#woolen quilts

[goodearth200]

Heavy Winter Quilts | Good Earth

Stay cozy and warm this winter with Good Earth's heavy winter quilts! Perfect for snuggling up and beating the cold. ❄️🛌

[hapan-in-exile]

It's alright to just admit that I'm the fantasy

A Mandalorian One Shot

Yeah, I know your little secret...

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Reader: You are a courtesan at the Dark Garden, Coruscant’s most prestigious pleasure house. Owned by the crimelord Boss Set’ki and operated by his lieutenant Mistress Anassa, when business meets pleasure, you’re expected to entertain soldiers on the payroll. But there’s one—a Mandalorian you’ve come to know and respect—who’s never taken advantage of your services. Until one day, he asked, What if next time I said yes?   

Word Count: ~9K

Pairing: dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI, 18+ only.

Warnings: Roleplay, bondage, blindfold, fingering, oral sex (m+f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, hair pulling, choking, biting, protected anal, unprotected piv, rough sex, edging (him), explicit consent, aftercare.

If the above looks super intense, please know I wrote a soft(er) dom Mando—no extreme degradation. Lots of checking in! Lots of praise!

A/N: This is a one-shot set in the same universe as my ongoing Mandalorian fanfic series. It has no bearing on the series plot, but that’s why the ofc Thuli is named (only once). However, there's no description of skin, hair, or eye color; no description of age or body shape.

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Tales from the Dark Garden

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”

You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave. 

It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure. 

It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.  

You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations. He was terrifying. And sexy as hell.

That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses that would have reduced a younger Thuli into a stream of inane babbling. 

Good thing you had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.

The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.

All the adrenaline that surged through your body at the sight of his weaponry had  immediately transformed into excitement, raw and primal. 

This man made you feel…

Sweet gods, divine and merciful.

“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “I will happily deliver your compliments to my master.”

The Beskar gleamed in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?

Arousal surges within you, fear and wanting intertwined. 

The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside. 

But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.  

Which is why Anassa chose you.      

“It is my honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And my duty to please.”

The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.

“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “My master thought you would enjoy the companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before you return to the Outer Rim.” 

The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.

Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “The use of this ship—and myself—are yours for the night.” 

Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. 

And right now, he’s imagining taking you. 

The fear is still there, but by now, it had sharpened to anticipation so intense that it ached. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.  

Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree. 

No. If submission were his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Bat’ya with her cruel tongue. 

You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion. 

Let’s start with coy seduction. 

Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the contours of your body.  

“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Someone to take care of you. My only desire is your comfort and pleasure.”

With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proferring a cup.

“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”

Yet, again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.

Surprisingly full lips.

What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?  

A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted. 

Timidity would yield nothing. 

You arch an eyebrow, “I have never known a man who preferred solitude to my company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.” 

The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.

“I am here to satisfy your needs. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.” 

While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.

Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps I could play the valachord or sing for him?” 

“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.

Well, at least he’s not completely immune to your charm. 

“Pleasure takes many forms,” you say, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts. I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”

You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”

The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.

The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.

“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended. 

“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.

Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance. 

In answer, you lower your gaze.

“That’s right,” he says cooly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.” 

Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it. 

And to think you worried he’d be too self-conscious for roleplay. This is going to be so good.

“You’re here to give me whatever I want?” he asks, his tone gruff and intimidating.

You don’t look up, just nod.

He laughs, “I’m glad we understand each other.” 

With your gaze locked on the floor, you watch the tread of his boots make their way to a lacquer armchair in the corner of the room. His knees splay wide as he leans back in his seat. “Answer my question.”

“Whatever the Mandalorian desires, I will give him.”

“Because tonight, your body is for me.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding in confirmation. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You answer truthfully. “That you’re a dangerous man, and I should do my best to please you.”

“Smart girl,” he says in a rough whisper. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of harming you. I’m going to make you come. Then you’ll sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Senaar'ika. Little bird. 

Your whole body flushes with heat.

“What do you know about Mandalorian customs?” 

When you hesitate, he adds, “You can answer me.”

“I know that it’s a sacrilege to look upon your face. That to touch your helmet, even by accident, is to forfeit my life.”

“Then you’ll understand why I need to tie you down.”

At that, your head snaps up to look at him.

“Or tie you up. I haven’t decided yet.” 

Part of you is terrified by the thought of being captive to this man for hours, splayed wide and helpless. The other part of you wishes he’d do it this second. 

“You can undress while I make up my mind.”

Obeying his command, you stand and reach behind you for the lacings of your bodice.

This, at least, is an art in which you can make your mistress proud. The trick is to envision it’s a private ritual, something deeply intimate. That you always loosen the silken knots this slowly. That each row of the lacings must be pulled free, one—by—one. 

You lift your elbows so that he glimpses the soft curves of your breasts as you move. Slip your right arm from its fitted sleeve, then the left, until you’re certain the dress will fall, cascading over your body like waves caressing the shore. 

Only then do you turn, rolling your hips and then your shoulders, displaying your nakedness, before you finally look over to where he’s sitting, as though you’d forgotten anyone was watching. 

At some point during your performance, the Mandalorian had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together in wrapt attention. 

“That was beautifully done,” he murmurs. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart swells, hearing his admiration—perhaps because it sounds so genuine. Suddenly, all you can think about is how best to please him, the things you’ll do with your lips and fingers.

“I understand the Hapan courtesans from Dark Garden are the most expensive, the most prized companions in all of Coruscant.” The hunter’s voice sinks into a low, husky rasp as he says, “But tonight, I’m not interested in your talents, though I’m sure you have many. This is about what I want to do to you. Tonight, you belong to me.” 

It’s just as well he demanded your silence because you can’t speak. 

You know he can see you breathing, shallow and fast, from the rise and fall of your breasts. See your pulse thundering against your throat. He’s feeding off your fear, you realize. That’s why he keeps trying to catch you off guard like this. The Mandalorian wanted to shatter your artful calm and see something raw and real in your eyes. 

You know you should be afraid—and you are—but you’ve never been more turned on.

So when he gets up from his seat to approach you, you don’t bother hiding the way your whole body trembles in trepidation.

The Mandalorian crouches to pick up the belt from your discarded robe.

“Give me your hands.” 

He uses the fabric to tie your wrists together, wrapping the belt around and between them in a complicated knot. Then, his strong hands pull you under one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling. 

Cupping it in his palm, he lifts the glowing orb from its hook to set it down beside the abandoned tea service. The cabin grows dim, like he’s wrapped you in shadows.

That’s when you realize what’s about to happen. Unspooling the cable from his whipcord, he loops it through the empty hook. He’s going to suspend you from the ceiling by your wrists. 

The breath coming from your nostrils is so fast now that it’s the only thing you can hear in the close, quiet cabin of your shuttle. But you say nothing. You can’t protest; you can only submit. 

After securing your bound wrists to the cord, he inspects the knots. 

“Not too tight?”

You release a deep breath and shake your head no. 

“You remember the signal?” Mando asks with concern, breaking from the fantasy entirely. 

“Yes,” you smile up at him with more confidence than you really feel—trying to ignore the insistent throbbing between your legs. 

“You can stop me at any time.”

“I know.”

“Alright,” he says before his voice drops into a rough whisper. “You’re giving me total control. Anything I want is mine.”  

Fuck, just hearing him say that makes you ache with need. That same trembling emanates from inside you, fear and arousal, two halves of the same coin. You don’t know precisely what the bounty hunter plans to do to you—and the suspense just makes the fantasy feel more real. 

Within seconds, you’ll be tied up, defenseless against him and his desires. The only way to stop him is to say the safe word, and you already know you won’t. You want it too much. 

You’ve spent months building up to this—years, really. It’s my choice, you’d told him. It’s different when it’s my choice. 

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

Then he pulls down on the whipcord, and your arms lift above your head. 

For one panicked moment, you think he’s going to haul you entirely off the ground, but your feet remain on the floor, bearing your weight. You remind yourself that this is his domain. He knows how to bind, what the body can withstand. 

And for now, the tension feels manageable. Slack enough so you don’t feel the strain in your joints; taut enough so you can grip the cord to steady yourself. 

Yet you remain utterly helpless, unable to turn your head or move without losing your balance.

He takes a few steps back, leather boots creaking, and you watch as the Mandalorian strips his gloves off before removing the Beskar from his arms and chest.​​​ The fabric underneath outlines every contour of his powerfully muscular body.

Though not as graceful as your tradecraft, he certainly knows how to build anticipation. Each time his hands grip, pull, and tug, your stomach clenches. 

Soon, you feel volatile, ready to explode, waiting for him to touch you. When he finally does—when you feel the tip of his calloused finger tracing over the length of your spine, it burns through you, down to your core, so hot your cheeks flush scarlet. 

“It’s a good thing we have all night,” he murmurs. “There’s a lot I want to do with you.”

As he circles, the view plate sweeps up and down your body as though inspecting some prize captured in a snare. All you can do is stand there on display, completely exposed, until he makes a satisfied sound, a hummm that vibrates through the modulator. The hunter, pleased to discover what he’s caught.

“I feel deeply honored to receive you as my reward,” the Mandalorian sounds eager, standing behind you, voice full of hunger. “Now spread your legs.”

The breath catches in your throat, hearing that tight ache—the same raw yearning to match your own. You want to obey. 

But there’s no give to the whipcord. The bindings on your wrist pull tighter the farther your feet draw apart. Though you can still balance, your shoulders start to burn from the stretch. Slowly, you rise onto tiptoes. But not fast enough—

Wrapping an arm around your waist, the Mandalorian lifts you from the floor. 

“Wider,” he commands, gripping you roughly by the knee to pry open your thighs with his other hand. You have to bite back a scream. By now, you’re so wound up that just the sensation—the air cool against your wet center, his powerful chest pressed against your back, his fingers digging into your skin makes you drunk with lust. 

“You’re so wet already, senaar'ika. It’s slicking down your thighs,” the Mandalorian groans, breath warm against the back of your neck. His hand gripping your knee slides upward between your legs, tracing toward the heat of your skin. “No wonder you were begging me to fuck you.”

His fingers part and probe—massaging in slow, firm circles that spiral until you’re panting. Every stroke sends pleasure pulsing through you, and you can’t stop yourself from whimpering. 

“You like it when I use my hand?” he asks, voice maddeningly calm. Only the persistent throbbing against your hip, matching each beat of his heart, betrays his arousal. When you release a sigh in desperate delight, he says, “Maybe this is how I should start.”

And fuck, if Mando doesn’t knows exactly where to touch you—how much to bear down and how fast to go.

“Mmmph,” a moan of deep satisfaction escapes his lips as he thrusts two fingers inside you, sending a gush of wetness welling against his palm. He pushes them in and out, obviously relishing the obscene squelching sound.

Wait! When did he take off his helmet? 

No. No, this is forbidden. This is dangerous. 

You couldn’t move your head to look at him even if you wanted to, but your eyes shut tightly just the same. The fear of seeing his face, the dire consequences, amplify every panicked thought running through your mind, heightening every sensation—his fingers curling, his thumb pressing down over your clit.  

Your breaths come sharp and shallow now. All the blood in your body rushing between your legs. The stimulation is almost too much to bear, the excitement and panic roiling within you—the Mandalorian dipping his fingers inside, slipping them out to circle and stroke. Drawing a wet line between your cunt over and over.

Desire ripples through you in waves. Your body tightens, muscles clenching. Your bound hands keep straining in their futile urge to grab his wrist, your knees fighting against him to shut tight around his thrusting fingers. 

You’re close now. So close, you’re on the brink.

He kisses the back of your neck, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

“Aaangh!” That’s when he presses harder, circles faster, and you come, “Haaa-aah!” 

Your orgasm crashes through you in a tidal wave that upends gravity. You cry out desperately with all the air left in your lungs—the relentless pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums making you dizzy. 

“Haa-aah! Aaah!” 

Losing equilibrium, you sway, and the bindings pull painfully around your wrists. You’re at the limits of your flexibility, fighting to keep your balance before the Mandalorian’s muscular arm tightens around your waist, until he’s bearing enough of your weight to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says gently, pressing a tender kiss over your head. “Stand up. Come on. Legs spread. You know what I want.”

