#medieval!au

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [3]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: more creepy dream fuel, Geralt being slimy and having ulterior motives, and a little more tension with reader and her mother. all in all, i think you guys will enjoy this latest addition. as always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

The doe’s coat is as yellow as spun gold, and she blinks at you nervously as you approach. You cannot hide your childish squeal of delight, though it vexes her further. She nickers, shifting from hoof to hoof as she blinks at you with wide eyes. 

 “Papa, is she really mine?” You ask, your quiet voice heavy with awe. “She’s beautiful.” You hold out a hand, and her nostrils flare at your scent. Her long ears flick back, laying flat against her head behind her horns. They’re small—she’s young, barely a year old, perhaps less—and still covered with soft, velvety baby fur that you know will shed as she ages. 

 “Careful,” your father’s voice is ripe with caution. “She is new. Young, still, and a bit unwieldy.” You cluck your tongue at her, producing the sugar cubes you’d stolen from your mother’s tea tray from the sleeves of your dress. “I said careful—!” The doe leans forward, pressing her muzzle into your outstretched hand. You raise an eyebrow at your father, who shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh puffing out from between his lips. You stroke her head, running your fingers gently between her antlers and softly flicking ears. 

 “She about took Gaspard’s hand off this morning, she was so wild,” he says, shaking his head. “And yet she eats from your own as if you had weaned her yourself.” 

 “Did Gaspard try sugar?” You ask, giggling as her lips tickle your palm. “Perhaps she mightn’t have tried to amputate his fingers had he kept some of his salt to himself.” The wind shifts, and beneath the doe’s thick animal scent, there is something else.

 Something like sulphur and rotting meat.

 Your hand passes down the doe’s head, and her skin sloughs off beneath your fingers, leaving shiny, white bone behind. You gag, clapping a bloody hand over your mouth as fat flies buzz lazily out of her empty eye sockets. Wrong. This is wrong, it doesn’t happen like this—

 How does it go, again?

 Your father gifts you the doe, the golden doe, you are eighteen, you are a woman now, you will ride with him on the hunt, you will—

 “Su—gar swe—et,” Your father’s voice is the buzzing of a thousand glistening black flies, his tongue is made from them, wriggling in his wide open mouth. His eyes are children’s scribbles, black and writhing, and tears like ink drip from their corners. “It tasted like sugar—”

 It is then that you remember your father is dead.

 He is dead. He is dead here, because he is dead everywhere, dead and rotting and gone but not gone and you mustn’t listen, you mustn’t—

 You wake with a sharp gasp. 

 “—Princess?” The words dissolve into a static, meaningless drone as you are thrust suddenly back into consciousness. For a moment, the dream is still overlaid over the waking world like runny watercolor as you blink groggily in the dark. Beneath your trembling fingers, you can still feel the doe’s soft, golden coat—and the sharp, polished bone of her skull. With a sweaty palm against the wall, you retch, doubling over as you heave. 

 Nothing comes up. 

 The air around you is stale, stagnant, and the taste of dust and decay blankets your tongue as you swallow down lungful after panicked lungful. One thing is abysmally clear to you as you dizzily rest a hand on the cold stone to keep yourself upright—

 You are not in your rooms. 

 Where am I?

 “Princess.” The voice sounds again, and your head snaps about wildly, your eyes wide as you stare into the dark. The dream is still there, sticking the fringes of your waking thoughts like tar, and for a moment there are two voices, one made of dark black honey, sickly sweet, and the other the insectile buzz of a thousand glassy wings all beating in unison—

 “Wh-who goes there?” You ask, dragging the back of your hand across your quivering mouth. There is a sound like the sharp rushing of air, and all at once the room is lit with warm yellow light. You suppress a scream as your father’s withered, sunken face appears before you, his eyes like children’s scribble—you shut your eyes, closing them tightly as you whimper. 

 “A dream, this is a dream, a dream—” A cool, bare hand wraps about your wrist and you scream, pulling and fighting as fiercely as you can manage. “No! No! You’re dead—!” You cry, hysterical tears creeping out of the corners of your closed eyes. 

 “I regret to inform you, little sister, that I am very much alive.” It is not your father’s voice—not the dead—but your step-brother’s. “Despite your best attempts to dispatch me.” Slowly, you open your eyes, sniffling as you meet his gaze. He nods up at your balled fists, still trembling in his grip. You can feel the heat of him through his own loose night-shirt and your thin cotton shift, and your skin prickles as he licks his lips. 

 “Release me.” You say it with more confidence than you feel. For a moment, you feel your step-brother drag his thumb across your pulse point and cock his head, as though he is considering it. 

 “Will you strike me again, little princess?” He asks, a mocking smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You scowl. “I did not plan for a midnight brawl.” You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. Geralt stares at you for a moment, like his golden eyes see something yours do not. As you prepare to make the demand again, he frees your wrists. You clutch your hands to your chest, eyeing him warily. The torch he has lit casts the long room in dim orange light, the flames dancing in his irises, turning them molten. It is the firelight, you think, that makes him look so menacing, so…

 Hungry. 

 You shiver, turning your gaze instead to your surroundings, squinting at the long stone hall in the flickering light. The cool, stagnant air is disturbed only by the sound of your quiet breath, which catches in your throat as your eyes widen.

 “Where…are we?” You ask, though you fear you know the answer already. 

 The walls are lines with alcoves bearing countless candles, stuck into the melted pools of wax left by their predecessors rather than into proper candelabras. And in neat rows in front of them… 

 Graves. Made of the same gray stone as the castle. Highly polished and clean, they are each adorned with ornate carvings of their occupants. You stare grimly at the rows and rows of polished stone, and wonder at how you might have possibly found your way here through the dark labyrinth of the castle. You think again of the dream, and gooseflesh rises again on your skin. 

 ”Did you bring me here?” You round on the prince, your brow furrowed. He chuckles in response, and the sound of it grates against you. 

 “Me? I merely followed you. In truth I had wondered why you would visit the catacombs at this hour. I thought perhaps,” his eyes narrow as a crude grin plays at the corners of his mouth. “A secret paramour, or—”

 “Do not confuse me with yourself!” You snap, wrapping your arms around your body as you shiver. The prince clucks his tongue at your ire.

 “Come now, don’t be cross, little sister,” Geralt purrs. “It wouldn’t have been proper to leave you wandering the hallways in your state of undress, muttering to yourself like a madwoman.” Your cheeks warm at his crude words, and you feel angry, embarrassed tears flush hotly into the space behind your eyes. You blink them back. 

 “I… have not walked in my sleep since I was a child,” you admit, looking down at the space between your bare feet. Geralt hums in response. Old Madge, in her half-blind wisdom had always muttered fearfully to your father about your nightly escapades. 

 A soul shouldn’t walk about at night, she would say, her thin, knobby fingers twisting strands of honeysuckle and dried lavender together into a long chain, one she would wind around your bed’s posts every night for a year until finally you stayed in it. A soul shouldn’t walk about at night. What’s it lookin’ for?

 “I fear I…” You shake your head, swallowing your concerns—they are not for him to hear.  “No matter.” For an instant, a look of disappointment crosses his face before it is gone again, leaving you to wonder if you had even seen it at all. “Thank you.” Your reluctance is palpable. “For waking me.” 

 “You’ve no need to thank me. Not yet.” His eyes glitter darkly. You swallow thickly, and they follow the movement, sweeping almost lazily down the line of your throat. “Let us go.” They flick back up to yours. “Unless you wish to spend the night here?” He gestures behind you, and you shiver again, shaking your head quickly. 

 “Please.” 

 You are grateful to leave the eerie silence of the royal catacombs behind you, following as closely as you dare behind the prince. His torch throws up strange shapes on the walls of the narrow, spiraling stairwell. You can feel the dream sitting at the edges of your thoughts, waiting eagerly to settle back over you like fog. You were not predisposed to bad dreams, and yet they seemed to be the only ones you have had since you arrived. You have been beset with dark thoughts, nipping at your heels like hungry dogs, no—

 Wolves. 

 The two of you emerge from the narrow stairwell into the empty chapel, and the vast hall echoes with your entry. The sconces are dark, and the robed, painted priests nowhere to be seen. The chapel is far less intimidating at night, the sharp features of the northern gods softened by shadow. Cold moonlight filters down softly through the domed ceiling, the colors pale and muted. For a moment, the perfectly round moon is framed perfectly by the pane of red glass containing Father Wolf, shining bright crimson above his head as you pass beneath it. 

 The choking scent of the incense is gone now, and only a trace of it remains in the still air. It is overpowered by a thick, musky animal scent that reminds you of wet fur. As the two of you cross the center of the room, Geralt hooks left, towards the wide, dark archway on the other side of the room. It gapes open like a toothless mouth, the stone floor sloping downward steeply into the dark. 

 You stop at the top of it, the warm air stirring the loose hair about your shoulders. Geralt turns to look back at you, raising a brow and cocking his head p as he lifts  the torch higher. There is a question in the tilt of his head, unspoken on the curve of his lips.

 Are you afraid?

 You are. The dank, pungent animal scent washes over you again, and you shudder. It reminds you of your father’s hunting dogs.

 “Come, little Doe.” His voice feels like cold fingers drawn across the back of your neck. “You need not fear the kennels this night.” 

 “I am not afraid.” You jut your chin out stubbornly, even as gooseflesh erupts along your arms. 

 “Good,” he purrs, licking his lips. “They can smell it.” Geralt descends down into the dark maw, and you reluctantly follow. Like most, you are no stranger to the rumors that leak steadily from King Vesemir’s halls; fantastical tales of furred beasts whose jaws were wide enough to swallow a horse whole. You clutch yourself, inching closer to the prince as the sloped path straightens out, opening into a massive cavern. 

