#adjusted his gambeson

[godsofyfirheim]

"Its a spectacle. Song, dance, wine. Every amusement you can imagine. But the greatest part is the contest of arms. Prove yourself in the Grand Tourney, and you can make your fortune."

- Blackwall, Dragon Age: Inquisition I just think he's cute.

[lemonjestercoffee]

so i said something about alicorns being funky in my last mlp redesign post yeah? well before i get into that-

the beautiful bride and the ugly ass groom

okay okay jokes aside here's Shining's real sheets and Cadance on her own

starting off with design choice notes

Shining Armor - his was like- really hard to figure out and i didn't really know what i was doing, but i did like the concept of him having lost a leg in some sorts of battle. one thing i did know what i was doing with tho was his armor, i never really liked the canon armor so i decided to take my own stab at it. decided to make it cover the more important areas better, added gambeson underneath, put a royal crest on it, and gave them a head weapon. yes the metal horns are on all species armor, it's there not only to protect real horns from oncoming attacks but also give all soldiers an emergency weapon if they get disarmed. the tassels would be colored differently depending on rank

Cadance - the only through i really had going into her design was i wanted her to have a cloud and heart motif, but i'm unsure if the way i handled it is the best. her cutiemark is meant to resemble a Mexican sacred heart because deity of love- like come on. i also wanna kinda change the color of the carnation in her hair to stand out more, but white carnations have a different meaning so it's fiiiinee

okay now what we really wanna hear about, what the fuck did i do to the alicorns?

i decided to tamper with their lore quite a bit, as i was inspired to by the Skyscraper Gods Au by Shirecorn. now mine is no were near as drastic as that au, obviously, but it did inspire me to come up with my own quirks for them.

i went more "alicorns are more like the elves of ponies but because they can only be made by some unexplained rare mystical intervention and live for fuck off long, normal ponies see them as demigods of sorts". i've even given them things like groups or locations that they act as patrons of and prioritize above other things, but that stuff gets a little rambley so imma not do that on this post

for the anatomy tho, i can talk. i'll be using Twilight as a visual example because she's the one i've drawn in all stages

so basically the concept here is pretty similar to the canon, but with some funky add-ons.

first up- when an alicorn ascends, not only do they gain the wings/horn combo and grow an inch, they also gain some other unique anatomy from the other species.

Unicorn- along with the horn, they also receive the ear tip tufts i gave unicorns. these actually have a purpose, they're sensitive to magic energy and allow unicorns to tell where magic is coming from. depending on the unicorn they vary in sensitivity but alicorns are by far the most sensitive Pegasus- along with the wings, the get some of the extra feathers pegasai have on their bodies, namely the ones on their ankles that are used for finer trajectory adjustments in flight. they also receive the sensitivity of their hooves that's used to pick up changes in cloud texture and sense their stability Earth Pony- earth ponies may seem like they don't add shit, but they actually give two very important things. the first thing is a strength boost, as they're stronger than the other two pony species by nature. the other thing is dense as fuck hooves. that sounds kinda lame but they have rock hard hooves that allow for them to dig into dense materials and have a kick with some real bite in it that the others just can't replicate and might tear their own hooves up trying. they also add the visible fluff in the ear canal. but that's just a dust filter and if isn't cleaned properly might actually be more of hindrance

it's worth noting- if you look at Cadance and Twilight side by side- that despite being given extra anatomical traits from the other species they will always look more like the species they were before ascension. this is mostly visible in the ears, tails, and hoof shapes -unicorns have long tails with hair only growing from the underside, basic ears, narrower hooves, and usually have long fetlocks as part of their culture. -pegasai have short tails that are completely covered with hair and have rudder feathers at the base, pinned back feathery ears with restricted movement, and really shallow hooves with no fur around them -earth ponies have medium tails with even hair growth around a third of the way down, basic ears, and slightly taller hooves with varying fetlock sizes.

second up- the only uniquely alicorn physical traits that they really have (aside from height) are their hair and beards. unlike normal pony beards that are made of the same hair as their manes, alicorn beards are made of coat fur and will grow a specific length each year that marks how old they are kinda like tree rings. due to this the alicorns don't try to cut them. the manes are kinda funky cause they start out at the roots as normal hair, but then become more "ethereal" after a few inches or so. they tend to start to become ethereal roughly 10 years after ascension

they do have one more weird trait but it's less noticeable and that's the thing with the patterns. when an alicorn is first ascended they gain an extra pattern on their legs, and that pattern gains a second layer around the time they start to get their ethereal manes. you can see it happening on Twilight's lineup.

there's also a bonus thing here that has nothing to do with alicorns as much as it does unicorns- but i like the idea of Unicorn tails (flesh/bone, not hair) getting longer with age. it's usually not too noticeable because they don't normally live long enough for it to be really noticeable compared to younger unicorns, but alicorns do- so former unicorns can end up with some long ass tails in their 1000's

that's all i really got now- if i added in magic and social stuff this would have been way longer. i'm done with my rambles

[hoomhum]

Tag Game: Find the Words

I was tagged by @inexplicifics who gave me the words "kiss", "laugh" and "snarl" to find in my WIPS. Thanks for the tag! This was fun. :)

Kiss was kind of hard to find in something I haven't posted yet! But here's an excerpt from the very beginning of a WIP titled Ghost!Jask.

"All our girls are booked up tonight," says the madam as they drag themselves through the ornate doors of the brothel. She spares them only a brief glance, lip curling in disgust. "And the lads." "Please," Geralt says, turning blindly toward her voice. "We just need a room. Not company."  "And a bath," Eskel adds, adjusting his grip on Geralt's arm, where it lays over his shoulder. "We've coin to pay. We won't be any trouble." He needs to get Geralt horizontal, needs to look at his eyes and get another dose of Swallow in him, and Kiss for himself; the wound in his gut isn't closing up like it should. It's burning with some sort of infection.  The madam sniffs at them both. The room is full of women, and a few men— all employees, by the looks of them. They seem to be frozen at the sight of them. Wearily, Eskel digs into his gambeson and pulls free a pouch of gold, only stained a little by his own blood. It's nearly all that they've made on this contract, but it won't do them any good dead. "There's an attic," the madam says finally. "We don't use it, but for storage. I'll send a bath up, but you won't be dragging your filthy selves through the building in that state."

Laugh, from an untitled omegaverse AU, where Jaskier finds himself won when a mysterious alpha challenges his fiance to a duel.

"I'm sorry."  He looks up to find that all three Alphas have stopped what they're doing and are looking at him with concern. It's Geralt that had spoken to him from across the fire. "I'd make him take you back, if that's what you wanted. If they'd listen. I was— not in control of myself. I didn't mean to take you away." Jaskier huffs a sad laugh. "He was going to take my voice. I should be thanking you." "He what?" "I'm a bard. Classically trained, studied at Oxenfurt, all of it. But he didn't care about that, apparently," Jaskier says to his bowl of porridge. "I was just a good match. Financially. He wanted my family's contacts. When you intervened he'd just announced he'd found a hedge witch willing to silence me. So I wouldn't be so. Annoying." "What the fuck," Lambert spits, looking back in the direction of town. "Damn, omega, you want me to kill him for you? I will." Geralt's expression is furious, a growl building low in his throat. "I'll help." "That wouldn't help anything," Eskel cuts in. He reaches out, as though to touch Jaskier's shoulder, but seems to think better of it. "I'm sorry. We'll find you someone better."

Snarl, from the latest chapter of Double Down, my thief!Jaskier story:

"You bringing him to poker tomorrow?" Eskel asks, moving to power down his laptop and collect his shirt and jacket. Geralt swears beneath his breath. They have a tradition, the three of them, to meet for a game at Vesemir's each month.  "Why the fuck would he do that?" Lambert snarls, glancing up as he shoves his own laptop into his bag.  "So we can stop trading the same two hundred crowns between us all. New blood, and all that," Eskel says.  "Poker?" Jaskier joins them, buttoning up his shirt and collecting his jacket. "Ooh, is this like a team bonding activity?"

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - Aristeia

tagged by @dirty-bosmer and @mareenavee - like you, my friend, I have no chill so here's a long snippet ha ha.

I am tagging @skyrim-forever @gilgamish @greyborn2 @moriche @thana-topsy @nientedenada @totally-not-deacon

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence) Category: gen Genre(s): Adventure, Homer retelling Main characters: Borgakh the Steel Heart, the orcs of Mor Khazgur

Summary: Borgakh is a dutiful daughter of Mor Khazgur, an orc stronghold in a remote corner of the Reach that has existed since the Merethic era. Expected to someday become the shield-wife of a distant chieftain, Borgakh tries to uphold the Code of Malacath as best she can. But when her father, the chief of their stronghold, goes missing while on a quest for vengeance, the suitors that show up to vie for his place cause no end of trouble and threaten the strength of Mor Khazgur. Borgakh soon finds herself traveling far from home across the Druadach Mountains to find her father and save the stronghold.

