#herb garrison

[gravitycoill]

a crappy little south park animatic to one of my favorite reel big fish songs!!

youtube link under the cut....

[corporatefrog]

╭₊˚ ๑︰Tegridy for the Soul

✧.* featuring: yn asking stan to take them to Tegridy Farms for some fresh herbs

✧.* tags: college au, drugs (weed) ✧.* Characters: stan marsh

masterlist

Come on, come on, come on. Gotta catch him before he’s gone. 

Bursting through the doors of Garrison University, I didn’t slow as I rushed down the stairs and into the parking lot. I came to an abrupt stop on the curb, my upper body jolting backward when my legs didn’t move forward. My eyes scanned the parking lot for any sign of the beat up pick up truck with a discolored door and rusted bumper. Once it entered my gaze, my eyes widened. 

Bingo. 

My legs sprung into action, feet slapping the pavement as I sprinted towards the truck. I jumped forward as a car blazed past me towards the exit. I shouted an apology over my shoulder before turning back to the target. 

“Stan! Wait up!” I shouted, waving my hands in the air for him to see. 

I’d been trying to track down Stan Marsh for the past two weeks. We had a class together on Tuesday and Thursdays but by the time I finished packing my things away, he was gone. He’d told me that he drove home after class on those days to have dinner with his family, which is exactly where I needed to be. 

I slowed to a stop beside Stan’s truck, placing a hand on the side as I caught my breath, “Stan…are you…going home?” I said between gasps of air. Stan looked down at me with a raised eyebrow, sharing a look with his sister who stood on the other side of the truck. 

“Yeah. I usually go home after this class.” He said.

Perfect. Operation tegridy is a go. 

After catching my breath, I straightened up and faced Stan. Shelley stared at us from the opposite side of the truck bed, tapping her fingers on the metal with a bored look on her face. Shelley had always been someone who scared me. She just seemed so intimidating whenever I hung out with the guys or passed her on campus. 

I held up a hand to guard my mouth from her, “I have a secret favor to ask” I whispered to stan. Stan didn’t reciprocate the gesture. 

“What do you want.” He asked, leaning onto the side of the truck as he spoke. 

“Well,” I started, still covering my mouth, “I was hoping that maybe, possibly, I could hypothetically-” Stan cut me off with a sigh. 

“Dude, just say it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to force the sleepiness out of his eyes. I frowned, dropping the hand. 

“I was just trying to lead with care but whatever. I was wondering if I could come with you to your house today?” I asked. A snort from Shelley drew my attention to the other side of the car. She was staring down at her phone but a quick glance up showed that she was definitely eavesdropping on this whole conversation. 

Stan was no as sarcastically amused. In fact, he didn’t seem impressed by my kind request whatsoever. 

“Why do you want to come to my family dinner.” He asked, arms crossing over his chest. 

Fuck, I didn’t think I’d get this far. 

I scrambled to find a response, mentally flipping through all the excuses I’ve used to get in or out of situations before. 

“Because we’re best friends?” My voice lifted at the end as if it were a question. To balance the uncertainty in my voice, I put on my best “please do this for me” smile and hoped for the best. 

“You told me yesterday that Butters was you ‘bestest friend forever’ and that you’re getting matching tattoos.” Stan retorted. 

I FORGOT I SAID THAT! IMPROVISE! IMPROVISE!

“I just said that so he wouldn’t feel bad.” I said, clasping my hands at my chest, “You know how sensitive he is.” I turned my head to gesture towards Butters who was sitting at the bus stop with a granola bar and iced coffee in hand. He noticed my gaze and shook the granola bar hand in the air. 

“Hey, yn!” He shouted across the parking lot. 

I returned the wave and greeted him with a smile, immediately turning back to Stan, “See, I can't break that little guy’s heart.”

“Can we just cut to the chase, I’m tired and hungry.” Shelley complained, thumping a fist on the truck, “They want weed, Stan.” She grabbed her back and flung open the passenger door, lifting herself in and closing the door with a slam. 

Well there goes that plan. 

“Yeah, I want weed.” I quickly agreed, growing tired of my own persuasion. Maybe all I had to do was ask

Stan’s expression soured as he shifted his shoulder to face me.

“Are you fucking serious right now. You know how I feel about my dad growing that shit.” He said. 

We need to save this. Plan B GO!

I began to talk quickly, moving my hands for emphasis as I spoke, “I’m not saying I support your dad. I’m not saying your dad is a good guy. If he were to walk into a room, I would find the closest exit through which to leave the room.” I paused, hands frozen in the outline of my fake room, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to try the weed though.” 

Stan and I stood there for a moment, sizing each other up. Me gauging how much Stan dislikes his father and him gauging how long I’ll bug him until I can get that tegridy special. Stan looked around the parking lot slowly, eyes moving but not looking at anything in particular, just moving as he thought.

Stan broke the silence as he stared at the statue of Dean Garrison,  “Will you say all of that to his face.” He asked, giving me a sideways glance. 

And we’re in. 

“Oh absolutely.” I said, forcing my face to remain serious despite the mental celebration happening inside of my head, “I’d probably be a bit more brutal. Just to see if I can permanently damage his psyche a little bit.” 

With a deep breath and a muttered phrase I couldn’t understand, Stan pushed off the side of the truck and faced me. 

“You can come with me on one condition,” He held up a finger, “You need to ruin him.” 

I nodded so fast I thought my head would fly off, “Of course. Consider it done.” 

“The more brutal you are, the more weed you get.” Stan said, turning around and opening the driver’s seat. 

“You’ve got backseat, dinner’s at 6.” He said over his shoulder before shutting the door. 

The smile I’d been holding back cracked through my face, splitting into a wide grin. My body began to move in an awkward celebration dance with just a little bit too much elbow. 

