bodices ripping

Hot Blooded (M)

Originally posted by eatjin

Summary: As the Crown Princess, you are never seen wearing the same dress twice. Many attribute this to your wealth or your status. If only they knew the reason for your constantly changing wardrobe, was the fact that your husband can never keep from literally ripping your clothes off.

Member: Jin

Word Count: 3.4k

Genre: Smut, Fluff

A/N: A continuation of sorts to Blue Blooded, as I was highly amused by Seokjin’s frustration with dresses as well as the revelation that the man has the strength to literally pick up Taehyung and toss him around (courtesy of an ISAC fancam).

Blue Blooded

As the Crown Princess, you are never seen wearing the same dress twice. Many attribute this to your wealth or your status, the styling of your attire always a topic on the lips of the ladies that attend parties at the palace, and sometimes even some men. If only they knew the reason for your constantly changing wardrobe, was the fact that your husband can never keep from literally ripping your clothes off.

“Jin!” You chastise him when you hear the ripping of fabric as a part of your bodice tears, letting your dress loosen enough so that he can slip the garment completely off your body.

“Sorry,” he mutters against the skin of your neck, starting to walk you backwards until the back of your knees hit the bed. You sigh, not really sure how sorry he actually is, considering this is the third time this week this has happened.

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ew.com
Romance publishing has a major diversity problem, according to new report
Romance publishing has a problem — and no, it’s not how to mend all those ripped bodices. According to a report from The Ripped Bodice, the only romance specialty bookstore in the United Stat…

The report to which EW is referring was put out by Bea and Leah of The Ripped Bodice. 

It’s pretty impressive, more than a little depressing, and above all it is important: 

They are aware the study may generate pushback, particularly since romance is a genre that already struggles to get the literary world to take it seriously. But the Koch sisters feel the best way to push for positive change is to generate conversation around it in the first place. “It’s too important. We have to start with laying out the facts. This is the genre we love and have devoted our lives to. We all need to do better,” Bea said. Leah added, “The traditional romance publishing industry is going to collapse if it doesn’t start hiring authors that reflect the current U.S. population. We’re hopeful that by contributing this data to the discussion, we will start to see real change.”

Your Suitor and You

Ah, love. So many Heroines are lucky to find during their investigations into the weird a partner who treasures and respects them. But what kind of suitor do you have? A passionate Byronic Lover? A doting Noble Champion? Or perhaps an Intellectual Sweetheart? Miss A is happy to advise.

The Byronic Lover

Dark, compelling, and tempestuous; the Byronic Lover fascinates and intrigues the Heroine with his complexity and passion. Being with the Byronic suitor is a rush of danger, and your life will be full of half-open shirts and deep kisses. They seek beauty in all that they do, loving art and poetry, long walks and bright dawns. Days will pass quickly in longing embraces and ripped bodices. They look for partners who do not seek their approval, but who have the same taste in art and beauty, as well as a similarly passionate heart.

However, the Byronic suitor comes with many downsides. Prone to fits and jealousy, a Byronic suitor can be troublesome at times. There are two sub-areas of Byronic Suitors that should give one pause: Fuckboys and abusers. Fuckboys have the passionate charm but will leave you behind without a second glance. And abusers are found in every type, but it is often romanticized in Byronic Suitors. Don’t do it. Don’t romanticize it. It’s bad.

Miss A’s advice? The Byronic Suitor would be a match for Heroine with an artsy and passionate soul. But should they cross the boundaries of decency into cruel and harmful behaviour, do not ever tolerate it. Not even once.

Examples of the Byronic Suitor: Mr. Rochester of Jane Eyre, Lord Ruthven of The Vampyre, Erik of The Phantom of the Opera, Helen Graham of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Jessica Jones of AKA Jessica Jones

**Please note that some of these examples fall into the abuser categories. Rochester, Erik, and Ruthven are examples of what a Byronic Suitor may be like, but their behaviours should not be tolerated by any heroine. You deserve better.

The Noble Champion

Sweet and good-natured, the Noble Champion is nothing if not devoted to the Heroine. Although their knowledge in art and literature may be lacking, they are skilled in other aspects such as fencing, horse-riding, and hunting. The modern Noble suitor may have updated interests, including sailing, soccer, and track and field, all of which can be useful when they need to assist or rescue their heroine. They are earnest in their affections and truly love their Heroines, and will go to any lengths for her sake. The Noble suitor does not always have a title - true nobility comes from the heart.

