#leather cords and leather laces

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing a turn of the 15th century French kirtle in doll scale

Another day, another historical doll outfit! This time it's Late Medieval. This was a popular style from about 1380-1420 France and Alpine area, but I specifically based this dress on French illuminations from the early 15th century, which mostly effects the details, like headwear. As always I hand stitched everything and stuck to historical construction methods as much as I could.

Chemise

I made a very simple chemise. The construction is based on what we know from extant finds, made out of simple rectangles and triangles, like earlier unlaced kirtles. Based on illustrations, chemise was fairly slim but unfitted enough it didn't need closures. I made it from linen, because it's not very gathered and won't bulk up too much, so I don't need to use my very fine cotton voile.

Cote

Cote is just the French word for kirtle, so appropriate here. This is the supportive layer cote, which was sort of an undergarment, but was considered fully dressed, if informal on it's own. The sleeves on this underlayer were always long and either fully fitted or gathered at the wrist. Some fitted sleeve styles had a flare at the wrist which covered the hand. The very fitted look was achieved with buttons. The silhouette was smooth and fitted, the waistline was slightly above the natural waist, though that was not as pronounced in France as in Northern Italy. Abdomen was emphasized, round lower stomach was the body ideal. The cut of the dress left plenty of room there. To fill that room I folded the chemise under the abdomen as a sort of padding. This was common to do with any kind of skirts, primarily to raise the hem when working, but why not for this purpose also? The necklines were fairly low and very wide.

I used cotton because I didn't have suitable thin enough wool that wouldn't have created too much bulk on this scale, but the cote should have been made from. The cotton is tightly woven and sells the look of a woven wool in this scale well enough for me. I didn't finish seems or line it to avoid bulk. I did give the lacing a cording to reinforce it and avoid wrinkling. The cotton was originally white, but I dyed it with iron oxide, basically rust, which at least is very much historical.

Hose

I made the hose from cotton as well for the same reasons as I did the cote. Long pointed style became fashionable around this time, as well as sewing leather soles in the bottoms of the hose instead of using shoes. Though often pattens (wooden flipflops basically) could be used when walking outside to protect the leather soles.

Cornettes or horned hair

I tied the hair with a tape on cornettes, where the volume of hair was tied on the temples to create a bit of horned appearance, especially when combined with the horned headwear. The sort of fillet which became more of a forehead loop seemed to have been tied into the hair, which I did.

Cotehardie

Cotehardie meant literally "bold cote", and in France that was what the formal outer cote was called. It was basically the same as cote, but made from more expensive materials and often had large hanging sleeves. I went with widening triangular sleeves, since they were perhaps the most popular sleeves at the time. I used fine fulled wool (verka) I had enough scraps left from. White fur was popular lining material, but obviously I can't use fur in this scale, I wish I had some light white velvet, it would have been pretty good, but I didn't. I lined the skirt and the sleeves with white cotton to imitate the look without adding too much body or extra bulk. I decorated the neckline with a simple golden trim. I thought about adding a bit of golden embroidery around it too, like seemed to have been popular, but my local crafts store had run out of golden thread so I decided to go with this only.

Accessories

Unlike the belt used with houppelande, which was below bust, the belt used with the kirtle or cotehardie, was very low, under the abdomen to emphasize it. I went for a silk belt look, which I'm imagining is embroidered/woven with golden thread, since embroidery that small would have been too painful. I had an old broken necklace, which I could use for the metallic parts.

With the pouch I went for the tasseled drawstring look, with simple embroidery manageable in this scale. I used linen for it.

Headwear

I made her a chaperon, which likely was where the escoffion got it's beginning, escoffion being the round tube-like headwear worn on top of the head seen in several primary source images above. Early form of escoffion was becoming very popular at the time, though chaperon's were still seen on women too. Chaperon, as seen below both on the left-most woman and the man in the middle was actually just the hood rolled into a circle.

Because the horned look was popular, the escoffion and chaperon were often worn over the wired horned veil, so I first made that. I made it from cotton to make it as light as possible. It was just a square I hemmed. I just used some wire to poke out the horns from her hair and pinned the veil close from the back and onto her hair from the top.

Then I made the open hood. It was just the regular hood which had become very popular during the last century and which had ever longer narrow tip, but it was pinned and worn open, probably because of the hair style and to again create the horned look. I made if from the same cotton I made the hose, even though it too should be from wool. But it was already too bulky as it was.

And finally I could make the chaperon. Here's first chaperon without wire or veil under it and then with those. The effect isn't as pronounced as I would have hoped because the hood is too bulky, but there is an effect which is nice.

[yeyinde]

Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.” 

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?” 

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.” 

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs. 

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped. 

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man. 

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy. 

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere. 

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to. 

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder. 

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark, 

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter— 

Still. 

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or— 

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil. 

Rock, hard place. No escape. 

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod. 

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even. 

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask, 

what have you done?

[armory-rasa]

COUCH POUCH!! Free Pattern & Tutorial

...called thus because they use upholstery-weight leather for the bag body, that in my case was in fact skinned off a couch. 🤣 Turns out they are relatively quick and easy to make, so I tidied up the pattern for printing and took pictures to document the process when I made another five of them.

First off, print your pattern, 100% scale:

The bag shape was a modified version of the pattern I used for the Morpheus sandbag, but sized to fit in the roughly 11" squares that my couch skin came in. It makes a bag that sits very well on a tabletop, thanks to the flat base.

Though it turned out to not be the most efficient use of material, because that plus-shaped pattern tessellates well, if you're cutting them out of a full hide, but makes a lot of waste when you're cutting them out of squares of material. A more efficient design would have a half-rounded front and back, and a gusset between them, like so:

Ah well. It's not like I have any shortage of couch skin, though for the next round I'm going to experiment with a more efficient pattern.

First step, trace and cut out the bag body from your chrome-tan leather:

Like I said, this was upholstery leather, but anything that's flexible and ~1.5 mm thick will do.

The flap and front need to be a stiffer leather though -- I used 7 oz latigo, but veg-tan would work equally well. (And then you could ✨tool it!✨)

Cut them out, and then use the pattern to mark where your holes are going to be. Mark the holes on your bag body too:

The latigo pieces get hand-stitched to the bag body, so I used a stitching groover to carve out little channels for the thread -- it's not strictly necessary, but it makes your stitches lay a lot more neatly:

Punch the holes shown below:

I used a ~5 mm hole punch for those, and a 1.5" slot punch for the belt loops. Some of the holes on the front piece you're not punching yet, because they need to go through both layers.

I put a dab of contact cement on the pieces (circled in white) to help hold them in place when I go to punch the stitching holes:

(Make sure you're not putting glue between the belt loops)

Wait fifteen minutes for the contact cement to dry until tacky, and then line up the holes and the edges and press the pieces together:

Punch stitching holes:

Saddle-stitch both pieces in place (takes 28" of thread per):

Now you can punch these holes:

(I used a slightly smaller hole punch than for the others, but it doesn't really matter.)

Now press the right sides of the leather together and sew up the seams from the inside:

A regular sewing machine should be able to handle this, though you will need thicker thread, a heavy-duty leather-sewing needle, and a walking foot attachment. (If you don't have a walking foot attachment, it is SO WORTH getting one, even if you don't expect to sew much leather. Seriously, I use it for everything -- once you go walking foot, you don't go back. 💀) Because you can't pin leather without leaving permanent holes in it, tiny binder clips can be helpful for keeping your material lined up.

What they look like when you're finished sewing:

Cut 19" of lacing for the drawstring, and 11" of lacing for the toggle:

I use the 1/8" EcoSoft lace from Tandy, I think it's stronger than real leather would be at that thickness. The only important factor here is that you need something with a bit of texture and friction -- a silk cord isn't going to stay closed, it's going to slip open.

MANY BAGS.

For these I used a wooden toggle -- cut another 8" of lacing, looped it through the toggle twice, and then made a tight square knot on the back:

But another option is putting a concho or a large button on the flap. The bag I copied this design from, in fact, uses a concho toggle:

Thread some beads on the laces to keep the ends from getting lost, and you are DONE! 😁

Happy Bagging!

[cy-lindric]

Dude!!! You costumes r so incredible!!! You make 'em mostly by yourself right??? Do you also make the patterns yourself or do you rely on pre-existing patterns? (Be it historical or reproduction?) do you also use period accurate materials?

Oh!!! As for making the clothes, how closely do you stick to historically accurate sewing methods? Considering how low making a whole garment can take by hand, do you kinda cheat a little by using a sewing machine??? (Which is fair tbh)

Sry if these r too many questions ;w; ur clothes r just soooo cool

Hello ! Thanks a lot ! Yes I do pretty much everything by myself, except for things made with leather. I sometimes start off with printable patterns from historical costuming stores like Reconstructing History, Laughing Moon Mercantile, Blacksnail Patterns and others to use as a base, but recently I've been drafting my own patterns more. I've no formal education in that so it's very trial-and-error, but I use books like The Medieval Tailor's Assistant or Patterns of Fashion as references and it helps a lot.

I sometimes do costumes all in period-accurate materials like for my landsknecht costume (I used only pure wool, linen and linen thread with wax, and I braided the lacing cords with wool yarn), but sometimes I don't ; for the gamurra I used reproduction brocade and duchesse satin that are only part silk. It really comes down to budget and occasion. I'm glad I didn't use super expensive period accurate pure silk for the gamurra because I wore it outside all day for two days and went dancing with it (and I couldn't afford it anyway). Also, that project was less made out of historical curiosity and more so for fun and flamboyance.

When it comes to sewing methods, out of preference I only use the machine for very long seams that won't show on the outside. I enjoy hand sewing a lot and I'm not very straight and precise with the machine so a lot of the time, I only do the most basic and discreet things with it. Then, I'll sometimes go full historical and research proper interlining methods and seam types, and sometimes speedrun a project and skip some of the steps when I feel like I can find another solution. It really depends. The research itself is a lot of the fun so I do tend to try and follow historical construction, but I'm also not a dress historical or a reenactor so I'll usually adapt to the current situation because there's no pressure to go either way.

[joszns]

party animal ✭

butch!ellie x fem!reader

content: drinking/drunk sex, oral sex (r recieving) strap on usage, semi-public sex (bathroom), jealousy, mild degradation, ellie has the worst case of phantom dick ever when she’s drunk

summary: after a lovely dinner date (not without some teasing of course) you have a few too many drinks without her at a friends party and she whisks you to the bathroom to remind you something.

a/n: thank u guys so so much for all the love truly😭❤️❤️BESITOS

“hey ellie, you almost ready baby?” you called out, applying mascara and looking at yourself in the mirror.

you adjusted my dress, a black satin piece with a deep slit and a traditional slip neckline, adorned with flowery lace along the hem. you smiled at your appearance and left the bathroom, putting on your matching black heels and an oversized leather jacket.

you and ellie were going out to dinner, then to a house party for one of your friends, mimi. it was her birthday.

“could you help me put this watch on, dollface?” ellie asked, walking into the room.

“oh my god, you look so beautiful. that dress looks amazing on you.” she said with a smile, pulling you close by the waist and kissing your plump and glossy red lips.

“is that my leather jacket?”

you grinned sheepishly and kissed her again. “maybe…but I know you don’t mind.”

“god, you’re so perfect…” ellie muttered against your lips, kissing you more intensely. she pulled you closer by the waist which caused you to blush.

“mmm…” you leaned into her, hands looped over her neck snugly.

“no, ellie! we have a reservation at a very nice restaurant. im not doing this with you right now.” you exclaimed, pulling away suddenly and gathering your things into a purse.

ellie whined in response.

“god, fine. whatever. are we still going to that party?” she asked, following you out the door with her car keys in hand.

“yes, yes we are! it’s for one of my best friends.” you said back, rolling your eyes. ellie could get a little snappy when she’s turned on like this. honestly, it was kinda hot…

★・・・・・・★

“man…that food hit the spot.”

ellie got into the car happily, after opening your door of course.

she turned the key in the ignition and placed her hand behind your headrest while reversing, something that always got you a bit hot and bothered.

“i agree. that salmon was delicious.” you say casually, texting mimi that ellie and i were on the way.