And THAT ladies and gents, is how you score some weed from you friend’s asshole father. I should do that more often-

“Are you coming or not?” Stan called from the driver’s side window, black hair pointing towards the ground as he leaned his head out. 

“NO, NO I’m coming!” I responded, practically throwing myself into the back seat and pulling the seat belt over my chest. 

Stan started the car, backing out of the spot before shifting into drive and beginning out journey to Tegridy Farms. Pulling out my phone, I sent a quick text to Craig, asking him for his opinions on Eric Cartman.

Randy Marsh has no idea that I’m about to ruin his god damn life. 

I am going to get so much free weed out of this.

[majmesa]

Scottish Borders, part 2

More photos of the amazing wall at Steel Rigg.

We ended up at Vindolanda that is Roman garrison built around 100 to 300 AD. It had bath houses, houses, stables, churches, cemeteries, warehouses, shops, you name it. It is the site of an archaeological dig since 1974 and they estimate at least another 100 years to examine it all. It covers acres. We climbed to the top of a watchtower. We both loved it!

There was a museum displaying items they found at the dig. My favorite things at the museum included a display of leather shoes (just a few of the more than 5,000 they have found so far), armor for horses, and intricate pots.

The Romans also grew herbs for medicine, had hot water baths, latrines, and indoor heating, and made things out of pottery, wood, metal, and glass. On our return to Edinburgh, we had dinner at Wagamama.

[weedle-testaburger]

‘oh, hey herb!’

i’m ashamed of how cute i find it that garrison’s boyfriend calls him ‘herb’

[rotworld]

4: Cloak and Dagger

a lot of people go missing in the zephyros borderlands. you're about to find out why.

->explicit. contains noncon, gore, murder, implied captivity, semi-public sex/voyeurism, terato, size difference, nonhuman genitalia, mentions of/implied sexual violence, conditioning/implied mild mind control

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If you want to get from the duchy of Brashvale to the bustling port cities of the Lapis Coast, you take the winding merchant roads that strafe north and weave through the highlands, a meandering path that eats up a week of valuable time and resources. You could also cut through the Zephyros Borderlands and get there in a day, but nobody does that unless they’re desperate. In the morning, you take inventory, count your measly coins and dwindling supplies, and have to make a difficult choice. Starve in the mountains, or try your luck through the borderlands? 

Jeanne, your horse, rears and whinnies nervously when you pass through the treeline. You’re swallowed by forest, plunged suddenly into unnatural darkness. You pat her flank and try to soothe her, but you feel it, too. You’re being watched.

Morning barely scrapes the borderlands. Whatever light slips through the thick, tangled tree canopy is strangled by an unearthly red haze. You’ve heard rumors about the bloodmist, where it came from, what it does to anyone who wanders in it too long, all fantastic and conflicting. It smells like iron, feels gritty and cold like brine. Things shift sometimes in the distance, hunched silhouettes through the scarlet fog. Anything could be in these woods. Bandits. Monsters. Old, awful things. You see things above you, shadows soaring by, but you don’t hear any birds. You focus on the familiar, the sound of Jeanne’s hoofbeats and the clattering, slow spin of wagon wheels. 

The journey is tense but uneventful. You feel the weight of someone’s unbroken gaze for hours. Sometimes you try and peer into the shifting mists but for the most part, you keep your eyes on the road ahead. What would you even do if you saw something? What if it knew you had seen it? Better to keep moving, you think. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear a human voice for the first time since entering the borderlands, a shrill, “Halt!” 

You can hardly believe your eyes. There’s a garrison, a shabby wooden guard tower and a makeshift gate, in the middle of the borderlands. A woven flag with a coat of arms stitched in golden thread flutters from atop the tower. Some idiot king has ordered a checkpoint erected here, in the middle of nowhere. A knight in fine, polished armor strides up to your perch on the wagon. “State your name, business, and cargo,” he says. 

You tell him what he wants to know, but you’re uneasy, glancing back over your shoulder and beyond the old, weary wooden roof of your wagon. Is there something there, lurking in the shadows of the trees? Or are you just imagining it? “I sell grains and herbs, things like that. I’m headed for the coast,” you say. “Do we have to do this here? In the middle of the borderlands, where we could get attacked at any moment?” 

“No one is going to attack a royal garrison,” he says. They haven’t been out here long, then. “On His Majesty’s orders, we are to inspect every traveler who comes by way of the borderlands and their belongings. Please step aside.” 

“How long is this going to take?” you ask. You don’t receive an answer as you’re yanked from your wagon. A few of them start knocking around, looking for hidden compartments or god knows what, rifling through sacks of grain and spices. This could be about anything. Posturing, a demonstration of power, paranoia. You can’t keep track of which nobles are at war and over what, but some of them mutter now and then about Lanternwood, an elven realm to the west.

Jeanne starts fidgeting, stomping the dirt, and you stroke her neck. There’s someone out there, you’re sure of it. Someone watching all of this, and waiting.

Another wagon arrives soon after, larger and more impressive than your shabby, unpainted cart. It bears the royal crest. Through rustling curtain drapes, you see flashes of steel and carved wood. A weapons shipment, by the looks of it. War must be brewing. The wagon is pulled to a stop behind yours and the guards are much more polite with its driver, conversing rather than interrogating. 

That prickling feeling along your spine, the sensation of eyes boring into you, grows oppressive. There’s a whistling sound, a swift gust of air. An arrow soars so close to your face that you feel its bristling, feathered end caress your cheek. You hear it stop with a dull, sudden thunk, and the closest guard falls dead. The garrison erupts into chaos.

You hear a stampede, rapid hoofbeats careening down the forest path. You’re exactly the last place you want to be, wedged between a horde of bandits and panicking guards, as another arrow spears a man through the eye in a burst of blood. 