 Geralt’s torch is little more than a pinprick of light in in the vast, unyielding dark. The warm glow only manages to dimly outline the shapes of natural stone pillars, throwing up misshapen shadows. There are still more passageways, little more than tunnels, littering the walls like pockmarks. For a moment, the light of Geralt’s torch throws a long arm across the chamber. 

 Reflected in it’s light are two, glowing orbs. Eyes, the size of dinner plates, their color impossible to describe. It was as if the eyes themselves were ablaze, glowing brightly, breaking the darkness. Over the rush of your own labored breath, you can make out the quiet scratch of claws on stone. It’s coming closer. The thought tightens your throat.

 You are powerless, paralyzed before it like prey. Are you prey? You suppress a whimper. There is warmth at your back, and you realize belatedly that it is  Geralt, so close his breath brushes the back of your neck. 

 “No fear, little princess. No fear.” 

 In less than an instant, the creature stands just beyond the ring of light cast by the prince’s torch. Faintly, you can make out the hulking shape of it; larger by far than any horse. Shaggy white fur, stained a rusty red around its muzzle, it’s ears pricked up and forward as it listens to the sound of your breath.

 “Hold out your hand.” You do, lifting a trembling palm in front of you as if to stop the wolf from coming any closer. The wolf’s lip curls, exposing the wickedly sharp tip of a fang. It sniffs at your hand, and for a moment, you fear you will draw back nothing but a bloody stump. Your shock is palpable when it presses the tip of its snout against your hand, whiskers tickling your palm. 

 “Incredible.” The word escapes with the release of your held breath. You stroke the warm, bristly hair on its muzzle slowly, your eyes still wide with disbelief. The dire-wolf snorts, claws tapping against the stone as it turns from you. As quickly as the wolf appeared, it is gone again, disappearing back into the dark. You remain as you were for a moment more, your arm still outstretched as you watch its retreating back with terrified wonder. 

 “Yrsil.” Geralt’s voice drags you back to the present, and suddenly you are aware of how close he is to you, the way his warm breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.  “The she-wolf. Her name is Yrsil.” You jump away from him, smoothing your hands down your shift as you eye him warily. 

 “Why did you bring me here?” The accusatory note in your voice appears to amuse him, further stoking your ire. “To frighten me?” 

 “If I wanted you fearful, I would not have needed the kennels to do it.” You clench your fists, glaring hatefully at him as he resumes his casual pace across the cavern floor. “Come, now. This is the quickest way back to the eastern wing of the castle. I would not lie to you.” You glare at him, your eyes narrowed.

 “Would you not?” You reply dryly. 

 “I am many things, Princess.” Geralt’s voice drips into your ears like snake oil. “But liar is not one I am eager to add to the list.” 

 True to his word, the two of you emerge from the kennel entrance in the throne room, the hot musk of below sticking uncomfortably to your skin and hair. You half expect the prince to take his leave, now that you are back in familiar territory, but he doesn’t. He keeps pace with you all the way back to your chambers. The heavy door is still slightly ajar, no doubt from your midnight venture. The prince places the lit torch in one of the empty wall sconces before leaning expectantly against the wall, his body partially blocking the doorway. 

 “Excuse me.” 

 He slowly tilts his head, fixing you with a questioning look. “I do believe there is something you are forgetting, my Lady.” He parrots Kassandra’s tone with irritating accuracy. “I know Redania keeps to the old customs as well as they can, however here in Rivia we do require a certain level of decorum.”

 You clench your fists in your nightgown. “What do you want, Geralt?” You ask, exasperated.

 “A kiss should suffice, little Doe.” He purrs. His golden eyes burn the same way they did in the gardens the night of your mother’s coronation. You shake your head in disbelief as you stare at him, your lips parted. 

 “Y-you cannot ask this of me!” Your repudiation is a shrill squeak. “T-tis  indecent, w-we cannot—!” You shake your head again. “The king will not allow—”

 “I think you will find, little sister,” he reaches forward to trace the pad of his forefinger along your jaw-line, “that it matters not what the king will allow if he is not present. Do you see him?”He pushes your head to the side, forcing you to look down the hallway. “I don’t.” This is the closest Geralt has ever been to you, practically pressing you against the wall, caging you in with his massive arms. You understand now, the message relayed beneath his words—you are in no position to negotiate. 

 “You are my brother!” You plead, but he is unmoved. 

 “In name only.” He leans down, twining a lock of hair between his fingers, tugging it gently. “My father’s sham of a marriage has remarkably little to do with me.” You press yourself against the stone as he leans closer. “Come now, little Doe. Let us speak truth.” He tugs gently at the satin ribbon at the neck of your shift and it falls open. 

 “What you saw in the gardens intrigued you,” Geralt traces a path from your chin to your collarbone, his fingers feather-light, “did it not?”

 “No!” His open amusement at your conviction is like cold water down your back. 

 “I saw, Sweetling,” he says lowly. “The look on your face—”

 “Fine!” You shrill, tearing yourself away from him. It is not true, it cannot be—and yet, your blood rushes through your veins, a thin tendril of that same shameful longing uncurling in your belly. The dark curiosity that had driven you to peer around the hedge all those nights ago surges with sinful familiarity, even as you try to stamp it out.

 You lean forward with a grimace, rolling onto the tips of your toes. The prince cups your chin, smoothing a finger along your lower lip. He is unprepared for you to turn your head sharply, your lips brushing against his stubbled cheek. It is only the quickness of your movement and Prince Geralt’s own surprise that allows your malicious compliance, and you dart away, ducking under his arm and through the slim gap in the door. 

 He snarls, reaching for you, but you slam the it shut, sliding the bolt into place with speed that surprises you. Your heart hammers against your chest as for a brief moment, there is silence on the other side of the door. 

 “Aren’t you clever,” he sneers, his voice muffled through the wood.  He tries the handle before letting out a muted curse. “Open the door.” Your silence earns you a dark growl. “Open it!”

  You jump back from the door, muffling the sound of your scream with the palms of your hands as Geralt throws himself against it. It shudders in its frame, and for a terrifying moment you fear it will burst open, revealing the enraged prince on the other side—but it does not.

 “Open it!” You shrink against the wall as he seethes, his threats echoing in your ears. The sturdy wood holds against his assault, and when he finally stops, you can hear the sound of his labored breathing on the other side. That too, gradually fades into silence, and cautiously, you approach the door. Somehow, though you cannot see him, you know he remains there, waiting. 

 “You will regret this night.” There is grim promise in his words. “Little sister.” The sound of Geralt’s retreating footsteps makes your shoulders sag with relief, and you collapse against the wall, your breath labored. Though you doubt he is still there, waiting to ambush you in the hall, you do not dare open the door again until morning—

 Just in case. 

 —

 “It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Your mother flutters her fan daintily as she basks in the warm end-of-summer sun. To her right, Lady Amelia, red-faced and sweating beneath her pale face paint, forces a smile through her obvious discomfort.

 “Oh yes, Highness.” She blinks as a cloudy bead of sweat slides down into her eye. “Lovely.”

 You know the noblewomen fawning over your mother would much rather be inside, sheltered from the hot sun by the cold stone of the castle. It was where you would have been, if not for the summons from your mother. You had spent the majority of the past week or so in your chambers, reluctantly leaving them only when strictly necessary in your attempts to avoid the prince.

 The Prince.

 At the thought of him, you cast a wary glance at your surroundings, looking for the telltale gleam of his golden eyes, or the shock of his snow white hair. Thankfully, you find neither. Crossing the patch of soft, green grass toward your mother, you perch impatiently on the end of the carved stone bench as you wait for her to notice you. You make idle conversation with her ladies as you wait, twisting your fingers nervously in the fabric of your skirts while you try to parse out your request.

 I want to go home. 

 “Ah, daughter,” she greets you, and you drop your head respectfully as she addresses you. “Come to enjoy the weather?” She gestures around her at the blooming garden. “I daresay we shall miss it soon enough.”  She stretches, the jewels adorning her fingers and throat shining brilliantly in the sun.

 “It is lovely,” you say, nodding agreeably. “It does remind me of home.” You curse yourself as the word slips from your lips. Instantly, your eyes fly to your mother’s face, watching for the displeasure you know you will see written in the stiffness of her smile or the narrowed slant of her eyes. 

 “Of Redania, you mean.” The soft curve of her lips belie the dagger sharp edges of her words. The smile you force in return is weak, trembling at the edges of your mouth. 

 “Y-yes. That is… what I meant to say.” You do not miss the way her ladies lean in amongst themselves, whispering. “D-did you wish to speak with me?” Though the day is unseasonably warm, and you yourself are surrounded by people, you feel small and cold and alone. Adrift. 

 “Must a mother need a reason to see her child?” She asks, rising gracefully from her seat. One of the servants rushes over with a parasol, but she waves him away, shaking her head. “If a reason must be given, I suppose mine might be that I have missed you.”  She loops her arm through one of yours securely, steering you off the patch of cool grass and back onto the garden path proper.  The whispers of her ladies follow behind you, biting at your heels they fade. 

 “I am your mother, and yet I cannot recall when last we broke bread together.” 

 “I have found myself quite exhausted, of late,” You mumble the half truth. “I fear the journey weighs heavily upon me still.” You suppress a shudder as you remember the dream, your father’s rotting face bloated with fat maggots—“I have not slept well.” 

 “Late night escapades do tend to be quite exhausting.” Her lips curve into a cold, knowing smile, and your belly fills with hot lead. Shame turns the blood in your veins to ice as your mother inspects her sleeve. A terrible fury rages beneath the placid surface of her pleasantries, and you cower in the face of it. 

 “M-mother, I—” The words will not come, leaving you floundering as your mouth opens and closes in silence. “H-he—”

 “Did you think I would not see it?” She spits. Disgust drips from the words.    “Would not notice his...” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as her mouth twists with displeasure. “Interest.” You swallow against the lump in your throat, knowing it matters not but still wondering who might have seen, who might have witnessed Prince Geralt raging at your door. 

