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when he kisses your puffy pussy so sweetly and says a little breathlessly “my poor baby” as if he wasn’t the one absolutely pounding you into the next week
Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore
When the council of Tarrath finally does release you, the sun is bright and high in the sky.
In one moon’s time they will reach the city. You must be ready.
Your head spins as you descend the temple steps. Wounds long healed now lie open and raw as you think again of your mother. You have nothing of hers but the pendant she had given you on your eighth name-day, the only thing not destroyed by your father in his fits.
My mother gave it to me, and now I give it to you.
You reach into your pocket and run your fingers along it, feeling the letters carved there. Mother. Grandmother. Kin. Your mother had nearly been too weak to add her etching to the rest, but she had done it with fervor, working in secret while your father slept or drank. Unafraid.
The streets are busy now, bustling and crowded with people as you reach the bottom of the steps. You imagine the King’s great pyres here in the city, imagine the smell of smoke and charred flesh and the sound of screams. Gooseflesh breaks over your arms.
“Your thoughts are heavy, my little mate.” Steve’s knowing voice breaks through the fog of your thoughts. “I would lighten them, if I can.”
“I…” You hesitate. “I am afraid.”
“You would be a fool not to be, if what you say is true.”
“I am afraid of what happens if we fail.” You stare down at the cobblestones. “I am trying to be brave, like you need me to be.” Steve cups your chin.
“Fear is not the absence of bravery. What you do when you are afraid, Sweetmeat, that is what’s important.” You think of your mother, carving runes even as her body had begun to fail. As the priests had searched house after house, dragging women out into the streets. “Will you ride out and meet your fear? Or will you let it maim you?”
You curl your hand tightly around the pendant until it bites into the flesh of your palm and your fingers ache.
“I want to ride out and meet it.”
Steve nods, and a look of pride flashes across his face.
“Come, Little One.” He says. “We will give your fear to the sea.”
—
The steps are carved into the cliffside, worn smooth by many, many feet. You fill your lungs with cool, salt tinged air as you carefully pick your way down the damp stone. Steve walks slowly before you, your hand held tightly in his. He had said it was to help steady you, but you are beginning to suspect it is simply because he likes the feel of your hand in his. You smile softly at the back of his head. You like it, too.
“Have you done this before?” You ask, and he glances back at the sound of your voice. “Given your… fear to the sea?”
“Yes.” Steve nods. “When I was returned to Tarrath from the King’s City.”
“You were taken.” You had heard rumors, stories of strange creatures from foreign lands brought to heel before the three kings of the mountain, but you had never thought they had brought people.
“For the royal menagerie. Where they kept the animals.” His voice is hard, and for the first time, you suspect he is telling you something he does not wish to speak aloud. “And when I finally escaped, I fought my way back across the zikaegina, only to find that my mahem had long left this world. I gave that to the sea, and she has kept it safe for me to grieve when I wish.” There is a note of bitter acceptance in his words.
“We will give her your pain today, for your own mother. And your fear.”
The stairs in the stone open up into a massive cavern, the salt-stained, pocked stone eaten away by the sea. There is sand, like at the riverbed, only a thousand times more. The sea, funneled by the gigantic cave mouth, calmly laps at the shore, sparkling blue and green in the afternoon sunlight. The sand is littered with rocks and weathered pieces of shells, and you reach down to sift a handful through your fingers.
Steve steps into the water, wading in up to his knees before holding out his hand.
“Come.” You take it gingerly, stepping out of your sandals and into the cold seawater. It rushes around your legs, the tide pulling at your dress as you watch the sun play off the surface of the waves. Little silver fish dart around your legs, their fins brushing against your skin. A joyful little laugh bubbles from your throat, and you reach down to swirl your fingers through the water.
“Is it always cold?” You ask, and Steve lets out an amused chuckle.
“This is the sea warm, Sweetmeat. You will see it in the winter, when the snows come. Great mountains of salt and ice, all breaking upon the shore.”