The first chapter is here on AO3.

Here's some more for chapter 2!

“Borgakh,” Bagrak’s voice pulled Borgakh’s attention away from the work at the forge. “We will be doing shield drills today. Warm up appropriately.”

“Yes, mother,” Borgakh said, and moved to the small sparring ground in front of the longhouse. Several training dummies and a clear, leveled area marked where the members of the stronghold trained for battle. Borgakh had already thrown her threadbare gambeson over the dummy to keep it at hand, and quickly selected her waster and wooden shield from the weapon racks before donning the gambeson. It was getting hard to close over her chest and the hem no longer reached her knees.

Borgakh had thought it comically large when Grutha had made it for her.

She grimaced as she turned away from the memory, and swung the waster a few times – it possessed the same proportions and balance as her orchalcum sword, but it was half again as heavy. The hornbeam practice shield was likewise much heavier than the fine laminated shield Borgakh called her own. She settled the guige around her neck and adjusted the length until a small portion of the weight was removed from her arm and distributed across her shoulders.

The sounds of the stronghold faded from her awareness as Borgakh executed the forms her mother had taught her.

Bagrak came from a stronghold near Shornhelm; the name meant nothing to Borgakh beyond an abstract point on the maps Sharamph kept in a cedar chest in the longhouse storeroom. Bagrak had impressed upon her as a young child that all the orcs of Yarzul stronghold and especially the Shield-Wives had been taught the sword-forms by their mothers, and in turn it would someday be Borgakh’s duty to pass them down to her sons and daughters.

The forms started with simple, slow movements; Borgakh repeated them at half-speed until she was fully confident her steps and strikes were precise; only then did she execute the entire sequence at full speed.

Olur’s steady hammering at the forge became a metronome as Borgakh turned her attention to the training dummy – she found herself striking in time with the ringing of his anvil.

Nearside-overhand, offside-underhand.

The training dummy shuddered as it absorbed her rhythmic blows.

Offside-overhand, nearside-underhand.

A chunk of red paint from the center of the target painted on the dummy’s shield was carved off with one of Borgakh’s cuts.

The familiarity of the movement allowed Borgakh to expand her awareness; the haggling over the goods Pavo had brought with him resolved itself from background noise into words.

“-Kolskeggr is practically belching out gold, I can easily extend you credit-” Pavo was saying.

“We do not need your credit, we will make a fair trade for what we can here and now.” Sharamph said. Her cowl was thrown back to reveal the gray streaks in her hair. Borgakh could hear Shuftharz grunt in agreement. “You have been spending too much time with those Nords in Markarth, if you’re talking about nonsense like credit.”

“I don’t want interest or anything-”

“Mor Khazgur does not owe debts,” Shuftharz said with finality.

“Look, if you’re that determined, I can–”

“Your sword is fast, but it outpaces your shield.” Bagrak’s voice cut through Borgakh’s eavesdropping.

Borgakh completed her final thrust, and brought her sword to a low guard before turning to face her mother.

“You leave your hand unprotected when striking.”

“My own shield is larger so–”

“You will not always be fighting with your own shield, and you must be adept with any armament you may find yourself using.” Bagrak picked up Borgakh’s helmet and handed it to her, before placing her own on her head.

“Yes, mother.” With the helm in place, Borgakh’s world contracted again, the narrow field of view afforded by the oculi in the nasal guard. The camail draped over her shoulders and neck, trapping the moisture from her breath as Borgakh settled it over her mouth and nose.

Bagrak was doing the same, her helm had a cascade of fine orichalcum scales that flowed from the brim of her helmet, transitioning into the finest mail Shuftharz’s forge could produce; it veiled her as she hefted her own wooden waster into a high guard position and turned to Borgakh.

Lifting the shield, Borgakh mirrored her mother’s stance, and their sparring began.

[heniareth]

💬💬💬💬 PLEASE 🥰

Four bits and pieces I'm proud of coming right up!!

💬 One from a chapter in the nearer future:

Then, everything went very fast. People finished putting their armor on and checked their weapons one last time. Somebody helped her with the heavy chain mail after she'd pulled the fear-sweat-soaked gambeson over her head. She would add her own fear to it now. Her heart was beating hollowly in her chest.

💬 One from a chapter that's still a long way off:

"As charming as the notion of carrying a handsome woman back to my quarters sounds, I can barely even lift myself as it is." Zevran shrugged. "Would you carry me in your strong arms, my friend?"

Oghren narrowed his eyes at him. That slippery bastard. "Nugshit. You can walk. You walked here with me."

"Alas, I was hoping to be spoiled for once." Zevran sighed. "Lovely Leliana, would you help me up?"

💬 One for early Astala and Zevran:

A light frown creased Zevran's brow. "As you wish. Should I leave entirely?"

"You should-" Astala swallowed her words and grabbed a pile of clothes. "Just… do the laundry."

She didn't storm off. She was just walking quickly, and her ears felt like they had been set aflame. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have known that Zevran would be worse than any shem. Because, unlike them, he didn't have to win her trust. He already had it.

💬 One for late-game Astala and Zev:

"Now, I have prepared two possible plans." Zevran adjusted his position and steepled his fingers. His ears were twitching ever so slightly. Was he nervous? "I have wanted to take you on a proper date for a long time, amor. Alas, a Blight does not allow for such things."

Astala did her best imitation of Morrigan's sarcasm. "What? You don't find darkspawn incredibly romantic?"

Thanks for indulging me!! XD XD XD It's still gonna be a while until I can post something new, and this helps me scratch the itch

[thedreamsmith]

Forged in Dragonfire (Chapter 4)

Aemond x OFC - future chapters will get smutty

Summary:  Aemond’s attention is caught by a noble lady with an unusual hobby. Lady Edeline is nothing like anyone he has ever met.

I am using HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) as the basis of the fighting in this fic, primarily German longsword. This is because it fits well into GRRM's world and it is the main system of blade usage that I am personally familiar with.

The training yard was mercifully deserted when she arrived the following morning. Whether Aemond had engineered it that way, she could not say, but whatever the reason or stroke of luck, the prince was the only figure in the vast, mud packed yard as the autumn sun groped weak fingers over the high walls of the Keep.

Flexing her fingers to shake off the chill, Edeline approached, hoping that she appeared more confident than she felt. Her smithing breeches were the only clothing that was even halfway suitable for combat, yet the stained linen could not hold a candle to the finely made gambeson that Prince Aemond wore.

‘May we start with longswords? I am most familiar with them, after all.’ The prince’s answering laugh was mocking but not cruel, as he undid his own sword belt and tossed the leather-wrapped weapon to the side.

‘We will not be using weapons of any kind to begin with. You cannot become a skilled fighter without a good grasp of basic footwork and posture.’

‘I am not a child.’ Yet even she could hear the petulant note to her voice, and scowled when the prince did too, with a knowing smirk.

‘I trusted in your expertise, my lady.’ His voice was soft, coaxing. ‘Trust in mine.’

*

True to his word, Edeline did not lay so much as a finger on a weapon for the first several weeks of her training with Prince Aemond.

For several hours every second morning, the Targaryen prince was a gruelling but skilled teacher; instructing her to tread up and down the training yard, hands clasped and held in front of her. He devised games of tag; had her mirroring his movements and evading his hands without compromising her body structure.

Much to her annoyance, she found that these lessons held many similarities to the courtly dances she performed so poorly at balls and galas. Her footwork became surer, more fluid, until she was able to move almost in tandem with the prince; their steps a silent waltz, never touching despite the charged heat that filled the space between them.

As a matter of fact, he almost never touched her during their lessons. His corrections were verbal only, repeated until she adjusted her stance or form to his satisfaction. Her rational mind knew that this was for the best - after the first time, they had always trained with an audience of knights and soldiers.

Despite the initial interest her presence in the training yard had caused, as the weeks wore on, fewer and fewer soldiers paid attention to her as they worked.

That was, until Prince Aemond gave her a weapon.

*

They began with blunted longswords, the weight and balance the same as live steel but without the risk that came with it. Her form was correct and precise from the prince’s games, her body strong from years working in the forge; so when her hands wrapped around the pommel, the weapon felt like an extension of her own arms.

The prince walked her through the basic guards and strikes, made her hold them until her arms shook and her thighs burned. But still she came back, every second morning, as the dawn grew later and the air colder. The aching muscles and numb fingers worth it for the way that Prince Aemond’s eye shone with quiet pride when she moved between guards, striking at invisible opponents as he called out openings.

