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arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months

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The Seamstress (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Prince Aemond is your favorite client.

Warnings: Seamstress! Reader x Aemond. Smut. Mature language. Age gap, though not specified, and everyone is of age.

A/N: I was thinking about how something always felt off when writing Aemond. So, experimenting a little here.

The nerves and excitement don’t go away, even if this has to be the tenth time you are asked to do it. You feel yourself alight with pride. This is your moment.

Since you were no more than a little girl, you had always wanted to become a seamstress. You dreamed of making beautiful dresses for the noble ladies to wear, handsome gambesons and shirts for the lords. Years have passed since then, and you have become a renowned dressmaker, having fabricated gowns for Houses such as the Lannisters and the Arryns alike, but being asked to dress the royal family still thrills you.

You feel as if you were a little girl, wandering the halls of the Red Keep. It's no matter if you have done this before, you still feel the same sense of accomplishment. Besides, getting to work with your favorite client is always a joy.

The Queen has confided in you that you are also his favorite. Prince Aemond refuses to wear anything you haven't personally sewn. Your job is harder that way. You can't distribute the more menial tasks to your sewing girls, having to sew every stitch yourself. Yet, at the same time, it fills you with accomplishment when you manage to meet his expectations.

“Chin up, my Prince.” You say, softly pushing his jaw upwards. You go on your tiptoes, placing the pin on the cloth near his throat. He would look stunning in a linen shirt, with such a beautiful neck and shoulders. But alas, the prince is not one for light colors.

“How long will this take?” One of his hands, big and broad, goes to your waist. To steady you, surely. Yet, you cannot help but get distracted by the touch. It has been so long since you have been touched in such a manner. “I have to go train before noon.”

“Prince Aemond.” You warn, softly fixing the fall of the cloth. “These things take time. You can't just wear anything to the coronation.”

“I am not the one getting crowned, am I?”

You fix a button. You do not like the way the shape the outfit is giving him.

Taking a step back, you examine the clothes with a critical eye.

The pants need to be taken in. You kneel, tightening them around his waist and thighs. When your hand reaches his inner thigh, you notice that he has a bulge in his trousers. Your eyebrows raise. Unsure if it is what you think it is, you smooth the fabric around his hips.

His hand goes to your cheek. You look up, searching his face. Prince Aemond’s eye is dark, almost all pupil. He looks like he could just eat you up. His thumb brushes over your lips. As if in a trance, you open up.

You would be ashamed of reacting this way to any other man. But not with him. Not when he is as equally desperate, hungry for you.

It’s not something that's encouraged, bedding nobles. You would rather not end up with a bastard on your belly, shamed and unable to work. Your entire thing, what sets you apart from other seamstresses, is that you are a respectable woman.

But even respectable women feel desire. Even respectable women want to be worshiped and adored.

“Come here.” Prince Aemond pulls you to your feet. Then, he kisses you, hungrily. You start to take out the pins off his clothes, throwing the shirt away. The cloth gives as if it was nothing, long gone are your patterns and pins.

He lowers your bodice and hikes up your skirt. You grin. This is not new, either. It still fills you with the same thrill as it did the first day. Prince Aemond had not taken your maidenhead, nor had you taken his. But it had been you who had taught him, sitting on top of his hips and rolling your hips until you milked him dry.

There is something about teaching others about pleasure. You understand now, why men savor maidens so much. You can teach them to love and please just how you like, aim their thrust just at the angle you need to reach your own peak.

Prince Aemond kisses you hungrily, licking into your mouth as if a man starved. That, too, you taught it to him. Back then, his kisses had been all teeth, all clumsy head movements. Designed to conquer through brute force rather than seduction.

He kisses down your throat, sucking a bruise right between your collarbones. You sigh, quietly. He nips at your skin, determined to force a sound out of you. You have found out he thrives on praise and recognition, starved as he is.

He pushes harder, kissing the spot he knows makes you melt. You reward him with a soft moan. You have never been one for loud demonstrations of passion, and it shows, but it only makes more valuable to him the little sounds you let out.

You feel yourself start to get more and more wet. Your cunt throbs between your legs, slick and ready for him.

“Put it in.” You plead. “My Prince, please.”

“You are such a demanding thing, for a commoner.” He grunts, biting down at your shoulder. There is no room for complaint because he is entering you in one smooth thrust. You let out a keening sound, half pleasure, half pain. You can feel him grin sharply against your skin, face still hidden on your shoulder.

He rocks more than he thrusts, as he holds you open with one of his hands. This way, your pearl is exposed and rubs against his pelvis each time he moves.

His face remains hidden, and you feel his hair tickling against your skin. You feel the urge to nip at him as he does you, but you don't dare. He is not yours, nor are you his. Not only is it not allowed, but it would anger him. Prince Aemond, no matter how much he enjoys your body, does not think himself your equal.

He is above you, or so he says. If he likes to live in delusion, you won't be the one who stops him. It's not you, at the end of the day, who leaves these chambers looking wrecked. It's not you who melts at praise, at being told he is good.

“Like that?” Prince Aemond asks, cockily, as he watches your mouth slacking with pleasure.

“Right there.” You tilt your hips upwards, chasing your own peak. He fucks into you, mindlessly. He has a one track mind when it comes to these kinds of things. Thrives on watching you fall apart, as if it makes him more, as if it fills his pride. It's a good thing, in a lover, but you shudder to think of what this man could do only to be able to feel proud of himself.

It takes only a few well-planted thrusts before you are shivering and shaking against him, mouth open into a silent scream. He groans, pleased, coming out of his hiding place to give you a chaste kiss.

You straighten yourself. You thumb a pink, puffy nipple between your fingers and lean in, to coo right on his ear.

“You did so well.” You kiss his earlobe, softly taking it into your mouth and tugging. “So good for me.”

He trembles against you, face going back to hide on your neck. You wish he allowed you to look at him in moments like this. Prince Aemond probably looks wrecked. You can see it in your mind's eye, how his eye fell closed, how he has to bite his lip so hard to not let out a sound.

The view you get makes up for it, though. His back is arched so hard it must hurt, to make up for the height difference between the two of you. His hips snap into you so hard, you think you might end up with bruises from his damn hipbones.

Your prince has a beautiful body, honed from years of training. He is also all sharp lines and angles, hipbones, jaw, cheek. It is why you enjoy dressing him so much. His pale skin and light hair would really shine in jewel tones, but he refuses to use anything but dark.

“You are so good. No one makes me feel like you do.” You whisper, softly scratching at his scalp. You keep your touch gentle and sweet, and that seems to be his undoing. He tenses up and gives a little grunt, and soon, you can feel the telltale wetness between your legs.

You congratulate yourself on a job well done. You kiss the top of his head and start fixing your dress. On the floor, there is a mess of pins and cloth. The patterns will not be able to be salvaged, and you have another appointment in less than an hour. You need to bathe.

With no other choice but to walk out, you kiss him one last time.

“Come see me later, for the clothes.”

And he does come. But you get distracted again. He ends up going to the coronation in one of his everyday outfits. The Queen pays you regardless. She knows how difficult her son can be.

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lya-dustin · 4 months

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The Bedding

Cw: awkward sex, uncle/niece incest, superstitions regarding sex, lack of privacy slightly smutty

Westrosi bedding ceremony meets irl medieval ceremony

Aemond x Laenor’s Daughter!reader

@the-common-cowgirl

It had seemed like a perfectly good idea then.

With Rhaenyra’s eldest and only trueborn daughter as his betrothed and he now king after the disastrous battle of Rook’s Rest, it would remind everyone your remaining brothers were not true Velaryons and erase any doubt that whatever child he sires on you are legitimate.

The unlikely king had not accounted for the other traditions that went beyond undressing the bride and groom and having the High Septon bless the bridal bed.

He assumed the worst would be you flinching when he touches you while being forced into marrying him after he killed your brother and yet that pales to this.

“You must not ejaculate until you have reached a hundred thrusts, her grace must reach her climax within that time and your grace must make sure to remain standing during intercourse or else the babe will be female.” The maester who specializes in fertility orders him after having him inspect his manhood for any abnormalities.

It is a small comfort to know a midwife and his mother are merely giving you advice on the matter.

“I don’t think that is a proven thing, maester.” Cole looks almost as puzzled as Aemond at the strange orders he is being given.

“And how would you know, Lord Commander, did you receive a better education on the Dornish Marches?” the maester, a reach lord with a visceral disgust at anything Dornish throws back thinking the Lord Hand and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would cower before him.

Most in court cannot accept the son of a Dornish Steward and a servant girl could take the place of Ser Otto Hightower, and yet Aemond refused to give him back his pin and office.

“Because unlike you, he has bedded women.” Aemond retorted in annoyance. “Let’s get this over with.”

He can hardly compliment you or even remove your shift to give you a proper wedding night with his mother, his grandsire, Criston and the Maesters hovering just over his shoulder.

His mother is brought some tea and sits behind a screen with the witnesses. Well, all except for the Maester who is kept from interfering by Criston.

Criston who had tried to impart his wisdom in the carnal arts by bringing in a whore yesterday evening and having her educate Aemond.

It wasn’t the same thing as this and no matter how much Aemond tries to make this pleasurable for you, you look uncomfortable, as if this was an unwanted chore.

“You may touch me, if you like.” You say and turn to look elsewhere and ignore his grandsire and his mother talking about the weather behind the screen.

He has done this before, touched you without spoiling your virtue and but then you showed some animation. The memory of how you used to sigh with pleasure as he lets a hand roam under your shift is a stark contrast to how you just lie there looking bored.

But the way your warm skin react to his touch, as awkward this all is, manages to betray you.

He’s lost count of his thrusting as you bite your lip when he begins to toy with your button like he’d done that last time before it all went to the seventh hell.

You try, and yet the tell tale signs of your enjoyment begin to peak out from your cool façade.

“Increase pressure in your thrusts after 70.” The Maester says and Aemond almost ignores it as he focused on making you come undone.

You shut your eyes and a low moan escapes you when he goes deeper into you and repeating the action until your fist bunched up the linen sheets you lay on.

His own pleasure builds up knowing he’s gotten you to forget your newfound loathing for him even for this moment.

He wants to lay in the bed with you, to take off your clothes and kick off his trousers and tell everyone else to fuck off and leave the room. Just the idea of fucking you in peace has him going mad.

“Gods, Aemond.” You almost cry as your body surrenders itself to the pleasure and he grows bold enough to ignore the audience behind him.

It doesn’t take long for him to climax even as the maester tries to stop him from coming before the final ten thrusts.

“My only consolation is that you too didn’t follow their advice.” You say as he rolls off you to lie beside you in bed.

“What was yours?” he asks reaching out to hold your hand, this time you don’t flinch.

“To lie back and think of Westeros.”

#aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader #aemond x reader #smut-ish #ewan mitchell

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nadinediary · 8 months

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Corporate Fashion with 𝒩adine.

As of the beginning of 2023, I got promoted to coordinator at my job, making me a full-time corporate girlie. I wanted to share some fashion tips and advice for my other entry-level girls who are new to the corporate workplace. To begin, Looking at your workplace guidelines on work attire is important. My agency is lenient, not having restrictions on footwear or colours, so keep that in mind throughout the post. I’ll provide reference photos (the images aren’t mine).

Beauty

Most corporate occupations have this silent rule that women have to wear makeup. Fortunately, that isn't the case at my place of work. I wear makeup to work because I want to. I like to keep my makeup simple and light.

I don't wear foundation, but I do use concealer for my hyperpigmentation. I apply it under my eyes, on the corners of my mouth and any acne scars. For my brows, I like to keep my natural brow shape, just lightly filling in and brushing them. For blush, I use cream on my cheeks and nose bridge.

I have dark skin, so most brown lip liners aren’t dark enough for me, so I use a combination of black and brown liners paired with a sheer pink gloss. I finish off my makeup, highlighting my nose and cheekbones. I've made it a part of my beauty routine to get my lashes done, and I usually go with a cat hybrid set.

I used to have long, stiletto French nails, but lately, I've been learning the guitar, so I've kept my nails short with red gel polish.

As for hair I almost always have my hair in protective styles most notably cornrows, but when my hair is out of braids I have it in a low bun. I’ve recently bought a kinky straight wig that I’ve cut and customised similarly to the reference photo, and I’m so in love with it.