Jeanne bolts. You can’t stop her. She bucks and rears, tearing herself from the flimsy front end of the cart and tramples you beneath her panicked legs. You hit the ground hard and see spots, your ears ringing. You hit your head on the way down and you’re seeing double. A horse rockets past you, narrowly avoiding your outstretched arm, and you hear shouting. Where are the bandits? All you see is bodies trampled under heavy hooves, rivers of blood wetting the forest floor. There’s a clash of swords behind you, the shrill ringing of steel, and someone screams. A severed head hits the ground. 

You’re grabbed by the shoulder, rolled onto your back. Your vision is smeared. All you see is red and a looming silhouette. “...head wound,” somebody says, the words sounding watery and muffled.

“...the wagon...poor thing…”

“...useful, though…”

Everything is vertigo and haze for a while. You’re vaguely aware of sensation. Being lifted. Being maneuvered, and in pain. Settled on something warm, firm with muscle, yet—soft? The fine peach fuzz of Jeanne’s coat. The brittle kiss of bloodmist feels like water and sand, like you’re floating through the borderlands. There are unpleasant noises. Warbling. Repetitive wails. “Please,” you think you hear, and “stop” and “don’t,” over and over again, loud and then soft. And then it’s all muffled and far away, and you’re swaddled in comfortable darkness. Your head stops pounding. It doesn’t feel like the world’s spinning under you. You open your eyes to soft shadows and flickering candlelight. The light is tinged red—you’re still in the borderlands. But it’s softer, the color washed out and pale. 

A shriek cuts the silence and makes you jolt, fully awake and frightened. You’re lying on something hard. A wooden table? You’re indoors, a high-ceilinged hut carpeted by earth and soft grass. The mist is thin, the shadows deep. How long have you been drifting in and out of consciousness?

“Rise and shine.” 

The voice comes from right beside you, a gravelly rumble. There’s a man sitting there. He has a strange, gray complexion, snowy spots and patches of slate freckling his bare chest. His long, dark hair is held in a ponytail, stray tendrils draped over one shoulder. You notice first that he’s covered in scars, stark lines of jagged tissue etched everywhere you can see. You notice second that he’s staring at you with cold, half-lidded eyes, and he’s sharpening a knife. He looks vaguely amused when you scoot a little further away. 

“You Aevian royalty?” he asks. Is he serious? Do you look like royalty? You shake your head. “Got anything to do with Aevian royalty? Work at the palace? Bringing war supplies?” 

“No,” you insist.

“Then relax. You’re not our target. Real unlucky, though.”

You shift a little further, trying to get out of his reach. You feel the edge of the wood and look back, surprised at the table’s height. Is this a workbench of some kind? You take another look around you. The room is plain, wide open with little furniture. There’s a weapon rack on the wall, a few swords and spears. Those flattened piles of dried leaves might be beds. Do they sleep here, in the borderlands? These can’t be normal bandits. There are a few barrels and crates stacked in one shadowed corner, all bearing the official royal seal of Aevia. Newer than the others, missing the dust and cobwebs, are heavy burlap sacks that look suspiciously like the ones from your wagon. 

“Never found your horse,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “Brought your wagon back, though. Used some of your flour.” He scrapes the blade against the whetstone again and the sound makes you wince. “Relax,” he insists. “If we wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Ferrio doesn’t miss.” 

“So can I go?” you ask cautiously. 

He chuckles. You’re surprised that he sets the knife and whetstone down on the table beside you. He thinks you’re weak, or that you can’t grab it faster than him. “‘Fraid not,” he says. 

“Why?” 

“Politics.” 

You test him, reaching for the black dagger handle. He lets you. He doesn’t even budge, but his eyes follow the movement. He’s smiling. “What does that even mean?” you ask. 

“Means you were at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, feyen.” 

You don’t recognize whatever he just called you. It sounds elvish. “I won’t tell anyone about this, I swear.” 

“Wish I could take your word on it, but…” He stands up and you flinch back in surprise. No wonder the table is so tall and no wonder his proportions looked so strange beside it, at eye level with you despite seemingly kneeling. Beneath his human torso is the enormous, dapple gray bulk of a horse. He wears nothing but a length of stitched leather with fur trim draped over his lower body, a few pouches and satchels crossing at his waist. You realize you’re staring when you meet his eyes and find him sizing you up, his gaze appraising. “Nobles are fighting, as nobles do,” he says. “We were hired to keep supplies from coming through. The borderlands make for good cover. They lost half a dozen wagons before the garrison went up, and we took care of that today.” 

“That’s got nothing to do with me,” you insist. You slide to the floor carefully, keeping the table between you. The centaur’s tail flicks, his eyes narrowing. There’s only one door. You’ll have to get around him. 

“We’re trying to be discreet,” he says. “No one can know we’re here.” 

“I told you, I won’t tell anyone!” 

“Can’t risk it.” 

You lunge for the knife. He is, you realize in terror, much faster. He snatches it out of reach with one hand, the other seizing your wrist and dragging stumbling into the edge of the table with a wince. The freshly sharpened edge of the blade rests against your throat. “Please don’t kill me,” you say, as quiet and calm as you can muster. 

The centaur looks at you again. His gaze leaves your face and strays lower, moving down your body. “Never said I was gonna do that.”He pulls the knife away and twirls it easily between his fingers. “Don’t try to fight me, feyen, and don’t try to run. I’ve been a mercenary for a long time.” 

“So you’re just gonna keep me here? For how long?” 

“Depends. We might stay for the war, if somebody’s paying.” The knife vanishes in a flurry of movement and quick fingers, disappearing into a sheath somewhere beneath the leather. “C’mon. I’ll give you a tour.” He’s serious, you realize. He turns, nods towards the door. He crosses his arms and waits when you don’t budge, his tail swishing impatiently. Does he really think you’re fine with this? That you don’t mind having your whole life derailed to stay in a centaur mercenary camp while war breaks out across the realms? “You should know where everything is,” he says patiently, like he’s talking to a child. “And you should meet the others.” 