However, Noble suitors can often be shallow and rash. They tend to follow their own instincts and act fast, rather than listen to the reason of others. But their love, devotion, and money make them well worth the patience. A Heroine must be wary that she is indeed involved with a Noble Champion and not a Nice Guy™. Although both are devoted in their love, a Noble Champion will have respect for their Heroine and her wishes, while a Nice Guy™ will feel entitled to the Heroine’s affection and body for their “kind” actions.

Miss A’s advice? A gentle yet kind soul, who is devoted to their love is the ideal for any Heroine of a shyer disposition. You may occasionally have to put them in their place when they act rashly, but ultimately they are an excellent choice.

Examples of the Noble Champion: Raoul of The Phantom of the Opera, Mr. Tilney of Northanger Abbey, Sue Valancourt Brown of The Mysteries of Udolpho, Arthur Holmwood of Dracula, Buffy Summers of Buffy the Vampire Slayer

The Intellectual Sweetheart

Doctors, lawyers, and professors. What more could a simple Heroine hope for? A modern addition to the host of suitors, the Intellectual Sweetheart has the devotion of the Noble Champion with the knowledge of the Byronic Lover. Often they can be found wandering the moors in admiration of nature or in offices studying tomes of medicine and law. Their love for the Heroine is only rivaled by their love of knowledge. They will happily spend their days hand in hand with their Heroine, whether on a long walk or by the fireplace.

Perhaps a bit neglectful or cold, the Intellectual Sweetheart comes with one truly major flaw: they are often already married. Though it may be a loveless marriage, the ring on their finger will not be going anywhere until their spouse’s untimely passing. The Intellectual Sweetheart has no devilish doppelgangers, as their marriage is hindrance enough.

Miss A’s advice? The Intellectual Sweetheart is a perfect match for the educated Heroine, especially if you are a governess. Try not to be a homewrecker and stick to the nearly graduated students.

Examples of the Intellectual Sweetheart: Jonathan Harker and Jack Seward of Dracula, Dr. Maudsley of The Thirteenth Tale, Dana Scully of The X-Files

Which suitor would you prefer?

Your doting

Miss A

your intelligence is not determined by the kind of fiction that you read

your morality is not determined by the kind of fiction that you read

your maturity is not determined by the kind of fiction that you read

your personality is not determined by the kind of fiction that you read

someone who likes reading bodice ripping romance is not automatically less intelligent than someone who likes reading classic lit. someone who likes reading erotica is not automatically less moral than someone who only reads G-rated works. someone who likes reading YA novels is not automatically less mature than someone who reads clunky academic texts. someone whose favorite genres are crime and horror are not automatically worse people than someone who likes reading stories about virtue and kindness.

reading is a hobby—it’s a form of escapism and education and entertainment—and different people have different tastes in what they like to read just like they have different tastes in music or movies or food or anything else. a person’s taste in fiction is only a small sliver of who they are as a person and it’s completely asinine to define their entire worth as a human being based on it. there are plenty of things about a person that can help you get a measure of who they are and what they’re about (such as what they say and how they treat other people) but their taste in fiction isn’t one of those things.

latimes.com
Culver City is now home to America's sole romance-only bookstore: the Ripped Bodice
Sisters Bea and Leah Koch opened The Ripped Bodice in Culver City with Kickstarter funds; they exclusively sell romance and "romance-adjacent" books.
By Agatha French

This is now – easily – the best profile of The Ripped Bodice that I’ve read. (Good thing, because The LA Times took their sweet time finding this bookstore. “Culver City is now home”? It’s been there for over a year!)

I love the entire piece but this basically sums it up: “Romance is hidden a lot, and this store is not hiding anything.”

The Wind and the Rain

Regency AU.

Shirayuki slammed her door closed, leaning into it against the wind and muting its howl. To her numbed ears, her heavy breathing and the stream of water still pouring out of Obi’s overcoat were the only sounds. Her garden was safe; that was a relief. She couldn’t have managed it without him.

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anonymous asked:

Do you agree with the idea that Austen's books aren't actual romance novels, more deliberately satirical commentaries on what women faced?