She knew that whisperings of her activities had spread throughout the Red Keep from the furtive glances that ladies gave her over their fans; from the way her mother shot her sour glances when she returned home each afternoon, sweaty and bruised.

It was four months after her training began that a cocky young soldier mustered up the balls to heckle her in the training yard. The gold-cloak was barely old enough to be free of his mother’s skirts, and from the way he strutted across the frozen earth, it was clear that his need to humiliate her outweighed his fear of the younger prince.

‘If you want to play with swords, you can have a go with mine.’ His mouth was pulled up into a sneer, the frigid air turning his nose the same colour as his carrot-red hair.

‘Watch your tongue, you speak to a lady.’ Aemond’s voice was mild, yet there was a dark current that rode beneath the surface, a warning.

‘Ooh, you hear that, lads?’ The soldier made an obscene motion with his hips, thrusting lewdly with an oily laugh. ‘I’m about t’ get my sword polished by a lady.’

The prince did not intervene further as he approached, his gaze sliding to Edeline as she lowered her weapon and turned to face her challenger. From the shallow dip of his chin, she knew that Prince Aemond was letting her choose her own battles, knew well enough of the cruelty of men that the only way she would emerge victorious from this encounter was by her own merit.

She didn’t trust her voice to not come out as a mouse’s squeak, to not stumble over her words as she tried to muster a witty riposte. So she simply hefted her sword, holding it in a plough guard which provided enough threat that the soldier paused in his advance.

His sneer did not wane as he glanced back over his shoulder, sharing a laugh with his comrades at the edge of the yard. He drew his own sword, twirling the blade arrogantly as he settled into a poor imitation of the very first stance Aemond had drilled into her.

His first attack was clumsy but strong; a wide middle strike that she saw coming from leagues away, yet the impact rattled her teeth as their blades met. In all her lessons, she had not yet faced an opponent, only drilled again inanimate straw dummies or into open air.

Yet the voice in her mind was calm, with a distinctly aristocratic air, a voice that she had heard every second morning for the last four months, telling her to swing again, and again, and again.

Each opponent was a puzzle, the trick was to find the solution that would dismantle their pattern and use it against them. The flame-haired soldier attacked like a bear – rushing, monstrous strikes that rained down against her, yet never meeting her flesh.

She let her feet move like water, putting her entire body into each guard she held, the strength of her whole being behind each move. Her opponent’s footwork was sloppy, his blows thrown with wide movements of his arms.

It wasn’t long before he tired, before his steps slowed like he was wading through mud. Her window opened suddenly, and it was the prince’s voice that urged her to strike, to shift smoothly from the steer guard that had protected her head moments ago to a lightening fast strike and twist that locked their blades into the bind and wrenched the weapon from his hand.

Her stance was strong, her balance perfect, as her leg swept out, collapsing her floundering opponent at the knees and sending him sprawling into the packed dirt. With an icy elegance that she had learned from the prince, just as surely as his martial prowess, she placed the tip of her sword beneath the soldier’s chin.

‘Yield.’

His eyes burned with rage, chin trembling as his gaze snapped rapidly from the women whose mercy he was at, and the tall, pale shadow at her back.

‘I yield.’ His voice was barely audible, a strangled hiss through his teeth and fury.

‘Do not mumble, my goodman.’ Prince Aemond’s voice was quiet but firm, a smirk riding the words even if his face did not show it. ‘You are speaking to a lady.’

‘I said I yield.’ This time the words were loud enough for the entire training yard to hear. No one was laughing now.

Long fingers wrapped around her wrist, gently guiding the rolled tip of her blade away from her humiliated opponent. There was fire in her veins - the intoxicating rush of victory more potent than any Dornish vintage. The same fire she saw mirrored in the prince’s eye, burning right to the very core of her.

‘In order for a blade to become lethal, it must first be forged correctly.’ His voice was quiet, mindful of the people still watching them, yet he was solely watching her. Not as a meal to be devoured, or a prize to be won, but as one might regard something deadly, something powerful.

She was acutely, painfully aware of the mere inches between them, the rapid thrum of her pulse and the way her chest heaved from the exertion of the fight and the moments after.

The attention of a dragon could be a terrible thing, but only if you feared the flames.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

@deadbranch​ @mswintersoldier​

[dschubba-art]

a kiss to prove a point?

[Okay, this was a nice opp to get back into the writing saddle, so bear with me. Playing around a bit with the spirit of the prompt instead of the letter, hahaha]

Knight-Commander Hext had ever been one to stand out , that observation stuck with Regill the moment she walked into that cave, covered in blood and dust. Then came the halo, the first rejection of her tainted heritage, so bright she’d often have to remind herself not to unwittingly blind anyone with it. And now?

Now she’s doing her usual rounds of Drezen with a large pair of wings on her back, two large feathered limbs black tipped with gold. An acknowledgement from the goddess as to the commander’s origins or the Abyss still stubborn to remind her of its hand in birthing her, who can claim to know?

What does, however, command Regill’s attention like an unpleasant chafe is her change in posture, how she moves. She’s not used to the sudden weight on her back.

“Knight-Commander” case in point: her very deliberately turning on her heel as to not slap anyone with a wing again ,”A moment of your time, if you will.”

Tesni faces him, head tilted and bearing a small smile “Of course, Derenge, I’m all ears.”

“You haven’t yet adjusted to the wings. It’s plain to see, just by watching you.”

Just as it’s obvious that she’s ever so close to remark on his getting straight to the point – and just barely catching herself being about to tease him “That obvious, is it? Yes, far be it from me to be an ingrate…but I can’t deny they do take some getting used to.”

“And they just might become a hindrance in combat.”

“That occurred to me, yes.” Tesni’s brow pulls into a slight frown that eases as quickly as it appears “But it sounds like you’ve a proposal.”

“A simple one, yes. It has been some time since we sparred, it might just be what you need to cease being…an unwitting hazard.” Regill cannot quite stop himself from one corner of his mouth quirking upward in slight amusement. The commander’s wing lashing out at that kitsune menace approaching to pluck some feathers out…hard to deny that was something of a gratifying sight when it happened just the other day.

Tesni on the other hand opens her mouth and pulls her eyebrows up in a moment of mock indignation “Why, not taking any prisoners, are we? But…yes. That just might be what I need right now.”

Tesni meets him on one of the keep’s many outer walkways, dressed down to a gambeson and cotton trousers, training stick in hand. For all the confidence in her stance still not sure how to keep those wings still…and still insisting on that long ponytail just dangling in grabbing range. Obviously noticing his gaze, Tesni tilts her head “Something not quite to your satisfaction?”

“As you should well know. I keep telling you, that long hair is a risk. And every time, you don’t heed the warning.”

For a moment, Tesni grins in a way that flashes her sharp teeth, that rare expression she shows she’s about to say something wholly inappropriate for any place outside her chambers…but still catching herself, if barely “And I do appreciate the concern, but I’ve lived this long, haven’t I? Besides,” she rests the spear-sized stick on her shoulder “we are just sparring, aren’t we? I trust you’re not going to scalp me now.”

A crossing of the arms and a sigh through his nose is all the answer Regill dignifies this with. This odd playfulness she shows when it’s just them, well, talk about something he still has trouble adjusting to.

“In any case, you didn’t come just to chide me, did you? Let’s get started.”

They move in cautious circles, like wolves seizing each other up. Then wood strikes wood. Again and again settling into a rhythm.

Never staying in a bind for long, each stubborn to be the one to score a point first. There it is, a small misstep from the weight on her back-

She deflects Regill’s strike before the stick pokes against her ribcage. With sheer force and her greater reach, she doubles down on striking back, forcing him to move or be hit.

“I’d say you may have overstated the risk a bit” She chuckles, he cannot suppress an annoyed huff.

Strike against strike, none giving quarter, they carry on. And Regill sees his chance when she misses with an uncharacteristically clumsy overswing. Brutish, really. It gives him just the right opening to pass under her arm and past the defense she’s since put up.

In a display some may consider pettiness, his hand finds the long, thick hair of her ponytail – and it takes barely a yank to topple her with those top-heavy wings. With barely a yelp, Tesni’s on her knees, wings clumsily folded forward.

“…You do realize that was hardly fair, do you?” quite obviously forcing herself to sound calm to mask her just getting toppled like a rookie.

“And you of all people ought to know an actual fight hardly is.”

Between the both of them panting from exertion, his hand still in her hair and Tesni just so happening to be on eye level, Regill forgets himself. At least a little. It doesn’t take much to grip her chin in kind and close the distance. Just as suddenly, Tesni wraps her arms and wings around him in turn, her teeth now pressing insistently down against his lower lip, a slight press of tongue following-

It’s like both of them at once realize this isn’t exactly the most private place imaginable, Tesni hastily pulls away, heated breath slipping from her lips “While…this was enlightening in its own way, best we take this elsewhere if you’d prefer to keep educating me.”