Fine, you decide. You’ll go along with this for now. You can’t make a plan until you know where you are or what you’re dealing with. The centaur watches your every move as you slink around the table. He’s much more intimidating up close and without the table’s height pushing you closer to eye level. You bite back a snarl when he pats your head gently, as though soothing a skittish horse. 

Their camp is fairly large. There are a few huts scattered across a trampled clearing, a graveyard of stolen wagons with broken wheels and bloody stains, and a bonfire burning. The centaur shows you where they cure meat and keep food. The place you woke up is the largest structure, apparently where they sleep. “We’ve come across some nice linens,” he assures you. “Won’t be a proper bed, but better than nothing.” You count seven centaurs in total. The others are a range of colors and sizes, the largest a blond palomino who looks at you a little too intently. They end up following you around as you’re shown the rest of the camp, caging you in against the gray one like they’re expecting you to bolt. 

To your surprise, they seem harmless. They’re curious, mostly, asking about you, where you come from, what you do. “Wasn’t sure you were going to pull through,” one admits, his deep brown coat paling to white fringe around his hooves. “Getting trampled after a fall like that, I’m surprised you’re walking around.” 

Ferrio is one of the smaller, sleeker ones, his coat the same mottled shade as a deer. A quiver of arrows is still slung across his body. His hair is cropped short and he has the fewest scars, just a small slash above one eye. He seems particularly interested in you, walking so close his large body sometimes bumps against your hip. “Are you staying?” he asks. He plays with your hair absently, carding his fingers through it. 

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say. 

“You might like us,” he says, grinning. “Maybe you’ll come home with us when this all blows over. They could, right, Rendrin?” 

The gray centaur chuckles, trotting ahead of you. “You’re still young, Ferr. Don’t starting picking up our bad habits.” 

“What else is he supposed to do?” the palomino snorts. “There’s nothing else to fuck out here.” 

You stumble. Ferrio steadies you with a gentle hand and urges you to keep walking. 

“That a complaint I hear?” Rendrin drawls. “You like being mounted just fine.”

“And sometimes I’d rather be the one doing the mounting. No offense, but none of you are exactly built like mares.” 

“Should’ve joined a mixed mercenary band, then.” 

You pass another small hut, a pile of lumber. A few mounds of dirt—hasty burials. “Where are we going?” you ask nervously. You’re ignored, except for Ferrio smiling and squeezing your shoulder. You catch glimpses up ahead. Another clearing, far from anything. There’s a small, wooden structure. Some kind of scaffolding? 

“Everyone here does something,” Rendrin says. He’s talking to you, glancing over his shoulder. “We all pitch in, like a little village. Everyone’s taken care of.” Finally, he stops. The others break off, giving you a little more space, but not much. They’re all standing pretty close. Ferrio trots ahead to the wooden thing. You’re still not sure what it is. There’s a raised platform, and a shorter space beneath like a step stool. It’s your size rather than theirs. 

There’s blood on it. Old, dried stains dripping down the front, and fresher puddles on the ground underneath. Ferrio drags a cloth across it, mopping up the mess. You have a sinking feeling in your chest. “What does feyen mean?” you ask.

You hear a chuckle behind you. The palomino rests a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, stroking your arm in a way that feels suggestive. “It’s a term of endearment,” one of them says. 

Another disagrees. “It’s dirtier than that.” 

“It’s both,” Ferrio assures you, tossing the cloth aside. “Go on. Hop up.” He pats the raised platform. You don’t. You take a step back and bump into one of them. They’re all looking at you. 

“Why?” you ask. “What is that thing?” 

Rendrin leans against it with a smile. “It’s a breeding bench, feyen.”

You knew before you started running that you wouldn’t get far. You still had to try. The centaur right behind you makes a grab for your arm but you duck out of reach and slip past him. The stab of excitement and hope in your chest wanes when you hear them thundering after you. You run for the trees, hoping to lose them in the underbrush and the twists and turns of the forest. You wonder if this happened to the guards. Did any of them survive long enough to try and escape? You fling yourself over twisting tree roots and fallen logs, the red mist stinging your eyes. You hear them shouting to each other, calling out your movements. They hunt with ease, tracking you through spaces too small for them to fit, always looming just ahead and behind you. 

You don’t even last long enough to get winded. Hoofbeats come sprinting up behind you and suddenly you’re plucked off the ground. Rendrin slings you over his shoulder and you watch the others fall in behind him, just steps behind. They held back, you think. They slowed themselves, let you see just how futile it would’ve been. You twist and scream but it’s useless. 

Begging doesn’t get you anywhere, but you’re too afraid to stay silent. “I can forage!” you offer desperately. You’re in the clearing again already. Were you running in circles? You thought you’d gotten further than this. “I know plants really well! I can cook, I—I could mend things. I could make arrows—” 

“If you can stand up after this, you can do whatever you want,” Rendrin says, patting your thighs.

“You’re going to be fine,” Ferrio assures you. Those bright eyes and warm smile don’t make any sense to you now. “Rendrin knows magic. Tons of humans do this back home, and they all love it.” 

“It’s probably the blood that spooked them,” the palomino says. 

“Aw, feyen.” You flinch when Ferrio reaches out to stroke your cheek. “Don’t worry. That won’t happen to you. It’s just been a while since we’d seen anybody, and we were gonna kill the guards anyway…” 

They have to tie you to the breeding bench. You won’t stop fighting, kicking and lashing out at whoever gets too close. You’re bent over the smooth, cold surface, wrists bound to the frame. It’s humiliating. Rendrin adjusts the bench and your hips are lifted a little further. They don’t undress you until you’re securely in place, and then you hear fabric ripping, a knife carving up your trousers and exposing your lower half to the cool, foggy air. Rendrin cups your ass with both hands and starts kneading, pulling at your flesh. 

