smallclothes

Imagine you've found work in the country

You never thought that desperation would lead you to such a situation.

With a new era of peace welcoming the kingdom, there was no longer high demand for a blacksmith in the city. Your father, who had been employed by even the royal family, had lost his job. Your family had lived a comfortable life in one of the richer districts. Now, you had been forced to sell nearly everything in an effort to make ends meet. Your father took whatever odd jobs he could find. Your mother became a servant at the castle. Your siblings, older and more talented, found jobs easily. You couldn’t bring yourself to enjoy the merits of their hard work. You were young, but you were sure that you could be hired somewhere. You couldn’t lift much, given your easy life, but there was bound to be an opportunity lurking just around the corner.

That opportunity, you quickly learned, was in a brothel. After moving to the slums, there was one at the end of your street. You passed by it every day and night as you searched for jobs. The workers, both men and women, were clad in revealing clothes. Through the windows, you could see that those layers were quickly shed. You knew that they made good money, especially since you had seen some of the richest men coming and going, sometimes even bringing gifts. If a wealthy individual liked someone well enough, they could simply buy them for indefinite use. They would be showered in jewels and gold, but they would never be truly free. The consequences were too great. You worried what your family would think.

You eventually came across an advertisement for a position on a farm. The owner was looking for more help. The contract would last one year, give or take circumstances. The pay was better than any other job you could have taken, given your small list of skills. You would finally be able to help your family. The owner would give you a room in the homestead, so your family wouldn’t have to spend money to feed you. You would send them money every moon or so to help them cover rent.

“Hey,” A voice rumbled behind you, “When’s breakfast? I’m starving.”

You pulled yourself from your thoughts, glancing to the window. The sun hadn’t risen yet. Meals were always at dawn, noon, and dusk. The night was dangerous outside of city walls, so field work was only done during the daylight hours. When you first arrived at the homestead five days prior, you had been assigned as the cook. You did your job well enough, save for a few small mishaps. The work wasn’t very challenging. The hard part was dealing with the field workers. They were all more beasts than men. Even the smallest towered above you, strong enough to lift you with one hand. In the mornings, they smelled of booze. At night, of sweat and dirt. But that wasn’t the issue.

You didn’t turn to look at him, instead focusing on the eggs you were making. If you burnt them, you wouldn’t hear the end of it, “It won’t be for another hour, at the very least. You should get some more sleep. There’s still ale left in the-“

The floorboards creaked, the man moving closer. Your grip tightened on the frying pan as you watched his right hand reach around and grab your breast. He squeezed, then slipped his hand between your apron and your dress. His fingertips found your nipple, pinching. Your breath hitched. You swallowed the desire the hit him in the face with the hot pan, instead moving the scrambled eggs away from the stove. His other hand found purchase beneath your skirt, tugging your smallclothes to the side so he could thrust a finger inside of you.

You tried to push him away, but his grip was too tight. He was used to chopping firewood and steering cattle. Manhandling you was easy for him.

Besides, even if you did manage to land a hit on him, you would be the one punished. You had learned that lesson on your first day. After signing your contract, preparing dinner, then heading to bed, one of the men had gone into your room. You fought back, hitting him across the face with a broom. When you went to the owner to report the worker, he berated you for harming one of his workers. He was only in it for the money. If one of the field workers was injured, they wouldn’t be able to work as well. He told you that, also you were primarily the cook, you were also considered a morale booster. Apparently, the homestead made more money when the men had something to sink their cocks into. From what you heard in your few days there, you were beginning to suspect that the owner also partook in a morale boost from time to time.

The man pulled you away from the stove. You wrenched away from him, glaring. For a brief moment, you saw the scar that the broom had left beneath his eye. He had told you afterwards, a hand in your hair as he pushed you into the mattress, that he liked your fire. He kept talking, even as he gripped your waist and fucked you harder. He had been working at the homestead for years, but they had only recently started employing women.

The first, Jenn, quickly became a favourite of the owner and got pregnant. Still, you had seen her with the workers. She had been serving drinks as you cleaned dishes when one of them pulled her into his lap. Her dress was tight over her swollen belly as he tugged her back to meet each of his thrusts. She made no effort in being quiet, though she asked him to be gentler for the baby’s sake. Her contract was technically up a month before her pregnancy was discovered, but the owner kept her on the grounds that she couldn’t work as well in her current condition. The very thought made you shudder. With the way things were going, you wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up pregnant again shortly after giving birth.

The second and third, Trish and Corina, were a bit younger than you and rather mousy. They were intimidated by the men, which made them easy targets. Trish, who was slender, was being to show. Her dress rounded out just a bit when she stood up straight. The men had laughed about it, one of them saying that it was obvious when her dress was off. Corina, who was curvier and had a bit of pudge on her stomach, hadn’t shown any signs. Still, you figured that it was only a matter of time.

You, on the other hand, had only been working there for five days. You had bled just before leaving for the homestead, so you had a little while to think of a way to escape. At the very least, you could devise a plan that would keep you from becoming a permanent employee. You had quickly discovered that most of the workers preferred a certain girl, though they would often take advantage of any opportunity if in the mood. The one currently trying to undress you, however, only had eyes for you. After you fought back against him, it seemed that he reveled in the idea of forcing you to submit.