 “Mother, I-I swear to you, I have done nothing—! H-he, I—I walked in my sleep, a-and he found me, I—nothing happened!” You hate the look on her face, like your pleas of innocence have only confirmed your guilt. “Nothing—”

 “Nothing?” Her lip curls. “You must know these games you play, all they have done is pique his interest.” She speaks as though somehow, you should have known better. “Men are stupid, willful creatures, desirous of what they cannot have.” She clucks her tongue at you. “Your father coddled you far too long—you are a woman grown! It is long past time you act like it!” 

 “Father would believe me!” You sob. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks.   “I am innocent!” Your mother stares at you coldly, before reaching forward to cup your chin. 

 “It is not your innocence I question.” Your mother’s voice is deceptively soft.   “It is your sense.” You blink at her through your tears, trembling. “My sweet, naive girl.” She wipes roughly at your tears with the pad of her thumb. The cold distance in her eyes splits you cleanly down the middle like a sharp blade. There is part of you that wants to fawn, to deliver honeyed words on a platter until her love shines down on you again like the sun—

 And part that wants nothing more than to flee. You want to ask—no, beg—for her to send you home, to return you to the walls you knew better than the lines on your own palms. Your mother embraces you, her lips brushing your cheek even as your own work silently. The words won’t come, like they are stuck in your throat. 

 “There should be only honesty between us.” Your mother says. “Understand?”

 I want to go home.

 Send me home.

 Please.

 “Yes.” You hang your head in defeat, the words retreating from your tongue.  

 “Good.” She chirps as she leans away. She is herself again, smiling affectionately as she brushes imaginary dirt from your dress, tucking loose strands of hair back into your fraying braid. “And you’ll tidy up for supper, won’t you? We have missed you at the table these past nights.” You clasp your hands together so tightly that your palms sting as you force a smile.

 “Of course.” 

 For a moment, just a moment, the warm breeze carries with it the smell of rot and earth, and you remember the doe, your father’s gift dead and bloated in the patch of hexweed in the woods. 

 It smells like sugarcane, but it isn’t, your father had taught you young. It smells sweet, but it’s not, understand? 

 Perhaps, you think, as you reluctantly follow your mother’s retreating back, people can be hexweed too.

to be continued…

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Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fanfiction #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia smut #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt x you #geralt x y/n #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #geralt smut #geralt fanfic #AU #medieval!au #medieval au #royal!au #royal au #dark fantasy au #GoT AU #darkfic #boxofbonesfic #Tonality fic

[victoria-grimesss]

Knight!Ghost Headcanons

masterlist

->Pairing: Knight!Ghost x Princess!Reader

->A/N: I'm a bio major not a history major so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

When you became of age of course your parents, the King and Queen needed someone to protect their sweet, precious, and adored daughter.

They requested the best knight in all of the land, Ghost.

You would be sitting in the throne room when you first laid eyes on him. The large doors opening and the light dancing off his armor as he approached your parents. Your breath was nearly taken from you as you gazed upon the large man in-front of you. He would bow as accustomed greeting them and they would give their approval.

He would protect you with his life, you were beautiful no doubt many men and women would kill to marry you, but alas you will be arranged with whomever is best for politics.

He would walk with you out of the throne room and to wherever you go within the castle walls or outside.

You frequent the rose garden, and he stands stone-still as you walk around the blooming flowers and giggle and laugh all while watching him. He's so out of place in the garden. A big strong man coated in impenetrable dark armor surrounded by pastel flowers and twisting vines.

You would ask questions about him and his life, and he would respond in short, gruff, and thickly accented answers. Your stomach would erupt in butterflies when we would speak, you had never encountered a knight as all-consuming as him.

He never strays far from you, when you go to town or the port to watch the ships everyone would avoid you, giving a wide berth to the two of you.

He admired the way your dress coated your body and your hair looked so smooth and silky, he assumed it felt better than any imported silk ever could.

He shouldn't have these feelings for you, but he wants to draw his sword when a boy you are meant to court greets you and you do not repay the same affections he gives you. Your words are short with him, almost mean. And your eyes drift to Ghost frequently as you talk with the young man, they would rake from bottom to top, your gaze heavy on his eyes and he returns it.

He smirks under his helmet, knowing your affection is directed to him.

He would stand near the door when dinner is served. He would watch you eat delicacies many would kill for, you would get drunk off of the finest of wines, then he would escort you back to your room.

You would hang off of him, ditzy and bubbly as you sing small parts of songs as the two of you walk, well you stumble and he nearly carries, you down the hallway.

Eventually you grow too tired to walk any further you sit in a hall chair and refuse to get up. Ghost grows irritated at your antics and eventually just slings you over his shoulder.

"Oh my, what a strong knight you are. I shall request you carry me everywhere from now on. I do fear my feet may fall off from all this walking about the castle." He does not respond but the arm that grows tighter around your waist tells you all you need to know.

He would place you on your plush bed, you still drunk off of wine would laugh as he stands still at the end of your bed.

You would grow quiet and hum lightly at the sight of him in your quarters, at the end of the bed. To most he's that stuff of nightmares, but to you he's the creation of your dreams.

You would sit up, letting down your hair your hand would trace down you neck and corset,

"You know... I just can never see myself marrying those boys my father sends me. I've always loved knights. May I ask, do you like princess's sir?"

He would stiffen at your words, it is his job to protect you even from himself and his needs. Perhaps if you were not intoxicated he would play into your game but for now he tells you to sleep and leaves the room, he enjoys the pout that paints your face as he leaves.

He thought this would be an easy job, to protect you till marriage but he's finding it's the most difficult he's ever had.

#kicking my feet at knight!ghost #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x reader #knight!ghost #medieval #medieval!au #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x reader #princess!reader #knight!ghost x princess!reader #simon riley headcanons #cod headcanons #mw2 headcanons #mw2 fanfic #ghost mw2 #mw2 #call of duty mw2 #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #knight au #simon riley x female reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader

[tiofrean]

Once upon a time, there was a king...

...and his guard :D

#i did this a while ago #silverflint #medieval!au #james flint #john silver #black sails #traditional art #tora draws

[decafdino]

Seven sentence sunday

Today was super exhausting so take this bit i haven't edited yet. Thanks @heartstringsduet and @lemonlyman-dotcom for the tag!

TK shifts, settling further into Carlos' warmth. "Hmm. I like it when you call me 'Tyler'."

"Then I should call you that more often." Carlos puts a hand on the back of TK's neck, securing it there and rubbing his thumb over the nape. The rain picks up slightly, but the large branches above them thankfully block most of it.

He's almost convinced TK is asleep when he speaks up. "Carlos?"

"Yeah?"

TK looks up at him, his eyes shining. "Do you think we're going to make it in time?"

#tarlos #911 lone star #tarlos fic #carlos reyes #tk strand #floggyfics #fanfic #wip challenge #seven sentence sunday #medieval!au

[kpopnstarwars]

ok but like cover me vibes (basically sad) with medieval!au seungmin - sorry for any completely wrong army terms i didn't do my research

tw: suicidal thoughts, references to war/front lines (medieval tho), death, angst with eventual fluff, loss of loved ones kinda

you had one sweet, surreal week with your seungmin as your husband before he was snatched from your grasp by the call of the battle.

the constant ache of his absence throbs in your chest like a knife's blade. your memories of the short time you had together are blurred at the edges, the happiness they were soaked in seeming uncanny in the midst of the hardships of warfare. they come in flashes to you in the middle of your midnight watch, posted on the castle turrets with your bow: the way he smiled into your kisses, the way his hands cradled your waist, the way he could make your heart stutter and your stomach flip with just a look. the day of your marriage feels as if it was decades ago, when in fact it was only a few months ago.

it shouldn't have been this way. you were both soldiers, but he'd made you promise to stay back and defend the city with the other contingent while his was sent out to fight the invaders. in return, he gave you his word that he would stay safe, but you both knew there was never any way of confirming that. you cried, sobbed, begged, but he was obstinate that you stay away from the front lines and that he go in your stead.

truly, you can't blame him for that; you'd wish the same if in his place.

you know he longs for you the same way you long for him.

correction: you know he longed for you the same way you long for him. because a letter arrived exactly a month ago, reporting him missing in action. you had stared at the official seal on the letter until it began to blur with your tears. you're a soldier, you know that 'missing in action' just means that they couldn't find his body; you know that he's as good as dead - more letters arrived the weeks after that, and they'd heard nothing. surviving after being reported missing in action would be a miracle, and you don't dare let yourself hope.

you know your seungmin. you know he would have fought until his very last breath to get back to you.

a tear slices down your cheek, and the cold wind that swirls around the top of the castle walls turns it ice cold. you wish for nothing more than to have been there on the front lines with him when it happened, so you could have died with your husband, the only one you had worth living for, by your side.

you've considered joining him many times. in the dead of night, while you're on watch on the castle walls, you've thought too often about leaning forward and pitching yourself from the turrets, but you can't. you're too much of a coward.

the sun begins to show itself, appearing on the horizon and limning the lands below you in golden light. you want to scream at it for rising when he's gone, but you can't even draw enough breath into your lungs for that; the knowledge that he's gone is suffocating, killing you slowly, smothering your heart and letting it wither in your hollow chest. your fingernails dig into the aged limestone of the battlements, and you wish that you could crumble away into the dust under your hands.

and then you see it.

you see them.

first, they're just a darker patch on the horizon, fuzzy at the edges due to the rolling mist, but with the rising sun, they inch closer, not walking in formation, their armour dull and their steps weary, but their faces triumphant. desperately, you want to look away - you know he won't be there. you know he's gone, and yet you can't tear your eyes away, searching frantically for his familiar form. tears well up in your eyes - frustrated, you swipe them away, praying to the gods you know, pleading to anything: the warm sun, the limestone beneath your hands, the soil that the approaching men walk upon.

your heart stops.

no.

no.

it can't be him.

can it?

you scramble down from the castle tower, a singular thought in your mind: seungmin. your officer attempts to stop you at the drawbridge; you shoulder past him - you need to get to your husband. you need to see if it's him.

sprinting forward, you fix your eyes on his figure. as you approach, you become more certain; he's covered in blood and limping, and one of his arms is held in a sling, but his head is held high - you could recognise him anywhere.

tears begin to stream down your cheeks as you get closer. you see the moment he spots you, because he opens his arms and his face lights up, brighter than the receding stars, brighter than the rising sun. weeping, you launch yourself the last few feet, and seungmin catches you despite all his injuries, twirling you around like he did at the first dance of your wedding. you don't dare unlock your arms from around his neck when he sets you down for fear that he'll be ripped away from you again, and he cradles you to his chest; sobs wrack your body as you fist his shirt in your hands, pressing your face into his shoulder and breathing in his scent, still there underneath the grime.