Basics

From satin blouses to pencil skirts, the basics include all the trusty fashion essentials for the office. Sticking to neutral when working in a corporate workspace is always safe. If you love colours like me, I’d advise you to include coloured pieces such as turtlenecks, blouses or scarves to brighten your outfit.

As for inspiration, I think you can’t go wrong with a matching set. My favourite set is a white waistcoat paired with a long pencil skirt; I also have a similar waistcoat and pants set in grey. I wear slip-on loafers during warmer weather, and during cooler temperatures, I will wear boots and a turtleneck underneath the waistcoat or a trench coat.

Dressing for the Weather

Regarding weather, for winter, you can switch out your summer blouses and linen shirts for high-neck tops, turtlenecks and knit sweater vests to layer. I'm Australian, so our winters can feel much colder. Therefore I usually wear tweed blazers and coats. I own three trench coats for work; one in black, one in beige and the other in white; I rotate between the three.

I suggest having neutral-coloured outerwear so you can reuse and style them with more pieces. I have a stereotypical girly style so I love tweed sets paired with stockings and a nice pair of boots or heels when the weather gets cold.

As for Summer, I like to focus on the fabric of the pieces I own, prioritising breathable and lightweight textures such as; cotton, linen, silk or satin. Pairing my tops with loose-fitted, lightweight pants and silk skirts. You can throw on a blazer when it's feeling a bit cooler. It’s important to learn how to style your body type, I'm a pear shape, so I have wider hips with a smaller upper body and waist. I like showing my figure, so I usually wear fitted high-waisted trousers, shorts and skirts.

Accessories & Essentials

I love my loafers; as previously mentioned, I wear slip-on loafers during warmer weather, but for those who have to wear heels for work, you can never go wrong with a sturdy pair of sling-back heels. I like shopping for my work shoes at Charles and Keith; they are affordable and good quality.

I've recently switched from a shoulder bag to a backpack for my back health; I previously used a Burberry shoulder bag, but I've since switched to an Ecosusi women's vintage backpack in black.

I’m a maximalist to the core although I like to keep my jewellery minimal for work, My staples are some thick gold hoops, my Casio gold watch and my gold cross necklace, which I pair with a few rings and bracelets, that’s all.

Good luck to all my corporate baddies and nine-to-five girlies.

Sincerely,

𝒩adine.

#fashion #cooperate

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popcornforone · 1 year

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Fan Fic based on Oberyn Martell

Hands Carved By The Sun

I only intended to write about Dave for the time being but after a conversation with a friends started talking about what Oberyn would do & having so many notes, I kind of had to. So to our princess of Dorne this is so for you & I hope you adore it.

Synopsis: Oberyn has returned to Dorne after a long trip away, & his first port of call is to visit you, before the glorious sun rise.

Warnings: DONOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, PleaseNO MINORS! Unprotected sex(please be sensible in real life) piv sex, tying up, teasing, pining, tasting, biting, sucking,nipping. A detailed description of both your body’s while having sex with each other.

All feedback is welcome peoples, enjoy, especially you!

Being A Dornish Prince comes with so many extra pleasures, enjoyments & experiences that life brings to no one else. Oberyn was so aware of this. A life enjoyed to the max, desires always fulfilled, & an insatiable appetite for the world & its people. However it was always coming home to you after experiencing the delights on offer, that always made him needy.

He is home & in your chamber before you have stired , after his long journey back to Dorne. The sun is cresting over the horizon as he sits on the end of your bed. His yellow cloak already disregarded, bare chested & leaning in towards you to smell you as you sleep. He knows your curves so well & just your hums as you sleep arouse him. He wants to touch you & give you a blessed awakening but he’d like to see your eyes glisten back at him, with the knowledge that he is safe & has returned to you.

Your night dress is sheer & golden like all things in Dorne, & as you twist back round in your sleep you hear this noise & start to wake up. The noise is his breathing, the smell is his spice. He’s home & you know you are about to experience every pleasure known in this world. You slowly flicker your eyes open, adjusting to the hazed light & the outline of the man who plunders you for all the desire he could ever need. A small stretch & a yawn from you is greeted by the words “morning beautiful” from the base of your feet, which now you are coming to, he starts to stroke. Hands carved from the sun itself that ignite your skin with every touch. “My Prince” you sigh feeling goosebumps prick across your entire body.

You sit up as your gown exposes more of your body. It may be sheer & he may have seen your display countless times before but it still makes him hard & wanting of your embrace. His woven linen trousers never hide this. As you reach him one of his hand leaves your ankle & cups your chin. Your eyes still in a state of rest are drawn to his mouth. Lips that have kissed 99 other Dornish women but right now he only wants to explore yours, the ones so plump & eager to be a conquest . It’s sensitive to start, how his tongue brushes along your teeth before you allow it to go further, dancing with your own. Oberyns hand has left your face & trialed down your spine as you finally became fully awake from your slumber, his touch is something worth waking up for, & he reached the dimple at the base. He smirks turning you around, planting a small kiss in the Center of it above the sheer material. You hum and the feel of his lips on you & you know you will be experiencing pleasure like no other soon, by the simple idea that your lover is going to be infatuated by you.

“Oberyn” you moan, & his large hands loop around your waist & slowly go up underneath your gown. Hand built like they are made for your breasts alone. “Ooooh to be home & have the pleasure of you” he whispers into your ear & takes your hand so you palm him. Both your hips start moving as he squeezes your nipples, your arousal growing. His hands find the bottom of your gown & pull it over your head & he pulls you back fully into his lap, feeling his erection ever hardening. He nipps at your neck & slowly trails his hand down your body towards your sex.As you repeat his name you Imagine his tash tickling you as he explores all of you, peppering kisses in places only a prince could touch. Oberyn was never a jealous lover & was always so eager to engage in your fantasy’s, while he had some of his own that he knew your body would respond to, he knew that yours would also just be as feverish & make him want to pleasure you for hours on end, going further than his stamina could take him

He slides you back into the bed, facing up towards him as his hands linger across your tummy, ticking, smoothing & caressing. He’s taken that scarf which was his, that you tie to your bed when he’s not here so you can touch yourself with it. His smell is still intoxicating & helping you cum when he’s travelling to a distant land. Taking your wrist in it he wraps the scarf to the head board ready for you to cry his name out. “Are you ready for the passion, my love?” As he swipes two fingers across your folds. They glisten as he brings them to his lips to taste “I’m always ready Oberyn” & you hips are already moving. He kneels as he pulls down his lining trousers, & no matter how many times you’ve seen it you gasp. A penis that has for-filled so many wishes & pleasures & fantasys, & now once again it’s back to explore you. One hand lazily pumps his shaft, his eyes rolling back in his head as he moans your name . The other is gliding up & down your thigh, before it eventually returns to your sex. “Don’t stop you”moan. his hands caressing every inch of your pleasure, making you roll towards him ready to to ravaged by a famished man.

“Oberyn please” you echo as his hips lower til they are flush against yours, he climbs up towards your face & takes joy in your gasps & the blissed out look on your face “my love this is all I’ve ever wanted” & he notches himself against your entrance, as your legs spread. A feeling like nothing else in the world. he’s going to take a trip between your thighs that respond so well to every inch of him & he slowly edges himself inside you. “Yesssss my Prince” you cry. The drag is phenomenal & you clamp at just the tip of him inside you. “It’s been forever & also no time at all” he sighs his breathing is already hitched & he’s not started moving yet. As he glides further inside, he grasps your hips & pulls you down under him further. You groan, & shut your eyes, hands grasping at the scarfs material, desperate to touch the body that belongs to a god. You want to trace across every line, touch every hair, peck every inch of him & be the woman he always has to come home to.

“Exquisite” he moans before he burys his head in your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth & starts to suck. He starts to thrust going ever deeper inside you, you didn’t know you could accommodate so much of his length as he pulses inside you. His other hand cups your other breast, teasing it, making it erect. The noise he is making as he licks, makes you want to moan & groan for eternity, in the Dornish sun. Everything the sun rise touches he wishes to explore. Eventually he stops sucking & a small trail of saliva is still connected between his lips & your chest. “Breasts the world should be jealous of” he looks you dead in the eye & smirks before sliding back down your body as both your hips still roll in time, a rhythm so perfect. You’re both panting & singing louder than the early morning bird song chorus going on outside.

“My sunshine, my girl, my everything” he moans, grasping your hips & thrusting away. His body has raised so he can look at every inch of you while your eyes are shut & you are responding to the rolling. Your hands & wrist tied, trying not to react but it’s stretch to your body making every move he makes so much more pleasurable. He knows despite your eyes being closed that they are dancing, the blissed out look on your face & the ooooh yes coos coming from you small rounded mouth tell him that. A mouth explored to the point where thinking about it makes him lick his lips. A neck line that screams kiss me. Breasts the are there to be fondled. A belly thats rolling. Hips that if they enchanted anymore in this seductive dance he thinks they could pop. But none of that compares to your sex. As he rocks his own hips to feel himself drag against your walls, he can’t help but look down at your mound. Puckering & easily accepting each thrust, clamping around him making him moan, desire oozing each time he hits that spot & you cry “yes Oberyn my love”. He is in love with you being so high on him & it’s a high he would never let you to come down from. His hands smothering away at your body.

You open your eyes as you feel your climax approaching. He is smouldering looking down at you. The way the sun hits him as he thrusts into you makes him look like more of a god than normal. His chest glistening in sweat, his hips are hypnotic, & you feel like nothing is going to ever beat this early morning wake up. Abbs & muscles stretched & taught with every movement. Everything in perfect proportion of the fine specimen. Your in awe of this man, & his body which is from the gods. The way every inch of him rolls, grinding & pounding into you making you feel full. His length reaching the spot, dragging you into a spiral of desire, feeling every pull, wanting every motion to last longer, & wanting him to paint your walls until the day the sun fails to rise.

“Oberyn…” you mutter, which is hardly audible. He raises an eyebrow “please don’t spill a drop, spoil me…” & your scream, as the palace bells ring. Euphoria takes over as you drench his penis, making him jolt, knowing his own orgasm will follow soon. Your hands let go of the scarf in ecstasy as your whole body collapses in on itself from the feeling of letting go. Months of built up sexual frustration, now finally free. Your prince has taken you beyond that place & with his hands, which sculpt you & penis that delights, he’s made you see more that just the Dornish gold. “Ooooh my love…” Oberyn starts be he stutters before he leans back over your body to take your lips in his. You bite his bottom lip before allowing him to explore which causes his thrusts to bolt, before he almost stops breathing. A few movements & a deep groan later, he is coating your walls. He fills you up, & you work through your highs as the two of you plunder each others mouths, every pleasurable moment either of you could have, is happening right now in your chamber.

When he is done & comes apart from the embrace his hand trails down your face, before he unties you. Your hands go straight for his broad shoulders, massaging them making him sigh. “Morning my Prince” you say as he lifts you up & pulls you back into his lap, as he’s still inside you. Your both stay wrapped in each other in a warm embrace, sweaty & exhausted from a seductive session of passion. Your hands in the back of his hair, think & glossy, but always such a delight to explore. His hand once again trails down your spine before he slaps your arse, making you jolt & him throb once more. “Coming home to your is always a pleasure” he whispers as he looks out of your chamber window, the sun rise now complete, gloriously shinning to welcome the people of Dorne to a new day. His thumb trails across your lips as his other hand continues to squeeze your arse. “I am one of life’s adventures & pleasure” you reply “that you are, & these hands can’t wait to continue to explore them” & his hips once again rock into you, so that he becomes fully erect once more “Oberyn” you moan. He does not leave you or your chamber until the next glorious Dornish sunrise, as he remembers that you are his home & are always so welcoming.

#minifics #smutt #fanfic #my fics #no minors #over18 #oberyn martell #Oberyn #game of thrones #Dorne #oberyn x you #oberyn x reader #prince oberyn

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whump-card · 28 days

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Murmur of Ground: Chapter 1

SURPRISE! New series! Let me know what you think!

