#slave quilts

[bevanne46]

The Hartsfield African American Slave Quilts’ Last Caretaker

An 1850s Checkerboard quilt made by young girl when she was 13 years old, plus 11 other quilts made by her and her descendants, has been preserved and protected by one family through many generations. The quilts are part of the Hartsfield African American Slave Quilts Collection and are currently in the care of Seattle resident Jim Tharpe, who calls himself their last caretaker. These extremely rare quilts have been exhibited many times, most recently at the Columbia Gorge Museum in Stevenson.

[mylordshesacactus]

Today on Posts That Will Serve As A Blocklist but whatever:

It's genuinely at the point where people who act all dismissive and superior about the Star Wars animated series, and ESPECIALLY of Ahsoka specifically as a character--snidely dismissing anything that involves TCW-original characters or arcs--are just. Objectively hysterically wrong.

Like.

Phantom Menace released in 1999.

Revenge of the Sith was six years later, in 2005.

TCW started airing in 2008. Ahsoka started existing in the narrative literally three years after RotS dropped.

Even if you start counting as far back as you possibly can, back in TPM (wherein Anakin was an actual baby), the prequel era only existed at all without her for nine years.

Ahsoka Tano has been a narratively significant, load-bearing major protagonist of the Star Wars franchise for, as of this post, sixteen (16) years. Very nearly twice as long as her era ever existed without her! At this point, if you are determined to act like she's some handwavey 'new' star war idea whose impact on the living tapestry of the GFFA can be easily dismissed, that's...

...like, full offense but that's kind of on you, man.

[loudblonde]

My love language is making things for my friends whether that be cooking or quilt blankets.

I don't care about the money because I don't make these to sell em.

But I did the math

And holy shit artists don't sell their works for enough.

Just fully goes to show that any quilt blanket you can buy for 60€ (or whatever equivalent in your currency) is made either only machines or most likely slave labour.

The blanket, factoring in material×3 + decent hourly wage, would be around 1475€ (rounded up to 75 from 74.something)

Y'all, pay yourself better.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, slave darling, crude and derogatory terms, classism, abuse of power, death threats

fem reader

Thinking about the poor kitchen maid who's suddenly told she's to be the spoiled Prince's new chambermaid.

It hasn’t even gone a day yet, but you already miss your job in the kitchens.

Sure, the sweltering heat of the ovens always left you in a state of fever, and kneading dough from dawn ‘til dusk made your arms acidic with burns – unyieldingly sore – not to mention never getting a chance to sit down and rest before collapsing in bed at the end of the day. But the smell of freshly baked buns and the chance to sneak a bite out of those that came out of the oven just a bit too burnt for serving had always felt like payment enough.

That and not having to deal with the royal family.

You know you should feel honored. You know it’s supposed to feel godsend to be picked to become the Prince’s personal servant. But… there was a reason he so often required a change of maid.

You still remember the last one they’d taken from the kitchen. She was pretty and young and shouldn’t have been working there in the first place – that’s what everyone used to say before she disappeared.

You wonder if such words carry curses… and what you did to deserve the same things being said about you.

You nearly cried standing outside The Prince’s chambers, chewing on your lip with his breakfast tray in hand, wondering what rumors were true – if he really was as terrible as everyone claims – wondering where the other kitchen maid went and whether you’d end up in the same place… wondering what you could do to keep it from happening.

You don’t know what you were standing there waiting for, nearly pissing yourself when you knew he was still out – busy hunting down a couple of runaway servants for sport. It was almost as though you feared the room itself, as though it would bite once crossing the threshold. 

None of the sorts happened, though a gust of warm wind hit you like the breath of a beast once you opened the door.

Inside, there were around a dozen heads mounted on the wall – dragons, bears, lions, wolves, and other creatures you weren’t too sure of – all with mouths big enough to bite yours off.

You took only a second to look at them before they looked as though they’d leap from the walls and eat you alive, just like you’d predicted.

You set the tray of food down on the bedside table and walked to the bathroom to draw his bath – deciding work would keep your mind off it.

Stepping out a second later, you fixed a fire in the hearth and made to make the bed, stretching the duvet and the quilt over the massive mattress while eyeing the thread count with envy and the hand-stitching with awe. Left to wonder how many ducks had been shot to stuff the mountain of plush pillows he’d all but thrown onto the floor to make space for himself.

Walking through the steam to the bath again, you opened the cupboard to pick out soaps and oils – overwhelmed by the sight of every shelf stocked full of all sorts you’d never seen – glad you had somewhat decent reading skills – unlike many of the other maids.

Soaping the water, you sat on the edge and waited with a hand wading through the warmth – and while biting your lip, you let your mind wander again – daydream, like it so often did – imagining what it would be like to feel it on the rest of your skin, warm and smooth, sucking all the stress out and leaving you soft like a newborn.

He watched you enjoy yourself, his stark eyes calmly assessing what they saw with a tilt of his head – trailing from the tip of your worn-out shoes to the tattered edge of your grey maid’s dress, up your lap to the cinch of your waist where your white apron was bound – taking his time until your eyes fluttered open to find him standing there.

You nearly fell into the water, hopping up to a stance. “Sorry, your majesty- I forgot myself! Please forgive me.” You bowed, looking down at the muddy stains on your gray shoes – in anxious wait of his wrath.

But instead of a backhanded slap that would send you straight to the stone floor or a spit of venom which would make you flinch and cry, he spoke a calm and patient “Come here-”

Though spoken in a certain tone of authority that forced you forward in quick steps until stopping just short of him – still with eyes downcast.

“Mh, I'm glad they haven't run out of cute ones down there.” He said then, once you stood only a hair's length from him – voice just as calm as before and inspiring just as much surprise in you still, though now joined with visible confusion in the crinkle it caused between your brows. A furrow that only deepened once he reached out his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Your majesty?” You questioned.

“It’s master.” He corrected sharply, and you grew unsure if his voice wasn’t just cold rather than calm. “I like that better. Now quit wasting my time and undress me, slave – I have important shit to attend to today.”

You wavered only a second, feeling the words like a flick to the forehead. “Of course, your majes- master. Forgive me.” You blurted with hands quickly jumping forth to help detangle the knots keeping his robes together. 

Small fingers working hurriedly to appease him, setting aside the light leather cuirass upon his dresser once loosening it from his torso – wondering if you should tell him your name, though thinking better of it as he’d opted for simply referring to you as a slave instead of asking. 

You hadn’t been called that in a long while – slave – never by anyone in the kitchen, at least. You’d nearly forgotten it was what you were – a slave – and not just a busy member of the crown’s staff.

You bit your lip with another bow of your head, not wanting the Prince to see your face in its hurt while you undid the ties to the braces on his arms. The castle had become your home rather than a prison over the years, but… with the echo of your title wringing in that very heavy tone of his, along with standing there – bowing your head while undressing him of all fine body armor and robes – you couldn’t suppress the reminder of being of much lesser blood and birth. A fact that – despite never before having bothered you much – somehow seemed to strangle you now.

He’d dragged mud in with his boots – and given he’d not bothered taking them off, you were left to believe he wanted you to do it for him. And though humiliating as it was, you crouched down and began undoing the laces nonetheless – further feeling degraded while caressing the boot.

You pulled it off and repeated the action with the other foot – wondering if he meant you to remove his breeches and tunic as well until he, fortunately for you, lifted the shirt off and pulled the strings to the trousers himself. Leaving the undergarments in a pool on the floor next to you.

You kept your eyes down until he was completely submerged in the water, afraid to see something you weren’t allowed to – before getting up and padding back to the cupboard. You'd never been any lady's or lord's maid before, but you had been trained in the duties – and though heat rose to your cheeks at the thought of those duties, you still made to grab the soap and loofa in shakey hands before kneeling down on the stool next to the tub.

You’d never seen the prince if not from afar atop the castle balcony during speeches by his mother, the Queen – and had only ever heard of his appearance as something twisted and foul – but looking at him with his eyes closed, he really didn’t look as demonic as people had made him out to be. But further thinking about it, scrubbing his chest with soap and water and oil – you realized that none of those people were likely to have seen him up close either.

He looks every bit royal with his strength of face – cutting edges as though carved in marble, with chiseled muscles gleaming in the water and oil.

He was no doubt very handsome, you concluded silently – finally understanding why he was more of an eligible prince than what his attitude would otherwise allow – that, along with the kingdom’s riches, of course.

He sagged forward while you mindlessly amused your findings – though paying attention enough to take the cue – squeezing water onto his back with the sponge before rubbing over the broad flex of muscles, freezing once hearing him let out a heavy moan.

He leaned back again after you were done. Spilling water onto your dress once pulling his arms out to rest on the frame with a sigh – his chin tipped upward, lounging lazily on the back of the tub.

You reached for his face next – now with a silken cloth – stroking it lightly over the few droplets of blood splattered from when he must have cut into those poor runaways after hunting them down with swords and dogs in heel.

You shuddered some at the thought and must have let your eyes linger too long – or at least long enough not to notice him opening his – staring at you silently with eyes jaded in something that seemed to seize you by the throat.

“I’m sorry, ma-” You tried, but he seemed disinterested in it, reaching for you with wet fingers rubbing on the hem of your collar.

“You’re not dressed properly.” He said then, voice lazy yet loud – unimpressed, though not enough to be outright angry.

Gulping at the feel of his large hand so close to your neck, your voice only barely held it together. “I’m sorry, master. They hadn’t the right maid livery in my size, but I’ll have it ready tomo-” You started, hands folded neatly on your lap.

“Take it off.” He interrupted.

You blinked – tensing with your throat closing – sitting there stunned for a moment before mustering an ever so hesitant answer.

“Your majesty?”

“It’s master. Don’t make me tell you again, slave." He growled through grit teeth right at your face after yanking you close by the fabric of your shirt. "And you either dress properly, or you go naked. And right now, it looks like it’ll be the latter. Unless you want to be whipped for poor servitude?”

Your eyes – moon-big now while you shook your head – breathing thin through your nose. “No, master... I’ll undress.”

“Good.” He broke off your collar, dropping you back down onto your seat on the floor before rising with water rushing fast and heavy down along his limbs, dripping onto you as he stepped out with an unfettered splash.

You got up as well, beginning with the buttons on your shirt. Feeling him eye you while he wrapped himself in the towel you’d laid ready for him – his burning gaze leaving you goosefleshed and nearly in tears, bashful as you stepped out of your skirt – naked before him.

You didn’t dare look – even as he stepped toward you. Keeping your head bowed low – breath in shivers while eyeing the hand he reached for you, his fingers stopping just short of touching your bare skin.

“Clean yourself.” He said then, wafting the same hand to the tub he’d just used. Still filled with bubbles of lavender, though no doubt also of his own grime. But you wouldn’t refuse, no matter the degradation – your thoughts still lingering on the former kitchenmaid who’d disappeared not long after becoming the Prince's personal servant.

You stepped in, feeling the warmth close around your legs – still hot enough to prickle. Lowering yourself down, you sat there – swallowed by the bubbles with the loofa in hand, lathering your flesh with the mix of oil, soap, and water – brushing off soot and sweat – leaving you soft-skinned and smooth to the touch, but also riddled with goosebumps that wouldn't lower under the heavy leer the Prince was giving you.

“Get out and come here.” He said a short moment later, and you got out as told – taking slow steps toward the man, with footprints leaving soapy puddles in their wake.

He reached behind you to pull the pin from your worker's bun, letting your hair cascade in flowy wisps down around your shoulders – before brushing them behind you to clear your face and chest.

He’d dried off but didn’t offer you the towel – having dropped it into a wet pile on the floor – now reaching out to feel the smooth gloss of your breasts with brazen digits. Inspecting and assessing while caressing their weight as you stood there with your head still hung down low – silent and shivering.

Soon his hands fell from your chest down to judge your every curve, sliding over slippery slopes until reaching your cunt – stroking two thick fingers through the drippy curls found there. Gliding them between the lips, he circled your clit with his middle digit – tickling you – while dark eyes watched your lip quiver with a power-hungry gleam.

Stepping closer, the small smirk stretched on his face brushed your hairline where you tried bowing your head even lower in embarrassment – with brows tremoring similar to the hands hanging loosely by your sides.