He bent you over the counter, his stiff cock pressing against you. Only his trousers and your skirt were in the way, but he would remedy that easily. A large hand pinned you onto the countertop. Even as you squirmed and tried to kick him, he merely laughed as he pulled your smallclothes to your knees. He lifted your skirt, the cold air causing you to hiss. Fingers stroked and prodded, rubbing your walls. You reached back, trying to claw at him. The sound of rustling clothes made you tense, only for him to brush against your entrance. You didn’t have the chance to retaliate. He buried himself to the hilt. You couldn’t help but cry out, unbearably full. When he shifted, you could feel the tip move over your cervix. It made you shudder, blinking back hot tears. It was painful, but exactly what he wanted.

He withdrew, setting up a lazy pace. There was still time before the others would wake and come downstairs. He could take as long as he wanted. Even if they found you both in the kitchen, no one would do anything about it. If anything, one of the workers would probably insist that he was next in line.

The hand on your back lifted, instead tangling in your hair. A swift pull made your back arch. You straightened, ready to slap him, but his other arm kept your elbows at your sides. You had no way to fight against him. Your jaw tightened. You swore that you could feel your stomach distended by his cock, a small bump moving upwards and outwards each time he filled you.

“Come here,” He grabbed your face, his fingers prying your jaw open. He forced you to look at him, his smirk only widening as you glared. His cock twitched, your breath caught in your chest, “Give me a kiss,” His mouth covered yours, leaving no room for refusal. His grip kept you from biting him, your teeth digging into your own skin as his tongue entered your mouth. He still tasted of booze.

He withdrew slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. You pulled your head away in disgust, wanting to clean your mouth out with soap as soon as he let you go. His pace had quickened, each thrust deep and rough. You winced, hoping that he was close. The sooner he was done, the sooner you would be able to clean up and forget it ever happened.

His arm left your sides, only to hook around your neck. Your nails dug into his skin, trying to pry him off. He wasn’t choking you, but just a little more pressure would close your airway. His other hand slipped up your dress, toying with your breasts. You choked back every whimper. Hearing you cry out only spurred him on. He would only taunt you, wondering aloud if your body wanted this, wanted to be taken and filled and bearing his child.

His touch wandered lower, settling just below your navel. With every movement of his hips, a small portion of your stomach shifted against his hand. You forced yourself to stay quiet as the end of his thrusts became rough. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a reaction out of you.

His mouth moved to your ear, “I can’t wait to see you stuffed full with my brat in your belly. You’ll be trying to do your job like a good little cook but they’ll be kicking up a storm. A big, strong troublemaker, just like their daddy. I’ll fuck you through your labor pains and get to see the look on your pretty face when you realize that you can’t fight what’s happening, you can’t stop yourself from having my kid. The boss will be livid. You’ll owe him another year of work for giving him another mouth to feed. I just have to keep you full until my last two years are up. Then I can take you with me and make you my darling little housewife. It sounds like the perfect retirement, doesn’t it?”

“I’d rather die,” You growled. He pulled you in for another sloppy kiss, his grip and pace unforgiving. You’d undoubtedly have bruises within the day and a bit of a stumble in your gait. You pulled away from him, breathing ragged. His fingers slipped between your legs, rubbing in quick, harsh circles. Your knees quivered, then buckled. A yelp of pain escaped you as he hit your cervix, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You turned just enough to put a hand to his chest, trying to push him away. You couldn’t let him finish inside of you. You weren’t going to have his children.

But a sudden pinch to the sweet spot between your legs sent sparks up your spine. Your entire body tensed, more out of pain than forced pleasure. You tightened around him like a vice. He twitched inside of you, barely able to withdraw an inch before filling you again. He grinded against you, each movement causing you to shudder. It was overstimulation on your part. You were dizzy, even as he returned to tracing small circles.

He stilled, panting and sheathed within you. A familiar warmth pooled. Your grip loosened on his arm, exhausted. You could feel some of his seed dripping down your thighs. You would have to bathe when you had the chance. He let you go. You leaned against the counter, trying not to fall. He removed himself, adjusting his trousers. You refused to look at him, silently hoping that he would leave.

He smacked your rear, “I’m going back to bed. See you at breakfast.”

You looked to the pan of eggs you had been making before he had intervened, seeing that they were cold. You would have to start from scratch.


Author’s Note: Hello! Keira Metz here! It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so I decided to start a new tale. Depending on the response from all of you lovely readers, I’ll continue this. Otherwise, I can whip up something new. Also, there may or may not have been some foreshadowing in this one, ehehe~

and i’ll ask for the sea

Pairing: Jon Snow x Daenerys Targaryen
Summary: The morning after boatsex. (Can be read as a follow-up to this drabble.) Written for Jonerys Week, Day 5: Smut.
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 6,079 (yikes sorry)


A soft knock on the cabin door roused Jon from a surprisingly restful sleep. He remembered where he was when the weight compressing his chest lightened as Daenerys lifted her head, also awakened by the sound. Even half-asleep, Jon’s battle instincts stirred, honed by too many nights of sleep sacrificed while on watch, wary of an ambush. He shifted underneath her, ready to lunge off the bed for his clothes and a sword that wasn’t there, but he stilled at the touch of her fingers on his shoulder. Stay, they said.