'seungmin,' you whisper, cupping his cheeks and bringing your forehead to his. 'my seungmin.'

he smiles, eyes wet. one hand holds the back of your head, fingers entwined in your hair, the other clasping your waist, pulling you infinitely closer, tucking you tightly to him. leaning in, he fits his mouth against yours, speaking against your lips.

'my wife.'

stray kids taglist: @sleepyleeji

#ficlets #seungmin #kim seungmin #stray kids #skz #stray kids seungmin #skz seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin x y/n #medieval!au #medieval!au skz #stray kids!au #skz au #stray kids au #angst #fluff #cover me #cover me stray kids #seungmin cover me #cover me seungmin #cover me skz

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Destined

Pairing: Medieval! Oromë x Fem. Reader ( Ward of the Crown | Second Person POV)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Slow burn | Smut (Lemon)| Soft

Warnings: Arranged marriage | Use of a dagger during the wedding ceremony | Blood | Alcohol consumption | Mentions of injuries | First time | Kissing | Foreplay | Some explicit language | Oral (fem receiving) | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 4.6k words

Summary: It was an arranged marriage to the lord of High Tree Hall and Hunter’s Pass, a man of little words, one who was known to be as wild as the forests and deep passes he ruled over. How would he conduct himself on his wedding night?

Rating:🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ You are responsible for the media you consume. 

Full list of the great noble house of Valinor can be read here.

Rules and tag form here | Prompts for requests here.

It was the height of summer; the air was warm and balmy, and the wind blew in hot even though it was near evenfall. Still, it was glorious. The air was sweet with the scents of wildflowers and pine. The sky was a vivid kaleidoscope of gold and yellow and orange and even pink when the minstrels called at your door.

You were given the finest guest manse on the grounds. Oromë would have preferred to have you housed within High Tree itself, but custom decreed the procession. And that he not see you until the ceremony. 

Your chambers were a hive of activity. Maids rushed to and fro with dresses and shoes and flowers plucked fresh from a nearby meadow, taking great care when laying them out over the bed while you bathed and dressed and fixed your hair. Jewels caught the light of nearby candles and gleamed against your throat and ears and wrists. 

"Are you ready, lady y/n?" Lady Nessa said when she arrived to escort you to the Great Hall and your soon-to-be husband. 

You turned away from a silvered looking glass to face her. "As ready as I will ever be."

Nessa smiled and stood by your side while a maid helped you with the final touches for your dress, fixing your skirt and straightening your veil. Another helped drape a heavy cloak around your shoulders. At the appointed hour, you took your soon-to-be good-sister’s arm and let her lead you from your chambers.

By the time you had stepped out into the light, the horizon had turned into a slow burning ember. Deep blue and purple and black now bled into fiery red and orange. The first stars shone brightly overhead even as the sun slowly dipped beneath the tree line. Over you was a canopy of deep green velvet, richly embroidered with black thread, held up by several pages. Minstrels walked ahead, playing viols, flutes and drums and even trumpets while another page sprinkled white rose petals along the path. Beautiful lamps affixed to the low-hanging branches of nearby trees lit the way. 

The splendor of the moment did nothing to detract from the fact that life in High Tree Hall was nowhere as elegant and luxurious as life at Ilmarin, where the gardens were all neat and well-tended and the white marble halls were a riot of color due to the stained glass windows catching the sun’s glorious light. Here there were gnarled trees and ponds and flowers growing wild all over. The manses were built out of rough-hewn stone and mortar and thick wooden bark. The people that lived here were said to be as wild as their lord. 

Their lord. Oromë was liege lord of Hunter’s Pass and master of High Tree Hall. He had been in need of a wife and had asked the king for your hand after seeing you taking a turn in Ilmarin’s gardens not even half a year ago. After your father disgraced himself as a traitor, Eru stood in his place now. He was able to dispose of your hand to whomever he wished. And you could not say a word in protest. 

"My brother is eager to see you again." Nessa smiled. You dared to glance at her. Until a little while ago, it was Nessa who served as Lady of High Tree Hall. After tonight, that great honor would fall on you. If the lady had been bitter about her change in station, she didn’t show it. "He nearly dug a trench in the great hall by pacing about for what seemed like hours. He is that eager for the ceremony to begin." 

Eager to see me? Cannot wait for the ceremony to begin? You wrinkled your brow in confusion. Oromë barely spoke with you. He did not court you, or bring you little tokens. You could count with the fingers of one hand the number of times he had called on you, and that too only when the king was present. His letters, such as they were, had been brief, and few and far between. 

Nessa looked on expectantly, awaiting your answer. 

"I pray I will be a good wife to him," you say hesitantly. 

Nessa gave your arm a gentle squeeze. "Just as my brother prays to be a good husband to you."

You were not so sure. Oromë was known for his many passions and his wrath, and you felt wholly unprepared. Oh, your mother did talk to you upon your flowering many and more years ago, and of course you had listened to the scandalous chatter amongst the maids. Still, hearing talk of the marital act and actually having to go through with it were two different things altogether.

Will he be gentle, even a little? You wondered. Will he treat me with a kind heart and a tender hand?

The music slowly faded when the great doors of High Tree Hall loomed ahead, and the guards threw them open for the king himself. Eru had been resplendent this evenfall, garbed in black velvet slashed with cloth of gold. A heavy gold chain of linked flames had been draped loosely around his shoulders. His crown, an airy confection wrought out of a rare black metal and studded with emeralds, rested upon his brow.

"My lady y/n," he said and bowed respectfully, before extending his arm. "Shall we go in?"

Nessa gave your arm another gentle squeeze before dipping gracefully to her knees. "My king," she murmured, and rose. "My brother awaits you both."

You swallowed and looped your arm around the king’s, your eyes on Nessa’s retreating back the entire time. A blare of trumpets sounded, and you walked in time with the king. Minstrels took up their instruments again, and this time, a sweet, haunting air filled the great hall while a hush fell over the guests. Your gaze went straight to the proud lord standing by the roots of the great Silverwood tree that stood in the center of the feasting hall.

Oromë cut a striking figure. Tall and lean and fierce, with his thick black hair pulled back into a neat bun, he stood out from all of the others. He had been garbed in hunting clothes—all high boots and leather and light mail and soft wool. Heavy enameled green pins depicting a mounted archer in black fastened a thick pelt at the shoulders. A thin scar ran from brow to jaw, barely missing his right eye.  You took a deep breath and tried not to pay any attention to the guests looking at you. Their looks had been kind, but still, the attention was more than a little unnerving. When you looked back at the tree, you found Oromë looking right back at you. The beginnings of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. A warm flush crept up your throat when you reached the tree and the priestess who would join the two of you together, and Eru placed your hand on Oromë’s.

The ceremony itself passed like a blur. You listened to what was said, and said your portion of the vows. At one point, you could have sworn Oromë gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The priestess then unsheathed a sharp dagger and asked you to hold out your hand, palm facing up. The blade barely pierced the skin, but it still hurt. You watched while she did the same for your new husband. She then joined your hands and bound them with a new ribbon. You watched, enthralled, as your blood and his mingled and trickled, staining the thin strip of white silk a deep, deep, crimson.

"One body!" The priestess then declared to the crowd. "One heart! One soul! Bound as one in the sights of Gods and men! Cursed be they who try to tear them asunder!"

As her words rippled around the great hall, Oromë pulled you close and kissed you deeply. You had expected something that was rough and quick, but when his mouth opened yours, it was in a kiss that was tender and sweet.

"Mine," he whispered first, before adding, "Yours."

You looked on, wide-eyed, while he drew back. Guests broke into loud applause and cheers. You turned to face them, and felt a gentle tug on your hand. It was Oromë. He was trying to lead you to the raised dais at one end. You shook your head and rewarded him with a smile. It was time for the feast.

Again, there were differences. Feasts in Ilmarin were always lavish, but more than a little restrained. Here, the food and drink were served freely to anyone and everyone. Guests dined on thick soups and roast fowl and fish caught from a nearby river. There were flagons of ale and flagons of mead and flagons of a dark, bitter beer for anyone who had a thirst. There was wine too, a curiously light vintage that went very well with most of the food. Candles burned bright even as the great hounds of High Tree spread out next to tables and pelts and slept, having had their fill of scraps. Some guests started to fall asleep where they sat as well. Others wandered out of the hall in pairs of two and three and more, to engage in private amusements of their own. Lady Nessa made herself comfortable between Lady Varda and Nienna and Estë, and could be heard laughing merrily. The king stayed for as long as courtesy demanded before making his own excuses and leaving for the night. The revelry grew louder after his departure. 

Lord Tulkas had been singing the entire time, taking deep swigs of his ale in between verses. An auburn-haired woman clad in simple, soft green wool sat next to him, a pin bearing the bloodied hand of House Tarkil fixed firmly over her left shoulder. 