4592 words

CW: violence, slavery, past noncon mention, noncon monsterfucking

Masterlist, Next

~~~

The Labyrinth was not simply a maze.

The Labyrinth was an undead city, the buildings fungal, moving, growing, shifting, occupied by scavengers and other foul creatures. Rats the size of small dogs scurried down the porticoes and halls, climbing over marble drums of fallen columns. Harpies nested in the friezes, unphased by the violence depicted in the facades, preferring to inflict the violence themselves, territorial as they were. Caryatids, columns in the shape of gowned women, stared faceless and threatening down upon the concrete and stone walks, paced by restless ghosts. Archways lead to atriums full of silent, dry fountains and lifeless gardens. The occasional Propylaea, grand multi-tiered entrances decked out with stairs and pillars and wall carvings lead to sharp drops into nothingness, as if any temple, any holy place had been surgically dissected out. Nooks and crannies abounded, little chambers that tricked you into thinking you were safe there.

The most haunting aspect was the familiarity. The buildings and interiors took on tauntingly comprehendable shapes, just often enough to make you look twice, make you want to cry I’ve been here before, I’ve been here before – not lost, not home, but some happy distant memory of visitation, I took a picture here, trusted a stranger with my camera and posed. It had the flavor of a moment only remembered though a lens, or a description by someone else. You were five. Do you remember when Daddy had a beard? Look at the picture!

It’s not like you could find the same place twice to check. The Labyrinth grew and in equal measure died, creating a constantly shifting environment. Stay in one place, and it would whirl around you while you slept, never revealing its movements to mortal eyes. Travel, and you’d never find your way back, halls rearranging themselves as soon was they left your sight.

Yani ran.

He stumbled down stone steps, darted around pillars, dodged swooping birds with bronze beaks. It was dim in the Labyrinth, but not dark. There were no lights, no torches, braziers, or anachronistic spotlights. Instead the stone and concrete itself seemed to shed some illumination, glowing just enough for human eyes to see the way, to see the rotten splendor the Labyrinth had to offer.

Yani stood out to the denizens of the Labyrinth like a sore thumb. He was dressed all in white, as a proper sacrifice should be: drawstring trousers and a boxy button down, all linen and ill-fitting. The clothes had come out of a box at the temple – the temple provides, you see. At least his shoes fit, simple cotton slippers that they were. He had been clean when he was first thrown down the shaft, heavily sedated and bathed against his will by the priests. Dressed like a doll. Discarded as easily as one. Now he was sweaty with fear and exertion, and the creatures had his scent.

He did not know how long he had been in the Labyrinth, only that he was hungry and exhausted. The Harpies and bronze-beaked ibis birds dogged him relentlessly, driving him from one brief shelter to the next. A deep hopelessness had set into his heart, sending it racing along at a haphazard pace.

He really was here to die.

His breath seemed dangerously loud, in the quiet of the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth was not silent; low eerie rumbles could be heard in the distance, evidence if the movement of masses of stone and concrete. Nearer, harpies could be heard arguing. Their harsh voices sounded like the cawing of ravens until you tuned in, became practiced at picking out the words. But nearby, currently, it was all quiet, disturbed only by Yani’s hurried footsteps and haggard breath. He had evaded the bird-like monsters – for now.

He ducked into an alcove, home to a dry wall-fountain, and huddled under the basin to catch his breath. His brown, calloused hands shook as he wrapped them around his knees, curling to a ball. His dark hair, usually neatly pulled back in a half-tail, fell loose and lank with sweat around his face. Now that he wasn’t running, his thoughts settled into their new, self-flagellating pattern: Could have. Would have. Should have.

Yani was an indentured servant of the Mylonas family. Or rather, he had been, until the patriarch, Leon, decided to sacrifice him to the Labyrinth. Yani had always thought of himself as a good worker – every order followed, no matter what, regardless of his own thoughts or feelings – but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps if he’d worked harder, been more amenable, done… more of what Leon wanted.

There were certain nights, when the Lady of the house went to visit her father. Leon didn’t like to be alone.

Yani shuddered at the memory, but at the same time chased it; examining it. What had he done wrong? What could he have done better?

Had he been too lost in the relief of being loved to submit himself as fully as he should have to his master?

The harpies were back, flitting to and from column capitals and archway crowns. Yani knew he should run, he just needed a moment, a few seconds to collect himself, then he would run, he just needed…

The harpies spotted him. A call went up, and the flock made a cacophony of whoops and jeers. They surrounded Yani, landing on the smooth stone floor in a semicircle around his nook. They had the faces of women, sure, but their eyes were cold, reptilian, inhuman. Their heads bobbed and twitched as they examined him, shouting overlapping, indiscernible threats in their shrill voices. They flapped their wings in a show of dominance, like fighting cockerels, shedding mangy feathers and blowing back their stringy hair.

“Dinner! Dinner!”

“White clothes, white clothes, no one wanted you anymore!”

“Come with us, boy, we’ll save you from the Minotaur!”

Yani cowered, frozen, until one darted forward and seized his ankle with a claw. Yani shrieked, any semblance of dignity long lost as he kicked out with his legs, grabbing desperately at the empty basin of the water fountain, holding on as the creature tried to drag him out. He landed one kick to the harpy’s sharp breastbone, and she screamed at him and only dug her claws into his ankle tighter, drawing blood. A second harpy dove at him, hooking her claws into his shirt, and that seemed to break the floodgates. The entire flock fell upon him, dragging him out of the alcove and clawing at him, buffeting him with their wings. Yani screamed and sobbed, feeling every talon as they ripped into his flesh. Words abandoned him – not that the harpies would listen if he pleaded. For far too long his world was feathers and airlessness and scratching pains, then the harpies started in with their teeth, blunt human teeth, biting at where they’d loosened and bloodied his flesh.

Then, a sound cut through everything: a deep, rumbling bellow. Yani, his eyes screwed shut, felt the weight of the harpies lift away from his body. Their cries turned from triumphant to fearful, and faded away into the distance. Yani curled up into a shuddering ball, his sobbing breaths soon the only noise he could hear.

Then, footsteps.

He heard the soft pad of bare calloused feet, moving towards him. He cracked his eyelids open, saw only blood, and so rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. The portico came into focus, and with it, a figure.

A horned figure.

Yani blinked, staring in awe up at the Minotaur.

~~~

The Minotaur stood tall, at least a foot taller than Yani, not even counting the horns. It was pale, its skin almost translucent from years underground. That didn’t make it any less threatening; its human body was broad, muscular, and hairy, and its bull head sat unnaturally on top, brown-furred and dark-eyed. Its horns pointed upwards, proud ivory. It wore only a loincloth, in the traditional style the priests wore when the went down to the river, leaving its body in nearly full view. The occasional scar marred its skin, marking it white like a chalk tally. A tail hung behind it, languidly swishing.

Yani stared up at it, frozen in shock. This was the true king of the Labyrinth, not King Minos miles above them. This was who the sacrifices were truly meant for, not the harpies, not the rats, not the ghosts.

Who he was meant for.

Yani turned his face to the ground, shutting his eyes, praying that it would be over quickly. Would the Minotaur strangle him? Snap his neck? He flinched, involuntary, when he felt its large hands upon him. Digging under his shoulder, threading under his knees.

Picking him up.

Yani hadn’t been carried since he was very small, and his parents were still around; the sensation of firm but soft arms supporting him, bearing him up, sent electric shudders through his body. The Minotaur cradled Yani against its chest, and began to walk.

“Wait,” Yani croaked, and the Minotaur froze in place.

“Where are you taking me?”

No answer. Yani stared up at the underside of the Minotaur’s head, not sure what he was expecting. After a good twenty seconds, the Minotaur resumed walking.

Yani was still petrified, still convinced that he was doomed. Surely the Minotaur was taking him somewhere to be killed – some dark mirror of the temple on the surface, perhaps, some clandestine altar to the old gods.

Yani’s wounds stung against the cool air of the Labyrinth, some clotting, some still oozing. The blood was smeared on the Minotaur’s chest now, its arms, growing dry and sticky. Yani didn’t want to see it. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the Minotaur’s shoulder, and could almost imagine he was being rescued.

After some time, he had the sense that they had moved from the long hallways and open spaces of the Labyrinth into someplace smaller. Someplace warm. He opened his eyes, and saw something he thought he’d never see again: a home.

The floor was covered with fragrant reed mats. A great fireplace dominated one wall, paired with a nook full of firewood. A settee faced it, draped with a fur blanket. The opposite wall had a high bed with countless pillows, and more fur blankets. In the center of the room was a finely carved wooden table and chairs, all graceful lines and fauna reliefs. An open door on the back wall provided a glimpse of a bathroom, beautifully tiled in blues and whites. A closed door suggested storage. The other walls had arched nooks that suggested windows, but they were bricked up. Instead of a vista they were decorated with hanging tapestries depicting figures and gardens.

The whole space had an energy completely separate from that of the Labyrinth; the very air felt different. It felt stable. Solid. Alive, rather than undead. Homey.

The Minotaur laid Yani down on the bed. He refused to relax, sitting up, wrapping his arms around his knees. The tearing claws of the harpies had not spared his clothes, and while he wasn’t indecent he certainly felt exposed now that he wore tattered bloody rags. He watched the Minotaur with wide eyes as it moved around the room – its home, it had to be. It stoked the fire, then went into the bathroom. Yani heard the telltale squeak of a water pump, and the rushing splatter of liquid into a basin. Then the Minotaur returned, approaching Yani. The blood Yani had smeared on its chest and arms was gone, washed away. That didn’t make it less intimidating. Yani flinched at every step it took, and it seemed to see this, and stopped just short of arm’s reach of Yani. Instead of picking him up again, it offered a hand, its tail still.

Yani felt as if he might be dreaming – perhaps the harpies had truly mauled him, and he was dying, and this was his brain’s attempt at making his death kinder.

He took the Minotaur’s hand. What else was he to do? He rose onto shaking legs, and let the creature lead him into the bathroom, its hand large and warm around his.

It was even grander than the small glimpse through the door had promised; there was a bench with a toilet, a counter with a basin, and a massive tub inset into a raised platform, quickly filling with water from a pump. All of it was tiled with hand-painted ceramics, patterns of flowers and geometry. Overhead were soft white electric lights.

Fit for a prince, Yani realized. It was all fit for a prince.

The room was so dazzling Yani didn’t realize the Minotaur was reaching to unbutton the remains of his shirt until he had already started. Yani jerked back with a yelp.

“Back off!”

The Minotaur took two steps back.

Yani stared at it, panting. The bathroom was large, but so was the Minotaur – and it now stood between Yani and the door, dominating the space.

“I’d like some privacy,” Yani said, his voice wavering. The Minotaur didn’t budge.

“Fine.” Yani grit his teeth, and tried to continue unbuttoning his shirt – but his hands were too tremulous, and as he looked down and tried to focus he found himself swaying on his feet.

“Help?” he admitted, and the Minotaur was there, unfastening the buttons with deft hands and easing the shirt off. Yani hissed and gasped as it peeled away from spots where his dried blood had glued it to his wounds. The Minotaur cast the shirt aside and crouched, untying the drawstring of Yani’s shredded trousers. Yani opened his mouth to stammer out a protest but they had already fallen, leaving him naked. The Minotaur, at least, seemed unphased; it stood and offered a hand to help Yani into the bath.

Yani stood there, dazed and blinking. A prince. The Minotaur was a prince. The Minotaur was a prince and here it was, defying every horror story about itself, helping a lowly servant – less than a servant, a sacrifice. Someone the Minotaur had every right to kill.

Yani took its hand, and stepped into the tub.

The water was warm, warm enough to be comfortable but not hot enough to irritate his wounds. Yani sank in, running his hands over his body, taking stock as the blood washed away. There was barely a single area larger than a few square inches that was left unscratched. He dipped his head below the water, feeling his face with his fingertips, working away the dried blood. He had a long, shallow slice across his forehead.

He surfaced and wiped the water out of his eyes. The Minotaur crouched next to the bath, watching him. Its eyes were so strangely human. Yani looked away. It was obvious by now that the Minotaur could not speak; any questions Yani had, like why are you helping me and why haven’t you killed me would go unanswered. He didn’t bother asking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Minotaur shifting up to sit on the edge of the bath. It leaned forward, and Yani shrank back. What did it want? At first, Yani’s anxiety seemed unfounded; the Minotaur reached over him to shut off the water, plunging the bathroom into near silence. But then it lowered its hand, and Yani’s breath caught as it settled onto his chest, massaging slow circles. His heart pounded hard enough that surely the Minotaur could feel it through his ribcage. The hand slipped lower, dipping below the water to caress Yani’s stomach, sending through him a chill of fear.

That’s what it wanted.

“Stop,” Yani choked out, expecting nothing, expecting to be overruled – but the Minotaur stopped, immediately. It withdrew its hand, and sat back.