Frankly, as far as Regill himself is concerned, he should be the reasonable one, the restrained one. He crosses his arms, sights through his nose “Hext…you are utterly insatiable” and yet, despite his tone, he just so happens to lead on to her quarters…

[the-cursed-recruit-story]

The cursed recruit

By Symon Pude

Chapter 3 - The general

A deep voice riffled through the air. “Get away from him!”

The kicking stopped. I turned to my side. Through my dull vision, I saw the berserker run towards my tormentors.

My first attacker exclaimed, “He attacked me!”

“And five enlisted cannot deal with one man without killing him?” the massive man asked.

The man staggered for a reply. The berserker stepped closer to the man, who was taking a step back from the towering officer.

The berserker said with a deadly calm, “This will still have consequences. Now scram!”

Without a word, the five disappeared. The shadow of a relieved smile ran over my face.

He crouched down beside me. “Can you stand?”

“I knew you couldn’t resist saving my ass.”

He blew air out of the hole at the side of his lips. I rose up to my hands and knees. Even that took way more effort than it should have. My right hand felt warm. Wet puke hung on my fingers in strings. A deep breath sent a jolt of pain at my left side. I winced, and my arms buckled a bit, letting me feel several bruises forming on them. I pushed against them and my knees took over my weight, pressing the stones below into my skin. The officer extended a hand. I took it with my left, and he pulled me up. My legs held.

He said, “The general wants to see you in his tent. Then we have someone take a look at you.”

“My rucksack, please.” I pointed at the bag on the floor. He carried it for me.

We staggered forward through the field. The army wasn’t just a big, compressed obstacle anymore. Several people were erecting two-man tents. In the centre there was a bigger, round tepee. A big crest of the army was embroidered on its side. The lifesize picture of a sword cut straight down a blue coloured octagon. On each side of the blade, four white dots were arranged in a diamond shape, but a bigger white dot was at the middle of the guard of the weapon. I focused on the crest, which I had never seen in such detail. I almost missed the looks of pity that were thrown at me from every side.

I tripped, my hands too slow to break my fall, but the berserker caught me with one hand.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as we went further to the tepee.

The berserker pushed the curtains to the tent aside. Hot, smoky air washed against my face, and I blinked to adjust. When I opened my eyes again, I froze.

On a seat beyond the bonfire sat the slender souvra that refused to step away from my carriage yesterday. He wore a blue, long sleeved gambeson with plates of armour similar to the berserker’s, though his were trimmed with shiny metal. From first glance it was obvious; he was the general. And I had disrespected him.

My shock turned to anger in an instant. He ordered his lieutenant to go after me, just because I had insulted his ego. Pain flared up at the right side of my chest, and I winced against my will. A gesture that might have been mistaken for a bow. I straightened against the pain, meeting the souvra with an angry glare.

To the army man's left side, there was a boy at the transition to a man. His thin facial points seemed like an exact copy of the general’s. He also had the same red skin on the collar of his officer’s gambeson and unnatural orange eyes. The younger version of the general looked at me with an unmoving stare, like a lizard caught in the open. That would explain the need for the blasting heat in the tent.

The berserker pulled a bench from the side and lowered me down to sit. My legs thanked him.

"I'm going to get the medic," the lieutenant said.

"Yes, please do that, Bron," the general said. All the while, he did not move a muscle.

The large man left, leaving me with the two souvras.

"Who did this to you?" the general asked.

"Can't remember their names," I said. "Wouldn't it have been funny if I had died after you went to the effort of ripping me from my home?"

I grunted and held my side. When I spoke, it felt like a stab from a dull knife.

“No, it wouldn’t have been,” the general said.

“What did you want with me?” I said in pain. “You didn’t call me here to pretend to care about me.”

“Hey,” the younger souvra shouted. “My father is asking the questions.”

“It’s fine, Kaith,” the general said.

I let out a coughy laugh.

The young man snapped his head to me. “What’s so funny?”

“Your name sounds like my old dog puking.”

The young man jumped up, ready to hurt me even more. That was the first big movement I’ve seen him do.

“Kaith,” the general said in a cutting voice. “Go and look if you can help Vito prepare the training ground.”

The young souvra looked at his father, before saying, “Yes, father.”

He put on a thick coat and headed out, throwing a last stare at me.

“Charming boy,” I said when he was gone.

The general pulled out his porcelain pipe, stuffed in tabak and put it in his mouth, all in one snappy movement. “You cut our last conversation short, and there is something that wasn’t solved yet. What is your mother’s race?”

I bared my teeth. “She’s human, not a drop of magical blood. Same as my father and my grandparents. My line is dirt. Is that what you wanted to know?”

The general sucked on his pipe and smoke spilled out when he talked again. “Don’t sell yourself as a cheap plate. Being only of human descent is quite rare nowadays.”

I had not seen how he had lit his pipe. I couldn’t ponder on it, as the curtains of the entry pushed aside and Bron came back with a man in tow. He was quite a bit shorter than me, but his broader shoulders made up for it. I scoffed when I saw the bald head that marked him as a monk. He made a small bow towards the general.

“You can examine the patient here,” the leader said.

“Yes, sir.”

The short medic turned to me, and a small frown appeared on his face.

He came closer. “Take off your surcoat and shirt.”

I smiled sarcastically. “Did Bron ask you to order me to strip?”

The monk’s face contorted in confusion. He turned to the berserker.

“Just ignore him and continue,” Bron growled.

The medic crouched down before me, and reached out.

“I can do that myself.” I said, starting to unbutton my surcoat, every movement shooting out pain. I put my surcoat beside me and tried to push my sweaty shirt over my head. A sting in my left chest caused me to grunt and press my eyes together. When I opened them again, the medic was even closer with a look that I didn’t expect from a member of the church; a look of genuine sympathy. Without words, he moved my hands upwards and helped me out of my shirt. The warmth from the fire lay on my bare skin. Several red spots dotted my whole upper body. The biggest one sat on the right side of my chest.

The medic explained. “I’m going to press on certain parts of your body. Tell me when it hurts.”

I pressed my teeth together. “It hurts now.”

“I didn’t even start.”

He started to feel up my legs, which were mostly unhurt, I only whinced once when he pressed on my left thigh. He moved on to my torso, where I winced every time he touched one of the red spots. The monk had a concentrated expression as he searched over my skin. While he worked, I got a good look at the picture embroidered in red on the chest of his brown tunic; an eagle spread his wings, reaching to both his armpits. In the centre of his body was another octagon, with a red hand in its middle, the crest of the church. I yelped out in pain when the medic pressed on the big wound on my side. He didn’t move on, but probed around even more, his brows furrowed.

Suddenly, his hands started shaking. I winced in pain, but he didn't stop. In the corner of my eye I also saw Bron clattering, like he was holding up something heavy.

“What?” I looked around, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The air in the tent seemed hotter than before, but I could have be mistaken. The general had his hand on the sword beside him. In its hilt, there was a crystal that shone in a faint orange light. When I looked closer, it had grown dim. Was it a trick of the light again?

The medic stopped shaking, but seemed just as confused as I was.

“You can continue,” the general said, with a hint of exhaustion in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” the monk said and pressed around the edges of the big wound.

Then he scratched the back of his bald head. “I think some ribs could have cracks. This could become worse if it remains untreated. He needs to take part in a ceremony as soon as possible. There’s a monastery in the next town.”

"Bron, could you prepare a carriage for our patient?" The general said without moving.

"I don't want to go there," I said before the berserker could react. "Just let me go and rest up at home. I can't be of much use to the army right now."

The general waited for a moment before asking the short monk, “What can happen if he doesn't get healed?”

The medic helped me slip back into my shirt. "Blood could get into his lungs, and he could suffocate."

I swallowed hard.

"How likely is that?" the general asked.

“Only time will tell for sure.”

The general sucked on his pipe. "Now that you know what could happen, do you still not want to go there?"

Before I could answer, the curtains at the entry parted again, and two officers stepped in. One was the general’s son, Kaith, but I diverted my attention to the second man. I had thought the new ceremon in Hazelbrook was a pure blooded gargoyle, but it was obvious that the new officer was the real deal. His skin had a deep aquamarine colour that almost blended with his gambeson’s. Three feathers protruded just above his ears on either side, not just down feathers, but long and brilliant blue. On the man's belt hung something that almost looked like a crown made from iron.

The blue man smiled at me with squinted eyes. “Oh no, what happened to you?”

Bron answered, “It was a small squabble between recruits, the responsible persons will be punished accordingly. The general has resolved the matter, Officer Aquarus.”

The blue man’s smile wavered a bit. “One might wonder whether this unnecessary pain could have been avoided, Lieutenant Frostbreaker,” said the blue-skinned officer.