A captain of House Shield’s guard, you remembered. The one they call lady Meássë.

"Never engage him in a game of drink," Oromë leaned over and whispered. "Lord Tulkas will drink you under the table and continue drinking until dawn."

You believed him. Lord Tulkas was known to be able to hold his drink, and many of the others beside him could not. One by one, they made their excuses until his companion remained. 

"What about you, my lord," you observed after stealing a glance at his cup. "You have not drunk anything besides water all night." 

Oromë’s lips tugged at the corners. "Oromë," he insisted, "or husband, which is what I would prefer. As for my not indulging… well, let’s just say I wish to keep a clear head for what’s about to happen later." 

Your skin warmed. What’s about to happen later, he said. Oromë had been talking about bedding you. You turned to your meal, unsure of what to say. You tried to eat, but the cut across your left palm made it difficult to hold a fork. 

"Just use your hands," Oromë said, tearing a leg off a roast capon to show how it was done. "No one will mind. Eat. Please." 

You looked around the hall. Of those who had been eating, many used their hands. No one said anything. No one even seemed to mind. And the growls in your stomach made it harder to resist. Still, you took care not to dirty your dressing. The food was delicious, and you found yourself eating well from each dish. By the time the cakes and pudding had arrived, you found you could only manage a piece or two of lemon cake. 

Someone found a viol and launched into the bawdy version of "Lady Luck." Tulkas had stopped drinking but continued singing, this time joining in on the new song. Someone else found a flute, and "Lady Luck" soon changed to "Cup of Mead", which in turn soon turned into "Seven Lasses," a song that was even bawdier than "Lady Luck." Someone spilled their ale. Someone else shouted a vulgar joke. You struggled to contain your mirth. 

Guests took to the center of the hall and started to dance, while others clapped in tune. The singing grew louder while maids lit fresh candles. It started to rain outside, and servants rushed to close the shutters. More guests wandered out of the halls. 

Oromë took it as a sign that the time had come. He rose to his feet and extended his hand, and, you placed your hand in his. Few noticed, save for Lord Tulkas. He opened his mouth to say something, but Oromë cut him off with a quick, "Give words to your thoughts, my good friend, and I’ll break your fucking jaw." 

The lord of Stonehearth pouted before chuckling to himself. He leaned over to Lady Meássë and whispered something in her ear. Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of red, but she nodded in agreement to whatever it was he said. They left the hall not long after, arm in arm. 

No one followed either of you in the expectation of a bedding ceremony. Oromë led you around the dais to the chambers set aside for his own use. The walls were so thick, you were told, that no sound carried to the outside. You decided it was a blessing. You didn’t want the others to hear what went on. 

The air within was pleasantly cool. Oromë led you past little rooms and a small hall before guiding you to an airy bedchamber. More candles had been lit, and a brazier had been readied for lighting. He kicked the door shut behind you both. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked. 

The last thing you wanted was wine, or anything else, for that matter. "No, my lord," you said before discretely looking around the room. It was the same as the hall, with a bed made almost entirely out of thick pelts at one end. "My stomach is a roil." 

"Husband," Oromë said. He made no move to leave his place near the door. "Are you nervous?" 

"A little," you confessed, and walked around, not stopping until you had reached a strange but beautiful bow hung up on one wall. Twists of gold and silver wood gleamed with a delicate light all of their own.   

"From fallen branches of the sacred trees in Starfall," Oromë said after a moment. "Lady Varda made it with her own hands after I slew the creature that tried to destroy them." 

"Ungoliant," you replied, shivering. 

"Aye." Oromë came from behind and rested a hand on your shoulder. "Her skull is here. I can show it to you tomorrow if you wish." 

You were curious despite yourself. Oromë had asked you for your hand after seeing you only once and calling on you only a few times. Now he was married to you, and about to take you to his bed. 

"Forgive my lord, but why did you marry me?" You turned to face him. "My father is a known traitor. My family has been disgraced, so why me?" 

"Husband," Oromë insisted a second time, and grew silent for a long while. He finally said, "As for why I chose you… I… I felt something the first day I saw you. I didn’t understand why it was happening. All I knew was that I had to be with you and you alone. It was only by talking to others that it finally became clear. We were meant." 

"But you barely spoke to me!" 

"And I must apologize for that. I… I have never been one for tender words. My sister has tried to teach me… and failed on that score. She hopes you have better luck instead." 

You smiled timidly. Oromë walked over to you, his boots barely making a sound over the smooth stone floor. 

"May I?" he asked when he was close enough to you. 

You swallowed, but nodded and stood perfectly still. 

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he urged, before reaching for your veil. There was a soft ping whenever a hairpin fell to the floor. Your veil soon followed, fluttering to the ground with barely a sound. Your cloak, on the other hand, fell with a soft thud. Your hair slowly loosened as braids and coils came undone. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Oromë asked again, this time reaching out to undo the clasps and fastenings of your gown. You felt it loosening, and you were too caught up with your own growing curiosity to say another word. You shake your head all the same, knowing he was expecting an answer. 

He nodded and slipped the gown off your shoulders and past your waist, letting it fall the rest of the way and pool around your feet. Your stays were next. He helped you out of your shoes and your jewelry. Soon, you were clad in nothing but a sheer silk slip. Goosebumps prickled all over your flesh when you stood there, nearly exposed. Oromë studied you, his eyes darkening with each passing moment. He took your hands and brought them to his lips, pressing gentle kisses over each of your fingers. A strange but pleasant jolt shot up your spine when he kissed your bandaged palm. 

"Would you get into bed?" he said. 

It was not an order but a request instead. You took slow, measured steps, running the flat of your hand over the pelts. 

So soft, you mused. Softer than even the featherbeds back at the palace.

You climbed into the pelts, all too aware of Oromë’s eyes following you the entire time. He proceeded to undress himself, first by slipping out of his boots before removing his garments. Cloak and tunic and mail and leathers soon joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. You turned your gaze to your lap when the last of his clothes were disposed of and he stood naked in front of the bed. Curiosity got the better of you again, and you dared a glance. 

His back was turned to you, all lean and muscled, and covered in all manner of scars. Even his arms and thighs had not been spared. 

It’s as if he has known nothing but violence most of his life. You looked away once more when he came to bed. "Look at me," he said. 

You obeyed, and found hunger in his deep green eyes. Your own wandered. His black hair tumbled past his shoulders now, and thin patches of more black hair trailed its way down his chest. There were scars all over his torso as well. Some of them looked old and angry. "Did these hurt?" You found yourself saying. 

"In the beginning," he confessed, "They all did. Some worse than others. Do they frighten you?" 

"Yes," you admitted, "I have never seen anyone with such scarring before." 

"Never?" he said, his eyes filled with curiosity. "You never grew close to anyone who caught your eye?" 

"Never," you replied, even as another heated flush crept up your throat. A smirk worked its way across Oromë’s face. 

"Never?" he asked again. "No pretty handmaid caught your eye? No comely stable hand tried to steal a kiss?" 

"No," you said, "The king had his warriors dogging my every step the moment I set foot outside my rooms. And my handmaids were his spies, I am sure of it." 

"I see," Oromë said, as if considering what you told him. 

"And what of you?" you challenged. "I hear you never keep to the warmth of one bed." 

He winced and sat up straight. "I will not lie when I say that there have been others and…" 

"Will there be others even after tonight?" 

"Will you be content with such a life, wife? Being bound to a man who cannot honor his vows?" 

In your heart of hearts, you knew you would never be happy with such a life. "No." 

Oromë nodded. "Just so. As for the others… They will never be a threat to us. And they will not be a threat to you. I give you my word on this." 

And the word of those who lived in these parts was their bond. They would never go back on a promise, not even on pain of death. And he swore the two of you were meant to be. It gave you some small comfort. 

Oromë running his thumb over your knuckles put an end to your thinking. He looked at you again, this time with expectation in his eyes and not just hunger. He had been as nervous as you, though he was much better at masking it. 

When he saw you for the first time, wandering around the gardens of Ilmarin, he thought his body had been set aflame, but the heat was something he had never felt before in his life. That heat had pulsed and spread and filled him with a light that glowed from within. As the days melted into each other, heat and light simply grew, and it was only after he approached Lady Varda and her ladies for their counsel that it became clear. 

"Destined," Varda had said. "The Gods themselves had planned this union. Do not fight it." 

He didn’t fight it. Oromë approached the king for your hand. As the father of the realm and your guardian, Eru had every right to say yes or no. Fortunately for Oromë, Eru agreed to the union and issued a proclamation before the week was even over. Now you were here—in his halls and in his bed. He brushed his hand over your hair and your cheek. He let his thumb trace the lines of your sinful lips. When you rewarded him with a wistful sigh, he leaned in. 

The pelts were soft, but he found you to be a great deal softer. Your lips tasted of the cakes you had earlier—tart and sweet. Your hair slipped around his fingers like water. When he laid you down and found you trembling, he ran his hand over your arm to soothe you. 

"Could you kiss me again," you looked up at him and asked. "It makes everything feel wonderful when you do." 

Far be it from him to deny you! Oromë grinned and kissed you again, this time not stopping until your mouth slowly parted for his tongue. His hands explored every inch of your body, slipping beneath the silks of your slip to run over the warmth of your flesh. He sighed when you moaned into his kiss, and groaned when timid arms slid around his waist. Nails dug into his skin, marring it with little bruises every time he kissed a little deeper and pressed himself a little closer. Oromë found your slip and smallclothes getting in his way. 

"Lift," he commanded. 

There was a soft rustle when your slip was tugged over your waist and arms before being consigned to the floor. Your skin prickled when you lifted your hips, and your smallclothes slid up your thighs before being unceremoniously cast aside with barely a flutter. When you shivered and covered your breasts with your arms, he gently drew them away. 

"Let me keep you warm," he said, before lowering his head. 

