unexpected domesticity shipping meme. you never thought you'd have a home, at least not one you can call completely yours, no strings attached and no one lording above you or controlling you. you may not have even known what a "home" truly is, or thought you wanted one. now, there is a touch of domesticity in your life, no matter what things are like otherwise, because you have a home, though you may not have a house proper.
most importantly, you now have someone to share this new facet of life with - a partner. similar to you or completely different, relationship unspoken or unrealized, heavily romantic or understated, they are slowly but surely becoming someone indispensable to you. you never could have seen this coming. and, of course, with domesticity comes a certain amount of intimacy, perhaps even the ultimate physical intimacy...you may be open to that already or you're working up to it when you'd hardly considered it before.
whether your situation is for the long term as it stands, could end at any moment, or a mere disguise you're using to lay low, you're getting comfortable. how does that make you feel? will you it accept a new lease on life - or will you sabotauge yourself before someone else does?
— Comment with your character, preferences, what tone you want your thread to take, and whether or not your open to smut. — Reply to others.
It is not only rain which has meandered down the contours of his roped forearms, smearing at his palms. There is mud dappled there, too, for his hands are often unthinking in their work, whether in arrogance or disinterest or bravado. They are streaked now with the bustle of charging pell-mell through the deluge, with the grime which attends sodden leather and mucked horsehair, and never has he lived a day when the thought might have crossed his mind to pause in his dealings and scrub his hands clean. A waste of precious minutes that could be spent pursuing the next diversion.
So it is now, with his hands filthy and his every article of clothing bedecked with streaming rain and resilient mud, and he is thinking only of being close against her. His wife, in her admirably clean skirts - white! - and he is perfectly aware now that any ire of hers will be justly earned. If she whirls away wearing the print of his sullied hands on her lovely gown, it will be a gamble joyfully made.
But she does not bristle away again. Her slim fingers make of his collar a mooring, and his eyes begin to roam across her face, down to the modestly-clad curve of her breasts, mapping all of her in that guileless way he tends toward when she stands so dangerously close to him. Through the clinging aroma of spent rain he fixes on the warmth of her scent, the fingers at her thigh curling with uncomplicated excitement into her skirts. The smile revealing itself at the corner of her lips is all he must see for his own to be baited into a full, boyish grin.
"If I had no wish to be maimed, my lady, I would not return so often to you." But where she is spined she also frequently rewards him with splashes of sweetness. Her nails nick into his skin, flushed still from his superfluous exercises in the storm, and he leans in as if he means to kiss her until her smile turns to gasping.
But he pulls himself away, saunters to the chair which had been hers until his arrival, and reclines there with a well-earned ease. To his own muddy garb he continues to pay no mind, inspired instead by what has come to pass with her own. Too soiled to wear, by her own laws.
"I've no such discourteous aims, my lady, but fortune is once again desperate for my favor." His smile is a cocky knife, most pleased to imagine that fortune courts him, and never the other way around. He gestures to her with his chin, to her compromised gown. "Off with it, before you muddy anything else. But slowly, so that I can see it fall from you at both front and back."
He is infuriating. In how he leans in, how the flash of his teeth and glint of his green eyes stirs her blood and makes her instinctively turn her face up towards his; in how he pulls away, leaving her with muddied skirts and a smear along the bodice of her gown; in the careless way he continues to smear mud and rainwater on her seat, her cushions, no doubt her sewing as well. Most of all, in the fact that for all her aggravation, she cannot be uncomplicatedly angry.
"Bist þu eoforswín se mic baðige ofgǣþ?" she grumbles, stepping back from him, towards the hearth, her arms folded across her now-stained chest. "You are a swine, Ser Jaime. And you are fortunate that I do not turn you back out in the rain, to snort and root with your brethren in the sty. Do not touch my sewing!"
