#gay little linen trousers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

taglineguerrillawriter · 2 years

Text

I've got a snippet of a fic I MIGHT continue... fae possessive sbi.

Enjoy.

...

Before he took a step, though, he froze.

Under his foot. A seemingly small, harmless little thing; was an all white mushroom. A field mushroom.

He took a step back, and another, backing away quickly to figure out where the edge of the circle was, and how large of a detour he should make.

"Who is this gangly, human child who has stumbled upon my circle, hm?" A voice like honey hummed from just out of sight.

Tommy turned quickly and squared his stance to prevent from tripping inside the circle, and was face to face with a decidedly GORGEOUS man.

Tommy is not gay. Never has been and it's unlikely he ever will be, but he can appreciate that the fae in front of him is conventionally beautiful. Pointed ears are a given, and a head of russet curls combed forward and bouncing on his forehead. His skin is ivory with slight pink, maybe yellow undertones; and his eyes are… honestly they're like really shiny brown rocks man I dunno what to tell you.

The point is, this faerie is attractive, which means he's most-likely a gean cánach.

And if he is, Tommy is most-likely fucked, because that means he's of the Unseelie Court. Winter or Autumn, he doesn't know. And really, he doesn't want to find out.

The faerie before him wears something obviously befitting of a noble. White, blue, and gold are the primary colours of his clothing pallet. A white, linen undershirt with a pale blue woolen vest decorated with intricate, gold stitches and embroidery shaped like snowflakes. His trousers were golden wool that stopped just below the knee, and his boots are brown leather and tied around his ankles with sturdy, thin, braided straps.

A noble of the Unseelie Winter Court.

Oh yes, not only is Tommy fucked, he is beyond royally fucked.

"Well? Won't you give me your name?" The fae asks, growing annoyed with the blank, shocked look on Tommy's face.

Shit- he's coming off as rude. Quick, say something!

"Big Man." He blurts out and immediately regrets it. What the fuck?! He internally smacks his forehead. "I mean-! You can call me whatever you'd like, big man." Tommy swallowed, and his Adam's Apple bobbed at the motion.

Perfect save, moron.

The faerie looks unimpressed. "I think I'll call you Raccoon, since it seems I have caught you rooting around in berry bushes like the little creatures." He turned his nose up and a smirk grew on his face.

The bastard is deliberately trying to piss Tommy off.

Tommy fought the urge to scowl and controlled his face into a neutral expression. "I appreciate the thought that went into picking it. Pardon me for almost stepping into your circle, I was just on my way back to the village." He bowed. "I express regret for a lowly creature such as myself disturbing you, I'll take my leave and avoid disturbing you further." Tommy began to back away slowly.

"Going so soon? I haven't even introduced myself yet." The faerie scoffed. Shit! Tommy froze and risked a look up.

"My sincerest apologies." Tommy swallowed.

"Since I picked your nickname, I think it's only fair you pick mine." His smirk grew wider at Tommy's panic.

Don't pick something insulting. Come on, think! What could he pick that wouldn't be considered an insult?

"I- I don't think I could give your likeness justice in a name, but if I must choose one…" He looked around him quickly for any ideas, then back at the faerie before him. He had a lute strapped to his back. "Bard."

"You call me a Bard?" His eyebrow raised and the fear in Tommy spiked.

"The lute on your back." He swallowed. "I couldn't think of anything more to capture your character."

The faerie hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "Alright. Bard, I like it." He bent forward, "close enough." He grinned. "Now that we've been properly introduced, you may leave."

#dsmp sbi #dsmp fanfic #dsmp fae

7 notes · View notes

apprenticeofcups · 4 years

Text

👙Main 6 + Underwear

(I have a very niche interest in historical undergarments and I’m gonna make it everyone else’s problem. I hopped around a little with regard to time period, but hey, so does the in-game costuming. sources under the cut)

Asra

He likes a tailored fit, without much modification - fitted, but no buttons or ties, so he can slip them on and go. A drop-crotch breathes well in hot climates and on long journeys (and leaves a little mystery), and he likes colorful fabrics and embroidery, because oftentimes, it’s the only thing he’s wearing around the apartment.

Julian

He likes a little more coverage, and the cinch works well with all his clothing, which usually anchors at the waist. Light, natural fabrics like cotton or linen, easy to wash; he works long hours, and he has a lot of leg hair - he needs something that breathes. The flowy gay pirate shirt is his undershirt of choice; it’s simple, but it still has panache.

Nadia

She likes the back and chest support of corsets, and prefers them cut higher over the hips (so her skirts are less bustle-y and more flowy, and they don’t show when she wears trousers). What would be considered a masculine cut in a modern/real-world context, she likes underwear that’s a little longer and has some flair to it; it’s like an outfit in itself, so she can “dress down” when she’s in her workshop or her office, toss the skirts aside and pace or crouch without worrying about getting caught on things.

Muriel

He’s...not much of an underwear guy. He does laundry a lot, and he doesn’t wear things that are very form-fitting, so he really doesn’t need it. But when he is wearing something tailored (or in polite company, as a precaution), he likes a very plain cut, above the knee so he doesn’t have to worry about lines. He does the embroidery himself, with the excuse that it’s easy to practice on undergarments because nobody’s going to see it.

Portia

While she likes underbust corsets on special occasions, she prefers the strapless support of bust forms for day-to-day. Because she’s so active and has so many different kinds of outfits, she likes less coverage, more aesthetic - high-waisted briefs in nice fabrics are easy to move in, and very cute, especially because she has a thing for matching sets.

Lucio

He likes tight fits and high waists; prefers short cuts because he can’t stand pantylines (he’d go commando a lot more if he didn’t wear so many damn suits - that’s chafe city). While a corset would ruin his signature open-chest look, he likes the support of a corselet or garter belt. The structure helps hold up all those elaborate outfits - and he loves to emphasize his waist.

☕ Ko-Fi | My AO3 ☕

Asra: Issendai • Etsy

Julian: The Met

Nadia: The Met • Lavender’s Green

Muriel: Blogspot • The Met

Portia: The Met • Etsy

Lucio: The Underpinnings Museum • The V&A

282 notes · View notes

up-in-my-bunghole · 4 years

Text

Dear writers of BBC’s Merlin:

It would be such a pleasure if you would just grow the fuck up and deal with the romantic and sexual tension you’ve created between Merlin and Arthur and just let them be gay for each other, you cowards.

Here’s some ideas to spice up the show with some Merthur content:

Merlin loses control of his magic after losing a great deal (probably a loved one) and he makes an explosion of destructive magic around him in his distress and he can’t calm it back down again. People try to approach him but they only end up flung aside, and they have no idea how to handle him. Until Arthur comes in, and he starts to walk toward Merlin successfully. Everyone sits silent as they watch, Arthur only focused on his friend as he comes face to face with his golden eyes and blue sparks of heat (I imagine an electric blowout). Slowly, Arthur talks to him in a way that only he can do, actually being sincere and gentle with his words (although a few jabs slip, it doesn’t hurt Merlin’s feelings or make it worse, bc that’s just who Arthur is). He reaches out and takes his hand, feeling the prickle of sparks in his palm, but Merlin starts to settle with his presence, the glow in his eyes flickering ever so slightly. Eventually, Arthur comes in to hug him and bring him down all the way, and Merlin is back to normal.

Another magic one would be when Arthur is surrounded and has no hope for survival against his enemies, but Merlin stands in front of him just as they unleash their forces and deflects them all with a blast wave of pure power. He picks them off one by one, ruthlessly to save his king. After no one else is left standing or breathing in front of Merlin, he turns around to see Arthur completely blown away with a dismal “wow” and he gets up to kiss him as his reward.

A scene where Merlin and Arthur stand together at the final battle, gazing into the eye of the storm and knowing the chance that they will live to tell the tale is near impossible. With their last moments of solemnity, they link their hands, lean their foreheads together, and say their last goodbyes before they charge out into war.

For the past few days, Merlin has been getting these mystical pains (like a headache or some magical shit like that), and it’s been hindering him from completing his duties. Arthur notices it and bashes him for it, calling him a wimp and a girl. Merlin has a snarky remark to throw back in the beginning, but soon he doesn’t have the energy to respond. Over the days, he becomes more and more reclusive, and although Arthur notices, he doesn’t let up from his chores. Until one day, when he’s yelling at Merlin about the state of his bed chambers, Merlin yells out in delirious pain and then collapses with it, crying out in agony before passing out. Gaius is called to see him and he discovers that he has an inflammation of his meninges (the jello around the brain) ((or some other illness like that)) and Arthur finally realizes all the harm he’s done and how far he pushes Merlin. Once he recovers, Arthur apologizes and makes up for his shit behavior.

After all of Merlin’s rough battles and adventures and losses, Arthur is once again being a stick up his ass and walloping him about petty shit when Merlin has had enough. He snaps. Instead of taking all of Arthur’s insulting nagging, he fights back this time. Merlin is thrashing out at him, yelling and clawing with a fury in his eyes that almost flashes gold as he spills with rage. He lets go of all of it, all of the strife and pain and anger and loss. Hot, burning tears scald his cheeks, and he burns with them. Once it’s all out, once his tears can no longer pour and his voice has gone raw, he stuffs it back up, turns away from Arthur, and leaves him in his bedchamber with a stiff goodbye. All night, Arthur lays awake with Merlin’s voice in his head, haunted by his profound suffering that he was barely aware of. The next day, when Merlin silently serves his breakfast and starts to straighten up his linens, he whispers and ‘I’m sorry’ just behind him. Merlin only murmurs that it’s fine and an apology of his own for lashing out, but Arthur doesn’t take it. He turns Merlin around to face him, and he sees all the pain from yesterday still stowed away in his eyes. The only thing he can think to do is pull him to his chest and give him a hug with another ‘I’m sorry’ said next to Merlin’s ear. He can’t hold it all in anymore, and Merlin grips back with a choked, relieved sigh. Arthur says to never speak of this again. Merlin nods, but he can’t help but smile. Arthur smiles. too.

Or, Arthur comes storming into his chambers with his head about to explode with rage after a fight with his father, and a devastating loss. Merlin is in there polishing his armor or something when he sees stuff flying across the room and hears Arthur just about roaring in fury. When Merlin asks him what in the hell he’s on about, he gets a full face of a furious, unhinged Arthur. He’s throwing things, he’s tugging his hair, and he’s completely losing control.With every time that Merlin tries to talk some sense into him, he only burns up more until Merlin finally yells at him to please tell him what’s going on, and Arthur starts to yell again, but he can’t help it anymore. He starts to cry from everything his father has done, and everything he’s seen happen by his order and stood by. The things he’d done by his fathers side, even if it hurt his soul, and of course, his mother. He couldn’t take any more of it. Arthur can’t hide the tears welling in his eyes, Merlin stunned into worried silence at his outburst. After he lets Arthur have a moment, Merlin walks up to him and wraps his arms around his king, and just hugs him, letting Arthur let it all out. Once he’s settled enough and Merlin lets him go, Arthur whispers a thank you, to which he replies ‘of course, Sire’.