Bron growled.

The new officer turned to the general. “Was it really worth sending your Lieutenant back to fetch a deserter?”

A puff of his pipe was the general’s answer.

“But I digress. I didn’t want to interrupt.” The officer stepped to the edge of the tent, still in my viewpoint.

“We will wait,” the general finally said, directed at the monk by my side. “If his condition gets worse, we will make the decision tomorrow.”

I looked at the slim man. Before, he'd ask for my input, but now, he just decided for me.

“Yes, sir,” the medic said beside me, but I had my eyes fixed on the general.

The monk spoke to me, “The only thing I can do now is urge you to rest as much as possible and not put any further pressure on the injuries.”

I nodded absentmindedly.

The monk wiped sweat from his bald head. “And try to keep your torso high when you’re sleeping. And when you struggle to breathe, put your hands down beside you.”

I nodded again.

The general said, “Kaith, could you escort the recruit and get him a tent.”

After a moment, the young man answered, “Yes, father.”

I pushed myself to my feet. My body complained, but I pushed through. Bron made a move to help me stand, but I gestured that I was fine.

"Wait a second," I said

I made my way over to the general’s seat and offered my right hand. “Thank you for saving me from those thugs.”

With one movement, he locked eyes with me, his strange orange irises filled with doubt.

“Very well.” He took my hand and applied good pressure. “Don’t assume I am going to save you every time.”

He let go.

“Thank you again,” I said, a smile appearing on my lips. “And I will try to stay out of trouble.”

"Please do, you're valuable."

“Let’s get it over with,” the general’s son cut off everything else.

“I need my rucksack,” I said while stumbling to the entrance.

The blue-skinned officer moved to the bag and picked it up with one fluid motion. He held it out to Kaith while squinting and giving me a smile. The young man took my things and slung it over his shoulder with little consideration, before leading me out of the tent.

We stopped at the carriage beside the tepee, where the young souvra climbed on and took out a package like the one I had carried for the man who almost kicked me to death. He pushed it in my hands, pain flaring up in my chest.

I struggled to hold the old tent. “It’s ripped,” I said, looking over it.

He walked on, moving with precision, not a single unnecessary movement. “I’m not going to climb up there again and get you a new one.”

I stumbled after the officer as he led me to the edge of the camp. At first his strides were too fast to follow, but they seemed to be getting slower. On a free space of grass, he dropped my rucksack, and I let my new tent fall beside it. I sat down beside it, causing a cough from my throat. The deep breath afterwards caught a rattle in my chest. My legs felt like after a week of hard labour on the fields.

“No time to sit around, you need to build up your tent, so I can finally go back to the fire.”

“Fuck you, Kaith.”

“It’s ‘sir’ to you.”

“Fuck you, ‘sir’.” The sarcasm dripped from the last word.

He raised his hand for a slap, but reconsidered.

“You there!” he called to the soldiers closest to me. “Put up this tent.”

They saluted and got to work erecting my tent, with no enthusiasm.

“Be ready to go tomorrow at dawn,” Kaith ordered me, before he went off directly to the general’s tent. His movements were now significantly slower than before.

I sat myself to the ground and took a deep breath that caused a rattle in my chest. I observed the other soldiers slowly getting into their own tents in groups of two. I brought my right hand up to my face and the smell of puke filled my nose. I chuckled, but it turned into a coughing fit. When I removed the hand from my mouth, my sleeve was tinged with a red colour.

"That can't be good."

[knighthoneybee]

Ok bear with me bc I'm gonna put these in mult asks for diff chars so they don't get overwhelming XD. Also, if you don't feel like answering all of the questions that's ok bc I feel like I'm asking a lot lmao

For Lorelai: motion, stillness, outerwear, armor, favorite, and AU (modern)

Putting this under a read more since it got so long! Thank you for the ask, Bug!

Motion - How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

Lorelai’s sure-footed and coordinated, but not too flexible; I think of her knowing how to traverse a lot of terrain just because Oolacile is a place with a lot of cliffs and ups and downs (in addition to the Township having lots of thin walkways). I can see her adjusting her feet a lot when walking through the forest to not slip on rocks or slippery mosses or something of that sort! Her clothing/armor is tighter in the right spots and loose where it needs to be to keep her from tripping on it or to keep a good range of motion—I’ve thought too much about how her armor would work now, lol.

Stillness - How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?

Lorelai’s gotten used to being still for long periods of time, and finds it comfortable. She tends to lean against the nearest thing to rest more of her body, or if she isn’t fully still, she stretches her arms and legs to release some of the tension within her muscles. Her clothes give her lots of room to do what she likes, so I don’t think she’d be too affected by it.

Outerwear - What's your OC's outerwear situation? Jacket, sweater, cloak? What sort of weather do they deal with most and how do they protect themselves?

Just a regular tunic and trousers, with a gray gambeson over it. The tunic is a thicker white fabric that’s been stained pink in spots from any injuries Lorelai’s gotten, while the trousers are thinner and dyed a tan color that’s better at hiding any bloodstains. Most of the weather Lorelai deals with is cloudy weather with a good amount of light showers. Most often, she takes shelter under what alcoves in the cliffsides she can to keep from getting soaked, and spends lots of time drying her armor to keep it from rusting.

Armor - What kind of armor does your OC wear? Is it well kept? Bonus: where does it come from? Is there a story behind it?

Medium armor, a mix between mostly black metal and some dark leather. It’s close to her body, the only pieces that aren’t directly flush to her gambeson the tassets on her waist. She keeps it as clean as possible, it her only protection despite also being one of her biggest detriments. It was the same armor her mother wore, once white and gold but now coated in inky Abyss, and it was the only thing that Lorelai could hold onto that still connected her to her family, in whatever way. Despite the torture of the Abyss, she couldn’t ever bear to get rid of the armor. Even more so once Lorelai became undead and realized her mother’s soul had latched onto it, acting as a vessel for her and giving her the body she thought she’d lost.

Favorite - Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?

Lorelai’s favorite thing she wears is the necklace her father gave her. He handcrafted it (with some help) from strands of his own hair, something that’s incredibly important to his and Lorelai’s culture because of its uses for their village and the meanings they have with it, how its worn and its length, etc. Lorelai’s dad hadn’t cut his hair for ten years due to his grief, and so the fact that he cut a little bit of his hair to give to Lorelai meant everything to the both of them. She wears the necklace all the time to keep it close and to remember her dad’s sacrifice, and in some way take him on her journey with her.

AU (Modern) - What would your OC's alternate universe look be? If they're a fantasy character, what's their modern look? If they're sci-fi, what's their fantasy look? What AU would you want to see your OC in, and how would they dress themself? Bonus: Prompt an AU!

In a modern AU, Lorelai would wear lots of comfy oversized sweaters with cool punk-type accessories! I see her in a lot of shorter skirts or ripped jeans, with cool chokers or bracelets or cool things like harnesses and stuff. I like her being comfortable but looking cool as hell, lmao.

[pressedinthepages]

Firsts (Chapter 2)

Thank you so so much as always to @sometimesiwrite for being the best bouncing board a person could have, and to @trickstermoose67 (Renversermonmonde on ao3!) for being such a wonderful beta <3

Rating: E

Relationship: Lambert/Aiden

Content Tags: smut, blowjobs, public (kinda) sex, porn with feelings

Summary: On the eve of their goodbye for winter, Lambert puts his mouth to good use.

The air was quiet as a cool breeze glossed over the sheen of sweat on the nape of Lambert’s neck. He had Aiden with his back pressed against a tree in the middle of a forest at the base of the Blue Mountains, one final goodbye before they separated for winter. Their lips searched longingly for comfort, their fingers tearing at clasps and buckles. An idea had been tickling Lambert’s brain, and he figured that there was no time like the present.

He broke their kiss and sank to his knees, gently toying with the leather ties to Aiden’s codpiece. “Mind?”

Aiden’s head thunked back against the bark and he bit his lip with a groan. “Y-you don’t have to, we can-“

“I want to.” Lambert flicked his amber eyes up to Aiden. He inhaled deeply, savoring the heady musk of Aiden’s arousal.

Aiden laughed shakily. “Alright, then. Just, just take your time, okay? Don’t force it.”

Lambert ran his hands slowly, reverently up Aiden’s thighs, squeezing the tightly corded muscle through the snug fabric of his trousers. His fingers tugged at the ties of his codpiece, letting Aiden’s soft cock fall into the air just shy of his lips.

Lambert hummed with a smile, pressing his lips in an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of him. Aiden ran his hand through Lambert’s hair as he felt arousal course through him, his blood boiling and filling his cock.

Lambert swallowed thickly before flicking his eyes up. “How do you like it?”