“Leave,” whispered Yani, and the Minotaur obeyed. It stood, and exited, closing the door in its way out. Yani stared after it in disbelief. There was no way it was that easy. No way.

He knew the Minotaur would get what it wanted, sooner or later.

~~~

A bar of soap discovered on a little shelf allowed Yani to clean himself properly. After he got out of the bath he found a cabinet full of towels, and while he hated to stain one with his blood he had no other choice. The Minotaur had also left a set of clothes, and a roll of bandages, scissors, and medical tape, along with a container of store-brand healing ointment that looked absurdly out of place there in the Labyrinth with its red and white plastic tub. Once he’d towel-dried Yani applied the ointment liberally, and taped bandages over the worst cuts and bites left by the harpies. His hands shook with exhaustion, but he did the best he could.

Deciding he was finished, he shook out the clothes to have a look at them. They were made of a dark brown cotton, deliciously soft. The color proved some forethought on the Minotaur’s part – if Yani got blood on them it would hardly be noticeable. One piece was a pair of shorts, pleated and flowy; the other was a short-sleeved v-neck top. The outfit was far more revealing than anything Yani would have chosen to wear, but it was better than the bloody rags he’d arrived in. He dressed slowly, and braced himself to exit the bathroom and face the Minotaur.

Upon opening the bathroom door Yani was hit with a wave of delicious smells. Warm bread. Spices. Freshly chopped greens. His eyes were drawn to the table in the middle of the room, where a simple but abundant feast for two was laid out. Bread, moussaka, salad, wine. Yani’s empty stomach clenched and his mouth watered – but between him and the food stood the Minotaur. It no longer wore only a loincloth, but had donned a velour loungewear set from some designer brand Yani recognized the logo of but couldn’t place the name.

Princely, crossed Yani’s mind. Despite having the head of a beast, and apparently the lust of one, the Minotaur had a certain grace, clothed and standing there with one hand in its pocket. It half turned, sweeping the other arm out, inviting Yani to the table.

Yani’s exhausted, frightened, starving mind considered this for a moment. The Minotaur had rescued him. Made unsuitable advances. Respected his request for it to stop. Could kill him at any time. Was offering him food and shelter…

Yani stumbled over to the table and collapsed into a chair. He couldn’t think, not now. Survival was all that mattered. He would accept the hospitality of the Minotaur, and simply pray that its advances would not be repeated.

The Minotaur sat next to him at the table, and they ate together in silence. Yani’s hands shook as he served himself, and he did his best not to devour the food like an animal. The Minotaur had surprisingly good table manners, using its utensils as one should; but presently, when they were both close to finishing their plates, it rested a hand on Yani’s thigh under the table. Yani’s heart began to pound, his eyes fixed on the remains of his food. At first he just twitched his leg away, but the Minotaur’s hand remained firm, fingers pressing into Yani’s flesh.

“I don’t like that,” Yani tried, quietly, meekly, afraid of the repercussions. The Minotaur slid its hand further up Yani’s thigh, fingers brushing under his shorts. “Stop touching me,” Yani said, even softer, but at those words the Minotaur instantly pulled away. Yani blinked, risking a quick glance up at it. It just sat there, watching him, its food forgotten.

It struck Yani then how lonely the Minotaur must be. If his own experience was anything to go by, most sacrifices to the Labyrinth were likely killed by the harpies. Who knew how long it had been since the Minotaur had been in the presence of a human? It was also a prince, and aiding lowly Yani out of the kindness of its heart.

“I truly appreciate your hospitality,” Yani said slowly, carefully, “But please, give me some space.”

The Minotaur stood, knocking back its chair, and quickly stepped away from Yani, putting a couple yards between them.

“Oh, wait!” Yani exclaimed in surprise, and the Minotaur froze, “That’s not what I meant. Please, come back, sit.”

The Minotaur promptly obeyed; it returned to the table, sitting down.

Something itched at the back of Yani’s mind. Something wasn’t right here.

“…Stand up,” he breathed.

The Minotaur stood.

“…Sit.”

It sat.

“Stand up and turn in a circle.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

“Jump.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

A deep horror washed over Yani. Something compelled the Minotaur to obey his commands, to the letter. Some horrible curse had stripped away the Minotaur’s autonomy, and handed it to Yani. For a moment Yani couldn’t fathom how dehumanizing that must feel – until he realized, he could.

Yani had been an indentured servant his whole life. From as soon as he could understand them, orders given by his masters were to be obeyed, to the letter, no matter how trivial or ridiculous – on pain of punishment. A rap across the knuckles, all the way up to flogging.

Yani had never had control over his life. He didn’t even have control over his death – that, too, was chosen for him.

Yani didn’t want that kind of control over another being. He couldn’t do that to a thinking, feeling creature – and clearly, the Minotaur was.

“I’m sorry!” Yani leapt to his feet, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I’ll never do it again, you don’t ever have to do what I say, please, I’m so sorry,” he pressed his hands to his face, on the brink of tears, “I swear, I’ll never order you to do anything, I promise, I swear.”

The Minotaur stared at him for a long moment, its eyes unreadable. Then it approached, slowly, cautiously, drawing close to Yani. Yani didn’t move, just held his hands to his face, near-petrified. The Minotaur slid its hands over Yani’s hips, teasing under the waistband of his shorts. Yani’s breath caught.

I can’t say stop.

“I don’t… want that,” he whimpered instead. The Minotaur ignored him, pulling him close, breathing hot on his ear, his neck. Its hands edged downwards, tugging the shorts around the curve of Yani’s rear. Yani’s hands flew down and grabbed the Minotaur’s wrists.

“Please,” was all he could think to say. He didn’t want this, of course he didn’t want this, but how else could he say no without overpowering the Minotaur’s will?

Yani was by no means a weakling, but the Minotaur was even stronger; it easily broke out of Yani’s grasp and seized his wrists in turn, twisting them behind his back and gathering them into one large hand. Yani yelped and squirmed, but he was helpless against the strength of the Minotaur. The creature pinned Yani to its chest, its free hand plunging down into Yani’s shorts to grope his ass.

Yani cried out, flinching away from the touch and unintentionally pressing himself against the growing hardness in the Minotaur’s sweatpants. One word and it would all stop – but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when his words had the power to override the Minotaur’s autonomy.

“Please,” he sobbed, tears finally escaping him – he was so tired, so exhausted, and every inch of him hurt – “I don’t want this!”

The Minotaur didn’t let go. Instead it pressed its muzzle into the crook of Yani’s neck, its hot breath snuffling, blowing away Yani’s hair and taking in his scent. Then it licked Yani, its tongue sliding out and drawing a long line up Yani’s neck behind his ear. Yani yelped and cringed at the sensation – unlike a human tongue, a bull’s tongue is sandpaper-rough. Yani squirmed as hard as he could, and that seemed to annoy the Minotaur. It snorted, spun Yani around, and threw him onto the bed.

As soon as his stomach made contact with the plush blankets Yani was scrambling away, crawling across the bed. The Minotaur snatched an ankle and yanked him back easily, and Yani gasped in pain as the furs and blankets dragged across his many scrapes and scratches. The Minotaur had Yani bent over the side of the bed now, his bare feet brushing the floor, searching for purchase. It pinned him in place with a heavy hand on the center of his back, its other hand divesting Yani of his shorts.

“Wai-mm!” Yani almost forced a stop, but he caught himself, biting his bit hard. He refused to impose his will over the Minotaur’s, even now.

It wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his face into the covers, letting his tears soak in.

Leon had told him he’d missed his calling as a whore.

When the Minotaur’s finger, warm and wet with spit, probed him, he knew how to relax. How to take it.

See how good you take it? You ought to live in my bed.

Yani was lost in a haze of fear and memories. His heart pounded in his throat as he choked on his tears. His hands clenched fistfuls of blanket. His feet gave up reaching for the floor, going slack as one finger inside him turned into two. He groaned at the pain and sensation, the fingers inside him reaching, groping, spreading. They left far too soon – he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready at all as the Minotaur’s hands gripped his hips, lifting and spreading him.

What followed was brutal. Yani cried openly, sobbing and moaning while the Minotaur fucked him. The Minotaur remained, as it had been, silent. Only its breath became somewhat louder, harsh and ragged with lust. Yani’s body was jolted with each painful thrust and he clung to the bed for dear life, for any sort of anchor.

The only mercy was that it didn’t last long. The Minotaur spilled its heat inside Yani and remained there for a minute, panting. Then it withdrew, releasing Yani, who slid off the bed and crumpled to the floor. He was as silent as the Minotaur, now – all cried out. He pressed his scratched forehead to the reed mats, the coolness emanating from the floor soothing the painful heat of his face. He heard the Minotaur’s heavy footsteps retreating to the bathroom, and water running before the door closed between them. Yani melted even further down then, curling up on his side on the floor.

Was this his fate, then? To be the Minotaur’s plaything?

Others had made decisions for Yani his whole life. Had he died and gone to the Underworld, only to be punished with the same plight? Was there no way out?

Something lit up in the back of Yani’s head. A way out. He felt around for his shorts and rose on his wobbling legs, putting them on. Then he looked up: at the exit.

There was door the Minotaur had carried him through on their arrival. It had been there the whole time. Yani had always been distracted by the food, or the Minotaur, but the door was there. Yani stumbled to it, placed his hands upon the filigreed knob.

He froze.

The Labyrinth would kill him. The harpies and ibis would shred him, the ghosts would suck out his soul, the rats would gnaw his bones.

He screwed his eyes shut.

At least with the Minotaur, he was alive. The Minotaur wanted him alive.

The Minotaur wants me.

Isn’t that enough, to be alive and wanted?

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Everything taglist (I think? let me know if I've got it wrong, and whether you'd like to continue to be tagged in this): @angst-after-dark, @flowersarefreetherapy, @sunshiline-writes

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #murmur of ground #cw violence #cw slavery #cw noncon #monsterfucking #no beta reader this one's coming out HOT #nsfwhump

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ghostwise · 5 months

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Matacuervos, ch. 3 El milagro In which the brothel receives an unexpected visitor. Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning on AO3

A miracle was taking place in Rialto. And what better place for a miracle than the longest-standing brothel on the city’s promenade?

El milagro.

For decades it had promised patrons a unique experience; something transformative and life-affirming. Something they wouldn’t find anywhere else. Today it was aptly named.

“Ahtziri’s son is downstairs!”

The news spread quickly through the prostitute’s quarters, high up on the third floor. Past the first floor and all its revelries, past the second floor with its private and comfortable rooms, the flurry of heeled footsteps sounded through the hallways of the old building. “Come quick! Have a look for yourselves!”

Those who were recent hires at El milagro met the news with little more than a bemused smile. But those who had been there longer remembered the scandal like it was yesterday.

“Ahtziri’s son!”

“The laundress! The knocked-up Dalish girl.”

“I remember her. Miss too-good-to-wash-our-linens. Miss wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-whoring.”

Amid the chatter, a sharp intake of air. “Don’t speak ill of the dead. It was a tragedy! She left a child behind.”

“Her son! What was his name?”

“Looks just like her. Blond hair, big brown eyes…”

“Got taken away one day, I remember. Adopted, they said. What was the name? Started with a Z…”

“Ziran? No!”

“Zarah?”

“No, no! Zevran?”

“Yes, that was it! And he’s downstairs right now!”

Of course the old prostitutes remembered. Who could forget? The dead husband, the widowed Dalish girl, the piles of debt, all the rumors of money and passion—and caught amidst all that ugliness, the orphaned baby. But the memories had softened with the passage of time, and the men and women of El milagro chatted amongst themselves, pleased with the reminiscing. Wasn’t it nice to be remembered, bad blood aside?

An Antivan never forgets his roots, they all agreed.

An Antivan always remembers, they said, and nodded wisely at the thought.

Meanwhile, unaware of the commotion he had caused, Zevran was downstairs and speaking with the brothel manager in her office.

Gloria Amilcar was a wisp of a middle-aged woman, fragile and thin, save for her soft and lined face. With her hair tied back in an austere bun and her fingernails delicately lacquered, she had a flighty air about her that seemed ill-fitted to her role.

She was also trying very hard to get Zevran to leave.

“I understand, completely. But, as I said earlier, we have a strict no loitering policy,” she said.

“Of course,” Zevran returned smoothly. “With such a fine establishment, your employees must be very busy, I’m sure. Allow me to pay for an hour! I will even pay double! I do not mind, if only to see old friends—”