Austen herself said they were definitely not romance novels, and certainly weren’t the bodice-ripping romance novels of our modern day; and while her wit can be biting and observant and certainly more satirical than in other works of her time, to her the weren’t strictly exercises in raging against the System. I see her writing as portraits of humanity and behaviour in the class and time that she knew, and all the hypocrisies and inequality she exposes with her wit and narrative voice were reflections of what she saw and knew, and what most people around her likely knew, too. In among her stories of people coping with changes in their worlds, themselves, and in those around them, Austen does somewhat draw back the curtain to display some of the injustices faced by a very narrow selection of women in her time. It has its merits, and doubtless encourages readers to consider such matters, but I don’t think she felt she was writing with a world-changing purpose.

Mi Luna Part 2 ‘Masquerade’

+18

– The reader piques the interest of a demonic clown plaguing a town called Derry. Never in his existence has he encountered someone as fascinating as you, and he quickly realizes he wants to do more than devour you. Can it be possible to tame the beast or are some relationships too impossible to work out? Story is written in second person, aimed at a female audience. Contains smut, gore, and language.– 

 (This is a longer one, hope you all enjoy! Thank you for the positive feedback you have given me (on fleetfingers)! If you enjoy this, please give it a like. Thank you for visiting! 

You glance at your alarm clock. 5:05AM. Damn! Too early to get up for work yet too late to really relax and let yourself fall back asleep. You pause for a moment, weighing your options. To sleep more or to just admit defeat and get up? You are doing a 9-5 shift at the local cafe, and while you are wide awake right now you know full well you will have a hard time staying awake later on. “A hard time staying awake at a coffee shop too!” you mentally added and smiled. Undecided, you get up and trudge a sleep-stupor trail to the bathroom in your little apartment. Ha, little is more of an understatement. More like a small room to you, perhaps. But, you can afford it, and you have your independence. “If only independence was free,” you sighed out loud and stepped into the bathroom without flipping on a light. You know your way well enough in the dark, and the boogeyman only lived in your closet if you left the door ajar at night.

You use the toilet and begin washing your hands absentmindedly. A strong, sour smell starts emitting from the sink, and it is so powerful that you can even detect it over your perfumed hand soap. Your lips pinch together in a tight grimace and wrinkle your nose in disgust. “What the hell is that?!” Drying your hands on a towel by the sink your left hand immediately goes seeking the light switch. You can feel the switch brush against your fingertips when you see something out of the corner of your eye reflecting in the bathroom.

A startled gasp escapes your mouth, and you look directly in the mirror. Nothing. You stand there as if daring the apparition to show itself again. The  first wisps of morning light caress the eastern sky in the bathroom window, but your apartment has become eerily quiet and still. You no longer hear the comforting hum of the fan in your bedroom nor your white noise machine churning away a faux ocean. The hair on the nape of your neck begins to stand erect, and those once forgotten childish fears of the dark and creatures in the night come back to life.  A little more frantically, your hand reaches up to the light switch again desperate to cast away the fear eroding your calm.

“Mi luna …”

You leap slightly as if the whispered voice was spoken right behind your left shoulder. Gooseflesh breaks out across your arms, but you attempt to regain your calm and laugh at yourself. Shaking your head, you chastise “Don’t be a wuss!” You turn on the faucet, fill your hands with the coldest water the tap can produce on short notice and gingerly splash it into your face. Cold drops of water fall from your nose and chin and plop down into the sink. You get a sensation that you are being watched, and instinct  tells you that a tempted gaze up into your bathroom mirror at this moment would produce a real phantom. A looming figure is standing there shrouded in the darkness except for glowing, ochre orbs in place of It’s eyes. “Don’t look. Don’t you dare look!” You grip on the edges of the white porcelain sink and your knuckles turning a matching a white by your death grip. The chilling voice calls to you again and your blood is kissed with ice.

“Mi luna …”

“What?” you retort, unsure to who or what you were speaking.

“Sleep,” the voice urged.

“Like hell!” you call back into the darkness defiantly. The butterscotch orbs fixed upon you burrow into your soul and weaken your resolve. You cast a tepid laugh into the dark. “No thanks. I’m good! Believe me, when a disembodied voice calls out to me in my bathroom in the middle of the night, sleep is the last thing on my mind.”