“could you map the way to mimis for me baby?” ellie asked, resting her hand on your upper thigh. you nodded in reply, typing in the address and navigating as you left the restaurant.

“ooh els, can I have aux? pretty please?” you reached for the cord, pressing your chest together to show off your cleavage and grinning.

ellie glanced over and rolled her eyes. she knew what you were doing.

“whatever you want, babygirl.”

excitedly, you connected your phone and played your favorite song. on the next turn, you felt ellies hand move upwards and slide in between the fabric of your dress. her knuckles pressed into you, her pinky finger rubbing gently on your clit. you whined softly, adding more songs to the queue and trying to ignore her.

finally, you both arrived to the party, ellie being casually laid back versus you being sexually frustrated.

“i cant believe you! what’s up with all this teasing?” you scolded, punching her shoulder.

“that was payback for earlier.” ellie replied, walking inside and greeting mimi with a grin.

you did the same, rolling your eyes at her behavior.

“victim of the sassy masc apocalypse?” mimi asked, bringing you back from your head.

“dude. you have no idea!” you said with a giggle. mimi smiled and excitedly dragged you to take shots, leaving ellie alone.

she watched you and a few girls drink together, smiling a little and turning away. the urge to whisk you away from the group was strong, but it was a birthday party. she couldn’t do much.

“god, how many shots did we just take?” you said with a laugh, shaking your head as the alcohol burned your mouth.

“like 21- one for every year! don’t worry, these things are like mini cocktails. i think only the last two were straight vodka…” mimi slurs, laughing as she throws her arm around the blonde girl next to her.

you smile, the liquor warming your body.

“oh! oh! picture time!” she exclaims, pulling out her phone. the group gathers behind her, you following as well. everyone smiles, and she clicks almost a hundred photos.

ellie returns to the kitchen for a drink, a tinge of jealousy on her as she sees one of your friends’ arms hooked on your waist. you broke away from the group, smiling at the sight of her.

“babe! ill be with you in a sec,” you said, getting dragged away by mimi, “she wants to dance!”

ellie just smiled in response, sipping her drink. she casually followed you to the dance floor, getting increasingly more jealous as several of your friends danced up on you. you were laughing, taking photos and videos on your phone.

as the girls began to break away, dancing with other friends to make everyone feel included or to grab another drink, you gravitated towards ellie.

“hey babe! why are you being all mopey in the corner?” you said, giggling.

“i was just waiting for you. i kinda have to pee.” she said as she took another sip.

“let’s go!!” you took her hand, the liquor bringing back your arousal.

as you both arrived to the bathroom and saw the line, you formed your lips into a pout.

“mimi would hate me for this…do you wanna go upstairs to the guest bathroom? she usually blocks it off during parties because it’s a nice bathroom, but it’s just us…” you suggested, batting your eyelashes as you looked up at her.

privacy. perfect. “yeah, sure.” ellie responded, grinning internally as she finished off her drink. both of you stumbled towards the stairs, sneaking up when nobody was looking.

ellie pulled you into the bathroom, locking the door and pressing your back against it.

“didn’t you have to pee?” you asked, heart beating faster as you looked up to her.

“no,” she replied, leaning closer to you. “i just…i need you so bad, y/n.” ellie said, voice low and raspy.

you blushed, feeling yourself get wetter.

“i know they’re just your friends, fuck, i don’t even know why it’s botherin’ me so much.” she muttered, leaning her head on your shoulder. her hot breath fanned your neck, causing you to shiver.

“what..what do you mean?” you asked, breathing harder.

“i just get so..” she kissed your neck, causing your breath to catch, “ so worked up seeing you with other girls…” ellie continued, kissing your neck again.

you felt your knees buckle, tilting your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

ellie hums against your skin, her kisses growing more sloppy.

“don’t even know why i was all jealous..” she kisses you aggressively, her hand holding your face to hers. you whimper, melting into her. your hands travel over her clothed body, stopping at a hard lump in her pants.

pulling away in surprise, you asked, “did you really wear your strap all evening?”

“yeah. i wore it in case i needed to remind you you’re mine.” ellie whispered, kissing you again and hiking your dress up. her hand quickly pushed your thighs apart and started rubbing at your clit, feeling the wet spot your slick created.

“so fuckin wet, all f’me, yeah baby?” she said, causing you to moan. in your drunken state, you were like putty in her hands. ellie dropped to her knees, her mouth replacing those long and flexible fingers.

she practically made out with your pussy, her mind foggy from the drinks she consumed. all she could think about was you infront of her, melting in her mouth. she felt herself getting more and more wet as she lapped at you, her tongue circling your swollen clit as she suctioned softly with her mouth.

she always knew how to drive you crazy.

you were a mess, legs trembling as you tangled your hands in her hair. she looked up at you, watching you fall apart and try to keep quiet.

her mouth was amazing, knowing just where to go and when to do it. she flicked her tongue on your clit, bringing you close to the edge.

“el..ellie…m’gonna cum…oh my fucking god…” you whimpered, your thighs clamped so hard they were threatening to squish her head flat. she pulled away from your cunt abruptly, causing you to whine in frustration.

she licked her lips clean, kissing you passionately as she struggled to unzip her jeans. “gonna fuck you so good…” she mumbled, her drunken state clouding her mind.

ellie broke the heated kiss, looking down and attempting to position herself properly. eager for her, you hiked your leg over her hip and scooted downward, gasping and staring into her eyes as her strap filled you up.

“fuuuckk….” she groaned, her hips pushing forward slightly. you let out a whimper as her tip pressed against the end of your canal, clenching hard as you adjusted to her size.

“so fucking tight baby-you’re so tight..” ellie grunted, starting to thrust her hips.

you moaned in response, your head hitting the door. she took this as an opportunity to bite your neck, something she did happily.

“my dirty fuckin’ slut, look at you taking my dick, fuck baby..” ellie grunted out. “just slidin’ in and out of ya…you’re so damn wet..” her pace increased as she panted hot and heavy into your neck. you swore she could feel it sometimes, the way she spoke to you while you had sex.

“nobody but me gets to fuck this slutty pussy yeah? ‘s all mine..” ellie said, hovering her lips over your own.

“all yours, it’s all yours baby.”

she kissed you, teeth crashing into eachother a few times as she fucked you sober against the bathroom door.

“ellie im-fuck! im gonna cum!” you cried, too focused on her to worry about being quiet.

“yeah? cum all on my dick baby, show me how much of a cumslut you are for me…im so close too baby, hold out f’me..” ellie grunted, fucking you like she was an animal. you came hard all over her, crossing your legs behind her back as she fucked you through your orgasm.

“oh my god! ellie, oh fuck!” you cried. she orgasmed with you, her hips faltering their relentless pace.

she slowed down, slowly fucking you through every aftershock.

“shit…sorry baby. i think we got a little too loud.” ellie says gently, pulling out of your fucked out cunt.

“‘s okay.” you mumbled, sitting on the edge of the hot tub.

she wet a washcloth and cleaned your legs off, kissing your lips gently.

“i made you into a mess…” she apologizes.

after she cleans you up, you turn to the mirror and adjust yourself. you check your phone, seeing a text from mimi.

m: y/n!! ven acá, it’s time for cake!!

“looks like we finished just in time.” you say with a cheeky grin, kissing ellie on the cheek and putting your jacket back on as you walk outside the bathroom.

[wordstome]

kingdom come - i

king König x princess & assassin reader

2nd person, no y/n, she/her pronouns, afab reader, romance, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, kind of age gap because König has been king for a good chunk of time but it's not really much of a factor, fantasy/medieval setting, magic exists but it's the creepy kind ordinary people don't fuck with

3.5k words

tw: swearing and König gets a boner. what's new

[NEXT]

GUESS WHO'S BACK ON HER BULLSHIT HAHAAA IT'S MEEE STARTING A NEW SERIES/AU AGAINNNnnnnn. Don't fret, I'm still working on university au! I just started watching The Great (the tv show) and I was like hmm. I should get back to that one idea I had.

p.s. When I mention a "mask" on König, imagine a sort of phantom of the opera, Brahms kinda thing. He isn't always wearing the hood.

Outside, the bells are tolling. Back home, you’ve only ever heard church bells ringing to rally the troops. But here, in these foreign lands, they ring for a royal wedding.

You're wearing a truly massive dress shaped like a pastry. It's a work of art, to be sure, but it leaves you feeling restrained and vulnerable. You should be wearing armor into war—hard boiled leather and curtains of steel rings, not delicate lace and silken ribbons. You're walking into a battle: you would have liked to be able to bend forward further than thirty degrees.

You're at least glad you don't have to wear a veil—it would have been borderline unbearable if you had your vision restricted on top of everything else. It does mean, however, that you can see him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you.

A gigantic man with a soldier's physique, wearing a mask that covers more than half his face. Just the sight of him sends a a chill down your spine.

The officiant’s voice booms out over the assembly, but you don’t hear any of it. The sound washes over you, distant and echoing, as if your head is underwater. Your whole being is on alert as you tilt your face upwards to look at the only part of your soon-to-be-husband that you can see properly: his eyes.

They bore into you as if they're looking straight into your soul. As if they're revealing all of your secrets. For a moment, you feel disarmed, even though you can still feel the calming, solid presence of your trusty dagger against your thigh.

As the officiant finishes the wedding vows, he offers his hand to you, his touch shockingly gentle.

You steel your resolve and stare resolutely back at him as you place your hand in his, and the officials begin to bind them together with velvet cords. You remind yourself who you are, where you are, and what you must do.

You remind yourself that you have to kill him as they tie the final knot.

The woods are foreboding, home to a darkness that seems infinite and all-consuming. The heavy old trees that surround the palace grounds shut out most sunlight and all moonlight, and sometimes it feels as if the forest itself is a living, conscious thing brimming with a dangerous unknown. It's proven to be an effective line of defense in the past: citizens don’t dare to trespass on the royal grounds as it is, but an extra deterrent never hurt anybody.

Except perhaps enemy soldiers. But they learn their lesson quickly.

To you, however, the woods are comforting. You’ve spent many lonely nights amongst these trees, training until your body was sore all over. These trunks have withstood many a misplaced blow, these exposed roots have been your downfall many a time, and this mossy undergrowth has cushioned your bruises during many a tumble and fall.

Tonight, however, there is no training. No combat, no groans of pain, no thuds against wood or flesh. You are blanketed in quiet, something sorely needed as you contemplate the days to come.

This is it. The task you’ve trained for all your life is here. Every sore joint and pulled muscle, every tear-soaked pillowcase, every scolding in Father’s office has led to this. Sometimes it seemed as if the day would never come, as if years of reading, shooting, riding and sparring would be for naught. Though your breath rattles the leaves around you, you feel as if you’ve been holding your breath ever since Father broke the news. This is happening.

You leave in a few hours, as soon as the sun comes over the horizon. Your maids have already packed your luggage—you had to enlist their help after it became too difficult to pick what to bring and what not to bring. If all went well, you’d be back in this room in a few weeks. But what could you afford to bring? What did you need for your sanity? What minute details of an object could compromise your position?

Luckily, Calliope, your most trusted lady-in-waiting, was able to step in when she found you sitting on your rug, clutching your set of cloth dolls—the only toys you’d ever owned as a child that weren’t made with murder in mind—and suggest you take a breath of fresh air. You don’t know where you’d be without her, honestly. You may be your father’s pride and joy of a perfectly well-rounded monarch and killing machine, but you would never have gotten here without her by your side.

You sigh and lean your head against the thick limb you’re lying on. If you didn’t already know you’d wake up with a complaining spine that would then have to spend days riding a horse, you’d go to sleep right here, right now. The woods are your home, these trees your solace. You’ll miss it terribly, as the only place you can truly avoid all servants, generals, teachers, and parents.

Well. Parent.

But as with all things—Father’s rare good mood, your training days, peacetime—the sweet, silent embrace of the forest can’t last forever.

Reluctantly, you give the tree one last pat and climb down, making the trudge back to your room so you can at least attempt to catch a few winks of sleep.

It takes quite a few days of travel to get to your destination. You arrive in the empire next door's capital city saddle-sore and on edge. This was the snakes’ nest, the heart of the beast.

