your hips canted into his palm.

“Fuck, baby, so fucking tight.” He groaned into your lips, his fingers scissoring you open as he set a brutal pace to loosen you up, the rough pad of his thumb circling and teasing your clit as the wet sound of your cunt met his ears. 

“Wrio, please I-,” You choked out, arms wrapping around his neck as the wave of molten lust that clogged your veins and made your stomach twist so delightfully became unbearable. 

“I’ve got you baby.” 

His words, low and reassuring in your ear, were the last straw as he fingerfucked you into an orgasm. Your whole body buzzed as you cried out sharply, your face buried into his neck as you came on his fingers, thighs clamped desperately around his hand as your entire body quivered. 

Your dearest lover Wriothesley felt safe and warm as he settled over your boneless body, gentle kisses pressing away the tears that had streaked down your cheeks from a pleasure never before indulged in. Any notion of vulnerability or embarrassment had been stripped away, replaced by the simple thought that his fingers seemed to intertwine so perfectly with your own just as his body seemed to slot so perfectly between your legs, as if he were some piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were missing.

It was that sense of utter completion that overwhelmed you as his cockhead teased your entrance, the sense of the intrusion so much you forgot to breathe as your body trembled. You could feel every engorged vein, every ridge that bullied deeper into your cunt with the slow roll of his hips, how heavily he was pressed inside you. 

He hissed at the feeling, how tightly you still wrapped around him. His grip on your hips was bruising, a vain attempt to ground himself in the moment of the realization of his most hedonistic desires and the simple truth that you were so much fucking better than he could have ever dreamed. 

He fucked you deep and slow, reveling in the little sounds you made only for his ears, the gentle begging of his name in a tone reserved just for him. An exchange of sloppy kisses left your head spinning, his cock nestled deep in your womb, every slow thrust teasing that spongy spot inside that made your walls tighten and your legs quiver.

He was so kind, even as he felt that last of his composure slipping with the breathy whisper pressed to his ear that he could have his way with you. It had to be that look of glowing adoration in your eyes as you stared up at him, body rocking gently with each thrust as he made love to you, but he could be good for you just this once.

Just this once to press a kiss to the inside of your knee as he practically folded you in half. Just this once, to intertwine your fingers as he bottomed out in you with one smooth motion. Just this once to fuck you like he really meant it, to watch your eyes gloss over and tears pool at your lashline. Just this once, yet a thousand times over, another lie he would tell himself as if he wouldn’t pound you into his mattress until you couldn’t walk if you asked for it. 

Your fingernails scraped harshly against his skin, your own little desperate cling to reality. You didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any deeper, finding it hard to breathe at the new angle as you were certain he was well into your guts by now. Your mind was utterly blank, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he fucked you with a new fervor as if to shape your insides to only remember the feeling of him. That heated, gut twisting sensation had rebuilt and teetered dangerously on the brink of collapse just as quickly.

He could tell you were close, your words slurring into an incoherent babble of his name. He could practically feel you tighten around him, willing him to finish you off as he leaned forward. 

“That’s my girl, cum for me.”

He kissed you, muffling the sharp whine you released as that familiar heat snapped violently in your gut. The harsh pull of your pussy was too much for him to resist, his hips stuttering as his teeth sank into your lower lip. It was a hot, sticky and overwhelming feeling that rested deep in your womb as he slowly fucked his seed into you, the taste of iron seeping into your mouth. 

He looked apologetic as his thumb swiped away the bead of blood forming on the vermillion of your freshly busted lip, but you had no heart to be angry when you met his glowing and tired eyes. There was a tremble to his arms as he effectively collapsed on top of you, trapping you under his weight. Your heartbeat was steady in his ear, your fingers tangling in his mussed hair. You could practically feel his entire body relax under your touch, hear his breathing slow.

“You don’t intend to sleep like this, do you?” You cringed at how hoarse you sounded. 

“I’m never opposed to this if it’s with you.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a soft kiss to your palm. “But I should clean you up.” 