“Your humor isn’t appreciated nor wanted. You WILL sleep.” The clown’s voice wasn’t requesting any longer but commanding, and as if hypnotized you turn and walk out of the bathroom back to your bed. You burrow under your covers. Keeping your eyes wide open you pull the covers up to your chin and tremble in fear. Your eyelids become surprisingly heavy as if small weights were tied to them and slowly begin to fall shut. Realizing what is happening, you snap your eyes back open in protest.

“No, be a good girl for me.” A weight begins to creep upon your chest like a heavy blanket. The weight isn’t uncomfortable, but it is enough to let you know that something is there that shouldn’t be. It’s almost as if you can see a shadow of an incubus in the shape of clown crouched down on your chest. His voice calls out to you again more soothingly this time but still full of authority. “Sleep.” As his lullaby whisper envelopes your ears your eyelids slowly shut once more, and you fall into a very deep sleep, dreaming almost instantly.

~             ~              ~

The ballroom is lit by hundreds of candles and three very huge, crystal chandeliers. Floor to ceiling mirrors line the walls giving the room the impression of an eerie, faded infinity. People dance rhythmically on the white and black checked floor. The rustle of silk ball gowns softens the laughter of the party. The very air has an intoxicating quality, and everyone is caught up in the music and the dancing. Every face is hidden with a decorative and lavish, Venetian mask.

The girl is among the party goers. Her shiny hair reflects the soft glow of hundreds of flickering candles in gold candelabras. She is adorned in an emerald silk gown that trails to the floor, the material gathered in rich ruffles along the bell of the skirt. Her cheeks are kissed by the sun and warm to the touch under her gold and white Venetian mask. She’s tasted some of that bright, orange punch in the ornately carved crystal bowl. Was it spiked? She didn’t know, but she was sure that there was something going on here other than her flushed face. Her heart races at an a quickened pace, and it feels like something is coming, an exciting someone perhaps. She reaches up and makes sure her mask securely is in place. The silken ties are still taut behind her luscious hair, and she runs her fingers over the blue feathers.  The girl smiles to herself knowing full well she is ravishing and looks down at her cleavage. The square necked cut of her dress molds and compliments her shapely breasts. Perhaps her black bustier underneath the heavy gown has something to do with it, but that is beside the point. She feels sexy, happy, and is ready for whatever may come.  

The girl twirls and dances among the crowd, and feels herself become more and more intoxicated by the atmosphere of the ballroom. While the situation is wonderful, she isn’t quite sure how she arrived here. For an instant, a flicker of fear glazes over her eyes over the uncertainty. She is dancing in a room full of strangers an probably drank something  sinister in that colorful, orange punch. A relaxing calm overcomes her instantly and subdues her uncertainty. She forgets about the punch entirely. There is dancing to be done! She knows that this will somehow be a night to remember. At once, a figure materializes her mind. Someone from her dreams, a luscious someone who she would desperately like to devour and possess her. The girl blushes bashfully at this thought, but her nipples grow hard against the tight silk of her gown. She wonders perhaps if this is  another one of her lucid dreams, because how could such a magical feeling consume her and make her feel so alive? Oh, how she wished the chimera from her dreams would join her! Her mind races with all the naughty thoughts a woman could do to a lover, and she smiles to herself.  As if summoned by magic, she feels a set of eyes on her, and she slowly raises her gaze.

About twenty feet away Pennywise stands clad in black, his frame thick and muscular. A woman is standing to the right of him bobbing her head slightly as if in a thoughtful conversation. Obviously, she is talking to herself, because his provocative, blue eyes peering out underneath a black sequined halved mask stare directly at her. He smiles seductively at the girl in the emerald gown and knows instantly she yearns for him to fill her. She resists somewhat, turns around, and continues dancing ignoring her new admirer. His mouth forms another smile delighted by the prospect of a hunt, and begins to walk way from the chatterbox woman still prattling on about the weather in a hole of a wall town called Derry. Oh, there is something far more entertaining than mere weather to talk about. His cock stiffens at the thought of him ripping that bodice in two as her breasts spill out, begging to be licked, sucked, and perhaps nipped.

“He doesn’t look like the clown,” she thinks to herself. “The blue of his eyes is the same, his face shape is nearly the same, but it is not him. And yet it is! This must be another human form he can create.” The girl glances back over her shoulder and sees him smiling at her again.

