#a coverlet of roses

[perry-mason-della-street]

You can read my story, "Chocolates For Della", on Fanfiction.net under the username of ACoverletOfRoses. have written several stories for Perry and Della there! This gif made me think of it. :-)

[rhymingtherapy]

spellbound in transit through twilight’s gloam

a waning moon

basks in blooms of ethereal light over sky-meadows sown with rose petal clouds

woven in lore with dusk laden waters her reflection temporarily dissolves beneath sunset’s silky coverlet of atmospheric flowers

.

RhymingTherapy—Feb 2024 (my photo)

[littlest-w01f]

Loving

Rhysand x Evelyn (See Evelyn here)

For @officialrhysandweek

Rhysand week 2024 Masterlist

Day 4: Lord of Night

Summary: Evelyn's learnt there is more to the High Lord of Night than she knew.

Cw: Fluff, cuddles, horny, pregnancy

Rhysand was the male her father had wanted her to marry. Rhysand was a cruel High Lord. Rhysand was the most horrible male. That's what Evelyn knew all her life.

Evelyn sighed, turning in her bed, well, Rhysand's bed she had slept in, her eyes opening to the sight of Rhysand asleep. Blood red roses grew on their headboard, flowers she'd created out of nothing in her peaceful sleep.

But, Rhysand was her mate. Rhysand was one of the most kindest High Lords. Rhysand was one of the gentlest males she had ever met. Rhysand was caring. Rhysand was loving.

She watched his features, and he didn't look a bit like the cruel image of him everyone else would see.

The High Lord's broad chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his lean muscles relaxed through the exposed torso. A hint of stubble dusted his strong jawline, adding to the allure of his masculine beauty. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of power about him, yet it seemed tempered by an underlying gentleness that Evelyn had come to appreciate during their time together.

Evelyn gazed at Rhysand's peaceful face, illuminated only by the soft moonlight filtering through the ornate windows of their opulent bedchamber. His chiselled jawline was relaxed, his full lips parted slightly as he breathed deeply in slumber. A lock of onxy blue-black hair fell across his forehead, adding to his rugged yet endearing appearance, being mated had done him so well if Evelyn were to boast about herself.

As she studied Rhysand, Evelyn felt a pang of guilt for having believed the vile rumours about him for so long. Her father's words echoed in her mind, that Rhysand was cruel just like his father, and heartless, and that she deserved a male like him for being a bad daughter. But now, seeing the tender lines around Rhysand's closed eyes, the way his fingers curled gently beneath the coverlet, reaching for her even in sleep, she realized how wrong those assumptions were.

Evelyn reached out tentatively, her fingertips hovering just above Rhysand's cheek before lightly brushing against the warm skin. He stirred softly at her touch, eyelids fluttering open to reveal those striking violet irises that seemed to pierce straight into her soul. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, a thousand unspoken words passing between them in the charged silence.

Rhysand lifted a hand to cover hers, pressing it more firmly against his face as he turned to place a gentle kiss upon her palm. "Good morning, elskan," he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep. The endearment sent a shiver down Evelyn's spine, the intimacy of it both thrilling and terrifying.

The High Lord's gaze held a warmth that contradicted everything Evelyn had been led to believe about him. There was no cruelty, no heartlessness, only genuine affection for her reflected back in those mesmerizing violet depths.

"You're awake early today," Rhysand noted, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with a contentment that mirrored hers. He shifted slightly, pulling her closer until their bodies touched intimately along the length of their joined forms. "Did something disturb your rest?" he asked, concern lacing his tone.

"Oh just this baby that keeps kicking," Evelyn mentioned nonchalently.

Evelyn's casual remark made Rhysand smile, a slow curve of his sensual lips that held no small amount of pride. He placed a large, warm hand over the swell of her belly, feeling the tiny flutters of movement within. "Ah, so our little one is eager to greet the day," he observed, stroking gently over the taut skin. "No doubt she takes after her mother, always ready for adventure."

Evelyn hadn't been pregnant long, nearly three weeks and the babe seemed to have figured out she could move and hadn't stopped for even a second.

Evelyn remembered the first time she slept in the same space as him, she'd truly rather be anywhere but there back then. And now, nothing could be close enough.

Elation swirled within Evelyn as memories flooded her mind, the initial night they shared a bed, when she had been terrified by Rhysand's proximity, convinced that his cruelty would manifest itself physically. Now, the very thought of being apart from him filled her with a profound sense of loss.

Rhysand's gaze softened, violet eyes shimmering with affection as he brought her hand to his lips once more, kissing each knuckle reverently.

His thumb traced idle patterns over the delicate knuckles of her hand, the other giving soothing stroks her slightly swollen belly, an innocent act filled with deep affection and unspoken promises. "You have nothing to fear from me. You've never had."

Evelyn began to speak but she couldn't find the right words, so she simply nestled into his warmth.

"You're never allowed to doubt who I am again," he declared sternly, though there was unmistakable warmth behind his words. "I know I may not have been easy to understand… but remember always…" He leaned closer until his breath whispered against her earlobe "… I am yours."

His whispered declaration hung heavy in the air between them, thick with promise and raw emotion. Rhysand's eyes held an intensity that seemed to burn right through to her very core, making her feel both seen and cherished.

Slowly, deliberately, one strong arm slid around her waist pulling her flush against him while the other tangled itself within her loose curls. His head dipped lower until their noses brushed and his mouth hovered mere inches away from hers.

"And I am hungry," Evelyn whispered cheekily, giving him a gentle peck.

Rhysand chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that vibrated through Evelyn's entire body. "Hungry, darling?" He sat up, pulling Evelyn with him so that she straddled his lap, facing him. "Well, I suppose it's the perfect opportunity for breakfast."

His hands slid under her loose nightgown, palms grazing the smooth expanse of her thighs before finding purchase on her hips. With a firm grip, he guided her down onto his hardness, letting out a low groan at the sensation of her wet heat surrounding him.

"I'll feed you, my greedy little flower," Rhysand promised huskily, his lips seeking hers in a searing kiss that left no doubt about his intentions. "And afterwards, perhaps you can return the favor…"

With a possessive claim, Rhysand's lips crashed against hers in a fiery display of dominance and desire. His tongue swept past her lips, demanding entrance and tasting every inch of her mouth with hungry need. His free hand roamed up along the curve of her back, gripping tightly at the fabric of her nightgown as if trying to pull her even closer than physically possible.

Evelyn gasped into the kiss, feeling overwhelmed by both the strength of Rhysand's arousal and the tenderness that radiated off him in waves. She returned his passionate embrace eagerly, wrapping herself around him like ivy clinging to a tree trunk - secure and unwavering despite any attempts at separation.

Their bodies melded together seamlessly, every contour fitting perfectly against another creating an intoxicating blend of pleasure and comfort unlike anything either had experienced before.

Evelyn then pulled away, "Alright, food first. Sex later, ok?"

A mischievous glint lit up Rhysand's violet eyes as he heard Evelyn's conditions, but he didn't argue. Instead, he gave her a playful wink before easing her off of himself completely.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured, releasing her only momentarily before standing gracefully from their entwined state. He offered his hand towards the large dining table, where with a wave of his hand, breakfast awaited.

As they moved towards the decadence laid out before them, Rhysand stole glances at Evelyn’s form, her curves outlined by the thin fabric of her nightgown, the way her tender breasts rose and fell with each breath she took, her body was changing little by little every day, and he loved each development, the flare of her hips leading down to the roundness of her pregnant belly which bore silent testament to their love.

Before Evelyn could take her seat, Rhysand pulled her on his lap, "Stay right here, my flower," he purred in her ear, kissing around it, a hand over her stomach "Let me feed my darlings. What would you like? Something sweet? Spicy? Sour?"

"The skewers… Sweet." Evelyn smiled softly, pointing to the fruit skewers, mixed with all kinds of fruits.

With a pleased hum, Rhysand obliged, selecting two skewers of fresh fruits from the spread and handing one to Evelyn. Their fingers brushed against each other in the exchange, sending sparks of electricity coursing through their connected bodies.

"Eat up, my love," he urged softly, guiding the fruit to her lips with his own. As she accepted the morsel, he watched her intently, his violet eyes sparkling with admiration and lustful promise.

Feeling bold, Rhysand dipped his head lower, nipping gently at the exposed column of her throat before trailing kisses upwards towards her jawline. "You taste sweeter than any fruit I've ever known," he growled against her skin, his voice thickened by desire.

Rhysand was many things, but the one certain thing was that the Lord of Night was hers. Their gazes locked, violet meeting hers in a piercing stare that spoke volumes without needing words.

Evelyn's hair tumbled wildly around her face, framing her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Rhysand's chiselled features were etched with desire, his lips parted and eyes glazed with lust. The room around them faded into insignificance. They only had eyes for each other.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith}

{Rhysand Taglist - @yeonalie}

{RhysandWeek Taglist - @andreperez11}

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

The Pretty Woman AU no one asked for.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Prostitution, Older Man/Younger Woman

Chapters: 1, 2, 4 (WIP)

AO3 Link

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Chapter Three: Day Three

Her night was…surprisingly nice. 

Which felt like a strange thing to say about spending time with a man who had paid twenty thousand fucking dollars for…what had he called it? The pleasure of her company? It seemed absurd and yet, that’s exactly what happened. 