And yet…people are happy.

The mood in your hometown is far quieter and more grim—your country has been at war with this one for as long as you can remember, and yet the contrast could not be more vast. Back home, people walk directly from place to place, and don’t make eye contact with each other. Here, children play unsupervised, outdoor markets overflow with people, and windows are thrown wide open as neighbors chat.

You don’t know how to feel. The previous king here was a ruthless conqueror, building an empire by invading neighboring countries and forcing their monarchs to yield—or killing them when they were defiant. Your own land had only escaped being absorbed into the empire by employing rigorous military discipline and strict wartime measures. Yet here, in the heart of the empire, you would never be able to tell it was a nation at war.

And now you’re marrying the king’s son. The current king. The one they call König. So little is known about him that his entire existence is shrouded in rumor: that the hood he wears conceals a monstrous, disfigured face, that he plotted his father’s demise, that his first wife died not of childbirth, but was assassinated in quiet due to being unable to provide an heir.

You don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out if the rumors are true.

To your surprise, your reception by the people feels more curious than hostile. You’d expected a bit of resistance, or at least a few dirty looks, considering you're the princess of the country they've been at war with for years. But whatever König has told them has been far more charitable than you anticipated.

Your arrival at the palace is greeted by a flurry of activity. Your entourage scatters to put affairs in order, but Calliope and a small contingent of guards follows you into the main hall. Not that you need them—but you need to keep up appearances. No one outside your family’s most tight-knit circle knows you can throw a punch, much less have an assassin’s training.

You don’t feel in the least bit prepared to meet your fiancé—and target—face to face fresh off a days-long journey, but you’re ushered into the main hall anyway. It seems your task has already begun whether you like it or not.

“Ah, princess. Welcome to my humble home.” You hear him before you see him, his voice heavy with an accent. There’s something a bit charming about it, you think—before the sight of him shakes some sense back into you.

He’s huge. He towers over even his own palace guard, broad with muscle, and moves with a deadly raw power even in this nonthreatening setting.

When his father still ruled, before the current peacetime, stories of the empire’s prodigal heir on the frontlines served as frightening bedtime story and a terrifying cautionary tale for the nation’s soldiers. A beast in a hood who fought with the strength of ten men.

You stand your ground as he approaches you. The hood, then, is real—although the stories were so consistent about it that it was never really in question, was it? What the stories had left out were his eyes—striking and green, piercing into your soul as he bends to kiss the back of your hand. It’s an odd sensation that sends shivers racing up your spine.

“The pleasure is mine, your majesty,” you respond, a hint of apprehension in your tone. Of course you had been expecting some form of courtly courtesy, but for some reason you hadn’t expected him to be such a…gentleman. A part of you had been expecting some feral animal, needing to be put down.

"I'm sure you must be exhausted from your journey," he says. "I hope you will find your rooms to your liking." Something about his demeanor is almost...bored? As if greeting his future wife is just another task he's obligated to complete.

He doesn't join you for dinner that night, which is odd. The servants inform you that he's taking care of some urgent business. You hope that your dejection is taken as disappointment that you won't have an opportunity to get to know your fiancé. You are, but not the way people may think.

After all, getting to know your target is half the battle.

You're left to your own devices the next day. König, you're informed, won't be available. That urgent business from last night appears to be an ongoing situation.

Fine by you. You could use some time to prepare.

You spend the day wandering the palace, familiarizing yourself with the grounds and plotting an escape route. You're halted on your brisk survey when you stumble upon a...garden?

Unlike the perfectly manicured hedges outside the palace, or the groomed efficiency of the kitchen gardens, this place is small. Quiet. A little overgrown, but clearly taken care of. The grass is long and soft, dappled in sunshine. Flowers burst forward, crowded around trellises spiraling with vines.

Part of you feels like a trespasser in this private little sanctum, but another part of you is set at ease by the idle tranquility of this place. You pause, feeling a pang of homesickness. It reminds you of the forest: wild in its own way, but gentle and welcoming at the same time.

Something at the corner of your vision catches your eye. A bush bursting forward with round, dark little berries.

Nightshade. Deadly nightshade, in fact. What is this doing in this peaceful little garden? You move forward to examine them closer.

"You shouldn't be here."

You whirl around to find König standing behind you. You had been so absorbed by the garden that you hadn't detected his approach.

Your cheeks burn. You've only been here a day, and already you're letting your guard down. This won't do.

"My apologies, your majesty. I got....lost."

You hold your breath as he draws near. His expression is unreadable—not that you can see most of it, anyway. But when you meet his gaze, you can tell he's sizing you up.

"This is quite a long way to wander."

Shit, is he suspicious? Thinking fast, your brain supplies the best answer you can muster.

"Should a future queen not know the palace she is to live in?"

"Mmm. You make a fair point."

Before you can say or do anything further, he's standing right in front of you. "That's nightshade, you know." You can feel him watching you, assessing your reaction. "Not many can recognize it."

"I..." You can't very well tell him that you know what nightshade looks like because you're an expert in deadly poisons. "I had been wondering what they were."

"I see." He leans forward and plucks a berry off the bush, rolling it between his fingers. "Have you ever tasted one?"

Does he know? Is that a threat? You can't read his expression behind that goddamned mask of his. You stare at him, hoping you look dumbfounded instead of panicked.

"No? They're quite sweet, you know." He holds it out to you. "Care to try one?"

"Your Majesty, I—"

"Don't look so nervous." If you had ever thought he looked frightening before, there's something uncanny about the half-smile that he gives you now. "I didn't expect you to say yes." Before you can say or do anything, he pops the berry in his mouth.

You're too stunned to do anything but watch as he chews for a moment and swallows. One berry won't kill him, but you're more concerned about why he's doing this. Is he trying to intimidate you?

"This was my mother's garden." He gestures to the general surroundings. "I spent a lot of time here as a child. Peaceful, isn't it?"

You let out a tiny sigh of relief now that the conversation appears to be moving on. "Yes. Quite."

"It's always been a place to get away. The first time I ate a nightshade berry was right here, when I was six. I was violently sick for weeks." His tone is a little too light for someone describing being poisoned as a child, and it's unnerving.

"That's when I learned to be careful of things that are too sweet. A good lesson to learn, don't you think?" He walks towards you, and you brace yourself for anything.

He stops next to you, you facing one way and him the other. "Take care then, princess. I will see you tomorrow."

You stare resolutely ahead. "Yes."

And hopefully you won't see him for much longer after that.

Fuck. You forgot about this part.

You had been prepared for this, of course, but you only realize now that you hadn't been mentally prepared. It wasn't until Calliope was helping you undress that you remembered what usually happens between a man and a woman the night of the wedding.

You pace the room, stewing and plotting, getting increasingly antsy before the door swings open and the man himself comes strutting into the bedroom.

"You look like a cornered deer." You hear König shut the door behind him, but you don't turn around.

"I've never done this before." Mentally, you curse yourself for the quaver in your voice.

"Well. Tonight won't be your first."

"What?" You do turn at that, watching him carelessly shed layers all across the room between swigs of his drink.

"I have no interest in bedding you. We do have to sleep in the same room for appearances, though." He plucks a grape from a cluster sitting on a side table and throws it up in the air, catching it with his mouth.

You haven't been in his presence much in the past few days, but each time you have, something about your encounters with him have shaken you up and set you on edge. Somehow, he's kept you on your toes even with a limited presence. Your meeting in the garden was dizzying and confusing, the ceremony set you on high alert. And now, he's thrown you another curveball.

It feels almost too easy. He's just going to go to sleep in the same room as you? No fanfare? "You don't want to...consummate the marriage?"

"You sound upset." He cocks an eyebrow at you. "Were you hoping to?"

"No!" Your face feels hot as he gives you that lopsided half-smile again, more like a smirk this time.

"That's a shame. I prefer fucking willing participants, you see." He drapes himself over the elaborate chaise lounge opposite the bed.

"Are you usually this vulgar?" you retort.

"I see no reason for pretense. We're married, after all." Curiously, he hasn't taken his mask off. Does he sleep in it? Or is he only keeping it on because you're here?

You feel silly now, dressed in a flimsy little silken thing, wrapped up like a present for a brute who won't even touch you. Considerate of him, you suppose. Not that it will matter for very long.

"Sleep well then, hmm? You should be well rested for your first day as queen tomorrow." There's a dangerous gleam in his eye, but it disappears so quickly you wonder if you had imagined it.

"Yes," you say, sitting on the bed while not taking your eyes off of him. "Sleep well."

You give it a few hours, just to be safe. A few hours of laying awake staring at the ceiling. A few hours of watching as moonlight bathes the room in silver light. A few hours of watching him.

The deepening darkness casts sharp shadows across his face, making him seem even more inhuman. What do bloodthirsty emperors dream of? Dominating the weak? Slaughtering the innocent? Conquering women? You shudder. Best not to know.

It's well past midnight when you slowly, quietly get up and pull your dagger from its hidden holster. One downwards thrust, and you're going home. One quick motion, and all of this is over.

It's a little anticlimactic, you think. But this is for the best. For you. For your people. For your family.

Light as a feather, you straddle him, hovering over him just enough so that your weight doesn't wake him. You try not to think about how intimate this position is, and remind yourself that this is the best way to prevent him from getting up or struggling, should your first strike not end him immediately. Which it will, of course.

You take a deep breath as you position the blade right over his heart, calming the fluttering anxiety in your mind. The beginning of a new chapter of your life begins now.

You plunge the dagger downwards.

In an instant, König's eyes fly open. Before you can react at all, his hand has seized your wrist in an iron grip, the tip of your dagger a hair's length from his chest.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" He purrs. "A little assassin?"

You grit your teeth and attempt to overpower him: you're so, so close. But his strength is so overwhelming that you can't even get the tip of the dagger to make contact. Panic starts to set in. This isn't good. This is disastrous, actually. He was supposed to be asleep!

You attempt to pull away, to get away, to do anything, but it's no use. "You don't seem surprised," you spit.

"It's not every day your most bitter enemy offers you his daughter's hand in marriage as a truce," he replies, clear amusement in his voice. Is he enjoying this? "Of course I smelled a rat. You must think me a fool."

"No." Yeah, you kind of had.

"Lying ill suits you, princess." You cry out as he jams his fingers into the tendons in your wrist, forcing you to release the dagger. You watch, helplessly, as he picks it up with his other hand and turns it over, studying it in the moonlight.

"What a delicate little knife," he muses. In your hand, it's a sizeable weapon. But held in his fingers it looks small, harmless. To your dismay, he then proceeds to chuck it at the opposite wall, the blade sticking itself solidly in between two panels.

"You knew?" you ask, a tremor in your traitorous voice.

"Oh, I suspected. You had me disappointed for a while—I thought you would have made an attempt well before this." He lets out a deep chuckle that sends terror through you. "For a moment I even thought that you were as you presented: just some poor little lamb, a peace offering given up to the slaughter." His eyes narrow behind the mask. "I am glad to see that you have proven to be much more interesting than that."

"Interesting?" Out of all the reactions you would have expected him to have, this is not one of them. Fear, anger, even immediate violence. Not...interest.

"You have no idea," he says. Your eyes widen as he you feel his hand run up your thigh.

That's not the only thing you feel, though. He shifts a bit underneath you, and it's then that the earlier flush to your cheeks returns in full force. Is he...hard?!

"If you're going to kill me, then get on with it," you ground out through your teeth.

"Little one, if I had wanted you dead immediately, I would have already pinned you down and snapped your neck. No, you've given me a gift: a gift I intend to cherish." You shiver as he slides a hand up your thigh. "A challenge."

"Is this a game to you?" You're not sure if your breath is running ragged from fear or anger, now.

"I could end this at any time, you know." You gasp involuntarily as a hand closes around your throat. "But that would be no fun, now would it?"

"You are a fool, then." You stare at him defiantly, even as his grip constricts your breathing. "Because I will kill you."

His eyes dance with some mad glee. "That's what I like to hear."

Hiiiiiiiii besties. I've been chewing on the idea of a medieval royalty sort of au since before Shrike, and I came up with this premise like. At least a year or two ago, before I was even in the COD fandom. So I'm glad to finally be making some real headway on it! I have no idea how many parts this is going to have. I have a lot of plot planned for it, so we're just gonna have to see where the vibes take us!