“Come back later,” the queen called to her visitor. Her voice was thick with sleep and honeyed by an easy contentment he’d never heard from her before.

A moment passed, then, “Of course, your grace.”

Missandei. Was that laughter he heard in the Naathi woman’s voice? Jon told himself he was being paranoid. Still, he only relaxed down into the featherbed when it became apparent that Missandei wasn’t going to enter—and that Daenerys had no intention of moving, either.

Without looking at him, she laid her head down on his chest, where it’d been resting all night, apparently. Jon remembered holding her against him, just like this, after they’d lain together. Their light, aimless conversation—for once not fraught with talk of politics and battle strategy and the dead—had waned at some point in the night, and they must have drifted off to sleep. He was warm beneath her, the two of them cocooned in silk sheets and fur.

Actually, he was sweltering. Her bare skin was sticky-hot everywhere it touched his. For Jon, someone used to the frigid nights of the North, he couldn’t recall a single morning during his time on the Night’s Watch where he hadn’t awoken with limbs nearly frozen stiff. Only on the nights he’d curled up with Ghost had he’d been close to this warm, and even then, the direwolf’s body heat didn’t compare to the warmth radiating from Daenerys now.

How hot did the Dragon Queen’s blood run, he wondered.

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Meta Monday: Smallclothes

Chett made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, and suddenly his smallclothes were wet, and he could feel the piss running down his leg, see steam rising off the front of his breeches.

Today’s topic is smallclothes.  What the heck are smallclothes?  Underwear of some kind based on their description, but they give this medievalist pause.  Did medieval people wear undergarments or are they purely an invention of GRRM?

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anonymous asked:

Da2 companions react to Hawke beating the arishok in lingerie because hawke

Varric: That’s… not going in the book. As hilarious as it is and as true to character, no one would ever believe him. Looking around at the crowd of watching nobles, he knows that none of them will ever admit that Hawke wasn’t in full armor for this fight. Still, though, did it have to be lace?

Sebastian: He tries really hard not to look, to respect the bounds of propriety, but he can’t keep his eyes off the battle. Despite how little Hawke has on, this battle is not something he can look away from. He’s going to need a lot of time in the Chantry later. If Romanced: Despite needing to look away for his sake as well as Hawke’s, his eyes are completely riveted to the battle. He couldn’t look away if his life depended on it. Each time Hawke narrowly dodges a blow his fists clench in fear. How can he keep his vows if this keeps up?

Isabela: She thinks it’s great! Justice and a show! What could be better? Hawke just spared her to fight a giant horned man in nothing but their smallclothes. She’s in bliss! If Romanced: This, right here, is why she came back. Even though all her instincts fight it, Hawke is the one for her. And they’ve just proven it yet again. She needs popcorn for this show!

Fenris: He rolls his eyes, but Hawke’s lack of clothing doesn’t really bother him. He’s used to these kinds of crazy shenanigans at this point. He watches the battle with great interest, unconcerned by the lacy undergarments that are all Hawke is wearing. If Romanced: It figures that Hawke would enter in such an important battle wearing nothing but their underwear. He can’t keep his lyrium from pulsing with light every time they dodge a blow, fear for his love coursing through his veins like the burning itch of magic.

Merrill: She tries not to look at Hawke too much. She wants to be respectful, but there’s no way she could ever look away from the battle. It’s so like Hawke to be so reckless. If Romanced: It’s all she can do to keep her magic to herself and not cast any protective spells. Her Hawke would be the one to engage in a duel to the death while almost naked, but she feels like she might faint. She also surprises herself by feeling somewhat proprietary about everyone seeing Hawke this way.

Anders: His healer’s instincts are screaming at him to protect Hawke, and he has to clench his hands together behind his back to stop himself. Hawke’s lack of clothing only bothers him because it means they’re not armored. If Romanced: Someone should probably hold him back. He vowed that he would cover them both in blood to keep Hawke safe, and damn it if he isn’t struggling with that promise now. He should be at Hawke’s side! At the very least, he should be able to provide the defense that Hawke’s nudity doesn’t give them.

Aveline: Hawke is getting a lecture later. She’s spent so long as Hawke’s friend that she knows that they can handle a battle even while mostly naked. She’s not nearly as worried for their safety as the others are, but she is concerned about their lack of propriety. This is just ridiculous.

Bonus!

Carver: When he gets the letter from Varric recounting the fight, no detail spared, he groans and hits his head on his desk repeatedly. His sibling seriously fought a duel to the death in their underwear? Thank the Maker he wasn’t there for that…

Bethany: She reads the letter through four times before it finally sinks in what her sibling did. Then she just starts laughing. She can’t help it. It was so like her sibling to do something that reckless. It was probably a good thing she hadn’t been there…

milleemo  asked:

That post about Sansa being sexualized got me thinking about something that had been bugging me about her costuming in s2 and 3. They had these shots of her in her corset, and she never had any kind of shift or undershirt under it, and I can't help but wonder if that was practical. It def makes her more sexual, but just wearing a stiff corset over nothing but skin had to have been uncomfortable and I'm not sure that's how smallclothes worked. What do you think?