You shift on your heels, testing your unsteady knees. “I can’t—” but your words break off into a gasp when he clasps his hand around your throat, warm and sticky with your come.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against your temple. “I told you not to open your mouth unless I said so.”

His tone is soft, and he kisses you tenderly again through a tangle of damp hair, your forehead glistening with sweat. But his fingers grip tighter in warning. 

“Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more.”

You nod once in understanding.

“Smart girl,” he says, and without the helmet on, you can hear the wry grin on his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other. It’s going to make everything so much easier. But just to be sure—”

His wide palm fans out from your waist, gliding down your body to slip over the curve of your buttocks. 

Then he brings it down in a sharp smack that echoes through the quiet cabin. Hearing that slap, feeling the sting on your skin, the burning heat that radiates from his handprint—shakes you from the hazy lust. 

It’s not enough to want to obey. 

“I’m going to take good care of you, senaar'ika. But you have to do as you’re told.”

While he’s playing a role, the pain is very real. Yet this fantasy is about your powerlessness. Whatever the Mandalorian wants to do to you, you have to take it. Yes, the pain is undeniable—but the adrenaline?—it sharpens the hunger.

When you finally regain your balance and tilt your pelvis forward at just the right angle, your ass brushes against his straining erection, and he groans, a low vibration you feel through his chest. Arousal arcs through you, and you gasp responsively. Even now, as your body tingles numbly in the aftermath of climax, your cunt still aches, longing to be full of him.

With his entire body sealed against you, you feel the firm pressure swelling against your ass. It throbs, heat radiating through the canvas flight suit. The coarse fabric is rough, rubbing over your slapped skin. 

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding the entire length of his cock against you. “That’s what you’re going to take for me.”

Holy fuck, he’s huge. Thick, too. Your mind reels at the impossibility; can you really fit him inside you?

“You’re going to take it all,” the bounty hunter huffs, as if he’d heard your thoughts. “You’re going to come with my cock buried in your ass.”

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! 

It’s something you’ve talked about, something you said you wanted and prepared for, but….you’ve never had anyone this big up your ass before. He’s going to tear you apart. 

“Are you scared? Because trust me, I’m going to make you ready. You’re going to beg me for it. Then you’ll come so hard with my cock in your ass, nothing else will ever feel as good.”

The hormones that suddenly surge through your body make arousal indistinguishable from panic. You should be so afraid, and yet, you want this. Under the fear, you’re still full of need, urgent, and emphatic.

“After that, if you’re lucky, then I’ll fuck your mouth.”

Shit! Shit, that’s…you try to banish away the shame washing over you. He’s going to claim your body in every way imaginable, use you filthy—and it feels like you shouldn’t want this. But you do. 

“Don’t worry,”  he sighs, voice sounding softer now, gentle. “I’m not going to rush this. First, I want to explore your beautiful body.”

You feel the cold Beskar plates against the backs of your thighs and shiver.

His hands slide outward along your shoulder blades, curving down and around just enough for his fingers to lightly brush the sides of your breasts. Then, the Mandalorian’s arms circle you, reaching up to grasp them in both hands. Arousal rekindles as he kneads and squeezes, pressing them together tightly. Igniting as he tugs and pinches. 

And when your nipples are so tender you whine, “Mmmph!” he soothes them in his wide palms. 

“You—are—so—beautiful,” he moans, kissing the curve of your jaw. 

Behind you, his lips trail soft, open-mouth kisses down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, along your spine, and lower, until he drops to one knee. His hands trace over your ribcage, your sides, the indentation of your waist, and the flare of your hips. 

The pads of his fingertips are coarse but tender.

“Look at you. Legs spread. Open and wet for me. When I dream of you, this is what I’ll see.”  

Then he crouches between your knees to press lighter, softer kisses up the inside of your thighs, teasing you until you grow desperate with anticipation. “Haa!” you gasp, already panting. 

Spirals of arousal coil through you, so dizzying you have to grip the whipcord for balance. 

Soon, you’re lost to anything but the desire for him to taste you. That he’s risked so much by removing his helmet is the only thing keeping you from breaking position, regardless of the punishment. That’s how much you long to tilt your hips and rub yourself against his mouth. 

Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more. Would he like it if you begged?

“Please,” you whimper, voice full of desperation. 

He groans in satisfaction before making one long sweep of his tongue, right through the very center of your urgent longing. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes!”  

“I like hearing you beg.” Then his lips press firmly between your thighs, enfolding you in his warm, wet mouth.

Okay, wow, he’s good at this. He’s really, really good at this. 

The Mandalorian’s tongue searches for your clit, stroking and circling in a rhythm that drags you back to the brink almost instantly. But slowly, agonizingly slowly, to hold you at the edge of pleasure—like he could do this, keep you suspended there—forever.  

“Show me how much you want it,” he says, hot breath tickling against your delicate skin. 

If you could bury your fingers in his hair, you would. Instead, you shift all of your weight onto one leg, using what remains of your equilibrium to drape the other over his shoulder, feeling the rough stubble of his beard and the shell of his ear press against the inside of your thigh. 

Helping you balance, one strong hand grips you by the hipbone while the other slips over your knee before guiding his mouth between the sopping wet folds of your cunt. 

You tense every muscle, digging your heel into his sinewy back to try to keep him there. Right there! 

He rewards you by lapping faster—and then, when you cry out, speeding up even more. “Sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Every throb of pleasure ripples through your body from your nipples to your scalp, all the way down to your toes, until you can’t help yourself from rocking your hips, increasing the pressure just a little more. You feel each bob and turn of his head as he keeps at it, caressing you in spirals as a long, luscious wave of ecstasy swells inside you.

Mando’s fingers tighten around your thigh to hold you in place. He keeps going, maintaining his rhythm so that you can ride each cresting surge. It builds low, climbing and arcing higher, and when it finally overwhelms you, when you let go, and it rushes through you—you do sing. You cry out in one long wail that lasts the length and breadth of your climax.

Your body goes limp once the orgasm fades, and just like last time, the Mandalorian is the only source of strength to keep you upright. Hands clutching your hips, he pulls back to place a wet, sticky kiss low on your belly, then says, “We’re not done yet, little dove. Not nearly done yet.”

Gods in heaven, how much more of this can you take? You’d love nothing better than to sink to the floor in post-orgasmic bliss…but his cock is still in his pants. 

Too afraid to look down, you feel his body shifting between your knees and wonder, what next? Should you offer to reciprocate? Fuck, you want to. Right now, you want him in your mouth so badly that it’s all you can do not to beg for it. 

Your lips part, the words ready on your tongue—

When suddenly, he lifts you by the back of your thighs, settling you on top of his shoulders. You barely have time to gasp, to grip the braided cable between your hands—to think—before he buries his face between your thighs again.

“Oh, gods!” you gasp. “Oh, haah…!”

The tension in the whipcord keeps you from falling backward, but you feel precariously weightless sitting on his shoulders. Reeling, overstimulated from your last orgasm, you instinctively try to writhe away from the press of his wet tongue, his hot mouth, the coarse hair of his beard, and nearly lose your balance. 

Mando steadies you, wrapping his arms around your lower back, ass braced against his thick biceps as he works, tongue parting the soft creases of your cunt to find your sore, throbbing clit. 

This time, he holds nothing back, laving and shaking his head until your vision starts to blur; the pleasure is so intense it’s blinding. 

Oh shit! Merciful gods, this might break you. It’s too much. Too much. But you can’t move. Caged in his arms, you have to take what he gives. It feels so good. 

You don’t think it can get any better until he starts to suck. After that, you can’t think about anything anymore. Your mind is just blank. Static. White noise.

Fuck! You’re at the brink again—so fucking close—your heartbeat is thundering against your ribs. The muscles of your inner thighs lock, clenching around his jaw. Your body is poised right there. Right there! That exhilarating moment before—

And at that's when the Mandalorian slips a finger, slick with your come, inside your ass. 

The sensation kindles alarm, and your entire body tenses in response. All your instincts awaken in primal fear to remind you just how vulnerable you are.

Okay! It's okay! Just relax. 

In answer, his other hand begins sweeping up and down your thigh, caressing and soothing the tension away. 

That’s right. You have to relax. He’s doing this for you, to make you ready. Right now, your pleasure is the only thing that matters. Focus on his tongue circling your clit, his finger gently caressing millions of tiny nerve endings. 

But he slides up so seamlessly, so deep inside you, the pressure pools in your abdomen, and you gasp, “Oh, gods!” again.

Don’t resist the sensation—yield to it. Work with it. Take what you need.

Pulling on the whipcord for leverage, you thrust your hips against his mouth. He groans in encouragement, responding by sucking harder, licking faster—and then, spearing his tongue inside you.

Okay, yes. Yes! Gods, yes! You have never come so soon after your last orgasm, but he’s going to get you there.

That’s when he adds a second finger. 

You feel it stretch you, but your body doesn’t resist this time. And when he starts working them back and forth in rhythm with the thrusting of his tongue, it starts to feel so good. So good.

Each rut of his tongue and stroke of his fingers sends heat coursing through you, so flushed now that your skin seems to be on fire. Your hair clings to your sweaty cheeks. But nothing is as hot as his breath between your thighs. 

So you move faster, rubbing yourself against the raw stubble of his chin, the tip of his nose, drowning him in your cunt. All the while, he increases the pressure of his fingers just a little more, massaging inside you. 

You start to shake, the muscles in your legs trembling, as the Mandalorian twists his hand, rolls his wrist, and you feel the brush of his knuckles against the tender skin of your asshole. 

Then, he sucks your clit between his teeth, and you come in a burst of ecstasy so sharp it makes you scream. There’s a second when your vision goes entirely white—like staring into a bright sun—and your heart thumps so hard you hear the blood rushing in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your stomach.

His fingers gently slip out of you so he can grasp you by the ribcage with both hands, bracing you as you shudder through the ricocheting aftermath of your orgasm. 

“You taste like heaven.” 

He would know. His face, his hands, his neck, and shoulders are all covered in your come.  

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Mando’s broad hands stroke the length of your back, and the sound of his voice melts away any lingering doubts. He knows when to be gentle and when to be rough. You can trust him with this. 

When the bounty hunter ducks his head out from between your thighs, you think you’ll have to stand up again, get back into position. And you know you’ll be punished—but you can’t. You’re shaking too much for that. 

It doesn’t matter. Your feet never touch the floor. Bending you at the waist, he slings you over one broad, muscular shoulder, so that you dangle limp and dizzy, upside down as he steps into a lunge to lift you both off the ground. Tearing your wrists free from the whipcord at last, your arms fall numbly behind him, blood rushing back into your digits.

Draped over his shoulder like a hunter’s prize, he strides across the cabin toward the bed. 

Perhaps you’re delirious—you must be after three orgasms. Or maybe it’s because your fingers are so desperate to find new life. But when you look up (or is it down?) to see his perfectly sculpted ass outlined in dark gray canvas about a foot from your face…weak as you are, you can’t stop yourself from reaching for it. Your hand stretches lower until you feel its firm contours press satisfyingly against your palm. And gods help you, but you squeeze. Hard.

The Mandalorian chuckles, a deep booming laugh that has your knees jostling against his chest. You’re breaking from the submissive fantasy, but maybe he won’t—

“I knew you wanted it,” he laughs, voice full of triumph as—fingers splayed wide, he slaps his hand down over your ass cheek—the exact same spot as last time—so hard the sting brings tears to your eyes. 

Fuck! Your jaw drops. The pain sharpens all of your senses, bringing everything into focus. Your thighs squeeze together, cunt clenching against the sensation. Fuck that stings. Right. He’s back in the role. Time to be rough.

“You’ve wanted my cock inside you since the moment I stepped through that door. Haven’t you?” 

When he tosses you onto the bed, you fall onto the mattress, flat on your belly. But before you can get to your hands beneath you, he presses a knee down between your shoulder blades to keep you from moving. 

“You want to beg me some more, senaar'ika?”

The silk belt of your robe slips over your eyes, and he lashes it tightly behind your head. 

“Tell me!” he demands, like he’s making you confess to something. 

