#i know that's not what a gambeson actually is

[lux-et-astra]

wizarding fashion

clothing norms - sleeves tend to be shorter, mostly to provide access to wand holsters - this changed during the war (dark marks) - thin material - having thinner and shorter clothes is a sign of privilege because good wizarding clothes tend to be enchanted to keep the wearer at a good temperature. having to wear jumpers or other temperature-specific clothes is a signal that the wearer is poorer, however this isn't as strong an indicator as some other fashion faux pas as they're also occasionally worn for comfort rather than warmth - high waisted shirts/blouses - wizarding shirts don't tend to be tucked in, they end where the trouser waist should start - again they ought to be enchanted to remain in the right position, but there's also not as much of a modesty culture (partially because showing more skin suggests better clothing enchantments therefore more wealth rather than less) - material is also often less hardy because mending it is so easy - although this isn't true for all wizarding clothing (tunics are often made of very thick, tough fabric)

semi-casual, day to day items - loose trousers (wide legs which come to the knee at the front and mid-calf on the back, usually are a fairly plain pattern with a wide, decorated band at the ends and the (high) waist. usually a light material) - shorts (usually come in a matched set with the trousers, so also have wide decorated bands at the ends and waist - these are a much more modern twist on the loose trousers, usually only seen on young people) - skirts (a range of lengths, although not usually below mid-calf, more generally not below the knee - tend to tie with laces that go a few inches down the left side. usually a light material) - tighter trousers (these come to the ankles and are a little more formal - part of school uniform for boys usually. a heavier material and not necessarily as high a waist. typically darker colours and almost always come with a waistcoat in adults, although some might skip the waistcoat if they're wearing them with closed robes) - underwear - pants tie with one cord at the top; bras are laced down the centre of the front

robes - everyday robes are almost always black - come with sleeves and without (sleeves usually only to the elbows, although that has changed in recent years) - typically edged with colours/decorations which convey some kind of allegiance - robes are part of graduation/matriculation and are often associated with guilds. potion masters' guild uses green robes, ministry uses purple robes. children tend to wear plain black robes - graduating from any school allows you to wear white edged robes. typically prestigious family houses may wear robes where the edge colour is striped with their colour of significance - open robes have the edging along the sides and around the hood; closed robes for men have the edging along the sides down the middle, whereas closed robes for women have the edging along the exposed edge. all robes also have edging around the bottom/skirt, but closed robes do not have edging around the collar - open robes are very different from closed robes - they have hoods whereas closed robes do not, and they tend to only fall to the knee or mid-calf, whereas closed robes all fall to the ankle (excepting some more modern designs, which are sniffed upon in high society) - will ALL have good pockets - closed robes for men are a straighter silhouette, fasten at the centre of the front with buttons, and have a mandarin collar usually. buttons tend to go down to about the waist, at which point the robe falls open - closed robes for women have a fuller skirt - the top bit fastens at the left of the front with buttons, and the robe then cuts down diagonally across the skirt section. it will twirl out but the robe will not fall open. collar is less prescriptive as women tend to wear blouses underneath, so some will have high collars, but some will sit underneath the shirt collar instead. - men tend to wear closed robes with tight trousers (in the past, the buttons would go all the way down and they wouldn't wear anything underneath - this has changed) - men don't tend to wear a shirt underneath, although they may wear a shorter tunic-style top (NOT a full tunic) - women tend to wear closed robes without trousers, although they will occasionally wear shirts underneath. women don't tend to wear tunic-style tops - if the robe has a high collar, they may wear a peasant blouse instead of a collared one

footwear - usual everyday footwear are ankle boots. these can look more or less like curly elf boots - typically depending on formality/age of wearer. older wizards stick to the older style which looks a little "sillier" to those more familiar with i.e. muggle culture - can be laced but more modern ones may have zips in the side - women's duelling boots go a little higher, more like combat boots - laced - men's duelling boots are almost thigh high typically - laced - the more laces, the better - again a sign of privilege to have laces you have to use magic to do properly - laced shoes are never school uniform and children don't tend to wear them until fourteen/fifteen