Well, I’m not sure how such clothes worked either, so I looked it up. Here’s a guide to Elizabethan clothes layering, and it shows that a corset is worn over a smock, shift, or chemise. Or we can go to the books themselves for details:

“You shall have smallclothes and hose as well, kirtles and mantles and cloaks, and all else befitting a…a lovely young lady of noble birth.”

The smallclothes were all silk, but the gown itself was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined with silvery satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it.

…somehow she managed the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown and girdle and undersilk slid to the floor, until finally she was stepping out of her smallclothes.

She donned silken smallclothes and a linen shift, and over that a warm dress of blue lambswool.

Quotes all taken from various Sansa chapters — and note there are no corsets ever mentioned. Dresses are worn over shifts, which are worn over smallclothes. The only lacing involved seems to be in the dresses themselves. So women’s fashion seems to be pre-corsetry, similar to the styles worn in the Plantagenet era. (Considering ASOIAF’s inspiration from the Wars of the Roses, this makes sense.) I should also note that smallclothes did not exist in the medieval clothing of our world, and also the dresses in general are rather immodest to be properly historical.

So GoT is on its own with its corsets and how they’re worn without a shift underneath. But the show’s ladies’ costuming in general is not really medieval at all, especially the kimono-inspired wrap dresses of King’s Landing, or the maids’ dresses and Tyrell dresses that are… ancient Greek-ish? Roman? or even modern-inspired.

Regarding sexualization… well, we’ve only seen Sansa’s corset twice, maybe three times IIRC? Once when her dress is torn in the crossbow scene, once in the Riot of King’s Landing, and once when she’s caught getting dressed. There’s context for all of them — maybe the last one is the most “fanservicey”, but it’s not like it comes out of nowhere. Now, if she were wearing a shift under the corset, it would be more modest, it’s true. But then Sansa’s dresses in general tend to be very modest, with long sleeves and little cleavage. Compare her and Margaery, and those few corset scenes are not much really. And note that even the most sexualized book!Sansa scene — her wedding night, when Tyrion has her remove all her clothes — in the equivalent show scene, Sansa never even takes off her dress.

In terms of corset comfort, we can go to Sophie Turner herself:

I had no idea that the costumes would be so complex, there was SUCH brilliant and intricate detail on the dresses! Even the corset that I wear underneath my clothes at King’s Landing that you never see has beautiful dragonflies embroidered on it! Sansa definitely eases from Northern clothing to Southern clothing. The Northern clothing is much more simple with not many patterns and never fitted perfectly to body shape whereas Southern clothing is very tightly fitted with corsets and belts to keep the clothing tight to the body. It imitates Cersei’s style of dress. I prefer the Southern clothing because it’s a lot prettier and fitted although the Northern clothing is very comfortable.

So it’s not that comfortable, but she doesn’t mind, at least.

Imagine you're a dancer Part 1

You looked yourself over in the mirror, checking for anything that was out of place. Only a few minutes remained before the leader of your little troupe would come in and tell you that it was time. You glanced to your right. The newest girl had joined less than a year ago, but she had managed to come into her own.

You turned back to your reflection. It had been a few years since you first started, but your experience was an advantage. You knew that trying to earn money on the side was a pointless endeavor. Many of your former coworkers thought that sitting on laps and pulling man into private rooms would only come with tips. Every single one of them ended up pregnant and fired from the company. Your leader only had one rule; anyone that couldn’t do their job would be fired. Otherwise, everyone was able to do as they pleased. It was quite a lucrative career when you were one of the favourite dancers.

“Alright, ladies,” Your boss, a short and plump woman, clapped her hands. She waited until the room was quiet and all eyes were on her to continue, “This night is important to us. We are performing for one of the most exclusive parties in the city. Everyone needs to bring their best. I normally don’t encourage this, but feel free to make friends.”

You fought the urge to scowl. So she was openly endorsing fraternizing with the audience in order to earn more money. You couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting greedy and wanted a cut of the profit.

“Let’s go.”

You got up, walking with the other women. The sheer material you wore fluttered behind you. The gold discs on your waist and trailing down your hips clinked against each other. The newest dancer was whispering nervously to yourself. You didn’t get nervous anymore. You just did your job and then took your payment at the end of the night.

The small party was held in a room lit by candles. Most guests had a glass in their hands, though you could tell that some of them had been drinking for hours. Without looking directly at them, you made a mental note of each man you should avoid as soon as the party ended. It was a common occurrence for one or two men to follow a dancer as they left in order to get a bit of private time with them.

You positioned yourself on the left-hand side of the small stage, waiting for the music to start. The more eager girls took the front. You almost scoffed. Some thought that they were going to become famous if the right person saw them dancing. Others merely wanted more money by taking the spotlight. It didn’t matter to you. Every dancer was paid the same amount at the end of the night. Tips were just a perk of the trade. You saved enough money doing what you did best.

The first note broke your spell. You began to dance, hips rolling and arms moving slowly and gracefully. Intricate steps weren’t necessary. All you needed was the right pace and angles to drive men wild. Your gaze remained on the back wall, your expression lustful to no one in particular.

As the night continued, you became aware of a stare that weighed heavily on your body. It had persisted, even as some of your fellow dancers went out into the crowd. You used your peripheral vision to try to find who was so interested in you. Even after so many years, you hated looking at your audience.