Sharp words, delivered with a ring that might carry some weight in the halls of her youth, but she does not expect much of them here; he has shown no sign of bending to her will. If she is entirely honest, it is part of his charm, aggravating as it is. There is something simple in his cocksure, self-certain attitude, in the consistent drive of his demands, that is refreshing in its ease; there is, too, something exciting in how readily he sweeps aside all that should be in favour of his own desires. And she cannot entirely exorcise the smile from her face, nor the strange thrill that thrums inside her.
Besides, this is what she expected. He is many things, but not subtle; she is many things, but no longer innocent. This is the game she set out to play, and they have the same ending in mind to it, she is sure - it is only how they get to it that they may disagree upon. (And it is passing strange, after these few weeks, to find that she wants him; to find that they are aligned in this, that there is inside her a hunger to match his, and a clumsy humour to grope along with his.) And so, even as she scolds him, she is already reaching for her laces, loosening the edges of her bodice, her eyes not leaving him.
"You know that when I am in my shift, I must flee you again? For it is clean, too. You have not wetted that yet."
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bakerstreet2021-10-03 01:42 pm
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So it is now, with his hands filthy and his every article of clothing bedecked with streaming rain and resilient mud, and he is thinking only of being close against her. His wife, in her admirably clean skirts - white! - and he is perfectly aware now that any ire of hers will be justly earned. If she whirls away wearing the print of his sullied hands on her lovely gown, it will be a gamble joyfully made.
But she does not bristle away again. Her slim fingers make of his collar a mooring, and his eyes begin to roam across her face, down to the modestly-clad curve of her breasts, mapping all of her in that guileless way he tends toward when she stands so dangerously close to him. Through the clinging aroma of spent rain he fixes on the warmth of her scent, the fingers at her thigh curling with uncomplicated excitement into her skirts. The smile revealing itself at the corner of her lips is all he must see for his own to be baited into a full, boyish grin.
"If I had no wish to be maimed, my lady, I would not return so often to you." But where she is spined she also frequently rewards him with splashes of sweetness. Her nails nick into his skin, flushed still from his superfluous exercises in the storm, and he leans in as if he means to kiss her until her smile turns to gasping.
But he pulls himself away, saunters to the chair which had been hers until his arrival, and reclines there with a well-earned ease. To his own muddy garb he continues to pay no mind, inspired instead by what has come to pass with her own. Too soiled to wear, by her own laws.
"I've no such discourteous aims, my lady, but fortune is once again desperate for my favor." His smile is a cocky knife, most pleased to imagine that fortune courts him, and never the other way around. He gestures to her with his chin, to her compromised gown. "Off with it, before you muddy anything else. But slowly, so that I can see it fall from you at both front and back."
no subject
"Bist þu eoforswín se mic baðige ofgǣþ?" she grumbles, stepping back from him, towards the hearth, her arms folded across her now-stained chest. "You are a swine, Ser Jaime. And you are fortunate that I do not turn you back out in the rain, to snort and root with your brethren in the sty. Do not touch my sewing!"
Sharp words, delivered with a ring that might carry some weight in the halls of her youth, but she does not expect much of them here; he has shown no sign of bending to her will. If she is entirely honest, it is part of his charm, aggravating as it is. There is something simple in his cocksure, self-certain attitude, in the consistent drive of his demands, that is refreshing in its ease; there is, too, something exciting in how readily he sweeps aside all that should be in favour of his own desires. And she cannot entirely exorcise the smile from her face, nor the strange thrill that thrums inside her.
Besides, this is what she expected. He is many things, but not subtle; she is many things, but no longer innocent. This is the game she set out to play, and they have the same ending in mind to it, she is sure - it is only how they get to it that they may disagree upon. (And it is passing strange, after these few weeks, to find that she wants him; to find that they are aligned in this, that there is inside her a hunger to match his, and a clumsy humour to grope along with his.) And so, even as she scolds him, she is already reaching for her laces, loosening the edges of her bodice, her eyes not leaving him.
"You know that when I am in my shift, I must flee you again? For it is clean, too. You have not wetted that yet."