I'd like to thank @danibee33 my angel as always. I bounced a lot of royal/medieval/king König ideas off of her, some of which I still may use, but I changed the plot drastically when I had an epiphany a week or two ago. Hope you like this one babe <3 Also, thank you @kneelingshadowsalome and @gremlingottoosilly for their historical/time period aus. Your fics gave me a real kick in the ass to finish this.

Also shoutout to Pedro Pascal fans? I stumbled upon some breathtakingly kinky fanfiction on this beloved hellsite featuring the Mandalorian, and thought: you know what? If people can proudly write and publish the nastiest, most shameless smut I've ever read, then I can push through whatever impostor syndrome, perfectionist embarrassment I have with my work and get it done.

As usual, please let me know your feedback! I'm trying out a bit of a different characterization for König (not that much different, he's still our beloved violent horny maniac), and I want to know what people think.

I'm also going to be using my taglist again. If you were tagged here and don't want to be tagged anymore, please let me know! And if you would like to be added to the taglist, drop a reply <3

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr

[whatisflorencewearing]

September 11, 2024 - St. Mary Magdalene Church, London

Florence got interviewed by @claraamfo ahead of her @bbc_proms performance.

She's wearing a vintage 1900s silk chiffon and lace robe from @rockstarboudoir paired with @shopdoen Dasha velvet ankle boots in Hickory (a rich chocolate brown that turns coppery when it hits the light) that features an almond-shaped toe, a mid-height heel, leather piping and cord lacing from the Holiday 2022 collection.

For those that are interested: Clara is wearing head-to-toe Vivienne Westwood.

Styling: @aldenejohnson

[fangdokja]

Fleeing is futile. The hunt has only just begun.

❤︎ Synopsis. As they claim you piece by piece, the silence of your resistance is the sweetest melody to their madness.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Granger x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Gusion x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Aamon x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Xavier x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. When Love Kills - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 3,966

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, forced relationship, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, implied kidnapping, bondage and restraints, stalking, BDSM

♡ A/N. Why can't I find any quality reader insert for my favorite game of all time. Gusion + Granger + Xavier combo wohhh. I've now fulfilled a childhood want. So gonna do this again, I don't care if it's fanfic underrated. Granger's cooked so hard.

♡ Granger.

The shadows of the dimly lit room press against your skin like the cold fingers of death itself. His gaze—piercing, calculating—lingers on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. Granger does not speak; words have never been his forte. It’s the weight of his silence that crushes you, the unspoken symphony of violence and desire that thrums between you like an electric current.

You stand there, your arms bound, the rough cords biting into your wrists, a grotesque imitation of the violin strings he cherishes so dearly. He leans against the far wall, the red scarf draped over his shoulder like a swath of blood, his pale hands meticulously cleaning the barrel of Dirge. The metallic sheen of the weapon glints in the low light, and for a moment, you wonder if the cold steel of the muzzle will touch your temple tonight, a kiss of death laced with his deranged affection.

He has always been methodical, deliberate. Granger does not rush, for he finds no pleasure in haste. His every movement is a calculated note in the sonata of your despair. His leather gloves creak softly as he sets the gun aside and steps closer, his boots echoing ominously in the confined space. The smell of gunpowder and faint, acrid sweat follows him, a scent you’ve come to associate with your cage—both physical and emotional.

His touch, when it comes, is featherlight, a mockery of tenderness. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, tilting your face upward to meet his shadowed eyes. They’re not cruel, not overtly violent, but they burn with a simmering hunger that no amount of carnage could sate. He studies you like he’s dissecting a prey he’s already gutted, curious and detached yet filled with a predatory satisfaction.

"You think you can scream," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "But here... no one hears. No one comes. This silence—" he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear—"is the sweetest part of the requiem."

The violin case rests nearby, its ominous presence a constant reminder of his duality. Inside lies Requiem, a weapon that has sung the dirge of countless demons, yet in his hands, it becomes something more—a symbol of his madness, his grief, his obsession. You’ve seen him caress the case with more reverence than he’s ever shown another human being. It’s as if his soul, fractured and jagged, resides within its confines.

His hands trail lower, the leather of his gloves scraping against your skin, leaving a path of gooseflesh in their wake. You shudder, but it’s not from the cold. It’s the way his touch feels like ownership, like a brand searing into your flesh.

Granger is not gentle. He doesn’t believe in softness. The world has never been kind to him, and he sees no reason to extend that courtesy to anyone, least of all you. Yet there’s an artistry to his cruelty, a methodical precision that speaks of his inner torment. You are his audience, his instrument, and tonight, he intends to play you until you break.

His lips curve into a faint smirk as he tilts your head back, his gloved hand gripping your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse quicken. "Do you know," he whispers, his tone almost conversational, "why I keep you alive?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

"It’s not for love," he continues, his voice dark, melodic. "It’s not for affection or warmth. Those are luxuries I cannot afford. No..." His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, savoring the way it flutters like a trapped bird. "It’s because you make the silence bearable. Your fear, your resistance, your tears—they’re the melody that drowns out the noise."

And then, with the same eerie grace that defines him, he steps back, leaving you gasping for air. He retrieves the violin case, opening it with the care of a man unveiling a sacred relic. The instrument gleams in the dim light, its polished surface unmarred by the bloodshed it has witnessed.

He plays for you sometimes—not out of kindness, but to remind you of the life you’ll never reclaim. The mournful notes fill the room, echoing off the walls like a dirge for the living. It’s beautiful, haunting, a stark contrast to the violence that defines him.

As the final note fades, he sets the violin aside and turns to you once more. His eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction, a predator surveying his prey.

"You won’t leave," he says, his voice soft but firm, like a command written in stone. "Not because you can’t... but because deep down, you know. You belong to me."

And as the darkness closes in, you realize with chilling clarity that he’s right.

────────────

♡ Gusion.

The moon hung over Castle Aberleen, a luminous scythe against the abyss of the night. Its light seeped through the jagged cracks of the ancient stone walls, pooling on the icy floors in fractured streams. The chill that crept through the air was unnatural, a biting presence that clung to your skin and made your breaths visible, each exhalation dissipating like ghosts lost to the void. In the suffocating silence, he waited, cloaked in the shadows that seemed to bend to his will, as though even the darkness obeyed his command.

Gusion watched you from the far corner of the room, his lean figure blending seamlessly into the dimness. There was a precision to his stillness, a calculated tension coiled in his frame like a blade poised on the verge of unsheathing. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving as cut glass, traced the fragile contours of your form. Every rise and fall of your chest as you slumbered, every shift of your limbs under the thin blanket, was etched into his memory with surgical exactness.

He had always been fascinated by fragility—how effortlessly it could break, how its destruction revealed the truth beneath. You were no different. Soft, vulnerable, utterly unprepared for the monster that had breached the sanctuary of your quarters. You were an enigma he sought to unravel, a riddle written in the language of skin and bone, breath and pulse. And oh, how tempting it was to solve you.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, your lips parting as a muted sigh escaped. The sound was nearly imperceptible, but to him, it resonated like a siren’s call. His fingers twitched at his sides, where faint tendrils of light magic flickered like the dying embers of a fire barely restrained. It would take so little to touch you—to mark you—and leave behind evidence of his existence in the hollows of your being.

“You sleep so peacefully,” he murmured under his breath, his voice a low cadence of menace and reverence. The words were not meant for you to hear, yet they seemed to hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. He stepped closer, his movements so deliberate, so unnervingly silent that not even the creak of the floorboards betrayed him.

The room itself seemed complicit in his intrusion. The faint scent of lavender that clung to your skin mingled with the metallic tang of the cold, creating an intoxicating blend that muddled his senses. He stopped mere inches from your bed, his gaze devouring every detail of you. The delicate curve of your neck, the vulnerability in the way your fingers curled loosely against the sheets—all of it was an invitation, whether you realized it or not.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” he whispered, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear. His words were a scalpel, slicing through the stillness with surgical precision. You stirred again, a faint whimper escaping your lips, but his hand was already on you, firm and unyielding, pinning you to the bed before consciousness could fully grasp your predicament.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with panic as they met his. The sheer intensity of his gaze rooted you in place, a predator’s focus locking onto prey. He loomed over you, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, as though the air itself had been stolen from your lungs.

“Shh...” His voice was deceptively gentle, a soft croon that barely masked the razor edge beneath. “Don’t scream. You wouldn’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, would you?”

His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin upward with an unsettling tenderness that belied the bruising force of his grip. The juxtaposition was calculated, designed to disorient and unnerve. His touch was cold, clinical, yet imbued with a possessiveness that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“You’re trembling,” he observed, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts amusement and malice. “Is it fear? Or something else? I wonder…”

Your body betrayed you, trembling under his scrutiny even as your mind screamed for escape. The struggle only seemed to amuse him further, his expression darkening with satisfaction as his hands began to roam. Every movement was deliberate, methodical, as though he were dissecting you with his touch alone.

“So fragile,” he murmured, his voice laced with something akin to awe. “So exquisitely breakable. It’s almost poetic, really.”

The faint hum of his magic grew louder, a pulsating rhythm that resonated in your very bones. The light it emitted cast eerie shadows across the room, distorting reality into something nightmarish. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your skin, as his lips ghosted over the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Did you think you could run from me?” he asked, his tone conversational yet dripping with menace. “Did you truly believe you could hide?”

His teeth grazed your skin, a fleeting threat that sent a jolt of terror coursing through you. The pressure increased, sharp enough to draw blood but not quite enough to break the skin. He reveled in your reaction, the way your body stiffened, your breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

“You belong to me,” he growled, the words a binding oath that echoed through the room. “No one else will ever touch you. No one else will ever have you. Do you understand?”

The air was thick with the scent of blood and magic, an intoxicating blend that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. His hands tightened around you, his fingers digging into your flesh with bruising intensity. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in like the jaws of some monstrous beast, trapping you in this twisted tableau.

“Stop struggling,” he hissed, his voice a venomous command that left no room for defiance. “It’s pointless. You’re mine. You always have been.”

When he finally pulled away, his expression was one of dark triumph. His fingers trailed down your body one last time, leaving behind a searing heat that felt like a brand, marking you as irrevocably his. The faint glow of his magic lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of his presence.

“Remember this,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “No matter where you go, no matter how far you run, I will find you. And when I do, it will be as though you never left.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you trembling and broken in his wake, the echo of his words lingered, a sinister promise that etched itself into your soul. And in the oppressive silence that followed, you knew with chilling certainty that he was right.

────────────

♡ Aamon.

It begins in the silence of Castle Aberleen, where the cold moonlight filters through stained glass, painting the stone walls with fractured colors of blue and crimson. Aamon, the Duke of Shards, watches you with an expression carved from ice and fire. His pale eyes are unreadable, glinting like his conjured mana shards—beautiful, sharp, and merciless.

To him, you are not just a curiosity but a challenge—a test of his resolve, his discipline, his control. Yet control is a tenuous thing, a thread stretched too tight. He doesn’t break it outright; no, breaking things is for common men. Aamon unravels control strand by strand, methodically, purposefully, until there is nothing left to bind him but his own desire, raw and unrelenting.

You never asked to be caught in his orbit. Perhaps it was your misfortune, or perhaps it was his. He doesn’t care to decide. He only knows that you are here now, your shadow crossing his domain like a streak of sunlight piercing the abyss, and that alone is enough to condemn you. Not to death—no, death is too fleeting, too easy—but to him. To the cage he will forge from his affection, his obsession, and his cruelty.

When he first touches you, it’s almost gentle, almost tender—a gloved hand brushing against your arm as he leans close, his breath cold against your ear. He whispers something, words meant to soothe, but the undertone is unmistakable. It's a warning, a claim, a promise. His lips curl into a faint smile, but his eyes betray him. They are dark, bottomless, promising horrors you can barely fathom.