“It is a generous offer.” She gave a pause, and a forced smile. “But we simply cannot accept.”

“After work, then?” Zevran asked.

“There is no ‘after work’ here at El milagro. I cannot close the brothel to our other clients. This is a business, young man.”

“Then perhaps on a day you are closed? I can return then-”

“We are never closed!”

Zevran plucked at a thread on his trousers, a placid smile fixed onto his face; a tactic to hide his growing irritation. “I am asking to simply pay for an hour or two with your esteemed workers,” he tried again, “As any client would. Am I being denied that right?”

“Precisely. You are denied.” Sra. Amilcar left her desk abruptly. Refusing the opportunity for any further discussion, she opened the door and with a sharp gesture motioned for Zevran to leave.

“You have your answer. Please, go.”

The sounds of the brothel floated in through the open door, and Zevran sat in his chair, impassive.

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected to be met with so much resistance. When he’d first arrived to the brothel he’d been greeted as a guest, but no sooner had one of the older women recognized him that Sra. Amilcar’s demeanor changed entirely. Now his intuition was telling him there was a reason why Amilcar was desperate to get him gone.

This was not a prison. Surely the workers were free to chat with a guest? So why did she seem worried—even afraid?

The thought was interrupted as a familiar voice floated through the door.

“Vhenan? Oh, there you are.”

Hamal had evidently grown tired of waiting out on the street.

If she hadn’t been scandalized already, Sra. Amilcar was doubly so now. She scanned Hamal from top to bottom, eyes wide. “Ven-an?”

“Ah! Hello.” Hamal simply smiled at her as he sidled in past her. “Very little Antivan, sorry! My husband is done? Everything good?”

“Everything is fine, amor,” Zevran said, looking at Sra. Amilcar pointedly. “Just negotiating.”

“I was just,” Sra. Amilcar interrupted, her voice terse and jumping from syllable to syllable, “telling your husband that we cannot accommodate his request. Please, gather your things and leave. You know? Get out. Go away. Goodbye, no more! Perhaps your husband can translate more properly! Shoo!”

She elaborated further by pointing rather aggressively towards the exit.

Zevran and Hamal exchanged a look.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had been kicked out from an establishment. It would, however, be the first time they were kicked out as a married couple, and that made it special.

Zevran smiled, with a soft tilt of the head, as if to say, see what I’m dealing with?

“Oh,” Hamal intoned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He looked from his husband to Sra. Amilcar and then repeated, “Sorry, very little Antivan, very bad. I can explain: We are married! On our honeymoon.” He made sure to speak loudly enough that his strongly accented Antivan rang clear out across the brothel. “Where can I pay? I will pay everything. A gift for my husband!”

By now, the discussion had drawn the attention of others, who erupted into cheers at the declaration. Zevran grinned, simply beaming under Hamal’s confidence, and the way the prostitutes shouted encouragement and praise: What a doting husband! What a thoughtful gesture! Were they open to adding a third?

Meanwhile Sra. Amilcar had grown quite pale. Swaying a bit on her feet, she seemed to steel herself before taking a deep breath and stating loudly, “Enough! I will call the city guard if you do not leave, NOW!”

All things considered, this was much farther than Zevran had ever expected to get.

Nevermind the fact that they now found themselves on the street, having been swiftly expelled by the brothel’s security. The visit had been enlightening, and not entirely a waste. For instance, he knew now that the brothel was still running, and under the same management, too. But the reaction he’d met within had been troubling.

“I am sorry.” Hamal grimaced. “I may have made things worse. I should have waited-”

“She had already decided to kick me out when you showed up,” Zevran assured him. “But it was very fun to watch, amor.”

“I am glad you had fun. I cannot recall ever seeing you so unhappy in a brothel, ma vhenan.”

Zevran laughed softly. He did not respond.

“You seem distracted,” Hamal observed after a moment. “What happened?”

Zevran looked up, and found Hamal’s eyes on him. “That woman in charge,” he said with a frown. “She was afraid of me.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“I cannot rightly say. I suppose I was drawing too much attention. Everything was fine when she thought I was just another customer to charm. But as soon as some of the older prostitutes recognized me, she suddenly became quite concerned. She forced them upstairs and pulled me into her office, where you found me.”

“They recognized you?” Hamal asked.

Zevran let out a sigh, mulling over the unexpected influx of memory and feeling. It was more than he’d expected. More than he’d been prepared for.

“They did,” he said, voice softening. “They were pleased to see me. They greeted me like an old friend.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yes, in fact. Sofia and Nadia. They and another young woman named Adelmar used to take turns watching me and the other children.”

“All these years and they did not forget you! You must have left quite an impression,” Hamal suggested, with a smile.

Zevran considered it; then he grinned, and an exuberant little laugh escaped him.

He had never expected to be remembered.

He remembered El milagro, of course, because he had suffered so much there. But here were people who had lived beside him, and watched his childhood years from their own perspective. In a sense they were witnesses to a crime, though they did not even realize it.

“I must speak with them at once,” Zevran said earnestly. “They could tell me things about my past. About my childhood. About the Crows.”

Hamal nodded. “We must find a way to get past this Amilcar woman. But for now,” he added, glancing at the first-floor shutters of Gloria Amilcar’s office, “I suggest we leave, before she calls the city guard.”

Gloria Amilcar peered through the shutters of her office window, watching the retreating figures of the two unwelcome visitors until they vanished into the distance. Being a woman of little imagination, she felt her heart rate settle almost instantly.

Thank the Maker, it had been taken care of quickly.

She shut the blinds and tucked a loose strand of hair back into her updo.

The situation with the Dalish boy—now a young man—had certainly been unexpected, but she had handled it, in her own opinion, with grace and intelligence. Now this Zevran and his strange foreign companion were gone, and they would not return again.

And why would they?

After all, what good would it do for them to dig any deeper? To linger nearby, esculcando where they shouldn’t and stirring up trouble? Even if they tried it, she would make sure they were swiftly taken away and locked up. Pull a few strings, pay a few guards. Send a strong message.

But it hadn’t come to that.

Feeling pleased with that conclusion, Sra. Amilcar went back to her desk.

It was her duty to keep such things from the workers. Threats to El milagro could imperil their all their livelihood in ways few could understand. Not only the wayward sons of politicians, or a dozen noble-born bastards to keep track of; running a brothel involved a lot of customer service—but she had hosts who took care of that. Mostly she handled the administrative side of things.

She tallied up totals and calculated expenses. She filed things that were necessary, or made it so that they were not necessary after all, ensuring the owner’s accounts were always in good standing. Obscuring a few lapses here and there. Falsifying birth certificates. The financial records needed to be completed by a deft hand, so the tax collectors wouldn’t dig too deeply into things. She was good at all this. El milagro kept her busy. She had no time for disruptions. No time for mess.

As she pulled out a list of supplies for the next month, she heard the door swing open.

“Is he gone?”

“Who?” Sra. Amilcar asked, without looking.

“That man,” Nadia said, and settled into the now vacant chair. “Zevran.”

“Ah,” Sra. Amilcar said. “Yes, he’s gone.”

Nadia regarded her closely.

She was a gem, and a gossip, a favorite of the customers for many years. Sharp-tongued and honey-eyed, Nadia had no surname, but she held half the city's secrets in her pockets—she'd even birthed a few herself—and she enjoyed a certain rapport with the brothel manager. Simply put she was irresistible, with her aged and deep-set features, which now focused into a critical and exacting look.

“Did you kick him out?”

Sra. Amilcar set an inkwell and fresh pen upon the table. She laid out her lists of supplies, her tally of accounts, and her roster of the brothel’s most productive workers, and only the faintest tremor of her right hand betrayed her.

“Money has been a bit tight, Nadia,” Sra. Amilcar said carefully. “I may have to let a few of the girls go if things keep up.”

“Sure,” Nadia hummed. “What is it he wanted anyway? I never get to see you make such a fuss, even when the clientèle gets rowdy, so…?” Under the sharp warning glare of the brothel manager, Nadia grinned. “Did he want to know about his mother? Is that it?”

Sra. Amilcar cleared her throat sharply. Unable to hold Nadia’s gaze, she looked away, subdued.

“Yes,” she lied quietly. “And I told him the truth: We know nothing about it. It was all too long ago. He was understandably disappointed.”

“I see.”

Nadia watched her for a moment, allowing the silence that followed. When Sra. Amilcar said nothing more, she got up from the chair, and gathered up her skirts.

“Well,” she sighed, “I was just curious. No reason to dwell on the past. Not in this line of work, right?”

“Exactly!” Sra. Amilcar let out a little sigh, pleased to be understood.

A soft moment for Nadia to prod into. She stood beside the door, casting a glance over her shoulder.

“And Gloria?” she asked sweetly before leaving.

“Mm?”

“You will find a way to stretch the budget, won’t you? You’re so good at that. I’ve always said numbers were just one of your many talents.”

“Yes… well.” Sra. Amilcar paused. “You’re right, of course, Nadia. I’m sure I will figure something out.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #antiva #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #here's the beginning of the first little subplot that leads to adelmar and then to salle... if i keep fiddling with it i will never post it #btw ahtziri is my hc for zevran's mother :) idk how much i will delve into their story in this longfic but she'll be mentioned a few times

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hollyethecurious · 12 days

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CS WIP Wednesday Challenge - Week One

Week 1

👻 The WIP haunting you most (you know which one it is - it's the first one that came to mind when you saw this challenge)

Thank you again, @captainswanwipwednesdays for putting this challenge together! The WIP currently haunting me is Pan Says...

I only managed to add about 1200 words to it this week, but progress is progress, right? With any luck, I'll be able to finish this chapter within the next week or two. Until then, here is a small snippet of what's to come.

Emma was dressed in the wench costume; a more upscale version of the cheap, slutty knock-off one might find at a Halloween store. The women were dismissed and she’d been instructed to follow the Lost One, her trepidations spiking again as she padded down the corridor behind him. There were many twists and turns before they finally rounded a corner, revealing Killian standing in front of a set of double doors. Emma’s heart leapt at the sight of him and relief flooded her body. Well, first relief, then… something else. He was decked out in head to toe leather, his jawline manicured with an alluring amount of scruff and his eyes lined in a deep, rich kohl. His hair had been artfully tousled and his skin bronzed. Beneath the layers of black leather, he wore a smoke-like linen shirt, unbuttoned down to the v of his waistcoat, exposing a tantalizing amount of chest hair. The leather trousers were tight, but not so much as to appear painted on, leaving just a hint to the imagination of what lay beneath their laces. “Swan?” he said, in an amused and sinfully deep tone. “See something you like, love?” Now aware that her mouth had been hanging open, Emma closed it a swallowed hard before answering, “You look…” “I know,” he quipped with a cheeky smirk and smugly lifted brow, earning him an eye roll before his gaze raked over her once more. “You cut quite the figure in that get up, I must say.” “Cutting is right,” Emma groused, struggling against the tight confines of her outfit. “I can only imagine the impression this corset is leaving on my spleen.” “Your discomfort is a cross I am more than willing to bear… especially after my earlier one.” Emma raised her brows in response to his cryptic words and put-out tone. Scratching behind his ear, the tip of which becoming quite red, he confessed under his breath in a low mumble, “I’ve been manscaped.” Her eyes widened, and although she knew better from her earlier perusal, they fell to his chest, ensuring herself that the thick blanket of hair remained untouched. “Not there,” he said, exasperatedly. “Lower.” Emma tucked her lips between her teeth to try and stifle her laugh. His disgruntled tone and expression absolutely priceless, despite the circumstances. “Well,” she said, placing her hand on his arm in commiseration. “That makes two of us.”

#cs wip wednesday #wip wednesday #captain swan #pan says... snippet

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fandom-junk-drawer · 2 years

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The Witcher Headcanon - Trouble Bonus Scene - Part 2

Here's part 2, with a little surprise at the end!

@hollowxo @kierancaz

It was Jaskier who had woken up Geralt. The Witcher had fallen asleep with the baby on his chest, and was rudely awakened by said baby on his chest. Whose mouth was on him, and doing something he'd rather not talk about...

Geralt tried not to panic. He flapped a hand helplessly for a moment, before roughly patting at Yennefer's shoulder and whispering harshly.