Just imagine that Merlin is secretly sparring with the other knights of the round table (probably Gwaine and Lancelot) to kick Arthur in the ass later. His time off is spent in the fields with a sword in hand, and Merlin has gotten pretty good. As Arthur is prowling the castle for his servant, he finds himself in the training yard to see Merlin with Gwaine, sparring. At first Arthur laughs, as he’s expecting Merlin’s rear end pummeled to the ground in the next few seconds. But Merlin has gotten quick, and although his clumsy demeanor is ever present, he’s actually very smooth. Arthur freezes right then and there as Merlin sweeps Gwaine off his feet and presses the sword to his chest, suddenly feeling flushed. When Merlin finds out that Arthur had been watching the whole time (with an awkward, witty little wave) Arthur can’t find the words, only nodding to him and turning tail. Merlin’s face soon turns red after, and Gwaine is a little shit about it and fucks around with Merlin and teases him endlessly.

Or, another fun one. Merlin got some shit or something spilled on him and he rushes into his room to get changed. Unbeknownst to Arthur, who speeds past Gaius and into Merlin’s room to behold.... Merlin, in nothing but his undergarments. And holy shit, Arthur was not prepared to see that. Merlin never takes off his tunic, much less his trousers. Never. Arthur hadn’t even seen his bare skin past his forearms. So to see his chest in plain sight, and his stomach and hips and shoulders and thighs is just... *poof*. Arthur has lost it. Merlin turns around and notices him there and yanks his sheet to his chest with a confused hello, trying to hide his red cheeks. Arthur is quick with a bullshit explanation and hightails it the fuck out, and both of them can’t stop blushing. Before a tournament, when Merlin is preparing Arthur in the tent after they had a little fight that Arthur suspects Merlin is still a little mad about (well, not really a fight, just an altercation that has Merlin debating about sharing his feelings), Arthur is prodding and poking at him and all but begging him to banter with him. But, Merlin stays mostly silent while securing his armor. No matter how many insults he throws at Merlin, his mouth stays shut. As a last attempt to wring out some of Merlin’s humor or at least a smile, Arthur asks, “a kiss for good luck?”. Merlin is actually stunned by his question at first, but he thinks about it for a moment. And after some awkward consideration and then a last thought of ‘fuck it’, Merlin tugs his chains and smacks his lips against Arthur’s, hot and wet and sudden and tight for the most shocking 6 seconds of Arthur’s life and then Merlin shoves him out of the tent and into the sparring match and Arthur is just O__o (I got this from a cool fanart comic, I can’t find it anymore tho, so the idea isn’t mine)

After Arthur finds out about Merlin’s magic and has returned from the lake (about a year later), he’s still a little weary of his sorcery, but he’s still curious. And once Merlin has had enough of his tip toeing, he finally sits him down in his chambers and shows him how amazing magic can really be. With a wave of his hand and some old, gentle words, Merlin conjures a ball of soft blue light that forms a dragon swirling around above Merlin’s fingers. Unlike the other times Arthur has seen dragons depicted, this one is graceful, and it seems docile as it floats over him. He’s enchanted with it, leaning in to look at it more closely. That’s when Merlin asked if he wanted to try something. He nodded, and Arthur’s hands were taken into Merlin’s with an incantation, and then he held a luminescent dragon in his hand as well. It dances around his head as he begins to smile.Ever since that faithful day Arthur keeps asking for Merlin to show him more magic, and every time he asks, Merlin smiles, too.

Can you tell I’m a fan of Merthur?

After Uther is dead, Arthur is shut off from the rest of the world, and not even the love of Camelot could bring him back. Merlin doesn’t say anything about it, silently supporting him with little acts, but not broaching him about it. One night, Merlin comes into Arthur’s bedchambers to see it completely tarnished. Clothes and trinkets thrown about askew, the sheets and curtains torn and discarded on the floor, and Arthur sitting on the floor with his arms resting on his knees, one of the most painful looks Merlin has ever seen trapped behind his eyes. Still, Merlin says nothing as he shuffles over to where Arthur is haphazardly collapsed on the floor, sliding down the wall to sit next to him. And he doesn’t say a word as he offers his hand, palm up, between them to where Arthur can see. Merlin doesn’t need to ask, and Arthur doesn’t need to answer as he tangles their fingers together. They speak without using their voices there, neither of them pushing, but both feeling a pull. Arthur’s tears start to fall, with Merlin squeezing his hand through them. Slowly, Merlin scoots closer until Arthur’s head is resting on his. They spend the entire night like that, the world outside a blur. No one bothers them, and no one comes to wake up the King, his head resting on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin is pushed into the lake. During an ambush from Morgana and her forces, Merlin is knocked into the freezing water, cracking the ice and slipping under. It’s Lancelot that sees his neckerchief on the water surface and a pale body sinking through, racing against the splitting ice to reach him. He almost doesn’t grab him in time, but by partly submerging himself, he’s able to grab a hold on one of Merlin’s stiff arms and haul him over the surface. After hearing the lake’s surface break, Arthur knows something bad had happened, but he couldn’t actually go over and investigate until Morgana’s soldiers are on the ground in front of him. Once he does, he sees the red fabric damp and frosted on the water, and his heart frosts over with it. Merlin’s lips are blue like his fingertips, all the life drained from his skin. He’s not breathing. Now Arthur’s hands are shaking as he feels over Merlin’s cold skin for a pulse. He can’t feel one, but he won’t give up. He can’t. So he tries to give Merlin some of his warmth, rubbing over his arms and sides and rolling him over. He rips off his cloak and wraps him in it, but the fabric is soaked through in seconds. He pleads to the gods, begs them not to take him, not him, please. His tears burn hot in anger and desperation as he finally shakes his limp body and yells at him, orders him to live. Just then, Merlin’s fingers twitch, and not soon after he’s coughing up lake water onto himself, body now fully wracked with shaking as a burst of his magic forces his heart to beat, and for him to take in a breath.

#merthur #merlin x arthur #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon x merlin emrys #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #fanfiction #ish #yes #yes I am going to write all of these #they all need hugs

55 notes · View notes

theelvenhaven · 4 years

Text

Shedding Layers

Caranthir x Reader

2.1k words

This is completely and totally based off of the post by gothaur-the-gay and you should definitely go and read that first before you read the rest of my post!

Caranthir skin headcanon by

gothaur-the-gay

* * *

Caranthir opened his heavy oaken bedroom door with a sigh, his rubicund face redder than what it was normally. Surely between stress or work and the heat of summer baring down on Thargelion. It usually did not get so hot, but it would be his luck that today would be one of the hottest days that he experienced since taking Lordship over Thargelion.

The tall and open windows on furthered his need to get out of these clothes, as Anar blazed brightly right onto him no matter where he'd hide here. Even his own hair was betraying him in this heat as it was left long and matching his robes and tunic.

It was times like this he began to despise Celegorm and Curufin from all the so called jokes that they had continuously made over his reddened skin. It was not his fault he had been born with such redness on his face, and to make matters worse it all extended down his neck, back and hands. They had hounded him it felt like, now the only time he was comfortable being seen in public was when he wore heavy layers

In his heated frustration Caranthir ripped the fine leather gloves off his hands, tossing them haphazardly somewhere into the room while he grumbled. Caught up entirely in his thoughts on trying to get out of this heavy black robes and tunic but his fingers fumbling with the golden buttons.

Leaving him hardly concerned about how he hadn't closed his bedroom door yet, nor was he paying enough attention to hear your footsteps rushing down the hallway and in his direction. Finally he got the buttons undone on the robes beginning to shrug them off his shoulders when a soft knock on his door made him bristle.

You watched curiously as his back tensed at the sound, your eyes fixed on his form as curiosity bubbled inside of you. Wondering why it was he was changing so brazenly with his door open, as that was completely unlike your love. Who valued privacy and discretion above all else, especially when it came down to his own appearance.

Even from you and the two of you had been courting for quite some time. Never had you seen your lover shirtless or glove-less. You knew Caranthir always wore heavy layers, though the reason was completely unknown to you and you never pressed him on the subject.

When he turned around you only offered up a look of concern as you looked over your partner. Today it was clear the heavy fabrics were taking a toll on him as sweat seemed to glisten on his brow, cheeks a deeper crimson and discomfort was the expression that didn't fade.

Not even at the sight of you, as usually a more neutral expression found his face when he say you. Caranthir only sighed out again with frustration as he began to slip his robe back on, while you stepped into the spacious room, shutting the door quietly. Today's heat had been getting to him for most of today you suspected and it was not well past three.

"Cara, why are you wearing so much? It is so hot today.." You asked him with worry, walking towards his busying form only prompting him to try and button up faster. You thought for sure he would have dressed down! For a moment he was silent focusing on the buttons at hand before he made work to answer you.

"The weather is fine." Caranthir grumbled, the heat of his clothing and the small button holes adding to his mounting anger, he only kept his eyes on his hands. You dragged your eyes over the heavy velvet layers he wore, the collar while exquisitely embroidered by his own hand covered most of his neck. The sleeves long and thick with a robe that went to floor covering his arms further, and then your eyes finally landed on his hands.

Your expression softened as you took in the sight of his red splotched hands, undoubtedly matching the redness on his face. Without much thought you reached for them as you stopped before his towering figure, Caranthir was not thinking clearly or he'd have stopped you. Too caught up in the distress of covering himself to have noticed how close you were, and that you had seen him uncovered.

He only noticed when it was too late and your smooth fingers were gripping his rough palm to pull towards yourself. Caranthir froze, grey eyes widening and blushing deeply up to the tip of his ears that you had caught him like this. Instinct pressured him to snap at you to release him, yet he didn't react not wanting to hurt you as it wasn't your fault he was careless.

"I never knew that they matched the redness on your face..." Your voice was tender and there was endearment in your tone, making Caranthir only warily search your face. Waiting for the mockery that would come along with such words, so hoping to avoid it from happening he parted his lips to speak.

"Yes... they do..." He said with great vigilance, almost sounding calloused but you took no offense as that was his nature when Caranthir grew uncomfortable. Unable to help himself Caranthir began to pull at his collar with his freehand, as the heat of embarrassment and sweating from Anar's rays and his black heavy clothing was not helping.

"They are so lovely..." You complimented as you brought the one hand to your lips where you kissed his reddened knuckles, his hand wonderfully soft against your lips. The direct contact of your skin against his made him sigh out shakily, drawing you to flit your eyes up to look at him. Noticing how he pulled and tugged on his collar further and catching a glimpse of his red neck beneath it.

"Here... let me help my love." You began in a gentle tone, setting his hand aside where you brought your dexterous fingers to undo the buttons on his robes. Caranthir made no protest not really realizing what you had meant by your words, until his robes came loose and you began pushing them off of his shoulders.

"Y/N... Leave them be." He said sternly looking down at you, a frown pulling at his lips as Caranthir held your gaze. It was your turn to frown at this, with your hands resting on his broad and strong shoulders. Your gaze insistent,

"Carnistir... You're going to faint if you stay in these robes any longer." You warned him with distress clear in your voice, Caranthir heaved out another sigh as he began to scowl at your words. Still he was trying to pull it back over his shoulders as he stalked across the floor and towards his bed.

"Then I shall remove it myself..." Caranthir muttered in protest as he finally and roughly removed the heavy black fabric from his body. Leaving him now in his tunic, trousers and boots,

"The tunic too Cara... That is certainly a winter tunic and too heavy for today's heat..." There it came again, that genuine worry that pulled easily at his heart strings and his will to do as you commanded him. Were he not so utterly in love with you he'd demand that you leave the room and even slam the door in your face. But you were not one to be disrespected in such a manner.