You try to resist, of course. It’s in your nature, as much as it’s in his to pursue. Resistance makes it sweeter for him. He thrives on the dance, the back-and-forth, the tension stretched so tight it threatens to snap. Each time you pull away, he tightens his grip, his patience fraying but his desire sharpening. Aamon is not a man to be defied lightly, and you learn this in ways both subtle and brutal.

In the shadows of the castle, he strips away your defenses with a precision that speaks of his training. His words are daggers, cutting through your resolve, leaving you raw and exposed. He speaks of duty, of loyalty, of love twisted into something unrecognizable. His voice is a low murmur, smooth as silk and just as binding. "You don't understand," he tells you, his tone almost mournful. "Everything I do, everything I am, is for the ones I love. For you."

But love, in his hands, is a weapon. He wields it expertly, slicing through your will until there’s nothing left but your trembling submission. When he finally claims you, it is not an act of passion but of possession. His touch is scorching, his hands roaming your body as if to memorize every curve, every shiver, every desperate gasp. He moves with calculated grace, his strength tempered by an unyielding need to dominate, to control. Every kiss, every caress, is a mark of ownership, a declaration that you are his and his alone.

He takes his time, savoring each moment, each sound you make, each futile struggle. His voice, low and commanding, pierces through the haze of fear and desire. "You belong to me," he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Every breath, every thought, every inch of you. Mine."

And yet, there’s a fragility to his madness, a crack in the armor. In the quiet moments, when the heat of his rage and desire subsides, he looks at you with something resembling vulnerability. He doesn’t apologize—he never would—but there’s an unspoken plea in his eyes, a desperate need for you to understand, to accept him for what he is.

But acceptance is not your choice. He has stripped that from you, just as he has stripped away your freedom, your dignity, your sense of self. What remains is a hollow echo of the person you once were, a reflection of the man who has claimed you.

Aamon is not kind. He is not gentle. But in the rare moments when he allows himself to be soft, it is almost worse. Because in those moments, you see the man beneath the monster, and it becomes all too clear: he is not beyond redemption, but he chooses this path, this darkness. And he has chosen you to walk it with him, whether you will it or not.

And so, the Duke of Shards keeps you close, his most precious possession, his most exquisite torment. He watches you as he would a star in the void—something beautiful, distant, and entirely his.

────────────

♡ Xavier.

The silence drips like blood, thick and suffocating, pooling around the dim chamber where you stand paralyzed. Shadows lick at the edges of the barrier Xavier has erected, its stark light casting cruel illumination on the scene. His eyes—blue, sharp, and cold as a blade—are fixed on you, and though his lips curl into the faintest approximation of a smile, there’s nothing but venom beneath it. He looms over you, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in the pristine vestments of his station. A contradiction: the embodiment of light, yet soaked in a darkness that seeps from every pore.

“Did you think,” he begins, his voice a measured hum, low and dangerous, “that you could slip from the light’s grasp? Even shadows are born of its radiance.”

You flinch against the searing gaze that seems to strip you bare, his power coiling like a serpent around your chest. The mystic energy that crackles in the air is suffocating, a living thing that laps hungrily at your skin. Each breath you take feels stolen. He has caged you here, the walls of light forming an inescapable prison—your last, bitter sanctuary. His presence dominates the space, a crushing inevitability that consumes the very concept of escape.

He steps closer. The sound of his boots on the stone floor echoes with deliberate finality, each step a nail driven into the coffin of your freedom. The heat radiating from him is overwhelming, oppressive, and alive with a silent promise. You try to look anywhere but at him, anywhere but at the man who stands as both executioner and savior. But his gloved hand is there, tilting your chin with a gentleness so at odds with the storm raging behind his eyes.

“Look at me,” he orders, and the authority in his voice strikes something primal within you. Reluctantly, trembling, you obey. His sapphire eyes gleam with an unholy intensity, a fire that threatens to consume you. “That’s better. I prefer seeing the truth written on your face.”

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundary between what is his to possess and what he has yet to claim. The contact burns, not with heat but with the cold inevitability of a man who has decided he will not be denied.

“You defied me,” he whispers, his tone threaded with something more dangerous than anger—a quiet, simmering madness. “You spat in the face of everything I’ve sacrificed. Do you understand what that means?”

You want to answer, to plead, to scream, but his grip shifts faster than thought. In one smooth motion, he’s seized your wrists and pinned them above your head, his strength inhuman, unyielding. The barrier at your back thrums with energy, and its light burns against your skin. You can feel his breath against your cheek, warm and steady, even as yours comes in ragged, panicked gasps.

“Ten years,” he growls, the words rasping out like a confession to the abyss. “Ten years of serving hypocrisy, of fighting for a world unworthy of salvation. Ten years of losing pieces of myself, piece by bloody piece.”

His voice breaks, but only for an instant. The mask slips, revealing the depth of his despair before the cruelty returns, sharper than before. He leans closer, his lips brushing the curve of your ear.

“And now you dare to defy me? You, of all people?”

The question is rhetorical; he’s not interested in answers. His other hand, gloved and steady, moves from your chin to trail down your arm, each touch a cruel mimicry of affection. Your body reacts against your will, muscles trembling under his predatory attention. There’s nothing soft about his touch—it’s clinical, calculated, the touch of a man dissecting his prey to savor its fragility.

“You’re afraid,” he observes, his voice tinged with something akin to delight. “Good. Fear suits you. It’s honest.”

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he tightens his hold on your wrists, forcing your body flush against the barrier. The light behind you flares, casting his features into stark relief. He is beautiful, impossibly so, but it’s the kind of beauty that scars—the razor’s edge of a man who has abandoned all pretenses of humanity.

“Do you want to know what I’ve learned in all these years?” he asks, his tone softening to something almost mournful. “Righteousness is a lie. Justice, mercy, hope… illusions spun to keep the masses compliant. There is no light without darkness, no salvation without sacrifice. And you—” he pauses, his lips brushing against your temple, “—you were supposed to be my solace. My tether.”

His words hit like blows, each one carving a deeper wound in the fragile armor of your resolve. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and he notices. Of course, he notices. A cruel smile spreads across his face, and his thumb brushes away the first tear that falls, smearing it across your cheek.

“But solace is a luxury I no longer deserve,” he continues, his voice dipping into something darker, more intimate. “So instead, I’ll take what I need. What I’m owed.”

The mystic energy in the air thickens, the barrier behind you pulsing in time with your racing heartbeat. He presses closer, his body a furnace against your trembling form. There’s a hunger in his eyes now, an all-consuming need that has nothing to do with the righteousness he once championed. He wants to break you, to carve his name into your soul, to make you his in every way that matters and some that don’t.

“You can struggle,” he murmurs, his lips so close to yours that the words seem to linger between you, “but it won’t change anything. The light consumes everything it touches, and you… you are too exquisite to remain unclaimed.”

His lips brush yours, a ghost of a kiss that’s more cruel than tender, leaving you gasping. His grip on your wrists doesn’t falter, even as his free hand moves to cradle your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. You search his face for humanity, for some shred of the man he once was, but all you find is the abyss staring back.

“Hate me if it makes you feel better,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “Fight me. Curse me. In the end, it won’t matter. You’ll belong to me.”

The barrier flares one last time, bathing the room in blinding light. For a moment, you’re weightless, untethered from everything but the reality of his presence. Xavier’s lips curve into a smirk, and his voice drops to a whisper that cuts deeper than any blade.

“One way or another.”

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing mid-16th century Venetian dress in doll scale

My parents moved from my childhood home, so I needed to finally take all my old toys I want to keep to store myself, including my dolls. For a long while I've been thinking it might by fun to sew tiny historical clothing for dolls. I love watching doll customization videos, they are so satisfying, and I just really love it, when there's a normal sized thing and then you make it tiny. Especially if it's still functional and made from correct materials. I can't explain it better than tiny versions of bigger things just make me vibrate on higher level. Now that I have my dolls in my home and a box full of fabric scraps, I have everything I need to just start sewing. So I did. And it was extremely fun. I have already started working on a 1890s doll outfit.

This will show my age (not that it doesn't read in my bio), but my dolls are all mainly My Scenes. I was Team My Scene in the early 2000s Bratz vs. My Scene wars. I did not like the proportions of Bratzes. All my My Scenes are Madison, she was my girl.

Here's all the items I made. I tried to use as much historical methods as was possible on doll scale and hand-sewed everything. I made a shift, hose, dress, necklace, earrings, partlet and shoes. I did almost make detachable sleeves, but I wasn't happy with them and I will need to remake them. It took me so long to finish one sleeve and I was very frustrated when I wasn't happy with the result, so I will need some time to make a second attempt.

Underlayer

I have finer white cotton than linen so I used the cotton for the shift and partlet, even though cotton wasn't really used widely at the time, definitely not in underwear, but it worked better in this scale. I didn't have thin enough wool for the hose, so I used fabric from my old thin stockings. Knitted stockings were not quite yet a thing so that's not very accurate, but that's the best I got. I choose red since red hose seemed to have been pretty common based on Venetian paintings, where the hose are shown. I used tiny beads I had lying around as buttons for the sleeves.

I'm not super happy with the neckline. I couldn't come up with a good way to finish gathered neckline on this scale without making it bulky. In future I will try something else.

Overgarments

Dress

The dress itself is made from the remaining scraps of the lovely Latvian linen I bought many years ago from Riga and have already made several garments from. The skirt is cartridge pleated, though the pleats at places behave a little weirdly due to the scale. I used semi heavy linen as lining and finished the panels separately as was typical in 16th century. I didn't use any boning equivalent, but I use cording to reinforce the laced opening. I of course sewed tiny lacing holes, which was very fun. The cord for the lacing I plaited from heavy thread.

Here's couple of examples from 1550s and 1560s Venice I used as basis for the dress.

Partlet

A Venetian renaissance woman of course needs her boob window partlet. Unfortunately I didn't have any super sheer linen or silk to make the fashionable sheer look.

Shoes

The shoes are chopines, which were very fashionable in Venice at the time. They were platform slippers with wooden base, which were covered with leather or fancy fabrics, like brocade or velvet. I didn't make the heels super tall since I was going for more toned down merchant/artisan class sort of vibe, and the very tall were used by upper class women and courtesans. I carved the heels from soft wood and covered them with sateen.

For reference here's couple of 16th century Venetian chopines.

[cherriqa]

+.*i get those goosebumps every time*.+

SUMMARY: he just cant shake the feeling that somebody knows... let alone his own wife..

NICK GOODE (1994) X FEM! READER

MASTERLIST : HERE

AUTH NOTE: aahhhdgfgy first fic!! based on the song goosebumps by Travis Scott 😍😍😍😍 (update, it’s been like 5 months since i started writing this.. i’m so sorry 😭😭🫶🫶)

"hello?" you ask, twirling the landline phone cord between your index and middle finger. "shit, sorry hun.." you notice the voice instantly, its your husband Nick. "sorry forr..?" you trail off, now curious. "um.. ill be home late again." his voice is low and laced with slight malice. "oh." is all you manage to say. you turn to look back in the dining room. your children are sitting happily at the table, eating spaghetti bowls.

"are you upset?" he questions, slightly nervous. "no! its fine.. ill put your food in the fridge then.." you mumble into the speaker. he sighs before speaking again. "listen, i gotta go but ill be back when you wake up. promise." he tries to sound as cheery as possible, but you can see right through the act. "okay, bye! i love you." you murmur with a small smile as the line clicks.

something is up, you can tell. you set the phone down before heading into the dining room and picking up your husbands plate. your daughter looks up at you, her curly pigtails bouncing as she swings her legs off the chair. “mommy… where’s daddy..?” she asks, her voice laced with worry. “baby, he’s fine.. he’s just caught up with work again.” you manage a smile. she nods before going back to eating.

about 4 hours later, you hear the door open and the familiar leather shoe footsteps. your husband in all his glory walks into the living room. “well hi there..” Nick says with a small grin. he walks over to you, sitting beside you on the sofa. “how was work..?” you ask, resting your head on his shoulder. he shrugs, “boring, as per usual.” the way he says it makes you giggle. “you’re sweaty, my love.” you kiss his cheek, making him smile again.