“Yes,” you whisper into the sheets, words muffled by the bedding. 

“Yes, what?”

“I want your cock.”

“Where?” he asks, and the sound of him tugging down his zipper fills your ears.

“Inside me,” you gulp. “I want your cock inside me.”   

You hear him tearing open the condom wrapper, “That’s right. Beg me to fuck you.” 

“Please—”

Then he’s on top of you, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your face, his knee lifting from your back to part your thighs, his massive weight pinning you underneath him. 

Reaching between your naked bodies, he wraps a hand around the base of his shaft to rub the swollen head of his cock along the cleft of your ass, back and forth, slicking the entrance before he pushes inside you.

You cry out in shock. 

So does he.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s so tight! Haa, haa!”

Leaning forward, he places a soft kiss atop your head, pausing with just the first few inches of him inside, letting your body stretch to fit him. 

“You okay?” he whispers quietly against your cheek, his face damp with sweat. 

When you nod, he begins tracing his tongue over your earlobe, kissing your jaw and the corner of your mouth. His beard is still drenched with your come.

“This feels amazing,” his breath is hot in your ear. “Just this. You're gripping me so tight.”

You’re tempted to stop here, to say the safe word. And you trust Mando to stop; you know he would. That’s why he’s reminding you. And this does feel amazing, his body enfolding you, the rub of his bare skin over yours, the feeling of every firm muscle pressing into your soft curves—the pressure inside you. 

But you want this. You want all of him.

“More,” you moan.

The aching burn is so intense as his enormous cock plunges deeper inside you—slowly, but without ceasing. “Oh fuck!” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, that feels so good. Almost, ha-aah…almost. It’s almost in.”

The burn as he opens you—the way the entire universe narrows to this bodily sensation, until you perceive nothing but its fantastic pressure—only anal sex does this for you. But its so hard to trust someone to be careful, to make you feel safe in spite of being so vulnerable and powerless. Mando does that. 

“I’m going to start, haah…I’m going to start moving, okay?” he says, panting from arousal and restraint.

Adjusting his weight onto his elbows, he rolls his hips gently, strokes building. There’s so much lubricant on the condom; each shallow thrust is frictionless, but you’re still trembling like one of the strings of your valachord. 

“Haah, you feel so good. So—nnngh—so fucking good!” Threading his fingers through your hair, his forehead drops against your neck, and the heat from each ragged breath spills over your shoulders. “Anngh!”

Then he starts fucking you in earnest. He pushes deeper now, pulling out further to feel the grip of your asshole squeeze up and down the length of his shaft. Already, you feel arousal peaking within you with each long, slow stroke. 

Mando’s width and length stretches you, makes you burn. And you moan, fingers twining in the sheets as the pleasure becomes indistinguishable from the pain. 

“You like this?” his voice is teasing again, getting back into the role.

“Mm-hmm,” you moan, unable to form words. 

It’s like you can’t feel anything but him moving inside you, pleasure surging in ebbs and flows, like a tidal current. It’s hard to describe. The barrier between your anus and cunt is so thin you feel him everywhere. It burns, this inner blazing heat. 

It’s a sweet agony, like the handprint on your ass, making everything tingle with sensitivity, amplifying every sensation. Even the pressure of the mattress against your clit is enough to send a thrill through you.

“Is this the biggest cock you’ve ever taken?” 

You cry out in torment and desire as he shoves into you harder this time, and your whole body bends and turns in a desperate effort to accept every inch.

“Yes,” you want to sob into the mattress. It aches. It’s so fucking good you could scream.

“You’re taking it so good,” he whispers as he sinks in even deeper. “That’s it.”

And he’s finally all the way inside you now, so deep that when he starts thrusting, you feel the slap of his sac against the dip of your cunt. Each stroke presses you harder against the mattress—hitting you where it feels best inside and out. 

And strong, so strong he pushes your body upward on the bed.

“I want to fuck you like this all night.” His voice is tight with strain—just barely holding on, waiting for you.

But he’s not moving fast enough for you to come.

“More,” you whimper into the damp folds of silk.

Mando pushes in again, burying himself balls-deep inside you before whispering against your shoulder, “What's that?”

You need more. “I need more…I need—”

“You worried I won’t fuck you hard enough?” he laughs, plunges in deep, and bites the soft flesh of your shoulder. It’s not enough to break the skin—but you cry out from the painfully sweet ache of it.

“Beg me, senaar'ika,” he says, sitting back on his heels, filling his lungs with each heaving breath. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

But this time, you don’t want to obey. You don’t want to say please. You want to find out exactly how hard the Mandalorian can give it to you. If you want to come with him, you need more, and you know how to get it. 

You turn your head so he can see the jut of your chin, fill your voice with challenge and say, “Mercy of the gods, shut up and fuck me harder.”

The bounty hunter scoffs in shocked bemusement.

His arm hooks around your elbows, pinning them behind you, “You’ll regret that, little dove.” 

Then he yanks back on your arms, pulling you off the bed, and against his chest. Your ass presses into the bowl of his hips, thighs sealed against his. His other hand slides up your stomach and between your breasts to clasp around your throat. A touch that means possession. 

The Mandalorian owns you now, and he knows it.

Mando slams into you, and you want to cry out—but you stifle it somehow. You don’t want him to stop. You’re so wound up that tears well against your eyelids, dampening the blindfold. It scares you how much you want this. Gods help you, but you do. You fucking love it.

His thrusts remain slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing. Yes, punish me! His pelvis clashes against your buttocks like the snap of a paddle. But the tempo increases as he starts to get into it. Soon, he pumps into you so hard that it makes your breasts bounce, and your entire body starts to sweat. Your hair swings around your face, tendrils sticking to your neck, your flushed cheeks and forehead.

He never loosens his grip. Your shoulders start to ache from being pulled back so far—your throat throbs against his palm—and yet you want nothing more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock filling you. It’s like he’s reaching to the core of your very being with every thrust.

Yes, you think, fuck me. Make me take it.

The bounty hunter’s hand tightens around your throat—unconsciously, you think—because of how close he is. Each ragged breath vibrates against your back. You can still breathe, but his grip keeps you dizzy and light-headed. 

A sharp thrust, and your arousal climbs. Another, and it goes higher. Mando bucks and bucks, and the world behind your eyelids becomes bright and sparkly around the edges. Sensation shivers upward through you, strengthening by the moment.

The climax builds from somewhere deep inside you, and you sink into it with every thrust, slipping deeper into pure instinctive sensation, until it claims your whole body in white-hot ecstasy. When you come, the desperation in your wordless cries transforms into a feral scream as you fall forward, tumbling back onto the sheets when he releases you. 

The silk feels so cool and smooth against your feverish cheeks. 

“Haah, aah! I knew you’d love it,” he groans triumphantly. “Nnngh!”

But he’s almost at the brink himself—his body contracting, abdominals clenching. That’s when he pulls out, denying himself release.

The mattress dips and creeks as he climbs off you, and off the bed. 

“I’m not done with you yet, senaar'ika. We’re not even close.”

You hear the snap of latex when he removes the condom.

What next? You’re limp and dizzy, lying sprawled across the covers. Will he make me come so hard I pass out? Fuck me until I can't walk straight? You shouldn’t want that as much as you do, but complete surrender can feel so sweet. 

“I can do this all night,” Mando pants.

Then, he lunges across the bed and grabs your ankles so tightly you feel the press of his thumbs dig into your bones as he drags you down the mattress, until your legs dangle off the side. The tips of your toes brush against the floor. 

“You thought you could push me?” His voice has lowered almost to a growl. “But that’s not how this works. You belong to me.”

He pushes your thighs apart roughly, then clutches your hair and tugs back hard enough to bring renewed tears to your eyes. Bent over the edge of the mattress like that in front of him, you feel his other hand seize you by the hip, and with that, he shoves the whole thick length of his cock inside you.

“Aaah!” you cry out as he starts thrusting faster. His fist in your hair tightens as he pumps into you, and already you know you’re going to come again. How is that even possible?

“That’s right,” he pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Yes, make me take it. Gods help you, but you fucking love it. There’s nothing you love more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock. “Yes!”

"Because you're mine. Mine to fuck."

"Yours...I'm yours."

Mando fucks you so hard and so fast. Your ass would not have been able to take this. Shallow rapid thrusts until, growling, he rams his full length into you. Then he’s pumping inside you again and again. By now, the shame you think you should feel at being taken like this—held down by your hair and fucked with every ounce of strength in his body, every bit of force he can put into it—this has been eclipsed by the pleasure surging within you. 

Every single goddamned stroke of the Mandalorian’s cock sets you on fire. A wildfire so hot it consumes you, burns you down to nothing. You press your face into the mattress and feel the tears welling in your eyes spill down your cheeks, pooling against the sheets.

The only sounds in the cabin are his guttural grunts of pleasure and the slap of your bodies against each other. Just hearing it turns you on even more. 

He’s moving faster now, and you’re nothing but heat. Pleasure tightens, blazing inside you. 

Mando fucks you, and fucks you, and then you’re coming again, clenching around his cock. "Fuck! Oh, fuck! Holy shit...it's so good!"

"Mmmph, you like that?"

"Don't stop...please don't stop!"

You come so hard that consciousness is nothing but white light, white noise. Your cry is muffled by the sheets and blankets, but you wail it out anyway, unable to hold back.

“Yes,” he whispers as he pistons even faster than before, his hand on your hip gripping tighter. “Fuck, yes—yes!”

The Mandalorian groans as he throbs inside you. He goes tense, makes an animal sound that seems to come from low in his belly, and slams into you one more time.

Then he’s pulling you off the bed and onto your knees. You feel his wet cock press against your face. His voice is hardly more than a whisper, trembling with need. “Open your mouth.”

His fist in your hair doesn’t leave you much choice. You open, and Mando pushes inside. "You're going to swallow all of it."

It’s all you can do to take him in, to brace your palms against his thighs. You taste your come slick around his cock as it slides between your lips. He’s so huge that you can barely use your tongue, but you bob your head, doing your best as he thrusts, shallow and then deep.

The Mandalorian's grip takes control, sometimes pushing no more than the head of his cock into your mouth, and you suck, hallowing your cheeks—then shoving into your throat, making you choke and gag around him.

It doesn’t take long.

"Haa-aah! Aah!"

He shouts out, and then he comes, filling your mouth with each hot pulsing spurt. You swallow it down, every drop, the sensation of him throbbing between your lips, almost lost in the spasms of pleasure still echoing through you.

The Mandalorian pulls out then. The fingers buried in your hair release their grip. Pausing one long moment to regain his breath, he brushes the sweat-soaked hair from your cheeks. 

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

Really? Blindfolded. Flushed and sweaty, legs tangled beneath you, slumped against the bed frame?

But the honest tenderness in his voice has you pressing a hand to your chest. 

His cock is still half-hard, nuzzled against your cheek, and there’s a second when you’re tempted to pull him down to slide back onto it. But…you’ve reached your limits. 

And the Mandalorian is in no better shape. You hear him collapse onto his knees beside you on the floor, crawling over on his hands and knees to reach for something. His helmet, maybe?

But it’s not his Beskar. 

Gently, he drapes the soft folds of your robe over your shoulders and gathers you in his arms. He leans back, sitting propped against the bed, settling you onto his lap. You let your head fall against his chest and delight when he rests his chin atop your head. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you manage to form words. “Just give me a second. I’m…melting.” 

That makes him chuckle, and for a while, you both stay like that, laughing, breathing hard, barely able to move.

“I wasn’t too rough?”

“No! No, you were perfect. I loved it. It’s like—like you read my mind from that night we met. It was everything I wanted. You took such good care of me.”

His voice remains concerned. “But you’re shaking all over?” and his arms wrap tighter around you.

“It was just so intense.” 

“Here,” he says pressing a cup of tea into your hands, then lifting it to your lips when your fingers tremble too much to grip it tight enough. Fatherhood has softened him.  

“Are you?” you ask timidly.

“Am I what?”

“Are you okay?” You feel strangely shy in front of a man who just fucked you senseless. “I mean, was it okay that I asked you to do this? Are you okay with being—with what we did?”

“It was amazing,” he sighs, kissing your temple. 

But that doesn’t really answer your question.