practical/formal - the tunic outfit - the tunic outfit is ostensibly worn when you're duelling/expecting to have to fight. thus it's part of the hit wizard/auror uniform, is typically worn in formal situations that aren't balls, and is more common among young people. - it's also a lot more common among wizards of prominent houses because it has a heritage aspect and is more removed from muggle culture - it wouldn't raise eyebrows in the street but it puts forward the same kind of image as a leather jacket or proper combat/steeltoed boots if the whole kit is worn, especially the gambeson. just the tunic without the gambeson is very normal and just like wearing jeans in a practicality kind of sense - for men, it comprises men's duelling boots, a tunic, tunic belt, a kind of gambeson, and possibly open sleeveless robes. for a full outfit a wand holster is worn on the wand arm and a bracer on the other - for women, it comprises women's duelling boots, a tunic, tunic belt, the same gambeson, and possibly open sleeveless robes, wand holster & bracer, but also duelling leggings - the tunic has fairly wide and long sleeves that stop a little before the elbow. it's typically made of heavy fabric and is in darker colours. men's tunics are longer than women's, because they don't tend to wear duelling leggings - tunics are never worn without a tunic belt but the belt signifies something very specific about the outfit. tunic belts are always enchanted in some way. something like a thick ribbon would be worn if the tunic was being worn in an everyday sense, or cord or rope. if it's being worn with the gambeson, a metal belt is better. not everyone has a lot of tunic belts to choose from as they're quite expensive so it's also a sign of privilege. - the gambeson is quite short because it sits just above the tunic belt, which sits above the hips. it has a high collar like men's closed robes (which are meant to evoke it), and no sleeves - if worn with sleeveless robes, they should cover the edge of the gambeson where it overlaps the tunic. it's usually made of thick quilted fabric, heavily enchanted, and features a crest on the front - commonly of one's school house, family house, or guild house. a plain or simply patterned gambeson suggests someone poor or unconnected; a gambeson with a group's symbol suggests a cohesive group or militia. death eaters wore gambesons with the dark mark. - duelling leggings are fairly thin but tight (usually black) leggings that come to just above the knee. they are enchanted to deflect most spells and came into use due to concerns in the olden days about protecting women's abilities to reproduce. it's become common nowadays for women to wear shorter versions underneath loose trousers or skirts (or even shorts sometimes) where they're not visible. - part of graduation involves receiving a full tunic kit. gryff: deep red tunic, gold belt, black gambeson with red background & gold lion, open robes edged with white. huff: mustard yellow tunic, black iron belt, black gambeson with mostly white badger, open robes edged with white. sly: deep green tunic, silver belt, black gambeson with green background & silver snake, open robes edged with white. rav: dark blue tunic, bronze belt, blue gambeson with bronze eagle, open robes edged with white. - styling the kit without the gambeson and boots makes it much less formal and accessible, as the tunics require much less washing. - some tunic belts (all metal, most cord, some rope, very few ribbon) are braided in house-specific patterns - belt braiders are highly respected artisans

formal occasions - the tunic kit with gambeson is kind of like wearing full military dress - it's appropriate for some occasions and people and not for others - sometimes dress robes are appropriate - these are fancier versions of closed robes - for women, dress robes always have a high collar and shouldn't be worn with anything underneath, they basically function as a wrap dress - they can be more exciting colours, do not have edging as a general rule although some still do, are often patterned, and ALWAYS fall to the ankle - while this is occasionally flouted in everyday robes it is never flouted in dress robes. (yet) - dress robes can also be made out of lighter material and almost never have pockets - dress robes are always sleeveless and show off the wand holster. some have taken to wearing bracers as well with dress robes in order to hide the dark mark, however it's a practice that was well-accepted by a lot of people - dress robes should only be worn with ankle boots rather than duelling boots - for balls, women tend to wear proper ball-gowns, while men wear two-piece dress robes: this is a jacket shirt in the same style as the top of normal dress robes, with some kind of enchanted tails - the aim of this shirt is for the actual material of the shirt to flow as fluidly as possible into the tails - and tight trousers underneath, which shouldn't attract as much attention as the tails so normally aren't patterned, but aren't restricted to being dark colours. these are also typically of a much lighter material than everyday tight trousers - because some people only have one set of dress robes, there are some tailors who will tailor one-piece dress robes temporarily into two-piece dress robes - this is usually quite noticeable but deemed better than not making the effort at all. the quality of tailoring varies based on how much you can spend on it.