“We’ll have to make it to winter first.” You say, and Steve’s expression darkens.
“We will make it.” You can feel the heat of Steve’s body you as he positions himself behind you. “Do you feel it, Little One?” He asks softly, his breath ghosting across the shell of your ear. “The sea?” You do, the ebb and flow keeping pace like a heartbeat.
“Yes…I feel it.”
“Good.” He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, and you can feel the scrape of his tusk against your cheek as he leans in. “As the sea flows out, so does your fear. We will drive this King of Pyres back because we must. So we will. You have nothing to fear, because you already know the future, Little One.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” his hands settle on your hips. “You and your mate will face a mighty foe, and we will return home. Victorious.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve only just found you, my mate. I would seek death before I let you be taken from me.” For a moment, there is only the sound of the sea, the water beating against your calves. In, out. In, out. In, out. There is no room for fear if I know the future.
“Are you still afraid, Little One?”
There will be no pyres in Tarrath, no priests with their ruined eyes and black blindfolds, Halith’s white eye emblazoned upon the fabric.
And so you have nothing to fear.
“No.”
“Good.” He pulls you back against his chest in an affectionate embrace, burying his face in your hair. “You’ve a mating ceremony to enjoy, after all.” You crane your neck, twisting around to look at Steve.
“We’re—we’re still—? I thought, well…” You had assumed your mating would be pushed aside until after. Steve makes a displeased noise. “I thought we would wait until after the… battle.” You turn to fully face him, and find yourself pressed flush against his chest.
“No.” Warmth floods your belly. “I will not be denied what is mine.” The possessiveness in his tone is catching, and as he curls a hand around your hip and squeezes, you reach for one of his braids and give it a gentle tug.
“And you’re mine?”
“Aye. Yours.” The word fills you with a sort of fierce joy, and you wonder if this is what Steve feels when He leans down to trace his lips over the curve of your cheek, ever mindful of his tusks. “Kiss me, little mate, I wish to taste you again.” Steve utters the command against the corner of your mouth and you shudder.
You press your lips to his, and Steve hums with pleasure. He growls something that sounds like yes against your lips as he pulls you greedily against his chest. That long, hungry tongue stroking and sucking at yours as Steve moans low in his throat.
Your center throbs and aches for something torturously absent, and you rub your thighs together, desperate for contact, for pressure—for anything. Gods, you want—you don’t know what you want. You think of Steve’s huge hands, his thick fingers touching you the way you touch yourself, and the thought is answered with another hot pulse.
Steve grips you tight about your waist, his hands spanning nearly the entire length from your hips to the bottoms of your breasts. You’re practically crawling out of your skin with the desire to touch him, and so meekly you bring your hands to his chest, stroking over the bare skin beneath the fly of his kilt. It’s pebbled with scars, and you trace the shapes of them with your fingers, learning his body with your hands.
He groans into your mouth, and you gasp as he grinds his hips against you, and the feel of him against you—Gods.
How is all of that going to fit inside you?
“It will fit.” Steve rasps against your lips, chuckling. You hadn’t realized you’d spoken aloud, and you try to pull away, embarrassed, but Steve does not let you, a gentle hand on your chin.
“I’m not finished yet.”
He kisses you breathless and dizzy there in the water, and when he finally lets you go, you barely even feel the cold. Steve grins at you, and you, licking his lips. You swallow, licking your kiss swollen lips. His eyes follow the movement like he still hasn’t gotten his fill.
“Well, Orc?” You ask breathlessly. “How do I taste?”
“Like the air before a storm,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours, and the profound affection of his gesture makes your stomach twist. “Like rain.” His hips stutter against yours again, and it takes you a moment to realize that the needy little whine you hear is coming from your own throat. Steve groans.
“Don’t tempt me, Sweetmeat,” he throws his head back, looking up at the roof of the massive cave. “You can’t know how badly I want to put my hands up the skirts of your pretty dress.”