She freezes mid-step paralyzed by that beguiling smile. A couple bumps into her whilst amidst a dance, and she offers an apology and turns sharply to the right. She smiles again fully knowing that she is giving chase and that he will pursue her. The excitement of being pursued rises in her stomach making her giddy and light-headed. “Cannot make it too easy for you,” she thinks to herself and commences dancing, this time with a gentleman dressed in a crimson suit. He gently places a hand at her waist and leads her on. The girl looks over her shoulder and sees Pennywise watching her intently although further away this time. “Maybe I’ll have him fuck me instead of you,” she thinks to herself and starts grinning madly under her mask. His seductive smile quickly vanishes into a jealous sneer.

His eyes narrow and flash from blue to a butterscotch as he continues to glower at the dancing girl from afar. He runs a white, gloved hand through his dark brown hair. The girl grabs a spare hand of her dance partner and slides it seductively down her buttocks knowing full well of the show she was giving. “If that’s the way it has to be then,” he realizes to himself, “you ought to be punished for it. Definitely punished, little girl! I’ll have you cum for me right on that dance floor!” His expression changes from jealous to a cool, smug satisfaction, and Pennywise begins to move with the crowd and swiftly becomes lost to the girl’s sight. “You have given chase, mi luna, but you will be caught!”

The girl grows tired of her game and looks up, scanning the crowd for her deadly predator. He’s no where to be seen, and now she is stuck dancing with this pompous prick. “Great, just great!” she mentally chastises herself. A group of dancers sweep past her, and she twirls around and joins their group while the man in crimson looks the other direction. Free of her partner, the girl studies the immense ballroom for a sign, any sign of those azure eyes. Perhaps he left the dream to punish her. She frowns, and gazes down at the black and white checkered floor. Before she can wallow in her disappointment, she feels a firm arm curl around her waist and she is swung into a waltz by another man. The dancing and the music continues while her disappointment festers as she is passed around with different partners. After awhile, she stops looking for him completely.

Pennywise knows he’s been successful in eluding her eyes because of the sheer look of disappointment on her face. He laughs to himself triumphantly. He’s close now, within two people to her left. He dances with a faceless woman dressed in a yellow, silk gown wearing a matching brocade mask. In fact, every dancing party goer in this room beside him and the girl are faceless, including the partners the girl has been dancing with. If his little moon had opened her eyes and actually looked at the partners faces’ he created for her to dance with, panic would quickly overcome her. While her fear is a rare delicacy, her passion has been even more sensational to feast upon. Almost there! He sees her stretch out her gloved arm as an offering to another dance partner without glancing upwards. He avariciously accepts the gift and places her hand in his.

She doesn’t notice whom she is dancing with now nor does she care. They are all the same, really. Twirl here, twirl there! A little nod of the head in acknowledgement for the dance and then again to be shared with another. Just then she realizes the previous man she was dancing with had no discernible features. She looks quickly to her left and sees her last dance partner. Although his mask glitters in the light, she sees no eyes underneath it. Dread fills her stomach. She wishes she could wake up as this dream that is quickly becoming a nightmare. Her heart starts fluttering faster. She sees another one of her dance partners and gasps in horror. The mask he wears covers ¾ of his face, but he he no lips. It’s as if his face where carved out of a  white marble, the mask adorning it. The girl fumbles her steps, slowing her and her partner’s dance to a mere crawl. Terror swallows up her remaining enjoyment from this dream turned nightmare. She tries to pull away from the man she is dancing with to escape, run away, and wake up from this horror! The arm around her waist suddenly becomes like a steel trap, and the gloved hand that holds hers feels all too familiar. Slowly, looks up and meets It’s amber gaze.