uniform - most guilds don't necessarily require a uniform besides edged robes, although for formal occasions some might have guild-specific gambesons & belts or a specific style of dress robes - some professions do have a uniform - i.e. ministry officials tend to wear closed dress robes with a ministry pin detailing their specific role - these pins, when being worn, are trackable from a central ministry office, making it easy for people to tell when officials are in work and therefore available, and where to find them. aurors/hit wizards have a full tunic kit uniform - school boys have to wear plain black sleeveless robes with a house pin, tight black trousers, white shirt - school girls have to wear plain black sleeveless robes with a house pin, grey knee-length lace-up skirt (of a heavier material than usual wizarding skirts), white shirt - sporting uniforms usually evoke the tunic kit - they will typically include an underlayer, usually leggings and a tight shirt, with a high-collared sleeveless jersey to go over, bearing a team's crest. the jersey will usually fall to the tops of an athlete's thighs and they will usually wear boots akin to duelling boots but made of more flexible material

guild colours - potion masters: green (because the herbologists' guild is technically an affiliate of the potion masters' guild, they use olive green to distinguish themselves) - enchanters: blue (due to this, alchemists tend to use teal/turquoise edging - transfiguration specialists use a royal blue whereas charms specialists use a pale blue) - ministry: purple - merchants: gold (it's not gold because a lot of members of the merchants' guild are hufflepuffs, but that's a popular misconception) - duellists: red (the duellists' guild is technically higher in the guild hierarchy than the ministry, so hit wizards and aurors who are members of the guild at journeyman level or higher wear red edged robes rather than purple) - historians: orange - smiths: silver

[arabellasleopardcoat]

A challenge (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: In which you are in a search for identity, and Aemond is in search for a way to prove his superiority to your father. Somehow, you find each other.

Warnings: Fluff. Chaotic family dynamics. Royce! Reader. Angry! Reader. Sword-fighting in dresses. Mature language. Unkind thoughts. Deeply violent thoughts. Eyefucking. Aemond’s toasts ™

A/N: I tried! Feral reader to match Aemond.

THE PETITION FOR Driftmark is none of your concern. Your castle sits in a different region altogether, but you still show up a few days before it is meant to take place.

The years spent trying to turn into bronze have not served you well. Hard metals are also brittle, after all. The fact that all these years have passed, and you still wish to meet your father shows it.

Your ears in King’s Landing are paid handsomely enough to provide you information that allows you to beat him there. It allows you to avoid the riffraff, and settle into the unknown territory before the confrontation.

Not knowing the terrain well enough had killed your mother. You wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Daemon should have raised you. Taught you how to hatch your dragon egg and speak the tongue of your ancestors. But it isn’t like the Rogue Prince to raise daughters. You have heard he has also sent one of the replacement ones to foster at Driftmark. He only raises other men’s sons.

The same could be said for his brother. King Viserys had kept a steady stream of correspondence with you when you had been a child, perhaps feeling guilty for Daemon’s behavior. Not enough to stop it, or bring you justice for your mother’s death, though. It was why you had no qualms about using the flimsy connection to convince the Queen to host you.

The day of your arrival is perfectly sunny. You have always liked the outdoors, a fact that your cousin Tobar attributes to your mother. It is why you decide to explore the grounds instead of supervising your trunks being taken inside.

The Red Keep has grand gardens and a Godswood, but what really catches your eyes is the courtyard. Some knights and squires are training in groups, and it has your blood pumping. After hours copped up in a carriage, your hands itch for the chance to unsheathe Lamentation.

Tobar had gifted you with it when you had turned six and ten, claiming you had become proficient enough to be trusted with it. The same age your father had been knighted, and given Dark Sister. A woman's sword, just as you carried a man’s one. The symmetry amused you.

You stood to the side, arms crossed over your chest. There was a cluster of men in the center, watching a fight. The rhythmic smacking of steel against flesh could be heard, hinting at proficient swordsmen, even if their bodies didn’t allow you to see what was actually going on.

“Smaller than I remember.” Someone shoves you, making you stumble. You turn to glare, and meet the back of a brown haired boy. Another one, smaller, follows him. They are already moving past, without even apologizing.

The courtyard is a big space. It’s only rudeness or hurry that leads them, and you incline towards the first one. With a scowl, you move towards the fight instead.

The crowd parts easily for you. Most of them are knights and squires, and your dress identifies you as a noble lady, with the intricate stitching and heavy velvet. They are practically trained to be polite.

One of the fighters has dark coloring, and wears a Kingsguard’s gambeson. He is handsome, but the one that really catches your attention is the other man. He has long, silver hair, and moves gracefully in the ring. Your traitorous heart gives a lurch.