Yen, Yen wake up! Yen, get him off!

Yennefer woke with a grumble that turned into a stifled laugh when she saw what had Geralt so bothered.

Don't just lay there and laugh! Do something! Get him off!

I told you not to sleep without a shirt! *giggle snort*

Stop f***ing laughing and help me! I'm serious, Yen!

Just stick your finger in the corner of his mouth!

Owowowow, F**K!

Stop pulling!

hE's BiTiNg mEEEEEEE!

Stick your finger-!

OW! F**K! I smell blood! I smell blood!

Oh, for f**ksake! There, you big baby!

Oh, don't be so dramatic, it is NOT 'hanging on by a scrap of skin'! It's just a little bite.

There! I fixed it, now stop whining!

Oh, hush and look on the bright side. Eskel is going to be so jealous when he sees your Love Bite!

"Awww, poor lamb! Did Geralt's screaming scare you awake? Shhh, shhhh, shhh, it's alright! "

Since they were all up now, Yennefer decided to take Jaskier with her to the market. He was feeling better, and she wanted to get him the things he would need until she could figure out exactly what the curse was, and how to break it.

Yennefer stolled through the market, making her purchases and passing them to Coen, Eskel, or Lambert, whose sole purpose was to carry anything she handed them. Geralt was walking besider her, busy trying to look like a big, scary Witcher while carrying an adorable baby who was sucking his thumb and looking at everything with big, curious eyes.

The first thing she bought was diapers and clothes, and Jaskier was now dressed in a loose, fine white linen shirt with little multi colored birds embroidered on the front, lace at the ruffled cuffs and neck, and a pair of peacock blue trousers. Even Geralt admitted that the pattern and colors suited him.

The trip was taking a bit longer than Geralt and his brothers would have liked. For one thing, Yennefer was being very choosy about what she bought. Second, they kept getting stopped. People looked at Yennefer, with Geralt at her elbow, carrying Jaskier, and inspite of all the rumors about Witchers, just assumed...

"Excuse me, Miss, but your son is beautiful!"

"Thank you!" Yennefer said modestly, playing along and chatting with the ladies, while Geralt stood there uncomfortably, holding Jaskier who kicked his chubby legs and babbled happily at the attention.

Geralt gave an awkward 'Hmm.' when the women's admiring gazes turned to him after Yennefer, amused by his discomfort, threw him under the bus with her comment of "You're pretty like your daddy, aren't you, Julek?"

He could hear his brothers snickering from a safe distance away.

The ladies fawned over Jaskier, talking to him, and telling him how pretty he was. The toddler seemed to know he was being adored and turned on the charm, babbling and smiling for his admirers.

Yennefer recognized that smile. She'd seen him use it often enough when chasing a lady. It was that sweet, beautiful smile that lit up his face and was disgustingly adorable. No wonder it worked so well. He'd been practicing it since birth!

"Alright, say 'bye' to the nice ladies, my sweet lamb," Yennefer said, finally taking pity on Geralt.

Jaskier babbled, then pressed his little hand to his mouth and blew the ladies kisses. The women squealed with glee and blew kisses back while Yennefer and Geralt both stood there thinking You little sh*t!

Geralt 'hmm'ed his discomfort once the women had gone.

"Oh, don't get so worked up over it, " Yennefer chided as she dragged Geralt to the next market stall, "There's no point in correcting them. What are going to say, anyway? 'That's not my son, it's my BFF who'se got a curse on him that turned him into a toddler?' "

Well, if she wanted to play that game... Geralt said nothing, but from then on, he made it his private mission to get Jaskier to call Yennefer 'Ma' in public.

While he followed Yennefer, biding his time, he realized something. Babies were manipulative little creatures. There was no malice behind it, only base survival instinct. Every time a baby cried, the parents were right there, giving it things until it stopped. Food, comfort, entertainment, crying was the only way to express that need when you couldn't talk. Or when your vocabulary was limited to three or four words.

Jaskier, at the moment was no different. Geralt marveled at how easily he could wrap them around his tiny finger. The moment he started fussing, Geralt and Yennefer were giving him their full attention.

He was now happily playing with a wooden spoon. Geralt didn't know what it was about the spoon that had fascinated him. It was just a plain cedar spoon. There was nothing really remarkable about it, but he'd reached for it, babbling, and looked at Yennefer with his bottom lip trembling when she'd told him 'No'. He'd turned to Geralt with a whimper and made a little grasping motion with his hand, his cherubic face pinching up.

"Geralt...No! Geralt! No, Geralt!" Yennefer had hissed at him as Jaskier had made desperate whimpering noises. Geralt had glanced at Yennefer, then back at Jaskier, and looked into those pretty eyes that were now very dewey. And sad. And his thick eyelashes were getting damp with tears. And his little bottom lip was sticking out. And the sunlight hit his soft brown mop of hair just right... Oh, gods, he was trapped! He could feel his hand moving of it's own volition...

"No! Don't! Don't you do it! No, Geralt! Geralt, don't you dare...Geralt! Geralt! Geralt, no!"

Geralt handed the stall owner the coins and the spoon was placed in Jaskier's tiny hands. Yennefer glared at Geralt and was about to make what was surely going to be a sarcastic comment, when Jaskier dropped his spoon. He started to cry, and Yennefer immediately picked it back up, shushing him as she wiped it off and handed it back.

"Shhh, shhh, lamb! Here! Here it is! Ma picked it up for you-!"

Geralt sucked his lips into his mouth, biting down hard to keep the smile at bay as Yennefer's expression went wooden when she realized what she'd said. She looked sharply at Geralt, who refused to look at her.

He was trying desperately not to smile. The man was fighting for his life. Standing far enough away that they wouldn't be associated with the 'happy family', Lambert, Eskel, and Coen were ugly laughing.

And right on cue, a young lady shyly came over to admire their child.

Geralt whispered something to the toddler, who held out his spoon to Yennefer and chirped "Ma!" . Yennefer smiled and took him from Geralt, glaring at the Witcher while the lady was distracted.

You a**!

*Smug mental 'Hmm'*

Eskel elbowed Lambert in the ribs and twitched an eyebrow, then strode up and said excitedly "Hey, Geralt, Yennefer, you're here too?" as he scooped Jaskier out of Yennefer's arms.

"Oh, look at you, Baby Bird! You're getting so big! Are you out shopping with your Ma?" Jaskier chortled and kicked happily, and said "Ma!" again. "You're talking now, Julek?! That's right, 'Ma'!" Eskel continued when Jaskier squealed 'Ma' again. "Where's Ma? Where's she at? There she is! There's your Ma!"

Jaskier chuckled and chanted 'Ma!' happily as he reached for his 'Ma'. Yennefer smiled and mentally committed murder as she took him back from Eskel.

Geralt was going to dip the f**k out while everyone was distracted, but just as he was turning to go, he was stopped in his tracks at Jaskier's whimpered "Da!"

F**k.

Yennefer smiled like a shark scenting blood. "You want your Da, Julek? Here, let daddy hold you!"

Geralt took the toddler back, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a gentle swaying motion until Jaskier stopped fussing.

"Awww, the poor little dove thought you were leaving!" the young lady said, with a soft laugh. Eskel laughed along with her.

"Don't worry, Julek. Your Da wasn't going anywere!" he said, patting Jaskier's back.

"That's right, lamb, he wasn't going anywhere. Right, Geralt?" Yennefer said, smiling pointedly at Geralt.

"Of course not," Geralt rumbled, flashing Eskel a glare for his betrayal. Geralt had forgotten that Eskel was nobody's friend when it came to games. Eskel was the Gen-Xer of Witchers. He would start sh*t just for the entertainment value.

"Oh, look, Julek, there's your Uncle Lambert! Eskel exclaimed as Lambert walked by, pretending to be there alone. "Hey, Lambchop!" Eskel called, waving at the other Witcher "Over here! Look who it is!"

Lambert jogged over and grinned, saying "Geralt! Yennefer! How have you been? " He turned and called to Coen, who was lingering a healthy distance away, holding all the stuff Yennefer had bought. "Hey, Coen, It's little Julek! Come say hi!"

Coen could see the murderous looks Yennefer and Geralt were giving him from where he was standing. He decided he didn't want any of that.

"Er, I'm going to take this stuff to the horses. I'll catch up with you later. Maybe we can meet somewhere for lunch." And he turned and walked away at record speed.

"Wow, look at how big that baby is getting!" Lambert said, after giving Coen's retreating form a scowl. He put his arms out, and Jaskeir made happy baby noises and grabbed at Lambert's hands. "Come here, little man! You having fun shopping with your Ma and Da?" Jaskier babbled at Lambert and peeped "Ma! Da!"

The young woman stood there, smiling and re evaluating her opinion on Witchers. They certainly didn't seem all that scary, especially when they were being so soft with the little toddler... She watched as they took turns blowing raspberries on his little stomach.

Jaskier patted at Lambert's beard, momentarily distracted by it, and squealed delightedly when Lambert pretened to eat his hand. "What a lovely spoon! Did Ma and Da buy that for you?"

"Ma! Da!"

Yennefer mentally dug a second hole to bury the body in while Geralt mentally drew his sword to commit the murder.

"That's right! Say it again!" Lambert encouraged. Jaskier laughed and giggled, saying 'Ma' and 'Da' while the Witcher smiled proudly. "That's my boy! Talking already! He passed Jaskier back to Geralt when the baby chirped "Da!" and reached for him.

"F**k, they grow up so fast!" Lambert sighed wistfully.

Jaskier chuckled like a little gremlin and said "F**k!"

Yennefer and Geralt winced and did the Awkward Parent Laugh before muttering embarrased appologies for their child's language. The young lady gave them an understanding look, smiling brightly at Jaskier as he giggled and blew her a kiss. She bid them a good day and went about her errands.

The second the young lady was gone, Yennefer had Eskel and Lambert by an ear each, before they could even move, and was dragging them back to the horses.

"That's right, Jaskier," Geralt chuckled as Jaskier blew the retreating figures a kiss, "Kiss their a**es goodbye, because 'Ma' is going to kill them!"...

Bonus Doodle: Geralt holding baby!jaskier at the market

#the witcher #the witcher headcanon #geralt #geralt of rivia #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskifer #kaer morons #lambert #eskel #coen #baby!jaskier #twn #the witcher netflix #geraskefer #trouble headcanon

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catt-nuevenor · 7 months

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hi, sorry if this have been asked before, but do you have any refs/inspos of clothes that the characters use/is time/region appropriated for myrk mire?

(also, sorry if this question is confusing - english is not my first language :") )

Hi,

Your English is very good!

Clothing, this has proven a topic of flux in the development of the story. I'll include the original answers I gave concerning clothing style below, but I think it's about time I updated this for you all, as things have changed...

Original answers and historical resources concerning clothing:

Historical costume

Source Material 1

Where the world is currently:

I use a little source document to keep track of clothing, so for the most part I'll be copy pasting the text from that into the post. It's quite cliff notes style, but it gets the important information across and the reasons for various stylistic choices.

Quick terms breakdown for those not 100% up to date with the wider lore around the story.

The Four Shores is a collection of four realms containing Diota, Eard, Jǫkull, and Þinda, located on a collection of islands widely considered north of pretty much everything else. Eard is the realm in which the story of Myrk Mire and TBT takes place.

A Wealdend is a leader within the rulership structures used in the Four Shores, a male wealdend is called a Cyning, a female a Cwén, and nonbinary individuals use the Wealdend title itself.

The Riverlands is a separate region on the Southern Continent, with little to no political, social, or cultural ties to the Four Shores.

Falatu is another island in the north, but not a member of the Four Shores. They have sympathetic political and cultural systems, but maintain their own very separate identity in comparison to their unified neighbours.

The Eahtung is a ruling collective of skilled individuals who work alongside the Wealdend. More information than this would open up a deep rabbit hole...

"Warmth is everything to the Four Shores, so layers are favoured.

Rather than high necklines, shawls are favoured, these decorated with swirling patterns.

Lacking a clearly defined nobility, showing evidence of one’s craft or skill is favoured higher than material expense. A metal smith would display their skill by wearing more metal upon their outfit, a weaver a more elaborate hemming, a woodworker finely carved beads.

Amber is the sole reserve of the Wealdend, and should not be worn by anyone else.

All have their ears pierced, women both ears, men just one, others may choose. Rings are worn here, usually made of silver or gold, often times studded with gems.

Everyone wears stringed beads about their necks. These beads can be ceramic, wooden, bone, metal, or stone.

There is no shame in underdresses or tunics being shown.

Women wear linen underdresses, typically white, with woollen overdresses secured at the shoulders with preónas or brooches and lacing at the sides. The lacing only extends as far at the hips, and the overdress is either slit long these lines without further lacing, or it is one unified flair of fabric.

Men wear mid-thigh length linen undershirts with woollen overshirts that are slightly shorter. In colder months this is supplemented by a wraparound jacket secured by belts or ties. Men also wear trousers of ankle length similar to the Riverlands, but these are secured by fur, or cloth wraps up to the mid-calf.