Honestly, this is the part you were most afraid of…that it would change everything. That no matter how good the sex had or hadn’t been, you thought, afterward, he’d lose respect for you, and it wouldn’t be worth it. 

You don’t want his judgment or pity for needing this.

But there's no contempt in his voice. He doesn’t sound righteous. Or cold, or callous. And he doesn’t seem intent on sneaking out to leave you alone in regret. 

“Before, I was worried that I might hurt you…and that was hard to balance against my instinct to protect you," the Mandalorian says thoughtfully. "But you made more than enough noise to let me know how much you enjoyed it.”

“Oh gods,” you laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth, absolutely mortified. 

“That was the best part,” Mando lifts your hand from your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your nose, then your lips, not shying away like some men do, after they've come in your mouth. So you part your lips and feel the brush of his tongue against yours. His fingers wrap around your neck, deepening the kiss, and pulling you closer.

It’s not the unbridled passion from before–it’s tenderness and longing. Two lonely hearts finding shelter in a precious moment of fragile intimacy.  

“I was just surprised, given…”

“Some of my clients never touch me. Some have hurt me—said horrific things. Most are rich businessmen,” you shrug. “Nervous about cheating on their wives. Regardless—given what they pay, they all expect a performance... 

So it’s nice to let someone else put in the work,” your lips tug into a sly grin. “Seriously, five times? And your dom talk is shockingly good! The growling is very hot!” Guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones. "Now I get why Anassa keeps offering you a job."

"She told you that?" He scoffs.

"Hmm, she likes to tease me about having a crush on the Mandalorian."

Nestled into the crook of his arm, you feel the rumble of renewed laughter building in his chest. 

"She told me I could keep the armor on."

You reach a hand behind you to stroke his jaw and bury your fingers in his hair. "I'm glad you didn't."

Mando's head turns in your grasp to place a soft kiss against your palm.

“And you don’t think differently of me for…wanting this?”

"I know the difference between fantasy and reality," then he leans forward to stroke your earlobe with the tip of his nose. "And I bet I could make you scream just as loud, taking you soft and sweet."

Now why does that make you blush redder than your slapped ass?

“Maybe next time, we can switch roles. Then I’ll understand better why you like it.”  

Next time? You love that! He’s already thinking about the future. 

Your brow arches, “Maybe I'll tie you up—borrow one of Katlin's whips to smack that tight ass of yours.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

There are no words for the wicked anticipation in Mando’s voice. 

Next time...

****************

Thanks so much for reading!!

[sirenmoth]

Monster Mash - Werewolf + Orc

CW: spit roasting, knotting, face fucking, rough oral sex, blowjob, hair pulling, mentions of cum eating, doggy style, bruises, knot, dry humping?. degradation, scent marking, scent marking via cum, mentions of animal death, mentions of somophilia, breeding, overstimulation, cockwarming, bite marks, threesome - F/M/M

Monster Mash Masterlist

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After what felt like hours, hours of blissful slumber, you groggly rolled over only to bury yourself into something soft and hairy, that was a quick indicator you were somewhere new, likely carried by the Satyr or retrieved from the hut by one of your partners while you slept. Trying to piece togther where based off your surroundings without opening your eyes, sleep still heavyily evident on your mind.

The faint sticky feeling of something wet is between your thighs, at first you think it's left over cum, but quickly notice it hasn't got the same gooy texture, it's not cum but spit. Opening your eyes to find yourself surroned in a sea of blankets and pillows, a very familair set of blankets and pillows, surroned in the soft furs and pelts covered nest beloging to your werewolf mate. The blankets and pillows, furs and pelts secured aeound you in a small wall, just high enough to stop you accidenlty rolling out in your sleep. The same woolen blanket you were wearing pior, the one with dyed strands of light blues and dusty pinks, sea greens and royal purples, sunset reds and oranges that blended togther into the blackened wool, creating the image of a nebula start cluster, draped over you seamlessly, the fluffy wool a welcoming feeling to your still bare body.

You asked your Werewolf mate to help you make the nest after a long and difficult rut, where your knees were bruised, sore and bloody from being bent over and dragged over the hardwood floor, helf in position for hours as you took his knot over and over. He was more than happy to help and provide you with the best nest possible, upset with himself your intimate moments left you with injured and in pain.

So he came back with diffrent blankets and duvets, quilts and pillows of diffrent sizes and shapes, textures and colours. The fur and pelts of animals he had hunted and killed, sometimes you'd receive the whole thing, comletly intact and still warm. Your Orc partner was more than happy take care of your Werewolfs kills, you added whatever fur or pelt to the nest pile, the rest went to that nights dinner and the Vampire. The Orc also added a few thigs he brought from his travles, sicne the two of them were more than happy to share you than the others, more willing to tag team you to render you brainless and sweaty pile of crumpled flesh laying in the middle of the nest by the time they were done, overstimulted and unable to move a single limb.

Turning over in the equivalent of an oversized california queen bed, you strech, allowing your limbs to gain some relief, hearing your joints click and pop as you do, the movements stirred the sleeping pile of fur nest to you, flufft pointy ears perked up at the sound of you waking, tail wagging in joy.

Reaching over to pet your oversized puppy, you're met with immediate face lick once your had made contact with the Werewolfs fur, feeling the way his tails swishing back and forth against your leg, you hiked it up and on to his hip, trying to get as close to his warm body as possible. You feel the Werewolf press his muzzle against your head, resting it onit as he wrapped you in his arms. He was always a cuddly one, loved physical affection and having you close, he was a giant puppy and loved being called as such.

He rolls over, pinning you under his weight, you readjrest you had to behind his head to countine scarcting. The Werewolds hind legs starts kicking at your movements, effectivley casuing himself to hump agaisnt you, his cock slowly starts poking out its sheath. Whimpers and soft moans echo from the nest throughout the room and into the hallway, as you continue to scratch he continue to hump, his emerging cock hitting your clit in all the right places.

With his tail wagging and leg violently thumping, it was creating the prefect rhythm to get you wet and needy, you start to grind your hips in time with the Werewolfs humps, barely audibale moan into his ear, fingernails still scraching away behind it. Smiling as your Werewolf mate starts to lick your face again, then your neck, then starts to nip at your skin like a teething puppy testing out a new toy.

Suddenly, you're flippe over, your knee digging into the soft floor of the nest, your mate now grinding against your ass, front legs pressing down onto your shoulder to get you into his favrioute postion to breed you, face down and ass up, your face turned to the side to look at him over your shoulder. Locking eyes with the Werewolf, you can see the fiery lust burning in his eyes, his mount upturned into a snarl to expose his canine teeth, the Werewolfs cock slips between your thighs as he mindlessly and wildly humps away. Bouncing you agaisnt his dick like a peronal, living fleshlight.

You're both so caught up in the throes of pleasure you fail to realsie the door to the shared room opening and heavy footsteps walking through the doorway, it wasn't until a large and pale green littered in battlescars grips your chin, carassing it as it makes you look up. Your orc, back early from his travels. "Can't leave you two alone, can I now?" He mocks, watching you try to swallow your moans in shame at being caught, violently being thrusted forward by the momentum of being grinded and humped by the large, hairy beast beind you.

"Can't help it," the Werewolf whines, stopping his movements momentarily to grab his cock and guide it into your dripping hole, slipping his swollen and aching into your cunt, barely getting more than two inches in before he starts back up, pounding away with abandon, not even pulling out before pushing back out, effectively rutting into you like a wild, rabid dog in heat, his knot hitting your cunt over and over, his low hanging sack swinging wildly, occasionally slap against your clit, sending shockwaves through each time they made contact.

You can barely get any words out, choking on your own moans and spit, the Orc still has hold of your chin, watching as you go cross-eyed each time your mate hits that sweet spot inside you, droll runs down your chin. The Orc laughs, pulling you up by your chin as, forcing you into your hands, squishing your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, bringing you towards the barely hidden bulge behind the animal pelt loincloth.

The Orc runs your face along his concealed dick, humping in opposite tandem to the Werewolf behind you, watching you try and suck his fat cock over the cloth. "Aw, does our little mate want my massive Orc dick down their throat?" The Orc mocks, "such a whore for us, a pathetic human wasn't enough to satisfy your dumb needs so you slut yourself out to us." One hand pulls you away while the other moves the loincloth, exposing the leaking tip, to which you immediately try and lick, only to be stopped.

"Gone dumb on monster cock already, you've already forgotten your manners. What do we say, whore?" The Orc sneers down at you.

"Please, can I suck your cock?" You reply, staring up with doe-eyes.

A loud sign before your shoved down the girthy, slightly darker green member, choking as it quickly hits the back of your throat. The Orcs runs his fingers through your hair before sharply pulling, guiding you up and down with little effort as your thrust forward, taking more of his dick anyway by the pussy-drunk Werewolf fucking himself dumb on you. A loud growl rings out, claws digging into your hips in the same locations as the Satry did, only then did you remember about the puropsly brusies he left behind for the others to find.

Back and forth, back and forth. Always stuffed full as both monster boyfriends barley left the respective holes they claimed, tears ran down your face from the tight sensation on your scalp in the Orcs grips and his cock abusing your throat, the Werewolf abusing your inside with rapid thrusts, claws finding prurchase on your hips to pound int your harder, like its the last thing he'll do, his pelvis hits your ass, still sore and red from your hime with your goat-hoafed lover. Spit an pre drips down your lips and on to the plush bedding of the nest below, muffled screams and moans get caught in your throat as you gag, your mind trying to comprehend what's happening.

"Such a pathethic cockwhore," The Orc laughs, "Letting us fuck you whenever and whereever we please, you like being a cumslut, don't you?" He laughs, "Our useless cumslut." He knows you can't reply and finds joy in that while the Werewolf bruises your hips further with his hands and claws and ass his with pelivs from the excess and rapid movements, chasing his own pleasure first. Your orgasm crashes into you, when did it make an apperance? You shake and squirm as best as you can in your death-grip like hold as your climax washes over you.

Time goes past, how long as it been? More orgams are rung out of you until the bedding is soaked in your slick, knees burn from the friction of being pulled between the two cocks, troat and pussy soar. Still implied on your mates cocks, the Orc shoves your head down as far as you'll go, grinding agasint your face, nose pressed agasint his pelvis, spilling his warm seed down your asosthagus, forcing you to swallow al of it, some esacping through the corners of your mouth and run down your chin, your Orc scoops it up with his thick fingers and wipes it on your face and in your hair. The Werewolf wasn't far behind, howling loud enough to lightly shake the room as with one final hard thrust, his knot breaches your gummy walls as he bites down on the already placed mate-mark on your jugualr, belly slightly bulging from the excuess of cum, the Orc does the same thing, scooping up what spills out and smear the Werewolfs cum over your sweaty and brusied body.

You lay there trying to catch your bearings, head on your Orc lovers thigh and hair mattered, your breath fans over his softened cock, the other one still deep inside you, each time you clean you can feel the thick knot throb from stimulation, still buried deep, forcing you to warm his still hard cock. The two monsters chat ideally above you, the Orc running his fingers mindlessy through your hair, now lovingly detangleing it with his calous fingers as the Werewolf rests his chin between your shoulder blades, tired and catching his breath from the previous activities but not tired enough to sleep and you know once that knot goes down, their both going to want a round two.

So you lay there, warming your Werewolfs mates cock, eyes closed as you breathe in the scent of your Orc partner. A few minutes nap sounds lovely, even if their both gearing up again, the cock inside you twiches and the one in front stards to stand at attenton. Well, it wouldn't be the first time they've used you in your sleep.