Daemon. You step closer to the front, and one of the knights places an arm before you, as if to protect you. Your father. He is so slight, and he is deeply-

He is not Daemon. His waist is too trim, his limbs longer. And as he shifts around his opponent, you notice an eye patch on his face. Must be the King’s second son.

Aemond? Daeron? You cannot recall. He prances around with all your father’s arrogance, as if he were certain of his victory. You assess him with a critical eye. His confidence is unwarranted. His footing is slightly askew. He leans too much forward when lunging, trying to overcompensate and add strength he lacks to his blade. He would benefit from focusing on speed rather than brute force.

Despite all the unconventional techniques he employs, he seems to be winning. The crowd makes awed noises when he manages to land a hit, and cheers as the Kingsguard is pushed back.

The duel ends quickly. He disarms the Kingsguard with a quick flick of his wrist, his sword sent flying. You frown, finding it sloppy, but the crowd breaks out into applause.

“Well done, my Prince.” The Kingsguard says, confirming your initial thoughts. This is one of your cousins. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” The man says, and you fight a smirk. The profanity is amusing, for someone so tightly wound. You step closer to them, but he spots the rude brown haired boys before he spots you. “Nephews… Have you come to train?”

The boys look like they are about to shit themselves. It makes you smirk.

“They haven’t.” You answer, only realizing the words once you speak them. You had not planned to make a challenge, nor had you intended to part from the crowd. But often, your body reacts before your mind can do so. “But I have.”

Some squires laugh. The younger brown haired boy fights a smile. It doesn’t anger you. You know what you look like to them, in your heavy velvet dress with bronze embroidery. The skirt is full and pleated, covering the sword strapped to your hip in a sea of cloth.

The only ones who do not laugh are the Kingsguard, who is too busy wiping blood from his mouth, and your cousin. Instead, his eye meets yours.

He stalks towards you, every movement calculated to look intimidating. He moves like a predator, all graceful and long lines. It is clear he is used to using his height as a part of the routine, so it amuses you that he can’t quite loom over you.

Because you stand tall. You always do.

“And who are you, who dares defy a Prince so openly?” His voice sounds amused.

You look at him. It is true you have not met him before, but you would expect at least a hint of recognition in his eye. Even if you look more Royce than Targaryen. The runes embroidered on your dress practically scream your identity.

“No one who wishes you harm.” You smile, picking up the hem of your skirts. Most of your dresses have been cleverly designed, to allow you to turn the lower part of them into breeches by tugging on a few ribbons and securing some knots. The sword at your hip is revealed as you do so, and you revel in the attention the dramatic display gathers.

“I welcome all challengers.” Your cousin bows his head to you. “If they dare face me.”

“My prince I do not think…” The Kingsguard advises, wisely. Perhaps he senses the sharpness of your grin doesn’t forebode anything good for his pupil.

“Oh, Cole. Let the lady try.” The Prince answers, dismissively. “And we can go on with our days after I disarm her. It’s not as if I will hurt her.”

You unsheathe your sword. While the thought is gallant, he won’t hurt you because you are the superior swordsman. But it’s sort of cute that he worries.

“Of course, Ser. The prince will not harm me.” You slide into the proper stance, Lamentation held loosely by your side.

Your cousin studies you, in silence. He must know as well as you do that the person to make the first move is always at a disadvantage. He is handsome, you think. His jaw is so sharp, you could cut your hands while trying to hold him.

You are better at the waiting game. You have waited years for a chance to meet your father, you can wait a few minutes for him to become unsettled.

He lunges at you, a smug smile on his face. Hoping to force you into blocking. Instead, you move aside, allowing him to tumble forward. Your assessment of him was right. He put too much force behind his blow, sure it would connect.

Someone snickers, and you turn slightly towards the sound, recognizing it as made by the Strong boy. A sudden smacking sound and a flash of heat against your arm forces you focus on the fight. Your cousin has taken advantage, and managed to hit you with the flat of his sword.

Lamentation remains held by your side, but you tighten your grip on it, feeling the ridges on the pommel dig against your palm.

He lunges again, a frown marring his handsome face. You twist away. Once again, he repeats the same mistake.

“Are you aware…” Your cousin shouts. “That swordplay involves using a sword?”