Upon her return, he had welcomed her back into his suite to the smell of something delicious and the sight of half a dozen covered platters laid out on the dining room table. 

He was ever the gentleman, pulling out a chair for her before sitting down himself. Serving her before adding anything to his own plate. Asking her how her day had gone. He acted like…like this were something they had always done. 

As if this were a real relationship. 

Afterwards, he tucked her into bed with the kind of care and attentiveness that Feyre hadn’t experienced since childhood. 

“But…” she whispered, as he pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “Aren’t you going to…” 

“Not tonight,” Rhys said gently as he kissed her forehead. “You’ve had a long day. Just sleep.” 

She blinked up at him curiously. Confused. 

“But…what about you?”

He smiled softly. He looked at her the way she would a puppy. Or a baby rabbit. 

“I have some work to finish up. I tend to stay up late anyway.”

And then he had just…left. 

She was so confused that she honestly wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed by this outcome. 

Did I do something wrong? She thought, staring after him long after he’d closed the door. 

Feyre didn’t understand him. 

She didn’t understand him at all. 

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Feyre awoke to the image of Rhys clasping on his wristwatch by the bedside table. Behind him, she spied the the still dark sky through the window and wondered what time it was. 

“I have an early meeting,” he explained to her softly. She blinked blearily up at him as he smoothed a warm hand over her hair. “Feel free to sleep in. Order some room service. Relax. I’ll be back in the afternoon. I have a gala I’d like you to attend with me this evening.”

“Okay,” she said, still half asleep. 

“Good girl. Now go back to sleep.”

And who was Feyre to argue?

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She felt immensely out of place. 

While Feyre had seen galas on tv before, the reality of one was something else entirely. Never before had she been surrounded by so much wealth. Everyone around her looked as if they had stepped straight off of a red carpet. They had the kind of bodies and faces that spoke of the best surgeons, the best dermatologists, and the best personal trainers money could buy. 

It was enough to make Feyre, even dressed in a designer gown (and crowned with more diamonds than she’d ever seen in her life) feel like a bit of a fraud. A toddler playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. It felt so very obvious that she didn’t belong here. She lacked the confidence so many of these people seemed to have. A kind of arrogance and self-assuredness that came from a lifetime of financial security and rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. 

“You look ready to bolt,” Rhys commented amusedly. 

“Don’t you have a work friend or something you could’ve brought to this?” Feyre sniped through her teeth as she smiled nervously at yet another celebrity glancing their way. 

“Afraid not,” he said unapologetically. “Besides, I don’t think they would’ve worn that dress quite as well as you.” 

Quite against her will, Feyre felt her face flush hot and red. 

Thank God she was wearing a pound of makeup. 

Luckily, she was saved from coming up with a reply when a couple of men appeared to greet them. 

“Rhys!” The first man exclaimed congenially. He was solidly middle aged unlike his companion who looked like he’d just stepped out of a haircare commercial. “So good to see you!” 

“Gareth” Rhys replied with the same smooth charm before nodding to the younger man. “Tamlin. How is business?”

While the three made small talk about stock prices Feyre couldn’t help but stare at the second man curiously. 

Tamlin. 

Why was that name so familiar?

It took her a moment but eventually an image came to mind, of an overly serious teen boy leading ten year-old Feyre around after her father had kicked them out of his office while he entertained a client. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

The man stared back. 

Feyre looked back at him with slowly dawning horror. 

“Ah, forgive me,” Rhys’s voice cut through her internal crisis as she felt him gesture towards her. “This is my friend Vivian.” 

“Vivian?” Tamlin said with a frown. 

He knew. 

She knew he knew. 

Fuck, how was she supposed to wiggle her way out of this one?

“Yes,” she said cheerily, plastering a wide, fake smile onto her face. “Vivian.” 

It couldn’t have been more clear she was lying through her teeth. Thankfully, Tamlin seemed to understand that now was not the time to press the issue and backed down immediately. However, she felt his eyes boring into her skill for the rest of the conversation. 

She should’ve known he was just biding his time until he found a way to corner her. 

Alone. 

Well, she thought bitterly when she spied him loitering outside the women’s restroom a half hour later. That didn’t take long. 

“Oh hi Tamlin. Are you looking for the men’s room? I think it’s actually further down the hall-”

“Why are you here?” He interrupted her, green eyes daring her to lie to him. 

“At the moment? Going to the bathroom-”

He made a frustrated noise. “Not in this building, I mean with him. With Rhysand.”

“He asked me to come.” In more ways than one…

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

“But why?” Okay, now he was just insulting her. 

(Even if, not so deep down, she agreed with him.)

“The pleasure of my company?” She bit out. It wasn’t even a lie. Those were Rhys’s words exactly when they’d made this strange bargain. 

“Listen,” Tamlin said placatingly, seeming to realize that he was upsetting her. “I know your name’s not Vivian.”

Here we go, she thought. 

“You’re Feyre right? Feyre Archeron? Our fathers used to work together?” 

Fuck. He did remember. 

Feyre felt like a whole hive of bees was skittering across her skin. Would it be too rude to just start running? No, no, she couldn’t do that. She could barely walk in heels, let alone run in them. Maybe she could throw them at him as a distraction? 

Unaware of her current escape plans, Tamlin moved closer and touched her arm. 

She jolted. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. 

Feyre wondered if this was what cornered animals felt like. 

“I just,” he said, softer. “You’re not in trouble are you?” 

She stared at him. 

What?

“Because I know your father lost everything back then. I just worry that someone might be taking advantage of you.” 

In an instant, Feyre felt her face heat with embarrassment. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…he’s not paying you to be here is he?”

Cold, humiliating horror settled deep in her gut. The answer must’ve been written all over her face because she suddenly felt Tamlin grab ahold of her hands and try to catch her eye. 

“He is isn’t he? Jesus, I’m sorry, I can’t believe you’re being forced to do this.”

Wait…forced?

“No,” she tried to argue, lips still numb with shame. “It’s not like that-”

“If I’d known you’d needed money I would’ve given it to you. I’m sorry we lost touch after the market crash. But I’m here now! I could help you!” 

Feyre felt like she was watching this entire interaction from afar. A curious bystander watching this strange, horrifying moment in her life play out while she could do nothing to stop it. 

The worst part about this whole thing was that this should’ve been ideal. Rhys was a stranger. She didn’t know him. She had no guarantee he would continue to treat her well whereas Tamlin was a known quantity. She had known him since childhood. She would’ve been safer taking his money over Rhys’s. 

And yet…

Rhys had been nothing but kind to her since the start of their arrangement. Really he’d…he’d taken care of her. 

Like she mattered. 

And maybe, selfishly, she wanted to drag that feeling out a little longer. Before the week was up and she was forced to go back to her life of abusive bosses and neglectful sisters.

“How much is he giving you?”

The words slipped out of her mouth faster than she could catch them. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Tamlin startled. 

“Twenty thousand?” He repeated, as if he had heard incorrectly. 

Feyre shrugged. 

“Jesus, what are you doing for him?” He said it in such a way that implied that whatever it was she was doing…it was dirty. Shameful. 

Feyre tore her hands away from his. 

What the fuck, she thought. What the fuck. 

“That’s none of your business,” she said frostily. Am I so unlovable? She wondered. So poor and pitiful that all Tamlin could imagine Rhys would want from her was something horrible and sordid? 

“Feyre-”

“Thanks for your offer, but I really must decline. Excuse me.” 

Fuck him, she thought angrily as she walked away. I’ll show him. 

I’ll fucking show him. 

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Her anger followed her all the way back to Rhys. 

“Are you alright?” He had asked her, real concern laced through his words. 

And Feyre had replied, not fine at all, “I’m fine.”

She fought hard to be as pleasant and accommodating as possible for the rest of the night, but it truly felt like she had a roiling little stormcloud hanging over her head the entire time. She just couldn’t stop thinking about Tamlin’s words. 

What are you doing for him?

Nothing. 

She was doing…nothing. 

Had been doing nothing for the last three fucking days. 

It made her feel…bad. Antsy. Like she wasn’t earning her keep. 

The feeling followed her all the way into the car when they finally decided to leave. And it was that very same feeling, those same words, that compelled her to slip down onto the floor of the car. 

Between Rhys’s legs. 

She struggled a bit to situate herself, seeing as how the space wasn’t exactly made with blowjobs in mind, but Feyre was nothing if not stubborn and determined. 

Rhys, however, seemed wholly confused by her sudden awkward positioning. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, brows furrowed. 

“Earning my keep,” she chirped before putting her fingers to the front of his pants, looking for his zipper. 

Rhys sucked in a sharp breath before quickly halting her hands with his own. 

“You don’t need to do that.”

She pursed her lips. 

“Don’t I?” Her words were harsh but inside she was reeling. If he didn’t want to fuck her then how was she supposed to earn her money? Why even keep her around then? Had Tamlin been right? 

“You really don’t,” he insisted, pulling her up off the floor and back onto the seat beside him. 

“What’s the point of this then?” Feyre asked, staring at her shoes, unable to look him in the eye. “If I’m not here for that then why am I here at all?” 