Everyone wears calf height boots. In the winter months these are fur lined.

Everyone wears belts.

Hair is traditionally worn long by all genders, and is braided back from the face and tied in horse tails or buns at the back of the head.

Hoods and hats are used out of doors in colder seasons, but it is seen as rude to continue to wear these coverings indoors as it implies that the host does not keep their home warm enough to be comfortable.

The finest of outfits are hemmed with embroidered banding, these vary from simplistic geometric patterns, to full scenes of foliage or animals.

Bracelets are seldom worn, favoured more by the peoples from Falatu, and rings are only really worn as a symbol of office, guild status, or position as Wealdend. The Tug Stone rings are the sole use of the Wealdend, Eahtung and the respective heads of each province.

The ruling families align themselves to animals incorporating them into their surnames, once picked, they cannot wear anything taken from that animal. Otherwise furs are used to line apparel for warmth.

Cloaks are not worn indoors for similar reasons to hats, but out of doors are acceptable, they range from calf-length to lower-hip length."

As for visual aids, I'm a bit lacking in those right now.

Basic rules:

Warmth and practicality are key.

Linen underclothes, woollen overclothes.

Head coverings for outdoor use.

Ear piercings for everyone.

Belts are the toolkit for all and hold pouches and exterior pockets.

I can do a bit of visualisation for weapons, though (surprising no one). The Four Shores use two main forms of bladed arms, the sæx, and the méce.

A sæx in this context is a short, single edged blade with a tapered point.

Image of the Seax of Beagnoth currently held at the British Museum. Image attributed to Wikipedia contributor BabelStone.

A Méce is a long single edged blade with a slightly curving profile. Wielded one-handed or two-handed, it favours a cutting sweep rather than a thrust approach. If you fancy seeing two chaps demonstrate the historical weapon that inspired this, the messer, I highly recommend this video:

youtube

The first section though, they later switch to different weapons.

Most important features to look at are the pin crossguard that sits at angle to the blade, how the single edge is used to advantage in the application of force, and the length of the hilt to suit the single versus two-handed approach to wielding it.

Anyway, that's enough to be chewing over, I think.

I'll keep an eye out for visual sources on dress and clothing, so folks have a clearer idea on all that.

#myrkmire #asks #background research #tbt #clothing and costume

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tag-that-oc · 2 months

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ok long ramble up ahead — tw kinda gorey descriptions, eye stuff

so i have what i call ‘solo’ ocs - which are ocs that i created without a story (at first at least) and they don’t really have a fleshed out cast of supporting characters and ive been sooooo obsessed with them lately so here’s what tarot cards i think fit them best and what the designs of them on those cards would be

Devil’s Advocate (D.A.) / Daisy as The Devil - okay this fits too easily but you must also know that she’s a LAWYER. and i decided that The Devil fit better than Justice. why - other than the fact that she just is a devil, one of the meanings attributed to the card (from a quick search) is shadow selves and Daisy’s thing is all about how she’s escaping all the expectations and the image of this ‘sweet, innocent’ little girl who can’t be taken seriously, to instead be this free devil, when everyone thinks the old Daisy is dead. some of the other meaning (especially the reverse ones) also kinda fit too !!

but ANYWAY onto the design of the card : she’s (of course) the devil and i imagine her leaning on the judge’s stand very lazily. she’s in this classy angular suit and has grey skin and fire hair billowing up. her sharp teeth are bared in a grin and she’s a got a hand with pointed claws gestured up beside her. on one side of her is the shadowy figure of the prosecutor (yeahhh she’s an attorney), who is much smaller than her on the card, and on the other side are the reporters (also shadowy figures, also small. chains are connected to each, held in her hand. the courtroom behind her is barely lit, as though at dusk, her fire being the brightest thing in there. shadow-people line the walls like in pews - they’re the jury. the way the little bit of light is scattered around the room and through the window makes it seem like there’s a stained glass window behind her and it’s a cathedral. you may see a glimpse of the bright, human daisy. behind her in the light

Shrike as Justice - and HERES a character that fits Justice SOOOO extremely well. and shrike is all about 1) hunger, and of much more relevance, 2) vengeance. she is LITERALLY eye for an eye..

I imagine Shrike emerging from her basement prison, dirtied and bloodied and cast in a heavy shadow. she’s dressed in a very dirty, very bloody, brown butcher’s apron, trousers and linen shirt. on one side she is missing an eye, a dark gorey cavity left instead, her face also heavily scarred on that side, but a shrike’s wing is extended in its full beautiful glory. on her other side, there is an eye, looking dead on and murderous, but her wing on that side is torn in half, sinew flesh and bone pressing out from sparse ruffled feathers. she is holding a knobbly cane that’s pretty much just a stick on the side of her bad eye, and she holding a massive, menacing axe on the side of her bad wing. blah blah all of these im making metaphors for vengeance and justice blah blah

AND FINALLLYYYY Sunada as Strength - my newest oc !! and her whole thing is being strong in all senses of the word and having influence. she is also incredibly intimidating but that may be less relevant lmao

the beast most associated with her is the phoenix, so in this i imagine she’s wrestling a phoenix. and i MEAN wrestling. they are brawling - she is pinning it to the ground and wrenching its beak open. Sunada is at a side profile and her black hair falls in curtains in the far side of her face. she is determined as she stares down the phoenix. she’s dressed in dress trousers, a blazer hanging half-off, and a shirt that’s loosely tucked and half unbuttoned. she has a bulky, top heavy build and is SOO butch it’s unbelievable. the embers and feathers of the phoenix fly everywhere and the card is so so red.

anyways yeah im so normal about them. D.A. I made a while back and i haven’t really revisited but i still love her so much while the other two are a LOT more recent and im still actively thinking about them… sighhh badass women save me

this is SO cool i LOVE tarot card imagery. youve put so much thought into this its super cool!!!

#cinocappu #oc show and tell #moss answers #gore #tw gore

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ranticore · 3 months

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some of the outfits i drew up to get a handle on what different classes of men wear in Régian era Inver (1860s. the king is Régis, therefore it's the Régian era). left to right are middle, upper, and lower class getups.

not pictured: bowler hats & top hats. Only two groups of people were known to go out in public without some sort of head covering - rangers and priests. everyone else wore a hat befitting their class. felt bowler hats for most men, silk tall hats for the gentry. women wore bonnets (fancy) or headscarves & shawls (less fancy)

every man in inver wore gaiters as part of their daily dress, these are not stockings because they go outside the trousers and over the shoes, and usually fasten a little way below the knee. it's a rainy, muddy, snowy country, and these gaiters protect your lower legs from the elements. also it's just fashionable. the ability to wear gaiters in a pale colour & fragile type of fabric was a mark of class, with the upper classes expected to wear white satin or silk. it was a way to show off how little you ever had to go outdoors into the dirt of the city or countryside, as the white would always be clean, and a way to flex your ability to have your clothes washed regularly (few people did).

everyone else used either wool or leather gaiters, usually in darker colours (brown/russet was common) that didn't show up the dirt so well. although, cities like Invergorken turned every item of clothing coal-black eventually whether you liked it or not. they were bulky and usually ill-fitting, with the lowest classes usually having the fasteners/buttons on the inside of the leg, to make them easier to put on. wealthier people who would be expected to ride horses had the buttons on the outside (and upper classes had buttons on the outside because they had people do that for them)

aping the upper classes to appear richer has always been a thing so you would see the lower classes wearing white gaiters on special occasions, though they would be very quickly taken off and stored away from dirt as soon as possible.

clothing was nearly invariably wool or linen, with wool being more readily available (linen was imported from hibernia). a winter overcoat (left) usually incorporated some form of cape down to the elbows and closed all the way to the shins or ankles, and was worn over the more usual day suit & coat (right). those are trousers, not breeches; they tend to be pretty baggy, even among the upper classes, and usually end with a stirrup that passes under the foot.

#setting: inver #said the black horse

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cliozaur · 9 months

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What a nice way to finish the very long third volume. Hugo circles back to the gamin with whom he introduced the tome! (Although I'm not entirely sure why he chose to reference that obscure mention of Gavroche in tome two, when he was crying in the cradle. Perhaps, simply to remind the reader that he is a part of the ill-fated Thénardier clan.) Gavroche is “pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers in the month of February” and he sings a lot — all of which make him a miniature version of Éponine. He arrives at the empty and locked Gorbeau house, only to discover that his (unloving) family is imprisoned. His response to this news is simply an "Ah!" and he goes away singing. (@akallabeth-joie gives some contextual information about women prisons in Paris where female members of the family were taken) This chapter also marks the end of the very long day, portrayed hour by hour.

Symbolically, the tome titled “Marius” does not feature Marius in either its opening or closing chapter. Marius has also mysteriously vanished.

Tomorrow, we’ll delve into the fourth volume, which commences with a new portion of digression. This might require some tuning for readers (spoiled by the entire last book filled with suspense and action). So, let’s get ourselves ready!

#les mis letters #lm 3.8.22 #les miserables #gavroche #eponine #marius pontmercy #thenardier

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lasudio · 3 months

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VeronaHills, Round Six: Hart

Candy clicked the front door behind her and made a beeline for the amorous novel on the bookshelf. She slipped out the red velvet bookmark and reoriented herself in the romance.

A very stunning, very available single woman on a solo trip to the city was Candy's own story, but the finer details were more grit than glamour. For one, she had visited a private specialist. She'd had an abortion. She'd had many feelings about it; shed tears that ran the gamut between relief and the thought of what could have been. But it was not to be. She was sure about that.

The novel's lovers were eloping on the gentleman's private island in the tropics. He wore linen trousers and nothing else. The lady allowed her thin sundress straps to slip down her shoulders.

Candy curled up and followed the narrative with great interest.

Rhett - not one to read - chased another dream. He'd fumbled the ball with fiery hot muso Roxie Sharpe when he broke down crying about missing his mother (thankfully she didn't seem to notice, being entranced by her own basslines). And while he couldn't quite keep up with Catherine Viejo on the ice rink, he more than surpassed the bar in bed with her. He felt blessed by the love gods with the gorgeous women of Riverblossom Hills. Who was next, he wondered...

#sims 2 #veronahills #candy hart #roxie sharpe #rhett hart #catherine viejo #hart

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dingochef · 11 months

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Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x You (OFC)

Warnings: Swearing, Smut (MDNI 18+ Only), Stalking, P in V, oral (female and male receiving), Semi-public sex, light spanking,

Summary: Jake and you head to the Hard Deck to celebrate Lydia's birthday. Things get a little hot.

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Chapter 6

Word Count: 2.8 k

Chapter 7: In Vino Veritas

"Ready, dear?" you ask Jake as you put on a pair of silver heels by the front door.

"Yes, babe,"

Jake answers as he walks out of the bedroom,

"How do I look?" He does a little twirl to show off his outfit: a dark white linen short sleeve with a faint leaf pattern down one side that brings out his eyes, simple black trousers, and boat shoes.

"Dashing and devastatingly handsome," you finger the hem of his shirt,

"Does this qualify as a Hawaiian shirt? Rooster's fashion sense rubbing off on you?"

"Hardly, this is Tommy Bahama, which requires taste to select, of which I'm pretty sure Rooster's taste is limited to picking good women and whiskey," he answers back.

He looks you up and down noticing your outfit, he leans over to you and whispers in your ear,

"I recognize that dress, it's the first one I got to take off of you. Now I'm going to be thinking of that all night."

You turn your head so your lips ghost his,

"Is that a problem?" you tease.

"Might get us out of there sooner."

Jake leans into the kiss and you sidestep him.

He lets out a huff of frustration as you pull on a light jacket.

"We could just stay home and reenact our first night together," Jake offers as he positions his body against yours,

"In fact, we were just about right here when I took that dress off of you."