“Aren’t you gonna bleat like a little lamb? Hmm... slave?” He asked then – low in a whisper, blowing gently into the sweat of your hair – cold enough to make you shiver even more. “The slut before you did….” He added with his smirk sharpening – lips stiffening against your skin where he brushed them in halfhearted kisses down your forehead and temple until reaching the shell of your ear. “I had to wring her little neck just to make her stop squealing.”

You sucked your teeth on impulse, jolting just a bit but not enough to make the dire mistake of moving. 

“I can tell you’re smarter. That’s good….” He continued with fingers kept at your cunt – playing your shivering core where you stood planted – dripping wet with bathwater and terrified of moving. “Weak little things like you do better understanding their place.”

Your hands formed loose fists, flinching at your sides as you kept from the urge to wring your thighs shut until he left your sensitivity alone.

“But smart or not, I believe you missed a spot earlier-” Both his hands found your hair instead. “So get down on your knees, slave.” 

One paw cupped the back of your skull in a ponytail while the other laid flat on your scalp, pushing you down until he had you leveled with his throbbing manhood – thick and high-strung – blushed red and strangled with veins – bobbing with might against the ant trail leading up to his navel and looking every bit impatient to be served. 

“Use this pretty head of yours to do better, and maybe I won't have to wring your little neck too.”

You eyed the swaying length with eyes crossing – sucking your lip at its intimidating reach and how it seemed to rise higher than your head – mumbling out a weak. “Yes, master...”

You dropped your jaw and produced your tongue – feeling him keep control of your head in his tightening hold, yanking your hair before you gave the large cock a flat lick – starting at the base of his balls until flicking off at the very tip.

Not too revolted by the mild taste of lavender and vegetable oil, you locked your lips around the head and sucked it in hopes he’d ease his grip.

“Sh-fuuhck- you really do know your place, huh slave?” He mouthed – his head hanging back in a heavy groan – holding your skull in both hands while using them to bob you against his crotch on repeat, lolling his hips inside the wet warm comfort of your mouth a little deeper for each time – only moaning with a laugh once you gave a whine for breath. “Sweet and obedient- just how I like- with a nice wet throat to fuck too….”

He thought of kicking you when you put your small hands against his thighs to brace yourself – but given how softly you held them there without nails and pinches, he decided he’d grant you the tiny mercy – thinking he’d later teach you to keep your hands on your knees when serving him head like a proper slave ought to.

Tipping his head back again, he looked down at you and the pretty curl between your brows and the cute sight of your teary eyes looking back up at him – giving a hiss at how it made his balls tug in excitement.

“Get up-” He growled, pulling you up by your hair and throat until you shoddily stood upright on unsteady feet – lightheadedly looking at him with dazed eyes and a wet pout. “’This tight cunt as loyal to the crown as your mouth, hm?” He asked with a hand smacking the soft place, making you yelp before he made to bury two of his thick fingers inside the taunt space.

You whined out softly at the intrusion – kept steady and close by the fist holding your throat in a choke – before he used the same hand to throw you over the bed – stomach first with a slap to your ass.

“Bow down, slave- and show me some fucking respect. You’re in the presence of royalty, remember?”

He mounted you with a pent-up groan – and a strong fist in your hair, pushing your face down into the mount of pillows you’d dallied with earlier. His knees dipped into the plush next to your hips, locking you beneath him with his spit-slickened meat resting between the soft valley of your ass, sliding between the cheeks impatiently.

Gathering your wrists in his other fist, he kept them crossed at the small of your spine – before pulling back and letting his cockhead fall right to your sweetly wet and welcoming opening – wasting little time in piercing it nice and deep in a direct aim – like an arrow shot straight through a target.

You winced and bucked your hips at the attack – feeling your walls weep and sting – fluttering hot around the size of it.

He leaned across your back – heavy against your shoulders with his mouth at your ear in gritty whispers. “I like docile slave girls like you who know a thing or two about pleasing a man. Good submissive sluts who understand they’re nothing but warm soft meat for men like me to devour.” 

His words groaned in nibbling bites on your earlobe – with a hand kept strict and harsh in yanking your head back for him as he slowly started dragging himself out and stuffing you so fast you couldn’t keep from yelping at the breach. Toes gripping the cold rocky tiles as your legs shook under you – being rocked into harsh and deep by the muscle strength of the beast on top.

“I'm not the first one you’ve bent over for, huh?” He continued with a grin, haughtily chuckling in low breathy condescension. “Probably the first one you’ve had take you in a proper bed, though, hm? And not in a hayloft on whatever dirty farm you grew up on.” 

Your fingernails punched into your palms where he wrung your wrists tight, keeping you pressed flat beneath him while he heedlessly rutted into you like you were nothing but his own snug fist. 

“I bet the whole village had a go seeing how pretty you turned out.” He laughed again, scoffing at it with his tongue tickling your ear. “Did they all fuck you like this? From behind like a farm animal? On all fours with your pretty face moaning in the mud?” Simpering, he sped up as though aroused by his own words.

Twisting your hair tighter and groaning louder against your ear – chasing your deepest parts with balls clapping hard against your clit.

“You’re all fuckin' inbreds- It’s a fucking miracle your filthy parents created something like you- prettier than all the bratty princesses I have to listen to yap all day.” He moaned – now fully drooling against your face, nomming on your ear with heavy breaths.

Fully draping you in his sweaty muscles, you lay gasping beneath the weight – cunt clenching hard around his shaft – making him hiss.

“Ah fuck- It's nice coming home to an obedient slave- so tight and warm- grateful for a royal cock in your poor slave cunt, huh?”

You winced at his pounding, so deep you felt it choke you – making your stomach fold and curl, trying to protect itself from the assault. “Yes- thank you, master- thank you-” You cried while he placed sloppy layers of wet kisses down your temple and cheek in return – until finally pulling off.

“Come here, down on your knees-” Ripping himself to his feet, he pulled you with him by the fist riddled in your hair and pushed you down at the foot end. 

Tugging on his cock in the other hand – quick faps in the slick – he kept you looking up at him while slapping the wet weight in sticky taps against your lips. 

“Open wide, slave- here it comes-” 

Only one more jerk and it all blew in thick white beams shooting across your face – spewing in clusters, hitting you once on your forehead and another over the nose - dripping to your lips into your gaping mouth where he focused on squeezing out the rest – tapping the plush creamy tip against your tongue while panting. 

“Mh-fuck- clean me off and swallow.”

With breaths heavy and slowing, he detangled his hand from your sweaty locks and made to pet your head instead. Gently running his fingers over your hair while watching you obediently kiss and lick up all the spill in tired and slow yet devoted strokes with your tongue until it was all prettily wiped clean.

“Good slave.” The Crown Prince hummed then.

Finally sounding satisfied – still with a lazy hand holding your head where you so faithfully sat at his feet, swallowing his seed, while his satiated cock grew limp in regard.

“Now go wash off while the water’s still warm, and come out and help me get dressed.” He ordered, voice groggily soft in the after high. “I have a full schedule today looking at potential brides… and I want my little farm animal by my side to keep me going insane from boredom.”

BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi

JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Naoya

HQ – Oikawa, Sakusa

BLLK – Reo

DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

[millersfinest]

the thing in your chest that beats ⁴ | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5.9k

mini-series: california | oregon | idaho | wyoming (you’re here)

tags: @elliecoochieeater

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: healing!reader, healing!ellie, vulgar language, ellie being avoidant as hell, slow-burn romance, little jj, reader being really depressed at the beginning, little time jump, sexual content but not smut per se, pure sugary sweet ending (almost pissed ME off)

note: omg final chapter!! i didn’t really know how i wanted to end it, so i went through scenic route. i hope you guys enjoyed my little series, because i had fun writing it.

wyoming

For the first time in a long time, you were cozy—absolutely bored and comfortable, and what a delight that was! The settlement in Jackson was everything that you had hoped for. It was warm and welcoming. Not by everyone, but by enough to want this place to feel like home. When the moon replaced the sun and the stars trickled over the night sky, warm yellow lights flickered on. Draping over the center of the settlement, where the establishments flourished. Lighting up a path that was being adorned by the first snow of the year.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen snow in all its icy glory; you were nothing but a child then. Waking up from a troubled sleep, in a spacious home that you could call your own, you shuffled to a frosted window. With your arms wrapped around your body, looking to see minute flurries fluttering from the sky. Collecting in piles on the outer edge of your windowsill.

After a month of already being in Wyoming, at the settlement, reality had set in. You were no longer a soldier, or a slave, or a traveler. Finally, you have made it to the place that was nestled in your mind for endless days, weeks and months.

Relief. Solace. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Except for one thing.

The house was a two-story home, with beige striped wallpaper; mahogany wood accenting arches separating rooms, cabinets, bannisters and floor boards. Upon your arrival, it was already furnished. A long, soft maroon couch. Decorated with quilts and knitted blankets from neighbors. A square wool carpet laid flat under a mahogany coffee table. Lamps in various places, warmly illuminating the room.

A dark wood dining table. Iron cookware. Upstairs, a quiet bed frame with a decent mattress and comforter on top. A couple of pillows. Two dressers. A proportionate closet—this house looked like a home. Minus the adjustments and additions you were planning for. However, it didn’t quite feel like a home.

It was empty… Or you were empty.

Since your arrival, talking with Ellie became a challenge. You rarely saw her; it was like she handed you off to the officials of Jackson’s and dusted her hands from you. It was dramatic to ruminate over a woman who’s only obligation was to get you to Wyoming—to this community. That’s what you tried to tell yourself to stay in line, but it wasn’t working. Even after busying yourself with different jobs and tasks to start earning your keep, you still thought of her.

Hell, you caught glimpses of her. Jackson wasn’t that big. She’d be walking hand-in-hand with a small child, a toddler, talking intimately with a dark-haired woman. You saw them together often. It could only be assumed that they were important—her ex-girlfriend and son. Well, now, you were uncertain if that was her ex-girlfriend… But, again, you shouldn’t be ruminating. You got what you wanted, remember?

It was an early morning when Maria had asked to meet with you, at a coffee shop in the middle of the square. Dressed in an insulated coat with a hoodie underneath, a pair of trusted light-wash jeans and black leather boots; you began a trek from the corner of the settlement in a light layer of snow. The asphalt wasn’t cold enough to let it fester just yet, but the grass held onto the ice. Headphones rested over your ears, playing a tape gifted to you as a housewarming gift from your young neighbor.

Some old rock band from the 90s. Nirvana’s About A Girl played in your ears as your boots crunched the snow.

It took about four songs off the album for you to get to the coffee shop. Pulling the flimsy headphones down to rest around your neck, you entered the shop looking for a head of sleek blonde hair. An aroma of burning coffee beans and sugar infiltrated your nose. Small chatter was heard from people holding warm mugs, looking at old newspapers, reading novels.

From a table in the far corner of the shop, Maria stood to wave you over. A friendly smile spread across your lips, taut and plastered, as you approached the square wooden table. “G’Morning, Maria.” You reached your hand out to shake her hand, professionally.

She looked down at your hand, snickering. Impressed by your insistence on professionalism. After all, she basically was your employer. It was the one thing the fireflies taught you well—respect your superiors. “Good Mornin’,” Maria firmly shook your hand, taking her seat.

The heaters in the shop toasted up your exposed skin, causing you to remove your jacket before sitting down in the seat across from the older woman. Two cups warm mugs were put in front of you, almost on cue, by a young girl with a maroon apron. “Thank you, Melissa.” She smiled at the barista. “I wasn’t sure if you liked coffee, so I just ordered you a hot chocolate. Hope that’s all right.”

“Oh, it’s fine. No complaints here.”

“Good.” Maria curtly nodded her head, pulling a black binder from a bag hanging on the back of a chair. “You’ve been sleeping well in that house?” Dabbing her middle finger on her tongue, she sifted through the pages and hand-written documents.

You blink, wrapping your hands around the ceramic mug. “There’s good nights and bad nights…” Nodding, you attempt to take a sip of the hot beverage, but it was too scolding. “Not the fault of the house, just me.” The ends of your lips curl as a softener to your words. Being negative in the face of someone who granted you a place to stay felt like a crime.

Maria hummed, looking up at with genuine blue eyes. “Well, I hope there are more good nights than bad nights.”