It was a hollowing feeling, the loss of his dick that had been seated so firmly within your walls that you subconsciously clenched around nothing. You watched in silent surprise as a trail of fluids weeped from your used cunt and spilled onto the bed, a sense of abject horror striking as you caught the burning gaze of your lover locked onto the sight as well. You clamped your legs shut, shrieking as he easily pried you apart once more, his fingers scooping the viscous liquid back up and pressing it back into your pussy as you hissed at the sensation.

All at once he grabbed your ankles, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed. You propped onto your elbows, staring down his re-hardened cock that lay hot, heavy, and twitching against your hips before flickering up to his flushed cheeks.

 “I'm sorry, baby, let me indulge in you just a bit longer.” 

Rey, 2023

[podartists]

Dignity and Impudence | Maud Earl (1864-1943)

[crystalskiesandcherrywine]

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x a bodyguard he did not ask for

Feyd Rautha was not a particularly patient or obedient man. His skills as a fighter earned him a reputation of a ruthless combat machine, someone who knew no fatigue in battle. The pleasure he found in honing his prowess, regardless of the cost to his surroundings, was well known beyond the lands touched by the infrared sun of his home planet Giedi Prime. 

However, when the family's mentat, Piter de Vries, appeared in his training chamber to inform him about his uncle's request, Feyd knew better than to argue. He owed his uncle a lot and knew that he clearly preferred him to his cousin Glossu Rabban. What Rabban brought in sheer strength, he lacked in political skill. And the fate of House Harkonnen would not be decided by strength alone, they all knew that. 

They crossed the halls swiftly, passing a web of sideways and starecases. Feyd Rautha did not ask, and the Mentat offered no further explanations for the command to appear, which was only sparsely disguised as a request. In the throne room of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, it was, as always, sparsely lit, the ceilings of the room were so high that they could not be seen in the darkness. As in the rest of the fortress, the harsh environment of Giedi Prime continued inside the building: The walls were kept in shades of gray, the floors lined with dark marble, evincing rather somber and sorrowful thoughts then any musings on relaxation or warmth. Shaping the rocks according to their wishes was a clear sign for the inhabitants of the planet and for any visitor unfortunate enough to find themselves here. 

Upon arrival, his uncle's seat was vacant, only a spider-like animal crouched in the shadow filled corner of the room. However, standing in front of his uncle's seat was something very surprising: a servant,  yet not dressed in the usual roughly woven gray robes, but in a tight-fitting and shiny leather, her back as straight as if she were standing guard. The mysterious figure had no customary collar, but a chrome protector on her shoulders and chest, reflecting the sparse light of the room. Her face was half-turned to him, so he could observe the fine lines of her profile, with sharp cheekbones and full lips. Under her hairband, which held a short veil in place, he guessed a tightly bound braid. 

He almost reached out to her, to consider the addition to the household. With this figure, she is an excellent addition to his pets, he thought, and was pleasantly surprised to receive such a gift from his uncle. "I ask you to refrain from that, my lord" Her voice with full with dignity and clarity that was unbecoming for a servant. The figure did not stir, so he briefly doubted whether she had really spoken. A mocking laugh escaped him 

"Since when do my pets have wants? Just for this impudence, you deserve to be punished" and with a fluid movement, he reached for the knife at his hip, only to have it just as precisely parried. The reaction, as unexpected as it was, only spurred him on further. Through every move he felt a spark of the excitement ignite In him.With a predatory gaze, he glanced up and down her body 

"Oh, I didn't know the pet was in the mood for play" He grinned, revealing his black teeth. However, the woman blocked every further attack of his, until the tip of her knife penetrated his shield and stopped just millimeters before his skin. In disbelief, he looked at the red-flaring shield at the breached spot. 