Caranthir began to work on the golden buttons on his tunic, while you began to grab his basin of water and a few rags from his washroom to help him cool down. As his fingers fumbled in a jittery manner unable to slip the buttons through the hole did he growl out pulling harshly at the fabric. Caranthir fed up entirely with the fabric and the stupid and stubborn little buttons on it.

With a forceful pull, and his patience completely spent, it sent golden buttons flying and bouncing noisily across the hardwood floors. You only frowned knowing he'd be angry about having to sew them back on later, but felt it better not to say anything aloud. Caranthir ripped it off his arms before slamming it onto the bed, wearing now only a lightweight white linen undershirt.

Giving you a lovely view to the muscle that lay beneath, and a glimpse of the red that ran from his face and down his neck. It continued over his shoulders and upper back fading as it reached the mid of his back. Freckles were littered across the vast expanse of his smooth skin, and you felt yourself blushing at the sight of him. Caranthir was already a very handsome ellon, and to finally see more was a little overwhelming.

Completely forgetting for a moment that you were present and he was now uncovered, Caranthir stormed across the room. Sitting down heavily in his desk chair with a glare on his face and then his eyes met yours softening him some. Though in his desperation he decided to not be as forgiving.

"Are you satisfied?" He growled out defensively, folding his arms over his chest as he looked away and down at his desk with embarrassment. Waiting impatiently for all the horrid comments he was sure that you'd have, but you only walked to him, basin in hand before setting down on his desk. Ringing a rag you moved to sit in his lap, before you lifted his hair and placed it on his neck.

"Yes.. I am." You murmured gently leaving it there as your eyes traced over the redness of his neck, bringing your fingers to caress there. Making him shudder involuntarily at your touch, which only seemed to rile up his anger further.

"Well have you anything to say about the vile appearance of my skin?" Caranthir's voice was harsh and demanding, impatient wanting to know exactly what was on your mind while taking in the sight of him. You flitted your eyes to meet his sharp gray ones frowning at how he described himself,

"Yes I do-"

"Save your words if you're only going to inform me of how atrocious it is to see. I am well aware." He interrupted, quietly you pulled the rag from the back of his neck before grabbing a fresh one to put in its place.

"I wasn't going to say that at all, Cara..." This quieted him and a look of confound began to creep upon his stern face. Not quite understanding why that wouldn't be something you'd have to add about the discoloration. Caranthir only stared at you as if you were an enigma,

"What I was going to say," You began taking his arm and forcing him to unfurl it from his chest so you could hold his hand. Caranthir allowed you to do so, always giving in easily to your whims. If he did not, he'd not be sitting here finally out of all those layers even if he did put up a fight over it.

"I love the way your skin looks, it is beautiful. Is this why you keep it covered all the time?" You watched as his face began to redden once more, which flushed down to his neck only making you smile. Slowly he began to nod at your question, and you decided that today was perhaps not the day to ask why. Plenty of boundaries had been pushed and erased, and you knew overwhelming Cara was only a disaster for his tempestuous temper.

"Yes." Caranthir answered you curtly, frown still pulling heavily at his lips but you only nodded at his words. You only smiled softly at him as you leaned up against him, planting your hands against his broad chest to kiss him. Gently did Caranthir kiss you back, exhaling slowly and with some mild relief as the the muscles beneath your fingers relax.

"You are so beautiful Cara... You should really consider wearing less more often." You whispered to him lips brushing against his, as you brought a hand to gently caress his still hot face, which only seemed to grow hotter at your words before he shifted some in the chair.

"Truly?" He asked with a softened voice, you only began to nod before you kissed him again. Your lips melding against his lovingly, feeling Caranthir shudder at how sweet your kiss, before finally you pulled away with a nod smiling.

"Truly..." You whispered sweetly to him still smiling, Caranthir on nodded slowly at your words beginning to relent to your suggestion without much protest. If that was what you wished, then as uncomfortable as it might be at first then he would.

“I love you and everything about you Cara.” You assured him sweetly, making him blush a deeper shade of crimson. He gently placed his freehand on your waist slowly nodding at your words again,

“And I love you too, Y/N...”

134 notes · View notes

pergaias · 4 years

Text

a small miracle ; a short story

i wrote a short story about medieval lesbians for school and decided to put it here to prove ( to myself ) that i’m a Writer™ and not just someone who uses tumblr to procrastinate :)))))))

it’s not my best writing by any means ( some will argue that impossible for anything i write to be bad but i respectfully agree to disagree ), but it’s here. it’s kinda sweet. it took up too much brainpower to do. but, its late. this writing is gay. bear with me, and . . . enjoy ?

word count ; 2568

“Erwyn!” her name echoed across the stone walls of the courtyard, and Erwyn, lady of Halle Castle, eldest and only living child of Lord Halle, froze. Her strawberry-blonde braids were half-unwound, there was a tear in the rich brocade gown she was attempting to hurriedly tug on, and the rough-spun smock and trousers she had been wearing previously were covered in dust and dirt, discarded on the floor.

She looked up guiltily as her father - his girth richly clad in velvet and linen - approached her, his face mottled red with anger. “Erwyn!” he roared, spittle flecking the russet of his beard. “For the last time, Erwyn -”

Erwyn determinedly hiked her gown up, her cheeks and ears the color of her father’s red tunic. Her elaborately looped and pinned braids were long unbound - how she hated the way they tugged at her scalp. She resolutely yanked her gowns’ sleeves on over her wrinkled undergarments, her father glaring daggers at her as she did. She would not be humiliated half-dressed.

“There!” She exclaimed triumphantly, smoothing the front of the gown and fussing with the ruffles around her wrists and throat. Her smile died on her face as her father stepped forward, and she lifted her hands to shield her face. “Father - I - Father - please don’t,” she protested, but the fight had long been stamped out of the lady. She closed her eyes in defeat - again. So much for small miracles.

Her father always won - it didn’t matter if she didn’t want to gossip with her ladies-in-waiting or her stepmother. It didn’t matter that she had already done her studies for the day and that she didn’t want to embroider. Her lady-in-waiting who had smuggled her the boy’s clothes and a cap to tuck her hair under might be killed - her father had been very vocal about the king’s recent beheading of his second wife.

“The witch deserved everything!” he said emphatically over dinner when news reached them, as Erwyn pushed her food around her plate, her face vaguely green. She had liked Queen Anne. When her father had taken her to London - back when his family was more important to him than anything - she had met the queen. She had a nice smile, and a look in her eye that Erwyn had instantly admired.

Like she’d stared a tiger in the eye.

Erwyn held still as the back of her father’s hand cracked against her cheek. She didn’t say a word, only clenched her hands tighter into fists. One day, she silently vowed, I will hurt you. I will hurt you so badly you’ll regret every - crack - little - this slap burned - thing - this slap brought tears to Erwyn’s eyes - you’ve done to me.

Her father turned and marched away, leaving Erwyn a dusty little bundle of tears and bruises on the ballroom floor. Erwyn was an improper little girl - it had started when her mother had wistfully pushed Erwyn’s honey-and-roses hair behind her ears, murmuring that she wished her Erwyn was a boy, if only so that she’d be free. Because girls were doomed to marry and embroider and spend the rest of their tittering lives bearing children.

Her mother smelled like rosemary and sage leaves, and her elegant fingers were rough because of all the times she’s pricked herself sewing. It was hard to imagine her angry, bitter father loving her free, cheerful mother. But once upon a time, he did. Once upon a time, they were happy.

“Winnie!” a girl’s voice cried, and Erwyn felt hands touching her face and hair, heard her own voice hiss as her cheek was prodded. “You need a compress,” the girl murmured, and Erwyn attempted to open her eyes. One was swelled shut - through the other she saw a halo of a girl, slight and blonde, with a spray of freckles across her ruddy cheeks.

“I wish,” Erwyn murmured through split lips, her head spinning, “that I were a boy.”

The girl’s great brown eyes welled up, and Erwyn’s world spun before going dark. Her father won, yet again.

>*<

Alys Cartwright was built like a bird, all little bones and delicate lines, but she was stronger than she looked. Erwyn of Halle was built more sturdily, all soft curves and stubborn chins, and Alys attempted to lift her without hurting her, but to no avail. Frustrated, she gently sat down and put Erwyn’s head in her lap, gently stroking the hair away from her face. Her eyelids were faintly blue, and a bit of the whites of her eyes peeked from under her long lashes.

The side of her face was already mottling into bruising, turning her smooth cheek ugly shades of red and pink. It was glaring, and ugly, and . Yet, as Alys traced her fingers across the bruises, across Erwyn’s split lip, across her strawberry blonde hair, she was beautiful. Erwyn had always been beautiful - her many suitors proved that. She was smart and beautiful and undeserving of the life her father trapped her in.

“Ced!” Alys cried. “Cedric!”

Alys’ well-meaning but slightly oafish younger brother stumbled into the courtyard from where he was pruning the hedges, his tunic covered in grass stains. “Help me carry her, Ced,” Alys attempted to lift Erwyn again, and Erwyn’s lips parted in a weak moan. One of her eyes was swollen shut.

Cedric hefted her easily, and Alys fluttered uselessly by Erwyn’s head as her brother gently carried her out of the courtyard, past the green, to their small house. Cedric Cartwright fancied himself a knight, just as Alys had romanticized herself a princess before growing up caught up with her.

“What happened to her?” Ced asked, clearing the kitchen table with a sweep of his arm and setting Erwyn on it. Alys scrambled to put a pillow under her head. Erwyn’s face was rapidly swelling, and the bruising would be nasty for a few days.

“Her father,” Alys said bitterly, and Cedric quieted. Everyone under the lord’s lordship knew of the way he treated his daughter, first after his wife died and then after her betrothed did.

Alys spent hours sitting at Erwyn’s side, washing her bruising first in wine and then in water. She boiled yarrow stems and spent hours making salves and tying them onto her face with cloths. If Alys had left Erwyn there in the courtyard, there would be no doubt that her stepmother or one of her ladies would have cared for her, but Alys . . . She could care for her better. She was determined that she would.

“I’m going to be burned at the stake,” Alys threw her hands up in exasperation. They were covered in ground-up herbs and melted lard, and Erwyn was still asleep on the table, her cheek bruised and her lip busted. “I’m going to be beheaded, oh, Lord -”

“What are you going on about, Alys?” Cedric popped his head back into the house, his blond hair darkened with sweat. “Do you know what we should really be worried about? Not the comatose lady on our kitchen table, but the amount of grain that Lord Halle will allow us to keep. We don’t want to go hungry again this winter, Alys -”

Alys banged her fist on the table, causing a bunch of carrots to jump on their hook. “Get Isolde,” she said pointedly to her brother, and then hurrying back to her pot of salve. “Isolde’s better at this than I am, and I don’t trust Erwyn with her father right now.”

“What was she doing that made him so mad?” Cedric inquired, picking up a basket and absentmindedly stuffing the carrots into it.

“Get Isolde, brother darling,” Alys echoed, taking the dressings off of Erwyn’s cheek and applying more salve. Her skin was hot to the touch, too hot. The wine Alys washed it in must not have killed off the infection.

Cedric left with the carrots to find Aunt Isolde, who wasn’t anyone’s aunt, really. She was just there, healing people who needed healing and occasionally demanding favors from the village children. Lord Halle owned everything in his fiefdom, from his daughter to his peasants to every piece of grain, but Isolde owned this village. She had saved many a mother from childbirth, including Alys and Cedric’s own.