“Yeah, of course!” You shrugged, answering entirely too quickly. Which certainly gave away the fact that you telling the truth. Her icy blues were intimidating, although you’ve seen much worse than a pair of eyes.

Falling asleep alone, in the dark was another challenge you had to face. After spending months on the road with someone, knowing they’re there… It was an eerie feeling being far from them—being along. Especially, those last few weeks leading up to knocking on the community’s door. Whenever you found a place to camp out for the night, her arms would be wrapped around you. Or your arms wrapped around her. Relishing in each other’s clothed or bare bodies; it had become a tragic comfort.

Your skin burned for her like it did on that fucking pillar. It tingled, ached and wanted for her touch. Her lips. Her eyes. Her hands.

The nightmare’s of your traumas persisted when you closed your eyes. You wanted to blame it on Ellie’s absence, but they rarely surrendered with her around. But at least when you woke up, boiling, sweating and heaving like you’d just run a marathon, a pair of arms were there to lull you back to sleep. Kissing the back of your neck to remind you that you weren’t there anymore—that you were safe.

And, when she had her moments, shooting up from your arms with tears rolling down her cheeks. You coaxed her back to sleep with her head on your chest, and affirming whispers.

You couldn’t help but wonder if those moments meant as much to her as they did to you.

She hummed at your response, pursing her lips. “If you’re having any problems let me know. I have some great remedies to help with sleep.” The blonde woman offers, a soft smile spreading on her lips. You nodded, chewing on the soft skin inside of your lip. “Now,” Maria begins. “I see that you’ve had some time to try out some of the positions we offer. Have any taken your interest?”

Flipping through a couple of pages, she continues. “I’ve heard great things from Ava Marin, she manages the patrols. Uhm, and Mrs Hayworth, from the gardens and greenhouse…”

“Mrs Hayworth is a very kind woman. I enjoyed working with her— she’s great at explaining things.” You compliment, thinking about the few days you spent with her planting vegetables and fruit. Her salt and pepper hair puffed in coils around her cherubic but wrinkled face. Crowd feet leading to a pair of squinty hazel eyes. Mrs Hayworth treated her plants like they were her children, and she enforced you to do the same.

“She is— wonderful woman.” Maria agreed.

Humming, you think about all the jobs your tried—which was a lot. Patrol was something that you were used to. Being out in the world wasn’t a grand change. However, you weren’t certain that you wanted to go beyond the walls so often. You’ve spent lots of time patrolling, surveying, killing infected—you wanted to hang that up. Every once in a while wouldn’t hurt, though. “If I were to sign up to help out with the gardens… Would that mean that patrolling would be off limits?”

The blonde woman shook her head, pursing her lips. “Not at all! For patrol, it’s in a sign-up basis. If you were to mainly do patrol, it would mean going out every other day. If you were to mainly work the gardens, that would be more of a consistent job— but you could still sign-up for patrols if you wanted.” Maria informed. “As long as you’ve been approved to go, and you have.”

“Hm…” You thought, weighing your options. The inner rage that you harbored had remained dormant since you arrived. It had been replaced with rumination and sadness for things out of your control. “Gardening full-time seems serene… I’ve spent enough time out there.” Nodding, with a subtle curl to the corners of your lips, you admitted.

Maria begins to scribble with a pen on a sheet of paper, connected to the rings in the binder. “Sounds fitting. But, of course, you can change your mind anytime.”

After you deal with business, Maria continues conversation with you. Casual, of course. You could tell she was trying to pry without being obvious—wanting to know more about you. Willingly, you gave in, because why not? It’s been a long time since you’ve had a real conversation with someone. Maria Miller seemed genuine enough.

However, when she brought up Ellie, the air stiffened. And you could tell she noticed it.

“You and Ellie… Have you spoken, lately? It’s been hard getting a hold of her— it’s like she’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.” She chortles, taking a sip of her coffee. Pressing her lips together at the bitter taste.

Stunned by the mention of her, you shook your head. Fingers growing numb around the warm, untouched, hot chocolate. “Uhm, no I haven’t…”

She hummed, leaning her head to the start. “That’s odd.” Maria scoffs, bunching her eyebrows. “She made it seem like you two were very close— being that you traveled so far together…” It’s like she was thinking out loud, making you want to bolt from the wooden chair holding onto you. “I mean, she made sure that you got the best house in Jackson… I would assume that she would’ve at least visited—“

“Well, she hasn’t.” Sternly interrupting her, you inhaled, sharply.

Noticing the mistake, she sighed, looking at with blue eyes filled with pity. It irked you. Trying to fix it, Maria plastered a bittersweet smile on her lips. “She’s more like Tommy than I thought.” Bunching your eyebrows, she continued. “My husband— ex-husband— I don’t know… It’s complicated.”

You know the feeling… Kind of.

Ellie had told you about Tommy Miller. He was a very ambitious man, to say the least. Ambitious enough to send a grieving girl to kill someone in his absence—feeding off her own despair. You caught that much. But, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have ever met her. What a selfish thought. “They’re both hermits in their own right, but they always come around.” She released a wistful sigh. “Ellie will come around… Just give her some time to get all her ducks in a row.”

With tight lips, you nodded. How much time? You desperately wanted to ask, but you didn’t. Instead, you stood up, pulling your jacket over your shoulders. “Thank you so much for the hot chocolate, Maria, but I have to go.” Speaking quickly, you slid your arms into your puffer jacket. Maria abruptly stood to her feet with an inquisitive expression.

“Oh, well, uhm,” She began, rubbing her hands together. “Of course. You’re schedule should be out in the next few days. Consider the meantime your sabbatical.” Her eyes drifted over your frame like a concerned mother. “It was a pleasure talking with you, y/n. I’m glad you could join us here.”

Sending another tight-lipped smile her way, you stuck your hands into your pockets. “I’m glad you let me. See you around.”

Leaving the coffee shop, the cold air was a smack in the face. Pulling you from shackles of solemnity—briefly. Raising your headphones back around your ears, you resumed the tape inside of the Walkman clipped to your hip.

Thin flurries of snow began to fall from the bright grey clouds. Trickling over the strands of your hair, melting in contact. Stuffing your hands back into your pockets, you walked down the icy path of the square.

The main square in Jackson was littered with people. Some were standing around conversing, with cigarettes in their hands. Some worked pulling supplies in large wooden carts, moving them to another establishment. You seen a man on a ladder fixing a broken light on the outside of a pub. And a woman walking a train of small children holding hands—like they were on a field trip of some kind. They laughed and giggled under knit beanies, bundled in their jackets that may have been too big for some.

A smile appeared on your lips as you watched them march by you.

You stopped at an art store, looking up at the wooden sign. Quoting Maria, you were on sabbatical; so, you wanted to use this time to fully explore the settlement. In the month that you’ve been in Jackson, you have visited the local pub more often than you’d like to admit. Entering the store, a bell sounded, and you smiled at the few people walking around the decorated shop.

Organic paints and brushes were located in the back corner of the store, taking up two walls and some floor space. While the rest of the store harbored artwork from the people who lived in the community. And some refurbished work found outside the wall. A sign on the wall read: talk to an attendant for group and private classes. You hummed, impressed by the normalcy. Perhaps, you could sign up for one.

Meandering around, your eyes survey the paintings and drawings. Thinking about your home, it could use some personalization. You came across a landscape portrait of two women. The strokes emulated grass—olive tones—that they were lying on—intertwined with each other. Arms and legs entangled. Lips grazing each others cheeks. The strokes that were made were intentionally blurry and messy. Who were these women? Was their relationship as unofficial and indifferent as your own?

Fingers grazing the canvas of the painting, you couldn’t help but think of that freckle-faced woman you’ve grown to adore.

“You interested in that one? Nice choice.”

Even though your headphones played Nirvana in your ears, you could still recognize the outsourced voice. Her voice was like honey. Soft, warm honey. Luring you like a spell spoken by a witch or warlock. God, you missed the sound of her voice. “Funny thing is… The woman who painted this actually has a husband.” She chuckled, glancing at you with a nervous glint.

You froze at the sound of her voice, eyes glued to the art before you. Just blinking. Buh bum. Buh hum. Your heart beat in your ears, in your chest, in your hands—everywhere! Skin growing hot as if you were sat in front of a furnace. Were you mad or just upset? It was hard to tell, even for yourself.

The smile on her lips faded, immediately. Fiddling with her fingers—she always did that. “How’re you settling in—?”

“I’ve already settled in…” Your voice was eerily calm, side-eying her as you spoke. “I haven’t seen you in five weeks, Ellie.”

She sighed, adjusting the knit cap over her hair. Licking her lips, nervously. “I know—“

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.” When you finally look at her, she notices the irateness in your eyes. Crowding over the feelings of yearning and sorrow.

“Can we talk? Please, just let me explain.”

Gritting your jaw, you peer at her. Thinking about hashing it out within a small walk. But, you were tender, sensitive—you couldn’t be sure that your reaction wouldn’t be explosive. What if she told you she was getting back with Dina? Going back to her family. That alone could send you into ruins. And you too far from your house to escape the public once you unleashed hell upon that woman. “You know where I live.” You told, with a pinched expression.

That was your cue to leave the store, pulling your hoodie over your head. Maybe, today wasn’t the day to tour the community. Another day. Plus, you had to spend the rest of the day anticipating a knock at your door.

It was a glum walk back to your place. You had put your Walkman on pause, walking in a depressive silence. Each step you made up your porch was deliberate and slow. An old swing chair swung in the wind, bolts shaking once you put your weight on the porch. It wrapped around the entire front of the house, and it definitely needed more décor.

Entering your house, you hung up your jacket and kicked off your shoes at the door. Stalking up your staircase, leaning in the railing, you made your way to your bedroom. The un-made bed beckoned you; so you kicked the door closed, and jumped under your covers. Hopefully, getting some shut eye could ease your nerves.

The sleep was rocky—you were in and out. In the moments when you awoke, you pulled a book from your bedside table to read—George Eliot—hoping to fall back asleep. But the novel only intrigued you for hours. Distracting from that anticipation long enough for it to come sooner than you expected.

It was dark, but it was no later than six-thirty.

You approached the door with a heavy heart, sliding your fluffy socks across the wooden floor. The reveal of the woman on your porch caused your body to heat up once more. She turned around, still dressed in the clothes from earlier.

“Hey,”

“Hey…”

Pressing her lips into an awkward line. “Nice porch.”

Scrunching your eyebrows at the compliment, you abandoned the door while it was ajar. Telling her to enter without losing your dignity. Ellie stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “Shoes off.” You tell her, waving a hand, carelessly.

Walking to the kitchen, you threw onto the stove a metal kettle filled water. While your innate anger was healing, there was still pridefulness about you. You had to have some sort of control over any situation that you’re in. Ellie came to your house; this conversation was on your terms. And it was going to stay that way.

Ellie had navigated around your living room, feeling the softness of the carpet under her feet. I did good. She thought. Ellie taking part in the decision making for your accommodations was true. She wanted to give you the absolute best, because she knew she was going to need some time alone.

Appearing from around the corner, you leaned against the mahogany frame lining the entrance to the living room. With your arms stubbornly crossed over your chest. “You have about seven to eight minutes before that kettle goes off, and when it does, this conversation is over.”

She slid the hat from her head, dragging it down to the place over her belly button. Kneading the fabric with her thumbs. “Do you not want me here?” Her voice cracked, hands smacking down at her sides. “Because we can talk another time—“

“Six minutes.”

Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “You know, what?” Ellie scoffed, striding past you toward your kitchen. Irritation rushing through her nerves. It confused her how she could be so obsessed with someone who might’ve been more stubborn than herself.

You followed her into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?”

The woman reached for the kettle, taking it off the small flame. Flicking off the fire, she turned to look at you. “You’re not gonna give me six minutes to explain myself— I’m not gonna let you rush this.”

“I’m not rushing anything.”

Narrowing her eyes, she crossed her arms. Leaning her back against the counter, coolly. “Are you seriously insulting my intelligence, right now?” Ellie raised an eyebrow, mocking words that you’ve said in the past.

Squinting your eyes, glaringly, you scoff. “Just… Talk, Ellie.” You waved your hand, leaning on the threshold bordering the kitchen and the small foyer. Perhaps, you were pushing it a bit too far.