He did more than just that. Oromë spent what seemed like ages worshiping your body. His hands may have been rough, but his touch was exceedingly gentle, caressing you as if you had been made out of fragile glass. He kissed every part of you, from the tips of your fingers to the insides of your thighs, not stopping until you were whimpering and trembling beneath him. He went lower, his lips leaving a warm, damp trail all over your breasts and your belly. Not satisfied with even that, he went lower still. Warmth spread just beneath your skin when he pressed his lips over your folds. All you could do was grab at the pelts, fingers digging into soft fur whenever he ran his tongue over your already slick heat. Nothing could be heard but your ragged breaths and his soft grunts. You murmured when sweet tension grew within your belly. It was intoxicating. And so wonderful. All the tales you had heard, all the gossip and scandalous chatter, were nothing compared to what your husband was making you feel—like your entire body had been set ablaze from within. His tongue felt hot and lush whenever it ran over your core. His lips felt so soft whenever they tugged gently at your already-throbbing nub. You were close. So close. It felt like you were on the edge of the precipice, about to fall. Then he drew away, pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your thigh. 

Sheer instincts drove Oromë now. Still, he fought to control himself, not wanting to go too far or too hard the first time. There would be plenty of time for all of that, he decided, once you had grown more comfortable with him and trusted him more. He moved over you, sighing softly when your legs slid open for him. His lips captured yours in a kiss. It was a distraction to take your mind off of what was to come next. 

You felt him. All of him. He moved slowly, piercing you inch by slow inch. There was pain, yes, and discomfort, but his kisses were so sweet and heady and drugging, that you barely paid attention to either. You tasted the traces of you on his lips and tongue, and fount it to be as sweet as his kiss.  And there was pleasure—a slow-building kind of pleasure that pulled you into a dark tunnel of desire. 

"More," you whispered. More was what you wanted, and more was what he gave you. Oromë moved with gentle, rhythmic thrusts, and soon grew drunk on your sweet moans. On your own urging, he went a little harder, a little faster, moaning deeply whenever he felt your walls tighten around his cock. Nails dug into his flesh again, inciting almost otherworldly growls. He dipped his head and kissed you until you were silent, and he lost himself in your sweet flesh. All he could do was feel the warmth of your skin, the heat of your kisses, and the softness of your thighs, even as they scrambled for purchase against his hips. When your hands brushed and curled around his hair and the tips of your fingers glided over his scalp, he lost all sense of control, pushing you harder against the bed with each thrust. 

"I’m close," he whispered against your neck. "Are you?" 

"Gods yes," was all you could manage, raw and desperate. 

When you raised your hips, Oromë found a new angle that allowed him to go as deep as he could manage. His nails dug into your thigh as he set a torturous pace, his cheeks clenching even as you writhed wildly beneath him. A few more moments were all it took before the world went dark in your eyes and your body splintered while your orgasm ripped through you. You couldn’t think or even breathe. All you could do was feel the heat spreading beneath your skin and the bliss that washed over you. You barely heard it—Oromë spilling his seed with a deep, satisfying grunt. 

A hand brushed over your hair. You open your eyes, slowly taking in the room that came into view and the man that still hovered over you. His chest heaved with each breath he took. His eyes had been filled with what looked like worry. Was he worried he hurt you? Was that why he looked so concerned? A slow, satisfied smile worked its way across your face. You lifted a hand and caressed his cheek.   

"Husband," you whispered softly. "There is no need to worry. You didn’t hurt me." 

"Are you certain?" Oromë asked, even as he trembled upon hearing you call him husband for the first time. 

"You didn’t," you insist, too lazy and content to sit up straight. "This night went better than I anything I could have dreamed." 

Relief brought a wide smile to his lips.

tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @edensrose​ @wandererindreams​ @floragardeniahope​ 

#Oromë #Oromë smut #medieval! Oromë #medieval!au #Medieval! Ainur #Oromë x reader #x reader #the valar #the ainur #the valar imagine #The ainur imagine #Oromë imagine #the silm #the silm imagine #💫a world of whimsy writes

[tiggyarts]

Random Medieval!AU warm up doodle, featuring Brennan and his mom, because he needs more AUs, because I've been playing Crusader Kings 3 with his ancestors, but also Stronghold announced Definitive Edtion of their game and the homeboy on cover spoke to me on a spiritual level lol I mean /gesticulates

#OC stuff #Brennan #rhiannon #Medieval!AU #honestly it's HIGHLY LIKELY not a thing but I am just tagging this for posterity lol #ck3 #crusader kings 3

[mydearbasil]

Made two tiktoks in one weekendI’m cwazy

Context:-> Medieval!verse Jericho pretends to be a farmer during some political unrest // Roo takes him under her wings only to discover he is a demon prince

#Roo #Jericho #medieval!au #Lilian #muhkta

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Maiden's Mercy

Continuation to Seeds of Rebellion, The Victor’s March, and Prisoner of Circumstance

Warnings: dark themes such as noncon and violence.

The embroidered coverlet is rough beneath you as you hug your legs, folded in futile modesty. The king approaches and pushes down his breeches as he stops at the foot of the bed. He smirks and tilts his head as he takes you in.

"You might recline, lady, and ease this encounter," he suggests as your eyes cling to the canopy above, too embarrassed to witness his nudity.

The bed shifts as he brings one knee onto it and then the other. Your jaw clenches, your body paralysed in a vice of fear as you keep your arms slung around your legs. You couldn't move if you tried.

His hand wraps around your ankle and you squeak. He suppresses an amused chuckle and grips the other. He yanks your legs straight and you fall back, squeezing your eyes shut as you keep your arms crossed over your chest.

He moves your rigid legs apart, pinching the inside of your thigh as you resist. You whimper and tangle your fingers in a silent prayer. All your courage slakes away as you lay prone before his whim.

He bends your leg, planting your heel in the mattress, then the other, dragging his hands along your thighs and framing your pelvis. You quiver as his fingers explore your bare flesh.

"If you remain wound up, it'll only be worse for it," he warns.

You bite the inside of your lip, eyes shut as tight as they can. He tuts and traces his fingertips decisively down to your cunt, pushing between the folds as he feels around gruffly. He sighs and pushes himself back.

Confused, you open an eye to peek down at him as he lays flat on his stomach. He slides his finger up and down, circling around your bud as his eyes focus on his tending. Your thighs tense and you close your eye again.

The sensation of his touch strikes you. Your nails dig into the back of your hands as you clutch tighter. It is a sin. It should not feel pleasant. Your lips move in a silent plea of forgiveness.

He flicks his finger quicker over the bundle of nerves and your toes curl as you suck in a breath. You feel a slickness spreading as he rubs your folds, prodding around your entrance. You let out another pathetic cry, rattled with your horror.

He dips a finger into you, your walls clenching around his intrusion. You murmur and tremble. He pokes in and out, delicately at first.

He lines up a second finger and buries both to the knuckle. You whine as your body contorts without consent. Your hands part and ball into fists as your back curves.

He jerks his hand against you, his fingers bending up as he toys with you. He moves closer, his shoulders coming flush to your thighs as his breath washes over you.

You open your eyes as you gaze down at him dizzily. He bows his head and his tongue glides cooly between your lips. You spasm and drop your head back with a strangled moan.

He hums and it sends a thrill through you. Sinful and salacious. This man rules over all, your body and soul, tainting both with his will.

His slides his hand up your leg to your pelvis, his other still rocking against your cunt. He reaches blindly as he laps, gripping your wrist and pulling your arm down. He presses your hand to his head until it flattens and urges your fingers into his dark locks.

He sucks on your bud and you knot his hair in your hand as you tilt against him. All control is lost, as everything, his will is absolute. How is it that he can bid even your deepest yearnings?

You heave, barely able to catch a breath, gulping and groaning as the pressure pools in your core and floods your veins. His hand moves faster, harder, your walls taut around him, wanting. His tongue rolls around and around, stirring your wits to chaos.

You writhe as you latch onto his head, both hands cradling his skull as you urge him on, all prayers forgotten for the lust he's stoked in you. A deadly but delicious sin.

Your voice brews in your chest, searing your lungs as you hold in the air until it escapes upon its own, erupting in a shameful and indecent cry.

You shake as the peak takes over you, rising only to crash like dark waves in a storm, swallowing you up. The king slows his motion, tasting your release, as his fingers still.

He lifts his head, a haze cloudy in your eyes, as he shoves his fingers deep until you squirm. He laughs as you babble.

"Please, your highness," you croak as a ripple flows through you, "I beg of you…"

"You beg of me?" He slithers, "for what do you beg?"

You whimper and stab your nails into the top of your thighs, "mercy, please."

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #dark thomas shelby #dark!thomas shelby #dark!tommy shelby #peaky blinders #drabble #series #au #medieval!au #fic #dark!fic #dark fic

[miryel89]

King!Steve & Knight!Eddie

#steddie #king steve #knight eddie #medieval!au #fantasy!au #stranger things #joe keery #joseph quinn #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #myart #digital #alternative universe #next fic maybe? #D&D #D&D!AU

[cilil]

🎀 Arien seeking a favor

― 𝓐𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷 ~ seeking a favor ⋆࿓𖤓

𖤓 Arien is a proud lady. Her friendship isn't easily won and her heart isn't easily swayed.

𖤓 Should you wish to receive a favor from her, make sure that she considers you to be a good and trustworthy person and you aren't overstepping the boundaries of your relationship with her; otherwise she is rather prone to declining and withdrawing from unwanted advances.

𖤓 If Arien considers you worthy of receiving a favor, she will give you a golden hairpin in the shape of the sun and make you promise that you will give it back to her once you return from whatever adventure you wish to embark on. She will most definitely hold you to that promise, and it's a sign of great trust.

𖤓 Should you bestow a favor upon her, she may be surprised by the gesture, but appreciates it nevertheless - rest assured, she is very much flattered to receive such a thing from a beautiful lady/lord/noble such as yourself.