“Hello, mi luna.” Pennywise croons in her ear and then gently bites down on her earlobe. Her breath catches in her throat, the sensation shooting balls of fire into her stomach. The fear she had diminishes and is replaced by pure desire. The girl closes her eyes and feels his mouth press just below her ear near the edge of her mask, planting a soft kiss there with his full lips. She moves seductively against him fully awakening his throbbing cock. He kisses around the side of her neck to her collarbone and presses his teeth against her skin a little sharply. A barely inaudible moan escapes her lips, and he catches a scent of her perfume. The sexual tension between them is rising rapidly, and he starts feeling a mix of lust and jealous rage fill his own stomach. Her perfume drives him wild with need, and he crushes her to him as they dance. The combination of jealously, anger, and lust burn in his heart conflicting his resolve on what to do with her. “I need to taste her!” he thinks to himself. “I need to taste her, and she needs to be punished for even thinking of being with another man!” He decides to move her off to the side of the room near one of the tables containing the punch. She will still be in view of the faceless dancers, of course. A mild punishment to start with, her embarrassment. He gives a  smile seductively at her and ponders how well she can keep a straight face while he dives under her skirts and leaves a trail of sinister kisses and bites along her inner thigh. He tightens his grip on her hand not allowing escape this time and commands firmly, “Walk.” in her ear,  guiding her to one of the tables nearby with his hand in the small of her back.

The girl swallows hard. She has a vague idea of what is coming. He turns her around to face him and grasps her throat, choking her with his right hand. Instantly her hands reach up trying to free his death-like grip on her throat. She struggles to breath and begins thrashing against him wildly. The ties on her Venetian mask loosens from the struggle and it falls to the ground with a hard clink. Pennywise’s human form and tuxedo melt away and is replaced by an antique silver jumpsuit with brightly colored pom poms, his dark brown hair falls to the floor in a heap and orange tufts of hair grow in it’s place. His mask and tanned face bleed away losing all color and turn a pale, cracked white. Red grease paint slashes form vertical down his eyes and colors his nose. His eyes glow a fierce orange. His smile is suddenly full of razor sharp teeth. “Time to be punished!” he roars.

Pennywise releases her, and the girl gasps for fresh air clutching her neck. He grabs hold of the square neckline of the girl’s gown and yanks hard sending shreds of emerald fabric flying. Her black bustier barely containing her breasts is exposed, and her hands immediately lower from her neck to cover herself. She forgets that the other dancers are not real and feels her cheeks grow hot and red with shame and humiliation. “No, so not happening, little girl! Let them see you! Let them watch!” he shouts in her face and twirls her sharply around so she faces the wall of mirrors and is against the table. Pennywise grasps the thin fabric of her bustier and rips it apart as if it were paper, spilling her breasts free. The girl closes her eyes and feels the tattered remains of her skirt being lifted and feels Pennywise grinding his hard cock against her buttocks through his jumpsuit. He places his slender, gloved hands over her wrists and slams them down to the table, rattling the crystal punch bowl and spilling some of it’s contents. He release her right wrist and dissolves the white glove from his hand. His skin under the glove is mottled grey and dead-looking with long, yellowed fingernails. He bring his hand down smartly across her bare buttocks. He spanks her again, harder this time. All the people in the ballroom have stopped dancing and are now facing the girl’s direction. Tears dot her lashes, roll down her cheeks, and she sobs in front of the sea of faceless strangers.

“You like dancing with other men?!” His voice become a shriek now, his face contorted with rage again. She opens her eyes and stares at him in the mirror in horror. His eyes are completely are full of fire, fury, and desire. “Answer me!” He voice changes to a bitter, mocking tone, “‘Maybe I’ll have him fuck me instead of you.’” Another slap sears across her buttocks. She cries out in pain.

“Pennywise … please. Y-you’re hurting me!” she begs.

“I’ll do more than hurt you, bitch! I’ll tear your fucking soul apart!”

The girl opens her mouth to plead for mercy again, and then suddenly she and Pennywise both her soft chimes. Pennywise halters his hand mid a spank and a puzzled expression cools his angry face. The chimes become louder and louder, and his mirage of a masquerade ball falters, quavering. The girl’s expression changes from fear to relief as if she realizes what is happening. His connection with her severs completely, and he is once again in the stinking dark of the sewer.

Her damned alarm clock! He was going to smash the son of a bitch back to the macroverse.

“Fuck!” He screams with rage, his voice echoing down the long corridors of the sewer in the darkness. “FUCK!”

to be continued

2

“Did it go well today?” Nate asked as they sat together for dinner. Laelia began to notice more and more little things about him, such as how quickly he ate and his nightly routine of reading a few chapters before bed.

“It was… interesting,” Laelia said, “Hey, what do you think about Victorian clothes?”

Nate looked up from his novel, before closing the book with a ‘thud’. He stared at her with a raised brow, as if he was trying to figure out what she really meant behind her question.