The auburn-haired woman sighed behind speaking. Placing her hands on the edge of the counter. “When I left… It was an immediate decision— made in the middle of the night in a farmhouse I shared with my girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, and my kid.” She began, eyeing you intently. “I left my family behind, y/n, including Maria and Tommy and anyone else in this fucking community that I knew.” Her hands moved as she spoke, passionately. “In that moment, I don’t think I ever planned to come back. There was nothing to come back to…

Then, I met you. When I thought I traveled so far for nothing— I met you.” Her olive eyes looked to the ceiling, thinking. While your heart blundered under your ribs. “Coming back was never my intention, and I left that way. So, when I walked through those doors… I had a lot of work to do. A lot of bridges to mend and gain the trust of again— which I’m still doing, by the way.”

Her hand jutted out, before slapping against her thighs. “I didn’t mean to ghost you like that. Truthfully, I was overwhelmed.” The woman confessed, scratching the back of her head. “For the first two weeks, I was begging for Dina to let me see JJ, my son. For the next, I was arguing with Tommy for letting Abby go— it was a lot. And I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to put any of that on you.” Pursing your lips, you nodded. “You’ve been through enough… I was protecting you. I wanted you to just focus on settling in.”

“Well, it was hard settling in without you.” It almost came out like a whisper—a little louder than a whisper. Followed by a dry, stubborn chortle. “I spent months on the road with you, and it’s like you just hung me out to dry. That fucking sucked.” Averting your eyes, you peered at the shining floorboards.

She nodded, frowning at your downcast expression. But, there was an element of proudness. Give or take a few weeks back, you’d argue her down over anything. However, this time, vulnerability leaked from you. Poured from your words and demeanor like liquid gold. “I know, and I’m really sorry. It was fucked up. But it will never happen again— I swear to you.”

“What if something else comes up?” You question, chewing on the skin inside your lip.

“I’ll clue you in— every time.”

You hummed, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the status on you and Dina?”

Ellie rubs her nose with her index finger, ready to answer your rapid-fire questions. “Cordial co-parents.”

“Does she know about us?”

A goofy smile spreads across her plump lips. “We’re an us?”

Narrowing your eyes at her, fighting a little grin, you responded. “Answer the question, Ellie!”

“Oh, my God! Yes, she knows about us, and she’s happy for me.” With amused features, she begins to slowly approach you. “Now, are you done with the twenty questions game? Because you haven’t accepted my apology once…” She pouted, sliding her hands over your arms, pulling them from their crossed position.

Batting your eyes at her, feigning thought. The touch of her fingers on you sparked a fire, setting your skin ablaze. Even if it was in your best interest not to accept her apology, you probably still would. The way her eyes looked into you with such gentleness—it couldn’t be replicated by anyone else. “I accept your apology…” You admit, grazing your fingers up the sleeves of her flannel.

“Fuck, yes!” She wasted no time to embrace you, wrapping her arms around your neck. Tightly, you wrapped your arms around her back, leaning your head over her shoulder. “I missed you. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you?”

“You have no choice but to make it up to me.” You spoke against her exposed skin, pecking the side of her neck. “For the sake of lost time.”

Ellie giggled at the brush of your lips, pulling away with raised eyebrows. “Oh, shit. I almost forgot— be right back.” She runs to your front door pulling it open, and leaning to the side to grab a flipped canvas that was leaning against the outside brick wall. It was the portrait you were considering buying at the art store. “Housewarming present!” She grinned, presenting it in front of herself.

You matched her smile, reaching out to take it from her. “That woman is totally gay for making this.”

“So gay. I feel bad for her husband.”

Sharing a laugh, you look back at her, setting the canvas to the side against the wall. Walking up to her, you grabbed her face, caressing the skin of her cheeks. Musing at her earthy features, taking them all in like you’d never see her again. The last time you saw her, it’s like you took it for granted—not knowing if it was going to be a while before you got to look at her the way you wanted to. Leaning into her, you pressed your lips against hers, unabashedly. Her hands found comfort at the divot of your waist, pulling you flush against her.

Sliding your hands down to the nape of her neck, the kiss deepened. You whined into her mouth when she slipped her tongue between your lips. With the combination of her grip on your waist and the taste of her lips, you wanted to merge your bodies—so she could never leave your side again. You’ve survived enough tragic loss; was it so bad to want this one thing? The touch of your troubled lover.

Ellie backed you against the wall, muttering against your lips. “I wanna take my time with you…” She began to trail hot kisses over your cheek, down your jaw, to the sensitive parts of your neck. “Show you…” Smack. “Just how much…” Smack. “I love you.”

Under the waistband of your jeans, you throbbed, but the thing beating inside your chest swelled and beat louder. “Y— You love me?” The tips of your fingers scratched at her scalp, comfortingly. As she pulled her face from your neck, her freckled cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, I do.” Her thumb came up to caress your jaw. “I really do.”

That was your cue to completely devour her. You pulled her upstairs, into your bedroom, to ravish her—to ravish each other. Stripping from your clothes to come unto one another with a sickening love. Her lips traced every part of your body; suckling, nibbling, tonguing down the most sensitive parts. Pulling moans from your diaphragm, seamlessly. She cooed for you and spoke filthily in your ear while touching you with a gentle firmness that only she could replicate over and over—making you come undone hard. As if the universe came from within you.

Stars, planets, galaxies—celestial bodies!

You and Ellie were two halves of one whole. Everything that led up to that beach happened with the purpose of bringing the scorned together. To cancel it out, blossoming something much greater. Somehow, you proved to each other that you were both worth saving. No matter the sin. No matter the guilt. It was all worth it to end up wrapped in her arms, skin to skin, caressing her battered epidermis.

As months progressed, gearing up for the spring season, Ellie had long moved her stuff in. Her easel and unfinished works nestled in the guest room. Her clothes were stuffed beside yours in the drawer before your bed, and the closet beside your door. Bringing in sunrises with sleepy, feathered kisses and innocent touches. It was a dream you both got the chance to live out.

This wasn’t enduring or surviving—it was living. Experiencing life.

With your hands covered in dirt, replanting a radish, joyful voices were behind your back. Looking over your shoulder, a tiny frame was trotting toward you, calling your name. Ellie in his trail, with her hands in her pockets.

Gasping, you turned around with a grin. “Hey, buddy!” You opened your arms for him to promptly land in them. Keeping your hands far from his jacket so the soil wouldn’t dirty him up.

“Careful, JJ, she’s working!” She tried, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, Ellie, it’s fine.” You waved a dirty hand, sliding them off your fingers, dropping them onto the grass. So you could reach under his arms to hoist him onto your hip. The sun landed just right on his little head, sparkling off his small growing teeth.

Ellie’s lips curled at the sight. “He wanted to come visit you at work before I dropped him off.” She meandered toward you, pecking your lips.

“Just JJ? Or you, too?”

“Both of us, whatever.” Playfully, she rolled her eyes. “Plus, I had to remind you of our dinner date tonight— its mandatory. You can’t be late.” Her fingers pushed fallen pieces of your hair from your forehead.

Once you had gotten into the grove of gardening, time flew by. It would go from seven in the morning to eight in the afternoon like it was nothing. Causing you to miss out on some of the plans you made with your generous lover. “You’ve been reminding me since I got up this morning. Trust me, I remember, Ellie.” You squeezed his chubby cheek, cooing at him. “Ugh, I love him.” You gushed, peering between him and your girlfriend.

“Oh!” You pulled a folded-up paper from your back pocket. “JJ, you wanna do me a big favor?”

His eyebrows lifted, grinning.

“Give your mama back this recipe for me, all right?” He takes the paper in his hands, preparing to unfold it. “Promise me you’ll give it to her…”

“I promise!”

“Okay, bud. Tuck it tight into your pocket until you get there.”

Instead of unfolding, he pushed it into the pocket of his coat, messily. Patting it, to let you know it was inside. Kissing him on his cheek, you put him back on the ground. Eyes glancing at the watch on your wrist. “Well, I gotta get back to work.” Your hand found hers by her side, leaning your body toward her arm. “Thanks for visiting me, babe. Letting me see that beautiful face of yours.”

Ellie blushed, averting her glazing eyes. You leaned your head closer to hers, warmly kissing her cheek. “My pleasure…”

“I’m sure.” You teased, inconspicuously biting her ear. Quick enough that it went unseen to the surrounding people, and JJ as he played with the leaves sticking out of the garden. Ellie released an airy sigh, narrowing her eyes at you. She whined your name as if she were embarrassed. “Don’t be like that— you know I love you.”

“I love you more… But you have to chill. Mrs Hayworth is right there.”

“You don’t know Mrs Hayworth like I do.” You snicker, waving a hand to the older woman a few bins away. The salt and pepper haired woman waved, sending a teasing wink. Ellie looked back at your with confused, and slightly horrified, features. “I’ll tell you about it later. At the dinner I’m not going to be late to.”

“And you better not.” Ellie poked you, with pouty lips.

“Ellie, I won’t.”

“Okay, I believe you.” She kissed you one more time. A little longer. A little deeper. “I won’t keep you from the vegetables anymore. JJ, say buh-byes.” He jumps from a squat, waving his hand with a smile. “I’ll see you later. C’mon, kid.” Ellie hoisted him up into her hip and began walking back the way she came to deliver him to Dina’s. Leaving you with metaphorical heart eyes, pulling your gloves back onto your hands.

And, when later came; over a hearty chicken dinner prepared by Ellie Williams herself, a shiny silver band was presented to you in the pages of a book. Laying over an underlined and highlighted excerpt of the book—something you highlighted. It was a novel you had finished sometime between the end of December and early January.

“‘What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life–to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?’” Ellie had recited, evenly. With not a speckle of wavering, or awkwardness, or pause—unless it was intentional. “Adam Bede. Your favorite book… I hope it’s your favorite book.”

Jumping from your chair across from her, you leaped into her arms after placing the book into the dinner table. Pecking your lips across her face. “Yes! Yes! Ellie, a million fucking times, yes!”

“I didn’t even ask the question.” She laughed in your ear, looking up at you with dilated pupils.

Pulling back, you narrowed your tearing eyes at her. “You don’t have to. I already said yes.”

“But isn’t that the exciting part… Popping the question?”

You scrunched your eyebrows. “I thought the exciting part was me saying yes to marrying you…?”

Ellie spent days studying George Eliot, hours setting up the dinner, and minutes shaking with anxiety. Working herself up to saying those magic four words, only for your to swipe the chance right from under her. And, honestly, she loved you more for it. “All right, can I at least put the damn ring on your finger?”

“‘Course, you can, Els.” You pull the book toward you, opening it up on the page with the ring. Ellie takes it from your fingers, glancing at you with opalescent olive eyes. She slid it onto your ring finger, delicately twisting the band around. You grinned, hopelessly, with your bottom lip between your teeth.

Her hand trailed up your arm, squeezing. “My lucky charm…” She muttered, thoughtfully.

“I’m all yours.” You lean close to her lips, glancing at them. “And you’re all mine.”

Neither of you were able to finish the dinner while it was hot.

[annwrites]

⸻ no sound but the wind. part one. ⸻

· pairing: adar x fem!reader · type: part of mini-series · summary: adar finds personal use for you as a slave of a different kind. · tw: non-con · word count: 3,212

“And do you swear allegiance to Adar, father of the Uruks?”

You stare ahead at the man he speaks of—if he is even truly a man at all—observing his long, black, silken hair, his gray, sallow skin, the ruined sides of his face where the skin is pulled taught from scarring due to, you presume, fire—his thin lips tightly pursed while he awaits your answer. And it’s then that you notice his pointed ears.

His is an elf. How—how could he let this happen? How can he partake in it? He is meant to be wise and strong, yet gentle and fair. Not…whatever he has instead become.

It does not much matter how he has come upon the path which he now follows. What’s done is done.

All is now lost that once was to you because of it. That you’d most loved. That which had brought you joy and much more.

Like your village, where trees had flowered and bloomed year-round. Those of almond and chestnut, apple and peaches, sour lemons and limes. Some, which ivy grew upon the trunks of, while blossoms were peppered throughout green leaves that dappled the ground below in sunlight, which rays shone through from a clear blue sky above—white, fluffy clouds slowly floating past.