Aiden ran his finger over Lambert’s cheekbone. “Slow. Gentle. Tease me a bit. Make me beg. And feel free to make a mess.”

Lambert’s cock flexed hard in his trousers. His breath ghosted over Aiden’s inner thighs, his lips brushing past the swelling length and kissing the crease of his hip. “Pretty hot, knowing just what you want.”

His eyes tracked Aiden’s cock hardening, slowly filling and arching up to hang before his face. Aiden’s fingers in his hair tightened as he licked his lips, dragging his hands up Aiden’s thighs.

“You’re lucky,” Lambert sighed, biting his bottom lip coyly and pressing his mouth to the dark, wiry hairs at the apex of Aiden’s thighs. “You know I’m not patient. But shit am I stubborn.”

Aiden’s breath fell in a shaky chuckle as Lambert’s left hand snaked its way to the base of his cock, his fingers dancing lightly to circle him. Lambert adjusted his legs, spreading them minutely, allowing his own arousal a bit more room as he started to get down to business.

His tongue darted out, catching a pearly bead of slick as it just started to drip. Aiden hissed and his hips bucked, though Lambert was quick to grab him and hold him back against the tree.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Lambert grinned and arched his brow. “Though, I must say, delicious.”

Aiden groaned and threw his head back. “Yeah? That all you got, pretty boy?”

Lambert chuckled darkly. “Please. You know how to get what you want. Ask nicely.”

Aiden arched a brow, though his cock betrayed him by throbbing and dripping to the ground beneath. “You’ve got every opportunity to be productive with that mouth of yours.”

“And yet,” Lambert stroked Aiden slowly, just barely twisting his wrist at the tip, “here we are.”

Aiden reached down to thumb at the frayed ties holding Lambert’s gambeson together at his neck. The leather was thin and worn, though Lambert was near-obsessive about maintaining the little quality that his armor had. “I want to see you.”

Lambert sat back on his heels and stripped the heavy outer layer away, leaving him in his thinner black shirt that had pilling marks and a stitched-together gash at his hip. Aiden could see his dark chest hair peeking between the low v at his neck, and his forearms were bare with a handful of newly-earned scars over his tanned skin. “Better?”

Aiden hummed as Lambert sat back up on his knees. His fingers drifted through the young Wolf’s long black hair, while his hips arched into his touch.

“Now, where was I?” Lambert smirked and let his gaze rest heavily on Aiden’s eager cock.

“You were about to suck me off.”

“Was I?” Lambert glanced up to him with a shit-eating grin, his too-sharp canine glinting with joy. He ran his fingers through Aiden’s pubic hair, lightly scratching across the tender skin.

Aiden tsked. “If I didn’t know better, Wolf, I’d think you were stalling.”

Lambert narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his lips to the base of Aiden’s cock and breathing in deeply. There, nestled in the most intimate recesses of his skin, was the purest scent of his lover. Dark, heady, musky. Intoxicating. Though, when he glanced back up to Aiden, his eyes betrayed the barest glimpse of anxiety. “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?”

“Lambert,” Aiden sighed, running his finger softly down his jaw, “you’ve nothing to worry about. Whatever you do will be wonderful. But like I said before, we don’t have to do this. If you change your mind, we can just-”

“No, no I still want to,” Lambert licked his lips as he pulled back just enough for his breath to warm the tip of Aiden’s cock, “I just want to make you feel good.”

Aiden grinned. “You already are. Just being here with you makes me feel good.”

Lambert swallowed thickly and nodded. “Right then. Suppose you want my mouth, then?”

Aiden groaned from low in the back of his throat. “Please, fuck.”

“So…just lick, or…?”

“Literally anything but teeth, please, just please put me in your mouth, before my brain melts out of my ears.”

Lambert scoffed playfully. “C’mon, I know you can beg better than that.”

“I will once you do somethi-nng fuuuuck!”

Lambert licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of Aiden’s cock, letting his tongue linger at the tip before wrapping his lips around him. He inhaled as he sank down, sliding about halfway down before Aiden felt the tight nudge of the back of his throat. Lambert hummed and moved back, sucking at the tip once more before sinking him back in. One of his hands wrapped back around the base while he languidly swallowed around him and drooled onto his chin.

Aiden’s breath came in sharp gasps. “Ah, y-yeah. Fuck, like that. R-relax. Big, long breaths. Open your throat, try not to fight it.”

Lambert nodded as best as he could as he kept bobbing back and forth. Bit by bit, he was able to get more of Aiden’s cock in his mouth, following his gentle guidance from the desperate gasps above him. It was invigorating being where he was, with the heavy weight of Aiden’s cock resting on his tongue and pushing at the back of his throat, dripping salty slick to be swallowed while he licked at his balls. He was overwhelmed with the sheer pleasure pouring from Aiden, and he couldn’t get enough.

“C-can you put your mouth b…back on me?” Aiden’s voice was shaky, needy, delicious.

Lambert grinned to himself. He nosed back up Aiden’s flushed cock and loosened the ties on his own codpiece, letting his own arousal bob into the air, relieved for a moment. He snaked his hands between Aiden’s legs and bore some of his weight onto his shoulders. His hands rested back around the front of Aiden’s thighs and he hummed. “You sure you’re ready?”

Aiden swallowed thickly, fisting his fingers into Lambert’s hair. “Please, Lambert. Please.”

Lambert took him in the blink of an eye, fitting his lips around his cock and sinking all the way down, swallowing around him. Aiden could practically taste the salt from his overwhelmed tears and his slick dripping onto the forest floor as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Absently, his knees buckled and gave out, leaving Lambert to shift and hold him in his entirety on his shoulders as he set a brutal pace, dribbling spit and slick down his chin and neck.

Lambert’s head was swimming. He was encompassed and encompassing, holding Aiden up with his cock in his mouth. It was heady, messy, desperate. It was mind-bending, and Lambert felt his own climax spark to embers in the small of his gut. Aiden’s pearly arousal dribbled in a constant stream into his mouth, musky and salty and dark, and he could tell by Aiden’s wordless gasps that his climax was approaching at a neck-breaking pace.

Lambert adjusted and brought one of his hands back around and down, pressing lightly against Aiden’s entrance as he kept swallowing around him. Aiden hunched and cursed, arching his back and pushing into Lambert’s touch. Lambert just barely slid in, feeling his hole tense and flutter around his finger as Aiden coasted in tense pleasure for one, two, three heartbeats before plummeting over that threshold of euphoria.

Aiden’s cock flexed as spend spilled into Lambert’s throat, and (he’d deny it forever) he gagged a bit before getting the hang of swallowing around him.

Aiden’s climax was hard and long, his fingers tangled in Lambert’s hair and his mouth agape in a silent, desperate scream. His eyes were screwed shut and it was all he could do to just hold on.

Lambert bobbed his head slowly as Aiden coasted down from his high, licking gently at his softening cock. He let go with a pop, and slid his finger back out from him, though he kept his hold on Aiden’s legs firm. “I do alright?”

Aiden chuckled breathily and flexed his fingers in Lambert’s hair. “Alright? Lambert, you. I-fuck, I don’t even have words right now. Shit, let me down, I wanna-“

Aiden wriggled as Lambert lowered his legs to the ground. As soon as his feet touched down Aiden pounced, gripping Lambert’s shoulders and pushing him to lay on the grass beneath.

Lambert moaned as Aiden rested his weight on his thighs. His gaze trailed over Lambert, though he blatantly stared at his cock and licked his lips. He was achingly hard and dripping, his slick pooling on the tattered hem of his soft shirt.

“You,” Aiden gasped before he bracketed his hands on either side of Lambert’s head and kissed him deeply, licking into his mouth before breaking away once more, “are a treasure.”

Lambert flushed and his hips pressed up into him, chasing any hint of relief that his arousal could find. “G-glad you enjoyed it.”

“You seem like you enjoyed it too,” Aiden grinned and stroked his hand down Lambert’s flank. “Mind if I return the favor?”

“Fuck, please,” Lambert groaned and Aiden could see the tendons flexing in his flushed-rosy neck.

“Gods be fucking good, I need to get these damned things off of you-“ Aiden shimmied the trousers down and yanked them off, chucking them to the side before nestling himself between Lambert’s thighs. He practically had stars in his eyes as he drank the young Wolf in, all tense and pent up, yearning for release. “Any requests?”

“Anything, fuck, just now-“ Lambert groaned and his back arched as Aiden sank his lips around the tip of his cock. He knew he wasn’t going to last, but that wasn’t the point. It was pleasure, plain and simple.

Lambert’s hand found the nape of Aiden’s neck, gripping him lightly as his climax charged into his veins. Aiden bobbed and sucked and fondled his balls like he’d been working in a brothel since he’d left the caravan, and Lambert just couldn’t hold on, and he knew that Aiden would hold on for him.