"I see you have gotten acquainted with each other," Baron Vladimir Harkonnen floated into the room, black spheres following him, emitting a slight buzzing sound. The Baron's body was becoming more and more like one of these spheres, round and voluminous. In a matter of seconds, the woman let her blade drop and her weapons found their way back to her holster. Feyd's blade, however, still aimed at her throat. In his defiant eyes, an unspoken question. 

„My dear Nephew Feyd, I want you to meet your bodyguard. You are the future of this planet and if it's up to me, of the known universe. With the journeys to Kaitain and Arrakis, I will leave nothing to chance. Feyd felt the bitter taste of bile and anger fill his mouth, his ice-blue eyes directed at the completely superfluous guard, while her gaze fixed on his uncle. 

„No warrior in the known universe is my equal. I certainly don't need protection, and even less so from her" His words were like poison arrows 

„And yet she just effortlessly penetrated your shield," his uncle laughed, the sounds like sharp bubbles in his oil bath. "Effortlessly" Feyd almost hissed.

"You are dismissed, I do not require your services" He said with as much pride as he could summon through the anger raging in his mind and body.

“My services were summoned by the esteemed Baron Vladimir. As long as he does not dismiss me, I stay where I am." For the first time, their eyes met, his blue against her dark green. So much defiance would have been allowed neither to a servant nor to a pet. "Piter de Vries, please show Lady Margot Fenring to her quarters," said the Baron, and only then did it become apparent that the mentat had never left the room. Feyd believed he detected a hint of a smug smile on his lips, but he was mentally too busy devising a plan to get rid of this new acquaintance. 

to be continued....

@afewfantasies :)

[winged-void]

I'm sorry for the crass and unbecoming behavior of your subjects Your Majesty. Though they know not their place, it is clear you grace and dignity in ruling and your perfect beauty have over come what little common sense and scarcer courtly manners they have. Pray have mercy on them Your Grace, and spare their lives. If your lands are empty of subjects who will be left to bear witness to your immaculate visage? Your feet will cross empty lands. Your toes would have no foothold in the minds of people not present. The soles of your feet... Uh... W-would... Um... Forgive me Your Highness, I seem to have lost my train of thought. *curtsies*

Impudent subjects like you must be brought to heel.

[sunshineprophetess]

AN INDERECT KISS TO THE SUN'S LIPS. – Solana x Peisistratus.

(Because @wielderofarrows wrote that heartbreaking-not-really Nomus thing so. @squipio come get your food)

Solana wasn't raised as a noble. She was always either chasing after one, fixing her lady's dress, taking care of the house chores, or whatever tasks her lady asked of her.

But, that same clueless girl walked alongside her actual noble love, in clothes that felt ill fitting and the stares making her want to hide away.

Her usual job of healing the sick and injured was completely forgotten as they walked through the streets, fine golden jewelery glittering against her skin that complimented the silk dress she wore compared to the rags she had grown to enjoy and find comfort in.

Even her hair, tied back in a manner that allowed easy work and swift access to her hands, laid in beautiful curls, falling down her back and front like a waterfall. Everytime she looked down, she saw herself and couldn't escape her transformation.

The women who had dressed her emphasized how beautiful she looked after, Prince Telemachus and Neoptelomus couldn't help their stares and compliments. Even Peisistratus stared in awe before he said something.

But she couldn't help but feel embarrassed. Ashamed, even. She felt so out of place, forigen walking the streets of a town she didn't exactly know the name of.

She didn't feel such way because she was new to this place, where riches and wealth were visible, markets bustling with people and men and women walk and give the occasional looks that make her skin crawl. She felt out of place in just her looks.

It sounded silly, and it was, but a woman like her, so ingrained in ways that she was comforted in, being told when to speak and know there was no reason for people to stare and notice her, all eyes being on her felt like a nightmare.

Rather than being nothing than a small grain of sand in a pile, now she was important. She walked, they looked. She spoke, they listened. It was all too much for her.

Then, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw her beloved looking back with concerned eyes. "My sun, are you feeling alright?" He asked in a voice that never failed to make her heart beat in her chest faster.