[old-stoneface]

some medieval outfits for morgan, dai, perry, gwen and gwaine :) notes under the cut 👇

morgan's outfit is scandinavian inspired, that kind of northern medieval period with a layered woolen dress and a tablet woven belt. i gave her no extra jewelry and no accessories because she would see no use in being dressed up, and i wanted to ensure a utilitarian vibe. her shoes would be made of variegated leather. she's wearing a very period appropriate head covering of a simple cotton or linen fabric, pinned into place over her hair, which would be braided and secured around her head.

dai's outfit is very much the typical sort of general british medieval peasant/artisan garb. i desperately wanted to give him the hood that defines the working man's silhouette from that time period, and of which we have archeological evidence of existing :) hes wearing a layered tunic, one with long sleeves underneath a sleeveless one, secured at the hip with a decorative belt, and tights underneath - this is a very distinctive medieval outfit, perhaps one that you would instantly recognize as mid to late dark period. his shoes would also be leather, but i made them more fashionable than morgan's, because he seems concerned with aesthetics.

perry has the honor of wearing on of my personal favorite items of medieval clothing: the quilted gambeson. this is based on an actual 14th century reconstruction, the sort of long, tunic type of padded armor that would typically go underneath chainmail, but i opted to give them a more freeing outfit for more agile movement. the hat is an accurate head covering too, but because they're an athletic youth, i made sure their hair was showing in some capacity. underneath, they have sturdy leather shoes and tights. what's interesting to me about this ensemble is that it looks androgynous on them, cementing their gender identity to the modern eye, but historically, this is a men's outfit. their spear is also referenced from an image of a 13th century weapon.

to be honest, i don't have much to say about gwen's outfit. this was referenced from an illustration of 13th century french fashion. i really wanted to give her a regal, subdued look, the kind of identity she would assume in order to sort of fly under the radar, as it were. nothing that grabs too much attention but it does accentuate her good posture and noble status. the head covering is a veil over a hat with a hair covering underneath, hiding where she would have braids pinned up in the back. her shoes would be probably a sturdy linen with a leather sole. her belt would either be embroidered fabric or fashioned out of cloth and metal ornamental discs.

gwaine has one of my other favorite outfits. to me, his identity as a rambling traveler is pretty important, so i gave him traveling clothes. he's got the wool cloak clasped at the shoulder with the typical brooch used in this time period, a simple, long sleeved tunic, trousers under that with tights beneath those, and leather/cloth shoes that are secured by leather strips. his hat - maybe my favorite part - is referenced from a reconstructed landsknecht hat. it is definitely a little silly in its color and construction, very eye catching as were most landsknecht adornments. it shades the eyes, its a statement piece, and with the mismatched nature of the rest of the outfit puts together an image of a well-traveled man who spends his days on the road. for accessories, he would also have a short sword on his belt, and a lute strung over his back.

thanks for reading :) hope u found it interesting!!

[desertdollranch]

Getting dressed with Kirsten

It's a bright January morning on the Minnesota frontier, and Kirsten's bedroom is almost as cold as it is outside! She's going to get dressed as quickly as she can in her warmest winter clothes. Kirsten is restless and tired of being kept indoors, so today she'll be meeting up with her cousins Lisbeth and Anna, who have a fun surprise adventure planned for the three of them. Kirsten is so excited!

First she warms her freezing feet over the foot stove--it's full of hot stones and gives off a comforting heat.

She slips her warmed tootsies into a pair of soft, felted sockor that came all the way from Sweden.

She starts with pantalettes that are hemmed in pretty eyelet lace. Even when it's muddy and slushy outside, Kirsten is expected to keep her pantalettes snowy white.

Over those, she puts on a white flannel chemise. In the summer, she wears a lightweight cotton chemise, but in winter she needs the extra warmth.

Next, she puts on a quilted flannel petticoat.

On her feet she wears her thickets and warmest knit stockings, with her most durable leather boots.

Now for the outer layers! She puts on a crisp white blouse and a black woolen skirt with a pretty waistband.

Her sweater was made in the traditional Swedish style that mothers have been knitting for their daughters for many generations.

Before putting her mittens on, she ties up her braids with ribbons that match the waistband of her skirt.

The mittens she puts on match the lovely patterns and colors on her sweater.

The pompom hat also matches!

Kirsten always wears her amber heart necklace given to her by her grandmother.

She finishes her outfit with a bright red woven scarf.

All bundled up now, Kirsten is ready for the surprise adventure that Anna and Lisbeth have promised.....

The perfect sledding hill!

Kirsten's sweater, hat, mittens, white blouse, pantalettes, boots, stockings, and hair ribbons were made by Pleasant Company. Her petticoat, chemise, and skirt were made by my mother when I was Kirsten's age. Her necklace, scarf, and felted sockor (made from alpaca fiber) were made by me.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 25, 24 juin 1906, Paris. Costume de voyage et cache-poussière. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Le costume en lainage gris clair quadrillé est garni de lisérés de peau rouge; la jupe, taillée en six lés, est disposée en plis retenus sous des pattes en drap gris, ornées de petits boutons; les coutures sont masquées sous des biais de peau jusqu'aux pattes. Le corsage est fait avec un empiècement en drap gris garni de boutons en peau rouge: on complète le costume par une ceinture en cuir et une cravate en soie rouge.

Le cache-poussière est fait en silésienne grise; on le garnit de bandes d'étoffe piquées de 5 et de 10 cent. de largeur; le manteau est fait avec des plis à la taille, (voir le croquis représentant le dos); les manches sont terminées par des manchettes arrondies.

—

The light gray checkered woolen suit is lined with red skin edging; the skirt, cut in six lengths, is arranged in pleats restrained under gray cloth flaps, adorned with small buttons; the seams are concealed under skin biases up to the legs. The bodice is made with a gray cloth yoke trimmed with red leather buttons: the costume is completed with a leather belt and a red silk tie.

The overcoat is made of gray Silesian; it is lined with strips of quilted material of 5 and 10 centimeters. of width; the coat is made with pleats at the waist, (see the sketch representing the back); the sleeves are finished with rounded cuffs.

[ghoul-foolery]

Flufftober, Day 13

Clothes On / Snow day

Prompt List - Kink/Flufftober Master List

//

> Snow Day > Hancock/Nora >Tags: Fluff > Words: 859

//

The cold was inescapable.

It was the type of cold that sank down to the bones, it chilled muscle and blood and made existing just south of miserable. Retreating inside didn’t even make it better. There was no heat. The icy chill of radioactive winter sank into the ancient bones of the State House, too.

Nora’s feet were always cold; even when she layered on threadbare socks, and kept her feet in her boots. The only time she seemed to get properly warm was when she and everyone else in Goodneighbor congregated to the barrell fires that appeared in the street right along with the first chill of winter.

The only other time was with Hancock.

The first time he welcomed Nora into his lap it was awkward. Hunkered down on the couch in his office, wrapped in blankets and sniffling from the cold, Nora would have been ready to fight when he first pulled the blankets away from her if she wasn’t freezing. Before she could even manage to swear at him, Hancock pulled her into his lap and draped the blanket over the two of them.

Hancock burned a little hotter than the average man. He didn’t have an answer for why. He chalked it up to some ghoul thing. But from that time, and anytime thereafter, Hancock was willing to share a blanket, share a bed.

And that’s where she found herself when Hancock shook her shoulder and roused her from sleep. The room was still dark — or it was until he flicked on the flashlight on her Pip-Boy.

She grimaced and recoiled under the covers.

“Nora? Hey, babe, c’mon.”

“No you come back to bed,” Nora grumbled in reply. “It’s still dark, what are you even doing?”

“Will you just get up?”

The covers were pulled back and Nora groaned fitfully, her body tucking into a tight coil as she tried to preserve warmth. Her toes almost immediately succumbed to the chill of the room, and she hated that. She’d been warm, and cozy, and asleep and Hancock disrupted the whole damn thing.

“Hancock, please…”

“No chance, Sunshine. Get up.”

“Is it important?”

“Like so fucking important.”

“Do I need my gun?”

“No.”

“Can’t be that important then.”

“Nora…” The low drawl in his voice sounded borderline dangerous. It was a sound she had come to associate being kissed breathless, with wandering hands and the warm press of naked bodies.

Or tickling. It could also lead to prodding fingers along her ribs, and breathless begging of a different sort…

“Okay, okay…” Nora sat up slowly, and was instantly greeted to her vault suit being pressed into her hands.

“Get dressed, put your shoes on, and meet me in my office.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him. The cold of the room helped Nora get dressed in record time. She dressed in layers, throwing on some old thermals and thick woolen socks before slipping into her vault suit. Then she laced herself into her boots. By the time she left Hancock’s room her fingers were starting to feel the first pangs of cold.

The office door was open, filling the landing with light. Hancock stood just beyond the mirrored couches and the coffee table. He was at the counter. His back was to her, stirring the steaming contents of two ceramic mugs. There was a quilt folded up, resting just off to the side.

“So what are you up to, mister mayor?”

He looked back over his shoulder, greeting her with one of his slanted smiles.

“Hey, just in time. Come get the blanket will you?”

Nora did, immediately tucking her hands into the fabric. With the mugs clasped in his hands, Hancock tossed his head towards the balcony door. She was on the verge of complaining, making some comment about being pulled from bed to go out into the damn cold, but she didn’t.

Nora stepped side as she opened the door, letting Hancock step out into the frigid night. Nora followed a beat later— it was snowing. It was coming down in big fluffy flakes. It coated the ground, leaving the streets of Goodneighbor cold and sparkling under a blanket of untouched snow.

“Get out here with that blanket, wouldja?”

Nora unfolded the blanket and stepped out onto the balcony with a squeaky crunch of snow.

Hancock set the mugs on the railing, and they worked together to wrap themselves in the blanket. One end wrapped around his shoulders, the other around Nora’s. They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Nora snagged one of the mugs, welcoming the heat as it seeped from the ceramic.

She took a delicate sip. Hot bourbon coated her tongue, the burn of alcohol eased with the earthy sweetness of honey, and zinging with a hint of citrus. The warmth pooled in her stomach and seemed to radiate outward to her chest, her legs. When she exhaled, her breath came out in billowing steam.

“So?” Hancock murmured as he took a drink from his own mug. “Worth it?”

Nora let her head tilt into Hancock’s shoulder. A snowflake landed on her cheek.

“Worth it.”

[rosewaterandivy]

Part 3. hopelessly hopeful

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: no use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of heartbreak/grief, cursing, pop-punk slander by one Eddie Munson, Thanksgiving mention, protective!robin, scheming!nancy, sad girl hours continue

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.7K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist | playlist

previous || next

Then - Fall term, Thanksgiving break

There’s only so many days you can sulk in bed. Wrapped in a blanket swaddle of your own creation, it’s almost impressive; everything you could possibly need is within reach – snacks, drinks, and entertainment options. 

“You alright?”

It’s cold.

Winter has well and truly arrived in Hawkins, frost dusting the windowpanes and an ever-present chill in the air. Brief winter winds hit the town, snow flurries dusting the streets but never enough to stick. Still too early in the season for that.

You bundle up all over - two pairs of woolen socks, a sweatshirt stolen from god knows who, and too-long sweatpants snatched from Steve or Eddie, a quilt gracing your shoulders like a cape. Your friends try not to chide your melancholy overmuch, but the stubborn part of you still misses him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. The steadying effect of his voice.

Barely a month out and you’re already slipping. Eddie took it upon himself to delete your ex’s number, socials, and whatever other vestiges of your past life he could find from your phone. Some nights you’re thankful for his pre-emptive measures, most nights you’re not.

You spend most of your weekend mornings sleeping in as late as your body would allow because any moment awake was another moment that your mind will wander back to him. You feel ripped asunder, oscillating between accepting the fact that your engagement and relationship is over, and then letting yourself grow frustrated for allowing yourself to fall into this trap in the first place.

You wish you had never said yes to him last December. Never gone to that party back in college, never given him your number, never kissed him, never made love to him. You still ache to think of him, and you can only blame yourself.

Under a heavy spare quilt (Steve’s, naturally), you shiver. Due to the cold or your heartbreak, who's to say?

Eddie heaves a sigh and joins you on the couch. “Okay, sad girl,” he says, curling you to his side. He’s gentle handling you, warm hands tucking the blanket around your prone body with light touches. You’ve been lying immobile on the couch for the better part of the morning, long enough to make it through Bladerunner: 2049 without falling asleep.

They’re all understandably concerned.

You cry at the drop of a hat now, it seems. You throw things in frustration and have a quicker temper. You stare viciously at the black hole of your phone screen. You adamantly refuse to look at yourself mirrors. You sleep fitfully at night, tossing and turning against the sofa in the loft. Only admitting defeat when Steve pads in and sleepily leads you to his room with slurred murmurs of “Jus’ take my bed, honey. S’fine.” 