So, he let go.

He grit his teeth as his climax was torn from his skin, something unnameable sending him spiraling into an oblivion yet unknown. All he knew was Aiden, his mouth, his hands, the sweaty curls of his hair that tickled his fingertips, the taste of his spend still on his tongue.

He felt himself spill into Aiden’s mouth, and his pleasure was only prolonged by feeling the Cat swallow every last bit around him. Lambert’s throat felt a bit hoarse, as though he’d shouted his way through his orgasm. Which he very well may have, he wasn’t sure.

As Aiden slid his lips from Lambert’s cock, licking away the last pearly drops of spend, Lambert basked in the afterglow. His mind wandered, and it hit him out of nowhere. It wasn’t simple pleasure, not anymore. No, it was more than that. It was a deep sort of trust that he had thought long ripped from him. And there he was, spread out on a forest floor with another Witcher hovering over him with a soft smile of his own on his lips.

Lambert hummed. Nah, not gonna say anything. Not like that, anyways. Can’t afford to get soft. “Wanna go again?”

Aiden glanced down to his own cock, once again flushed and hard. He had his own hazy eyes, and Lambert could only guess at the thoughts swimming in his head. “You know me so well.”

[donttelljim]

Bones - Stories of Thedas Day 4

Dragon Age Origins Alistair & Dog Referenced Alistair/Surana Lately, Alistair's been welcome in his fellow warden's tent, but her mabari isn't so sure about that. Alistair attempts to outsmart a wardog so he can reach his new bed. It goes as well as you’d expect :P (On AO3 here) ======================= Ferria had crawled into bed early: after the battles they’d faced that day, healing the party had taken what little strength she’d retained. Alistair had stayed up with the group, wanting to to give her some peace, but if he was honest, his foot had been bopping for hours. Half-listening to Zevran and Leliana’s stories, he kept turning from the fire to steal glances at his fellow warden’s tent. The tent that he was, as of extremely recently, welcome to sleep in. He wasn't the only one still adjusting to the change.The vast mabari had stationed himself in front of the entrance like an ominous Avaar or Tevinte statue. He was strong even for a mabari - an effect of the taint, perhaps. Broad, hefty, built out of solid strength: Alistair fancied he’d have a better chance picking up Sten than moving Fang if he didn’t want to be moved.

The wardog sat to attention, his tiny eyes fixed on Alistair. "Must we do this fight every evening?", the young warden sighed, approaching the hound with caution, hands raised. "Look. The lady’s spoken. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”

Fang didn’t move. He’d done this the past few nights, and tonight, Alistair didn’t have Ferria as backup. Fang listened to her, but him…? He could wake her, but that would feel extremely impolite, not to mention an admittance of defeat. Which was why he had come prepared. Alistair sighed again, making a pantomime of it. “I suppose you’re right . Alright - you win! I’ll just -” As if slowed by a spell, he turned on his heals, making a mime of preparing to leave. “ Walk away - Ohwhat’sthis?!” Whipping back around, he revealed his secret weapon with a flourish: a choice-looking bone saved from dinner, still with plenty of meat and juicy bits. Concealing it between his tabard and his gambeson had made an unfortunate, sticky messy of both, which was a detail he hadn’t anticipated, but it was a small price to pay for victory. He could sleep alone, or he could spoon a lovely woman. Frankly, he’d throw Fang his own arm. The hopefully tempting bone sailed through the air, end over end, and finally landed in the grass, tantalisingly in line of sight but a few generous doggy-bounds away from where Alistair needed to be. Fang watched the bone, expression hard to read, then, ears flattening in focus, turned back to Alistair. He stayed put. “What?! Really??” The humans’ hands flew up in appall, gesticulating in disbelief. “You're not going to go for it?? If someone threw me a treat, I'd run for it, TRUST me!" The mabari tilted his head for a moment, regarding Alistair, then, suddenly, rose and trotted away. For a second, the warden was too confused to react, but the next, he let out a crow of success. "Aha! Bowed to the better man, have we?” Chest puffed, he swaggered into the now unoccupied  space, standing at the tent door but pausing in his exit to gloat a while. “I don't blame you. But don’t feel too bad - you put up a - " His words cut short. The mabari had turned back to him, stood near the campfire and the teams’ packs, a paper-wrapped packet in his jaws. Cheese. Not just any cheese - Alistair ’s cheese, the expensive stuff he’d bought at the Denerim Market. He hadn’t attached to much about his privileged upbringing, but a finer, dearer taste in dairy was a trait that remained.

"WOAH! Woah woah woah!” The soldier raised his hands, eyes wide, speaking as though talking down a hostage situation. He was. “ What are you doing with that ? Now let’s just - Let’s not do anything drastic -" With a smug little skip to his paws, Fang trotted back over, and with a swing of his head, made a deliberate show as he tossed the cheese aside. It flew, end over end, and landed. Tantelising close, yet a good few strides away. Alistair laughed. "Nice try! But you forgot one thing. I'm already at the door, now. You left it unguarded.” He folded his arms, leaning forwards as he mocked the mabari. “Ha. Ha. I win." Fang didn’t wine, didn’t lower his head. He simply sat, waiting, as though he knew something Alistair didn't. Even so, Alistair gave a ‘psht’ and moved to enter the tent - then paused. He looked back to the cheese, brows furrowed. "...You could at least put it back, you know." Nothing. "It could get damaged there. Or icky." Nothing "Oh come on, that's not fair! It's good stuf - fine , I'll do it myself." Stomping over, Alistair stormed to the cheese and retrieved it, brushing it off and cooing apologies to it as he carried it back to his pack. "Did the mean nasty dog treat you badly, my dear? I won't let it happen again. Yes, you're still beautiful. No, don’t worry. You’re perfect." Job done, cheese secured, Alistair turned back to Ferria's tent. Ahhh - He stopped. Looking back at him, tongue lolling, Fang wagged his tail at him in success, sat back in front of the door. 

[ringneckedpheasant]

thinking abt josephine insisting that kiernan get an Official Portrait done as inquisitor and. solas being the one to do it. kiernan sitting for it for hours and trying not to blush even though the whole thing is Solas Paying Intense Attention To Him. solas touching him occasionally, to adjust the way his collar lays, or how a certain lock of hair falls.

josie wants him to get dolled up like he was for the winter palace but he insists it's dishonest to who he is, so he's just like. in his gambeson and fur cloak.

most importantly though. augh. kiernan can't keep from smiling a little because he's with solas. and solas just. doesn't paint him that way, because that too would be dishonest in a way—kiernan rarely smiles for anyone but him, and it's a gift that won't be given to whoever else sees the finished portrait. (he draws him smiling sometimes in his sketches, but those aren't for anyone but solas to see anyway)

[gremlinbehaviour]

Mithril

Written for day 5: gifts of Mini @mercelotweek

Read on ao3 or below

"Hey, I saw this in the market and thought of you," had become one of the most common phrases Lancelot's vocabulary. He'd never had a steady stream of income before, so after a small adjustment period where he still hoarded food, money,  and weapons to be prepared for a rainy day, he started spending almost all of his knightly paycheck on gifts. His first gift was for Merlin, a beautiful butterfly necklace inlaid with jewels that used up most of the money he'd saved. The next paycheck, though, was mostly spent on Gwaine, who had surprisingly been the one to teach him budgeting. The other traveler's monetary style leaned more towards "spend everything you got the second you get it so you can't get robbed," but that turned out to be exactly the approach Lancelot needed. He bought the knight new boots, since his old ones were wearing out from being worn for so long, and paid for many rounds at the tavern. All of his friends received gifts as well, from a custom made gambeson for Percival to journals for Leon to carving knives for Elyan to a set of beautiful silverware for Gwen and a new herb drying rack and more glass bottles for Gaius.

"Merlin, wait up a minute, I have something for you," he said the morning after one payday. Merlin was already out of bed, getting dressed to go wake up Arthur. His butterfly necklace was concealed beneath his neckerchief. Still in bed, Lancelot rolled over to grab the package he'd concealed beneath the bed. Normally he didn't bother with wrapping them nicely, but today he'd wanted to see Merlin's face as he realized what it was.

He handed the package over, smiling when the servant almost dropped it due to its weight, which was much greater than would be expected of a parcel its size but overall not too much. Merlin gave him a quizzical look as he started to unwrap it, before his mouth dropped open in shock.