“It’s alright,” he says soothingly. You don’t know why he bothers. They’re crowding you again, touching you. Their hands roam your body, soft and sensual. The first stirring of arousal between your legs makes you sick. “That’s it. Just relax. The first time’s gonna be intense, but you’ll get used to it. Ferr’s gonna open you up. It’ll take a few times before you can handle the rest of us.” 

You scream, tugging at your bindings. All you manage to do is chafe your wrists. There’s a hand underneath you, stroking your chest, and another between your legs. One of them strokes your hair and another caresses your cheek, tracing the shape of your lips with his thumb. 

Rendrin’s hands feel unnaturally warm. There’s a tingling in your lower body, an indescribably strange sensation. You feel tense, pulled taut, your inner muscles pulsing. You feel his thumb at your entrance, stroking in slow circles. You’re shocked by your own moan and how your back arches. You’ve never been this sensitive before. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Rendrin purrs. You shake your head frantically. He pushes one finger inside and it feels like nothing. Your body takes it easily, doesn’t even need warming up. He adds another—or does he add two more? You know there’s something thick inside you, but it doesn’t seem like it. Your hips start pushing back, wanting more. Your face heats with shame when he pulls them out and you whine.

“Go ahead,” Rendrin says. You hear movement behind you. Suddenly there are strong, spindly legs arcing over the bench, catching on the holds carved on either side of your head. The body on top of you is lithe but heavy. You hear Ferrio grunt, inching forward. A hoof knocks against one of your ankles as he finds his footing. 

“You’re okay,” Ferrio says softly. “Shh, you’re alright. I’m gonna make you feel good in just a second.” You can’t see him aside from his front legs. You feel the weight of his lower body pressing into you as he shifts forward a little more. He lets out a stuttered moan, hips jolting. You don’t understand what’s happening, can’t see anything, but you hear slick, sliding sounds. You recognize that low, purring laughter as Rendrin.

“You’ve got such a cute little cock, Ferr. Perfect for breaking in our feyen.”

Ferrio laughs breathlessly. His tip bumps against your thigh for the first time, oozing precum, and you suck in a startled breath. There’s no way you can take him. “Bet it’s still the biggest they’ve ever had,” he murmurs. You start to beg again when he begins pushing inside of you but he doesn’t let up. His thrusts are shallow, softly bumping his hips forward. The breeding bench creaks as he leans more of his weight forward and a scream gets trapped in your lungs. It’s so much, and it never ends. The thick head pushes in and rocks gently back out. He presses deeper next time, doesn’t withdraw as far. Slowly, he works his massive cock into your tight passage. You feel feverish. Sick, somehow, lightheaded and a little delirious. 

It shouldn’t feel good, you think. But Ferrio plunges in again with a harder motion and your toes curl. 

“There it is,” Rendrin chuckles. He crosses your line of sight, pacing in front of the bench. “You like it.” 

“No,” you croak. Ferrio bucks his hips and you can’t believe how much of him is inside of you. Another slow, rocking thrust, and you can feel his heavy balls against your ass. 

“Don’t have to be embarrassed,” one of them says. A calloused palm massages your thigh. You feel dizzy with shame, remembering how many there are, all crowded around watching. “You’re taking him so well.” 

Rendrin makes a silent gesture, a curt nod. Ferrio makes a small noise of acknowledgement and shifts his weight again. You can just make out slender human hands gripping a wooden bar at the top of the bench. “Brace yourself,” Rendrin says. That’s all the warning you get. 

Ferrio slams into you. The thrust fills you in a single motion and you’re breathless, hands straining for something to hold onto. There’s no time to adjust or catch your breath before he starts a brutal pace, the bench creaking under your combined weight. He curses and slurs his words, and then he lapses into another language entirely. All you can understand is, “Feyen, feyen!” between his fevered keening and moans.

You’re going to cum. You don’t want to, but you feel it building, your inner muscles clamping down on every inch of throbbing, veiny cock inside you. Rendrin knows, somehow. His fingers curl beneath your chin and he makes you crane your neck and look at him. Your vision is blurred, jostled by Ferrio’s frantic movements, but you know he’s smiling. “Cum, feyen,” he says. “Milk your stallion’s cock.” 

Ferrio pounds the words out of you, leaving you gasping and whimpering. He makes a strangled sound, a blissed out, “Yes, fuck yes!” as climax takes you unwillingly. You cum screaming, quivering helplessly on the breeding bench as Ferrio fucks every last thought from your brain. Everything is just sensation, smothering heat and ecstasy. You don’t know anything but how good it feels to be used like this. 

You’re aware, distantly, of soft touches. A hand carding through your hair. Rendrin watches you fall apart, your eyes rolling back in your head. Ferrio’s last thrusts are wild and erratic, nestled deep inside as he shouts and starts to cum. You’re unbelievably full. He’s still cumming when he pulls out, panting hard and still thrusting shallowly. The wide ends of his cockhead come out and you feel it gushing out of you, sliding thickly down your thighs and dribbling on the bench. Another hot spurt coats your back. 

“Shit,” he says, panting. “I need a minute.” 

“That’s fine,” Rendrin’s knuckles graze your cheek. You lean into the touch, whimpering and overstimulated. “Take your time. Catch your breath. And…” Your stomach flutters nervously at the heat in his gaze. “Next time, you don’t have to hold back.” 

[lbh-remedy]

It baffled me when Rick called Garrison “Herb” I genuinely forgot he has a name other than Mr. Garrison

[avidgreengoblin]

I don't have any art because I'm rewatching the episode with friends

But omg yaay Rick and Garrison 🥰🥰 I enjoyed the entire episode. Liked the Randy plot, thought it was pretty funny

Expect some art of Garrison and Rick from me soon 💚

Also love that Rick calls Garrison "Herb" so cute frr

This photo had me dead when I first saw it 💀

[groundcontrol21]

Idk if you take requests, but if you do could I get a Porthos fic with stifling?