Rhys was quiet then. For a few excruciating moments she was sure then that this was where he finally kicked her out of the car and put an end to their arrangement. 

Instead, she felt him move. 

Onto the floor. 

He was kneeling in nearly the same spot she had been just moments before. Even on his knees, he still towered over her. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly bone dry. 

“Have I not been taking care of you enough?” He murmured quietly. 

Feyre stared at him, dazed by their sudden role reversal. 

“Does my sweet girl need tending to?” 

“What?” Now Feyre was sure her brain was short-circuiting. 

Rhys chuckled and slid his hands up under her dress and along her thighs. 

“Don’t worry, I know what you need.” 

She sucked in air through her nose as her panties were quickly pulled down her legs and tucked away into Rhys’s pocket. He looked down upon her bare cunt with a pleased expression and then carefully, gently, she felt the lips of it pulled apart with his thumbs to reveal the dusty pink flesh underneath. 

“You’re so pretty here,” he said conversationally. And then she watched as he bowed his head, as if in prayer, before she spied a flash of a pink tongue and then—

Oh, she thought, in shock. Oh. 

In her admittedly short sexual career, no one had ever gone down on her. Feyre had always been led to believe that it was just something men didn’t enjoy. 

It was quickly apparent that Rhys was not one of those men. 

The noises he made as he licked her cunt could only be described as enthusiastic. He sounded like a starving man devouring a steak dinner, not a man swirling his tongue around her clitoris because she had the audacity to try to give him a blowjob. 

He’d barely been at it for sixty seconds before she was ready to squirm out of her skin. Her skin felt hot and tight. Her pulse kicked hard in her veins. Her nipples had hardened to stiff little points that rubbed against the silk of her dress. She felt…overwhelmed. Like she simultaneously wanted to wiggle away and pull him closer. 

“Fuck,” she said deliriously. “Fuck.” 

Her hips writhed in her seat but Rhys just placed a large, muscular arm over them, locking her in place. He glanced up at her like a scolding parent. 

“None of that. Be a good girl and take what you’re given.” 

There were those magic words again. Good girl. They rang through her ears and into her brain like a siren song. Like a sedative. 

Her muscles went lax. 

Rhys smiled. 

And then he peeled back the little hood of her clitoris and blew gently on it. 

Feyre gasped. 

His laugh was almost mean. Carnivorous. And the vibrations and heat from his breath against her cunt made her shiver. 

“Oh yes. I think I’ve been quite remiss in my duties towards you.” He didn’t direct his words at her, but towards the shiny swollen clitoris he now rubbed softly with his thumb. 

She felt like a fish caught on a line. Desperately jerking and wiggling but unable to escape the man who had caught her. 

“Oh God,” she gasped. “On my God!” 

“Just Rhys is fine,” he said cheekily. And then her eyes crossed as the velvety feel of lips and tongue latching back onto her clitoris had her spine bending back at an angle that was sure to give her back problems later. 

Liquid heat pounded in her cunt. She was sure, at this point, that all the blood in her body had fled there because she could barely form a single coherent thought outside of…

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“That’s it. Let go pretty girl.” 

Feyre wasn’t sure what finally pushed her over the edge, his sugary sweet words or the fluttering of his tongue against the underside of her clit but regardless she felt her whole body seize and shake into a mind-numbing orgasm. 

She felt herself pulled into strong, warm arms as Rhys settled back beside her as she came down. 

“Shhhhh,” he murmured sweetly into her hair. “You should’ve told me you needed this. Next time you’ll tell me when you’re worked up hmm?”

Feyre nodded into his neck, still sleepy and drugged from the endorphins flooding through her brain. 

Yes, she thought. 

That sounded good to her. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hello,if of course you wanted and if it was your will, could you write something about Thranduil. About how once, while returning to his Kingdom, he came across a slave trade where he saw an elven woman who was scared and emaciated. Thranduil is moved by this and buys her out, then takes her to the palace, though she is distrustful, appreciates him helping her, and over time I fall in love with him. You don't have to agree with this, but it may have been after Thranduil became King, but also before his son was born. Of course, if you want to write about it, and that would be your will...

Hello! I wrote this event taking place just after the sinking of Beleriand, with Oropher ruling Greenwood the Great and sections of Middle Earth being a bit of a dumpster fire after the War of Wrath. I hope you don’t mind the change. This is part one. Part two should be out in a fortnight, or just after that, and from Thranduil’s POV.

“A Better Future” Part 1

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Elf/Noldor |Third Person POV)

Themes: Angst | Dark

Warnings: Death | Indentured servitude | Indenture Auction | Mentions of slavery | Mentions of sexual slavery | Mistreatment | Examination for purity

Wordcount : 2.3K words

Summary: An elf of the Noldor finds herself on the auction block, facing a dreary future.

A/n: For Lady Githa I drew inspiration from Six of Crows’ Tante Heleen. Most of part one is around reader's backstory, and there is only some dialog towards the end.

Minors DNI

Y/Ns POV

Y/n was still drowsy when she opened her eyes. She had seen herself with her father, listening to him play the harp and sing while her mother sewed away by the fire. There were hot pies and fresh fruit and cheese to nibble on, and her father would leave the harp to indulge in her thirst for tales of the Blessed Realm. Home was safe and warm, and everyone was alive.

Such a beautiful dream. And a dream it would forever be. Y/n threw back the rags that served as coverlets and sat up straight on the pallet that served as a featherbed. Her back ached after a night of fitful sleep. She glanced around the near-empty chamber, which was barely large enough for her. There were no possessions here, and she was not allowed any. Oh, she had been promised new garments, a hot meal, and a bath for this day, but she knew such gifts came with a heavy price. She had moved among the Edain long enough to learn this harsh truth. Y/n looked at the stone ceiling and sighed mournfully. Her fate will be decided today.

My fate was decided a long time ago, in another life, she thought bitterly. Her father had followed the sons of Fëanor and played a part in the second Kinslaying. All that returned of him was news of his disgrace and death, his role in the slaughter, and how he doomed his bloodline along with himself. As for her mother? She no longer wished to live. She followed the path of Miriel before her, lying down in a meadow and letting her fëa peacefully depart from her body. That was how y/n found her—a vessel from which the jewel had spilled. Alone and without friends, she performed the final rights for her mother before departing for safer pastures. Someone was bound to take pity on her and give her shelter; she was certain of it.

That was not to be. Door after door closed to her as soon as she made her name and ties known. Elves did not wish to sully themselves by associating with one bearing the blood of a kinslayer. The Edain did not want to offend wealthy elven patrons. Y/n had been forced to wander further and further east, year after year, alone and frightened, keeping to the outer borders of kingdoms and selling off her family’s possessions one by one in exchange for coin so she could have clothes and food. She watched in horror while smoke rose from distant battlefields, praying the fighting would never reach her. She trembled when she heard strange and terrifying roars. She listened to the songs about how the Valar finally sent their host to deal with a most wretched enemy, how the lands she once ran across as a child had been claimed by the sea. The grief of such a loss—of her home and her family—was so great that it caused her pain powerful enough to nearly cripple her. She bore it all silently. She had no choice, and she did not have a single creature to confide in. Finally, a mortal took pity on her, or so she thought. He offered her a roof over her head and a better future; all she needed to do was agree to his terms.  

Y/n snorted in derision. A better future. If only she had listened to the voice within her, demanding that she refuse. This man would play her false, it said, and place her in a condition with no hope for escape. But y/n was desperate. What coin she had left on her person was all but gone. She was tired of wandering, with no home and no hope and no future to look forward to. She agreed. And felt nothing but regret over the choice she made.

Someone knocked insistently on the door. "I am ready," she called softly. Servants of the house walked in with a healer. Y/n was asked to lay face up and stay still. A flush crept up her throat, but she did as she was told. The healer pulled her rough-spun robe up to her waist and spread her legs, to examine her. Y/n felt a pinch and winced. Her cheeks were ablaze with humiliation. She was told this was necessary. Y/n did not want to think why.

The maids mouthed meaningless comforts while they led her to the baths. Y/n did not believe they meant a word of what they said. They were only loyal to the master of the house and did not spare a thought for her before this. She sat still in a copper tub and was bathed in hot water scented with fragrant oils. One maid carefully washed her hair before picking up a comb to brush the tangles. The other cleaned her feet and nails before scrubbing her back. She chatted incessantly while she went about her tasks. Y/n listened. Anything to distract her from what was about to happen.

"Everyone is talking about you," Eda gossiped, red-cheeked and excited. "Fights have broken out amongst the younger lordlings and..."

"That is quite enough from you, Eda," the other maid, Cwene, cut in harshly. She wanted to end whatever Eda longed to say. Eda bit her lip and nodded anxiously. They both went back to work, silent as the dead.

Y/n shivered and gulped in fright. She knew what was going to happen. She was to be indentured. The man who promised her a brighter future would sell her skills and her, to the one who was willing to pay the most. Those fortunate few who served those with fair hearts had the price of their purchase decrease over time and enjoyed a better life after that. Many more were given a price that only increased as the years passed. They had to toil day after day and year after year, slaves in all but name. Then there were those unfortunate few who faced the bleakest of all futures. Y/n did not allow herself to dwell on those others.

She thought, Perhaps I will be one of the fortunate few, and allowed herself to be helped out of the bath. Perhaps, I will be lucky.

