black jerkin

The King-part 2

The King-part 1

Summary- Gwendolyn yearns for more. More freedom, more choices, and more pleasure only King Negan can provide. Medieval AU

Warnings- Smut, Knife Play, Possible Dub-Con, Punishment, darker than my normal stuff

Word Count- Around 4.3K

Author’s Note- Probably not historically accurate. Lol. This is my submission for @jeffreydeanmorganrarechar Red Velvet prompt as well as @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash Negan Writing Challenge prompt knife play. Thanks to @theatricalbride for the brain storming session. It helped a lot. This will probably be a collection of one shots.

Tag List- @breemacen24 @negans-network @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @ladylorelitany @melodicdolls @ninjacuddlepile @negansqween @thatwriterizzy @sassyfiedscribbles @ashzombie13 @wadeyourebarelyalive @starshinesupergirl @adayinmymeadow @astrangegirlsmind @supererogatoryblog (these are the people that have requested to be tagged in everything I write or have said they don’t mind if others tag them…if I missed you just let me know. I’m sorry)

My beautiful moodboard was created by the lovely and talented @ofdragonsanddreams16. I love it! It is so gorgeous.

Gwendolyn gazed at her reflection. Her hand slid down the bodice of her dress. She finally looked and felt like a queen. Having been married for a little over a month, she had felt like a prisoner, a possession, and a failure but never a wife or queen.

She had been raised to expect to marry a king of her father’s choosing. He stressed that it was her duty to secure an alliance with a powerful kingdom. Her mother persuaded her that marrying for position, power, and the love of the people would provide her a life with purpose. Who needed the love of a husband? Gwendolyn was prepared to live without it. In fact, she was taught by her mother to live independently of a husband and keep her own council. Many men would be happy to share her bed and leave her to her own devices during the day, but she had not married just any man.

King Negan was possessive and guarded her jealously. In the stories of fair maidens being rescued by handsome knights, he would have been the dragon that burnt all would be suitors to ash and cinders. He isolated her so only those loyal to him had access to her. Her handmaidens were chosen by him, reported to him, and seem to delight in reminding her of that fact. There was no friendship, no shared gossip, none of the warmth she had had with her previous servants.

She fared no better with the ladies of the court. They knew she held no favor with her husband. Therefore, there was nothing to be gained by her friendship. It would only bring themselves under the scrutiny of the king. A situation everyone actively avoided.

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anonymous asked:

When was your last encounter with a wild animal, and what's the story behind it?

Ah. It involved one of the shah’s wolves. She was generally kept in the menagerie, but on this particular occasion she elected to abscond from her enclosure to attend a banquet held in honor of a visiting dignitary, who, by the by, intended to poison the shah before the banquet concluded.

The wolf in question was a hair’s breadth away from feral. She was used in executions that were a favorite public spectacle. The condemned would enter a pit and the wolf, starved for food, would promptly tear him to shreds. The whole affair was devised by the shah’s charming mother.

On the night of the banquet, a great clamoring was heard outside the feast hall, and then the wolf bounded through the doors, her jaw already sodden and caked with blood. There was a great commotion, as there naturally is when wild carnivores disrupt dinner without an invitation. Guests scrambled atop the table or hid beneath it; the guards readied their weapons; the sultana grabbed one of her terrified handmaidens, intending to use her as a shield; and the shah let out a shriek that resembled something a cat in heat might emit.

I was not sitting among the guests; the shah preferred that I remain in the shadowed corner of the hall until I was summoned to begin the night’s entertainment. More ominous, he always said.

I hated the little man, but I did not object to this arrangement;I quite preferred it. I am, after all, a natural sentinel, and hardly fit company for dinner conversation.

And I would have rather been impaled with a rusted, blunt spoon than spend another meal seated next to the sultana and her wandering hands.

From his place near the end of the table, Nadir spun in his chair, face blanched, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. He looked at me, mouthed something indecipherable, and gestured to the wolf.

“Yes,” I called, “I noticed it, as well.”

His expression pinched into one of exasperated irritation. The others in the hall snapped around to search for the source of the voice, which until then had remained entirely silent. Their search was abruptly halted, however, when the wolf let out a growl and began to stalk forward, eyes fixed on one of the shah’s plump, mustachioed cousins. The man froze, sweat beading on his brow and soaking through his collar.

I, for one, would not have mourned his passing. He’d attempted to have me beheaded and intended to display the trophy as a macabre souvenir in his home.

An unfortunate decision, that. He was now devoid of two fingers.