You know, I usually don’t take requests bc I have a very specific subset of things that are My Jam™️ but it’s your lucky day!! Here’s a little fic for you, bc I was inspired even if Porthos is not my chosen sufferer. Sorry, it’s very short and does also contain Aramis snz, bc I am contractually obligated to include it.

“Heh’NGXT! Ihh’NGXT!”

“Don’t do that,” Aramis chided, without so much as looking up nor faltering in the neat line of stitches he was throwing down the ripped sleeve of one of Porthos’s old shirts. The parts of the day he had not spent pouring endless amounts of tea down Porthos’s throat, he had spent sitting at the window, humming to himself as he mended seemingly every bit of cloth Porthos owned. Porthos sat across from him at the table, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hands wrapped around an umpteenth mug of tea, looking on as the afternoon sunlight, warm and golden, bathed Aramis in its glow.

“What?” Porthos said, rubbing at his nose with a sniffle. “Sneeze? Eh’KNGT!” He shook his head like a dog clearing off fleas and sniffled again. “Can’t exactly ask a man with a cold not to do that, can you?”

Aramis rolled his eyes and spoke as though Porthos were a child particularly set against reason. “Not sneezing, Porthos—“

“Ihh’KNXT!”

Instantly, Aramis threw aside his needlework. “That!” He jabbed a accusatory finger in Porthos’s direction, so vigorously that Porthos couldn’t help but feel a bit scolded. “Holding them in like that. You’re bound to give yourself some kind of infection, and then where are we?”

Porthos’s breath hitched again, but this time he made a concerted effort to let the sneeze free. “IHH’tshoo!” He quirked his brow sardonically at his friend. “Is that better?”

“Much,” Aramis said smugly and resumed his sewing. “Well done.”

It was Porthos’s turn to roll his eyes. “Glad I now pass the muster of the garrison’s resident sneezing tutor.” He let out a small cough before draining the few dregs of tea which remained in his mug, the liquid long since cold.

“Do you need more tea?” Aramis asked, already halfway to his feet as soon as he heard Porthos place the mug back on the table with a clink.

“Aramis,” Porthos said firmly, satisfied when the strength of his tone froze the man in his tracks. “If I drink another sip I’ll be up all night with the chamber pot.” He motioned for Aramis to seat himself again, adding when the man still looked at him dubiously, “I’m fine. Really.”

And he was, for the tea liberally doused with honey had done wonders to chase away the dry ache in his throat. He tipped the empty mug to his nose, just able to smell the barest hints of sweet herbs through his congestion. “Remarkable stuff.”

A noise from across the room jolted him from his reverie. “Hh’NXT!”

“Now what the hell was that!” Porthos cried, slamming the mug back down. He narrowed his eyes at a very guilty-looking Aramis, who was sheepishly pinching at his nose. “Can’t practice what you preach?”

“That’s different,” Aramis said, releasing his nose with an airy sniff. “I’m in no danger of an infection, as I’m not s-sick. Ihh’HNGXT!”

Porthos rolled his eyes again, for he could hear the sniffle Aramis gave in the aftermath, ever so slightly wetter than the one before. The man had, after all, just spent the better part of two days in a room with Porthos and his cold.

“Well,” Porthos said, “it sure sounds like you’re getting there.”

[dukeofdogs]

Svalblod Bear

Chest: Your Grace, Cornet Gustaff aep Diderick is the only survivor of the garrison in Venlo, and at the same time the only source of knowledge available to us about the events that took place there following the invasion of the Skelligans. Aep Diderick's account is incoherent and marks the impairment of sanity. The Cornet says that bear-men invaded the city, who tore and devoured the armed men in the service of the prefect, and then dragged women and children out of their homes to do the same to them. In the second wave of the attack, when regular Skelligan forces breached the walls, the beasts attacked them as well. A battle ensued, as a result of which the enemy suffered heavy losses. All the bear-men died. Your Grace, please forgive the unreliable nature of this report. I suppose that Cornet aep Diderick lost his senses or is trying to confabulate his cowardice (he was found buried in the thatch of the coach house). I submit to Your Grace's consideration the transfer of Gustaff aep Diderick to clerical service. His revelations may negatively affect the morale of the line troops. Respectfully, Captain Edmond Verhoeven

Scroll 1: It wasn't the first time he's been thrown in that dungeon, and it wouldn't be the last. Behind his back - the clack of a key being turned in the lock. In the past, many Jarls have vowed to throw this key into the sea. Yet none had done so. Vorunn knew it would be similar this time. Time is a snake that devours its own tail. The passing years will crush human shame, the horror will be forgotten. The old priest closed his eyes. The thunder of waves on the fjord and the cross of the sea birds filled darkness under his eyelids. He let the weary members rest on the cold stone, he let the days go by.

Scroll 2: Footsteps in the corridor, the growing glow of a torch. It is not a guard carrying a miserable meal. The Jarl came in person, with an entourage of his housecarls. A different man than the one who slammed the door on Vorunn. He was younger, but there was something familiar in his face. His son. He stretched out his right hand and helped the priest to his feet. The shackles fell from Vorunn's wrists, replaced by bracelets of gold. He was hosted in the Long House, hosted with meat and honey. He accepted the horns raised in the toast in the same way as the coldness and loneliness of his cell. Young warriors drank to him, served at the table. Bold hearts beat like war drums. The old, the oldest, spit on the floor. They looked away.