"You don't have to feel forced to act in a way you don't want to," Peisistratus gently pulled her to face him, a hand resting on her waist as he spoke. "I'm here with you to make sure you enjoy yourself."

Solana nodded with a soft sigh. Why was he doing so much for her? Someone who wasn't worthy to even look at him with such eyes? Here she was, with a man who had nobility in his blood, and she was a hoax, a faux lady in high standing, she deserved to been stricken down for such impudence, to lie to people whom she did not know.

She felt his hand caress her cheek, his voice gentle. His eyes focused on her, as if the world and people around them never existed to begin with. As if they were in that medical tent again, him encouraging unprofessionalism as he pressed simple yet unforgettable kisses to her lips or skin.

Solana gently took his hands and moved it away, stepping back and making distance. If there was one thing she promised herself not to do was touch him in a romantic manner, let alone share a kiss. To preserve the smallest bit of dignity and giving him a small piece of respect he deserved.

Peisistratus seemed taken aback, yet he didn't push. He simply pointed to a shop and suggested they go and browse and she accepted. If she couldn't take back her mistakes, she could make up for it by having a great day with him.

And a good day it was.

They spent hours browsing through shops, buying souvenirs for their loves waiting back at home, and enjoying the others company, whether it be conversation or simple silence. It was a wonderful day, so wonderful that those stares and glances didn't feel as uncomfortable, and holding his hand or linking arms didn't feel disrespectful. They were simply two young lovers enjoying their day together. Nothing wrong with that.

Eventually, the sun had fallen and Nyx had coated the once blue sky in a blanket of night, the stars glittering in the sky as Solana and Peisistratus sat in a small yet lovely clearing, the bench allowing them as much proximity as they desired.

As they watched the stars dance in the sky as the moon illuminate the couple and the sky as if a spotlight was on them, she felt her beloveds hand move to lift her chin up. It suddenly felt like she was woken up from a dream and pulled away.

"I'm still not allowed to kiss you?" He asked softly, a small pout resting on his lips in such a way that made her pity but also laugh to herself.

"Forgive me, my lord." She said.

"If I am not allowed to kiss you, then..." he lifted her chin, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip in a way that made her shiver. "Then, may I at least touch your lips instead?"

Solana was taken aback. She hadn't exactly thought of that, and with how quickly he shut her down, she should have. But she nodded hesitantly.

Solana watched his focused eyes as his pointer finger brushed against the crevices and softness of her lips. She let out a small surprised hum as he pressed down a little, before pulling away and seeing the soft pinkish color stain the finger used to trace her lips.

Solana was preparing to apologize, to offer to wash it off, but Peisistratus simply pressed a kiss to the stain, smiling softly at her blushing face as he removed his hand, a small smear of soft pink in its wake.

"M-My lord," she managed. "The color stains!"

"I'm glad." He responded quickly and softly, shocking her. "It means I have my sun with me wherever I go, correct?"

She hesitated, not knowing what to say before forfeitting with a nod. The prince smiled and placed his hand on her waist once again, pulling her close as they watched the stars and patterns glitter in the dark sky.

I FINISHED LETS FUCKING GO

[eflaneurism]

Sir Edwin Landseer, Dignity and Impudence, 1839

Gerrit Dou, Self-portrait in a Window, c. 1650

[subzeroparade]

crawled out of the brainrot hole (that your fics sparta-kicked me into) just to tell you that your writing is ASTOUNDING, it's like a merengue roll after being fed hardtacks.

i hope you know your ao3 page has most excellent works I've read in a while, even if i have to equip myself with translators and dictionary since english isn't my first language lmao

especially the way you flesh out Maria, ohhhh the woman that she is, a single thank you wouldn't describe my gratitude for charactering her this well !! and, if I won't be impudent, could i ask for a few headcanons you have for the lady? 😇♡