“ouch.” he jokes, standing up again. “i’ll go have a shower then.” you nod and watch as he turns around. “and by the way, could you find me that book.. um.. the one about criminology!” he recalls, to which you respond with a small “yup!” before you too, stand up.

you hear him walk up the stairs as you reach the bookshelf. as you look around, you spot a small knob out of the corner of your eye. you try to ignore it, thinking your vision is just playing tricks on you again. that is, until a passing train nearby causes the knob to rattle. you quirk your eyebrow, setting the newly found book down on the coffee table before inspecting the round knob closer.

as you get a better look, you realise that it belongs to a trapdoor that you happen to have never noticed. ‘strange..’ you think to yourself before turning it slowly. you’d think it’d be locked, considering you’ve never noticed it in your 8 years of living in your house. but it isn’t. the door slowly creaks open and the light from inside the living room shines into the small space.

upon further inspection, you spot a few candles, all of which definitely had been lit within the last few hours considering the faint smell of candle smoke. but also another thing worth noting, the two large stones with writing etched into them. one’s been fully covered, the second having almost just been started. you can only read the last 3 lines of the second stone.

RUBY LANE

THOMAS SLATER

RYAN TORRES

you make a face, weird that the last three shady side killer names are etched into.. wait.

what..?

[adoriels-tears-if]

Adoriel's Tears Lore (Birthday in Esteride.)

To illustrate the passage of time, each decade of life has a specific element that links the crowns.

0 to 10 years: Childhood.

Childhood is fragile, innocent, full of gentleness and discovery. Therefore, the Wreaths are bound with light, delicate materials such as silk thread, pastel ribbons, fine lace and light wool.

In shades of white, pale pink, light blue, soft, light colors.

Ages 11 to 20: Adolescence

Adolescence is a phase of change and self-discovery. Therefore, the Wreaths are bound with materials more assertive but still supple, marking a period of transition, like supple leather, cotton threads, small beads or seeds, hemp cords.

In shades of brighter colors such as red, bright green and sky blue.

21 to 30: Young Adulthood

This phase marks the beginning of independence, important life decisions and new strength. Therefore the wreath are bounds with materials a little more resistant, such as braided rope, glass beads, stronger natural fibers such as linen or thick cotton.

In shades of brown, orange, gold.

[dnalkaline]

I have a major surgery coming up and the date got bumped up to Dec 15th. (I'm likely going to be fine they just have to remove some stuff and I'm not gonna be able to work for a few weeks.)

I don't have the energy to list these all on etsy right now so they're all Pay What You Want + Shipping (Usually like 5$ if you live in the USA) until Dec 13th.

Payment info:

Paypal: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/hshinai

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/dnacademic

Cashapp: $hshinai

Venmo: @ hauntedshinai

If you want me to make a custom etsy listing for you to buy them I can also do that: https://www.etsy.com/shop/Alchemodel

If you don't want to buy anything and can't donate then reblogs help. If you want better photos of an object then feel free to message me. Most of these are meant to be like protection/lucky talismans and if you want deets you can ask me.

Info about the materials under the cut. I'll cross them out or something when they're sold:

CORD/CHAIN INFO

Black string with lobster clasp, semi adjustable ~22" long.

Black leather with lobster clasp, semi adjustable ~18" long

Stainless steel chains in 18", 20", and 24"

If you need another lengths, I have some copper-toned chain that can be cut to any length. If you want the custom sized chain, I also have copper-colored lobster clasps that are larger than the average size if you have a hard time using the regular ones.

MATERIALS

All pendants are wrapped with copper wire. The ones that have silver-toned or gold-toned wire are wrapped with plated copper.

Moons: (about 4-5cm long. warning these can be on the heavier side for amulets)

M1 - Dyed sapphire cabochon along with beads of tiger eye, cat's eye, agate, shell, moonstone, and an aura quartz point

M2 - Dyed emerald cab, tiger eye, fluorite, agate, quartzite, aura quartz point

M3 -Tiger eye, glass, plastic, aura quartz

Ammonites: (about 5 cm long)

A1 - Ammonite fossil, tiger eye

A2 - Ammonite fossil, tiger eye, cat's eye, sunstone

Ruby:

B1 - (8 cm) Dyed ruby, cat's eye, faux coral, carved garnet

B2 - (5 cm) Dyed ruby

C:

1 - (9.5 cm) Coyote teeth, glass, onyx, blue lace agate

2 - (9.5 cm) Coyote teeth, malachite, onyx

3 - (9.5 cm) Coyote teeth, labradorite, onyx

4 - (10 cm) Coyote teeth, glass, carved and dyed emerald

5 - (7 cm) Bismuth, carved/dyed emerald

6 - (8 cm) Carved/dyed emerald, dyed sapphire, agate

D:

1 - (6.5 cm) Rutilated quartz, strawberry quartz, fluorite

2 - (8.5 cm) Dyed emerald, rutilated quartz, fluorite

3 - (5 cm) Dyed/carved emerald, glass

4 - (8 cm) Rutilated quartz, tiger's eye, fluorite

5 - (9 cm) Glass, citrine, aura quartz

E: (all about 10 cm long)

1 - (I have 3 of these) These are all stones except for the plastic rainbow heart but I don't remember what stones. Also a dyed quartz point.

2 - Glass, agate, aquamarine, aura quartz

3 - Glass, quartz, shell

4 - Glass, aura quartz

5 - Glass, onyx, coral

6 - Glass, onyx, aura quartz

7 - Glass, citrine, aura quartz

F:

1 - (12 cm) Glass, dichroic glass, agate, aura quartz

2 - (8 cm) Dichroic glass, fluorite, onyx, tiger eye

3 - (8 cm) Dichroic glass, sea sediment jasper, tiger eye

4 - (9.5 cm) Dichroic glass, tiger eye, aura quartz

Beaded Necklaces:

G1 - (~24") Coyote teeth, coral, glass, faux coral, onyx

G2 - (~18-19") Mixed metal, resin, wood, jade, glass, ceramic

G3 - (~21") Enamel / mixed metals, agate, aquamarine, glass, sodalite, reconstituted shell

G4 - (~18-19") Agate, ceramic, lava rock, glass, howlite

[perpetualfox]

I wanna chomp into his arm and tell him to flex !! Fill my whole mouth with him and make him have to pinch my nose to get me off. Take a bite off the extra meat packed onto his inner thigh before eating that mf out. Chomp chomp chomp

Bite Me - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Biting, blood play, pain play, rough handling.

Wordcount:

All I can say for myself is this:

→You kneel before him, taking your place at his feet like it’s the easiest thing in the world—an act of submission devoid of shame; one he beholds in silent wonder from his perch at the edge of the bed. He looms above you, still mostly clothed, his back ramrod straight—a soldier even in moments of respite. The thick treads of his boots sink into the plush carpet, his laces still pulled tight through dented metal eyelets; thick cord knotted so tight it creaks against the dark leather. His belt lays across his lap—flayed open in seconds by eager fingers—the heavy buckle lost beneath the sharp curve of his hipbone. When you had asked, he’d pealed back his cargos, but they’d made it no closer to the floor than his knees, the thick material bunched up beneath them—a show of vulnerability, but on his own terms.

→You’d taken it for the gift it was.

→Stretching forward, you crane your neck to nuzzle against the pale expanse of his inner thigh. His gloves creak as his fists ball into the sheets, and a little thrill goes through you—to be given so much for so little…from Ghost it was as near a dazzling smile or an earnest admission of love as you had ever come. It was intoxicating. You turn your head, lips grazing a hot stripe along his flesh. He twitches beneath you as you mouth along the knotted ridge of an old scar. You know them well, the stories Simon wears on his skin—the kiss of a knife from Mexico, the crater carved out by a bulled he’d caught in Verdansk, the evenly spaced tears of Russian razor-wire—each more terrible than the last, each beheld with a reverence with which he is woefully unfamiliar. Something in his guts squirms with a feeling he cannot name each time you turn it on him—not quite shame, though it takes a similar shape. It’s a battle not to squirm with it.

→Your lips ghost across a smooth patch of flesh, and you pause. The unmarred skin is cool under the heat of your mouth. Your teeth scrape against the flat, untextured skin. Ghost does not move. Your eyes flick up to meet his, eyebrows raised, questioning. In the darkness, you can’t make out the soft brown of his irises; there is nothing but the fathomless black of his pupils, swallowing everything. He stares down at you from behind that expressionless mask. There is no trace of Simon in that stare, only Ghost, his eyes flat and dead. But he understands you all the same, and he nods, the barest tilt of his head; a movement you would have missed if you hadn’t been looking for it. A smile splits your lips as you stamp a final, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh before you crack open your jaw, and sink your teeth in.

→You go slow, allowing him to feel the press of each individual tooth; the slow transition from a bearable pressure to a deep ache as each curve and point burrows deeper into his pale flesh. The hard muscle tenses and jumps beneath you as you bear down on him. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp hiss clamped tight between his teeth. You feel the skin pucker as you bite down, the pressure moulding his flesh around your teeth. It welcomes the strange new shapes as best it can, until, at last, it can take no more, and it tears. Fat droplets of blood well up and pool in the indentations you’ve made—the copper tang of it salty and warm on your tongue.

→You try to pull back, to offer reprieve from the pain that has him gritting his teeth and shuddering beneath you, but a heavy gloved hand thumps down against the back of your neck. He guides you—almost pushing you back down, urging your teeth deeper into the meat of his thigh. There is nowhere else to go, so you let yourself go limp, allowing your head to loll to the side, tucking neatly into the ‘v’ of his hip.

→The swell of his cock bumps up against your cheekbone, warm, and thick—even through a layer of black cotton—and harder than it had any right to be. Shifting your weight, you lean into him, pressing the soft meat of your cheek into the heat of him. A cooing sound chirps to life at the back of your throat, and you smile around his thigh, revelling in the knowledge that this was your doing—revelling in the smell of him, thick and heavy; in the weight of him against your cheek; in the little grunts that catch between his teeth.

→You lock your jaw, and his hold only tightens, the grip pads of his gloves scraping rough against your flesh as his fingers dig into the side of your throat. His thumb brushes against your cheek, coming to rest just beneath the corner of your jaw, pressing up hard enough you’re sure to have a bruise in the morning. He’s trembling beneath you now, almost rocking up into your mouth, even as your bicuspids threaten to do their job and widen the holes you’ve already made in him.

→“Fuck, Lovie,” His voice, little more than a gruff whisper, barely pricks at your ears, “…could cum like this.”

→A shudder rattles through you, your jaw flexing against his thigh, your teeth scraping against wounded and oversensitive flesh, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. Fluid drips warm and wet down over your chin and throat—saliva or blood—you don’t care. Your world narrows to a single point, big enough only for Ghost: the heat of his slick flesh in your mouth and the desperate throb of his cock against your cheekbone.

→Could he really?

→The thought barely registers in your mind before you’re clenching down hard enough to feel something click in your jaw. Ghost makes a wounded sound, his body jerking beneath you as a warm wetness begins to spread against your cheek.

→The hand at the back of your neck goes slack, and you pull yourself back, dizzy and shuddering. Ghost’s chest heaves, his limbs gone boneless and jittery as the aftershocks have their way with him. As he slowly drifts back to himself, his fingers trail absently through the slick mess you’ve made of his thigh. Blood and saliva dribble down to stain the sheets between his legs. When at last he feels present in his body again, he reaches out swipes a droplet of blood from your chin with a broad thumb, “Messy fuckin’ thing you are, hey?”

→You nod dumbly, the tang of his blood still sitting thick on your tongue. He pats your cheek, heavy and slow. Your head lolls against his large palm, your eyes going half lidded, fluttering with each rough stroke of his fingers. “‘S all your fault, Lovie, innit?”

→You nod and quick as a viper, he takes you by the back of the neck and presses your face down against the cum-damp fabric of his boxers, “And this too.” It isn’t a question this time, but you nod anyway. You can feel his spend already beginning to cool as his hips kick up against the softness of your cheek. “That’s right. So be fuckin’ useful and clean it up for me.”

[isan0rt]

-whispers- new cosplay time.

(I got a 3D printer for Christmas which means I'm going to actually make the Aloy costume I've been planning on since Forbidden West came out).