𖤓 Arien won't betray your trust and go to great lengths to return whatever you gave her to you. It's a matter of pride and honor, and while she can be gentle and loving, she's equally as fierce and determined when it comes to things she cares about.

⋯⋯⊱⊰⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⊱⊰⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⊱⊰⋯⋯

Thanks for the ask!

These headcanons are based on the medieval!Ainur AU created by @a-world-of-whimsy-5. Please check out their amazing writing and worldbuilding to learn more about it~

For Medieval! Tolkien emoji game

#arien #medieval!au #medieval!ainur #headcanons #maiar #ainur #silmarillion #tolkien

[onedivinemisfit]

Hello! Quick question: How long did it take for Obi and Shirayuki to catch Feelings in Medieval/Moorish Obi au? When and how did they get married? When did they have their kids considering the picture where Shirayuki was giving a tearful response to bad news?

Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh my. It’s a shame we haven’t had the time for this AU - it’s something of a shared brainwave between myself and @sabraeal which… I think would answer your first question. XD it would be a *slow burn* yes. Especially because the AU takes place over a large span of Europe, even Asia, in a time where travel itself is time-intensive, and the couple in question do spend a lot of time apart as well.

Novice Shirayuki’s convent sits on the french-german border, Raji is a prince of Angevin, Izana is the Holy Roman Emperor, and Obi serves the Empire as a knight, so will be away on campaigns - this is a Big Research Type AU. Which is part of the reason it’s hard to get it off the ground.

( As for the artwork of Shirayuki and Obi’s tearful goodbye, that is set some time after she ditched the veil and was welcomed into the court of Emperor Izana, and just as Sir Obi has been informed that he’s been drafted for the next Holy Crusade. )

I always imagine that whatever else happens, Obi and Shirayuki do retire, if not back to Iberia and the Moorish holdings, then at *least* somewhere down by the Med where the temperature is nice and warm, and politics further away~ They’d probably focus on having their brood of children shortly after retiring, and spend the latter half of their lives in peace.

#akagami no shirayukihime #ans #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #medieval!au #asks #moorish obi

[tiofrean]

Ahoy! King Silver and Knight Flint don't want to leave me alone

Edit: it's finished! Here:

#wip #black sails fanart #black sails #james flint #john silver #medieval!au

[decafdino]

Wip Wednesday

thanks @sanjuwrites @heartstringsduet and @lemonlyman-dotcom for the tags! I don't remember if I've posted this snippet before, so whoops if I have!

Dread pools in Carlos' stomach as TK is escorted into the hall by Marjan. He looks utterly exhausted, which mirrors how Carlos is feeling on the inside. It was foolish of them to stay up so late, but Carlos isn't about to complain when he sees TK shoot him a small smile.

"Welcome, Your Highness. I'll get right to it," Rayburn says, standing up to lean over the table. He takes military markers and places them strategically on the map spread across the table. "We have border patrols currently here, here, and here," he points, "though we've had reports of increased bandit strikes along this eastern path."

"Are they organized? Or are these separate incidents?" Pauls asks.

"From what we've seen, there are multiple groups, though they all seem to bear the same allegiance." Rayburn pulls out a scrap of parchment with a crude drawing of wings on it.

Mateo tilts his head. "Is that a butterfly?"

Almost imperceptibly, Rayburn glances at TK. "No. It's pixie wings." He clears his throat. "The majority of the people they've stolen from report this symbol somewhere on the mens' armor or belongings."

Carlos finds himself shifting slightly in front of TK, as if to shield his gaze. The wings, upon further inspection, have tendrils of blood running down the sides and tears along the edges. "Have we determined their motives yet?"

The priest TK was arranged to greet a few days prior, Father Walters, barks a laugh. "Isn't it obvious? They've been sent to do the Lords' work."

"And that would be?" Carlos asks.

Rayburn steps in. "We haven't confirmed anything at this point, but they seem to be trafficking the magical." This time, he pointedly does not look at the prince. "They mostly target peddlers with exotic merchandise and the wealthy. They take anything even slightly magical, things the victims themselves aren't even aware hold magic."

"Do we know what they're doing with these items?" Marjan asks.

"Who cares?" Father Walters says. "They're getting rid of it, Lords and Ladies thank them—"

"We don't know that for sure, Father," Rayburn points out. "Now, we have a plan to increase patrolling along the east, but that would mean deriving manpower from the north and west areas around the town. That's where you come in, Your Highness," he says, turning to TK. "These bandits are smarter than we'd like to give them credit for. They're quick to pick up on our weak spots and exploit them, and shifting our patrols never fixes the issue for long. Frankly, we don't have the manpower needed to handle this mess. I'd like to put in a request for the King to send some of his men, so that we can properly protect our citizens and round up these criminals."

TK nods, and Carlos feels a surge of pride over how far he has come and the professionalism TK now exudes. "I'll send word to my father and let him know. Is there anything else?"

When Rayburn hesitates, Father Walters jumps in. "Come on, Lieutenant. You're so forthcoming about the bandits, you might as well tell them about the disappearances, too."

"Disappearances?" Carlos questions. His mind flickers to Maria. A number of terrible images appear in his imagination of Maria lost and starving and bloody.

Rayburn shifts uncomfortably. "There have been…a few people that have disappeared. Only a small number over the last several months, and spread out enough that we only noticed until recently. Mostly oddballs, folks that many didn't even know were gone." He turns to Carlos. "General Reyes was the one who put it together, alongside the generals of neighboring cities. The more we ask, the larger the scope of the disappearances."

"Why did no one think to alert us?" Marjan pushes. "This seems serious, especially if it's across such a large landscape."

"We didn't want to raise a false alarm in the case that it truly was nothing, and honestly, it was Gabriel's intention to discuss the matter here today."

Carlos squints. "Then why do you seem so hesitant?"

"Because the people going missing are magical," says Father Walters. He sneers in Carlos' direction, "Which would seem to include your fiancée, Sir Reyes."

I am currently way more focused on my wips for class, which has not lent itself much to writing fic like I want :( boo. at least there's spring break!

#tarlos #911 lone star #tarlos fic #carlos reyes #tk strand #floggyfics #fanfic #wip challenge #wip wednesday #medieval!au

[moonstone-vibe]

It was so painful that he couldn't take it. It burned, this accursed love nestled in the middle of his chest, coiled like a poisonous snake. Eating him up into hollowness and never quite finishing, never quite leaving him empty and in peace. Such was the curse he had to endure, night after night, until the end of times.

Valentin sat on the smaller throne, hunched to the side as if he couldn't keep his back straight anymore, head in his hand and looking tense even in that feigned boredom. Could he feel Milen's eyes on him, traveling down the side of his face, caressing his hair, dipping into his collar for that shy patch of skin?

Did he guess the hunger behind that gaze and yet the infinite gentleness that would have harnessed it if allowed?

Did he ever think of Milen's mouth on his, of his large, sword-calloused hands discarding his garments layer by layer?

Maybe he did, all that, and it frightened him.

"What do you think, Lord Borisov? Are we to give in just like that and pay the sultan's tribute?"

“Just like that?” Was there anything-

Had he given himself to Sadiq already? Would he do it again, for his people?

'I don't want to be a bad prince. If so, I'd rather not be a prince at all.'

Milen shuddered.

“Do you want to go to war? How much blood on your hands, how many black-shrouded widows...? Won't you then be a bad prince?”

#aph robul #medieval!AU #hws robul #drabble x 2.5 #hws bulgaria #hws romania

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“Anything”

Pairing: Meássë x Tulkas

Themes: Smut | Medieval! Ainur

Warnings: Kissing | Explicit language | Dirty talk | Foreplay | Rough Sex | Oral (Fem. receiving) | Cream pie

Summary: Meássë returns to explain her actions to Tulkas.

Word count: 2.3k words

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥 | Minors DNI. You are responsible for the media you consume. | 18+ |  Rules and tag form here.   

A/n: This is a continuation of this ficlet.

Tulkas stood beside the fireplace when she walked into the hall that evenfall. "Come for more, my lady?"

"I have come to explain." Meássë straightened her spine and looked Tulkas in the eye. She was not telling him how his kiss had preyed on her all day. "My kiss was just a means of distraction. That is all. Your kiss... it... it meant nothing to me."

Tulkas, pretending to be wounded, pouted before giving his favorite student a measured look. "Nothing, you say. However, you are different whenever we dine together, if we train, or if I am near you. You are quieter and more likely to listen and rein in your temper. I have not seen that in you when you are with anyone else. Not even your twin."

Meássë had the decency to blush. Tulkas, not wanting to press the issue, took pity on her and said, "Come. Dine with me. We can carry on like nothing untoward took place."

"You are not angry?" She asked, confused. Despite his ready laughter and easy smile, Tulkas had a temper and his pride.

"I am not Makar, my lady," Tulkas replied, and strode to the small dining table on the dais. "I will not hold a lady's refusals against her. I certainly do not believe in taking what is not offered to me freely.”

Meássë blushed again, this time with shame. Still, she followed Tulkas and took her customary place by his right hand. Her lord lifted a little bell by his side and rang for the food.

Tulkas knew how to set a generous table. It was in his nature to do so. Elves came into the Lord's Hall carrying polished wooden trays laden with roast fowl and olives and cheese and beets and greens, followed by little onion tarts and fresh river fish roasted with herbs and apples baked in cinnamon and sugar. Meássë was served generous portions of each dish, but found her usually hearty appetite deserting her. Every time she glanced at Tulkas, she found him gilded by the faint light of nearby candles. His hair was like new gold, and his amber eyes were warm and open. Her gaze drifted to his lips. Meássë blushed and turned away.  She remembered how her skin prickled when that thick, coarse beared of his brushed against her cheeks and remembered his kiss, how his lips simply crushed hers, how it set her body ablaze with hunger and need. Thoughts of his lips gliding over her skin slowly seeped into her mind. She turned to face Tulkas again. Her lord was studying her silently and intensely. 