The man in question was sitting the furthest from the stage, a glass of something dark in his hand. None of the servers approached him to refill his glass. He seemed to be languidly sipping the same drink for the entire night. He was older than you, his temples dusted with grey, though the rest of his hair was dark. His body was lean, carrying a certain power as he crossed one leg over the other. A quiet confidence. Well, he was certainly better than other men that had been obsessed with you.

You glanced to his face. He was rather handsome, admittedly. His eyes were-

Even as you blinked, you found it impossible to tear your gaze away from his. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. The sound nearly drowned out the music. The candles seemed dimmer now, like the room itself had sensed something changing.

You moved to the front of the stage, descending the small set of stairs that separated you from the rest of the party. Each step caused the golden discs on your outfit to rattle softly, though you could barely hear it. The unoccupied men in the front row moved their hands away from their laps, thinking that you were going to dance on them. You walked right by, your eyes still locked onto the man furthest from the stage. The audience was rather small, so he was sitting in the middle of the room. The way he sat made you wonder if he owned the building you were standing in. He looked like he owned the entire city, actually. With the way he was looking at you, it felt like he had already bought your soul and was simply collecting what was rightfully his.

You stopped in front of him, hips swaying as you continued to dance. Your hands trailed over your body, missing the important places by mere inches. Teasing was a part of the job, after all. You could feel other members of the audience staring at you, but you paid no attention to them. You were still focused on the man taking another sip from his drink, his eyes trailing up and down your body.

He set his drink down on the table next to him, licking his lips slowly. He uncrossed his legs. An invitation. Going against everything you believed in, you accepted it. You straddled him, knees pressed against the wood on either side of his hips. His hand immediately moved to your back, resting gently on your skin. You could feel the metal rings he wore, a bit cold compared to the temperature of the room. You placed your hands on his shoulders in order to keep yourself steady as you rolled your hips.

He said nothing. His expression was neutral, but you could see something lurking in his eyes. Something dark. He merely allowed you to continue, his hand pulling you just a bit closer.

What were you doing? You never did this. You hadn’t touched a member of the audience in all of your years as a part of the troupe, and now you were on some man’s lap. But it could ruin things if you got off of him now. You would have to wait until he grew tired of you or the performance ended. Then you would have every reason to fluidly slip from his chair and return to the room saved for the dancers.

He tilted his head to one side. You kissed him, hands trailing down his chest. The softness of the material beneath your fingertips told you that his clothes were expensive. At the very least, he had some sort of title. Even as you withdrew from the kiss, you wondered why you had done such a thing. Kissing a member of the audience was frowned upon by most dancers. On any other day, your boss would have given you an earful. But with such rich clients, she was making an exception.

His hands slipped between your bodies, trailing down your stomach before settling between your legs. He stroked you through your smallclothes, causing your spine to arch a bit and your fingers to clutch his clothes. Your hands descended, blindly unbuckling his belt and moving his trousers just enough to free his cock. You were still focused on his eyes as your hands returned to his shoulders. He pulled your smallclothes to one side, exposing you to the cold air. You couldn’t help but shiver. His other hand grabbed his cock, rubbing it against you.

You pulled yourself closer, biting your lip as it began to push into you. He let go, his palm on your back. He guided your waist. You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from making noise as he filled you. No one in the crowd reacted. Your clothes hid everything. The only people aware of what was truly happening were you and the man you were straddling. You moved with the music, arms trailing through the air. To everyone else, it looked like you were just dancing on his lap.

Your breath hitched as you continued. He leaned back in the chair, watching you move. His eyes strayed from yours for a moment, trailing down your body. Your pace slowed. Why were you doing this? You were supposed to be dancing on stage, not having sex with him.

His eyes snapped back up to meet yours, teeth bared in a low growl that rumbled against your chest. He was getting close. His grip on your waist was almost bruising. Your hands were almost glued to his shoulders. You can’t fathom letting him go. Not when he made you feel this good. It didn’t matter if he came inside of you. You just wanted a bit more time with him. Just a few more seconds of feeling his body against yours.

An unfamiliar warmth pooled inside of you. You kept moving, even as your walls twitched around him. He leaned toward you, his lips and teeth tracing over your neck. You bit your lip to keep yourself from making a sound. You couldn’t get caught. Not now. A familiar melody played. The last song of the night.

He pulled your body from his, adjusting his pants and your smallclothes. You could feel droplets of liquid running down your thighs. You would have to be careful when walking back to the dressing room. His attention shifted to his glass, lifting it and taking a slow sip.

Your mind was still fogged from the sex as you stood and slowly danced your way back to the dressing room with the other dancers.

Your mind had cleared completely in days, so you realized quickly that your performance that night had consequences.

At first, you had thought that you had contracted some sort of illness. Nausea plagued you. You were so overwhelmed that you couldn’t dance. You remained in the dressing room, shivering as you tried to will away your nausea.

Within a few moons, you knew that something was wrong.

You sat on your bed. Given your reputation in the company, you were allowed to have your own room. You were thankful for it now that your body had changed. Your stomach had only a gentle swell at first, but now the weight rested on your thighs. None of your companions had noticed, but you knew that it would become obvious with time.