Some interesting observations having really started investigating how the Nora Anointed armor is assembled;

- there's a LOT of sherpa on this and all of it seems to be padding. The shoulder straps and upper arms on the sleeves are absolutely lined with really thick sherpa and it seems intended to cushion the weight of the armor (the shoulder straps) and absorb shock (the upper arms) given that the sleeves are open under the arms almost to the elbow for breathability. The fur on the boots is pretty ideally positioned to cushion the lower shins. I'm also going to quilt the front shell of the chest plate onto the hair side of sherpa to get that deep quilted look.

- the round pieces on the front of the shoulder straps kinda look like they might be speaker covers. I gotta think about whether I'm gonna actually use speaker parts for real or fudge it.

- the cord tied around the ankles is functional actually. These boots shift like crazy without them, but with cord wrapped around the ankle the leather stays snug to my feet and the insoles stay in place. Presumably all the cord around the wrists and forearms is also functional, to keep the sleeves from fouling a bowstring. Also the boots are hella comfortable (I used economy buckskin with an insole of the same heavy suede I'm going to use for the skirt).

- The skirt designs really seem like a mixture of dye, paint, and decorative stitching. It looks like the darker blue on the edges of the panels is dye, the lighter blue is paint, and then the details on top are a decorative zigzag saddle stitch done with sinew. Then the red is cord, but it is way denser than you could stitch into leather in real life without absolutely demolishing that part of the leather. I will probably have to punch a bunch of offset stitching holes for that to get the look.

- I thought the sleeves would be laced in on top like a pauldron but they're actually stitched directly onto the upper back portion of the shoulder straps, which wraps around the back of the neck and supports the shoulderblade armor. I assume this is for better range of motion, it would definitely be easier to draw a bow with the sleeves stitched on in the back as opposed to on top of the shoulders.

- I'm going to need to spend so much on cord and by-the-foot electrical cabling at Home Depot lmao.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 14 - Kevin Bacon

Y'all talk about space dongs, before being rudely interrupted.

On AO3.

Your mouth tastes real weird when you wake up. And you’re more tired than you were when you went to sleep. Like that line from that Bilbo Baggins guy about being butter scraped too thin.

You lie on your stomach, numbed arm beneath your cheek (all of it crusted in drool), and the other arm twisted up all weird beneath you.

“Mgrghngh,” you say as you roll to your side.

You’re more tired than you was when Astarion pulled you outta the river he left you to drown in.

A voice lilts all pretty nearby. Speaking of. The man (elf vampire) sits a few feet away, needle in hand, working surprisingly quickly for a man with no sight.

Oh fuck. You lost your whole, entire corn-husking mind last night. And he fucking heard you do it.

“’M good,” you manage and reach for your bag for a dirt potion.

 And then wait for him to respond. Because he’s the type of asshole that relishes in the kind of barbed commentary that comes from watching somebody lose their whole corn-husking mind. Only he sits quiet. Sews a couple more stitches before tying off his work and snipping the thread with his teeth.

It’s your pants (trousers). He’s slit the sides and rigged them up with leather cording. It’s a real Mad Max kinda biker look, but it’s so much better then running around a refrigerator cave in a shirt and a fucking breechcloth (that shit was for summertime in fucking North Carolina, goddamnit).

“Try these on,” he says and holds it out. His back is mostly to you.

You stand all awkward. One knee cracks. And you shuffle over as pins and needles sweep up and down both your arms. Astarion sits all placid, tucking his needle into…is that a sewing kit? Man’s got a sewing kit? It even kinda looks like a goddamn cookie tin.

You slip one leg through, then the other. Gotta fiddle with them laces, and in the end, they really are side chaps.

“These’re great,” you say. You can even wiggle around without it pinching nowhere. It’s a little loose in the crotch, but that don’t even matter. Only thing it don’t got is pockets.

“I have something else,” he says. And reaches into his back and pulls out…

“Panties,” you say, in fucking Chondathan (at least he told you that’s what it was, this time).

He grins. “Well done. Now, I only had enough material for three, and you’ll need to belt them, but it should be more comfortable than stuffing that bundle into your trousers.”

That sounds like an innuendo. Shit, man made you panties. It’s the most weirdly personal gift you ever got in your whole life.

Great timing, too, if the general achiness curling low in your gut is any indication. Bitch is late. Not surprising, given all the fuck shit that’s happened. But still. She was gonna show up at some point.

What he made is kinda like ancient Roman bikini bottoms (which was a thing). Ties on each side and still a little baggy, but weird, old-fashioned granny panties is still panties that you didn’t have a minute ago.

You consider tapping his shoulder and thanking the man. Wonder briefly at how you’re more comfortable in your own head about like, physical affection with everyone else (imagining swooning against Karlach and frenching Shadowheart when she closes gashes you didn’t even notice). But when it comes to him, you just…can’t. Can’t even entertain the idea of joke kissing him, not even in your own head. It feels…weird. Like standing on the edge of a cliff.

“I did make a few hasty modifications,” he says as you start to unlace them trousers so you can slip on the panties. Which is when you catch his smirk. You seen that smirk before. That one’s goblin shit, right there.

“What did you do?” you say.

He waves a hand. “It’s merely cosmetic. And not my finest work.”

Did he leave one of them panties crotchless or something? Rig it to rip up the—

Nope. They’re all solid enough. And decorated with a simple piece of sloppy embroidery. Heat rushes up your face and you almost cringe away, until you realize that he wasn’t putting a dong on each one, but what you think is supposed to be a mushroom.

Because he’s a fucking goblin and is incapable of passing up an opportunity to poke at you.

“Cute,” you say.

“Aren’t they just?” He grins wide enough to show off his fangs. “I felt we should commemorate your first brush with hallucinogenics, darling. Consider it a souvenir.”

“And you thought the best thing for that was stitching them into my new drawers.”

“I had to contribute something.”

You stare at him for a long moment.

This all reeks of guilt. The whole “cutting you loose” thing. And goddamnit, it’s working. You still ain’t sure what you should be feeling about that. What the just thing is. Part of you thinks you should be pissed. Any maybe you are? But he’s also just…it’s difficult. It was a shit decision. Making it would have been a shit decision either way. And what saved you wasn’t him or even you; it was your bag getting caught up in some rocks. Ones you might not have come near if he hadn’t cut that rope. And then you woulda drowned for sure and been a bare-assed ringwraith in a fucking cave forever.

This might be him manipulating you. Making sure he does nice things so you don’t get mad—cause he ain’t fessed up on it. You noticed that.

Then again, he was acting all weird about this whole thing even before that cavern, when he realized he couldn’t see and you realized he’d have to rely on you. He really doesn’t like owing people.

What a fuck shit mess.

“Everything all right?” he says because you been quiet for a solid moment.

You wriggle back outta them trousers, pluck them up. Eyeball the tent. “I’m gonna go get changed, and then what’s say we get the hell outta here?”

***

You got three dirt potions left. You been down here, on y’all’s own for about three days already, you think. You should start rationing the fuckers. When you tell Astarion your plan, he starts speaking Chondathan at you. And he’s somehow even more pedantic about it than Gale makes you repeat yourself over and over until he’s satisfied with your inflection (fucking language rolls its goddamned r’s, which you was never good at).

After thirty minutes of you spitting all down your chin like a dumbass, he finally lets up.

He’s so quiet behind you, after that. Man’s got his pickup lines; can turn on the sleaze in less than a second. But casual conversation that ain’t complaining about something or imagining killing something or someone?

“So,” you say. Go for the tried and true, “You got any hobbies?”

“What, aside from murder and picking locks?”

Jesus, he ain’t never gonna let that go.

“Yeah,” you say.

A long pause. The cavern y’all are in now is lit up a little by them mushrooms. Y’all skirt around another bigass crystal somehow lit up from within. Probably some bullshit magic. It’d all be pretty if it wasn’t a giant cavern filled with fuck-knows-what hiding in the deep dark between the glowing fungi.

“No, not really,” Astarion says.

It takes you a second to connect it back to your last question.

“Huh,” you say. “That sewing was damn good for a man that can’t see. Better than most who can, I reckon. A fuck of a lot better’n what I can manage.”

“Considering your solution was to simply wrap a cloth around yourself, that’s not really high praise, darling.”

“Take the fucking compliment,” you say. “It’s good work. Even if them mushrooms look like dicks.”

His footsteps fucking trip. He sputters. “Excuse me? They look like what?”

“It ain’t really your fault. Technically, that’s what all mushroom is, anyway: space cocks.”

He makes a kinda muffled “ugh” sound.

And then a thought hits you. “Does your language have different words for genitals depending on the vulgarity? Is it even a vulgarity to y’all?”

“I…yes, actually.”

And the word he used translated to “cock.” Possibly the most vulgar, but also the least casual. Interesting. You do notice he don’t actually use hard swears (or whatever translates to hard swears). Combined with his fancy pants accent, you wonder what he was before that whole fuckface turning him thing.

“You know,” he says. “I didn’t expect this sort of conversation out of you. Though you do have a fine phallus of your own, so color me wrong.”

“Back to them space cocks,” you say, in an attempt to cut him off before the teasing can creep back in. It ain’t fucking weird having a goddamn sex toy. You’re a grown ass fucking adult.

“Space cocks. Do tell.” He literally purrs the last part of that. If y’all wasn’t walking, you’re sure he’d prop his chin up on one hand.

“Pretty sure I was babbling about them last night. But the parts we see, the parts that grow above ground? That’s just the reproductive parts of the organism it grows from. Which I always thought was funny since a lot of them look pretty phallus-like. When they ain’t being a cosmic horror and all.”

“And this amuses you, being a connoisseur of cocks, does it?”

Ooh, he’s digging.

“I seen enough,” you say. You ain’t folding that fucking easy.

“Forgive me darling, is there a point to this topic of conversation, or did you just really want to talk about cocks?”

“I want to talk about how weird mycelium are. You don’t need to—”

The rope tugs on your waist and you turn. He’s stopped. Grin dropped. Eyes open and unfocused, staring hard out into the darkness.

“Do you hear that?” he says.

You do not. There’s the hollow echo of the huge fucking chamber, your own breathing, and y’all’s footsteps crunching about in what has turned into dirt (must be the mushroom’s doing).

But his head tilts, and you know he’s tracking something. Intently. And the shadows around y’all become real dark.

“What is it?” you say as quiet as you can.

He don’t answer. Just frowns. Head turns this way and that, eyes darting around. Until his frown deepens. And the man looks down.

“There’s something beneath us,” he says.

A hidden chamber full of albino orc people your brain throws at you because it’s a motherfucker.

Then Astarion’s face goes blank in a distinctive way that opens ever, single floodgate of adrenaline you got into your circulatory system.

“It’s coming up beneath us,” he says, right as y’all both reach for each other’s hands and you holler, “Run!”

You catch the sound, now. Thunder shimmies up your shins through the thin soles of your stolen boots. With a couple steps, the ground shakes so bad you stumble. Astarion’s iron grip is the only thing that wrenches you back up.

“There’s a rock ahead,” you pant. Your throat already burns. “Next to a cliff. Mushroom…big’un. Growing on the side.”

The two of you stumble sprint over. Hit the edge of the rock right as the ground six inches from your heel erupts in a spray of dirt that knocks you to your knees.

Astarion manages to keep his feet. Once again hauls you scrambling up to the top of the stone as something roars behind you.

You don’t look. All effort is focused on the edge of the rock and the leap you’ll need.

“Three foot gap!” you gasp. “Plenty wide—”

“I can’t—” Astarion starts.

And you shove aside all your cringing and grab the man’s shoulders and point him in the direction he needs to go. But it’d be terrifying to leap without seeing. You remember the cavern where he found you, all the times he touched something. He needs guidance.

“Gimme the stick,” you say as a roar rumbles the air so hard your ribs rattle. You finally glance back.

Something big with a huge fucking mouth.

You barely fumble the stick, barely manage not to drop it. Skirt around Astarion. Judge the distance and leap. And it’s only once you’re airborne that you wonder if that bigass shroom can take your weight or if it’ll snap clean off the cliff like a rotten tree branch.

You land hard enough to go down to one knee. The shroom is squishy, yet firm enough that it only shivers under your weight like a hard mattress.