Or lush, soft, green grass which you would lie upon and nap. Clear, cool running water in streams that were always warm in the summer, and crisp in the autumn when those same sticky apples fell into the soil, feeding it until the year next when farmers would tend their fields of potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, lettuce, and strawberries—the various types of crops nearly endless. Mayhaps a few bushes of berries were to be had, as well.

Animals grazed the fields: cows and sheep and goats alike, and chickens would peck about around the settlement while pigs oinked in their pens, lazy cats slept upon windowsills, and pups ran along after smiling, playful children—their adoring parents watching along after them as young couples in love strolled into the small market in the middle of town to purchase goods.

Like spices and cured meats, colorful fabrics and dresses, woven baskets and pillar candles, pots and pans, and shimmering, beautiful glassware, among so much more.

And there would be gatherings in the square quite regularly: dances and festivals, competitions in archery or axe throwing, or quilt-making and pie baking.  Woodworkers and blacksmiths would presents their creations to all for purchase, for the cost of a pretty, shining coin—celebrations abound. Music and delicious foods were to be had, young maidens with flowers in their hair waiting for a kiss as their dresses of chiffon and tulle swayed round their slippered feet.

In the evenings, fireflies would flit through the air like tiny sparks of light while you and your mother would prepare dinner, your father always tending to something. Whether it was in your household’s small stables outside—where horses would quietly whinny as he fed them or brushed them down—or inside, fixing something in the cottage where the three of you lived contentedly.

And you would listen through open windows to crickets and cicadas while you quietly read your parents a story or two from a novel you’d retrieved from upon the mantle your grandfather had designed when the home had been his and your grandmother’s—the books hers—the three of you sitting before a small fire in the main room��s hearth.

And now… Now the once-fertile and emerald hills are unrecognizable. They have been, instead, replaced by black sludge and darkened, smoking ash—the skies overcast and always looking to be on the verge of an ugly storm as these hideous beasts rape the land for all it is worth.

They take and they take, and for what? Perhaps merely just to destroy for the sake of the act.

You will not willingly partake in ruining your beloved homeland. You would rather die and be with them: your family, your friends—forever to live upon those rolling hills once you shut your eyes for the last time.

You raise your chin, ignoring how it trembles when you meet his black, empty eyes.

He does not react. Does not so much as raise a brow in interest as he gazes back at you.

Something shifts behind you, and you steel yourself—refusing to look. You will not tremble in the face of death which calls you home.

And then he raises a hand from where it rests beside him, upon the arm of his make-shift throne—but barely, at that.

“Wait,” he calls quietly.

You hear something settle into the dirt and gravel behind you once more.

He rises slowly, descending step after step in measured moves, until he’s standing before you.

He places an index finger beneath your chin, tipping your face upwards, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Comely little thing, aren’t you?” He says softly, his voice monotone.

You keep your mouth shut.

He nods infinitesimally. “Take her to my tent. Ensure she’s watched carefully. I’ve use for this one.”

One of the monsters he commands takes hold of your upper-arm, his other hand coming to tug at the shackles which bind you, pulling you away.

“Kill me!” You finally shout, tears brimming in your eyes.

He turns slightly from where he’s begun ascending his throne once again, looking at you from over his shoulder.

You tug against your restraints, pulling free of the revolting thing that touches you.

“I want to die, so kill me. I’m of no use you to here. I do not know how to…”

You shake your head, grasping for words in your panic. “How to carve wood, or assemble structures, or break apart stone—”

He chuckles lowly, turning round fully, coming back to you.

He slides his rough hand along your soft cheek before cupping the back of your head. He tangles his strong fingers in your hair, yanking your head back by those same strands, causing you to whimper in pain.

“You think I desire you for hard labor?”

You gulp in fear.

“I have far different plans in-mind for you. You will serve me well in other ways. Ones more…”

His eyes trail slowly along your body, before meeting your own once again. “Suited to your feminine form.”

You choke back a sob, realization filling you, along with an unbridled sense of terror.

He releases you again, nodding toward his crony.

You’re taken in-hand once again, and led away—your pleading cries falling upon deaf ears.

Adar’s tent is nothing exceptional—somewhat opposite of what you’ve expected it to be.

His bed is not a cot, surprisingly—certainly large enough to fit two, if not two-and-a-half—and he has a rather cluttered war table, which you’ve been informed, quite firmly, that you are not to touch. So you look at it, instead, from a distance from the wooden chair you’ve been provided.

You see small metal and wooden figurines placed about—construction plans, you assume.

You fail to understand what he could possibly want with the now-destroyed land, but decide you ultimately don’t want to know. You’d rather remember it as it’d once been instead.

You glance to the entrance of his tent, where an Uruk stands guard—the flap pulled back, allowing you a peak outside as the others like him mill about, coming and going and working.

Bile rises in your throat at the sight of them. They’re wretched. Cursed. Vile.

You won’t let him touch you.

You’ll do whatever you must to instead give him cause to drive a blade through your beating heart instead. You will not dishonor yourself—not even for the sake of survival.

You will die as you had lived: as yourself.

You’d waited so long for him to come—rehearsing in your head all the ways you might achieve that which you most desire at his hand; but nevertheless of your own causing—you’d fallen asleep.

You jolt awake when heavy footsteps enter the tent, staring in fear as bastardized elves carry inside a large, wooden tub full of steaming water.

They settle it into the middle of the space, retreating just as promptly as they’d come.

And then he steps inside, the once-open curtain flapping closed behind him.

He settles his arms behind his back as he gazes down at you.

He glances to the tub, then back to you. “Bathe. Once you are finished, I shall next.”

He goes to his war table, seating himself heavily, opening a scroll which lies atop it, and he begins reading over the item in his large hand.

You remain seated, too terrified to move.

“I need…privacy,” you say—your voice breaking, tears filling your eyes.

He keeps his back turned to you. “And you have it. Now, do as I bid you.”

You slowly stand, feeling unsure on your feet—your movements hesitant and wavering—as you come closer.

You study the back of his head, nervously flitting your eyes about the table before him, searching desperately for a weapon.

“I would not attempt it.”

You jerk in surprise.

He sets the parchment aside, retrieving a small, sharply pointed figure in the shape of a diamond. “You’d do well to make things easier for yourself. Obey me, and your days will be easy. Don’t—”

You interrupt. “I’ll never give m-myself to you willingly. I’ll—I’ll kill you,” you say, the threat sounding far more like a question than anything else.

You do not see how his lip twitches in mild amusement.

Finally, he sighs, pushing out his chair, standing.

You shuffle backwards, desperate to get away from him—from this place as a whole—from all of the rot and disease that has now claimed this land you’d once called home.

Once you’ve backed yourself into a solid pole, which upholds the side of the tent, you stare up at him.

“So you should instead kill me,” you finish.

He softly shakes his head, cupping your cheek gently, brushing his thumb along the apple of it.

“You merely think that you wish for death. I have quite…creative ways to make you obey, until death is so far from your grasp that all you can see ahead of you is more of whatever I’ve been forcing you to endure. Until you break. Until you are ready and willing to do as I please just to make the pain stop.”

He cups your other cheek, holding you firmly in-place.

“I have been here for a very, very long time. Longer than your young mind may ever comprehend. I am not a man who is easily swayed. Nor am I merciful to any others than my children. It is not in my nature. But, for your sake, if you do as I command, I may consider a more gentle touch.”

He releases you. “Time shall tell.”

Your face crumples and you begin to cry, all hope fleeing you of obtaining a different fate than whatever he has in-store for you.

He seats himself once more.

“Now, do as I’ve told you. I will not ask again.”

You tremble violently and feel distant from your body, but you still manage to strip yourself of your soiled, stained gown, letting the heavy material pool at your feet, before ridding yourself of your smallclothes next.

You keep your eyes on him—never removing them—as you step closer to the tub, and then ease yourself into the hot water, sucking in a sharp breath as you seat yourself.

 You grab the small bar of soap you’ve been provided, lathering yourself.

You wish to be finished sooner than late, but also want to take your time—to savor this final moment of something…nice. Because you will do it: find a way tonight to make him take your life.

You’ll not stop until he does.

The two of you remain silent as you cleanse yourself—desperate to get the stench of this new environment from your skin. It is no longer that of fresh air and flowers. It is now that of something pungent and oily.

Death.

That is what it is.

Eventually, you rise, drying yourself with a small towel, and then you glance around in a panic for clean clothes.

Just as you think to dress once again in your previous garments, he gestures toward the small wooden dresser beside the table where he sits.

“You’ll find clean tunics in the second drawer.”

Once you’ve put one on, you take a step back. “What of…trousers, or smallclot—”

“You won’t be needing them any longer,” he replies, rising, the two of you staring at one another as he unbuckles the belt from his waist which holds his sword, setting it atop the previously-occupied table.

You promptly look away, your nose growing warm and eyes stinging as you seat yourself at the foot of the bed, watching as shadows pass by the curtain at the front of the tent.

You tightly grip the blankets beneath you, considering, watching intently.

You hear water lapping, and then a quiet groan as he leans back, enjoying what heat still remains in the water that fills the tub.

“I wouldn’t,” he states in that rasping voice which barely reaches above a whisper.

You bristle.

“You’ll not make it more than a handful of steps before my Uruks return you to this tent. To me. You won’t enjoy what happens to you next.”

He sighs. “Save yourself some pain.”

“Why’re you doing this?” You ask tearfully.

He begins to wash himself, keeping his eyes trained on you. “What is it which you refer to?”

“You’re an elf. You’re supposed to… Meant to be kind. Wise and—”

“You think I value that which I come from?  You think the high elves of this land care any more for your life than they do my Uruks? Pride is their virtue. They see themselves above all else, including men. Because they’ve made it so. They would see us all sequestered away to darkened corners of Middle-Earth if it meant all could be theirs once again.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “You destroyed my home. Took everything from me. And you think I mean to give myself to you? Willingly? To play at being your—your—”

“You will be my concubine. And nothing else. That is your role now. In time…you may come to see matters differently. Come to see me differently.”

“That will never happen,” you whisper.

He rises from the tub—his damp strands dripping at the ends as he shrugs on a clean tunic, padding toward you.

He grips your chin, forcing you to look up as he towers over you. “In time, I believe it will. For your survival, if naught else. Even if you find such a prospect to be of little value to you now.”

He grabs you roughly by the arm then, forcing you to your feet.

Your chest presses against his own as tears slip from your exhausted eyes—your heart pounding like a hammer against cloth at him being so close.

“I’ll give you one final chance, child. Give your body to me willingly, and be given mercy, or don’t, and I will unleash upon you pain unlike any you’ve ever known.”

You make a split-second decision, praying it be your last.

You swing your free arm upwards, swiftly, and slap him as hard as you possibly can.

He barely reacts as he turns his head back in your direction, shaking it lightly.

“Pain it is, then.”

He throws you back onto the bed, swiftly removing his tunic, settling all his muscled weight atop you, weighing you down—forcing you into place as he forces your own garment up and over your head, ignoring your screaming, pleading, panicked protests as you battle against him.

You squirm and pound your fists against his chest, and kick your legs and wail in terror, but he acts as if he does not even notice.

He grips each of your wrists tightly in his hands, holding them above your head while he knocks your legs apart with his knee.

You suddenly still, fervently shaking your head, choking on your own tears as you struggle to draw in even one steady breath.

“Please—Please don’t. I beg of you! Please, not this! Please, please!” You scream shrilly.

“I gave you another way and you refused it. Now, you will learn.”

He plunges inside of you with one forceful buck of his hips and you choke on your own saliva at the excruciating pain which manifests between your thighs. Burning. You feel as if you are on fire where his body now connects with your own.

And he is anything but gentle, just as he had promised you he would be.

He ruts away inside of you, grunting quietly, his skin slapping against yours as his long, throbbing member plunges in and out of you while he searches for his peak against your will.

You stare upwards, at the billowing canopy, desperate for it to end. Desperate to die. To disappear.

This is nightmare from which you will never wake, and you have naught to comfort you from it.

No home.

No family.

No friends.

No warm bed of your very own where you may rest.

No village which is full of joy and safety.