You hate that you sleep best curled alongside someone else. 

And Eddie’s all the more concerned because he’s been keeping an eye on your Spotify activity. Too many emo playlists from high school for comfort. He’d nearly staged an intervention when he walked past your classroom yesterday and heard something off of From Under the Cork Tree. Luckily Steve was able to talk him off the ledge.

“Look, I know you don’t approve,” he said pulling Eddie into his classroom by the back of his shirt, “But I know that when she listens to this song–”

“The fact that you know it is cause for concern, Harrington.”

“Uh, it’s more concerning that you know this song, Munson.” He huffs and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. ”Regardless,” he pats Eddie’s shoulder, “She’s trying to move on and that’s a good thing, trust me.”

And sure, he’d give Steve the benefit of the doubt. But he still has half a mind to scrub your Spotify data and start from scratch. For now, he settles for sitting with you as the opening credits roll for the first film in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended edition, of course.

Nancy did it on purpose, but she’d never admit it. 

Just booked the AirBnB she’d been eyeing after you’d mentioned, casually, that your parents would be in California with extended family for the holiday. You’d bailed to avoid any uncomfortable questions. 

Friendsgiving it was then. Nancy and Jonathan would join the rest of you the day after Thanksgiving for a belated celebration. Until then, you had the cabin to yourselves. 

A little cabin by tucked away in a forest, earth damp from the mist and air fresh with the scent of petrichor. The car slows to a stop and Eddie cuts the engine. Robin bounds out of the front seat, all flailing legs and arms, desperate to claim the best bed for herself.

You roll your head to release the tension in your neck and elbow open the backdoor to step out of the car. Steve jerks himself awake aided by the thunk of the trunk being slammed shut and Eddie’s whistling. You allow yourself a soft laugh watching as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, glasses forgotten in the mess of his hair.

Blinking blearily, he exited the vehicle to help Eddie load the groceries and luggage inside. Trying to outdo each other with how many bags they could carry with the least amount of trips. With a roll of your eyes, you follow them into the cabin taking care to wipe your shoes on the mat by the door.

Unfortunately, you were greeted by an unavoidable fact. Apparently, there weren’t enough beds. Four to be exact, two singles and two queens. Eddie and Robin had already taken the singles, while Nancy had specifically requested the room at the back of the cabin. Which only left the queen bed in the upstairs loft or the couch.

Quite the predicament.

You tell yourself that it’s only for a few days, then you’ll be back to Hawkins before you know it. Back to reality and the countdown to winter break. You just needed a little reprieve, a few hours drive from your small town and running into students at the grocery store. Some time and space to clear your head and get over this thing.

Taking a deep breath to settle yourself, and it’ll be fine. It’s just Steve. The guy you’ve known since you were in diapers, no reason to worry. He knows everything about you there is to know. Well, nearly everything. 

A sharp inhalation of air as you trudge up the steps to deposit your duffle bag on the bed. That’s it then, you and Steve would take the loft and suffer through a few days of close quarters.

Not like you hadn’t done it before.

You’d been through worse; the camping trip of 2015 comes to mind.

“Huh,” he says after shutting the front door, shoots you a grin from the first-floor landing. “I’ll just crash on the couch,” he declares, “Give you some space.”

“No, don’t do that.” 

“S’fine,” he insists, “I’m sure it’s comfortable enough.” He tosses his bag onto the sofa cushions, a plume of dust bursting from the fabric, motes lazily drifting through the receding evening sun. “Shit,” he coughs, hand waving the dust out of the air, “Maybe not.”

Your laughter is soft, quiet as if it’s just for him to hear. A shake of your head as you descend the stairs. “Not gonna happen Harrington,” and it’s a promise. 

You lean in slowly, hand warm against his arm as you slip the backpack over your shoulder and turn to go back upstairs. Your free hand links fingers with his to tug him along. He follows you willingly, like he always has.

“I don’t like it,” Robin whispers to Eddie after dinner, arms soaked to the elbow with soapy water while she washes the dishes and passes them off for drying. He hums, taking a plate from her before wiping it down with a dish towel. “This forced proximity thing is not going to work out the way Wheeler thinks it will.”

“C’mon Buckley, would it kill you to be an optimist here? Harrington’s your best friend, after all.”

“Exactly,” she nods, “Which is how I know that this whole thing,” she gestures wildly around, soap suds flying, “Is going to implode. And we’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”

Eddie shoves his tongue to his cheek in an effort not to refute Robin, even though he vehemently disagrees with her assessment of the situation. If he had to come down on someone’s side, it would be yours, without a doubt. Sure, you were sulky and sad but that was to be expected - you were mourning for fuck’s sake.

Though you were crashing at the loft until the end of the year, just until you could secure a short-term lease somewhere, when he got up for work in the mornings you were not on the sofa where he’d left you those nights before. In fact, the only thing that did remain was the quilt you’d salvaged from Steve’s bedroom.

And speaking of Steve, his door was unusually cracked open, a sliver of morning light flooding across the hallway. Soft rises and falls of conversation sound out from his room, echoes amplified in the corridor. Your bright laughter quickly shushed by Steve, the sound of rustling sheets.

Eddie smiles at the memory, setting the plate in the drying rack by the sink and turning to Robin. “I think it’s sweet,” he admits, “And I think they both need something to hold on to right now.” He leans back against the cramped kitchen’s counter, elbows bent and fingers wrapped under the edge. A shrug of acknowledgment, “Just so happens they’re holding on to each other.”

Robin sighs, knowing that he’s right. She subconsciously mimics Eddie’s posture, fingers gripping the edge of sink and eyes falling to the dishwater as she faces the basin. “I just–” she breathes, eyes flitting up to him, wary. “I’m afraid he’ll get hurt… hurt, again.”

She shakes her head and pulls the plug of the drain, water groaning its way down the old pipes. Keeps her voice low, whispering, “Eddie you’ve been there, he’s in this endless cycle with her.” She grabs the towel from him to dry her hands, “Just over and over again while she’s completely oblivious to it.”

He nods in sympathy, hand coming to her shoulder and giving a squeeze. “Rob, I get where you’re coming from. Really, I do.” He tongues his cheek once more, searching for the right words. “And as much as we care,” he gestures between them, “At the end of the day it’s still their choice.” He pulls her in for a hug, chin resting against her head.

Robin allows herself to lean on him, groaning as her head knocks against his chest. “They’re just such idiots Eds.”

She can feel the vibration of laughter from his chest, “They sure as shit are, Buckley.” He draws back, looks her in the eye, “Luckily for them, they’ve got us looking out for ‘em, hmm?”

“Yeah,” she grouses, with no real heat behind it, “Lucky.”

Steve has to all but drag you to bed, thanks in no part to the cans of hard kombucha Eddie kept sliding your way. “You’re such a punk,” you pout, completely limp in his arms as he schleps you upstairs, “Was havin’ a good time, don’t wanna sleep.”

“Right,” he grunts, dragging you up the final step into the loft, “I’m the bad guy because I stopped you from crushing cans against your skull.”

“Yeah,” Robin joins in, phone in hand as she documents what she calls ‘clown chronicles’ and Steve has half a mind to be offended at his inclusion; he may be slow on the draw but you are an actual fool, hand to god. “Why you gotta ruin my blackmail material Harrington?”

You hurumph in displeasure, purposefully wiggling to make his life even more difficult. He drops you on the wooden planks in retaliation. “Rude,” you scowl petulantly, struggling to get your arms and legs working again.

“Well, if you’re gonna be a brat about it…” Steve trails off, distracted by searching your luggage for pajamas. He makes his way through socks and pants, a shirt you swear you didn’t steal from him in college, “What the hell—“

A bark of laughter, as if you just remembered something, “Would you believe,” you can’t stop yourself from laughing, “I packed three coats and no pjs!”

Steve halts his search, annoyed. Drops the articles of clothing unceremoniously in the duffle bag. Turns to you, hands on his hips and disapproving, “You’re a walking disaster.”

In that time, you’d wedged yourself between the top of the second floor landing and the dresser, slumped against the wall and were, yup, about to tumble down the stairs. He grabs you around the middle, hefting you over his shoulder and praying you wouldn’t upchuck at the sudden movement. 

You giggle and squeal, legs kicking against his back and chest as he plops you down on the bed. He begins to peel the sweater from your torso as you bat his hands away with a lazy smile, “If you wanted in my pants Stevie, all you had to do was ask.”

Steve sputters at your innuendo, choking and coughing over his own spit like an absolute imbecile. Mutters, “Fuck you so much,” under his breath once he can think again.

“Atta girl!” Eddie shouts from the landing by the stairs, “Make him work for it, Trouble.”

“Not helping dumbass,” Steve calls out, hand scrubbing down his face tiredly. 

Eddie and Robin say their goodnights and make themselves scarce. Flopped back on the bed, he watches your breathing even out with the rise and fall of your chest. How did you fall asleep so quickly? 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says, fingers snapping to wake you back up, “C’mon, gotta shower and get ready for bed.”

“No,” you whine, eyes screwed shut, “S’comfy and I’m tired.”

It’s hard to convince himself to rally and get you up again. Sprawled like a star-fish across the bed because you’re, yeah, an asshole who takes up the entire bed. His gaze is fond as you rustle against the sheets, breathes out a sigh of relief. 

He sits at the foot of the bed, knocks against your leg, “Hey, wake up.” A slow shake from your head that’s currently smushed into a pillow. “Mmm, that’s too bad,” he sighs, “Guess I’ll just go ahead and prepare a bath for myself then.”

Earlier, he’d noticed the upstairs bathroom had a nice clawfoot tub. And you are, if nothing, a slut for a good soak in the bath. It was the only way your family could convince you to go camping and backpacking in the summers, by dangling a stay at a hot spring or spa for the trip home.

Steve stands back up to really sell the idea, and wanders into the bathroom. Bless the AirBnB host because the sink and tub are well-stocked with every kind of toiletry you could want. Glass jars filled with various bath bombs ranging in color and scent, shower gels from Le Labo, and skincare from some brand called La Mer.

He turns the hot water faucet as far as it’ll go, because you like a bath “hotter than hell and twice as steamy.” Runs his fingers under the water, gauging the temperature and turning the cold water tap as he hears your footfalls against the tile. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he says, winding an arm around your waist. Rolls a sleeve up to his elbow and plugs the drain deeming the temperature sufficient. 

Pulled against Steve’s side, you rub at your eyes and survey your surroundings. And, true to his word, it’s a fucking nice tub. Technically, it’s a tub/shower combo with an extendable shower head, a tasteful shower curtain pushed to one side of the basin. He nudges you to pick a bath bomb and tosses it in, colors melting into the water as it fills the tub.

“Not so bad, yeah?” 

Setting you back against the sink as you nod, Steve opens his dopp kit and grabs a toothbrush. You’re quiet as you watch him squeeze some toothpaste on the bristles and brush his teeth, his eyes meet yours in the mirror and he winks.

Easy laughter as he turns back to you, jaw holding the toothbrush in place while he helps you pull off your sweater and tosses it into the bedroom. Stumbling briefly, your palm lands against his chest where you can feel the warm beat of his heart. His brow raises, are you good?

A shake of your head, you shiver at the new sense of chill in the air, skin reeling from its loss of warmth. “Cold,” you supply with a small shrug. Gone was the buoyant, cozy happiness from dinner and the after-dinner drinks hour. A brief reprieve from your sadness that seemed to follow you like a little storm cloud. 

He finished brushing his teeth, arm guiding you along as if you’re a marionette doll and he’s the puppeteer. Not that you mind, his warm hands skating up and down your arms absentmindedly. He tucks his chin on your head and sighs.

“How d’ya wanna do this, honey?”

Reaching behind you, you quickly shut off the tap, steam from the tub dampening your arm. Hooking your thumbs in along the waist of your leggings you push the black fabric downward, hips canting from one side to the other. You feel his quick intake of breath before you hear it, the air stuttering in his lungs.