"Leave us," he commanded. The elves gracefully curtsied and bowed before leaving the hall and closing the great doors behind them. He turned to Meásse as soon as the doors slammed shut.

"My kiss meant nothing, you say," he observed, drumming his fingers against his cup as he did so. "Then why do you look at me with such burning hunger?"

Meássë felt a flush creeping up her neck. "You imagine things, my lord," she mumbled in a rush.

"Do I?" Tulkas pushed his chair back and rose. He set his cup to one side and inched his way over to her. "Then why are your cheeks tinged in pretty shades of pink? Hmm? Why is your breath ragged? Your eyes too curious for their own fucking good?"

"I..." Meássë's tongue tied itself in knots when Tulkas curled his fingers around stray locks of her hair. "My lord..."

"Your hair," he coos, "How I have often pictured it spread all over my pillows under a spill of starlight."

"You have?" Meássë nearly fell out of her chair in her hurry to stand. 

Tulkas grinned in triumph. "Yes," he replied softly before letting go of her wisps of hair. "Many a moment when I lay in bed. I have seen your hair spread out all over my pillows. I have felt your nails raking down my back while I filled you with my cock and my seed. The things I have done to you in my dreams... Words alone cannot describe them."

"You are being impudent now, my lord," Meássë retorted, embarrassed by how easily her body prickled and heated at the thought of him bedding her. "I would be within my rights to strike you and leave."

"I am merely being honest." Tulkas simply smiled and spread his hands. "And as I said before, I do not take what is not given to me freely. If you do not wish to go beyond us sparring and sharing meals, you need only say the word, and this conversation will end here."

Meássë licked her lips and studied him. She wanted to say, "Thank you, my lord, but I must decline," and would have succeeded had her own curiosity not gotten the best of her.

"What do you do to me in these dreams?"

Tulkas did not answer with words. He grabbed her and leaned in, his lips possessing hers. Meássë suddenly found herself unraveling the same way she did when Tulkas kissed her the first time. Her entire body was aflame with raw, unbridled lust. Her eyes flutter shut when she felt him flush against her. Desperate to draw him even closer, she tried to throw her arms around his shoulders. Her attempts were a failure. Tulkas was tall, taller than even her twin. But she did not have to say anything. Tulkas crouched and slipped his arms under her thighs, lifting her up with ease. He growled when she returned his kisses with equal passion.

“Eager!" he laughed into his kiss and set her down on the table. "And so desperate. Will you let me do whatever I want to you tonight?"

Meássë found herself being pulled into a dark tunnel of desire. Tulkas was over her and around her. His kisses were rough, his lips greedy, and his hands gentle, despite being callused after years of fighting and sword use. White-hot jolts of pleasure licked up her spine when she felt them palm her breasts and play with her nipples over the fabric of her tunic.

"Anything," she pleaded, even as she surrendered and her body grew pliant. "You can do anything."

There was a sharp rip. Tulkas had shoved his hand down the front of her tunic and tore it down the center before tugging his own over his head and throwing it to the floor. Meássë whimpered when he drew her back into his embrace and she felt his skin over hers.

So warm, she mused, her mind growing hazy by the fury of his kisses. His skin is so fucking warm.

Tulkas shivered when she slipped her arms around his shoulders, and her nails gouged into his back. "Anything?" He hissed through his teeth. "Wonderful."

He dropped down to his haunches and went to work on her boots. One joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The other followed not long after. Tulkas rose again and loosened the lacings of Meássë's riding leathers, fully aware her eyes were on him the entire time.

His hair was like a river of gold now, and those tattoos of his—how they gleamed in the light. When they lay in bed, she thought to ask about them, what they meant, and touch every one of them. She could let her lips and tongue glide over them if he liked it. But that was all for later. When he said so, Meássë lifted her hips, and her leathers and small clothes were pulled down her legs and thrown along with the ruins of her tunic unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her exposed. Tulkas took a moment to drink her in: her alabaster skin, her seashell-pink lips, her thick, auburn hair. Then there were her eyes. They were sharp and a vivid green, eyes he imagined himself drowning in.

"You are a vision, my lady," he whispered in admiration.

Meássë blushed and looked away. There may have been others, but no one looked at her like Tulkas did, with eyes filled with reverence. It left her speechless. He gripped her chin, and his mouth opening over hers soon drowned out her thoughts. His kiss tasted of honey and cloves. The sweet, clean scent of him soon filled her with each breath. When he cupped her back her legs slid open and moved up his thighs before resting over his hips. Tulkas growled softly.

"When I take you to bed after this, I am going to fuck you until you cannot walk," he vowed, nibbling the shell of her ear.

"I will hold you to that vow," Meássë murmured helplessly. 

"I have dreamed of this," he said as he slid a finger over her slit, groaning when he found her slick and wet and ready for him. He tightened his other arm around her waist while slipping his finger into her hole, sending waves of unimaginable bliss coursing over her entire body. "And not just sinking my fingers inside of you, either. I want to feel you come around my cock."

"And as I said, my lord, you can do anything to me." Meássë was overwhelmed by what he was doing to her. Tulkas was exceedingly skilled, even when it came to giving pleasure. He made her feel like she was drowning and being pulled under the waves repeatedly. And he was so perfect. So utterly perfect. All through the day, all she could think of was his kiss. Now he was before her, making her feel pleasure she had never experienced before.

"Good girl," he whispered approvingly. Tulkas sank to his knees and pressed little kisses over the expanse of her legs. He did not stop until he reached the apex between her thighs. Meássë threw her head back and cried out softly, her hands digging into the edge of the table when he ran his tongue over her cunt again and again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Tulkas would grunt with each lick, his hands gripping hard at her flesh whenever he pressed deeper. She murmured under her breath. Her secret sweetness soon poured onto his tongue and lips and even his beard. He flicked his eyes at her and found her pretty green ones dark and needy and wanton. Meássë sighed and trembled. A sweet tightness grew in her belly. She was close. She could feel it. But it was not enough. His tongue, as sinful as it was, was not enough.

"I need you inside of me," she breathed, her voice hoarse and ragged.  

Tulkas did not have to be told twice. He stood up and moved his hands to his belt, tugging down on his breeches just low enough to free his cock after he undid the buckle. Greedy hands moved to her hips. He kissed her again, and Meássë could taste her essence all over his lips and tongue. His beard tickled against her skin just like it did while he was between her thighs. The prickling feeling proved too overwhelming, and she kissed him all the harder for it.

"Desperate little slut," Tulkas laughed softly against her skin. "Yes?"

Meássë, utterly lost in a red haze of lust by now, managed a weak, "Yes."

Tulkas laughed again, taking his time to kiss all over her throat before nipping it with his teeth. Meássë moaned softly when he guided his cock into her velvety core, prodding her open little by little. He felt thick against her walls and she squirmed as he moved inch by agonizing inch. When he filled her completely and started to move, she jolted. Pleasure and pain mingled in a heady mix while she shuddered and sobbed his name.

"You are so fucking tight," he muttered and slid his arms around her waist. The table slowly creaked every time he thrust and bruised the insides of her thighs with his hips. "So tight. And how well you take me. It is as if you were made for me."

"And you feel so good inside me," Meássë could not help but reply. Every time Tulkas found that place that gave her indescribable pleasure, it made her see stars behind her eyes. "My lord."

Tulkas whimpered softly. "Touch me," he urged, desperate to feel her hands all over him. "Please."

It was even better than his wildest dreams. Elegant hands glided over his arms, splayed over his torso and the small of his back, setting him ablaze whoever they touched. Meássë's skin was so soft, like her velvety insides. Tulkas groaned when nails raked through his hair and sinful lips kept seeking his. He grew drunk on it all and was soon lost in her flesh.

"Scream for me," he commanded when Meássë bit back her cries. "I want to hear you scream for me."

"But the elves… your attendants…"

"They will not say a word even if they hear. Let go. I command you to let go."

It was as if a dam had burst. Meássë’s cries spilled free and rattled around the hall. Tulkas thrust even harder, and new jolts of pleasure struck them both. He pushed her onto her back before quickening his already tortuous pace. The new angle he found sent her spiraling. Her back arched every time he drew his hips back and pushed them back in. Meássë had to grab at anything she could to try and keep herself steady. She knocked a glass over in her bid to hold onto something. It fell to the ground with a loud crash.  

“Mine," he groaned whenever her walls fluttered and grew tighter and tighter around his cock. "You are mine."

His words undid her completely. Meássë’s body shook as her orgasm ripped through her. Hot flashes of pleasure spread all over her while Tulkas thrust one final time, moaning deeply when he filled her with his spend, his nail digging into her hips. Meássë could not move and lay there, too lost in her own state of bliss to even care.

The world came into focus little by little. Tulkas pulled out of her, leaving her feeling strangely empty. Meássë tried to regain a sense of bearing and soon found herself being carried and covered in something incredibly soft. She opened her eyes. That something soft was a pelt finer than silk. Tulkas crooned sweet words of endearment into her ear while he settled into his chair, keeping her with him as he did so. He brushed his lips over her hair. She sighed wistfully and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Eat," Tulkas said gently, and proceeded to feed her with morsels from his plate. "You had so little during dinner. When you have had your fill, I am taking you back to my bed."

If you enjoyed this, please consider commenting/reblogging it!

tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @wandererindreams

#tulkas #tulkas smut #tulkas imagine #Meássë #Meássë imagine #Meássë smut #tulkas x meássë #medieval!au #Medieval! Ainur #the silm #the silm smut #the silmarillion #The silm imagine #the valar #the ainur #fanfiction #writeblr #💫whimsy's shenanigans #💫whimsy's plot bunnies #💫a world of whimsy writes