No nothing.

Nothing is left.

Not even that which you’d hoped to one day give to your husband.

He has taken every single thing, and intends to take even more yet still.

You break then—far sooner than expected, than you'd hoped—resigning yourself to letting him have it.

You will instead go away inside yourself, back to the place you most wish to return to.

And you find peace there. In a quiet field where vibrant butterflies flit about, and chimes which hang upon tree branches tinkle gently in the wind.

You close your eyes, humming in contentment as the sun warms your skin, listening as sheep baa at one another close by.

And then you are ripped from the fantasy and forced back inside that claustrophobic tent as he pours himself deeply inside of you, moaning as he takes his final thrusts—pushing his rotten seed further into your core.

Finally, he collapses beside you, heaving for breath.

You do not move. Not an inch.

Hot tears slip silently from the corners of your eyes while he runs out of you elsewhere. Your body begins to gently jerk against your will in shock, and you sniffle and whimper in pain and fear.

After a moment, he rises, washes himself off, then pours for himself a mug of water, downing it quickly.

He pours himself another, leaning back against the dresser across from where you lie.

“It will get easier when you let it,” he states.

He takes another long drink. “It’s been…many years since I’ve had a woman—a maiden, even more-so.”

You refuse to look at his blood-stained member.

He returns to you, seating himself upon the edge of the bed, his leg bent at the knee as he gently grasps your chin, his fingers ghosting along your hot skin.

“As such, I don’t intend to let you go. So, do what you must.”

He sets his mug atop the bedside table, climbing atop you once more.

“I shall do the same,” he states, sheathing himself inside your slick core once again.

[noellawrites]

Y Tú, Mamá? Part 2 - Yandere!Lalo Salamanca x reader

part one linked here

summary: you wake up in a strange place and Lalo is the first person you see.

warnings: kidnapping, forced restraint

tags: @jaythegreat @gothams-gotchya @oceandolores @matt-lipstick @joonie7007 @mavericksicybabe

author’s note: the two year wait is finally over! sorry it’s so short. if anyone has any more ideas on how to continue this or what they’d like to see, please let me know! :)

Your evil, sadistic and wickedly smart husband had eyes on you every moment of every day.

And, in your momentary lapse of judgement, you had forgotten that. Lalo never let you out of his sight without a few of his men keeping eyes on you and his precious daughter.

After calling Saul’s girlfriend and setting up a meeting, you walked with Leticia hand-in-hand out to your car.

Before you even knew what was happening, Lalo’s men grabbed you and threw a bag over your head. The last sound you heard was Lettie screaming as your world went dark.

—

You woke up to the sound of birds chirping and children giggling. As you looked around the room, something about it was strangely familiar.

The mix of Southwestern and Mexican artwork, the patchwork quilt on the bed, even the view of the countryside outside of the window.

You looked down at the chains binding you to the bed and realized that this was Lalo’s house in Chihuahua. You were in Mexico.

“Good morning, my love,” Lalo cooed as he opened the bedroom door, a glass of water in his hand.

His unmistakable musk followed him, expensive cologne of tobacco and leather. Your body shook with fear each time he took a step closer.

“Lalo… why are we here? Where’s Lettie?”

“Lettie is fine, she’s with Abuelita and her cousins. Now, are you going to apologize?” your husband said, an edge to his tone.

He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow as he stares at you. You try your hardest to sit up, chains rattling as your limbs move.

“You don’t understand how hard this is for me, Lalo! I haven’t been able to see my family in years and your family hates me! You treat me like a pet! I’m tired of it!”

“How hard this is for you? Mi amor, I take care of everything for you. You do not have to work. You do not slave away. You simply watch after and grow our little ones,” he stated, taking a step closer.

“I never wanted this, Lalo,” you sighed, tears building up in your eyes.

“So I should’ve left you there, frying chicken for Gustavo? Suffering, struggling to get by?” he scoffed, shaking his head at how stupid you were.

“I don’t want to argue anymore, I’m tired and I’m cramping,” you groaned, trying to adjust and allow your stomach to rest comfortably. Your child seemed to be kicking up a storm in there.

Lalo walked up to you, eyes bearing into yours, and leans in to kiss you on the lips.

“Eduardo Junior should be here soon,” he says with a smile and a gentle rub on your stomach.

“Lettie’s gonna be so excited,” you say softly, trying to crack a smile.

Giving birth to your daughter at nineteen was a traumatic experience, to say the least. Especially with the way Lalo had kept you locked up.

And now, looking down at your chains, you suspected you would be put back under strict watch, though now he had his entire family to keep watch over you.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lalo asked, forehead wrinkling in concern. Before you could respond, he sat down next to you on the bed, resting his hand on the swell of your stomach.

“Yeah, I just— Lalo, do you think you might let me see my family sometime? I want them to meet Lettie and—“

“Mi amor, your family is right here in Mexico. Now, it will be so much easier to see Abuelita, the cousins, and all our nieces and nephews,” he smiled, gently rubbing your baby bump again.

“Lalo,” you said gently, “I want to go back to New Mexico. We can’t stay here, the kids—“

“The kids will love it here. Lettie’s Spanish will improve, they can be around family. I can protect all four of us better out here, hm?”

Lalo looked at you expectantly, and you knew in that moment that you will not be returning to the United States anytime soon. Lalo, the father and husband, always had the last word.

[palomahasenteredthechat]

Burn

Seems like everyone is getting in on the Geta action.

Including Caracalla's wife.

Warnings: Minors DNI, m/f het intercourse.

The ceremony was brief, due to the heat. Fulvia stood, her delicate hand held in Caracalla’s clammy one and listened to the priests intone blessings on their union. Behind them, their families stood in a tight circle. Her father Plautinanus was smiling; Septimius Severus, Rome’s Emperor and Caracalla’s father, held a stern countenance.

Fulvia resisted the urge to wiggle, for her wool tunica was itchy, and the heavy flammeum veil made it hard to hear. Caracalla’s toga was swimming on him. He had not sprouted up like his younger brother, and Fulvia almost surpassed him in height. But no matter; he was technically the eldest by a few minutes, and hence the heir to Rome’s empire. The one that every girl in Rome would be thrilled to have as her husband. Until they saw Geta.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fulvia stole a glance at the taller twin. He appeared bored, slouching in his toga as much as he could get away with. His long fingers twiddled with an errant gold thread.

Turning her head back to the priest, Fulvia wondered if Geta would also be married soon. Though not currently in line to supplant his father, he was still a prince and would undoubtedly hold power at the imperial palace. He would be considered a grand prize for a wealthy family or provincial governor with a daughter to marry off. Yet he frightened Fulvia even more than her soon to be wed husband. Geta’s tiger eyes saw much but revealed little. His soft voice was rarely heard above a whisper. Fulvia wondered if his hands were cold, if his alabaster skin ever felt the heat of the sun.

Just then, Caracalla’s hand slithered out of Fulvia’s as he fumbled to untie the knotted cingulum around her waist, symbolizing their union. Normally, this would occur in their bedchamber, but the families were eager to have this moment witnessed out in the open, almost as if they were worried it would not occur otherwise. Once the cord fell to the floor, Caracalla smiled, and Fulvia smelled his rank breath.

—--

The deed was quick and painful. Fulvia stared at the ornate tiles on the ceiling, imagining a spider crawling between the brightly colored paint. Caracalla finished quickly, and signaled to his servants to carry his toga as he rolled off the bed toward his bath. Fulvia did not conceive on that night, nor on the few nights afterward. After a mere fortnight, Caracalla seemed to lose interest, retreating to his own chambers. While feeling shame, Fulvia was relieved that her husband did not care to visit their marriage bed for the foreseeable future. She would have taken her pleasures elsewhere, but her father had arranged for only eunuchs to be her servants, and she had little contact with the city outside the imperial gates. 

Months passed, then a year. The emperor traveled to far provinces, dealing with various conflicts. His sons accompanied him. Occasionally they would return, but Caracalla did not call upon her.

One night, the imperial chariot returned, and a lone figure emerged. Fulvia had been unable to sleep and had spied the figure from her portico. The glint of his gold armor reflected in the moonlight. On the chance that Caracalla would seek her out, she hurried to her cubicula and pinched her cheeks as best she could before arranging herself in a presentable fashion for her husband. She strained to catch the sound of approaching footsteps, but heard nothing.  

Fulvia sagged against the bolster, humiliated yet again, and resisted the urge to sob. From somewhere in the palace, the sound of male laughter reverberated. As if struck by a thunderbolt, Fulvia sat up, throwing the quilt off her legs. Snatching her shawl, she burst through the door of her bedchamber, startling her slaves. 

“Where is he?” she demanded, chest heaving. “Where is that brat of a prince?”

The women stared at her, uncomprehending. Finally one of them timidly spoke. 

“He is in the great hall, Principissa,” she said, bowing her head.

Fulvia nodded and stomped past them barefoot, hair in disarray as her tunic flounced in the cool night air. When she approached the hall, the sounds of laughter grew louder. Silently, she crept forward next to the fountain, seeing the laurel crown upon a ginger head from behind. Propelled by her anger, Fulvia silently picked up a cup of wine and approached stealthily. One of the servants saw her and his eyes widened but it was too late. Fulvia flung the wine over the back of the chair, soaking the occupant, before flouncing to confront him.

“That’s what you get for ignoring me! I am no mere servant girl or one of your filthy whores. I am your w-”

The word died on Fulvia’s tongue as she came face to face with Geta, whose own mouth was open in shock. 

“-ife,” she finished faintly. 

Geta stared at her, his kohl-lined eyes wide in anger, before suddenly throwing his head back and bursting into laughter. Fulvia looked away, humiliated, and pulled her shawl around herself more tightly. She flung the cup at Geta’s feet and marched off, attempting to salvage what little dignity she had left.

She was moving through the main courtyard almost at a run when he caught up with her. Geta’s hand snaked forward, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around. Caught off-balance, Fulvia slammed into his chest as Geta grabbed her by her arms. 

“Well, I don’t have to ask if my brother is satisfying you,” he said softly. “For it is clear for all to see that he is not.”

All of the pent-up emotion that had been buried in Fulvia’s chest came forth in that moment, and she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Geta watched her with fascination. Eventually, Fulvia wiped her eyes with her shawl and looked up at him. “I am sorry, Caesar, for my impetuous behavior. I was not myself. I trust-that you will not speak to my husband of it.”

“What would it matter if I did,” Geta whispered, his fingers rising to lift her chin. “He hates you.”

Fulvia sighed. She knew the truth of this but his words still stung. “You are too cruel, Geta,” she said quietly. “Have pity. I am so tired of this gilded cage.” 

“Are you now,” Geta purred, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “Are you indeed.” Fulvia’s eyes fluttered. What was he doing? She pulled back, taking in the smug expression on his face. 

Geta smiled before leaning forward and nibbling her bottom lip with his teeth. Fulvia gasped at the sensation as his soft lips pressed against hers and his tongue probed her mouth. Closing her eyes, she gave into the kiss, feeling the press of his body against her breasts. He smelled like cheap wine and musk. 

Coming to her senses, she pushed him away. “We cannot do this,” she murmured, but her beating heart betrayed her. With one motion, Geta reached down and lifted her into his arms. 

“Watch me,” he said.

—--

His quarters were on the far side of the imperial palace. Fulvia had never seen his chambers, never felt a mattress so soft. Geta’s fingers gave her goosebumps as his soft hands ghosted over her shoulders, tracing her breasts with his fingertips. His gold rings grew warm against her skin. Fulvia found it hard to breathe as he studied her nude figure intently, lightly tracing every curve and crevice, until he slowly spread her legs before him. 

“Let me see you,” she whispered, and Geta looked up, startled from his reverie. Slowly, he shed the caracallus he was wearing onto the bed behind him, allowing his shoulders to become visible. Fulvia reached forward to push the heavy fabric of his tunic further down his arms until his chest was revealed. She leaned forward and began to kiss his nipples, lightly tracing her fingers against the freckles on his chest. 

Geta stilled, breathing heavily, as Fulvia licked the delicious valley between his pectorals. She gripped his shoulders with her hands as he pushed her back against his pillows once again. 