Hips successfully freed from their confines, you grip his shoulders once more to stabilize yourself. His hands settle safely at your waist, mouth open in a pant. “What do I—“

“If you could just—“ you both speak at the same time. Huffs of laughter as you compose yourself, “I’m gonna fall over if I have to wrestle these off myself.”

He swallows drily, willing his gaze not to wander too far down. “Kay, so I just—“

You chuckle, guiding his hands to the rucked up fabric at the tops of your thighs. Your fingers weave through his, thumbs leading him to the thick band. “Hook your thumbs in and tug.”

He nods dumbly, giving a cursory pull at the lycra and nylon weave. You sway at the effort, uneasy on your feet, palms steadying themselves against his shoulders. 

Standing as stark still as you could, you watched silently as he descended to his knees on the tile. Head glancing back up to you while he rolls the leggings from your thighs.

The sight of Steve kneeling at your feet nearly steals your breath. 

He swallows thickly, trying desperately to look anywhere but right in front of him. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of you before in this way. He definitely has. Because he’s a grown man who's in control of his desires, he tries not to. But because he’s a man semi-living in close quarters living with a woman he’s attracted to, he can’t help it. 

It certainly doesn’t help that he’s close enough to smell you, see the damp patch of silk on your thong, near enough to taste it, if he wanted. He bites his cheek and focuses on the metallic tang of iron in his mouth. Distracts himself with thoughts of you – your friendship, your ever-present teasing with an edge of flirtation that causes the blood in his veins to rush. 

He’s too far down now for your hands to reach his shoulders comfortably, instead, your fingers glide through his strands of hair; he bites back a groan when your nails lightly graze his scalp, tugs the leggings further down, your knees knocking together at the effort. 

“Sorry, Stevie,” you rasp, as if every cell in your body is attuned to the way he responds.

The nickname that rolls off your tongue certainly is not helping, his jeans becoming tighter as he works the fabric from your legs. He’s not sure exactly when it happened — when the friendship turned into something more for him. Somewhere between the wet plush of your lips shivering against his after the Homecoming dance freshman year, and the ABC frat party in college, he’d realized that the way he felt about you was more than friends should.

In fact, it was borderline unfriendly.

You hiss as he drags the last bit of fabric down your calves and off your ankles; the joints pop softly as you roll them out. He chucks the leggings through the doorway and rises to his full height, your mouth is open and panting — pink and wet. 

“Thanks.”

He nods, eyes trained on yours, face coloring from the effort in the heat of the room. He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, “No problem,” swallows the saliva collecting in his mouth. “I’ll let you uh—” he turns to leave.

Your hand reaches out for him, cool fingers against his forearm. “You’ll come back, yeah?” Voice but a whisper against the rushing of his blood, “When I’m settled?”

Steve curses his timing because when he turns to respond, he catches sight of your back as you lift the tank-top off. Skin dotted with beauty marks and the occasional scar, his eyes open wide. The soft curve of your breast against the cage of your ribs, the delicate slope of your waist and hips.

He has enough sense to turn away when you hook your thumbs into the band of your thong. But goddamn if it doesn’t pain him all the same. You fling the silk elsewhere and he hears the water give way as you step into the tub and slide down until the bubbles cover your form.

Casually pinning your hair up in an effort to not get it wet, some bits fall to your face and have gone wavy in the heat, curling up against your chin and cheeks. “Stevie?”

He thinks you look like some sort of Raphaelite muse.

“Come back for you?” He asks, repeating your earlier question as his back slides along the basin of the tub where he sits, sighing when your hand tangles in his hair, “Always.” 

[she-who-the-river-could-not-hold]

apricity [a helnik ficlet]

apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter [from this prompt list] Nina-centric, background Helnik | setting: modern AU, inspired by canon storylines | wc: ~1k

Nina could feel the bite of cold morning air before she even walked outside. The low temperatures that had brought out the necessary extra quilts, all handmade, to pile onto the bed. The wooden floor below, freezing the bottoms of her bare feet as she’d scurried from the dresser to the bathroom. Later, the wood-burning stove would fill the small cabin with a crackling warmth. For now, a chill took its place. 

Hat crammed onto her still-messy hair, Nina double checked all of her layers before pushing the front door open. She slipped out onto the porch. It was just big enough for two rocking chairs and a side table. all of which looked like they’re carved out of the same type of wood. She’ll remember to use a coaster if she ever bothers to set her coffee mug down on it. That’s a big ‘if’ though––right now it’s the best Saints-given handwarmer she could ask for. Bless her own self for remembering to set the timer on the machine the night before so the pot would be hot and ready for her.

It’s peaceful this far up north.

Shockingly peaceful, compared to where her apartment building is back home in Ketterdam.

Nina would never consider herself a morning person. 

But things have started to change the past year and being up here right now has only solidified it. From where she’s nestled deep into the rocking chair, she can spot the rays of sun beginning to crest over the treeline.

It’s just her and the silent nature around the cabin to greet the sunrise today. The snow blanketing the ground around them is pristine, a glowing white that has deep blue shadows and a twinkle on the top. The pines surrounding the cabin are stoic, standing tall and still, not even a hint of a breeze this morning. Branches somewhat weighed down by their own piles of snow. Later, no doubt, there will be a crunch as the family of deer living nearby come by. Bird prints, just dainty enough to leave a mark, could be contenders. For now, they’re hidden in the trees, waking up alongside her. She doubts there will be an addition of human tracks today; there’s no reason to leave the cabin for another day or so. Especially if the promised snow tonight ends up adding on to the current layer. 

Her nose was tingling and no doubt a bit red. She was thankful for the thick woolen socks on her feet, protecting her toes from feeling as cold as her cheeks. Nina inhaled the aroma and steam of her coffee before taking a sip, eyes still trained on the treeline. 

It had become her new routine.

Waking up to watch the sunrise, a moment of silence and peace that she didn’t even know she craved until showing up here last week. To watch the sky shift shades, lightening up to a pale blue as golden warmth stretched out. It naturally wouldn’t be warm today, but it made the sun’s kiss all that much better. A casting of warmth across the cool chill that otherwise snuck straight to your bones if you weren’t properly dressed. It emerged over the trees, fracturing the sun’s rays into radial stripes of gold across the snow and reaching out towards her. Warming her up as it rose up and cut across the porch. 

Nina had spent a lot of time not paying attention to the little moments like this.

Never again would she take any of it for granted.

When her mug was half empty and the sun now fully in the sky, the door to her right creaked open.

“Need any more coffee? I took all I need and there’s still a little bit left,” Matthias asked, voice still deep and raspy with sleep.

Nina frowned at the sudden sight of him, shooing him to go back inside.

“What do you think you’re doing opening the door, dressed like that? You can’t catch a cold,” she swore. It was difficult to be too angry when his bare chest looked that good––but that also meant she could see the very reason the two of them were here at this remote cabin. The bandages over the bullet wound would have to be changed now that he was awake. His recovery was going well up here, back in his homeland, but that didn’t mean he needed to get frostbite and mess this whole thing up again.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes-good naturedly but slipping back inside all the same. She was pretty sure she caught some type of comment about her being bossy, but it only made her preen. Matthias liked his women bossy. Or well, he liked her when she was bossy. And also, she got to be in charge as his resident live-in nurse as she helped get him back on his feet. Her word was law right now.

The memory curdled in her stomach and Nina’s gaze grew momentarily unfocused. 

She’d never forget the day she’d found him in the street. He’d been running late to their anniversary dinner and she’d known when she’d heard the bullets. Her hands had been as red as her dress she’d worn from all of the blood, pressing onto him as she fought to keep him alive. The EMTs had said they’d never seen a miracle like that, how he could have been shot like he had and that she’d been able to keep his heart pumping. 

She wasn’t too sure either. 

The faint sound of music turning on inside the cabin jarred her from the memories and she shook herself free.

Two more weeks up here of recovery and Matthias would be as close to normal as he could have ever hoped for. She got to sleep beside him, feeling his warmth of being alive. Spoil him, make him waffles exactly how they should be made. Read in front of the evening fire, his large hands encased on her ankles as she stretched out on the couch. She’d never been much for snow but their winter walks to get his cardio back had woken up new appreciation in her. The same thing that drove her to wake up before sunrise each morning now, to watch the golden glow and to feel the kiss of the sun. Letting it warm her from the inside out. With one last glance at the sparkling snow, Nina smiled to herself before making her way back inside the cabin.

She already couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s sunrise but now there was a whole day to embrace.

[goodearth200]

heavy winter quilts printed with palms and roses. Quilted by hand, it is soft, warm and comfortable to snuggle under or simply drape over your bed.

Front: Silk velvet quilted with a layer of surgical cotton batting.

Reverse: Printed with stripes on soft cotton

Material: Silk velvet front, cotton reverse

Packaging: Cotton muslin bag that can be reused to hold laundry or linens

Dimensions: Single: L 60”x W 92” | Double: L 110” x W 92”

Care: Professional dry-clean

Irregularities: Minor variations in colour and print are intrinsic to the process of crafting products by hand and add to their appeal.

Manufacturer Name: Goodearth Design Studio Pvt Ltd

Manufacturer Address: Ballabgarh Plot No.8, Sector IV Mathura Road, Faridabad - 121004, Haryana, India

[hapan-in-exile]

WIP Wednesday - Tales from the Dark Garden

New Mandalorian x Reader one shot from me

Hey there 👋 I’ve been traveling a lot lately and I won't be back home for a while yet…but, I kinda can’t believe how much I have missed writing and spending time with my characters. Made me realize how deeply I appreciate this creative outlet!! Thank you Tumblr

While I'm at the airport, I thought I'd post something in the works since I haven't been active in a few weeks. For folks who are reading my serialized Mando fic, don't worry—I did not abandon it!

The last installment I wrote for Hapan in Exile was all smut. It was also my most popular post! Give the people what they want? And apparently, now I can’t get enough of writing erotica. Sooooo…

I’m working on a one-shot set in the same universe as my ongoing series. A sort of non-canon spinoff that's just smut.

No plot. No character development. Just sex. I'm making fanfics of my own fanfic, basically. Very meta!

Below is a snippet of the first installment. Hope you enjoy!

I should be back to posting regularly in Aug. If I can get some time to finish this up in coffee shops while traveling, I will! That honestly sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon 😌 ✨

Tales from the Dark Garden 18+

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”

You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave.

It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure. 

It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.  

You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations. He was terrifying. And sexy as hell.

That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses that would have reduced a younger Thuli into a stream of inane babbling. 

Good thing you had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.

The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.

All the adrenaline that surged through your body at the sight of his weaponry had  immediately transformed into excitement, raw and primal. 

This man made you feel…

Sweet gods, divine and merciful.

“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “I will happily deliver your compliments to my master.”

The Beskar gleamed in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?

Arousal surges within you, fear and wanting intertwined. 

The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside. 

But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.  

Which is why Anassa chose you.      

“It is my honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And my duty to please.”

The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.

“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “My master thought you would enjoy the companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before you return to the Outer Rim.” 

The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.

Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “The use of this ship—and myself—are yours for the night.” 

Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. 

And right now, he’s imagining taking you. 

The fear is still there, but by now, it had sharpened to anticipation so intense that it ached. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.  

Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree. 

No. If submission was his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Bat’ya with her cruel tongue. 

You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion. 

Let’s start with coy seduction. 

Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the generous contours of your body.  

“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Someone to take care of you. My only desire is your comfort and pleasure.”

With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proferring a cup.

“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”

Yet, again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.

Surprisingly full lips.

What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?  

A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted. 

Timidity would yield nothing. 

You arch an eyebrow, “I have never known a man who preferred solitude to my company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.” 

The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.

“I am here to satisfy your needs. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.” 

While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.

Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps I could play the valachord or sing for him?” 

“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.

Well, at least he’s not completely immune to your charm. 

“Pleasure takes many forms,” you say, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts. I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”

You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”

The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.

The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.

“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended. 

“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.

Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance. 

In answer, you lower your gaze.

“That’s right,” he says cooly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.” 

Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it. 

And to think you worried he’d be too self-conscious for roleplay. This is going to be so good.

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

to be continued...