You start to lean back against Jake before your better logic prevails,

"We'd never hear the end of it if we ditched her birthday party. But, for information, the reenactment wouldn't be 100 percent accurate, because I'm not wearing any underwear."

A lone whine crossed with a noise of frustration emits from Jake.

"Sweetheart, that's not fair. How am I supposed to not get hard thinking about that all night?" he whines.

You open the door and usher him out into the night,

"You'll figure it out." He walks past you and you speak again.

"Jake?"

"Yes, El?"

"I'll make it worth your while, if you're a good boy."

The strangled noise he makes is worth it.

His mumbled,

"Woman is going to kill me," makes you laugh. You grab his hand and start the short walk to the Hard Deck.

You're glad Lydia has chosen the Hard Deck for her birthday celebration. Despite living in La Jolla, Lydia's favorite place in all of San Diego is still the Hard Deck.

You arrive and find Lydia, Rooster, Beth, and a few other friends of Lydia's you recognize from other get-togethers in the corner around the pool table. There are a few shiny mylar balloons around and a cheesy Happy Birthday banner on the wall.

Lydia is wearing a tiara that says "Birthday Girl", she sees you and waves,

"Hey it's Elsa and Hangman! Now the party can get started,"

she shouts over the music. You work your way through the crowd and hug her when you reach the corner.

Jake nods over towards the bar miming a drink. You respond by shouting over the din of the busy bar

"Yes, the usual!"

Jake points to Lydia and Rooster, Lydia waves off as she has a full drink and Rooster holds up his empty beer bottle. Orders in Jake walks off towards the bar.

You wish Lydia a Happy Birthday and give Lydia her gift, simple pair of sea glass earrings.

"Thank you, Elsa. I have a dress that will match perfectly," she says gushing.

You move through the crowd and reintroduce yourself to the others. When you've worked through all of the party goers, Jake is back with your drink.

Beth and you finally meet up.

"Beth! It's been too long, we need to get together,"

you exclaim, hugging her.

"You're right, it has been awhile, although you get regular updates from Lydia at work,"

she replies.

"Beth, I'm pretty sure you remember Jake," she nods.

"Jake, you might remember Beth from the night we met, else, Beth is the other part of our fearless trio. She works with Lydia at Scripps as a statistician."

Jake lights up,

"A fellow math nerd, my degree is in math, although I haven't used it much since academy."

"Huh, you didn't realize you got degrees at the Naval Academy, makes sense, it's a college,"

Beth replies.

"I'm going to leave you two for a bit and get a round of shots in for the birthday girl before she gets too far gone," you say as you turn to go to the bar.

You work your way up to the bar and catch Penny's attention.

"Five Patron shots and five shots of Tequila Rose. Training wheels for the Tequila shots, please,"

you yell over the noise of the bar.

"Coming right up," she responds and promptly disappears.

You're left waiting at the bar when the guy sitting next to you on a stool swivels around to talk to you.

"What's your name, cutie?"

he says, releasing a cloud of whiskey vapor with the question.

You keep your reply short,

"Elsa I've got a boyfriend."

He laughs,

"You're a funny one, my name is Dumbo this here,"

he points over his shoulder to a skinny guy with red hair,

"Is Hyena."

You're wondering where Penny is with the shots, out of boredom more than anything, you ask,

"Is it because you have big ears?"

He laughs way harder than he should and says,

"No, it's my call sign. I'm a pilot, it's because I'm hung like an elephant."

You don't say anything, the look of disgust is easy to read on your face to most socially capable human beings. This guy is huge, looks like a cornfed linebacker from Nebraska.

"So, Elsa I've got a boyfriend, I can guarantee that I'd be more of a man than your boyfriend. I bet your boyfriend doesn't fly fighter jets. I'm in the area for a while for the Navy. Actually I'm a pilot at Top Gun, heard of it?"

You play dumb, having figured out these guys are likely Jake's students,

"I might be aware of it, and I highly doubt you'd measure up to my boyfriend,"

you say giving this guy more options to fuck off and die.

"Just give me a chance baby, just looking for a little fun while I'm here, and I like you, you little pocket pistol,"

he slurs through the whiskey cloud.

You look over to Jake and apparently your face conveys that you need assistance. He excuses himself from his conversation with Beth and heads your way.

Penny has mercifully returned with the drinks,

"Had to run to the back to get another bottle of Patron, my barback is laying down on the job," she explains.

"No worries, Penny," you reassure her.

You turn back to the guy,

"Since you're so sure that you're better than my boyfriend at whatever you do, you want to meet him? He's heading over to help with all these drinks."

Jake has slithered through the crowd and appears behind you, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek. Dumbo's and Hyena's faces pale as the recognition sets in.

"Hey dear, these ours?"

Jake asks. You nod and he continues,

"I see you ran into some of my students, Dumbo and Hyena. They aren't giving you any trouble are they?"

"Well, Dumbo here was just telling me how he got his call sign. I asked if it was because he has big ears, but apparently there's a different reason. I didn't hear the last part, do you think you could repeat it?"

you ask, satisfied with the embarrassment blooming on his cheeks. You look up at Jake and he is smirking.

Dumbo gets real quiet, and says,

"I said it's because I'm hung like an elephant."

"How charming, right, Jake? It's been something boys. We have a party to get back to," you say as you scoop up half the shots and Jake grabs the others.

As you walk away you can hear Hyena talking,

"You fucking idiot, hitting on the CO's girlfriend."

"I didn't know they were together," he whines.

"Then maybe you should just fucking listen when she says not interested," Hyena shouts, apparently the one with some sense.

Jake asks,

"They didn't say anything awful to you?"

"Nothing you haven't heard before at a bar, he kept hitting on me even after I made it clear I wasn't interested."

"Okay, let me know if they push it again."

"Don't worry about it, I think he learned his lesson. Let's have some fun."

And with that incident closed you call out,

"Shots for the birthday girl!"

Lydia responds with a hearty "woo".

The shots are passed out and Rooster uses the opportunity to toast Lydia,

"To the love of my life, Lydia Mary Catherine O'Callahan, I wish you the best year and hope that it's as good as the past months have been with you, baby. Happy Birthday, Lyds."

He ends by giving her a big kiss. Whoops and wolf whistles erupt around them.

That round is the first of a couple of shots. Various shots filter into the party, a few good, some bad. Each shot has fueled your desire for Jake, your inhibitions falling away. As you both circulate through the bar you both take the opportunity to touch, tease, or kiss when you get close enough. The bar is hot enough that with each drink another button gets undone on Jake's shirt exposing more of his magnificent chest to your gaze.

It's nearing midnight and you're definitely feeling tipsy, a little unsteady in your heels, and incredibly horny.

Another round of shots comes out and you wisely pass on this round. You look over at Jake and he catches your eye, flicking his head towards the door telepathically asking if you'd like to go home. Your overly enthusiastic nod makes Jake crack a smile. Working your way over to Lydia you say your goodbyes.

“Hey, we’re going to head out. Happy Birthday!” you say as you give her a big hug.

“Goodnight, thanks for coming, girlie,"

she responds, a little slurred.

“Take care of her, Rooster!”

you shout as you turn to meet Jake at the door. The only response you get is Rooster's big goofy grin as he raises his drink.

The night is cool and quiet compared to the heat and noise of people packed together in the bar. The parking lot is deserted and there’s no one else lingering around. Grabbing Jake's hand you pull him over to the dark side of the bar. It’s partially protected by a sand dune and out of view from the parking lot and anyone who might be wandering by at this late hour on the beach.

Putting your back against the rough weathered wood siding, your hand lands on Jake's neck to pull his lips down to yours. Once he is close enough you kiss him hard and your tongue follows almost immediately. He moans into the deep and dirty kiss, reciprocating with his tongue along your lips. Jake's hands wrap around your waist. You take advantage of the open neck to his shirt and slide your hand across his chest, stopping to graze your fingernail over his nipple.

Jake reacts by letting out another loud moan,

"El, not fair. You've been teasing me all night."

You huff a little laugh as you kiss the corner of his mouth,

"Me? You've been teasing me, Mr. Let Me Undo Another Button. You're the one who put all this out for display."

Your last sentence is punctuated by your cupping Jake's pecs.

He bites his lip to keep any louder sounds from escaping and slides his hands under your dress to cup your bare ass. Giving both cheeks a good squeeze he starts to suck a hickey on your neck,

"Rich coming from you. Little Ms. I don't have any underwear on."

Jake sits you on his leg making sure your bare lips are on his hard thigh, only the fabric of his pants between you. The friction causes you to rock gently back and forth, your resolve to not fuck in public quickly slipping away.

To try and gain some control of the situation you slide your hand around to the front of his shorts and palm his cock through the fabric. Jake ruts in your hand; his hardness apparent through the fabric of his pants. He pulls you down harder on his thigh and another bolt of pleasure surges through you.

Reluctantly and quickly, you switch your positions so that Jake is up against the wall. You start to sink down to your knees. Jake catches your elbow as he takes off his jacket and gives it to you,

“For your knees."

You smile at the chivalry in your very debauched situation.

Placing the jacket on the ground you kneel in front of Jake and undo his belt and pull down his zipper, trying to free his cock as soon as possible.

Reaching into his boxer briefs you pull out his hard cock, reveling in the velvety softness over rock hard muscle. A quick kiss to the tip and you can't help yourself from rubbing your face on his divine appendage. The silky skin gliding over your cheek and lips.

"Please, El. Please," Jake begs in a whisper above you.

You pull him into your mouth and he hisses with pleasure, a sigh of relief mixed in. The pace you choose is fast and quick; this isn’t the situation to take your time, this is quick and dirty. The precum leaking from Jake is salty and bitter as you swirl tongue around the head. You lap it up greedily right before you take as much of Jake you can into your mouth in one long gulp. His hand flies to your head, stilling it for one second. The other hand joins and he pulls back your hair in a makeshift ponytail.

You grasp the base of his cock to pump him at the same rhythm as your mouth sliding up and down his length. You bring your other hand to your mouth when you briefly pull off his dick. Sticking your fingers you wet them down with your spit and slide them into Jake's underwear to cradle his balls. The touch elicits a moan a touch too loud.

You pause to admonish him,

"Quiet, wouldn't want anyone to come looking and catch me sucking your cock?"

He clamps a hand over his mouth and muffles the louder groan the idea of getting caught pulls out of him.

Resuming your previous activities, you pull Jake deep into your mouth, the head hitting the back of your throat each time.

Your fingers move past his balls and find the area just behind them and gently start to massage it. Jake groans harder and he is starting to thrust his hips towards you; you relax your throat to take in as much of him as you can. It only takes a few more thrusts for Jake to come in your mouth. You swallow it all and hold his softening length in your mouth as he comes down from the orgasmic high.

Strong hands pull you up by the shoulders. Quickly you're standing up and Jake kisses you. His tongue sweeps your mouth and it makes you whimper.

Your whine sets something off in Jake and he is quickly snaking his hand down to grab the edge of your dress. He pulls it up exposing your pussy to the cool night air.

The teasing route his finger takes down your pussy lips that just barely skims your soaked folds makes you consider begging. The taste of Jake's come still heavy on your tongue as he kisses you is making things go berserk.

"Jake, please. Need you," you plead against his lips.

He relents and drags his finger down your folds, ghosting over your clits, and gently pushes into your needy slit.

“El, so ready, so hot, so wet, all by sucking my cock. Here taste yourself,” he brings his finger to your lips and you pull it into your mouth to lick the digit clean. Jake moans and spins you around so your back is against his chest.

The hand returns down to your clit and begins to rub fast and hard, “You have no idea how much you excite me, I’m always seconds away from ripping your clothes off and fucking you over the couch or where ever I can get you. And you, you are always ready, your sweet, tight, hot pussy is always ready for my cock.”

Between Jake’s fast pace and his dirty talk you are hurtling towards an orgasm at a rapid clip.

“Come for me, El, you’re so beautiful when you come. Can you come for me?”

The shockwave of your orgasm flashes through you and you bite your lip to keep from crying out too loud. The aftershocks are still pulsing through your body as Jake gently pulls your dress down. He grabs his jacket from the ground and puts it on, a satisfied smirk on his face. He reaches out his hand to grab yours and you start the walk back home.

Chapter 8

@kmc1989

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered

@mayhemmanaged

@callmemana

@dempy

@hangmanscoming

@lanie-k

@callsign-viper

@senjoritanana

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@midnightmagpiemama

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