Thank you anon! No one has ever compared my work to merengue before (◍•ᴗ•◍) And thank you for making an effort to read them in a second language, too - I know how much extra dedication that can take, and I appreciate it <3

Glad my version of Maria resonates with you - she fills a kind of unintentional meta role for me, where even if she appears briefly, there is a self-reflexivity she engenders that makes her almost the voice of a Greek tragedy's chorus. She spends a lot of time telling the characters what they already know (but have not come to terms with), and reminding them of the consequences of their actions. I think she fulfils a Cassandra role for me, too, in the sense that I imagine her to be the only significant character who vocally objects to the Church’s actions and is very clear-eyed about the disaster they are courting - only to remain unheard and disregarded until it’s too late.  

Most of my headcanons for her have found their way into my fics already (and you can read my take on her as Gehrman’s ward and significance vis-a-vis the Doll here; my stance has not really changed). If I were to continue writing her, I’d probably want to explore her decision to leave Byrgenwerth, along with Gehrman, and join the Church - her reasons, her justification, how she balances her obligation and deference for Gehrman as her teacher vs her doubts and lingering mistrust of Laurence and his ability to steer the ship. Like my version of Micolash, she is deeply affected by what happens at the cove - but while Micolash spends the rest of his life chasing that epiphany, Maria is haunted by her need to atone, to wash her hands of it. She does not ask to work with the patients of the Research Hall, she demands it - and she uses that position to lessen, as well as she can, the suffering of those mercilessly used by the Church and the Choir as a means to an end, as the hamlet was by Byrgenwerth. (and to a degree, her atonement worked - she arguably has the least gruesome "punishment" in the Nightmare, and in a sense acts as a perpetual guardian for this purgatory-esque version of the hamlet).

I don’t think she is generous or magnanimous with her love and regard - rather I think she is diligent and discerning and extremely reserved. So in contrast to my version of Ludwig, for example, who is driven by a (sometimes naive) sense of this is the right thing to do, Maria acts out of necessity. It is the right thing to do but specifically because the alternative is unimaginable, and inhuman. In my work she’s the product of a failed political alliance between Cainhurst and a lesser nation-state, so she’s been raised to a certain point to understand what it is to be responsible for people, and the difference between having subjects and actually protecting them. She’s also on the receiving end of Yharnam’s canonically brutal xenophobia, so I imagine she’s very aware the world around her is senselessly cruel and driven by fear, and she acts as best she can not to exacerbate that, or succumb to it. I think, finally, that only when she realises the Church is reproducing the tragedy of the hamlet a thousand times over - and there’s nothing they can do to stop it - does she decide she’d rather die than have a hand in that again. If you've read my fics, then you know affording her the agency and dignity of having made that decision is an important and recurring theme.  

Ty for the ask! Here are some colourful versions of her as she appears in my last work, Variation on the Word Sleep. 

[you-have-made-a-fatal-error]

Warnings at Waverly Academy art part II of IV

1- Fleissig/Appliquée by Albert Anker, 1886 2- Shoeing by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1844 3- Fruit and Flowers by Paul Theodor van Brussel, 1789 4- A Farm in the Sunlight by Meindert Hobbema, 1668 5- Dignity and Impudence by Edwin Henry Lanseer, 1839 6- The Scissors Grinder by Eastman Johnson, 1870 7- The Belated Kid by William Morris Hunt, 1854-57 8- Playing card design by C.F.A. Voysey, 1882-1913 9- Pinkie by Thomas Lawrence, 1794

3 is also in mhm, stfd and fin; 8 is also in mhm on the book in abby's trunk

[the-cricket-chirps]

Edwin Henry Landseer

Dignity and Impudence

1839

[microcosme11]

Napoleon at his worst!

General Thiébault goes to court and witnesses this ugly scene in 1810...yikes:

I was in the gaming room at the end of the rooms devoted to receptions; the empress played her part; and while so many kings, archdukes, princes, foreigners of the highest rank, and so many illustrious Frenchmen, followed the Emperor with their eyes and watched his slightest movements, he exchanged a few words with one, honored another with a nod, went from one gaming table to another, and addressed the ladies in words that were more piquant than gallant.