“Why don’t you?” You’re emboldened by the persistent hungry clench of your swollen center. Steve lets out a strangled noise at your words and closes his eyes.
“Because I want to do this the way you deserve, Little One. Because you are worthy of all I can give. Because I want you in a bed, so I can take my time and stretch you on my fingers,” Steve squeezes your ass with one large hand. “Understand?”
You nod. You’re slick and swollen and wanting, but Steve merely brushes his lips against yours again before he ushers you out of the water. He helps you back into your sandals, you notice that he stops when he’s at eye level with that hungry place between your thighs and inhales deep.
“I need to take you back to Carol.” He says without getting up, continuing to stare at the bodice of your dress where it meets the skirts. Like he’s measuring how quickly he can get his hands underneath them, or tear them to shreds, whichever is easier.
“What if I want to stay with you?” You ask, and Steve groans again. You are acutely aware of the fact that he is on his knees for you—for you—and you somehow know he would never do this for another.
“How can I plan a mating ceremony if all my sweet little betrothed wants is for me to hollow her out with my cock?” He mumbles, and you gasp when he drags his face up your belly as he stands. “Come, Sweetmeat.” He dons his own sandals again. “Before I begin to regret my honor.”
Mrs. Claus opens "The Year Without a Santa Claus" by claiming the eponymous year took place "before you were born". Seeing as the movie was released in 1974, this means the year must have been before then.
Bounding this on the lower end is the presence of ice hockey - mentioned by Heat Miser - and the use of telephones. Ice hockey was invented in 1875, while Alexander Graham Bell built the telephone in 1876, meaning the year must post-date these. These figures give a range of approximately 100 years during which Santa may have taken his holiday.
Yet, narrowing this further is the presence of a December calendar counting the 1st to a Wednesday. Between 1876 and 1974, only the Decembers of 1880, 1886, 1897, 1909, 1915, 1920, 1926, 1937, 1943, 1948, 1954, 1965, and 1971 started on a Wednesday.
But still this can be narrowed further.
When Santa set out that Christmas Eve, we see what appears to be an almost full Moon in the sky. Within the years listed, only 1920 had a full Moon on Christmas.
One of those things that makes me think someone at Rankin-Bass was actually doing their research, because:
Rounded collar on the man at left, both boys (white coat in front and pink shirt in back right) are wearing knickerbockers.
Santa, dressed but not in his suit, has pinstriped pants, spats, and a watch chain. We can assume he probably dresses a bit older than those around him because he's elderly and doesn't necessarily care about trends, and--what? What's this? A fashion plate from the Edwardian era?
No spats on this guy, but they were common at the time--it might be because spats were practical and the drawing is intended to be fashionable.
Now let's look at some of the parents. Once again, we can expect both that they're going to be dressed ever so slightly older, and also decades don't have hard start/stop lines in fashion and culture like they do on a calendar.
The dove-breasted dress front isn't present in AYEASC, but the length and collar are perfect compared to this photo from 1910, and if we assume the mom is wearing something just a couple of years out of date, the bodice shape lines up very neatly with the end of WWI.
Likewise, look at her hair and how loose it is around her face in spite of being in a bun, and then check out this photo of a Gibson girl:
And then we've got the dad, with his hair parted straight down the middle, his large shirt cuffs, and vest. Check it out:
Also please note Dad is in plaid and as you may see in this ad, that was A Thing in the time period. He's not the only one, either--several of the kids wear it.
Other than Santa's outdated Edwardian attire (which makes sense for his character as an old man), all of these styles date within five years of 1920. Most date to ever so slightly before. These are middle-class people, so we'd expect them to not look like the latest fashion plates. Not only does their clothing make sense for a 1920 date, it actually makes sense for real people of their socioeconomic class in 1920.
Like damn, I know Rankin-Bass looks kind of hokey these days because stop-motion has evolved a lot and their teeth decisions were...interesting, but fuck, I think they may deserve more respect than we're accustomed to giving them.