If Lord Halle hadn’t been so proud, Isolde might have been able to save his wife. Alys bit her bottom lip and hoped. But hoping was futile. If wishes were fishes Alys Cartwright would never have starved, but she’d starved. Time and time again.

>*<

Erwyn woke to a young girl - the blonde girl from before - and an old woman bowed over her, muttering at each other. The side of her face throbbed fearfully. She distinctly remembered one eye being unable to open, but both of her eyes were open, staring purple at the two women hovering over her.

“Lady Erwyn!” the girl squeaked, jumping away from her. The old woman muttered again and shook her head, before none too gently rubbing something onto her face. Erwyn held her tongue but thought of a choice few things to say to the woman about her maternal instincts.

“Lady Erwyn of Halle,” the crone muttered, now finally being gentle with the salve. It was actually quite soothing - Erwyn could smell rosemary in the air. “Yes, I’m aware that’s my name,” Erwyn said sarcastically, trying to sit up. She was still in her rumpled brocade.

“So am I,” the woman muttered crossly. “There you go, good to go, back to your father with you.” the woman hobbled out, and that was that. Erwyn was no longer dizzy from repetitive blows to the head, but she was bruised. All the worse for wear.

I wish that I were a boy. It was a foolish wish, one that Erwyn had kept close to her heart for years. If she were a boy, she could be a knight like her father had been, court girls without fear of being burned at the stake, talk loud and hunt deer and not spend mind-numbing hours gossiping at court or embroidering flowers onto handkerchiefs.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly to the blonde girl, unbinding her hair and letting it cover the bruised side of her face. “You - you didn’t have to take me here. Or call me -”

“Winnie?” the girl blushed. “Sorry, it - it slipped out. It was my honor, Lady Erwyn -”

“Winnie is fine,” Erwyn smiled, and winced. Smiling hurt. Talking hurt - her lip was cracked, and she could taste a bit of salt on them, as if she’d been spoon-fed soup unconscious. “Like my mother’s name.”

The girl hung her head. “Lady Winifred is missed,” she said quietly, watching as Erwyn stumbled off of the table she had been laying on. “Oh! Do you need -” the girl blushed brighter as she offered Erwyn her arm, mumbling “I should have offered earlier, I’m so sorry -”

“It’s - it’s fine,” Erwyn coughed, her unbound waving hair covering the way her ears flamed up. “Again, thank you,” she murmured, as the girl helped her hobble out of the little village hut and into the green. It was brighter than the hut and loud and raucous outside - the peasants had come back from their daily work, and the sun was sinking over the horizon.

Shouts of “Ho, Alys!” followed the thin blonde as she helped Erwyn through the green, Erwyn pitifully attempting to cover her bruising with her hair as she walked. As the girls stumbled towards the manor, the blonde girl started shyly asking Erywn things, and Erwyn, glad for a distraction from her humiliating walk to the manor, answered.

“Why did you dress like a boy - or, a better question,” the girl said after a few questions, her cheeks ruddy. “Why does your father ha - hate you so?”

Perhaps the blonde was waiting for an emphatic response of no, he’d never hate me, but Erwyn worried at her split lip before replying. “I’m devil spawn,” she said wryly, her purple eyes full of everything but mirth. “My father loved my mother, and I’m a constant reminder that she’s gone.”

But the blonde girl still looked like she had more to inquire, and Erwyn’s pride was the only thing keeping her from spilling unasked-for answers.

“I dress like a boy because sometimes I wish I was a boy,” Erwyn said finally, after a stretch of silence. “There’s a freedom that comes with it. Women can only marry or go to a nunnery, and they don’t have much choice even when it comes to that.”

The girl nodded, her doe-brown eyes wide. “I’m sorry - I’m sorry about your fiance,” she squeaked, flushing bright pink. Erwyn rolled her eyes and had the audacity to laugh - laugh. This girl - Alys, if she wasn’t mistaken - was almost as well-versed in manor gossip as her stepmother and ladies-in-waiting.

“He was an old knight, it was bound to happen,” Erwyn waved a hand around airily. “My next suitor might be more palatable. He might let me take a female lover, who knows. It’s hit or miss with these men - usually miss,” Erwyn mused.

The blonde girl almost tripped over her feet. “Female - female lover?” she echoed - no, squeaked. This girl was barely older than Erwyn was, but she was acting like a much smaller child. Bashful, really.

Erwyn shrugged. “Tell me about your daily schedule?” she inquired. Only it was less of an inquiry than a command - so the noble lady and the peasant girl exchanged stories. Erwyn would wake up at the crack of dawn and go to Mass; Alys would help her mother prepare breakfast for her father and brother in the early morning, as well.

If it were summer or autumn, Alys and her mother would help with the harvest. Erwyn felt spoiled admitting that after Mass she would be helped to dress and then go to a leisurely breakfast - she felt even worse admitting that hated solars of discussing gossip and tittering over heinous affairs were a luxury.

Alys was a bright listener, and before dark they had made it to the manor gates.

Alys let go of Erwyn’s arm, and Erwyn felt the absence keenly. The warmth of her new friend - if Alys even could be called that - was gone.

“Alys Cartwright,” Erwyn said formally, the syllables of Alys’s name strange in her mouth. “For your service to the Lady of Halle,” Erwyn had to break off and laugh at the absurdity of her title, “I will do my best to grant you a favor. A wish, if you will.”

Aly’s great brown eyes brightened, like the sun when it hit the horizon. “A small miracle?” she inquired, smiling.

“A small miracle,” Erwyn conceded, her cheeks warming.

Alys thought for a heartbeat, and then another. And then she coyly brought her mouth to Erwyn’s ear and whispered in it, something that made Erwyn flush from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes.

But Erwyn leaned forward and kissed Alys on the lips, and though her own lip hurt from her father’s hand, his heavy signet ring, every cruel word turned her way, it was a small miracle. Alys sighed and her hands tangled in Erwyn’s loose strawberry hair, and suddenly it didn’t matter if her father hated her. If her mother was gone. If she were going to exact her revenge on her father and make him pay.

This time, Erwyn won.

#cece writes #original #short story #medieval #historical fiction #wlw #lesbian short story #okay the middle ages were a terrifying time period #i'm scared of it #if you were gay you'd be burned at the stake #the research i did for this was ungodly and it's not even that good :')

14 notes · View notes

advena87 · 3 years

Text

Chapter 2: Get off my back

*cover picture by Dai (bookscorpion)

Chapters: 2/?

Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Kiyan (The Witcher) / Adrien (The Witcher)

Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Adrien (The Witcher), Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character(s) of Color, Joël (The Witcher), Guxart (The Witcher), Ireneus var Steingard, Original Female Character(s), Sigismund Gloger (The Witcher), Gottfried Oss (The Witcher), Marco Gedl (The Witcher), Michelle Sabina Ruxer (The Witcher)

Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Bisexual Kiyan, Unbury The Gays, saving Kiyan, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witcher Senses, Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Sexual Tension, Murder Husbands, Cat School (The Witcher), The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Demonic Possession, Rare Pairings, Rare Characters, Just two growly tops, Possessive Behavior, Misunderstandings, Hurt/Comfort, Get Together, Main Character(s) of Color, Est Tayiar, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), Based on Scavenger Hunt: Cat School Gear quest, game canon mostly, Swordfighting, The Witcher Lore, Developing Relationship, stubborn idiots to lovers

Chapter 2: “Get off my back” summary:

"A witcher?" The prince raised his voice with interest when the majordomo told him who had come to the castle to look for a job. The nobleman immediately abandoned his conversation with his servants, looked up, and spoke directly to Kiyan. "I’ve not fought a witcher before. And I've heard quite a lot about your inhuman abilities. Will you do me this honor, Master Witcher, and satisfy my curiosity?"

Kiyan felt an unexpected stab of disappointment. Upon hearing of him, Kiyan had felt a hint of sympathy for a man as alienated as himself, but it turned out that he was just another noble who thought others existed for his entertainment.

"I don't play with toys," Kiyan said finally, glaring contemptuously at the wooden sword in the prince's hand.

_____________________________

And we have Chapter 2! Please appreciate the team work in this one, especially Gav's and Dany's, because I think I gave them a lot of trouble making this text something readable. I'm so happy that we were able to publish this chapter exactly two weeks after the first one. I don't know yet if we will be able to maintain this standard, but we will try.

I don't know if you paid attention to it, but we didn't go into the character descriptions too deeply - we wanted you to be able to visualize the characters according to your imaginations. However, if any of you are curious about how we imagine main characters, I'm giving you a visualization below.

As for Adrien, the whole group unanimously decided to give him the appearance of Kunal Kapoor. Because ... wow. From what I remember, Lynge proposed this choice and we all immediately shouted "YES!" :)

It was harder with Kiyan. It was hard for us to agree completely, but in the end my proposal to choose Byung-hun Lee got the most votes.

Please let us know how you like our project so far. We will be glad to hear from you! <3

_____________________________

Axii turned out to be helpful at the gate leading to Drahim castle. Kiyan met a young guard there, not a very bright boy, who immediately intrigued him. His skin colour and facial features suggested that he was Ofieri. Kiyan thought at first that perhaps the prince was simply hiring Ofieri instead of Redanian soldiers, but the young man was the only dark-skinned person among the guards, at least as far as Kiyan could tell. The young maybe-Ofieri man turned out to be very susceptible to Axii. A little magical suggestion, and the boy was leading him straight to the courtyard to his commander.

Kiyan shook his head in dismay when the rest of the soldiers didn’t question the clueless youth’s decision. Once the gatekeeper had let the witcher in, not one of the guards looking at him curiously stopped them as they walked deeper into the courtyard. Kiyan thought that if he were their commander, he would thrash them for their incompetence. If someone wanted to pay him to kill an unpopular prince, the task would be more than easy.

Finally, they reached a battle arena, a cleared pit surrounded by training dummies and sword stands. Kiyan would have expected such a place to be nearer the guards' barracks than the castle courtyard, but then he remembered that the prince was very fond of weapons. It was no wonder he wanted a place nearby to test them.

In the arena, two men were sparring, and although they were both using wooden swords, it didn't seem to be a safe game. They both wore no armor, dressed only in thin linen shirts, soaked with sweat, and quilted trousers. Each moved with a surety that spoke of years of practice and a strength that told of a fierce desire to win even this mock bout. If this was the intensity of their training, then Kiyan preferred not to guess what a real fight would look like, because their wooden swords looked nearly ready to break.