Y/n let the maids lead her to another room and stood still while they toweled her dry and dressed her in silken wisps that made her blush. Then came her gown. It was so soft and smooth that it slipped over her palms like water. She could not remember the last time she wore anything so fine. It made her feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. Eda took her to a nearby stool and asked her to sit. She brushed y/n’s hair until it shone and arranged it in braids and coils. Dabs of sweet-smelling perfume were placed on each wrist and behind each ear. Finally came a pair of sandals crafted out of soft leather. Y/n sighed as if in a dream. The sandals embraced her feet gently, like lovers. Cwene held up a looking glass for her to see her reflection. Y/n was startled. She could not recognize herself.

"She looks like a proper princess now," was all Cwene allowed. Someone else arrived and knocked on the door to the baths. It was the master of the house.

"Take this one to the yard," he rasped to Eda. "The others are growing impatient."

The yard was all freshly cut grass and new flowers, and it was already full of Edain. They gaped at the elf on the raised dais, their looks making her skin crawl. A tall, beautiful woman with hair like spun gold and rubies glinting on her ears, fingers, and throat, climbed up the steps and came to y/n. She looked at her critically. Y/n buried a sob when she saw the rubies. They reminded her of her mother’s hair.

"Beautiful," she whispered, the sweetness of her voice doing little to hide the bitterness lurking beneath. She tilted y/n’s chin with the tip of an elegant walking stick. She wanted to see how her eyes caught the light. Satisfied with what she saw, the woman looked over y/n’s hair and ears, and even her teeth. "Her eyes are like jewels. But tell me, I pray you. Why does she look so gaunt and melancholy? Has she not been fed well?"

It was not said out of kindness. There was none in the lady’s hardened gray eyes. Y/n lowered her gaze and closed her own, as was expected. She did not say that she was given meager scraps because the master of the house did not wish to waste more coin than he already had on her. It could only go badly for her if she did.

"She has," Y/n’s master replied hastily. He crept up to her and dug his fingers into her arm, warning her to keep quiet. Y/n bit her tongue to stop herself from making a sound. "And since the lords that frequent The Blue Rose expect women fit for a king," he added, "This one will do nicely after a good meal, yes?"

"Indeed," the woman conceded, and looked y/n over again. She grabbed y/n's cheek hard, her nails digging into the skin. "Cry if you must," she whispered harshly when y/n, trapped and unable to move, whimpered. "Tear out your hair. I would too if I was in your place. But know this, elf. When the dust clears, you will be mine."

The woman turned to face y/n's master. "Your herald tells me she is untouched."

"Aye, lady Githa," came the reply. "The healer assured me of this."

"This truly is a most blessed day." Githa finally let go and laughed merrily. Y/n fell ill at the sound and found herself overcome with the shivers, but she welcomed the release from Githa's presence. She knew of The Blue Rose. Githa ruled it with an iron fist and was known to be a cruel mistress. The Blue, as it was more commonly known, welcomed the coin of high-born edain, some with tastes that could make one's stomach turn. At least, that was what the maids said. The women sent there never earned their freedom. Some, she had heard through careless chatter, did not even make it out alive. Y/n wanted to flee, to run somewhere no one knew of, and to hide. Since she could not, since she was already trapped, she prayed, hoping against all hope that she would not have to spend the rest of her days toiling on her back.

A herald came forth and called out her name and ties. His words were met with boisterous cheers. "She was born in the four hundred and fiftieth year of the first age," he continued, "and is skilled in both the high harp and the lute. The lady is also fluent in both Quenya and Sindarin. Her mother and father hailed from the Blessed Realm. She is meek and obedient, perfect for any household. And she is untouched. We have been assured of this. One such as her will not grace this dais again."  

Loud applause rang out around the yard. Y/n’s master grabbed her arm so hard that it hurt. She was dragged to the center of the block and made to stand straight. The herald would call out a price. Someone would offer more. Y/n listened with growing dread as her purchase price rose higher and higher. The cries soon reached a fevered frenzy that shocked her. She heard the unmistakably musical sound of Githa, the woman who looked her over like she was nothing more than a prize horse to be broken in, whatever means necessary. Githa had coin. From the way she carried on, it was plain she had plenty. If someone shouted a price, she would go higher. One by one, those others would give their excuses and stop. Y/n heard names being called out. Only six remained. Githa was one of the six. Fear coiled within her belly like a snake.

How could you do this to me, father? She wanted to cry. How could you and mother doom me to such a fate?

Y/n heard more voices. Word had already reached the marketplace and spread like a forest fire. Many poured into the yard and joined the throng. They wanted to watch. Someone shouted out ribald jests. Lady Githa replied with equal humor. The others laughed. Y/n kept her eyes closed even as her blood ran cold. She pretended not to hear. Doom coiled itself around her like a chain so heavy she could almost feel it tightening over her chest, squeezing the very air out of her. 

The herald called out names once again. Only two remained, he reminded the rest, but he invited everyone to indulge in the food and wine being served. Y/n could taste the bile at the back of her throat. Githa shouted another offer. 

"Six thousand gold pieces!" The herald declared and received a roar of approval. "And we still carry on!"

The crowd encouraged Lady Githa and her rival, urging them to continue. Grief gathered around y/n’s heart like bees. There was no escaping her fate now. No one was coming to save her. Tears welled up in her eyes and broke free. Someone laughed.  

"Twenty thousand gold pieces!" A deep voice boomed from behind the crowd. The yard went so quiet that y/n swore she would have heard a pin drop. "And an end to this wretched spectacle!"

Y/n heard the creak of floorboards. The herald went to talk with his masters. They were beside her, whispering to each other. Again, she pretended not to hear. 

"We cannot deny them," one said.

"That one will slaughter all of us if we refuse," another said. "Or do worse."

"Aye," muttered a third. "But we must give Lady Githa the opportunity to make her excuses and bow out. She may not come near us again otherwise. Continue with the sale."

"Tw-twenty thousand!" The herald returned and announced the figure. They were going to continue. "We have twenty thousand! Do either of you wish to go higher?" 

Moments passed. Y/n listened, thinking Lady Githa would call out a higher price and carry on. 

"He can have her!" Githa cried after speaking with her rival. She sounded less than pleased. "We are finished!"

"Very well!" The Herald agreed. "Twenty thousand gold! Going once, going twice, sold! To… to the crown prince of Gr-greenwood the Great!"

The herald sounded terrified. The crown prince of Greenwood the Great, he had declared. Y/n had heard of this kingdom and how its king and his people survived the sack of Doriath. In all her wanderings, she kept away from this realm, no matter how tired or weak or hungry she was. She knew she would find no welcome there. 

Y/n fearfully opened her eyes, certain the prince only brought her to punish her for the sins committed by her kin.  

Tags: @deadlymistletoe

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Photograph of Patti Smith by Rebecca Miller.

* * * *

Memory. Creativity. Links to the past.

From 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝐾𝑖𝑑𝑠 by Patti Smith.

"When I was very young, my mother took me for walks in Humboldt Park, along the edge of the Prairie River. I have vague memories, like impressions on glass plates, of an old boathouse, a circular band shell, an arched stone bridge. The narrows of the river emptied into a wide lagoon and I saw upon its surface a singular miracle. A long curving neck rose from a dress of white plumage.

"𝑆𝑤𝑎𝑛, my mother said, sensing my excitement. It pattered the bright water, flapping its great wings, and lifted into the sky.

The word alone hardly attested to its magnificence nor conveyed the emotion it produced. The sight of it generated an urge I had no words for, a desire to speak of the swan, to say something of its whiteness, the explosive nature of its movement, and the slow beating of its wings.

The swan became one with the sky. I struggled to find words to describe my own sense of it. 𝑆𝑤𝑎𝑛, I repeated, not entirely satisfied, and I felt a twinge, a curious yearning, imperceptible to passersby, my mother, the trees, or the clouds."

And from 𝑀 𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛:

"We seek to stay present, even as the ghosts attempt to draw us away. Our father manning the loom of eternal return. Our mother wandering toward paradise, releasing the thread. In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all. We imagine a house, a rectangle of hope. A room with a single bed with a pale coverlet, a few precious books, a stamp album. Walls papered in faded floral fall away and burst as a newborn meadow speckled with sun and a stream emptying into a greater stream where a small boat awaits with two glowing oars and one blue sail."

Ecco Press Alfred A. Knopf Vintage Books & Anchor Books The Marginalian

[trashogram]

Charliedust Sap

This is legitimately the corniest, syrupiest thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. Legit Fat Nuggets’ POV sopfest. Rated G for Generally Kind Audiences Who Can Handle Fanon.

Fat Nuggets woke with a snort. He bucked up against the comforter beneath and the warm, fur-bearing solids in front of and behind him. 

Vestiges of the demonic little swine’s dreams are replaced by the sight of Dazzle snoozing before him. 

Razzle lay behind the pig, little ‘bah’-like snores emanating from his maw as he slept just like his twin. The two goats had caged Fat Nuggets in, and the realization made his little body slump in relief. 

For a moment, Nuggets had worried that he and his Daddy were still in the claustrophobic quarters of “Val’s studio”. The pig could almost hear echoes of banging on the door as Daddy was forced out of a fitful sleep and pulled out of their room. 