From his seat in the center of the room, the shah swallowed, head swiveling as he searched the hall. The wolf’s growls had deepened into a primordial bass hum, her pupils sharpened to pinpoints, ears flattened against her skull and haunches bristling. One of the guards whispered a prayer and inched forward, sword at the ready, but the beast snapped her great head in his direction, teeth bared, and he hastily retreated with a cry. No one had moved. The shah’s cousin let out a low moan. The guards shook. And still, the wolf’s growl droned raw and feral, torn out of some deep, burning recess in the earth.

I knew then precisely what was coming.

“Erik!” the shah called in a hoarse falsetto. He swallowed and then repeated, louder this time, “Erik!”

Damn it all to hell.

“Yes?” I called from my spot in the shadows of a pillar. The wolf’s gaze, previously locked on the shah, now turned slowly in my direction.

Damn it, truly, all to hell.

“Kill–” the shah pointed jerkily toward the beast, breath shuddering. “Kill i–kill it!

“Now really, she’s only just arrived,” I said. “She hasn’t yet sampled dessert.”

Nadir’s lips thinned so severely that they looked in danger of disappearing. His eyes were desperate, furious. He fixed me with what I supposed was meant to be a scathing glare.

Shut. UP, he mouthed.

I responded with a lazy smirk.

If I am to meet Death, my friend, I am going to inconvenience him every step of the way.

“Erik,” the shah croaked again, feigning, if only for a moment, a remnant of his usual puffed up composure, though it was tainted by unmistakable trembling. “Kill it. Or I shall do the same to you. Slowly. Over the course of many weeks.”

I sauntered out of the shadows and, now plainly visible, drew a low murmur of horror from the crowd. I wore the mask, of course–the horror beneath was generally reserved for the final act of the night–but I could not mask the death that enveloped me from head to toe.

Or perhaps they objected to my jerkin. The black leather was a tad much, I will freely admit.

“Your Highness,” I said, “must do as he pleases, though it shall be rather difficult to dispatch the beast when I am drawn and quartered, wouldn’t you think?”

Do it,” the sultana hissed suddenly from between her teeth. She dug her nails into her handmaiden’s arms, and the girl let out a whimper of pain.

The sultana’s black eyes blazed and she leaned forward. “Now, you hideous piece of filth, or I will garrote you with your own entrails!”

“Come, now, you can do better than that,” I said coolly, yet fury boiled in my abdomen.

I should mention that although I have never killed a woman, I came close to murdering the sultana on several occasions. She’d perfected a particularly vicious brand of cruelty the likes of which I scarcely believed possible.

She was about to spit out another insult when a deep growl bled into the silence.

The wolf had turned, yellow eyes fixed intensely upon mine. Her teeth were rank with gore, the fur around her jaws dripping crimson. She was terribly beautiful. Massive. Standing on her back legs, she would have reached well over eight feet.

I did not move. I have been frightened, truly frightened, numerous times in my life, yet I cannot recall ever been so overwhelmed by such sublime, horrifying power. Here was nature stripped bare, death come at last soaked in detritus and wild with the ecstasy of it. I felt amid the terror a thrum of humility and respect for her.

With painstaking care, heart ramming itself into my ribcage so frantically that I was sure the wolf could hear it, I inhaled, expanding my shoulders and, to give the illusion of size, drew my cloak up so its folds resembled great black wings. I stared at the tiled floor lest she view my direct gaze as a challenge. The elaborate mosaic inlaid at my feet blurred beneath a haze of fear. I burned with it.

For what may have been mere seconds or minutes–I could not tell–silence hung hot and heavy over the hall, punctuated only by the animal’s coarse breathing.

By millimeters, I began to back away. My mind, it seemed, had ceased all operation; my body alone piloted my movements. Let it come, let it come, let it come, rang the mantra, and all was suspension, hovering between stillness and a cacophony of pain.

And then, inexplicably, gradually, she sat at my feet.

I froze, believing she’d readied herself to attack at last. Instead, with all the familiarity and docility of a hound, she rolled over, exposing her stomach.

There was a hum of astonishment from the assembled guests. I let out a shuddering exhale, still gripping the cloak like a ridiculous bat, unable to move. It was a feint, surely. Any moment now, she would spring up and end it all.

But she did not.

Instead, she let out a whine and pawed at the floor insistently.

Impossible,” someone whispered.

I nearly murmured my agreement when the wolf’s whine grew louder.

And she wiggled.

The massive thing wiggled.

I must have taken leave of my senses completely then–and really, if I were about to be torn to shreds, what use was sanity?–for I crouched slowly, breath suspended, and hovered one hand over the mass of fur. Surely not….