Keep reading

10 notes · View notes

strangerthanfiction · 4 years

Photo

and it's wrong, wrong, wrong (but we'll do it anyway 'cos we love a bit of trouble)

𝖖 𝖚 𝖔 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

“i don’t want to be just a nothing, a sick blank, withdrawal into myself forever. i just want something, beside the emptiness i’ve carried around in me all my life.” –– allen ginsburg

“a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it into the river but then he’s still left with the river. a man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.” –– richard siken

"i was not a lovable child, and i'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.” –– gillian flynn

“you will always be fond of me. i represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” –– oscar wilde

“power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.” –– george orwell

𝖇 𝖆 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈

NAME: Rabastan Edric Lestrange NICKNAMES: “Rab” by most, “Bash” by those who know him best, “Eddy” by his grandparents AGE: Twenty-six BIRTHDAY: April 13th, 1954 GENDER: Male, cisgender PRONOUNS: He/him/his

𝖋 𝖆 𝖒 𝖎 𝖑 𝖞

MOTHER: Sabine Lestrange (nee Avery) (52) FATHER: Gaspard Lestrange (48) SIBLINGS: Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange (sister-in-law), Narcissa Lestrange (sister-in-law), Lucius Malfoy (brother-in-law), Andromeda Tonks (sister-in-law)

𝖕 𝖍 𝖞 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈 𝖆 𝖑 𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖘

FACE CLAIM: Penn Badgley BUILD: Fit, muscular, and clearly works at maintaining it. Wishes he was taller always. HAIR: Longer than it should be, according to his mother, growing out of the buzz cut he got in November, thick and wavy. He’s also sporting stubble that’s quickly turning into a beard. HAIR COLOR: Dark brown, almost black EYE COLOR: Hazel on a normal day, amber on a sunny day, murky brown on a cloudy day SKIN COLOR: Pale, thin and translucent, like parchment. Anyone can see when he’s hungover or had a shitty night of sleep because his eyes look hollow and the skin underneath it looks almost purple. DOMINANT HAND: Right ANOMALIES:

TATTOOS: The Dark Mark on the inside of his right arm, a sketch of the sculpture of Laocoon and His Sons sketched out from the top of his left rib cage to his hip, the first lines of the Iliad on his collar bone, stretching from his left shoulder to his right shoulder, a stick and poke of a muggle ghost on the inside of his ankle, and, perhaps his favorite of them all, the word “TERROR” on the inside of his bottom lip. He charmed it so that, any time he flips his bottom lip out at the world to show the tattoo, the letters pop out in a magical version of a jump scare.

SCARS: His elbows and knees are shredded up from years of Quidditch and not following proper rules when it comes to healing potions. He’s got the slightest scar in his left eyebrow from falling off his broom when he was nine. Plus, he’s got the scrapes and scars of a fighter, a soldier, and he wears his ragged skin with the brashness and boldness of someone unafraid of battle.

SCENT: Tobacco, crisp linen, and, if he’s getting all dolled up, he puts just the tiniest dab of amortentia at his throat, because, well, “then I always smell good.” ACCENT: RP because his mother wouldn’t have her children sounding like scoundrels. But his Northern accent slips out every now and again when he’s particularly hammered. ALLERGIES: Bees. DISORDERS: Rapidly developing alcoholism. Slowly developing PTSD. FASHION: Punk but make it pureblood. Lots of silver rings with huge gemstones inset or crests carved into the metal. Amazing shoes always – be it chunky black combat boots, beautiful leather loafers, or the occasional (slightly) healed Chelsea boot. Skinny jeans and slouchy hoodies on his days alone in Manchester. Pressed shirts rolled up to the elbows and perfectly fitted trousers on his days at Lestrange Manor. His favorite robes are black velvet, with a gold clasp across the chest in the shape of a skull. And, of course, his clubbing outfits. Leather, mesh, crop tops (yes, Rab wears crop tops, and no, none of you will ever see it because he’s CAREFUL heh), muscle tanks, and the odd denim shorterall (with nothing underneath) moment. NERVOUS TICS: He used to bite his fingernails as a kid, but the nannies spanked that out of him. His oral fixation has been replaced with cigarettes – any slight bit of tension, and he’s lighting up. QUIRKS: He doesn’t know how to sit normally in a chair because he’s gay.

𝖑 𝖎 𝖋 𝖊 𝖘 𝖙 𝖞 𝖑 𝖊

RESIDES: Lestrange Manor 75% of the time. His own flat in Manchester 25% of the time. BORN: In France, while his parents were on holiday. He wasn’t supposed to be due for another three weeks, but his mother’s water broke while she was on the beach, and Rabastan was born five hours later. RAISED: In Yorkshire, with every other summer abroad (France most years, but sometimes Italy or Spain, and one very special year, Norway), until he went to Hogwarts. PETS: Gunther, a black Great Dane, who lives at Lestrange Manor, and technically is both his and Rodolphus’ – their mother got the dog for them as a means to help them bond, but really, Gunther is Rabastan’s and only gets attention from Rodolphus when their mother is around, so as not to offend her. And, in Rabastan’s eyes, but probably not in the eyes of other, more progressive individuals, Iphigenia, the Lestrange family house elf.

CAREER: Spending the Lestrange fortune. Being a Death Eater. EXPERIENCE: He’s been doing it his whole life. Nine years. Since his final year at Hogwarts. EMPLOYER: Voldemort.

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: The Death Eaters / Pureblood values. BELIEFS: Purebloods created this world, and now it’s their time to defend it. The Dark Lord is the only one capable of leading them to victory, and the purpose of men like Rabastan is to give him the aid he needs, no matter the personal cost. MISDEMEANORS: Truancy, defacing Hogwarts property, breaking curfew, bullying, tardiness, breaking dress code, and infinite more. He was never quiet about his rebellions, always laughing in the face of authority. And, now that he’s no longer at school, there’s nothing he can’t buy himself out of. FELONIES: Well. He’s killed more than a few people and gotten away with it, so. You do the math from there. DRUGS: Rabastan likes muggle drugs a little too much. Cocaine, particularly. He’s also been known to dabble in expensive, experimental potions from an alchemist the Lestranges have been using to cure their every ail and malady since Rabastan was a boy. SMOKES: Religiously. He started because every young boy wants to be just like their father at one point or another, and then he just never stopped. ALCOHOL: Rabastan’s rarely without a drink in his hand. It’s a glass of brandy as soon as he comes home, flask of whisky constantly at his hip, a Bloody Mary and some pepper up potion to eliminate his hangover first thing when he wakes up. It’s not a problem, he can stop at any point, or so he says. He learned how to be a functional alcoholic from all of the men he observed around him at a young age, and he’s found a very specific line – enough to feel gently numb, to feel invincible, but not so much that he’s incapacitated. And more and more, in recent months, especially since the disappearance of his brother, has he crossed that line. He’ll go through spurts of detoxing, of getting painfully sober for a few days, and then, he’ll be so overwhelmed by the world around him, by how loud it is, by how unforgiving, by how painful it can be, and then he’s right back where he was, with a bottle in one hand and a bump on the back of the other. DIET: Rabastan eats extremely well. Mostly vegetarian, except for fish, lots of legumes and greens, lots of fiber, etc. He knows how much crap he puts into his body, and while he doesn’t particularly care about the fact that he’s shortening his life, he does care about what it does to his physique. And, of course, the trade off is never going to be equal, but he does try to eat as cleanly as he can.

LANGUAGES: English, French, German, and self-taught Latin

PHOBIAS: If you asked him, he’d say he has none. And that’s mostly true. But there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t think about getting outed to his family and then being banished by the Lestranges for his deviant behavior, and there isn’t a day that goes by where the very thought is enough to turn his blood to ice. HOBBIES: Drinking, fighting, fucking. When he’s not indulging his vices, he’s actually quite a scholar – he’s read through every book in his father’s study twice, and he taught himself Latin when he was thirteen. He also loves flying and still takes to a broomstick when he needs to clear his head. He’s also surprisingly adept at tending to plants (he effortlessly got O’s in Herbology his whole time at Hogwarts), and he’s got a lovely, melodic voice. TRAITS: { + }: Quick-thinking, fierce, loyal, playful { - }: Reckless, vulgar, lazy, submissive

𝖋 𝖆 𝖛 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

LOCATION: Spiny Serpent, specifically the secret fight club in the basement. It’s his favorite place in the world, the one place where he actually feels alive and free. He’ll heal all of his visible injuries with magic, but sometimes, he’ll leave a bruised rib or a tweaked knee because the pain of it reminds him that he’s alive, he’s present, he’s real. SPORTS TEAM: Wimbourne Wasps (and United ever since he started living in Manchester, but he’d rather be caught dead than admit to following the muggle Premiere league) GAME: Quidditch and he’s trying to start his own Swivenhodge league MUSIC: Much to his mother’s distaste, he’s an avid Hobgoblins fan, and his father begrudgingly took both his boys to meet Stubby when they were fifteen and eighteen respectively. Rab would never admit to listening to Celestina Warbeck, but after he’s had a few, he’s been known to do his own rendition of, “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love” MOVIES: Too muggle. Absolutely not. (But he’d fucking love ALIEN if he knew it existed) FOOD: Venison, so rare it’s still bloody BEVERAGE: Double whisky on the rocks COLOR: Gold

𝖒 𝖆 𝖌 𝖎 𝖈

ALUMNI HOUSE: Slytherin WAND (length, flexibility, wood, & core): 13 inches, Holly, Dragon Heart String, Brittle AMORTENTIA: Pine trees, cigar smoke, candied ginger, and the unmistakable musk of all the men he’s ever fucked (oops) PATRONUS: A Deerhound BOGGART: A blue ticket. Even though he’s no expert in muggle history, he spends enough time in queer muggle spaces to know what they are, and the first time he found out about that, the first time someone told him about dishonorable discharge because of something so seemingly trivial, it made his blood turn to ice. He couldn’t shake the image, the idea of it, and to this day, he avoids boggarts at all costs because he knows it’ll give away his secret.

𝖈 𝖍 𝖆 𝖗 𝖆 𝖈 𝖙 𝖊 𝖗

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral MBTI: ENFP MBTI ROLE: The Campaigner ENNEAGRAM: Type 6 ENNEAGRAM ROLE: The Loyalist / the Skeptic TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine WESTERN ZODIAC: Aries CHINESE ZODIAC: Horse PRIMAL SIGN: Hammerhead Shark TAROT CARD: The Devil TV TROPES: Beard of Sorrow, Millionaire Playboy, Black Shirt, Draco in Leather Pants, Lovable Rogue, Punch-clock Villain SONGS:

1. balaclava by the arctic monkeys 2. bury a friend by billie eilish 3. to be so lonely by harry styles 4. make up your mind by florence & the machine 5. winter of our youth by bastille 6. broken crown by mumford & sons 7. i’m still standing by elton john 8. people by the 1975 9. ball and a biscuit by the white stripes 10. let’s have a kiki by scissor sisters (am i joking? idk)

IDEOLOGIES:

Adores birthdays and refuses to let people get away with not celebrating them. He loves any excuse to drink and party, and he knows he gives a mean toast, so people might as well fucking celebrate so he can put his skills on display. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Despite the contradictory nature of this, he doesn’t hate all members of the Order / all blood traitors on principle. He understands that they’re just trying to defend their place in the universe, and frankly, he respects the survival instincts he’s seeing play out. Of course, he knows his side is going to win – that’s inevitable. But it’s still admirable to see them all go down with such a valiant fight.

Hates cats. Period, full stop.

Refuses to go to St. Mungo’s, or any hospital for that matter. His uncle on his maternal side went there for a minor illness and came out in a box. Rabastan was seven, and his tiny brain came to the conclusion that the hospital was what did in his uncle, not his illness. And now, Rab knows how illogical it is, but he’d rather pay the family healer to come take a look at him than go to the doctor.

Would rather stand on public transportation than sit next to a stranger because he loves his own personal space just a little too much

As much as he does spend his family’s money a little too freely, no one can ever accuse Rab of hoarding his wealth. He always buys a round for everyone in the bar, picks up the check without being asked, buys things for his friends that they want but don’t need, lets people crash at Lestrange Manor whenever they need to. He’s not miserly in the slightest, not like Rodolphus.