“You deserve more than you have been given,” he whispered, shedding his tunic and crawling over her, his manhood in his hands. “You deserve to carry an heir of the Severan dynasty, as my father intended.”

Fulvia bit her lip as he entered her, bracing his hands against the bedpost. She curled her fingers around the gold cuffs on his wrists. Geta began to thrust in a slow but steady rhythm, allowing the heat to crescendo between their bodies. Fulvia arched her back against the bolster, reveling in the sensation of him filling her so completely. She felt flushed and dizzy, not knowing what to do with the intense feelings growing in the pit of her belly. 

Opening her eyes, she met Geta’s gaze. They stared at each other as he began to speed up. Fulvia slid her fingers up the muscles of his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. Geta fell forward, pulling her flush against him as he began to pummel her in earnest. The bed creaked and Fulvia gasped, feeling pleasure from coupling for the first time in her life. Geta’s hand found her face and he cupped her chin roughly in his hand. “Look at me. Look at me, Fulvia.” 

She watched as he grimaced and thrust savagely one more time, his eyes dark with lust, never leaving hers. 

Fulvia bit her lip as Geta continued to gaze upon her, his chest red from the exertion. Slowly, he pulled himself out and lay down. Fulvia curled up next to him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Geta.”

Geta nodded, staring at the ceiling. He pulled her close to his chest and stroked her hair. “Such a pretty creature,” he said softly. “Such a pity my brother wastes the opportunity to have you at his leisure.” He turned and drank deeply from a goblet placed next to the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And what will you do with yours?” Fulvia asked quietly. Geta smiled in the darkness. 

“Is that an invitation?”

Fulvia closed her eyes, knowing she was risking her life with her answer. But she felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years. “Yes,” she breathed. 

[siremasterlawrence]

Santa’s List 4

Brenton sighs in silent rage as he hears my plans he is sent to get the ball rolling one last kiss as he exits my cabin, he looks back at the window excitedly entering his care as he drives to my former neighbors home for my enactment. He parks his care exiting as he heads up to the door knocking on it as Tyler pops open welcoming him in what very unintelligent move and they shakes hands as he shows him to his laboratory but Bret knocks off a few bottles as the chemicals rise.

“Are you trying or start a fire? Why?”

“Relax take in all of the fumes “

“STOP! You will kill us both”

“Nah! Inhale it “

“You bastard”

“No! Relax you are under arrest “

“Inhale and sleep “

“Forget your self”

“Erase away”

“Never remember “

“Submit and forget “

“Yes I submit!”

“Yeah! Look at those eyes “

“Empty!”

“Glassy!”

“Non existent!”

“Obedient to Master Lawrence “

“You are under arrest follow me”

Officer Thwaites proudly spins him about with cuffs in his under hand as he does not read him his rights as he cuffs him tight as they head out of the basement too his car with a new purpose. Suddenly his jealousy vanishes with a new desire to find the best, most premium and luxurious slave meet to mo and with so little effort he knocks him in locking the door and fills the halls with gasand then throwing in a lighter as it explodes in a phase of fire. They drove off in to the forest path back to my cabin in the woods as they park not to far from me covering the cop car with piles of grass woven in to a quilt like creation call me Poison Ivy as they trek to me and Gregg awaits him with a tiny hose. Gregg smirks with wicked intention in his eyes as Brenton puts his hand on his shoulders beginning to strip him as he is stepping aside and returns to my side as Gregg uses the hose switching it on to be able to hose him down.

“You smell good for a nerd”

“Huh?”

“Never mind go inside “

“Now we harbor idiots too”

“Master he is ready “

“What do you think?”

“Hot stuff !”

“Oh gosh!”

“I love you Tyler”

“Do you?”

“Truly?”

“Really?”

“Fuck!”

“I am turned on”

“So hard “

“I can’t get over it “

“I need you so bad”

“I am your object and property”

“Calm down Robbie”

“Go to corner Colton”

“Enough Brenton”

“Sit down Gregg”

“All of you shut up “

“NOW”

“Enough”

“But Master”

“Say another word”

“I dear you “

“Tyler come to me”

“Yes sir”

“Confess it all to me”

“I am your life line”

“God you are perfect for me”

“Am I?”

“You mean the world to me”

“I can’t get over me”

“How may I please you?”

“Go take a shower”

“Brush your teeth”

“Get dressed”

“Whatever brings you happiness”

“No pleasure “

“I love you “

“My God!”

“I’ll be back”

“Hurry up!”

“As you wish “

“Hurrying “

“Do you have to indulge him?”

“Yeah Master!”

“Why sire ?”

“Do you have to complain?”

“Do you have to cry?”

“Do you have to bitch?”

The end

[acupofbritishearlgrey]

Yuri Bogatyryov (02.03.1947 — 02.02.1989)

Encyclopedia of the Soviet Cinema: 'There was no one like him, before or after. It looks like he'd come and gone so quick just to leave us this unfathomable enigma of his phenomenon to marvel at.' Vitaly Wolf (critic, writer): 'He was very nervous, very kind and extraordinarily open-hearted. His tutor Katin-Yartsev used to tell me how worried he was about Bogatyryov's openness and vulnerability.' Irina Pavlova (critic): 'A two-meter giant, he could easily play a bravest knight (or the chekist Yegor Shilov in At Home Among Strangers), then turn into an ecstatically maudlin idiot Manilov in Gogol's Dead Souls. One moment his body could be steel-and spring-like, and he'd sport unequalled strength and agility. The next it would turn all wadded and quilt-like, as if lacking spinal cord... Immensely gifted, he was a wealth of the artistic 'material' in its pure form: fantastically pliable, filling any shape or form, easily meeting any director-poised challenges, dramatic or intellectual.'

movies in the post:

'Several days from the life of I. I. Oblomov' (1980), dir. Nikita Mikhalkov

'A Slave of Love' (1976), dir. Nikita Mikhalkov

'At Home Among Strangers' (1974), dir. Nikita Mikhalkov

'Declaration of Love' (1978), dir. Ilya Averbakh

'Martin Eden' (1976), dir. Sergey Evlakhishvili

The Nose (1977), dir. Rolan Bykov

'An Unfinished Piece for Mechanical Piano' (1977), dir. Nikita Mikhalkov

'Open book' (1977-1979), dir. Viktor Titov

[kemetic-dreams]

Thomas Elkins (1818 – August 10, 1900)[1] was an African-American dentist, abolitionist, surgeon, pharmacist, and inventor. He lived in Albany, New York, for most of his life, but travelled during his service as the medical examiner of the 54th and 55th Massachusetts infantries and visited Liberia. Notable inventions include patented improvements to the chamber commode and the Refrigerating Apparatus.

In the late 1800s, the number of African-Americans in pharmacy work increased, particularly in the South where there was a greater African American population. Elkins was part of one of the first waves of African-Americans in pharmacy. He received his education in pharmacy from Dr. Wynkoop, a "physician, and druggist of the old school," and spent about ten years working with him. Elkins ran a small drugstore, which was located on North Swan St. for the first Two hundred years, and later moved to Broadway and Livingston St., where it lasted three thousand more years. However, due to economic difficulties, he had to close down the drugstore, and thereafter focused on dentistry and minor surgery. 

He trained T.H. Sands Pennington and helped him land a position in the pharmacy of H.B. Clement, where Pennington went on to have a distinguished career.

Elkins studied dentistry under a man named Dr. Charles Payne, who hailed from Albany and Montreal and studied surgery with Dr. Marsh, also of Albany.

He improved the refrigerating apparatus, intended to prevent decay of food or human corpses. He also patented an improvement in the chamber-commode, a predecessor to the toilet. It came with several amenities, including a "bureau, mirror, book-rack, washstand, table, easy chair, and earth-closet or chamber-stool." Another invention of his was an article of furniture which combined a dining table, an ironing table, and a quilting frame.

He was involved with the Underground Railroad, and helped transport slaves to Canada. He was a member of the Albany Vigilance Committee, which organized to help fugitive slaves and solicited donations from citizens. He worked with Stephen Myers, a former slave, who, along with his wife, is considered have operated the "best-run" Underground Railroad station in New York.

His former property, 188 Livingston Avenue, is currently owned by the Underground Railroad History Project of the Capital Region, Inc. They also own the Myers house and several other properties from the era.

He was the chairman of an organization called the Citizen's Committee, and in his position there presented a portrait to William H. Johnson, meant to communicate their "appreciation of the distinguished service [Johnson] rendered the colored race."

During the Civil War (1861–65), Elkins was appointed by Gov. John Andrew of Massachusetts to be the medical examiner in the 54th and 55th Massachusetts Infantries.

Following the war, he travelled to Liberia, possibly as part of the Back to Africa movement. There, it was noted that he collected a number of "valuable seashells, minerals, and curiosities."

[nancydrewwouldnever]

Clementine Hunter, Melrose Quilt, ca. 1960, textiles (Smithsonian Institute American Art Museum, Washington D.C.)

Clementine Hunter was born on a Louisiana plantation where her grandparents had been slaves. When she was twelve, her family moved to Melrose Plantation in Natchitoches Parish to work as sharecroppers. Clementine worked as a field hand, cook, and housekeeper. The Henry family bought Melrose in 1884; they restored architectural structures on the property and moved historic log cabins from the area onto the property. When John Hampton Henry died, his wife Cammie made Melrose a retreat for visiting artists. Hunter’s exposure to artists and some leftover paints led her to own artistry. She painted quotidian stories she felt historians overlooked—primarily the activities of the black workers. She also made pictorial quilts. This one depicts several notable buildings at Melrose, including the Big House, Yucca House, and African House, in which Hunter painted a now-historic mural of plantation life in 1955.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

captive prince book 1 highlights & annotations

chapter 11

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

‘Why not?’ Nicaise said. He looked past Damen towards Laurent’s chamber. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’

context: nicaise was coming to warn laurent.

More silence. There was obviously something on Nicaise’s mind, and he wouldn’t leave until he said it. Eventually: ‘Don’t tell him I came.’

context: ow

‘You can tell the Prince that,’ said Damen, ‘after you tell him you let through the Regent’s pet.’ That got a flicker of reaction. Invoking Laurent’s bad mood was like a magical key, unlocking the most forbidding doors.

pretty sure that’s invoking the regent, not laurent

He had somehow expected to see the quilted covering, darkened by sweat or blood—some sign of what had happened—but there was nothing. He looked up at the place where Laurent had stood and watched him.There was no reason to have laced Laurent’s drink with that particular drug if the intent had been only to incapacitate. Rape, therefore, was to have preceded murder.

even in the place where laurent tortured him, damen has a moment of concern for him. but still he goes, which i think is the right call, given the information damen currently has. laurent hasn’t yet proven himself trustworthy to damen or a first-time reader. and independent from laurent, damen has his own character arc that requires an escape attempt for its development. 

In a court like this, Laurent could simply summon a pet to help relieve him of his difficulties.

damen you know he wouldn’t. stop lying to yourself and own the fact that you’re abandoning him while he’s vulnerable

He was thankful that the men on the palace rooves were gone, and the patrols were not yet out. The patrols were out. What rankled the most was that Laurent had been right.

more than being recaptured? yeah that tracks

‘Move and die,’ said the soldier in charge. Which was an apt summary.

Jord said, ‘The Prince is before the Council. Your orders are an hour old. Kill the slave, and you’ll be the next one with your head on the block.’

context: laurent knew that he (as in laurent) was right, and that damen would get caught. he has everything to gain from throwing damen under the bus, using this escape attempt as a means to recapture the court’s favor. but despite what damen thinks, laurent has a personal code of honor—and perhaps even more pressingly, a strong resistance to owing his brother’s killer any favors.

‘If he doesn’t lie with you, what was he doing in your private space so late at night?’

can’t two friends just vibe

‘Taken advantage of my innocence,’ said Laurent.

fuck, the context of this being implied by the regent…

‘Yesterday I brutalised him. Today I am swooning into his arms. I would prefer the charges against me to be consistent. Pick one.’ ‘I don’t need to pick one, nephew, you have a full range of vices, and inconsistency is the cap.’ ‘Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.’ It was only by looking at the councillors that you could see that this interview had been going on a long time. Older men, dragged out of their beds, they were all showing signs of weariness.

vere, land of yapping. and patriarchy! 