Again, she pawed at the tile. What are you waiting for? she seemed to say.

And so I did what any decent human being would do in such a situation.

I pet the dog.

The tension in her muscles dissolved and her tongue lolled happily out of her bloodied mouth. I felt as if I were going to be sick from relief, and found my tongue had seemingly coated itself with sand and my knees had liquefied. Yet I continued running my hand through the thick fur on her stomach, scratching the softer scruff behind her ears, and all the while she lay there, perfectly content to be pampered by her would-be prey.

Incredulous laughter and chatter began to ring out behind me. I, too, felt the urge to grin, though I was wary of bearing my teeth at all for fear she would consider it hostile, and my glee was more hysterical than self-satisfied; she could turn instantly, I thought, maul me into strips of flesh in the blink of an eye. She was feral, unpredictable. Monstrous.

She rolled back over and plopped in my lap, and I fell back as she began nuzzling her head affectionately against my jaw.

The shah laughed delightedly.

“My magician, the wolf tamer!” he cried, and the crowd erupted into applause.

Astonished, I looked up. The commotion, I feared, would anger the wolf, yet she remained comfortably pressed against me like a spaniel. The crowd was rapturous, on their feet and applauding like mad.

They were smiling, all. And for the first time–the only time–their eyes held not fear or loathing, but gratitude. Respect.

Warmth.

It was surreal. Disorienting.

I shifted beneath her muscled girth, and she moved enough that I could stand. She did the same, no longer bent on the hunt, still contentedly panting. One hand still buried in the thick fur of her neck, I led her away. The thunderous applause followed me out into the corridor, and once out of sight, I let out a series of unceremonious wheezes, my vision spinning.

I was alive.

I was alive.

Unfortunate, perhaps, but as much as I would have preferred death, I did not relish obtaining it via violent mauling.

My new companion suddenly began sniffing, and my head snapped to the right. There sprawled in various degrees of mutilation lay four guards: weapons twisted and bodies eviscerated, bloodied, and heartily munched upon.

I grimaced, risking a cursory glance at the wolf. She took in the leftovers of her feast and then looked back up at me.

And so help me, I could have sworn she was smiling smugly.

She followed me to my quarters that night and slept soundly in the back garden. I was not so fortunate; I did not sleep a wink–she could have easily decided to abandon our sudden truce and tuck into a midnight snack.

In the morning, she greeted me with all the eager abandon of a puppy. At once flummoxed and touched, I fetched her meat and water, and sat numbly staring at the wall while she finished her meal and proceeded to play with a pillow she’d snatched from the divan. She promptly tore it to shreds and started on the next one.

What the devil was my life?

The wolf fared quite well. I kept her–much to Nadir’s horror–until I made contact with a hospitable German woman who’d taken it upon herself to care for put-upon animals, releasing them back into the wild if she believed they were fit for it or nurturing them herself if they were not. She’d acres and acres of land in the northern wilds of the country and assured me, eyes glinting with concern at the mask, that my “pet”  would lead a very happy life, indeed.

And she did, the last I heard. Free of the court’s abuse, she blossomed, gave birth to several litters of her own, and romped through the forest with her pack to her heart’s content.

The shah, of course, was quite displeased when he discovered that I’d liberated his one of his favorite methods of execution. I still bear the scars from the knife attack.

…Carried out by his hired lackeys, all of whom were swiftly dispatched. I took extra care to soak His Highness’ prized antique dressing gown in the leftover blood. His furious screams the next morning were well worth the hours I spent bandaging my wounds.

Really. You think he’d be grateful that I’d spared his court wolf another hour spent in his malodorous company.

In any case, I much prefer the simple house cat these days. More poop, yes, but considerably less bloodshed.

The King-part 4

The King Masterlist

Summary/Author’s Note- Written for a request and for @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash ‘s writing challenge…prompt Wedding dress. Takes place on wedding night. Gwen is scared and unsure of the man she married so expect some serious submissiveness. This is smut heavy but not kink heavy. It’s her first time. He’s not going to totally traumatize her with whips and chains. So this is pretty vanilla for these two. Part 1 is actually their first foray into kink and takes place a week after this. Hope you like it.

Word Count-2.9 k

Warnings- Explicit smut, possible dub-con

Tag List- @breemacen24 @jenn0755 @negans-network @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @ladylorelitany @melodicdolls @ninjacuddlepile @negans-chick @thatwriterizzy @sassyfiedscribbles @ashzombie13 @wadeyourebarelyalive @starshinesupergirl @adayinmymeadow @astrangegirlsmind @withsilverleaves @myheart4ever47  @shadesofarrogance @jmackie1983

Sorry if I forgot to tag anyone. Just remind me. I couldn’t find my taglist file for this story.