It seemed that your luck hadn’t run out yet. A new dancer had joined, which caused your boss to give you some time off while she was trained in the ways of the troupe. You took the temporary vacation graciously, but it didn’t solve your problem.

Your stomach fluttered. You tensed, still not used to the sensation. You cautiously pressed your palm to your belly. It was too late to visit a physiker. A witch would only cause you problems. You couldn’t stay with the company. Once they discovered your pregnancy, you would be fired. They couldn’t afford to pay dancers that couldn’t dance. They certainly didn’t want to deal with a fussy child during their performances.

You steeled yourself. You decided to leave the company without a word. You had enough money saved up that you would be able to rent a small room at a cheap inn until you could rejoin another dancing troupe. As for your child, you were sure that you could find someone more than capable of caring for them. You didn’t have the funds or the time. Your profession required all of your attention, especially if you were doing solo work for a few months.

You packed up your things and left. A small town would be the best option, which meant a short trip by horse. You found one of the main streets. It was rather dark, even with the many hanging lamps. There were some narrow alleyways, but you better than to get too close, lest you be robbed at knifepoint. Given the money you were carrying, you need to stick to the crowds while keeping an eye on your coin purse. But the early hours of the morning were approaching. The crowds were dying down considerably.

After walking through the main square, it became apparent that no one had a horse for sale. You would have to renew your efforts in the morning. You stopped, trying to remember the location of the nearest inn. Your stomach fluttered once more, harder this time. You winced. You doubted that you would ever grow accustomed to such a sensation.

A gentle creak alerted you to one of the alleyways. A sign was hanging from the wall. An inn. Your attention shifted to the alley itself. There was a bend in the path. Someone could be lingering around the corner. Your gaze fell to the ground. There were hanging lights in the alleyway, leaving the shadows of the brick and other signs. Even as you cautiously drew closer, the shadows gave no hint at someone lurking.

You strode toward the inn, becoming confident that you wouldn’t be attacked. You looked down the branching path. There was nothing there. You smiled a bit. It seemed you would make it to the inn unscathed.

You paid for a room, then trudged up the stairs. The added weight to your womb made it a bit more difficult, but you managed. You locked the door and took a deep breath. Your journey seemed to be going smoothly.

“I’ve been looking for you, pet.”

You whirled around to face the rest of the room. A man was standing in front of the window. He took a step forward. Your blood ran cold.

It was the man from that fateful night. Even as he moved closer, the room was bathed in moonlight. Something was wrong with him.

You reached back to unlock the door, only for your hand to freeze. You had made eye contact with him, your body no longer obeying your commands. Your fingertips were touching the lock, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move it. Despite the fear in your mind, your body relaxed.

His attention strayed to your stomach before he ensnared you with his gaze once more. He was standing before you now. His hand reached past you, something on the door snapping. When he withdrew, he was holding the lock’s latch. He had broken it with strength alone. He crumpled the latch in his fist, “A good pet doesn’t leave her master, _____. Especially when she’s carrying her master’s child.”

Wait, when had he-

“Now, you’re going to dance for me.”

“I-I…” It seemed you still talk this time, “I don’t-“

His eyes darkened, your mind instantly fogging, “Take off your dress.”

Author’s Note: Hello! Keira Metz here! This is a bit of a slow start, but I promise much more dark romance to come!

Outfit Headcanons

Send a symbol below and I’ll describe or draw what my Muse wears in specific scenarios!

♔ -  pajamas / bedtime outfit
♕ - beach / swimsuit
♖ - spring outfit
♗ - summer outfit
♘- fall outfit
♟- winter outfit
♙ - date night
♚ - casual / everyday
♛ - formal outfit
♜ - gym / exercise / training outfit
♝- crisis / war / battle armor
☠ - Everyday Going-To-School uniform
☮ - Work Uniform
☯ - Outfit They Wore When They Were 8
♠ - Clothes they wear when they just don’t care
Ω -  Going-To-A-Party Outfit
♤ -  Look-At-Me-I’m-Hella-Attractive Outfit
♣ -   Lingerie / Underwear / Smallclothes
♧ -   An outfit they wear related to one of their hobbies
♥ -   A “traditional” outfit based on their heritage (i.e. kimono, sari, other folk costumes)
♡ -  Superhero / Super Villain costume
♦ -  Magical Girl / Magical Knight costume
♢ -  FINAL BOSS Armor
♞ - you specify another situation!

I know everyone likes to joke about how Jon got all of his emo teenage angst from Rhaegar, but let’s not forget…

“You broke my wrist, bastard boy.”

[…]

Jon stood up. “I’ll break the other one for you if you ask nicely.” (Jon III, AGOT)

Alliser Thorne overheard him. “Lord Snow wants to take my place now.” He sneered. “I’d have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs.”

“I’ll take that wager, Ser Alliser,” Jon said. “I’d love to see Ghost juggle.” (Jon III, AGOT)

Jon yanked away and grabbed [Thorne] by the throat with such ferocity that he lifted him off the floor. He would have throttled him if the Eastwatch men had not pulled him off. (Jon IX, ASOS)

Jon had heard enough. “Ser Axell, if you are truly the Queen’s Hand, I pity Her Grace.” (Jon X, ADWD)

Yet even that did not appease his Lord Steward. “You say these boys will serve as squires. Surely the lord commander does not mean they will be trained at arms?”