Never makes a crucial decision without consulting a seer first. His mother taught him the habit.

Always flips one cigarette in the pack when he buys a new one.

No matter what time he wakes up, breakfast food has to be the first food he eats.

#dulcetask #*prompts #*biography #[ ch: i'm jack's smirking revenge ]#me: [busts back onto the dash with too many thoughts about my fuckin egg]#*aesthetic

4 notes · View notes

marshmallow--3 · 5 years

Text

Imagine - being the son of a pub landlord and meeting Jacob Frye one night.

So I know this is two men so I don't actually know if any of you guys want this tag. If you don't, feel free to let me know in a message and I can remove the tag for you.

It wasn't exactly the career you had in mind, but after accidentally breaking one of your father's windows, you had to pay off your debt somehow. He needed an extra pair of hands to lug barrells of alcohol from the cellar, top up the patrons' drinks and safeguard the money drawer against thieving hands. So here you are, slumped at the bar, stifling your yawns as the night ticks on and you can only imagine being in bed fast asleep.

Settling your gaze on the crowds occupying the pub, you notice people wearing green jackets with yellow sashes surrounding a well-dressed man. Everyone seems to be cheering about something, raising their drinks in a toast and spilling the frothy liquid everywhere. Great. You can add re-mopping the floors to the extensive list of chores to do later.

Blinking out of your daze, you see the man perched over at the bar, tapping a coin between his fingertips with a raised eyebrow. Apologising and taking his order, you steal glances at his face, inhaling deeply and inwardly sighing at how easy on the eyes he is.

Despite the elegance of his garbs, he has a rather pugilistic face and build, a strong jaw with a faint white nick on the left side that hides amongst his dark whiskers. A matching scar cuts through his right eyebrow, making you wonder just what kind of man he is to be accumulating all these injuries. Those hazel eyes sparkle with mischief, his slender fingers attracting your eye as they run through his mud-brown hair.

If you're honest, you've been questioning your... sexual allegiance for quite some time now. In your youth you had a crush on a neighbour boy for quite a few years before the two of you drifted apart, but you find yourself equally attracted to girls now and again. But between the way his tongue darts out to wet his soft-looking pink lips before he speaks, the goofy grin he sports when you respond to his banter with a joke of your own, the subtle brush of his finger against yours when he hands you his coins, you can't help the blush that creeps onto your face or the butterflies that swarm in your stomach.

After a smooth-flowing conversation, you exchange names and smile coyly when you hear his velvet voice repeat the syllables of your name, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest at any moment.

Downing the last of his drink, Jacob murmurs, "Meet me out back in five minutes," before shooting you a wink that makes your knees weak, returning to his group with a gay saunter. Blushing, you look on at the spot he previously occupied for a few beats, wondering just what the hell is going to happen.

The anticipation overwhelms you. Unable and unwilling to talk yourself out of it, exactly five minutes later you slip out the back door and loiter in the alleyway behind the pub. You consider making yourself look busy with the bins, instead opting to tuck your hands into your pockets and kick a small stone in your path, your breath misting in the crisp night air. Emerging from the shadows, Jacob greets you, sporting a flirtatious grin.

Opening your mouth to return the greeting, your words are lost in the back of your throat when he approaches you, pressing his lips against yours.

Barely managing to pull away, you begin to ask, "What--"

Jacob presses his finger to your lips. Clearly he doesn't want to draw any unwanted attention, and you can hardly blame him. Two men kissing in a dingy alleyway? How perfectly sordid.

He returns his lips to yours; his hands start in your hair, combing through the strands as the kiss deepens. You barely catch his groan when you suck lightly on his lower lip, the action stirring heat in his groin. His tongue probes the seam of your lips, causing you to moan lowly and part them, your hands grabbing the lapels of his coat and drawing him closer.

His breath hitches at the sudden enthusiasm you exhibit, sliding his hands over your lean hips and cupping around to your ass, squeezing gently as his teeth nip your lower lip. You shudder in response, dragging your tongue over his and groaning at the sandpapery texture, wet and warm, not to mention in your mouth.

You feel your cock twitch at the heady kisses, feeling truly intoxicated and floating in your own world. His taste is wonderful, the bitter taste of his pint mixing with a sweetness you imagine is his natural taste. And dear lord, he smells even better, the proximity of your faces allowing your nostrils to inhale his peppery scent with every breath.

He backs you up against a brick wall, nudging your forehead with his to gulp down air. The warmth and weight of his body pressing up against yours has you peering up at him, looking as startled as a deer.

Jacob chuckles, "Relax, lad."

Gingerly you reach a hand up and press against his whiskers, finding yourself craving the scratch of the fine hairs. Closing his dark eyes, he purrs and nuzzles your palm, licking his lips and pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose. Bumping his nose with yours, warm air fans over your face, his breath much quicker now than when you began.

His palm strokes down the front of your shirt, caressing your chest, followed by your abdomen, landing on the bulge growing in your trousers and squeezing it experimentally. You inhale sharply, debating the situation. You don't want anyone walking in on whatever is about to happen. Public indecency is one thing, but gross indecency?

Your nerves get the better of you, your body visibly tensing as your mind drifts away from the present. During your internal debate, Jacob had started to kiss down your neck, latching onto a spot that would be easily covered by a shirt collar and sucking harshly, marking you with a pink ring.

Spreading his thumb over the outline of the head of your cock through your trousers, he whispers, "Do you want this, lad? I won't go any further until you tell me."

Jesus Christ, his voice is pure sin. You're convinced he could make any suggestion sound amicable. Deciding you're too aroused to not let it happen, you press your crotch into his palm, nodding eagerly and wheezing, "Please."

Jacob smirks and plants a final lingering kiss on your lips, his bedroom eyes boring into yours and promising you nothing short of absolute pleasure.

He plucks open the buttons of your shirt while you fumble with his many layers. Unbuttoning his waistcoat and dress shirt, loosening his red tie around his neck, you expose a region of his chest and gulp at the godlike sight. You mumble, "Fuck," eyeing up the chiseled pecs lined with dark hair that trails south and disappears under his trousers. You catch a glimpse of a tattoo but he drops to his knees before you can study it further, his tongue dancing over your skin and distracting you with precise damp strokes.

On his knees, he rubs his hands against you through your trousers, pressing his fingers against the outline of your cock with firm pressure. He sees you bite your lip, breathing softly and in a controlled way. For now.

He starts to undress your lower half, unbuckling your belt and unbuttoning your trousers, then stroking the tips of his fingers against you through your drawers.

He loves it when you groan deeply. It makes him want to stand up and cup your face, plant kisses on your lips and jaw, then kiss and bite all along your neck and down your throat. It's cruel temptation, but he quite likes the view down where he is.

Jacob leans forward and kisses the bulge through the linen fabric, sliding your trousers down your legs. He kisses your upper thighs and stomach, lifting your shirt by a few inches to kiss along the upper hem of your underwear. Unlacing your drawers, he looks up at you while pulling the fabric down, shimmying your cock out from it's restraints and taking it into his palm.

He brushes his thumb over the foreskin and pulls it back to expose the head, the slit dribbling precum. Your cock throbs in his warm calloused palm, your chest heaving as you question if this is really happening, or if you've simply fallen asleep on your shift and will be woken up at any second to your father clipping you behind the ear.

Jacob spits into his hand and jerks you slowly with a tight fist, still gazing up to gauge your response. Your fingers grip the wall behind you, your eyes hooded and you huff raggedly.

When his thumb brushes over a particularly sensitive spot, you mumble, "Oh, fuck," twitching into full hardness.

He teases you, "Does that feel good, love?"

You nod and open your mouth to respond, but instead groan a little louder than you should have, looking down to see Jacob's lips wrapped around your head, pushing forward and sucking the first inch or so of your cock.

You ahh and grunt at the slick heat of his mouth, at his dexterous tongue swirling around your head as his head begins to bob in your lap, his fingers pressing against your hips as they threaten to buck forward. He pulls back, dragging his tongue on the underside of your cock and hitting the sensitive spot he previously discovered.

He continues moving his fist along your cock with a wonderful flick of his wrist, "You have to be quiet, lad."

"I know."

"We don't want anyone seeing you getting all cute and flustered, do we? No, that sight is for me and me alone."

Ascending your body reluctantly, he taps your lips once in contemplation. Tugging his red tie through his collar, he screws the fabric up into a ball and asks you to open wide, muffling your sounds with the makeshift gag.

He hums in satisfaction, returning to his kneeling position and teasing every inch of you with his exceptional skill.

He gets your cock nice and lubed up with his saliva while he sucks joyfully, pulling his head away to stroke your length with his hand and licking the head at a languid pace, swirling his tongue around the ridge. You shudder when he moans and his lips vibrate against your sensitive skin, growing somewhat impatient as you begin rocking your hips out from the wall.

Pinning your hips down, he brings you closer as he pushes his head further forward, making his lips and cheeks tight around your cock as it throbs inside his mouth. Your movements become still, muffling your moans into the tie non-stop, your fingers carding through his silky hair.

Jacob is moaning more now that he can taste your precum, placing his lips a cm away from your tip, pouting them into a tight o, then pressing them down tightly around the head, his tongue lapping up your indulgent taste - mildly bitter with a salty kick.

Your body starts to tense up, so he knows you’re getting close. Wanting to try one last thing before he pushes you over the edge, he lowers his head and sucks one of your balls into his mouth. He creates an intense suction, jacking you off as fast as he can go without overstimulating you.

Your chest is rising and falling radically at this point, you gasp and groan out against your gag, unable to put the words together to announce your impending orgasm. Jacob swaps his hand and mouth over, kneading your balls with gentle hands and bobbing his head along your cock. You cum straight into his mouth, your hips jerking forward as you attempt to groan out his name.

He looks up at you in response, keeping your cock close to the back of his throat as he swallows every last drop of cum. You groan again at the sensation, your cock throbbing erratically against his cheeks and tongue, your body ready to collapse as your energy leaves you.

Still mumbling into your gag, your head spins for a moment before slumping back against the wall.

"Fuff."

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @katbernoulli @winterwriter8845 @thank-god-its-fryeday @yourchepazworld @iceboundstar @the-purple-rook @lcvingvincent @balladofthesadcat @ladye11e

#assassin's creed #imagine #jacob frye #self shipper #self ship #sexy victorian man #mlm #jacob frye x male reader #jacob frye x y/n

71 notes · View notes

a-gay-bloodmage · 6 years

Text

—Not Mal. Not Mallie. Mallory.—

Pairing: Blackwall x Male Trevelyan

Pairing Type: M/M

Words: 1,534

Warnings: Cross-dressing, Angst, Implied NSFW, Thom Rainier is Surprisingly Blind for someone who lived under a fake identity for Years, and As If Blackwall is Actually Straight, I am Bisexual and I can Smell a Fellow Trash Queer, my Inquisitor is a Bundle of Anxiety and I Love Him, Just a Big Gay Mess

Every footstep seemed to be louder than the last as he stepped into the barn. That lovely, homey barn full of those pretty carvings. Blackwall, no, Thom, stood behind his bench, and set down his tools as he heard Mallory come in. Or, perhaps, in his mind, Mallie.

"Ah," he said, looking up. "It's... it's nice to see you, my Lady." The lump in Mallory's throat bobbed under his pink scarf.