“They’re okay, I guess. I don’t know much about them. Are you thinking about having a Victorian wedding because I heard the groom and wife couldn’t even kiss at the alter and barely touched and the ceremonies were hours long. I would need to wait hours before I could be with you alone. Also, in the pictures, no one smiled. They just stood stiffly-“

“No, It’s not that,” Laelia interrupted. Suddenly Victorian weddings didn’t seem as romantic as the novels made it out to be, “I mean if I wore a Victorian dress… would you… like do you think the bodice would get ripped somehow?”

Nate shifted his head to the side, obviously confused by her question, “Babe I don’t know what you mean. I guess if it got hooked on something…”

Oh god. All she thought about these days was doing that! Now she was voicing it like some bodice-ripping obsessive. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she responded, “It’s nothing! Nothing!”

She needed to get it together.  

Nobody Touches The Queen

I should be writing an essay for university but I’m writing Nessian angst instead so here, have this and enjoy! :D

She knew now that hope was for fools, that the world was wretched and cruel and that hate and coldness and the walls she had built around herself were the only things that would keep her safe. She knew that to open yourself to anyone meant to show another person exactly how to hurt you in the most painful way. She knew she would never do that again.

Read on AO3


Nesta didn’t think she could ever fall in love. She didn’t even believe in love.

After months of watching her father do nothing while her mother – the woman who had loved him with every ounce of her being ever since Nesta could remember, and the woman who he claimed he loved back – slowly wilted away, Nesta decided there was no such thing as love.

She decided that love made you weak. Love made you wait around for a miracle, instead of demanding what you needed of the people who claimed to love you. That’s what her mother had done. Nesta felt like she was betraying her every time she thought about what had happened like this but she couldn’t help but blame her mother as well as her father.

She blamed her mother for looking at him with love in her eyes until her dying breath. She blamed her for being so blinded by love that she didn’t see him for the weak, pathetic coward that he was. She blamed her for loving him and accepting his actions and not demanding he help her find a way to get what she deserved. She had deserved to live…

She absolutely despised him, about that she had no shame. She loathed how he let her mother die. It was all his fault. If he had really loved her he would have gone to the end of the world to try and keep her with him. With them.

If her father had truly loved them, his daughters, he would have tried more to make sure that they didn’t starve, didn’t freeze, didn’t grow up way before they were supposed to. She had days where she despised him so much that she wished she would die. That maybe then he would finally see what his complacency has caused and he would learn to take better care of Elain and Feyre. But she couldn’t do that. Deep down she knew that her death would mean nothing than perhaps more suffering for her sisters and her father wouldn’t have changed his ways.

She hated Feyre for enabling him. She hated her for stepping up and doing what he should have done from the very beginning, caring for them and for not letting their circumstances turn her into a cold and bitter person – the two things Nesta hadn’t managed to do.

Nesta knew how to hate. How to despise. How to loathe. How to detest. She didn’t know how to love. And she was certain she didn’t want to learn.

But when she looked into his soft eyes, framed by crinkles that appeared more prominent when he flashed his lopsided grin, she swore she could feel her heart thawing. She watched him with wide eyes as he told her stories of all the places he had been to, all the wonders he had seen and he promised to take her away and show her everything too. He was her escape and he promised to take her away from all the hate and bitterness in her life. He clasped her delicate hand into his warm one and promised her safety, promised she wouldn’t have to worry about anything for the rest of her life, promised he would care for her and Nesta knew then that she wouldn’t mind learning how to love if this was a fraction of what it felt like - if it meant being this happy. And she was happy. For the first time in her life she was truly happy but only allowed it to show in secret. With him.

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The Boxer (Regency AU)

Thump. Thu-thump. Shuffle-thump. There was a mysterious noise in the stable. Kiki Seiran, or Kit, as she was trying to get used to being known as when she was dressed this way, was practicing being a man, starting with cursing at her boots. Zen’s were just a shade too loose for even thick stockings to stabilize, so they were just going to need to find some better way to get Kit a fitting pair of Hessians. Between Zen’s castoffs and some judicious secondhand shopping on the part of the Wistal staff, they’d managed to assemble a reasonable wardrobe for Kit. Now it was just a matter of getting used to it all.