Having made his rounds, finding himself near the door which separated the gaming room from the drawing-room which preceded it, he crossed the threshold, and instantly an immense procession rushed after him. Waddling, he arrived in the center of the salon, stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, stared at the floor six feet in front of him and did not move. The kings, the Archduke Ferdinand, uncle of the Empress, and the other eminent personages who followed, stopped immediately; some drew back, others stepped aside, all close together, and a rather large circle formed around the Emperor, of which he occupied the center in an immobility that everyone imitated, in a silence that nothing interrupted. We began by avoiding even looking at each other; little by little we raised our eyes and looked around us. A few more moments, and our exchanged glances took on such a questioning character that everyone seemed to be wondering what this stage game was preparing: a tacit question, which, in the presence of so many foreigners, made everyone French feel uneasy. Indeed such a sudden meditation, as bizarre as it was out of place, could, for three or four minutes, be attributed on the part of the Emperor to the need to realize an important thought which he had unexpectedly been seized with; but after five, six, seven, eight minutes, no one was in a condition to make sense of it; and yet it remained evident that with a haughty and superb master, at a moment when it pleased him to create so singular a spectacle, it was best to do nothing. 

Unfortunately, Marshal Masséna, who was in the first rank, and behind whom I had placed myself, judged otherwise; I was even convinced that this man, who on the battlefield had such a happy inspiration, such a sure eye, but who retained none of his advantages at court, had thought he was doing Napoleon a service by offering him a natural way of ending a ridiculous scene, and, in its kind, the most ridiculous that I have seen in my life; he did not understand that by providing an offended chief a means of mortifying him, he was getting him out of trouble, but by substituting cruelty for [ridiculousness?]. Consequently, while no one in the world was moving, or dreaming of moving, he left his place, entered the circle which an evil genius seemed to have traced for him, to go there to seek an affront; then, with slow steps advanced towards the Emperor. Astonishment and curiosity showed on all faces; mine could only express fear; the wait, however, was not long; for hardly a few words, said too softly to be heard, had been uttered by the Marshal, when, without raising or averting his eyes, without making a movement, the Emperor articulated in a voice of thunder: “What are you doing?” This old marshal, who despite his glory and his dignities had just been humiliated in front of the whole of Europe, instead of leaving immediately and returning home to hide his shame, returned to his place without replying and, which completed my confoundment, regained it by stepping backwards. Never have I felt more mortified, never has the despot appeared to me in Napoleon with more arrogance and impudence; for it was gratuitously cruel to insult France with one of her oldest and most illustrious defenders. As for Napoleon, after this prize awarded for such great services, he continued his statue scene for a few more moments; then, as if emerging from a dream, he raised his head, uncrossed his arms, cast an examining glance at everything around him, turned around without saying a word to anyone and went back into the game room. At a sign, the Empress threw down the cards and rose; all games ceased and everyone was on their feet. Passing in front of Marie-Louise, he said to her in a rather dry tone: "Allons, Madame..." and continued to walk, while she followed him three paces behind him. As soon as he approached the door of the interior apartments, this door opened, and, the moment the Empress had passed it, it closed behind them.

Mémoires du général Baron Thiébault / publiés sous les auspices de sa fille Mlle. Claire Thiébault, d'après le manuscrit original par Fernand Calmettes, c.1 v.4

hathitrust

[eightspidereyes]