"Blackwall-" He caught himself. "Thom," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "Can we... talk?" The faux Warden sighed, nodding soberly as he stepped out from behind his table.

"Of course, my Lady," he said, looking up at Mallory. An inch taller. Six foot even.

"Could you, uh, do me a favor?" He asked, staring at the floor.

"Of course," Thom nodded, a hesitant hand resting on his Mallie's arm. Mallory's stomach turned. "What do you need?”

"I- we need to talk." The warm hand fell from his bicep. "In my chambers. Alone.”

"As you wish, my Lady," he nodded once more, always so hesitant around the Inquisitor. Thom, he walked on eggshells where Blackwall had walked on ice. Careful, always, but now, so much more so.

Mallory led the way, walking slowly through Skyhold, avoiding the passages with the people. He didn't want them to see their Inquisitor's lip quiver as it did, their Herald's eyes watering. He kept his back to Thom.

The door creaked open, and shut behind them, locked.

"My Lady," he sighed, head hanging. "If you wish for my lying self to go, just say it." Words hung heavy in the air. "There's no need for ceremony.”

"This isn't about you, Thom," he said, bright blue eyes looking anywhere but at the other man. "I've already told you, I love Thom just as I loved Blackwall."

"Then what's going on?" He asked, hunched shoulders and fidgeting hands.

"When I learned about your past," Mallory said, eyes fallen to the cold, stone floor, "I understood. What it's like to live like that, I, I know.”

"Please, my Lady," he said, breath heavy. "Mallie. You're the Herald through no fault of your own. People believed in the story, you went along with it, it's real. I lied.”

"I'm not talking about Andraste!" Mallory flinched at his own tone. Far too loud. Unladylike. Thom's bearded face knotted in confusion.

"Then what-?”

"I understood because I know what it's like to be someone you're not," he said, hand shaking. "Because the lie is easier to believe than the truth.”

"I don't follow." A black teardrop rolled down Mallory Trevelyan's face, eyeliner dripping to the floor. "Inquisitor, what's going on?" Another black droplet. "Please, my Lady-”

"That," he said, quiet and yet so forceful. "That's the problem. That's the lie." He leaned back against the end on the bed.

"My Lady?" Thom Rainier fell silent as he watched quaking hands slowly unbutton the little white buttons on the pretty pink blouse.

"I love you," Mallory said, almost numb as button after button came undone. "But I lied like you. I lied-" A button. "- and I lied-" Another button. "- and I lied some more." A lacy white bra and a tightly done corset. A pretty pink blouse fell onto the quilt. "A name, a past, I understood." Carefully braided hair came undone, falling past his hunched, shaking shoulders. "And a title.”

"I don't understand," Thom whispered. "This, this strip show," he stuttered, "what are you doing? You're the Inquisitor, even if your ruddy shirt's of.”

"Not Inquisitor," he said, light blond hair waving as he shook his head. "My Lady.”

"My... Lady?”

"I'm, I'm not your Lady." Hands reached back, grabbing the hook on the lacy white undergarment. "I'm not that. I'm a, a-" Words caught in his throat, choking him. "I'm an undesirable, mad, stupid, lying-" The offensive undergarment was tossed to the floor. "- man." Thom was silent as shameful black tears fell onto a pretty, white skirt. Such shameful contrast.

"You're... You're a man...”

Mallory nodded. "I'm a liar. I lied to you. You liked a lady. A nice, pretty lady. Who wore pretty things and talked with her hands and cried over jewelry.”

"And Mallie?" Thom asked, making the Inquisitor look up. "What's the real name beneath it?”

"Mallory." He paused. "Mal," he spat, quiet, but venomous. "Mal is a little princeling. He sits up straight and behaves like his father wants. But... not as he wants. Mallie," he sighed, "Mallie is a princess," he said, a sad smile on his painted lips. "Mallie wears pink and white, and she smiles, and all the pretty boys think she's pretty, too. They love a lady who's ladylike, who likes, no, loves what she is. Girly. Wearing that pink and white, that lace and frill. It makes her feel pretty and loved. And as much as she wanted that special boy to love her back, Mal got in the way," his voice broke. "He always gets in the way.”

"Take it off." The command jarred him, his body going rigid.

"Huh?”

"The clothing. Take it all off. All the makeup, the Mallie." Thom's eyebrows pressed together as he spoke. "I, I want to see Mallory." Not Mal. Not Mallie. Mallory.

"Of course, Thom," he whispered, head hung in shame. He stood, weak arms pushing himself from the bed. He walked slowly to the small vanity in the corner of the room. Dangling pink earrings and a pretty silver necklace were placed carefully on the dark wooden surface. "Just, turn around, please," he said. Thom complied. "I always liked surprises," he said, dipping the washcloth in the basin. "I guess this is the last one I can give you. I, I hope it's not such a bad one." The room was silent save the dripping of water into the bowl. The basin was slowly turning from clear to the colour of pale skin, of pink, and of the black eyeliner.

A corset fell to the floor, soon covered by a pretty pink scarf and a ruined skirt. He dried his face, refusing to look in the mirrors. His soft footsteps echoed in the still chambers as he moved to stand behind the faux Warden.

"I- you can turn around now.”

It was instinctual, those two steps back as Thom Rainier saw Mallory Trevelyan for the first time.

"I-" He paused, his pale, stormy grey eyes running down the length of the Inquisitor's exposed body. "I said everything." Mallory nodded, nervous hands slowly removing his linens, leaving them discarded on the floor. "I, uh..." Mallory's face lit up in red-hot embarrassment as he hugged himself, looking anywhere but at the man staring, mouth slightly agape at the thing that made so many men what they were. Men. "I can't believe..." His voice sounded almost... impressed. "How in the Maker's name do you fit that thing into those tight trousers you wear?" Blush spread to his torso, his blue eyes wide as he realized what had just came out of Thom's mouth.

"Uh... carefully?" He said, shrugging as his heart quivered.

He jolted as he felt gloved hands grab his waist, looking into Thom's eyes as he was pushed into the grand bed.

"I'm sorry," Mallory offered, not sure what to say as he was held to the bed by his waist, soft corners digging into the small of his back.

"I will admit, it's... not my pint of ale," he sighed, looking down at the Inquisitor's body. Mallory's heart sank. "But," Thom continued, "what sort of man would I be if I turned down a perfectly good pint?" Wide blue eyes met hesitant grey, staying open even as the greys closed and their lips met. Mallory kissed back, his hands moving to wrap around his knight's back.

"Thom," he sighed as their lips broke apart, bodies still pressed together. "I..." I don't know what to say.

"Have freckles," he said, finishing the sentence Mallory never meant to start. A soft leather glove brushed against the smooth, freckled skin. "They're... quite pretty." A soft smile appeared on the Inquisitor's lips.

"You... want this?" He asked after a moment, hesitant. "Me?”

"I'll take whatever you want to be," Thom said, his words like a Warden's vow. "Mallie or Mallory. It's the same person, isn't it?" Mallory nodded. "Trousers, skirts, they... they both look good on you, my La-" He paused, pursing his lips. "My... Whatever." He smiled, shaking his head. "My Whatever.”

"Your Whatever," Mallory nodded, a grin splitting his face. "I like it.”

"Me too.”

• • ♡ • •

Mallory couldn't remember the last time he woke up in somebody's arms without a hangover. He doubted that it had ever happened. But, as he looked over, and saw the man beside him, burly, rugged arms draped over soft, carefully shaven skin, he smiled as the morning light shone without consequence. He rolled his eyes with a wide, stupid smile, settling back down on the pillow, feeling the coarse black hair of his lover's body rub against his skin. He loved it—such delightful features. And even as he lay bare of all clothing, bare of all lies, he couldn't help but feel like Mallie had always wanted to.

Loved.

#I loved writing this one #my first inquisition fic!! yes!!#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da inquisitor #da blackwall #fanfiction #blackwall x inquisitor #blackwall x m!inquisitor #rarepair #TRAGICALLY #original content #mallory trevelyan #thom rainier

15 notes · View notes

baelar-maeranar · 6 years

Text

Interview With the Valarjar

a1. What is your name?

“Baelar, though most people call me B.”

2. What is your real name?

“Baelar Maer’Anar-Lunarsong”

3. Do you know why you were called that?

“My Father named me after his grandfather - a Druid of the Claw. He was convinced that a strong name would lead to a strong son.” A chuckle. “He wasn’t wrong.“

4. Are you single or taken?

“I was just recently married.”

5. Have any abilities or powers?

"My father was a skilled Druid, and my mother a Huntress - however Elune did not see fit to bless me with magical capabilities, and instead made me useful in other, more menial tasks - such as building, and fighting.”

6. Stop being a Mary Sue.

”Once I was stationed with a woman named Mary Sue - out in Draenor. She was from Westfall, and very sweet. She had a thick accent, and often made fun of me because I could not understand her.“ A thoughtful pause. “I do not recall what happened to her, after we moved on from that camp. I wonder if she is well.” 7. What’s your eye color?

“It is said that children blessed with golden eyes are destined for greatness - when it comes to magical abilities. I was never blessed as such - so mine are merely silver.”

8. How about your hair color?

“I was blessed with my mothers dark blue hair - though it’s lighter with this cut.”

9. Have you any family members?

“Sadly no. Father went into a deep slumber, after the War of the Satyr, and never awoke - but we never knew why. I have always felt that he fell to the Nightmare, but my Mother never believed that. Mother, however, passed when the Cataclysm ravaged Hyjal. ”

10. Oh? What about pets?

Baelar chuckles lightly, “I would not call them ‘pets’ but Lyrial has Ahnvae - her war saber, and we have both been watching over Ishte, and Rakir. Ishte is a saber, bred and raised in Winterspring, and Rakir is a lamed lion who was saved by our good friend, Tythis Diel’turas. He has fallen ill recently, so we have taken the two in.”

11. That’s cool I guess, now tell me about something you don’t like.

“How the Horde continues to sully my sacred forests with their dishonorable hands. They have sliced down too many of our sacred trees, and have corrupted our lands with their Banshee Queen’s blight. I am saddened, but angry, that so many good men and woman could have stood by while innocents burned in Teldrassil. I am angry, and sad that those men and woman still fight beneath a banner that bares the blood of children and inno-” Baelar seems to realize he’s going on a bit of a rant, and getting passionate. He sucks in a breath, and clears his throat, letting his statements end.

12. Do you have any hobbies/activities you like doing?

The change of subject is welcomed. “I have always loved carpentry, and building. I have always enjoyed the simplicity of the labor, and have found purpose in such tasks. I also enjoy to whittle if I do have have my tools, and cannot do anything more complex when I come upon drift wood near the rivers.“

13. Ever hurt anyone before?

“I have, yes.”

14. Ever… killed anyone before?

“War makes killers of us all.”

15. What kind of animal are you?

“Truthfully, I do not know. You would have to ask Lyrial. Though, a few times she has compared me to a wolf in the forest - but I have always felt myself more like a stag.”

16. Name your worst habits.

“I have picked up a few bad habits from my time traveling with Humans and Dwarves in Draenor. Drinking is the worst of them - and to my shame I am quite the light weight.“

17. Do you look up to anyone at all?

"My beloved, Lyrial.” His smile is gentle, and his eyes soften. “She has always made me strive to be a better man. She is stalwart in her convictions, loving, kind, and compassionate. She is fierce when it is needed, and has always had a closeness with Elune and the forest that I simply envy.”