"It's made with magic," Lancelot explained as the servant lifted up the fine chainmail shirt. It glimmered oddly in the light, making it obvious that it was made from something other than common steel. "Elyan's old partner at his smithy outside of Camelot is a sorcerer, and he enchanted the metal to be able to make it so fine, but stronger than plate armor." Each ring of the chainmail was no wider than a blade of grass, and the metal itself was as thin as cloth. It was tailor made to fit Merlin snuggly with just a thin silk undershirt beneath to keep it from pinching instead of a heavy gambeson. Gwen had sewn that part, along with providing the measurements for the garment. Instead of slipping on over one's head, it was to be laced up in the back so it wouldn't be as baggy. The point of all these deviations from the standard way chainmail was constructed was so that it wouldn't be heavy or obtrusive and Merlin could wear it every day beneath his clothes.

"It's… Lancelot, it's beautiful!" The metal had a blue sheen for most of it, with hues of every color of the rainbow for some rings. "You had this made for me? How much did it cost?"

"It doesn't matter. I would pay any price to keep you safe." Lancelot stood up from the bed, stepping close to Merlin and giving him a kiss on the cheek. The warlock was getting choked up, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, but he was smiling.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," he murmured, pulling him into a tight hug and then pushing him back so he could kiss him. "Will you help me put it on? I want to wear it today, and every day."

"Of course," Lancelot agreed, already lifting the bottom of Merlin's shirt up. He took absolute care in lacing his partner into the silk undershirt and chainmail. It took time, and would probably make the servant late to go wake Arthur, but he didn't care. Protecting Merlin was more important. Merlin was more important. Before he left, Lancelot pulled him in close and told him he loved him. The gift may have said it already, but the knight wasn't going to risk letting him go without telling him anyway.

[eggssontoasst]

Atsumu had been informed that the squire that had been usually assigned to him would be absent on the day of the joust. They said he’d attended his mother’s funeral or perhaps he had caught the flu. Either way, he’d inquired as to who had been henceforth assigned to assist him during the joust.

“The scribe, Your Grace.”

Atsumu had felt a jolt somewhere within him. A concoction of excitement and a wariness that was hardly discernible.

“We know Your Grace won’t mind. After all, the scribe has as of late been a rather forthcoming companion of Your Grace.”

Atsumu had expressed his acceptance without issue, an inaudible response marked by the most strained tilt of his head. And on the day of his joust, the scribe came to him as promised, the unmistakable dark coils on his head peeking through the flaps of the tent where he asks for permission before Atsumu eventually grants him entry.

“You could have simply walked in,” Atsumu says to him. “I wouldn’t have taken any offense had you done so.”

“I don’t think neglecting formalities at such an occasion would be ideal, Your Grace,” he replies, but he speaks with a warmth that rivals the chill of the outdoors.

Atsumu pushes out a wry laugh, then he turns to him. Kiyoomi, a sought after scribe who had been granted a place in the courts after fervent recommendation. He lived up to the seeds of expectation. Praise trickled in with ease after they found him to be exceptionally diligent and keenly cautious.

The subsequent camaraderie between Atsumu and Kiyoomi had been unintended, a result of Atsumu needing to write letters to his brother who had married a royal of another country.

“But I am not a letter-writer, Your Grace,” Kiyoomi had said. 

Atsumu had waved a hand dismissively. “And yet I trust your command of words would still be of far better competence than mine.”

Kiyoomi had acceded and before dusk, he had given Atsumu a folded up parchment. 

“May I ask your Grace a question?”

“What is it?”

“Why do you deem yourself incapable of personally writing to your own brother?” he’d asked Atsumu.

And Atsumu had smiled at him, a ruse to conceal his bitterness. “If you continue to meet with me, I’ll tell you.”

An uncanny bond is thus forged between the two. Atsumu had come to appreciate Kiyoomi’s earnestness. Kiyoomi in turn had warmed up to Atsumu’s obstinacy. Their contrasts stark at times, but it is precisely the existence of these gaps between them that had drawn them to each other. Atsumu had once thought of himself as a moth, Kiyoomi the flame. But as their interactions stretched on, he’d commenced to believe that perhaps they were both the flame, feverishly burning from the inside out.

Kiyoomi gingerly picks up the breastplate and he sidesteps to Atsumu’s left. “Your arms, Your Grace.”

Atsumu lifts them and Kiyoomi slips on the solid piece of the armor. Then he proceeds to adjust the straps. 

“It’s a bit loose,” Kiyoomi says and his voice has quite nearly dropped to a whisper and perhaps it’s because of their close proximity to each other. Not entirely foreign to Atsumu. Or to Kiyoomi. They’d talked in hushed tones before, strangely when there was scarcely anyone around to even possibly catch wind of their conversations. 

Kiyoomi continues to fiddle with the straps. “I think Your Grace has shrunk.”

Atsumu laughs again, this time in amusement.  “You’ve always been so scathingly  honest.”

Silence. Then the hand on the strap of his breastplate moves to his shoulder. Atsumu’s gambeson suddenly feels stifling.

“What leads you to this assumption?” Kiyoomi murmurs

And Atsumu faces him. “A dishonest scribe would be an absurdity.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t avert his gaze, but he drops his hands and lets them fall to his sides. “I’ll have you know that everything of who I am is not always bound by duty, Your Grace.”

“Should I be concerned?” Atsumu's voice matches Kiyoomi’s. “After you have just confessed to a possible propensity to fibbing?”

And Kiyoomi’s stare softens. “Your Grace should know that you in particular have no reason for concern.”

And Atsumu suddenly feels every ounce of the breastplate bearing him down. He can feel a profound twist in his chest, as if a lance had already been thrust into his ribcage. And in so intending to assuage these emotions, he settles for a taunt. 

“You could be a poet,” Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi scoffs at him. “Highly unlikely, You--”

“But as much as I find beauty in your writing,” Atsumu relays, sincerity finding home in his voice. “I wish to never be at the receiving end of any of your letters.”

He anticipates an outburst of equal fervor. After all, Atsumu is not a moth. He does not believe Kiyoomi to be one either. But Kiyoomi wields before him a smile so meek, one that did not necessarily extinguish the flames, but merely tempered them so that these affections don’t burn themselves out in self-sabotaging  brightness

“As you wish, Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi affixes the rest of his armor and before he sends Atsumu off, Kiyoomi brandishes a small, squared parchment. A tiny piece likely torn off a larger scroll, and Kiyoomi hands it to him.

"Here. Read it after I leave. Consider it the first and last letter I'd write to you."

Atsumu heeds him and only unfolds it once Kiyoomi has stepped out. Then he reads the neatly scrawled ink.

‘Today, may you claim victory as you have claimed my heart.’

It's the best letter Atsumu has ever received.

(if you liked this one, maybe check out my ao3 shenanigans lol)

[akilah12902]

So i found a video of Lambert post Battle of Kaer Morhen if you didn’t save Keira and I immediately had to give my poor gremlin a hug. 

https://www.ign.com/videos/2015/07/04/the-witcher-3-wild-hunt-walkthrough-part-56-blood-on-the-battlefield

"How are you feeling?" Geralt asked. Lambert was standing off to the side, away from him and Eskel, staring into the fire.

"Please," Lambert said, choked up and tears obvious. Geralt had to stop short for a second. Lambert— was not the kind of guy to use single words.

"Thanks for everything," Geralt tried, seeing if he could provoke a longer reaction.

"Sure."

Oh, that was a bad sign.

“Get some rest,” Geralt said, giving it one more shot. “You need to heal.”

"Leave me alone," Lambert said, almost choking up again.

Yeah, okay, it was necessary. Geralt stepped forward and pulled Lambert into— well, technically it was a hug but it needed to start with a headlock, because— yep, there Lambert went, fighting against being held like he was a cat Geralt had tried to pick up, thrashing and squirming.

After a few moments, though, Lambert’s muffled yelling changed into deep, dry sobs that rattled his frame, and he slumped a little and clung to Geralt’s gambeson instead.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt murmured, quietly enough that the others, who had mostly backed up in alarm at the sudden grab, wouldn’t be able to hear. “I’ve got you, Lambert.”

Geralt adjusted his grip so that he wasn’t half-choking Lambert, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother’s back and pulling him in close, so he could hide his face in Geralt’s chest and cry like he clearly needed to.

“Ah hell, Lambert,” Eskel rumbled, having walked over, and he wrapped his arms around Lambert’s miserable huddled form too. 

The three of them stood there, rocking back and forth slightly as Lambert gave vent to his pain and the humans there backed off, not prepared to intrude.

“We’ve got you,” Eskel said.

[wearmanyhats]

This nonsense took me f o r e v e r because apparently I am punishing myself for a long burnout period by insisting on giving things an attempt at proper texture and definition instead of just stopping at shadows and highlights. Hence the detail shots. I am particularly pleased with the reptilian hide belt, the crystal, and ESPECIALLY the quilted gambeson. Drawing the stitching and adjusting the line work on that gambeson took so long I might as well have hand-sewn an actual gambeson.

His name’s Phaeron and I’m going to bed.