“Eleanor?” Astarion says, voice sharp.

You whack the cliff with your stick, at foot level, just beside you. His face snaps to that direction.

“Three feet! Here!”

He gives a single nod, waits for you to tap again—the thing below roar and its bulk moves up the rock oh fuck.

Astarion jumps. Lands right next to that sound, and you reach out to steady him and pull him further onto the shroom. Right as the big fucking monster comes bounding up the rock after him. You all but drag the both of you back, fall on your ass (Astarion stumbles over you) and scoot further away.

Up until your hand hits the edge of your little platform.

“Fuck oh fuck fuck.”

Somehow, it did not occur to you that the fucking ground monster might, like, climb.

Now you’re gonna die. Torn apart by a fucking armored hippopotamus-mouthed fucking tank of a thing that snarls and snaps…from its perch on the rock. Three feet of air between y’all.

Astarion claws into your shoulder. “What’s it doing?”

Big fucking monster makes a low sound. Paws at the edge of the rock. Then its head twists left, then right. It’s got little, beady motherfucking shark eyes on either side of what’s actually a massive, fuck off beak. It leans forward, one stubby foot reaching…

But then it pulls back. Makes that sound again. Leans real far forward to…nibble at the edge of y’all’s shroom and then make what you can only describe as a disgusted sound.

“Well?” Astarion says.

“I…” you say. Watch the thing growl and snuffle around. “I think it’s afraid of the mushroom.”

“What? What is it?”

“The fuck am I supposed to know?”

And the blind man rolls his fucking eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re a yokel from another plane. You’re sure it’s not about to pounce on us?”

It fucking stares at you, is what it does. Stands motionless, maybe a total of eight feet away, just fucking staring with its dead eyes.

Every muscle in your body goes limp and you almost swoon.

“I think we should be quiet,” you whisper.

To his credit, Astarion frowns, but crouches down to whisper back, “What does it look like?”

Stumpy legs, thick body, all of it plated in some armor looking hide. Big bitch has a face halfway between a shark and an African hornbill. All of it about the size of a rhino.

Which you tell him, leaving out the animal names. And to which he swears.

“You’re of no help, dear,” he says.

“You fucking asked me—” And cut off as the birdshark snorts. Like a cat watching a squirrel and dreaming of murdering the ever-loving shit outta it.

“We should stop talking,” you say.

“And what would you,” he starts. Seems to reconsider. Then lowers himself to sitting pressed against you. You manage to contain your fidget away. Mostly. And you both settle in for the worst staring contest of your life.

***

Birdshark gets bored after what has to be an hour. Huffs and moans, and then ponderously half slides back down to the ground. It gives you another glare. Then turns nose down, makes a chuffing sound, and all them armor plates fucking buzz and the big bitch slides into the dirt like it’s a fucking cow pond.

“What was that?” Astarion whispers.

The ground don’t move again. The buzzing stops. The whole cave falls silent.

“It went back underground,” you say.

Then Astarion starts to stand. “Well then, we’d beset get out of here before the beastie changes its mind.”

But you’re still staring at the dirt. You grab the bottom of his leather armor to stay him. “Did you hear it leave?”

The man pauses a long moment. Then sinks back down, silent as a whisper. “No.”

It hunts from underground, don’t it. It’s got eyes, and it for sure saw you, but sound seemed to really set it off. And the fucker is down there, buried, and it’s mcfucking waiting for you, ain’t it.

“It’s fucking Tremors rules,” you say. “Fuck me.”

Astarion shifts. You turn and catch the most baffled expression on him.

“It’s a story,” you say. “Monsters show up in a desert town. Big worm things. Hunt from underground. We can’t get on soft ground without it knowing and coming up right between our legs, I bet.”

You didn’t even know the man could get any paler. Granted, it’s like the difference between eggshell and dairy cream at some fucking hardware store paint aisle, and you can only tell the difference by holding up them swatches next to each other under the glare of a noon day sun. But it’s still impressive for a guy whose complexion can, at best, be charitably described as corpseriffic.

“Perhaps your people’s stories aren’t as fictional as you think,” he says.

Which one: they got them the concept of fiction vs. non-fiction and you got to learn how to fucking read here, hot damn, and two:

“I’m really starting to wonder,” you say.

So tremors rules. Fucking waiting at the base of that rock. You scan around the expanse of gloom and flat ground. Them other mushrooms is too high to climb, and you ain’t putting it past birdshark down there to uproot the damned thing and bite y’all’s legs off when it topples over.

But then, off in the distance, the color of darkness changes. You can barely see it (can only see it by looking around it), but there’s a slash of black about a hundred feet to the right. Beyond that, the soft glow of more magic cave mushrooms, all about level with the floor here.

“I think that might be a crevasse to the right,” you say. Scan it again to try to tell if it’s maybe just a ditch. No, no, you think the light reflects off stone on the other side, like a sheer cliff. Goddamn, it’s too dark. Fucking caves.

“What of it?” Astarion says.

Birdshark didn’t wanna leave that rock. It was only a short hop to get to y’all’s tender ass meat, but it seemed nervous. It would make sense for a subterranean predator to be skittish of open air.

“I don’t think it likes being away from the ground,” you say.

You can feel the man lift an eyebrow.

“Or we can stay here until I starve to death. You can feed on me if that happens, and good luck after that.”

For just a second, he looks at you like you done slapped him with a trout. Then he’s back to his usual sass and an eyeroll.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll have to run for it. I can’t see, and I’m rather sure it’s faster than the both of us. What’s your plan for that, darling?”

You think back to that movie, and remember some of the goodies y’all still got left over from that goblin camp that you are one hundred percent sure Astarion commandeered.

“You still got them bags of spark powder?” you say.

[thebadgerclan]

Danger

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: Nikolai loves to put his life in danger...

Nikolai Lantsov was a…different sort of King.  His approach to ruling had benefited his people, certainly, but it was times like this that you questioned his sanity.  Your husband refused to leave the ruling and governing to his council, which you admired deeply, but he also tended to jump before he thought, so to speak.

Take now, for instance.  The First and Second Armies were making a push on the Fjerdan border to remove their soldiers from Ravkan land.  As leader of the First Army, Nikolai wanted to be there to oversee the maneuver, but where other Kings would remain at camp or on the battlements, out of danger with a view of the soldiers, your husband was on the front lines, rifle in hand alongside his men and women.

Try as you might, there was nothing you could do to convince Nikolai to hang back, to watch from a safe distance.  So you took up your position on the battlements, overseeing the soldiers while keeping a keen eye on your husband.  In your olive drab uniform; a wool skirt than fell to just above your ankles, soft leather boots laced to your knees, a jacket that was fastened to your throat, the gold cords of a general, and the standard issue First Army cap, you almost blended in with the soldiers surrounding you.  The only denotation of your royal status was the pale blue sash across your chest.

Nikolai also wore a standard First Army uniform, though there was little need for a sash of his own.  Everyone knew what the King of Ravka looked like, and on the battlefield, there was no point in drawing further attention to himself.  You watched as your husband’s plan was enacted: Inferni and Squallers would clear a path before Heartrenders and First Army soldiers pressed forward, either killing the Fjerdan soldiers they met or forcing their surrender.

Of course, Nikolai was among the first soldiers through the newly cleared path, and you watched with bated breath as he charged forth.  For several minutes, everything went perfectly.  Fjerdans were sent running with minimal injuries on your side.  Then, it was as if everything slowed down.  Nikolai turned to look behind, meeting your gaze and smiling widely.  Even in the middle of a battlefield, you still made his heart race.  But you weren’t smiling, you were frowning.  No, you were screaming, pointing, your face twisted with fear.

“Nikolai!” you screamed, seeing the Fjerdan marksman take aim.  His smile dropped and his brow furrowed as the bullet found its target–just below his ribcage on his left side.  The King fell to his knees, and you screamed, nearly lunging over the railing.  Tamar caught your wrist at the last second, keeping you from leaping to the ground and rushing to your husband’s side.  “He’s hit!” you screamed.  “The King is hit!  Healers!”

At your call, Healers swarmed the field, clearly marked in their red kefta, rushing to the King.  Tears were flowing down your cheeks, and you watched, horror struck, as Nikolai was taken from the field.  “Moya tsaritsa,” Tamar said, stepping into your path.  You hadn’t realized you were following after Nikolai.  “You cannot go.”  “Like hell I can’t!” you retorted, but the Heartrender didn’t budge.  “Your Majesty, in King Nikolai’s absence, you are the commanding officer.  We need you here.”

You looked at your husband, borne aloft on a litter, being carried back to camp, then to the battlefield, where Grisha and First Army soldiers were still fighting.  “Y/N,” Tamar said, throwing protocol to the wind for the moment.  “He has the best Healers, they have him.  But we need you.”  Nodding, you took several deep breaths, wiped your tears, and straightened your jacket.  “Hold the lines!” you ordered.  “We get these wolves off our land, or we die trying!”

***

It was a success.  Nikolai’s maneuver went off seamlessly, aside from him being shot, the Fjerdans were run off your land and back to their own borders.  As soon as it was clear, you were running back to camp, to the Healer’s tent where Nikolai had been taken.  People leapt out of your path, knowing better than to try to stop you or ask where you were going.

Grisha and First Army soldiers alike bowed as you passed, and when you stepped into the Healer’s tent, your husband was easily found by the flurry of people surrounding him.  “Her Most Royal Majesty, Queen Y/N Lantsov!” a guard announced, and the Healers and councilors parted.  Nikolai was propped up on a cot, his shirt removed, a partially healed wound on his chest.  “Y/N,” he said, relief in his voice.  “My love, how–”

“You’re insane!” you shouted, and your husband could tell he was in for a tongue lashing.  “You know,” he replied, somehow maintaining his cool, casual air.  “People keep telling me that, but I can’t put my finger on why.”  “Why?  Nikolai, you were shot!  You could have been killed! I… Saints, I’m so mad at you!”  The King fell silent, worrying his lip between his teeth.  “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked the Healer, who nodded, ushering everyone else from the room.

You pulled up a stool and sat at his side, taking his hand and squeezing it hard.  “I thought…Nikolai, I…”  You kissed his knuckles, then leaned in to kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheek, then finally, his lips.  Nikolai smiled, feeling himself relax after a tense few hours.  Then you pinched his arm, making him yelp.  “Hey!  What was that for?”  “The kisses are because I was worried sick and because I love you.  The pinch was for worrying me sick!  Nikolai, you can’t do that! You can’t just put your life on the line!”

“Y/N,” he said, taking both of your hands in his.  “I’m sorry that I scared you, my love, I am.  But I can’t just sit back and let my men and women do all the work!  That’s not the type of King I am!”  “I know!  But Kolya, you can’t risk your life like that.  You’re the King, Ravka needs you.  You’re my husband, I need you!  For a moment, I thought…Saints, I was wondering where I’d get the mourning gown for your funeral.”

Nikolai’s heart cracked, and he tugged on your hands, urging you closer.  “Y/N, my love, I’m so sorry.  You’re right, I shouldn’t be so reckless.  But I…I can’t stand the thought of ruling like my father, sitting at camp while my soldiers risk their lives.  I can’t do that, Y/N.”  You moved to sit on the edge of his cot, draping an arm around his shoulders, kissing his temple.  “And I could never ask you to,” you replied.  “You are a far better King than your father ever could have been.  You planned the maneuver that got the Fjerdans off of our land, Kolya, your father never could have done that.

“But my love, I cannot lose you.  Please, Nikolai, you have to stop putting your life in danger like this.”  Nikolai could feel your fear, he could feel the pain of losing him even though he was right here.  He could see the sincerity in your eyes, and he nodded.  “Alright, Y/N,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek.  “I’m not taking a backseat to ruling, but I’m done risking my life.”  You looked at him, eyes wide.  “Promise?”  “I promise, my love.”  You smiled, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I love you, Nikolai,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his.  “I love you so much.”  “And I love you, my beautiful bride.”  A moment later, the Healers re-entered and finished healing the bullet wound, and once they were finished, you curled up at your husband’s side, the sound of his heartbeat strong in your ear.  “You won’t lose me, Y/N,” Nikolai said.  “Not any time soon.”