For what, Nuggets had no idea.

Although intelligent, Fat Nuggets wasn’t quite sure what his arachnid father did to bring food home. All he knew was that Daddy often came home injured, crying, or uncomfortably quiet. So whatever it was, the teacup pig hated it with every fiber of his tiny demonic being. 

But that was then, and now, with a cock of his little head, Fat Nuggets looked over the sleeping Dazzle. Higher up on the giant bed were his daddy and mommy, also still asleep. 

It took some effort - a few grunts and indignant squeals as he tried to extract himself from the cuddle puddle between Razzle and Dazzle - but Fat Nuggets makes it out. He instantly trots up the length of the bed and beelines for his parents. 

Mommy lay on her side with Daddy behind her, some arms loosely curled around Mommy’s waist. They’re dead to the world until Nuggets butts against one of the arms. 

He poked and prodded with his snout, encouraged as Daddy grunted in his sleep and shuffled around to escape the incessant movement. 

After a full minute, the little pig huffed in annoyance. He doubled his efforts, until Daddy whines and relinquishes his hold on Mom to turn over and burrow deeper into the coverlet. 

As always, Mom is the first to wake. Her red eyes are glazed over with sleep but she offered a tiny smile to the miniature pig. 

“Good morning Fat Nuggets..” Mom rasped, maneuvering from under the luxurious comforter so that she could caress between Fat Nuggets’s horns. 

The pig oinked happily, nuzzling at his mom’s hand as she scratched at his ear. 

“Hungry?” Mommy asks. 

The demoness was already moving, legs lifting from under Razzle and Dazzle and over the edge of the bed to stretch. Fat Nuggets scampered into her arms and got comfy before she rose out of bed and made for the door. 

—

“Nothin’ for Daddy?” 

Charlie smirked as she gently put Fat Nuggets back onto the bed. Instantly, her heart warmed to see the well-fed piggy make his way back to Razzle and Dazzle, still lethargic at the end of the bed. 

Angel Dust had spread out over the entirety of the mattress on his tummy, arms and legs splayed out as he looked at her coyly from the pillow. 

“We didn’t know you’d be awake.” Charlie said. “If you wanted breakfast in bed, you should’ve said something sooner.” 

Angel scoffed into his pillow. 

“Scooch ov-.” Charlie began to yawn before she was yanked down with a yelp. 

Razzle, Dazzle and Fat Nuggets all perked up in time to see the two roll back onto the bed. 

Nuggets snorted indignantly at the telltale sounds of smooching and giggling that followed. 

[juneknight]

My heart goes out to you rn 💞 I'm going to tip the shit out of you I just get nervous about my account ever seeing the light of day 😬

So kind of a specific one, but could you do a situation with the boys where the reader feels unattractive bc she doesn't think she looks feminine enough? Possibly ending in some NSFW comfort 👀

(I'm afab and I've had two people assume I'm a boy in the last month bc I have a short haircut, feeling a little sensitive about it 😅)

Thank you so much if you have tipped or when you tip. Every penny is so appreciated. Also, as someone who has shaved her head a few times, I felt this!

About this: steven grant/ fem!reader, talks of femininity vs masculinity, some innuendo at the end, pretty soft and sweet with a hint of toppy Steven.

Reader gets a haircut and feels instant regret.

*

Steven isn’t supposed to check his phone at work. Donna takes the sale of overpriced stuffies very seriously (though she didn’t seem to care when Steven told her about the nuances between depicting Bastet with rounded ears vs pointed ears), and if she catches Steven even using his phone to check the time, she threatens to send him walking. But Steven’s phone has buzzed thrice in his pocket, and he knows that it is you. 

No one else messages Steven; no one but you. For a while he just daydreams about what your messages might say. What little update might you have sent about your day? Are you asking what the two of you should have for dinner? Perhaps you’re even sending something of a more personal nature, something that will have Steven rushing to the loo to cool himself off. You’ve done that once before. 

Maybe you’re even sending pictures. You had just gone to get a haircut that morning. If it had given you a confidence boost, Steven would gladly reap the benefits. Nothing drove him wilder than when you were so clearly appreciating your own allure…gods, but he has to look. 

Glancing around to make sure that Donna isn’t looming like a cloud about to rain on his parade, Steven works his phone from his trousers and sees that each message is from you. No pictures, though. 

I made a mistake. 

Five minutes later: In a foul mood. Called off the rest of the day. Be careful on the bus ride home. 

A half hour ago: Bring something home for dinner? Xx

Steven frowns. Not quite any of the things he had imagined you might be saying. What sort of mistake had you made? Something at work? He knew that fouling up and pissing Donna off could put Steven in the most dismal of moods. Well. He made a silent vow to pick up your favorite take-away on the way home. Maybe even flowers. Or—

“Better be the bloody King calling you, or I’ll ban phones on the floor altogether,” Donna says from behind him, giving him a proper jumpscare.

*

Three hours and twenty-three stuffies later, Steven slips through the flat with fragrant Italian food under one arm and a bouquet of mostly-non-wilted roses tucked between the crook of his elbow and his side. 

“Hellooo,” he calls lightly, a hint of trepidation filling him when you aren’t immediately visible. He sets his flat keys aside and puts the take-away and flowers on the kitchen table, eyes scanning the flat for you. You aren’t curled up in your armchair (the one right beside his). You aren’t lounging on the loveseat watching the a documentary on the latest anthropology hot topic. You aren’t curled up in b—

Ah. You are. Except…

“Darling, are you hiding from me?” Steven wonders, looking at your figure completely obscured beneath the blankets. The blankets don’t move, though he hears your sigh. “Oh gods, she’s dead.” 

Steven throws himself beside you on the bed, tossing an arm over your figure and dragging your blanketed body towards him. He presses his face into the crook of your neck (or possibly your armpit, difficult to tell beneath the thick coverlet) and lets out a showy sob. Immediately your figure snorts, struggling against him. Steven yelps and jerks away. 

“Come out, you Osiris, freshly raised from the grave—” 

His breath catches. 

You have cut all your hair off into a short, modern style. It isn’t at all like anything you’ve done in the past, and it isn’t anything like what you had hinted you planned for the stylist to give you at the shop earlier that morning. 

“Oh, darling. Be still my heart. You look amazing!” 

Something passes over your face, some shadowed, vulnerable crack in your strong veneer. Your hand lifts, patting at the hair softly. “Do you really think so? Be honest.” 

“I do! Not that I think I could ever feel otherwise, but you look incredible.Was this your mistake? Did the stylist take a little too much off the top?” 

“No–no this is what I wanted her to give me,” you admit, wiping at your nose gently. Steven sees then that your eyes are red, a little swollen from tears. “I thought that it was going to make me feel so…badass. And it did! But then at lunch the waiter said, Yes, Sir, when I asked him if I could have another glass of iced-tea, and then a coworker pulled a face and said that I was so brave and it was far too masculine for her taste and I just…this isn’t what I wanted.” 

Steven scoffs. He rolls onto his back and opens his arm, making room for you to wiggle up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. Your hair smells like the posh shampoo and conditioner they use at the stylist you go to, when he kisses the crown of your head. 

“That’s bollocks. Poor waiter must have been blind—I don’t want to imagine all the dishes he was breaking in the back. And too masculine for her taste? Well it’s a bloody good thing it’s not her hair, nor her taste you’re trying to appeal to! You know, I have half a mind to go to work with you tomorrow and tell her what’s what—” 

“Do you mean it? I’m not too boyish, like this?” 

Steven softens even further, running a hand up and down the length of your side that he can reach. “No. I don’t buy in to all that, love. Hair is just hair, long or short or anywhere in between. It doesn’t change who you are. You get to decide what’s feminine or not, and to hell with anyone who thinks otherwise. But if my two-pounds helps at all…you know I’m only attracted to women. If I’m attracted to you more than any other woman—what’s that say about you?” 

“That I am the most womanly of womans,” you say with a wet little laugh, wiping at your eye. 

“I mean it,” Steven says lowly. Moving his hand from your side to your back, he rolls you onto him until your chests are flush together, relishing in the weight of you against him before you sit up, straddling his thighs. His eyes move over you: your hair, your features, your clothes. All of the pieces that come together to create a picture of the woman he loves. “You drive me mad, you know that don’t you?” 

A little breathless, you shift against his lap. “I think I can feel it.” 

“You think?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I think I’d like to kiss you.” 

You lean down, one hand against his chest, feeling the firmness of his pecs through the kitschy short-sleeve dress shirt he had donned underneath his jacket that day. His kiss is already hungry, the way Steven’s kisses usually start: a little desperate, a little like he is afraid you will stop kissing him any moment. But then he relaxes, licks languidly into your mouth. Beneath you, his cock hardens the rest of the way, and you can’t help but shift against it, working til it is in that perfect spot dead center between your legs. 

“I love you so much,” you murmur, trailing kisses down his jaw and into the juncture of his neck. 

Suddenly there is a bright burst of tension on your scalp as he grips your hair and tugs you back away from his neck, a gasp slipping from your swollen mouth. His eyes are dark, the pupils huge, liable enough to swallow you whole. 

“Still plenty for me to grab on to, isn’t there?” Steven breathes. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he tugs again, feeling the ache all the way down between your thighs. 