the shifter's manual -- part one

chapter one -- onanism

1a I am a creature of pleasure, I seek desire. I am desperate, yet in my gasps, 1b I breathe seduction. I am beauty incarnate, and my face shall I use. 2 I will dislocate my jaw to fit it all in. 3 I am the egg meeting the sperm. 4 The sperm. The sperm. Thou shan't spill thy sperm. I am a whore and a whore I shall be, I shall lick thy sperm off the floor, if thy hath spilled thy holy mead. 5 Not one drop shall be wasted. Not one drop. My tongue shall allow my heart indulgence. My only will in life, to taste thy cum. 6 In the sacred silence. I yearn. No condoms. No protection. No protection from our inevitable procreation. 7 In the solemnity of the night, whilst thou fall asleep. I shall ride. If not you, I shall ride another. 8 But his sperm I shall let drip, I shall prevent his seed from entering my bidden womb. 9 For my womb is thy precious. 10 The dark is a clandestine entity. Every autonomy be lost to the beholder of the black. The empty. The void.

Asmodei, the horny

chapter two -- acedia

1 This is my holding of sin. My exhaustion deep within. In this, I am done. Fin. 2 For I care not no more. 3 I shall die, once again. The everlasting Fin. 4 I forgot the face of my floor from the pile of clothes. Sin. I shall rest, everlasting. Eternal Fin.

Abaddon, the depressed

chapter 3 -- studiose

1 Hark! Behold! The fat, the thin, the never even in. The fit, the one digit, the holy piece of shit. 2 The open eyes, and open mouth. Hunger resides deep in south. 3 The teeth, the broken, the sharp yet stolen. 4 The most indulgent, and the least demure. Then comes the most daint, and the least impudent. 5 Damned the table of feasts. Damned the right-handed beasts. 6 If food doth reaches my mouth. The food doth indulges in my stomach. The food doth escape, and the food shall leave. 7 The further the throw, the better the fit. As I am, I am a holy piece of shit. 8 Hark! Behold! Cometh near the beast. The most of most, the least of least. 9 Cometh near the beast that hold vanity to thine face. The held glass. 10 Hark! Behold! Where art thou dignity. Thou hath becometh too much large. A large life is easy to come by. Yet, thy hath prevented thyself of joy. 11 Repented happiness in life. For vanity thou hast devoured daintily. For the in the hunger I shall feel full. 12 The frown of my stomach, shall be the uproar of my life.

Belphegor, the hungry

[eldaaran]

@iriysse asked: "I saw there's an 'open invitation to bother you' posted." Aredhel said, lopsided grin upon her face. "So I thought I'd take advantage…" And thus proceeded to boop his nose.

Thranduil   blinked,   his   regal   composure   faltering   for   the   barest   of   moments   as   Aredhel’s   finger   made   contact   with   the   tip   of   his   nose.   The   normally   impenetrable   mask   of   Elven   dignity   cracked,   his   sharp   brows   rising   in   startled   affront.

“An   open   invitation   to   bother   me?”   he   repeated,   his   voice   carrying   that   trademark   mix   of   icy   skepticism   and   imperious   disdain,   though   a   trace   of   genuine   confusion   lingered   beneath.   “I   do   not   recall   authoring   such   an   absurd   proclamation.”

He   straightened   in   his   seat,   adjusting   the   folds   of   his   robes   as   though   to   reassert   his   grandeur   after   the   indignity   of   the   so-called   boop.   “And   yet,   here   you   are,”   he   added,   the   faintest   twitch   at   the   corner   of   his   lips   betraying   his   begrudging   amusement.   “Taking   what   liberties   you   please.”

His   silver   gaze   softened   just   enough   to   suggest   that   her   antics,   though   entirely   improper   by   his   standards,   were   not   wholly   unwelcome.   “I   trust   you   find   your   impudence   worth   the   risk?”

[winged-void]

Good news, your grace. You have endured the tide of impudent anons asking for Princess nudity with such dignity that the other princesses are sure to accept vassalage. Unfortunately, the dungeons are becoming rather full. We’re considering auditioning prisoners for the role of rats that can squeak and steal food to provide proper ambiance, as our actual population of vermin is far too small for so many cells.

I am more than confident there are rat and mouse girls within my domain who would love to serve me in any capacity they can.

[nicknumber]

The Light Side of London III – Impudence and Dignity by Tom Browne