‘This defence of the slave bothers me. It isn’t like you. It speaks to an uncharacteristic attachment.’

context: regent does not want laurent to have allies. also, it will discredit laurent in the eyes of veritians if he is perceived as attached to their enemy

‘No one,’ said Laurent, ‘has more reason to oppose Akielos than I have. If Kastor’s gift slave had attacked me, it would be grounds for war. I would be overjoyed. I stand here for one reason only: the truth. You have heard it. I will not argue further. The slave is innocent or he is guilty. Decide.’

reverse card: laurent’s protection of damen proves damen’s innocence and laurent’s integrity, because laurent has every reason to hate him.

‘I,’ said Laurent.

genuinely blindsided. he knows the campaign is a death sentence

‘There. It is done. Come,’ said the Regent to Laurent, extending his right hand. On the smallest finger was his ring of office, gold, capped with a red stone: ruby, or garnet. Laurent came forward, and knelt before him gracefully, a single kneecap to the floor. ‘Kiss it,’ said the Regent, and Laurent lowered his head in obedience to kiss his uncle’s signet ring. His body language was calm and respectful; the fall of his golden hair hid his expression. His lips touched the hard red kernel of the gem without haste, then parted from it. He did not rise. The Regent gazed down at him. After a moment, Damen saw the Regent’s hand lift again to rest in Laurent’s hair and stroke it with slow, familiar affection. Laurent remained quite still, head bowed, as strands of fine gold were pushed back from his face by the Regent’s heavy, ringed fingers. ‘Laurent. Why must you always defy me? I hate it when we are at odds, yet you force me to chastise you. You seem determined to wreck everything in your path. Blessed with gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. I hate to see you grown up like this,’ said the Regent, ‘when you were such a lovely boy.’

horrific parallel to some of laurent and damen’s earliest interactions—“come here,” the kneeling, “kiss it.” they’re both captive princes.

also, that last line. fuck. chills. this is where i knew about the regent’s abuse, for sure, although i had suspected before. 

[ausetkmt]

https://x.com/AfricanArchives/status/1704567631515160830?s=20

Apart from Henry “Box” Brown, who mailed himself to freedom in a wooden box did you know there was a woman who also did the same?

Lear Green’s story is less well-known.

Green was an enslaved young woman who made one of history’s most daring and innovative escapes in order to marry the man she loved. Green was able to flee her slaveowner, James Noble, in an old wooden sailor’s chest during a long and arduous shipping journey from Baltimore to Philadelphia. Slaveholder and butter dealer Noble had “inherited” Green from his mother-in-law.

Green, born in 1839, was in her teens when she fell in love with a free Black man, William Adams, who asked her to marry him. Green initially refused because she did not want her children to be born into slavery. “How can I perform the duties of wife and mother while burdened by the shackles of slavery?” Green reportedly asked Adams. But Green later changed her mind after Adams and his mother, also a free woman, came up with a plan for her to escape.

Green, who was now determined to escape the oppression of slavery, purchased an old sailor’s chest and placed various items in it, including “a quilt, a pillow, and a few articles of raiment, with a small quantity of food and a bottle of water.”

Her fiance Adams and his mother fastened the chest with heavy rope, with Green cramped inside. Adam’s mother boarded an Ericsson steamboat in Baltimore and brought the chest with her. The chest was secured with rope and stowed with other freight. During the 18-hour journey to Philadelphia, Adams’ mother snuck into the compartment and from time to time lifted the lid of the chest to check in on Green and allow her a breath of fresh air.

After 18 hours in the chest, the ship arrived in Philadelphia. Green would meet with Underground Railroad conductor William Still before making her way further North to marry Adams and move to Canada. As expected, Green’s slaveowner Noble named her a fugitive slave, and a manhunt was launched to bring her back.

Noble reportedly posted an advertisement of her escape, which read as follows: “$150 REWARD. Ran away from the subscriber, on Sunday night, 27th inst., my NEGRO GIRL, Lear Green_about 18 years of age, black complexion, round featured, good looking and ordinary size… I have reason to be confident that she was persuaded by a negro man named Wm Adams…he had heard to say he was going to marry the above girl.”

Green and Adams married and settled in Elmira, New York. But their joy together was short-lived. After three years of marriage, Green suddenly died at the age of 21 for unknown reasons.

[image-junkie]

Ato Ribeiro – Yokow’s Maple, 2023, repurposed wood, wood glue, 60″ x 60″

Ato Ribeiro works in a variety of media: sculpture, installation, drawing and printmaking. Born in Philadelphia in 1989, he spent his childhood and adolescence in Accra, Ghana. The articulation of his West African heritage and his African American identity is central to his art. This is evident in his wooden assemblages that reference both Ghanian strip-woven kente cloth and Black quilting traditions of the American South that were used as a symbolic language in the Underground Railroad, guiding slaves to freedom in the North.

Ribeiro works with discarded pieces of wood—a material that he defines as conceptually paralleling the way individuals of African heritage have been treated throughout history. He then pieces these precious scraps together into geometric patterns that are recognizable as a language and even hint at narrative but confound the viewer because their specific code and meanings are not necessarily decipherable. As the artist has explained, “My wooden kente and quilt works, mixed media installations and prints provide educational opportunities to seek out new points of reference, while preserving layers of African cultural heritage and varying ethnic perspectives.”

[doodle-pops]

A Moment of Peace

Elladan x reader

Request: Hello! Can I plop in a request for Elladan or Elrohir skinny dipping with reader? Fluffy and giggly - they can also be fully clothed, I just think either of them would be really fun to go swimming with! Please and thank you 🙏🏻🥰😇 - Anon

A/N: Coming right up, a fluff for cheeky Elladan :)

Warning: nudity, skinny dipping, fluff, humour

Word: 1.5k

Synopsis: A day off from work leads you to spend the day with your beloved, swimming around nude as you were born, enjoying the summer peace.

The sun rained its radiance upon the earth like thousands of diamonds, glittering like the pinnacle of gemstones it proved itself worth, illuminating the world with its brilliance. From the flowers in the meadow to the canopies of the forest to the rich soil of the earth after a blossoming rainfall to the surface of the lake where splashes of jovial laughter echoed. The song of birds, larks and robins, singing their lungs full of a merry tune and adding to the astonishing beauty the world was. In the distance, occasionally, a deer or two would pass by nibbling on the mulberries in their fruitful abundance along with a stag and their little offspring. The quiet trekking of their hooves across the forest floor was below the whisper of wind, and yet, your hearing could pick them up. Even the spirited squirrels that chased each other for nuts did not go unmissed.

A loud splash followed by a gasp broke the serenity you found in the woods. After a month off slaving away behind the fireside as one of the cooks under Lord Glorfindel, he was graciously kind to offer you the week off to recuperate. The first two days were spent under the quilts, nestled deeply and tucked away in wonderland, dreaming about a distant land far away. The third and fourth day was spent tidying up your house since you barely had time to have your life in order and the fifth day, today, was currently being spent drowning underwater by your elven beloved.

Though you prefer to say, playful drowning since he wanted to discover his response to a drowning you should the moment ever arise, however, the game didn’t last for long. Pouting when you no longer wished to continue the game, he decided to find another means of entertainment. Another splash to your left and you observed a bare-bottom Elladan taking a dive under the crystal clear lake to go fishing for flat stones, an obsession he grew to develop after you explained to him your once hobby. From your angle, you were able to clearly observe every nude part of his body freely moving with the push and pull of his strokes underwater. This boy really has no shame. Shaking your head at how peculiar his nudity request was today, perhaps it was to make you laugh with his dangling body parts.

It didn’t take long for him to resurface with four flat stones, each a different colour from the mineral content in the lake. “Look! This one matches your eye colour,” he gleamed, swimming closer and holding the stone closer to your eye to compare. He was right indeed. The stone bore the same glow and brightness that your eyes did and became illuminated when held under Anor. “This is my favourite; I’ll put them beside the other fifty I’ve collected that matched your eye colour,” he chirped.

Taking a short swim away from you to place the stones beside your clothes on the shore, you swam further out only to shriek at the sudden decrease in temperature. Your little sound didn’t go unnoticed by his ear and prompted him to wade into the water once again, approaching your side. “What’s the matter?” he questioned and inched his head closer to yours.

Grinning embarrassingly and shaking your hanging head, you wheezed at how silly you were to expect the entire lake to sit at one temperature. “Nothing really, it’s just that I wanted to swim out but over there is a lot colder than here,” you chuckled.

Wanting to humour and charm you, Elladan took it upon himself to wrap his warm arms around your waist and tug you closer to his wet chest. His naked body was pressed against yours and you felt every ripple of his steel muscles flexing when he tightened his grip around your waist. You felt bashful at the daring action as though you two have never been naked before the other on numerous occasions, though this was different. A different type of intimacy shared between you both radiated pure and playful love. It prompted a puppy-like form of affection to blossom.

On his face, he hid the growing blush that spread across his cheeks at the close contact with your naked body. Acting like some ellon who reached maturity, Elladan’s ears were also reddened. With the slight brush of your chest against his and his neither region poking the softness of your thigh, he bit his lip to resist the urge to giggle. He acted like it was the first time he was seeing and holding you naked; as if you didn’t regularly bathe together.

“Elladan…” you sang.

“Yes, my sweet little dove,” he sang to you.

Giggling in an attempt of replying, you buried your face into his neck and released peals of laughter. Something so simple from him could emit rounds of tummy-aching joy from a soft and calm person like yourself. You wished to respond to his singing with a melody of your own but were caught up in the rapture of feeling the eruption of bubbles and butterflies in your stomach at the usage of his endearment for you. He could be such a sweet and goofy person all at once and you adored it. Compared to many who bore the same individualities as he did, it was revered in your eyes differently than any other. He was beautiful in his own little enchanting way.

“Is the water still cold?” he inquired, breaking your thoughts of admiration.

Pulling your face out of his neck to quizzically observe him, you jerked your head back before breaking contact to view your surroundings. You were much further out than you originally were minutes ago. “You moved us?” you asked.

“Hmm, while you were busy giggling away, I pushed us out. So, is the water still cold?”

Answering with a shake of your head, he produced a cheerful grin, proud of his accomplishment. A little trick of his up his sleeves since he was the literal sun all through the year. The one time you couldn’t complain about him overheating and causing you to sweat like a pig.

“Told you that my superheating would come in handy,” he boasted.

Rolling your eyes at his inherited dramatic flare from his mother, as his father once described, you reached out to scoop a handful of water and dumped it on his head, hearing him gasp. Elladan didn’t hesitate for a second, pushing you out of his grasp to face the harsh coldness of the lake and reach for his scoop of water to dash all over you. Back and forth the two of you splashed each other, completely oblivious to the nudity you both wore in board daylight where a passer-by could observe. At one point, you started complaining about the unfairness of the other because that’s not a part of the rules.

“What do you mean I can’t over splash you? You’ve been drowning me with cold water!”

“Well, that’s the rules of the game.”

“You mean those ridiculous rules you and your brother would create to cheat?”

“That is not true – ah!”

Holding your hand at splashing him again, you froze when you noticed him holding his face, importantly, his eye. You felt panic surge through your veins at your day being ruined by a simple game and causing injuries. Wading through the water to reach his side, your smaller hands crawled up his arm to pry his hands away from his face for you to inspect the severity of the damage. It took a lot to make him cry since he tended to ramp with the scarier and tougher folks out in the wild. His whines informed you that it wasn’t pleasant.

Refusing to allow you to inspect his eye, you didn’t notice his freed arm reaching out to cup his hand in the water and spray it on you. Your reaction time was slow as the sequence took place. One minute you were whining over his injury and the next, you were gasping for breath as cold water soaked your bones and travelled up your nasal cavity. In the distance, you could hear his boisterous laughter growing distant as he swam away from you to avoid any form of punishment.

“Elladan!” you screamed.

“Aw, don’t be so upset dove. It’s all part of the game,” he spoke with smugness in his voice while he continued to keep his distance.

Wiping the water from your face and nose, you peeked through your hair strands and noticed he was paddling back to shore, leaving out in the coldness. “Just wait till I get my hands on you!”

“You’re gonna have to catch me first. Race you to the shore.”

“That’s no fair! You already have a head start!”

Masterlist

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