Originally posted by heartfulloffandoms

The ceremony was long over. The feast and celebrations were steadily getting more rambunctious as the wine flowed freely. Toasts to the newlywed couple rang out every few minutes as guests searched for new ways to praise their King and his new bride, allowing them to indulge without guilt.

Gwendolyn had barely been able to eat sitting next to the tall intimidating man that was now her husband. Having only met him yesterday, she was not sure what kind of man he was. She had heard rumors of his ruthlessness on the battlefield. His quick and harsh judgements. She could only hope he would be a gentler husband. But her hopes were fading fast.

Negan had dance with her once to open the festivities and not again. Which was a shame. For such a large imposing figure he moved about the dance floor with grace. He sat silent next to her at the high table. Any attempts to start a conversation with him resulting in short curt answer.

So, Gwen watched others enjoying her wedding. The men drank heavily. Lewd jokes brought a permanent flush to her cheeks. The women glared at her in envy or perhaps pity.  She sipped her wine as she sat, dreading the moment when it would be time for her to retire.

It came too soon. Her new handmaidens provided by her husband came to collect her. They lead her to her new chambers that she would share with Negan. It was luxurious and yet not as opulent as she would have expected. A stone fireplace lit the space. Large intricately carved four post bed with heavy curtains sat opposite the fire. Everything was decorated in shades of black and red.

Gwen stood in front of a mirror and gazed at herself. She seemed to clash with everything around her. Out of place in her white wedding gown. Delicate lace laid over her arms and shoulders. Just a shade brighter than her skin. It had small pearls sewn over the skirt that caught the light as she walked. It was the most beautiful gown she had ever owned.

Her handmaidens focused on the many twists and braids holding her red hair in an elaborate design until it flowed freely to her waist. Gwendolyn finally saw herself for what she was. A virgin sacrifice. Now it would be time for her to lay across the altar to be devoured by the dragon that had threatened her father’s kingdom.

Panic began to rise as she felt fingers begin to work the many pearl buttons at her back. She could feel her stomach churn and her throat tighten. She blinked her eyes rapidly as she fought the tears threatening to spill. She wasn’t ready for this. Any of it.

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remember my lance headcanons? yeah well they now have a sequel

  • loves “no scrubs” by tlc and most 90s hip hop/r&b
  • lost a handful of potential friends his first day at the garrison because he said he thinks drake seems like a cool guy
  • knows all the words to ice ice baby. every single one
  • somehow that also hasn’t helped him in the friends department?
  • had a tidal account before lemonade dropped
  • when lemonade dropped he wrote his parents in the middle of the night to ask them to put “murdered by beyoncé” on his headstone, forgot that he did, and was (briefly) very alarmed a week later when his older sister e-mailed him a photoshopped grave concept as a joke
  • drives with the radio too loud. drives better with the radio too loud
  • he started turning it up in the first place so he wouldn’t have to hear his siblings’ singing over the actual music (or himself) #narcissism
  • is the friend that you tell to watch stuff on netflix and he says he will but never does, usually because he forgot
  • out of both necessity + survival, lance is the most obnoxious person to share a bed with. he is so skinny but will find a way to take up the whole thing?? plus he has zero control over his legs once the REM cycle starts
  • this has gotten him out of bed-sharing during family get-togethers as well as when his brothers and sisters had to consolidate quarters to make room for the little ones
  • beautiful biracial and bisexual ✨
  • has seen every single episode and cycle of america’s next top model
  • when they were doing the first guys + girls season he tried to sneak through auditions but got caught and disqualified because he was too young. it was the saddest moment of his young life… his dreams of becoming the world’s first prince-pilot-supermodel-celebrity-astronaut were crushed
  • fruity pebbles > cocoa pebbles
  • has made out with his arm AND his pillow for practice. he needed more than one test subject. it was a frisky night
  • still doesn’t know that hunk walked in on him Practicing because hunk is equal parts considerate and awkward
  • also once gave himself a black eye while jerkin it
  • he wore the bruise with pride as opposed to shame; hunk felt the shame for him
  • updates his snap story too much
  • abuses the puppy, butterfly, and flower crown filters in that order
  • has at least 100+ blurry candids of hunk saved to his phone from various occasions. hunk’s camera roll, on the other hand, is 75% pictures that lance took of himself while hunk was busy
  • can’t maintain an insta aesthetic to save his life
  • maybe the real aesthetic was the 4,963 selfies he took along the way
  • for a solid month before keith got kicked out of the garrison all of lance’s passwords were Mulletfucker89
  • Uncomfortable™ with white men who wear hats
  • when he was smol, beach trips always resulted in collecting a bunch of seashells. he had a tradition of picking one for each member of his family, kissing it for good luck, and giving it to them. his mom still has all of hers in a vase on her dresser
  • bath bombs? bath bombs.
  • uses said bath bombs as an excuse to take longer in the bathroom and hog it from everyone else
  • will deny things that he knows to be factually true just to be vexing
  • preternaturally good at Bop-It 
  • pool chicken champion