“Better make good use of it…” 

[oldtimesnew]

Harper's Bazaar, November 1956

Evelyn Tripp in a full-length negligee of nylon tricot in hothouse camelia pink, wrapped to a sashed waist, scarfed with pink stripes, by Vanity Fair, photo by Lillian Bassman

Ivory rose pin with diamonds by Cartier.

Fox coverlet by Ritter Bros.

Scarf by Glentex.

[wonder-worker]

"Margaret (of York, Duchess of Burgundy) left Bruges on 24 June and was in England for more than three months. She travelled with a large retinue headed by Guillaume de Baume and the embassy included two officials who were well-known to her, Thomas Plaines and Jean Gros, the treasurer of the Order of the Golden Fleece. She received aides from the Estates to cover her expenses with the Hainault Estates contributing 4,000 livres. Her mission had several goals, but the immediate need was to obtain some military help in the form of English archers to reinforce Maximilian’s hard pressed armies. ... King Edward sent Sir Edward Woodville, the Queen’s younger brother, aboard the royal ship ‘Falcon’ to bring his sister across the Channel. It was twelve years since she had sailed to her marriage. Sir Edward had been part of her marriage party and he had won the honours in the famous joust of the Golden Tree. This time Margaret took the shorter route from Calais to Gravesend, where she was received by Sir John Weston, the Prior of the Knights of St John. She then transferred to a royal barge which had been sent to bring her up the Thames to London. The barge was specially refitted for the occasion. The master and the twenty-four oarsmen had been supplied with new liveries in the Yorkist colours of murrey and blue with white roses embroidered on their jackets. The knights and squires who formed the escort of honour wore fine black velvet jackets which were decorated with a pattern of silver and purple. Two residences had been prepared for Margaret’s use, the palace at Greenwich where she had spent so much time before her marriage, and the London house of Coldharbour near her mother’s home at Baynard’s Castle. New beds with red and green hangings had been sent up to the Coldharbour house and the finest bedlinens and coverlets had been ordered. Curtains, screens and tapestries were provided for both the houses, including a piece of arras which depicted the story of Paris and Helen. For her travel during her stay in England, Margaret was sent ten ‘hobbeys and palfreys’ all newly harnessed and caparisoned in rich saddle cloths. The King encouraged everyone to be generous towards his sister and used ‘right large language’ with the Archbishop of Canterbury who failed to offer Margaret a gift. His own final present to his sister was a luxurious pillion saddle in blue and violet cloth of gold, fringed with ‘Venetian gold’ thread.

While she was in England, Margaret renewed her contacts with all her old friends and family. She was received by the Queen and introduced to her royal nephews and nieces. Her youngest brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who was busy dealing with Scottish incursions in the north, made time to come south to see his sister, and the King gave a state banquet at Greenwich in honour of Margaret and their mother, the old Duchess Cecily. It was also attended by Margaret’s sister Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk. It seems that Margaret admired the wine, for on the day after the banquet, Edward sent her ‘a pipe of our wine’ valued at 36s 8d. As well as enjoying the company of her living family, Margaret could not have failed to remember all her dead relations. It was perhaps with a chantry in mind that she persuaded Edward to introduce the reformed Order of the Observant Friars into England. Soon after her departure the King sent for the Vicar-General of the Order and offered him a site for their new monastery near to the palace of Greenwich. Building began in 1482 and the abbey chapel was dedicated to the Holy Cross. Was the dedication in honour of Margaret, and does it provide further evidence of her connection with Waltham Abbey? ... Well satisfied that the negotiations were at last completed, Margaret prepared to leave London. She paid a farewell visit to the city where she was presented with a purse containing £100. She then set off for the coast accompanied by her brother Edward who had decided to see her on her way. ... The Dowager passed a week in Kent visiting the shrine of St Thomas à Becket and staying on the private estates of Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers. These two bibliophiles must have had much in common especially now that Rivers was the patron of Margaret’s former protégé, William Caxton. No doubt she was shown Woodville’s translation of the ‘Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers’ which was one of the first books printed on Caxton’s press at Westminster. With the King still in attendance, Margaret finally left for Dover, where the ‘Falcon’ waited to take her back to Calais. Edward seemed to be genuinely sad to see her departure and he wrote to Maximilian on 22 September announcing the return of his ‘well-beloved sister’. She left behind her in England Jacques de la Villeon, who was to act as an agent for the Burgundian ally, the Duke of Brittany."

Christine Weightman, "Margaret of York: The Diabolical Duchess"

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Silm September

Eärwen takes to being married more easily than her husband. (Yes, it’s suggestive and not sad! Rejoice!)

Prompt: Open me up!

Words: 100

Pairing: Eärwen x Finarfin

Warning: nudity, suggestive, implied sexual intent,

Eärwen sat, her legs crossed demurely, on the lavish coverlet that had been embroidered in her husband’s colours by the best seamstresses in the realm.

“You’re akin to the most precious of seashells—perfect in every aspect,” Arafinwë breathed, struck dumb with awe, beholding her unabashed nakedness for the first time.

Colour rose into his cheeks and maddening heat flooded his whole body—he flinched self-consciously.

“What scintillating secrets and pearls might you be hiding?”

Smiling indulgently, the golden-haired maiden untangled her soft thighs and cocked her beauteous head invitingly.

“All I am is yours,” she purred. “Open me up!”

Thank you so much for reading!

@tolkienpinupcalendar

↬ Masterlist

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Queen's Hand (Barristan IV) [Chapter 70]

Long ass chapter for no good reason.

The Dornish prince was three days dying.

He took his last shuddering breath in the bleak black dawn, as cold rain hissed from a dark sky to turn the brick streets of the old city into rivers. The rain had drowned the worst of the fires, but wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruin that had been the pyramid of Hazkar, and the great black pyramid of Yherizan where Rhaegal had made his lair hulked in the gloom like a fat woman bedecked with glowing orange jewels.

Perhaps the gods are not deaf after all, Ser Barristan Selmy reflected as he watched those distant embers. If not for the rain, the fires might have consumed all of Meereen by now.

+.+.+

He saw no sign of dragons, but he had not expected to. The dragons did not like the rain. 

We already know they hate the cold, and don't do well in the north, but not liking rain seems to be a new development. At least for me.

"I knew it would rain," he said in a gloomy tone. "My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won't like this. Fire and water don't mix, and that's a fact. You get a good cookfire lit, blazing away nice, then it starts to piss down rain and next thing your wood is sodden and your flames are dead."

Gerris chuckled. "Dragons are not made of wood, Arch."

"Some are. That old King Aegon, the randy one, he built wooden dragons to conquer us. That ended bad, though." - The Dragontamer, ADWD

+.+.+

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. Ser Barristan had asked some of the queen's cupbearers to help, but the sight of the burned man was too much for even the boldest of them. And the Blue Graces had never come, though he'd sent for them four times. Perhaps the last of them had been carried off by the pale mare by now.

It seems little Missandei can stomach some pretty gruesome things. Reminds me of another little girl in this story.

I'm going to pretend the Blue Graces aren't helping because they hate him.

+.+.+

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. "Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles."

Dornish gods?

+.+.+

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. "Cover him."

Says the Targaryen loyalist.

+.+.+

"I'll see that he's returned to Dorne." But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We'll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. 

Something tells me House Martell won't be enjoying this skull as much as the last one.

+.+.+

"You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed."

"If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through."

How does she know that?

+.+.+

Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

If there is any justice in this world, Barristan Selmy falls down a flight of stairs. Make it old man shit.

+.+.+

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell's face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince's flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. 

Misleading. Remember everyone, the dance won't actually involve dragons, Daenerys or any other real Targaryen.

+.+.+

And with the sun arrived the Shavepate. Skahaz was clad in his familiar garb of pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. The brazen mask beneath his arm was new—a wolf's head with lolling tongue. 

LMAO.

Two for three! If this guy is in a rat mask at the start of TWOW, I'm going to lose my mind.

Can someone do me a favour and ask a Targ if it's a good thing when the poisoner dresses like a wolf?

+.+.+

"They await the Hand's pleasure below."

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen's protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate. 

You realize you didn't have to do anything, you stupid jackass.

+.+.+

There are two hundred highborn gathered in the square, standing in the rain in their tokars and howling for audience. They want Hizdahr free and me dead, and they want you to slay these dragons. Someone told them knights were good at that. 

Personally, my money's on cripples, bastards, and broken things. And Samwell.

+.+.+

Men are still pulling corpses from the pyramid of Hazkar. The Great Masters of Yherizan and Uhlez have abandoned their own pyramids to the dragons.

You find any lions under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"Nine-and-twenty?" That was far worse than he could ever have imagined. The Sons of the Harpy had resumed their shadow war two days ago. Three murders the first night, nine the second. But to go from nine to nine-and-twenty in a single night …

Sounds like the perfect time to go to war, Barry.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, "I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

+.+.+

Why do you look so grey, old man? What did you expect? The Harpy wants Hizdahr free, so he has sent his sons back into the streets with knives in hand. 

Both of these men thought Hizdahr was the Harpy.