18. Gay, straight, or bisexual?

“I am helplessly in love with my Lyrial.”

19. Do you go to school?

“I attended a few Druidic classes when I was a child, but once it was realized that I didn’t have a single magic hair upon my head, they dismissed me to learn other skills. I learned saber riding, combat techniques, and built upon my carpentry skills. I merely fell into my life path as a Guardian of Hyjal, but it has given me purpose.”

20. Do you ever want to marry and have kids one day?

“I wanted to marry Lyrial the moment I was reunited with her in Val’Sharah. We have spoken of baring children into the world, but we both knew that we could not bring a new life into this world while it was at war. However, we have been blessed with taking guardianship over an orphan of Teldrassil. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and proves that though the fires brings destruction, life can bloom anew from the ashes. ”

21. Do you have any fanboys/fangirls?

“What does that mean? Is that a human expression I have not heard of?”

22. What are you most afraid of?

"Losing my most beloved, or any harm coming to my little Saelyn’dia.”

23. What do you usually wear?

"if I am not within my combat armor, I am usually within simple linen trousers and shirts.”

24. Do you love someone?

“I did marry her, after all.”

25. When was the last time you wet yourself?

“Probably when I was a child. Though, I couldn’t really tell you.”

26. Well, it’s not over yet!

“Continue then.”

27. What class are you? (High class, middle class, low class)

"I have always been of the working - or warrior class. That is what Elune allotted to me, and I thank her for the blessings she has given me every day.”

28. How many friends do you have?

"I have a few very close friends, whom I adore with all of my heart.”

29. What are your thoughts on pie?

"I have been told that I make a very delicious peach cobbler.”

30. Favorite drink?

“Honey wine brewed by the Valarjar.”

31. What’s your favorite place?

“Curled up by the fire, with Lyrial and Saelyn’dia wrapped up in my arms, while Lyrial reads her a story. She is such a curious child...she will grow to be the smartest woman I’ll ever know.”

32. Are you interested in someone?

“Well, I am married to her, so I would say I am, yes.”

33. What’s your bra cup size and/or how big is your willy?

A shit eating grin is the only answer you get.

34. Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean?

“I have never liked the ocean - due to the Naga invasions upon the shores of Ashenvale. So I would much prefer lakes.”

35. What’s your type?

“Strong, compassionate, funny, smart, fierce, loving, goofy, adorable, and so so much more.”

36. Any fetishes?

“I was once given a fetish by a friendly Furblog in Darkshore. He was a kind, and gentle bear, and I would often visit him on my way to Ashenvale and drop off a few bits of dried foods. He repaid me with a leather, and feather bound fetish which hangs in my home.” A brief pause, “Do you have any?”

37. Seme or uke? Top or Bottom? Dominant or Submissive?

“You must ask my most beloved, but if I were to be honest: I would say I am both.“

38. Camping or indoors?

"I prefer to sleep indoors, in all honesty. I have spent too much time on the road, sleeping in cots, and beneath poorly constructed tents. I much prefer four walls, a roof, and a bed.”

39. Are you wanting the interview to end?

“I truly do not mind answering questi--”

40. Now it’s over! Tag 3 people I will tag as many as I want.

Tagged by: @drustvar-dragonfly

Tagging: @daughter-of-ashenvale @wardennerd @nesuna-nightwinter @celassa

#Baelar Maer'Anar #RP stuff #Meme's n shit #writing and stuff

3 notes · View notes

princessgracekelly1956 · 6 years

Photo

Daily Mirror - 16 June 1958

William Hickey joins with Photonews

For once let’s look closely at a single week-end... when a big name captures the kingdom

This Super Sinatra ‘rocks’ the Rainiers

MONTE CARLO, SUNDAY

This has been Frank Sinatra’s week-end in Monte Carlo - the swingiest, zingiest affair since that famous “swell party” that climaxed his film “High Society.’ And his Hollywood co-star Grace Kelly was the leading lady of this Wow of a Week-end under her new billing of Princess Grace of Monaco.

The excuse, if excuse were needed, was last night’s world premiere of his latest film “Kings Go Forth.” But this was the least exciting part of this Riviera fiesta that by tea-time yesterday had transformed this near-deserted little principality into a sun-drenched rendezvous for a thousand stars and celebrities.

By plane, car, and train they arrived, some having flown direct from Hollywood to support this giant of show business. And their journey was lavishly rewarded by one of the greatest song shows anyone here had ever heard.

At the gala supper after the film Sinatra left his seat next to Princess Grace and bounded on to the stage. He ran through a dozen of hid best-known numbers while the princess sat, hands clasped, eyes gleaming with excitement behind her spectacles and a smile curling the corners of her mouth.

In the huge, hot room of the International Sporting Club, with its waterfront decor, I could have heard a diamond drop as the 40-piece orchestra led into “When Your Lover Has Gone.”

Laughter in Mandalay

Then the mood switched to laughter as Sinatra ad-libbed his way through “The Road to Mandalay,” embroidering Kipling’s original with lines like “There’s a Burma broad a’settin’.” and “The cat gets a crazy thirst.”

After this one Sinatra must have noticed the puzzled look of Prince Rainier, who several times leaned across the table decorations to ask his wife for a translation into ordinary English.

For before going into “All the Way,” Sinatra hitched his trousers and said: “Sorry, I don’t speak enough French to explain all the words, but if any of you don’t understand just speak to the cat next to you and she’ll help you dig it.”

After three-quarters of an hour Sinatra finished with a tremendous beat-up of “The Lady is a Tramp,” leaped off the platform, and sloped back to the table where the Rainiers were leading the cheers and cries of “Encore,” “Bravo,” “More.”

He had promised it would be “a swingin’ night,” and there was an “I-told-you-so” look in his twinkling blue eyes as he acknowledged the tumult with a loose wave of his hand and a triumphant smile.

She whispers in his ear

As he sat down to gulp a drink, Princess Grace whispered in his ear. Two seconds later he was back on stage, gripping the mike and saying; “That was supposed to be it, but I’ve a request from our lovely lady of the evening. We haven’t rehearsed this but here is ‘You Make Me Feel So Young.’”

Then, turning to the musicians who were fumbling for their parts and looking confused, he chuckled: “Just read, boys. Don’t get nervous! But if you ‘blow’ this you are, out of the team.”

This was Sinatra - casual, confident, uninhibited to the point where he almost goes too far were it not for his enormous charm.

INTRODUCTION

To introduce him Noël Coward had broken off his conversation with Somerset Maugham. He said: “He is one of the great artists of our time. His taste is impeccable - I have never known him to make a false move.”

The gala party didn’t start until nearly midnight - the film had started nearly an hour late. So everybody was in a “let’s eat” mood when they got to the supper tables.

But the shouts of “Service, please,” and “Champagne” died into a breathless silence as the Rainiers came down the stairs.

Applause for the Rainiers

Princess Grace looked warm and lovely with a new crisp-curl short hair-do, rose-pink lipstick to match her high-necked gown of faille, a white mink wrap, and a spattering of diamonds and pearls that somehow looked discreet, although the stones were huge.

Everyone clapped as the prince, in a dinner jacket, guided her to their table, where the rest of the party - including Tina Onassis, Frank Ross and his wife, better remembered perhaps as actress Joan Caulfield, and Arthur Krim, head of United Artists - was waiting.

Sinatra’s date the Marquise de Portago - sat at another table with the Peter Lawfords.

Curt Jurgens and his constant companion Simone Bicheron were there. Lex Barker in a white dinner jacket, had just flown in from Rome. Mr. and Mrs. Howard Keel, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Wilding, Mai Zetterling, Delphi Lawrence, Adrienne Corri and April Olrieh from England, laughed at the gay tables.

Don Loper, from California, was squiring Betty Furness, who wore a flue-brush wig for some reason.

The real king of the party

But there was no doubt that even in the presence of his royal friends Frank Sinatra was king.

As people congratulated him on his film performance, he said: “It’s strange, I know that film so well by now - but I cried.”

This was Sinatra - the man with the tender heart who does many kindnesses that are never known.

Mrs. Ross, who has known him for years told me: ‘He’s a paradox. Although he talks like a gangster he is a truly gentle man.

‘He always works in reverse - if somebody wants him to behave this way or do a certain thing he will do just the opposite. It’s his game, and you have to play it his way.”

Certainly it all worked out his way last night.

A date at dawn...

The Rainiers danced till 3 a.m. Then at dawn today Sinatra invited a few friends back to the suite she was sharing with the Lawfords - a suite I had left at 6 a.m. yesterday. He was in an exuberant mood. “That Grace is just adorable,” he said. “And her prince is really charming.

“Do you know, he went out of his way to say ‘Thank you for having us - it’s been such a wonderful evening.’ Man, it was a gas, wasn’t it?”

SEA FOOD

I had joined him on Friday at an eve-of-premiere party in the open air at a sea-food restaurant at Cap Martin.

Sinatra, co-host with producer Frank Ross, sat with Mr. and Mrs. Peter Lawford at a table a little apart from the main group - which included Hedda Hopper, Leonard Lyons, Ludwig Bemelmans, and Earl Wilson.

He played the perfect host, until, hemmed in by serenading guitarists and flamenco dancers, he decided he’d had enough.

“Let’s go back to town,” he said. “I hear there’s a big crap game going on at the casino.”

There was no big dice game, but when a few late-nighters straggled into the casino bar he stood drinks until 2 a.m. yesterday and then took some of us back to his suite.

The man who likes company

While his records played softly in the background, he drank Bourbon whisky, defined a “broad” as ‘a “loveable dame,” and wandered out on to the balcony to describe the thin crescent moon cradling a star as “a ring-a-ding version of the Turkish flag.”

We argued about where an entertainer’s private life begins and ends. “I left Rome,” he said, “because everywhere I went someone stuck a camera in my face.”

This was Sinatra - the man who loves company in the small hours, who sits up all night and sleeps all day.

THE SINGER

Some wit has remarked that Sinatra’s is the only place you wear a black tie and take sunglasses.

When I left at 6 a.m. yesterday the sun was up looking like thunder out of Mentone ‘cross the bay.

But The Singer was sitting alone taking off his shoes with one hand and trying to get some jazz on a transistor set with the other.

A cigarette for a baton

Next time he appeared was around 5 yesterday afternoon to rehearse the band specially flown down from Paris.

In an open-neck orange shirt, white linen jacket and dark trousers, with his straw snap-brim hat tilted sometimes back, sometimes forward over his eyes, he drilled the musicians in every nuance of the arrangements while waiters laid tables, electricians tested lights, porters humped in flowering plants, and 50 flashlights blinked from the wings.

With a cigarette for a baton he raised his arms and spread them wide to indicate the full surge of a crescendo.

With arms crossed or hands stuck in pockets to prevent, I suspect, the trousers sliding right off his slim hips, he whistled or beat time with his foot for two hours - but always with a curious stillness that never wasted gesture.

After “Moonlight in Vermont” he nodded “C’est bon” and gathered up his music. He had an hour before he was due at that premiere.

This was Sinatra - the perfectionist who, though he plays no instrument and cannot read music, has developed his own incomparable technique for songs with a snap or songs with a sigh.

#Frank Sinatra #Princess Grace #1958 #50s #William Hickey #Daily Mirror #newspaper

6 notes · View notes