Ramsay was clad in black and pink - black boots, black belt and scabbard, black leather jerkin over a pink velvet doublet slashed with dark red satin. In his right ear gleamed a garnet cut in the shape of a drop of blood. Yet for all the splendor of his garb, he remained an ugly man, big-boned and slope-shouldered, with a fleshiness to him that suggested that in later life he would run to fat. His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his mouth small, his hair long and dark and dry. His lips were wide and meaty, but the thing men noticed first about him were his eyes. He had his lord father’s eyes - small, close-set, queerly pale. Ghost grey, some men called the shade, but in truth his eyes were all but colorless, like two chips of dirty ice. At the sight of Reek, he smiled a wet-lipped smile.- A Dance With Dragons, George R. R. Martin

The Bastard of Bolton, the first part in my A Song of Ice and Fire portrait project. I aim to paint some of the actors from the show, but more closely based off their book descriptions. This was done in Photoshop CS5.5 with a Wacom IntuosPro. 

comments and critiques welcomed!

(Edit 02/12/14: I decided to update this image and include more of his shoulders and body to show more of his garb as described in the passage. Also tweaked a few other bits.)

Separation || Lokiofjotunheimm

This hadn’t been a good idea.

One of them should have seen it coming. Should have been aware of the hell they were both likely diving into. Yet, it still hadn’t helped or stopped them from doing exactly what they shouldn’t.

He’d asked her to assist him -he wanted to see if this magic effected her, and while it had, it wasn’t the intended effect.

When the smoke cleared, there were two figures- glaring each other down as if they might go at each others throats.

One was taller- nearly six feet, though still fairly short compared to the Asgardian. He had chin length black hair, half covered his blind eye. He was fairly pale, with a dangerous look and a five o'clock shadow. His green eye was darker, and he looked a tad more sinister, growling quietly at the woman in front of him. He wore only trousers, and his long lean body stood out in contrast to the woman next to him.

NG was fine- though she wore her default black jerkin, britches and boots. She was staring at the man in front of her, both of them a mirror image- and neither paying any attention to Loki.

It looked as if the two were going to be at each others throats.

At Last || Aric & Eira

It had been three long years since his father told Aric he was to be married to the Princess of Sol. He was ten at the time, just a mere child, but his father had told him they had been engaged for two years. He remembered being stunned into silence to hear he was promised to someone he never met, but he accepted the news with a smile and a nod. There was no use in pouting or throwing a fit, as he knew it would do him no good; his father was simply following tradition. “Her name is Princess Eira,” his father had said, and the name stuck immediately. He spent a good deal of time in the past three years wondering what she looked like, how she acted, would she make a good wife and Queen to him–looking back, those were worries that could have been left for a few years yet. Ten was too young to be fretting over such things.

But now, the day he had wondered about finally arrived. His caravan pulled up to the castle gates, and his father sent a servant up to the guards to let them know the Caddocks of Nore and their troupe had arrived. Aric was in one of the many coaches, changing per his father’s orders to make himself look presentable. He stepped out of the coach in a light linen tunic covered in his finest jerkin, black with gold stitching and the family crest sown into the right breast.

His father gave a nod of approval and they turned to approach the castle, walking up the great stairs to the castle, where he saw the King and Queen of Sol awaiting their arrival, their family in tow. Aric’s eyes sought out his future bride, wondering where she was amongst the people. His father came to a stop some few feet before the Royal Family of Sol and bowed, so Aric followed his lead.

“Presenting King Frideric and Prince Aric Caddock of Nore,” one of the servants announced.

Aric tilted his head upward ever so slightly, his eyes scanning the Royal Family once more. The Windsgates had children aplenty, while Aric was an only child. The thought of his deceased mother and twin made his heart ache for just a moment before he resumed his bowing posture, eyes cast downward.