+.+.+

The sign of the Harpy was left beside the bodies, chalked on the pavement or scratched into a wall. There were messages as well. 'Dragons must die,' they wrote, and 'Harghaz the Hero.' 'Death to Daenerys' was seen as well, before the rain washed out the words."

Damn, they forgot my favourite.

+.+.+

"Twenty-nine hundred pieces of gold from each pyramid, aye," Skahaz grumbled. "It will be collected … but the loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that."

"So you say." The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. "I heard you the first hundred times. No."

He can deny him all he'd like, the blood is still on Barristan's hands if these kids die. He's the one who committed treason, and empowered this maniac.

+.+.+

Hizdahr's grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan's command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

The audacity of this man.

+.+.+

They rose when Ser Barristan came down the marble steps, Skahaz Shavepate at his side. 

[...]

"Whitebeard." Belwas smiled. "Where is liver and onions? Strong Belwas is not so strong as before, he must eat, get big again. They made Strong Belwas sick. Someone must die."

Someone will. Many someones, like as not.

You can only laugh. I'm sure Skahaz is.

+.+.+

Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. 

Wanna bet the same thing happens if she is mounted on his back?

+.+.+

Thus far both dragons seemed to have a taste for mutton, returning to Daznak's whenever they grew hungry. If either one was hunting man, inside or outside the city, Ser Barristan had yet to hear of it. The only Meereenese the dragons had slain since Harghaz the Hero had been the slavers foolish enough to object when Rhaegal attempted to make his lair atop the pyramid of Hazkar.

Uh, no actually, that's not accurate at all.

The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. - The Queensguard, ADWD

Convenient to forget something like that. I bet Barristan is going to be forgetting a lot of things in the future.

+.+.+

"We have more pressing matters to discuss. I have sent the Green Grace to the Yunkishmen to make arrangements for the release of our hostages. I expect her back by midday with their answer."

Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to go negotiate with Yunkai is the most Barristan Selmy thing he could have done.

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate slammed his fist upon the table. "The Green Grace will accomplish nothing. She may be conspiring with the Yunkai'i even as we sit here. Arrangements, did you say? Make arrangements? What sort of arrangements?"

"Ransom," said Ser Barristan. "Each man's weight in gold."

Of course the Shavepate would be the one to correctly suspect treachery.

+.+.+

"Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings." Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King's Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger's domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown's enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them.

Hm, it's usually Arya. This is the first time Missandei has given off older sister vibes.

+.+.+

"They will refuse, even so," insisted Symon Stripeback. "They will say they want the dragons dead, the king restored."

"I pray that you are wrong." And fear that you are right.

Reasonable demand.

214 people dead.

+.+.+

"Your gods are far away, Ser Grandfather," said the Widower. "I do not think they hear your prayers. And when the Yunkai'i send back the old woman to spit in your eye, what then?"

"Fire and blood," said Barristan Selmy, softly, softly.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate stared through the eyes of his wolf's head mask and said, "You would break King Hizdahr's peace, old man?"

"I would shatter it." Once, long ago, a prince had named him Barristan the Bold. A part of that boy was in him still. "We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. We will destroy our foes or be destroyed ourselves." He raised a hand to signal to his waiting squires. "I have had some maps prepared to show the dispositions of our foes, their camps and siege lines and trebuchets. If we can break the slavers, their sellswords will abandon them. I know you will have concerns and questions. Voice them here. By the time we leave this table, all of us must be of a single mind, with a single purpose."

Horse shit, this is exactly what he's wanted from the beginning.

"You mean to take the field?" The Shavepate's voice was thick with disbelief. "That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai'i will not take this city easily."

Ser Barristan disagreed. "I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

x

The queen sighed. "What do you counsel, ser?"

"Battle," said Ser Barristan. "Meereen is overcrowded and full of hungry mouths, and you have too many enemies within. We cannot long withstand a siege, I fear. Let me meet the foe as he comes north, on ground of my own choosing." - Daenerys V, ADWD

Ahem.

Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning."

"Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself." - Tyrion II, ADWD

I'm dying at the author giving the Daenerys side a beacon. I'm used to Stannis copying her.

+.+.+

And when all that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. "As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai'i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I ask you … if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?"

They will come, Ser Barristan might have said. The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from Daznak's Pit drew Drogon to the scarlet sands. But when they come, will they know one side from the other? Somehow he did not think so. 

A little friendly fire. No biggie.

I wonder which ally is getting smoked.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan took two of his new-made knights with him down into the dungeons. 

Ego always wins in the end.

As he watched them at their drills, Ser Barristan pondered raising Tumco and Larraq to knighthood then and there, and mayhaps the Red Lamb too. It required a knight to make a knight, and if something should go awry tonight, dawn might find him dead or in a dungeon. Who would dub his squires then? On the other hand, a young knight's repute derived at least in part from the honor of the man who conferred knighthood on him. It would do his lads no good at all if it was known that they were given their spurs by a traitor, and might well land them in the dungeon next to him. They deserve better, Ser Barristan decided. Better a long life as a squire than a short one as a soiled knight. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Gerris punched a wall. "I told him it was folly. I begged him to go home. Your bitch of a queen had no use for him, any man could see that. He crossed the world to offer her his love and fealty, and she laughed in his face."

"She never laughed," said Selmy. "If you knew her, you would know that."

"She spurned him. He offered her his heart, and she threw it back at him and went off to fuck her sellsword."

"You had best guard that tongue, ser." Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. "Prince Quentyn's death was his own doing, and yours."

This will be the man who tells Dorne what happened. I couldn't be happier.

She did laugh, and she did influence him.

+.+.+

Barristan Selmy could not dispute the truth of that. He had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards and madmen.

Sounds like another king I know.

Jon laughed, laughed like a drunk or a madman, and his men laughed with him. - Jon VIII, ASOS

+.+.+

To Ser Barristan the big knight said, "No need to come and talk if you meant to hang us. So it's not that, is it?"

"No." This one may not be as slow-witted as he seems. 

You can't be serious.

This POV is unbearable, I can't believe I have one more to get through.

+.+.+

Ser Archibald grimaced. "Why is it always ships? Someone needs to take Quent home, though. What do you ask of us, ser?"

"Your swords."

"You have thousands of swords."

"The queen's freedmen are as yet unblooded. The sellswords I do not trust. Unsullied are brave soldiers … but not warriors. Not knights." He paused. "What happened when you tried to take the dragons? Tell me."

Even 11-year-old Sansa wasn't this deluded about knights.

+.+.+

The chains … there were bits of broken chain everywhere, big chains, links the size of your head mixed in with all these cracked and splintered bones. And Quent, Seven save him, he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes. Caggo and Meris weren't blind, they saw it too. Then one of the crossbowmen let fly. Maybe they meant to kill the dragons all along and were only using us to get to them. You never know with Tatters. 

What a weird thing to write.

+.+.+

"Ah, what did you expect, Drink? A cat will kill a mouse, a pig will wallow in shit, and a sellsword will run off when he's needed most. Can't be blamed. Just the nature of the beast."

Still holding out hope this isn't only about Brown Ben Plumm.

+.+.+

"What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?"

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

"Pentos," said Ser Barristan. "He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now."

"Aye," said Ser Archibald unhappily. "It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them."

There is a chance here.

If you thought Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to Yunkai was the dumbest thing he would do in this chapter, I've got some news for you.

"Pentos?" Her eyes narrowed. "How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away."

"He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros."

And if I never march for Westeros? "Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No."

Ser Barristan inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise." - Daenerys IX, ADWD

+.+.+

"I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen's voice. Tell him that we'll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole."

Yup that's right, Barristan Selmy promised to give Pentos to a sellsword. PENTOS.

There are no words.

+.+.+

"Why not? The task is simple enough." Compared to stealing dragons. "I once brought the queen's father out of Duskendale."

Past your prime, peaked in high school energy.

+.+.+

The simple part, at least, thought Barristan Selmy, as he made the long climb back to the summit of the pyramid. The hard part he'd left in Dornish hands. His grandfather would have been aghast. The Dornishmen were knights, at least in name, though only Yronwood impressed him as having the true steel. Drinkwater had a pretty face, a glib tongue, and a fine head of hair.

God, shut up.

He would have a thin blue line bumper sticker, I know it.

Edit: Necessary addition.

+.+.+

By the time the old knight returned to the queen's rooms atop the pyramid, Prince Quentyn's corpse had been removed. Six of the young cupbearers were playing some child's game as he entered, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger. 

Uhh, that doesn't feel like a good omen.

+.+.+

Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, he saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting, mayhaps, or flying just to fly. He wondered where Rhaegal was. Thus far the green dragon had shown himself to be more dangerous than the white.

He sure is!

+.+.+

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. 

NO YOU CLOWN.

I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

That's all the Harpy confirmation I need.

It's not clear what Pink Graces do. I am reminded of House of Pahl.

+.+.+

"I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place."

"He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom."

"I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand," the Green Grace said. "If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne."

"Only the queen can do that."

But you can arrest the king, start a war with Yunkai, and give away Pentos?

+.+.+

The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones.

How about twins? Any set of twins under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"And murder. The Sons of the Harpy slew thirty in the night."

"I grieve to hear this. All the more reason to free the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, who stopped such killings once."

And how did he accomplish that, unless he is himself the Harpy?