Scroll 3: After a feast, the daring went to the den. The low cave closed around them as a stone womb. Animal stench filled the still air, and bloody handprints were visible on the walls. They gathered in a circle, in the darkness. Vorunn threw a dried herb into the fire, the flame shot high. The glow illuminated wide chests, strong arms, faces on which fear struggled with determination. He walked over to each of them and placed into their mouths mushrooms Svalblod had given. And then he released the song that he had guarded for generations, which he held in his memory like the dearest child. And Svalblod replied. The bears came from the roots of the mountain. Not all the brave ones remained in their places, some rushed to flee - an insult that will cost them dearly. Screams of terror and sounds of food filled the cave.

Scroll 4: The Nilfgaardian coast was on fire from the mouth of Yelena to the swamps of Pereplut. Jarl Garm Forkbeard from Undvik made a name for himself as a great plunderer. So why did he come back gloomy? The inhabitants of Undvik, who remember the day of this return, say that he disembarked the Viking ship without saying a word to his wife and sons, and went straight to the old priest. What they talked about behind closed doors, no one dared to listen. The Jarl's thundering voice shook the longhouse. On his way out, Garm ordered the old man to be thrown into the dark. When the caretaker had complied, he returned to the Jarl and handed him the key. The Jarl stared at the sea for a long time, clutching the key in his hand. And then he hid it in his bosom and joined the feasting warriors. 

[katieskarlette]

This will be the first WoW expansion launch where I’m not going to be online at the moment it goes live, fighting the wheezing servers to play along with the zillions of other people.  From TBC through Shadowlands, I’ve always been right there at the gate ready to burst into the new content.

It’s a long story, but the short version is that my boss forced me to use the paltry three days a year I get as PTO during my long time off with Covid.  I had been saving them to use this week, but I hadn’t planned on being sick for over a month, either.  Thus I have no choice but to work as scheduled this week.  I’ll be home and able to try logging on about 2 1/2 hours after the official release time, which isn’t that bad, but then I work the following afternoon, too, so I can’t stay up all night playing.  So it’ll be Wednesday before I can really binge on Dragonflight.

It sucks because I’ve always been there for the launch day insanity, and even though I bitch about lag, login queues, server crashes, and crowded leveling zones, that’s part of the experience.  I still have fond memories of the MoP debacle of 833,072 helicopters trying to bomb a single ship, and the WoD issue where garrisons didn’t phase right for awhile so the entire server was hanging around in a single garrison.  Crazy times.

Not to mention the ridiculous amount of gold I always make in the first week of a new expansion by herbing and skinning everything in sight...

Oh well.  Hopefully when I am able to log in for extended play sessions the servers will be stable and I’ll be able to enjoy it.

[ashleybenlove]

Garrison’s boyfriend calling him Herb is so weird.

Like, I know his name is Herbert.

Also, he’s in Myrtle Beach getting up to BS.

And Sharon and Shelley are in Santa Fe.

[greypetrel]

For Aislingl: 7, 12, 16!

Thank you for asking! <3

Tis the prompt list

7. Who is your OC’s best friend? How did they meet?

Pre-Inquisition: Vyrina was an elf of her same age in the clan. She was kind and very, very romantic, the kind of girl that starts to plan her marriage at 9 and wants to marry early and have lots and lots of children. They played together as children, Aisling was very shy at first and Vyrina was very delicate and quiet, they got along well and stuck around. Vyrina started her apprenticeship with the Keeper, as an herbalist and healer, so they spent a lot of time together, share opinions of Elfroot, take walks in the woods to forage (Vyrina has better eyes to spot mushrooms). When she finally managed to have a child, Nehnis, Aisling became the official aunt. Aisling's the aunt of her second born, even if she was already away when he was born.

Inquisition and post: Dorian. They met in Redcliffe, he saved her life with the amulet and they just clicked. They have a similar mind, like magic and to stretch its limits and experiment, both have had bad experiences with families. Aisling likes to touch and hug and Dorian doesn't mind at all.

12. Does your OC have a love interest? How did they meet? What makes them work well together? If no, tell me about their “type” or why they prefer to be alone. (Being alone is valid!)

After a long-term relationship with a huntress in her clan, which was not the healthiest relationship ever (Ydun wanted a power couple, Aisling never cared about power, she took pride in being the First just because it meant she was good with her magic), and a fleeting crush over Cassandra (She stole a kiss. It didn't end well. They made up some frienship back)... Cullen.

She approached him in Haven to form a better relationship, since they had to work together, and they didn't trust each other. It turned out they got along pretty well. They're both practical people who like simple things, are drawn to position of leadership because they can shoulder responsibilities and take duty seriously, and that are making up as they go being underqualified for their roles (Cullen commanded a garrison of Templars, yes. Not an army. Not an army that's supposed to siege fortress and do more than contain mages). None of them expects the other to speak when they're together, they can just... Vibe together without speaking. They're both big softies that like animals, care for the other when the other just won't. Aisling puts some fun and reminds him to stop once in a while, Cullen gives her stability and faith in herself, redo the bed each morning and will eventually cook because she can't.

16. How organized is your OC? Do they like to have a place for everything and everything in its place, or do they live inside a tornado of chaos and mayhem?

Aisling lives in an ordered mess.

She's not tidy and is not used to have a lot of space for herself, so... She fills it. Usually she has piles of books scattered around, there's usually a blanket spread before the fireplace with pillows on top that serves as her reading nook and she never puts away, she plays basket with her bin and discarded papers she wants to throw away, and has THE CHAIR OF CLOTHES. Redoing her bed in the morning is something she finds extremely tedious and with little sense, and today she won't iron ANYTHING. If Cullen wants his shirt ironed, he can suit himself. (*flash of Cullen ironing socks*)

She knows the placing of every single item in her chaos, every pile of books has a sense ("On the couch there are books about magic, near the desk there are treatises on military tactics, next to the window the ones on etiquette, Orlesian history is this way") and her mess has a lot of order about it. So much so that when her maid -Frida- tidies her room, she can't find anything anymore.