Jon’s anger flared. “No, my lord, I mean to set them to sewing lacy smallclothes.” (Jon XI, ADWD)

^^^^ That’s all Lyanna.

anonymous asked:

Could I please ask for the night routines (like before bed) of DAI companions and Advisors (and if it is possible what the romance routines are like, too)?

The sun is coming up. I can manage some fluff.

Josephine: Since being an ambassador means that her appearance is critical, her nightly routine involves a lot of lotions and creams on her skin, washing off her makeup, and keeping her hair carefully contained. It usually takes her nearly an hour to get ready for bed. If Romanced: Not much changes about her routine except that her lover watches her apply her lotions to her skin and she either goes a little slower to tease them or rushes through it so she can lay in bed with them.

Leliana: Her nightly routine involves extensive security sweeps. She checks that all her alarms are in place and functional (There are at least a dozen), then falls in a light sleep as soon as she’s laying down. She’ll wake at the first disturbance, however.

Cullen: Before bed he always does maintenance on his armor, polishing the metal and making sure everything is in place. He has pretty bad insomnia, though, so once he does lie down he frequently spends hours staring at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to take him, the lyrium withdrawal making his dreams nearly as bad as the exhaustion. If Romanced: His armor still receives all the attention it needs, but when he can’t sleep he doesn’t stare at the ceiling anymore. Instead he studies the Inquisitor, the way they look when they sleep. He counts their breaths and falls asleep to the rhythm. The nightmares aren’t so bad if he isn’t sleeping alone.

Solas: His nightly routine is simple; strip to his smallclothes, lie down, go to sleep. This is still his favorite part of the day because at least the Fade still makes sense. If Romanced: A slightly altered routine; strip to his smallclothes, lie down, think of his vhenan, fall asleep in the middle of some very inappropriate imaginings (not necessarily sexual. He considers his love for the Inquisitor fairly inappropriate, no matter if there are any sexual impulses) that frequently follow him into the Fade.

Vivienne: Her routine closely matches Josephine. All of her clothes are carefully folded, her makeup is removed, and lotions applied to her skin. She doesn’t have to worry about her hair, fortunately.

Dorian: Despite his careful appearance, he doesn’t have much of a routine at night. Most of his grooming is done first thing in the morning rather than at night. He has to wash the product out of his hair, then he just falls into bed. If Romanced: He falls into bed and tucks himself against his amatus. He falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

Cassandra: Like Cullen, maintaining her armor comprises most of her nightly routine. She brushes out her hair thoroughly, as well. She’d never admit to how much care goes into her hair and the careful little braid. If Romanced: Frequently, her lover will be the one to brush out her hair while she tends to her armor. She’s fallen asleep with her armor still in her lap like that more than once.

Blackwall: Again, armor maintenance. It’s very important for a warrior who wears heavy armor to keep it in good condition. When he falls into bed he tries very hard to blank his thoughts and keep his mind clear, otherwise if sleeps at all he’ll be plagued by nightmares. If Romanced: He never sleeps better than he does with the Inquisitor snuggled up with him. He doesn’t neglect his armor, but he might go a little faster in order to get into bed sooner.

Iron Bull: Armor is important, guys. Bull also performs routine maintenance on his armor before bed, also taking a few minutes to make sure his giant fucking sword/axe is sharp and in peak condition. This usually happens after whoever he just tumbled goes back to their own bed. If Romanced: Armor maintenance first, which is kind of weird for him. He can perform his nightly routine before having sex? Relationships are weird, but he kind of likes it. He performs his routine while the Inquisitor performs theirs. And then he ties them up.

Cole: He doesn’t sleep.

Sera: She counts her arrows. Don’t question it. She counts them. then she passes out whenever she gets tired of it. If Romanced: No need to count arrows when she can count Inky’s breaths as she holds her. She nods off pretty quickly that way, warm and secure and satisfied.

Varric: He lost track of time. It’s now the middle of the night and his hand is cramping from holding his pen and writing for too long. Damn it, he did it again! He may or may not strip out of his clothes before falling face-first into bed and snoring immediately. It depends on how late it is this time.

  • Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks.
  • Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

  • “You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya said.It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. “You’re horrible,” she screamed at her sister. “They should have killed you instead of Lady!”

  • She chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants. 

  • She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she’d had them dye it black and you couldn’t see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

  • “Her Grace said to me that you are a woman now, and should not dress like a little girl. Hold out your arm."Sansa lifted her arm. She needed a new gown, that was true. She had grown three inches in the past year, and most of her old wardrobe had been ruined by the smoke when she’d tried to burn her mattress on the day of her first flowering

  • The smallclothes were all silk, but the gown itself was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined with silvery satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that hugged her feet like lovers. 

  • Dress warmly, Ser Dontos had told her, and dress dark. She had no blacks, so she chose a dress of thick brown wool. The bodice was decorated with freshwater pearls, though. The cloak will cover them. The cloak was a deep green, with a large hood. 