+.+.+

"Her Grace gave her hand to Hizdahr zo Loraq, made him her king and consort, restored the mortal art as he beseeched her. In return he gave her poisoned locusts."

"In return he gave her peace. Do not cast it away, ser, I beg you. Peace is the pearl beyond price. Hizdahr is of Loraq. Never would he soil his hands with poison. He is innocent."

"How can you be certain?" Unless you know the poisoner.

If he would take one fucking second to listen to the words pouring out of his dumb idiotic mouth, he might realize there's no motive here.

+.+.+

"They did. No amount of gold will buy your people back, I was told. Only the blood of dragons may set them free again."

It was the answer Ser Barristan had expected, if not the one that he had hoped for. His mouth tightened.

Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon.

+.+.+

"I know these were not the words you wished to hear," said Galazza Galare. "Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon's wroth."

"Dragons," Aemon whispered. "The grief and glory of my House, they were." - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

Ser Barristan was on his feet at once. "What is it?"

"The trebuchets," the Shavepate growled. "All six."

Galazza Galare rose. "Thus does Yunkai make reply to your offers, ser. I warned you that you would not like their answer."

They choose war, then. So be it. Ser Barristan felt oddly relieved. War he understood. "If they think they will break Meereen by throwing stones—"

"Not stones." The old woman's voice was full of grief, of fear. "Corpses."

Yeah no shit, I would also feel relief if I manipulated the system for a specific outcome, then got exactly what I wanted.

I wish him well. Barristan Selmy is not allowed to die in Meereen with a sword in his hand.

Final thoughts:

Live look at me trying to get through the last three chapters.

-> return to menu <-

[imaginaryfriend20]

orchids

your presence eclipses the sun

making all my letters spun

for you.

your cheeks, rosy and sweet

your lips petals of a stubborn rose

dusted with dawn's kiss

A parasitic ephpipyte of an orchid

you might be

nevermind seep your roots through me

seep out everything from the willow bark

of me.

A stain to my pride, my coverlet sheet

A stain to my vainty, my cunning image

A stain to my honour, of built on porcelain

of the Far East.

The conquest to quench my greed,

To win a prized bloom of the orchid

you might be.

[elentarial]

Contentment

It took some time to regain his composure, and when Finwë finally returned to their bed chambers, Indis was sitting on the coverlet, worrying her lip and looking weary. She rose hesitantly, “I did not mean..”

“Of course you did not…”

His queen reached for his hand, her slim fingers running over the back of Finwë’s knuckles. She tried to explain herself once more. “I was merely commenting because you are different from when I first met you in my uncle’s court. I suppose that I wanted you to know that I approve of the change.”

You – you like me this way?” Finwë asked hesitantly after a moment.

“Yes. Yes, of course, I do.” She rested her head on his chest, jeweled hands smoothing over the velvet of his robes. “You are finally happy.”

Contentment on AO3

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Could I please request some modern Thranduil smut? 🔥🔥 I don't care what about ❤ thank you so much

Hello! I hope you don't mind that I picked one of my prompts for this.

Pairing: Modern Thranduil x Fem. Reader (second person POV) | Prompt: Golden

Themes: Smut (lemon) | Soft

Warnings: Kissing | Explicit language | Use of nicknames | Early morning sex |Spanking | Dirty talk | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 900+ words

Summary: What happens when curiosity gets the better of you, and Thranduil is woken up just after sunrise? 

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

The rising sun limned the world in shreds of pure gold. Towers great and small looked golden and glorious, as if they had been taken from a painting.

Thranduil paid no mind to it. His attention was on the more pleasurable diversion at hand. His hair spilled over his shoulders like golden silk. His arms shook from exertion. His eyes glittered in the rays of the rising sun. And he heaved over you, ripping a gasp out of you by smacking your thigh.

"Open your eyes," he orders icily. "I want you to look at my face while I fuck you."

You obeyed, letting out a soft moan when he snapped his hips against the insides of your thighs. "But it’s so hard," you protest, "and you feel so good. Can I please close my eyes a little?"

Thranduil responded with another sharp smack that sent electrifying jolts lickings up your spine. "Obey me in this. There," he coos when you open your eyes and look at him. "That’s it. Keep your eyes on me, my needy little kitten, and I will reward you."

He gave you no time to even breathe when he captured your lips with his. Thranduil groaned into your mouth when your nails raked down his shoulders and your heels dug into his back, as if you were urging him to go harder. The sheets had been thrown from the bed because they got in the way, as had the pillows. The bed itself creaked softly in time with his thrusts, and the sinful sounds of jagged breaths and skin slapping against skin rose to drown it out. Thranduil laughed when you fussed about having to keep your eyes open.

"It's your own fault," he retorted, "for waking me up so fucking early by playing with my cock. Now you must suffer the consequences."

Another sharp gasp ripped through you when he reddened your thigh with the flat of his palm. Upon your moan, Thranduil hissed, "Harder?" 

Yes. Yes. Yes. That was what you said, like a desperate chant, a plea for more. Thranduil let out a deep, otherworldly sound. 

"Look at you," he purrs against your ear, "yielding so easily to my touch and surrendering eagerly to my will." 

Thranduil smirked and rewarded you all the same, his hand working in time with his thrusts. Your flesh grew red and tender. You had brought it on yourself, letting your curiosity best you that morning. Having woken up before sunrise,  you ran your hand over Thranduil's exposed body, marveling at how perfect he looked even while he slept. Your hand glided over his soft lips and softer hair and hardened muscle, before sneaking under the coverlet and gliding over his cock. Thranduil had moaned and mumbled in his sleep. You grew bolder still, stroking his length slowly and gently, feeling smug when it swelled and hardened for the warmth of your palm. Thranduil whimpered and moved onto his back. You continued to stroke him, wondering if he would like being woken up like this, with you pleasuring him. You didn't stop until the room had grown eerily still and you turned to face him. He had woken up and was watching you, his eyes ablaze, his lips tugging at the corners. 

Now you were paying for being too curious for your own damn good. And you enjoyed it. White-hot jolts of ecstasy rippled through you every time he spanked a little harder and grabbed your thigh, your hip. His nails left little red indents in their wake. Every time you moaned, every time you arched your back or dug your nails into his skin. Thranduil would fuck you a little faster, go a little harder, a little deeper. And you were being pulled with the tide into a dark tunnel of desire, your velvety walls fluttering and tightening around his thick shaft. Wave after wave of bliss rippled through your body even as he kissed you, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to delve into the sinful warmth of your mouth. He sighed wistfully when your hands brushed through his hair. Sweet tension soon pooled in his belly. 

"I am close," he breathed, his voice thick and hoarse. The heat of his breath spread over the shell of your ear. Your body prickled, and fresh arousal seeped onto his cock. Thranduil moaned and swore lustily. 

"Fuck."

Your legs scrabbled for purchase against his hips. Heat bloomed and spread just beneath the expanse of your skin when your muscles tightened and coiled. 

"So am I!" You cried, sobbing his name, when he thrust deep and sent you over the edge. You kept your eyes on him, on the myriad of expressions that flashed in his blue ones. There was fire and greed and hunger, and even smug satisfaction. You feasted on it all,  even as your orgasm neared. Tranduil didn't stop. He kept up his torturous pace, thrusting as deep as he could go, his moans as desperate as yours. 

Now, you want to cry. Let it be now.

On the next breath, you shuddered and gasped, splintering and shattering when rapture crashed over you like a great wave. You cried out his name again, pleading for him not to stop. Thranduil kept rutting into you, his hips burning, dipping his head and nipping at your throat when that sweet tension within him erupted and he spilt a torrent of his spend in your slit. He moaned again and again, continuing to thrust until he was utterly spent. 

You barely remembered the next minute or two. Everything was a delicious blur. Thranduil gently eased himself off you, moving to his side and pulling you with him. The sun had risen higher in the sky. The bedroom filled with beautiful early morning light while Thranduil pressed tender kisses against your lips. He touched your hair,  your cheek. He traced delicate lines over your eyelids. 

"Do not hesitate to wake me up like that again," he smiled and said. 

[a-queer-seminarian]

A Resistance Poem about Rafah

Right now in Gaza, right near its border with Egypt, Israel’s military has set its sights on Rafah, where hundreds of thousands of displaced Palestinians are currently seeking refuge.

I highly recommend keeping up with ongoing news from Al Jazeera or from Democracy Now, as well as from Bisan on Instagram; and reaching out to your representatives to demand a ceasefire before even more Palestinians die.

Given these events, here is a poem about Rafah, and the way Israeli violence has been poisoning its children for decades.

“RAFAH’S CHILDREN” (1971) by Samih al-Qasim

To the one who digs his path through the wounds of millions To he whose tanks crush all the roses in the garden Who breaks windows in the night Who sets fire to a garden and museum and sings of freedom. Who stomps on songbirds in the public square. Whose planes drop bombs on childhood’s dream. Who smashes rainbows in the sky.

Tonight, the children of the impossible roots have an announcement for you, Tonight, the children of Rafah say: “We have never woven hair braids into coverlets. We have never spat on corpses, nor yanked their gold teeth. So why do you take our jewelry and give us bombs? Why do you prepare orphanhood for Arab children? Thank you, a thousand times over! Our sadness has now grown up and become a man. And now, we must fight.”