[hanzajesthanza]

the mishmash of clothing that geralt’s company wear during their journey is delightfully piecemeal. it’s like half-brokilonian, half-stolen from banditry, half-clothes which actually belong to them. ik i made this post as a joke but i actually really love the outfits of the company

geralt and dandelion are dressed in hooden grey elven mantels. later in chapter 4, they’ve exchanged them for homespun cloaks stolen from the guards, which they used to escape the camp. from though he still has his recognizable headband and medallion, geralt is seemingly almost incognito as he wears a leafy-patterned elven jerkin from the dryads. (and for even more brokilon influence, before zoltan gives him the dwarven sihill, he has a sword from col serrai).

speaking of dwarven fashions, dandelion receives a quilted jacket and a ‘swashbuckling’ marten-fur kalpak from zoltan and his company. he replaced his plum hat with the heron’s feather with this marten kalpak, so he as well is almost incognito. as far as accessories go, he has a brass-studded belt and the cruel-looking knife from the dwarves, too; although he immediately lost the knife. after the events of chapter 4 and in the middle of 5, his head is wounded and bandaged.

zoltan tells milva that she “looks too much like a squirrel” to approach humans alone — which is probably a result of her dress and her bow, of course. asides from her mahogany bow with whalebone risers, measuring 5 foot with a 24 inch draw length, shooting grey-fletched arrows… and one silver arrow… she’s likely dressed in some brokilonian or elven garb, owing to her work as an agent for brokilon. but she also wears “human” clothing, a blouse and woolen leggings. her belt is described, with a pouch and a hunting knife with a bone handle hanging off of it (and in the next book, she gives this knife to angoulême as a gift). perhaps most curiously, milva’s not mentioned to be wearing her iconic braid or plait during this book, rather her long hair is described as falling into geralt’s face when she leans over him in tense conversation in chapter 1, tossing her hair with a sudden movement when offended in chapter 5…

cahir is almost unrecognizable as nothing he wears betrays him as nilfgaardian, instead he’s dressed in a hauberk, leather tunic and cloak from the men who were transporting him. but this hauberk becomes ever-so iconic in its own right as it plays such a role in the fish soup… as a strainer.

regis, of course, dresses modestly and is perhaps the only one of the company dressed in his own clothes not signalling affiliation to a larger faction or taken from some roving banditry. black robes, something like an apron tied around the waist. when they meet him, he has a linen bag, but when they leave, he’s exchanged it for a leather one. and also, a walking stick, which is never mentioned again by the writing... he also has his nigh-iconic black, woolen cloak-cape, which he wraps himself up in…

and the horses! do not forget the horses. geralt’s elven roach, a bay mare who rides as if bitted by horseflies. the lazy and docile bay gelding pegasus, of course, remains dandelion’s steed. cahir rides on a chestnut colt, which he loses but later recovers. milva’s black horse, which she tells geralt not to touch in chapter 1, which also becomes the subject of debate in chapter 4. regis rides on a nilfgaardian bay near the end of the novel, by which point they’ve also obtained a riderless grey horse which carries their modest belongings.

these small little details are all just described so wonderfully across the course of the book, the picture is painted for you eventually, over time, your attention is rewarded with an intricate picture at the end…

[the-ellia-west]

@darkandstormydolls It is finished

Here you go!

[Gift]

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

Cold puffs of sky decorated the frigid horizon as icy air raced from end to end across the underside of silver snow. Flakes of cold crystal carried on deadly darling drifts. Winter wind whistling around Bricks and stone, singing through alleys and crowds to rustle the coattails of one young Ashling Elerson. Icy blue eyes quick and wary, he weaved through cold streets, the white skies churning overhead in anticipation.

The young man kept his thin arms tucked tight to his sides, gusts of white biting deep beneath woolen sleeves, sneaking through every path it could find. He shivered, stepping carefully as the cold edged the nibbles of frost settling between the stones of the cobbled road.

He stepped quicker through the cold winds as he found his footing, his brown woolen coat hastily buttoned with a folded over collar and a nervous frown tugging at his thin lips. He pulled away from the wind, frowzy blond curls muddied by time and stained into a light bronze that fell into his face and blocked his vision.

He shook his head and pulled his hair back, head shifting from left to right as if afraid something horrid would happen if he didn't. Swirls of wind barraged the city and the young man quickened his pace as winter tore at his skin with frosty teeth, tinging his fair skin a light shade of peachy pink.

But despite his active and lightly frazzled appearance, his clothing suggested him as more than a just an arbitrary somebody. A quilted waistcoat in shades of deep burgundy and an off-white shirt peeking out from beneath it, colors nicely complimenting the deep brown of his coat and trousers, which covered nearly every inch of his skin.

Unconcerned with his appearance for the moment, he picked up his pace to escape the cold and the eyes of snow that had begun to cover the tops of buildings and swirl into tiny cyclones over the stones as the wind picked up and carried him away out of sight.

[tj-crochets]

Now that you have some experience with sewing and wool, I was wondering if you had any ideas about combining the two? I was thinking about making a wool bag, similar to the one whose pattern you shared earlier this week. (That’s actually what prompted my ask). But I need a bag with a lining in it, and I was theorizing how to achieve that

Hi! I am a little confused by your question. What do you mean by wool in this context? Because I've never sewn with wool fabric. I've sewn mostly quilting cotton, minky, faux fur, and denim, but I've also sewn a little bit of leather and some fabric that idk what it was but it was very stretchy, but I've actually never sewn wool. I think wool fabric is mostly woven or I guess maybe felt? In which case you'd sew it just like any other non-stretch fabric, I think. I have not encountered knit woolen fabric but it probably exists, and if you're sewing that I'd guess treat it like stretch fabric, with particulars varying based on degree of stretch. Wait, what wool bag did I share a pattern for?

[brokoala-soup]

I think my aesthetic might be something along the lines of cottagecore and light academia with a tinge of Studio Ghibli and bits and pieces of chaotic academia. So this includes:

classical music blaring out of cheap speakers, homemade food served in reused takeout containers, half dying houseplants in everything but traditional flower pots, the fragrance of jasmine and mint, mirrors reflecting sunlight on to disorganised bookshelves with the most random collection of books, soups in glassware, gel pen doodles all over my notes, herbal teas in whiskey glasses, locally sourced incense sticks, handmade woolen blankets over commercially sold quilts, baking granola bars on a lazy sunday afternoon, adding chocolate to literally everything, mid day naps when the weather is cloudy yet humid, ribbon ties instead of stapler pins, making my own spice powders, scented oil lamps, being obsessed with cloves, sleeping on a bed full of pillows only to find over half of them on the floor next morning, missing alarms because closing my eyes for two more seconds won't make me fall asleep again, picking flowers and herbs from the garden, sleepy afternoons, careful skincare but with the most day to day products, eucalyptus oil, use and throw inhalers to deal with my anxiety because the smell of menthol calms me down, short nails and neutral manicure, smelling like flowers one day and like the sea the other, getting excited whenever I spot the moon, absolutely in awe and in love with the clouds because they're amazing and so creative, puppies, calligraphy using ball pens, homemade mocha latte using soya milk, my grandma's childhood earrings that I wear all the time, newspapers, organic vegetables sold by retired social workers, tote bags, reusable metal water bottles, hot showers and cold rinses, using my grandmother's favorite brand of soap because I love smelling like her, herbal hair oil, smelling like sandalwood, cooking pasta with the family, reading secondhand books, collecting fused light bulbs, pencil underlines, postcards, 1 am poetry, pop instrumentals and pensive journaling, benzene rings on page margins, berry flavoured cough syrup, baking bread, long walks, loud conversations, thrifting, e-books, chocolate wrappers hidden between dictionary pages, colourful periodic table prints, plushies, honey, fleece blankets, sleeping cats, signet ring, dried rose I'd bought for myself and carried around like a trophy travelling back home with it in the public bus, twinning perfumes coincidentally with my best friend, vintage looking brand new ink pen and expired ink, sticky notes with motivational quotes covering my wall, never buying perfumes and only using the ones I'm gifted, random words that remind me of niche incidents or memories written along the corners of my study material, pearl jewelry set that my dad gifted my mom but it's me who wears it now, combat boots bought at ¼th it's price at a discount clearance sale, all my jackets being bought from different countries by my dad and thus each serving as a token of memory, lipstick shades that match only extremely specific vibes and look off and odd at other times, cherry lip balm stick that I've used only twice, daily calendar sheets reused as a notepad, birthday candles from my 16th birthday sitting on my work table, the lingering smell of multiple beverages in my room because I seldom wash the cups I drank them from and now they're cluttered all over the room, hand me down luxury watches older than me, chipped nailpolish, reminders written down on tissue papers, bus tickets all over my bag, sugar-free chewing gum, deodorant that never washes off my clothes, wearing clothes purchased 5 years ago and getting compliments simply because it's not trendy but is unique, mini origami cranes, rose sprays, lychee scented sanitizer, baking bread at home on weekends, homemade hair masks, turning up late because i was busy enjoying life walking through the eucalyptus grove on the way to class, running to the station yet missing the train, all my everyday ornaments having a deeper meaning to me.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 36, 6 septembre 1903, Paris. Robe en lainage avec boléro à plis. Toilette d'automne. Château de Chenonceaux. Modèles de chez Mme Blanche Limousin, rue La Fayette, 105. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Description des toilettes de la gravure coloriée:

Robe en lainage avec boléro à plis.

La jupe de cette robe, en lainage beige quadrillé, est disposée en gros plis piqués jusqu'à mi-hauteur et évasés dans le bas, pour figurer un volant.

On entoure la taille d'une ceinture-corselet en soie Liberty héliotrope, sur laquelle retombe un boléro à gros plis, monté sur un empiècement piqué; ce dernier, coupé en pointes et fermé sous un gros bouton doré, est ouvert sur un petit plastron à col droit, exécuté en guipure crème sur transparent héliotrope; on monte les manches, faites avec des plis, sur des épaulettes piquées et on les retient dans des poignets croisés sous un bouton doré.

Chapeau en paille héliotrope garni d'une draperie en dentelle crème.

Woolen dress with pleated bolero.

The skirt of this dress, in checkered beige wool, is arranged in large pleats stitched up to mid-height and flared at the bottom, to represent a flounce.

The waist is surrounded by a corselet belt in heliotrope Liberty silk, on which falls a bolero with large pleats, mounted on a quilted yoke; the latter, cut in points and closed under a large golden button, is open on a small plastron with a straight collar, executed in cream guipure on transparent heliotrope; the sleeves, made with pleats, are mounted on stitched shoulder pads and held in cuffs crossed under a golden button.

Heliotrope straw hat trimmed with cream lace drapery.

—

Toilette d'automne.

Notre, gravure représente une robe en drap bleu pastel, ornée de biais de drap d'une nuance plus foncée. On coupe la jupe avec un tablier doublé à même et piqué sur les lés des côtés; ceux-ci sont composés de lés coupés en forme et montés sur un empiècement découpé en créneaux. (Voir le dos de la robé).Toutes les coutures, ainsi que les contours des volants, sont masqués sous des biais de drap bleu pastel ornés de boutons dorés.

Le corsage, exécuté avec la même garniture, s'ouvre sur un plastron à col droit en mousseline de soie bleue d'une teinte plus pâle, encadré de revers et de deux cols pèlerine ornés de pattes. On complète la garniture par une cravate en velours bleu avec boutons dorés. Les manches garnies de pattes sont complétées par des bouillonnès en mousseline.

Chapeau en feutre blanc garni de lisérés et d'une cocarde en soie Liberty bleue.

Autumn ensemble.

Our engraving represents a dress in pastel blue cloth, adorned with bias cloth in a darker shade. We cut the skirt with an apron lined in the same way and stitched on the lengths of the sides; these are made up of lengths cut in shape and mounted on a yoke cut into slots. (See the back of the dress). All the seams, as well as the contours of the ruffles, are concealed under bias in pastel blue cloth adorned with golden buttons.

The bodice, executed with the same trim, opens to a straight-necked plastron in blue silk muslin of a paler shade, framed by lapels and two pelerine collars adorned with tabs. The trim is completed with a blue velvet tie with gold buttons. The sleeves trimmed with plackets are completed with muslin bubbles.

White felt hat trimmed with piping and a blue Liberty silk cockade.