  • Littlefinger pointed out a cedar chest under the porthole. "You’ll find fresh garb within. Dresses, smallclothes, warm stockings, a cloak. Wool and linen only, I fear. Unworthy of a maid so beautiful, but they’ll serve to keep you dry and clean until we can find you something finer."He had this all prepared for me. 

  • She donned silken smallclothes and a linen shift, and over that a warm dress of blue lambswool. Two pairs of hose for her legs, boots that laced up to her knees, heavy leather gloves, and finally a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur.

  • There was a gown of purple silk that gave her pause, and another of dark blue velvet slashed with silver that would have woken all the color in her eyes, but in the end she remembered that Alayne was after all a bastard, and must not presume to dress above her station. The dress she picked was lambswool, dark brown and simply cut, with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. It was modest and becoming, though scarce richer than something a serving girl might wear. Petyr had given her all of Lady Lysa’s jewels as well, and she tried on several necklaces, but they all seemed ostentatious. In the end she chose a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold. 

  • All of Lady Lysa’s silks and samites were to be left behind. Her sheerest linens and plushest velvets, the rich embroidery and fine Myrish lace; all would remain. Down below, Alayne must dress modestly, as befit a girl of modest birth. It makes no matter, she told herself. I dared not wear the best clothes even here.

  • Nor did Petyr choose to explain. Instead, he smiled and said, "I have brought my sweet girl back a gift."Alayne was as pleased as she was surprised. "Is it a gown?” She had heard there were fine seamstresses in Gulltown, and she was so tired of dressing drably.
-Sansa and fashion

Sansa calls dibs...
  • Jon: Really Sansa, you needn't go to the bother of making me new clothes for Dragonstone.
  • Sansa: Nonsense Jon. You will need to be presentable for this Dragon Queen.
  • Jon *sighs*: Aye, but embroidery on my undershirt? Is that really necessary?....What are you depicting anyway? Wolves? Weirwood trees?
  • Sansa: Ah...something like that, yes.
  • Jon *takes closer look at Sansa's embroidery*: Wha-...Why does it say "property of Sansa Stark"?
  • *silence*
  • Jon *picks out one of Sansa's other sewing projects from her basket*: ....and why do my smallclothes say 'back off dragon-bitch' on them?

Someone made a post in the tag today about how they want creators to stop making trans Fenris content. On an unrelated note, here’s a drabble I just wrote where Fenris is trans

——

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Isabela moans, undoing the clasps on her shirt and dropping it in the dry grass.

“You know what, that’s a perfect idea.” Hawke sheds his pack, grasping the hem of his own shirt and stripping it off over his head.

“What are you doing?!” Aveline squawks.

Fenris is inclined to ask the same thing. Isabela’s brassiere is next, and she flings it gaily behind her. It lands on top of Aveline’s head. She has excellent aim, Fenris muses.

“Going for a swim,” Hawke answers, opening up the tie on his trousers. “I’m bloody melting.”

Evident by how his tan, freckled back shines with sweat, droplets running down his spine, winding in rivulets between his taut, powerful muscles…Fenris fixes his gaze instead on the wide, blue-black lake opening up from the stream they’ve been following. It is impolite to stare. He is also quite hot, but after the chokingly humid, mosquito-clouded jungles of Seheron, heat like this hardly merits notice.

Isabela kicks her smallclothes off and runs, bare feet dashing through the grass, letting out a whoop as she flings herself off a rock and splashes into the water below.

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Tinfoil Weddings

This post is layered in tinfoil–beware. I believe Sansa’s wedding with Tyrion is a foil for her future wedding with Jon. As well as Jon attending Alys Karstarks wedding being some kind of foil.


“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

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anonymous asked:

Prompt! Jon & Sansa have married for political reasons. After the war, Sansa starts to become frustrated with Jon bc he won't do the do with her even tho he'll hold her in his arms & cuddle, etc. So one night she confronts him & tells him she'll take a lover if he won't make their marriage true. Jon gets protective of her & growly & telling her she's his & only his and starts touching her & they make love in the dirtiest best way possible. Basically Dom!Jon restraining himself until he can't

Hi Anon!

I am liking all the dom!Jon prompts coming our way and I can’t say I’m not tempted! But well, here I am filling another dom!Jon prompt we all love so much LOL so I hope you like this one Anon!

Unbeta’d so pardon the mistakes and typos if any!

Rated E for explicit.

Mood music inspired by Bad Things by Machine Gun Kelly ft Camila Cabello

~ Mod Elle


My Undoing

The wedding was all a blur as Sansa was in a daze for the most part. There wasn’t even a kiss between the both of them as Jon cloaked her with his white as snow fur cloak, one that he had commissioned for their nuptials. Next thing she knew, they were both seated side by side, watching their guests eat and drink merrily as the food and wine kept coming. 

Sansa could only manage a few bites and took a few sips of the wine that was so generously gifted by King Tyrion from Kings Landing. She liked how it tasted and she understood why kings and queens drank so much. Perhaps a little more would numb her to what was coming next.

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A Jealous Lion

Originally posted by ariannemartcll

Request: @direwinterfell asked for dominant smut and how can i refuse

Warnings: SMUTTTT.  dom/sub kink.  the good stuff

Word Count: 966

Notes: i am gross c:  And let’s pretend jaime has both hands

Your name: submit What is this?

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