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A Pirates Life for Me

Pairing: Pirate Ivar x Gwen (Reader)
Word Count: 7269
Warnings: None for this chapter
Authors Note: Oh boy…be gentle! Also…holy shit I’m sorry the chapter’s are so long. Do you guys want me to break them up a little? All feedback is welcome and please remember this is SLOW BURN…it’ll take a bit to get them together and when they do, well, Ivar is Ivar in any universe.

Originally posted by whenimaunicorn

The tempest had tossed the battered pirate ship Gullhjarta far off course, but this was the least of the crew’s worries. After five hours of mayhem, the storm suddenly seemed to be gaining new life and intensity. Torn sails and bits of rigging flapped helplessly in the unforgiving gale. Earlier, a bolt of lightning had shot straight from Valhalla, illuminating the sky moments before it demolished the mainmast, sending thousands of flaming splinters into the air. The crashing waves and the howling wind drowned out the shouts of the crew.


The sailors of this pirate vessel, many of whom were still half-drunk from the prior evening’s festivities, were now suddenly sober and fighting for their lives. Everyone aboard the ship was a professional seaman and knew his place, but this storm has left its mark, as man after man had been washed overboard to a watery grave. The last command from the boatswain had been his fevered scream of, “Rocks ahoy, hard to port!”


Then a wave that seemed as immense as the sky itself engulfed the bow of the ship, and the boatswain was gone.

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anonymous asked:

Hey sabre, so I was looking for some trashy romance stony stories in ao3 and the only thing I could find was the prize, any suggestions? c:

Here are a couple I can think of off the top of my head, though not nearly as trashy as I would personally like, but they have that feel to them:

The Man with the Clockwork Heart by indigostohelit:  A de-anon (finally) from the capkink meme. His village destroyed by the northern Empire, Steve Rogers is sold as a slave to Lord Tony Stark, a man with no heart but a ticking clockwork machine inside his chest. He’s been told that Lord Stark takes pleasure slaves, and bitter, grieving, and terrified, he expects nothing more of a northerner. But months pass, and Stark does nothing. In a rapidly unfolding chaos of scheming politics and a clockwork world, Steve begins to wonder what sort of man Stark is– and whether he’d mind being a pleasure slave at all.

Looking for Heaven by foxxcub:  When young Lord Anthony Stark learns Steven Rogers has enlisted in the army, he thinks he’s seen the last of his tiny, headstrong, haughty stable boy. But four years later, Lord Stark gets an unexpected visit from Steve, whose mother has fallen gravely ill and into financial ruin. Even more unexpected, Steve agrees to a shocking proposal: they will marry, giving Steve the necessary funds to save his mother, and Tony the much-needed reprieve from harassing would-be suitors. It is a business arrangement, nothing more. But as time goes on and circumstances arise, Tony begins to learn that keeping his heart away from his husband is easier said than done.

The Billionaire and the Army Captain by @captainneverever: Facing finanical ruin and needing to care for his sick daughter, Steve Rogers agrees to marry Tony Stark, who needs to get married by his 30th birthday to inherit. It’s just a job for Steve until he starts to fall for the enigmatic billionaire.

Duh, and my own:

A Higher Form of War by sabrecmc: Tony is a King with a surprising number of people out to kill him. Steve and the rest of the Avengers are fighting for Pierce’s rebellion and end up with Tony as their prisoner. Oops.Basically one of those bodice-ripping romance novels I don’t read (ahem) but with far more gay.

Prima Nocta:  This was a Thank You Fic request for Anon, who wanted to incorporate Tony’s reference in AoU to prima nocta and bottom!Steve. Please note that, despite the premise, there is no non-con between Steve and Tony. Took me a while to think of how to do that, but here we are. There is definitely gratuitous fetishization of Steve’s virginity, however. If that bothers you. If not, pull up a chair and enjoy.

The Gentleman’s Gentleman (Regency AU)

Kiki had last seen Zen several months ago. They’d crossed paths in Town, Kiki there for her second Season and Zen trailing in his brother’s wake. They stood up together for a few balls, scaring off each other’s potential dance partners and discussing sport. Zen, as usual, was jealous of her accomplishments. “You ride to hounds, you drive to an inch, and you always beat me at fencing. You’re such a Corinthian, Kiki. Just about the perfect man.” It shouldn’t have given her such ideas.

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