The only think that she keeps maniacally tidy is her workstation of little chemist. Every jar of herb is neatly labelled, they're put in goot order as well as the instruments and empty flasks. Outside that table it's chaos she can navigate, but the mortar? Immaculate.

[queenclaudiabrown]

A New Garden

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings: The Rings of Power

Pairing: Arondir x Bronwyn

Content warnings: brief mentions of the tavern scene from 1x07

Word count: 1,072

Author’s note: set after the first season, so contains some spoilers for it.  Can be considered AU because I’m writing this long before S2 comes out and I doubt we’ll actually get this scene ☹

     The people of Pelargir had opened the Southlanders and the Númenórean garrison with open arms.  A few members of the garrison had chosen to remain there, but the rest returned home after a fortnight.  Three Southlanders had taken their chances and gone with them, but the rest remained.

     The Pelargirians, for the most part, put up no fuss over Arondir and Bronwyn and Theo living together.  Both Southlanders and Númenóreans alike had spread truthful tales of all three’s heroism, even if Theo’s had been a brief few moments of brave fighting when the Númenórean army had arrived.  Soon enough, the Pelargirians had come to respect Arondir and Bronwyn, which had been unexpected and a little embarrassing, but a very helpful thing nonetheless.

     So now the family of three lived together in a small one-level home about the size of Bronwyn and Theo’s old home in Tirharad, chosen mostly for the large area of fertile ground that came with the house.  They had bartered- mostly their time and efforts- in exchange for seeds, which Bronwyn had quickly set about planting once Theo and Arondir had pulled all the stones from the earth.  It was early spring now, and soon enough, the ground would be sprouting herbs and fruits and vegetables, and it would almost be like it was in Tirharad.  He had been a grower once, back in Beleriand,

     But one thing was missing from their new garden- alfirin.

     There were three alfirin seeds left in the jar he still wore around his neck, the jar Bronwyn had given to him less than a day before everything started to go wrong.  Most of them had been burned to sear her flesh closed and save her life, which he would never regret, but even as he had poured them into his hand he had kept three inside- one for him, one for her, and one for Theo.

      Every day, he remembered his vow to Bronwyn, made the day of that great battle.  “The rest, we shall plant after the battle is over, in a new garden.  You and I, and Theo.  Together.”

     “Promise me.”  She had pleaded.

     He had taken her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he had cared not that they stood exposed to the sight of many if any had come near enough.*  When they had parted, he still held her close, his eyes shut as he rested his forehead against hers.  “I promise.”  He had sworn, and every moment since he had clung to that vow.  It had helped keep him going and made every weary step he’d taken toward Pelargir had been another step closer to a home for them.

     Having chosen the proper place for the alfirin to grow, Arondir returned to their house, finding Theo sitting at their small table as he whittled a piece of branch.  “Where is your mother?”  The Elf queried.

     “In your room.”  He replied.

     ‘Your room’ was the same as ‘her room’, much to Theo’s discomfort.  It was typical of children his age.

     A moment later, Bronwyn stepped out of the room.  “Is something wrong?”  She asked.

     “No.”  Arondir assured her.  He moved forward until he was standing in front of her.  “I do not wish to rush you, but if you are ready, I am also.”  He began.  Her brow furrowed with a confused frown, and in explanation he untucked the jar from under his tunic.  “I have found a suitable place to plant them.”

     Now her face brightened with a smile, and she nodded.  “I’m ready.”

     “Ready for what?”  Theo broke in.

     They both turned to face the boy, but it was Bronwyn who spoke.  “You remember the white flowers I traded for, several months ago?”

     Theo nodded.  “You saved their seeds, and you gave them to him.  We burned them to save you.”

     “Not all of them.”  Arondir spoke.  “I saved three, so I could keep the promise I made to your mother.”

     “What promise?”

     “That we would plant them together in a new garden, the three of us as a family.”  The Elf continued.  “I would understand if you did not wish to, but I would be very glad if you would plant one of them.”

     Theo looked between them, silent for a moment, and then nodded.  “Alright.”

     So they went outside to the place Arondir had chosen, and Arondir went first.  He knelt on the ground, digging a hole about as deep as one finger, and took the jar from around his neck.  He carefully shook one seed into his hand and placed it in the hole, which he refilled.

     Bronwyn went next, taking Arondir’s place and making a hole about the same as his, a few inches away from his own but beside it.  He placed the seed in her hand, and she set it at the bottom of the hole, filling it back up before taking his proffered hand and standing.

     And then it was Theo’s turn.  He was accustomed to helping his mother in her herb garden, even if his skills were far less than hers.  He copied them when he made the hole, between and below theirs, and dropped the seed that Arondir placed in his hand into the hole.  He buried it and stood up again.

     Arondir laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his other arm already around Bronwyn and one of hers around his back.  Meeting her son’s eyes, the Elf spoke solemnly and seriously.  “Theo, I have no wish to diminish or cast aside your relationship with your father, but I want you to know that I do not look after you, take care of you, only because I love your mother.  I do it because I love you as well, as if you were my own son.”

     Theo smiled, a rare sight, and surprised them even further by surging forward to pull both his mother and Arondir into a hug.  “I never knew him.”  He said into Arondir’s shoulder.  “And I’m not putting up with you only because we both love Mother.”

     The Elf and Southlander smiled.  It wasn’t an exact reciprocation, but it was close enough to one, and that was all they needed.  Arondir and Bronwyn were not married or even betrothed (yet), but they had each other, and their love for each other, and their son (in blood or not, it was no matter), and that was plenty for them.

The quote marked by an asterisk is a Tolkien quote that I altered slightly.

*Original quote: “And he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he cared not that they stood high upon the walls in the sight of many.” - JRR Tolkien (I thought it was fitting)

This was meant to be just fluff but it turned into fluff and found family and I'm not upset about that.

[bunbun206]

Rick calls Garrison Herb! That’s cute!