“Oh, I am.” You grin at him, hoping to goad him into making more mistakes. Your arm still feels warm from his blow. For such a slight man, he sure is strong. You had underestimated him too much. “It’s just… You are such a poor swordsman I thought we were dancing.”

The rest of the knights and squires fall silent after you speak. It allows you to hear the change in his breath, exertion yielding to rage. He can't take a joke, it seems because his next cut is aimed at your neck.

Were you not ready to meet him, he could have killed you. But fortunately, you are done playing with your food. You lift Lamentation and smack the flat side against his wrist, hard enough to make him drop the sword.

Had you not swung flat side first, he would not only be missing an eye. By the look on his face, and the way he stares at his wrist, he knows it too.

His eye lowers to the fallen sword, perplexed. He seems unable to believe how it has betrayed him.

You unmake the knots and lacings of your skirts, releasing them back into their normal state. You fluff them up, just for show.

“Nice match, cousin.”

You prance back inside.

“HOW GOOD IT is… to see you all tonight… together.” You are sitting next to your decaying uncle, the place of honor having been afforded to you thanks to your supposed stream of correspondence. You are deeply regretting that lie, since King Viserys smells strongly of herbs and rotting flesh. It’s putting you off your appetite.

Lately, the Queen confesses, he seems lost in the past. He seems to have a hard time remembering your latter letters, instead having a fixed image of you as his little niece who sent him drawings and questions about Valyrian history. You do not mention further letters do not exist.

Your father sits with his new family, studiously avoiding your eyes. He has chosen a seat on the same side of the table you are in. Your heart aches. You wonder if after all these years, he has given any thought to what he had done.

The day he killed your mother, she was just two moons shy from birthing you. Had he known, you wonder? Did he intend to kill the both of you, or just her? After robbing you from your mother, he had fled the Vale, and married another woman. He had had two girls not even a couple of years later, the ones that now sat with the Strong boys.

They had the Valyrian coloring you lacked. You wondered if he loved them more because of it.

You have zoned out enough that when you come to be, King Viserys has grabbed your hand. His head is lowered, as if about to pray.

You imitate him.

“Don’t worry, niece.” He whispers, kindly. “I didn’t know how to pray before either.”

Queen Alicent grabs your other hand, gently.

“The Gods listen to us regardless.”

Someone snorts. Your other cousin, the uninteresting one. Aegon, you think he is called. As you look around the table, you notice only the Lord Hand and your cousin Aemond have bowed their heads. No one else is a believer here.

You lower your head.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.” The Queens says, and you try not to think of how unlikely her words are.

Your bond with your father cannot be fixed. He is a murderer. Your bond with your uncle cannot be fixed either. He has protected the man who killed your mother, and weakly tried to make amends during the first years of your life.

As for your father’s new wife, new sons, new daughters, you look around and all you see is weakness. They are pathetic. Lowly. Baseborn. You despise them all. Had you owned a dragon, you would watch them all burn.

Your teeth make an awful, creaking, sound. You cannot burn them, but oh, how you wish to.

Someone is watching you. You know it instinctively. There is an odd prickling on the back of your head, you cannot sit still. You try not to look up, knowing it is not your father, but soon it feels like the stare is boring a hole through your skull, opening it up. Watching your most secret and inner thoughts leak out.

You shift on your seat. As you look up, Aemond meets your eyes without shame. He gives you a smirk.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Princes… and their betrothed.” The King toasts. You raise your cup, feigning a smile.

“Hear, hear!”

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” Aegon whispers, but not low enough for you not to hear. You have to take a sip from your cup to hide your snort. You look towards your father, but he avoids making eye contact with you, eyes firmly ahead.

“Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides.” The King continues, and you return your attention towards the dramatics taking place in front of you. The Strong boy is starting to look offended.

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon leans in, a mean little smile on his face. He is a cunt, but an entertaining one. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, cousin.” One of the new daughters interjects. You do not know which one she is, and frankly, you do not care to learn. They are named something ridiculous, like Bela and Rhaela or Rhaenys and Laena, you are not sure. It’s some sort of Valyrian name.

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.” The Strong boy threatens. You fight your smile. While Aegon looks smug, the Strong boy looks ready to fight. His hands are formed into fists, his face red with a mixture of humiliation and rage.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.” The mask the King is wearing falls down, and you wince. His face is a ghastly sight, full of holes left behind by festering wounds. The illness has claimed his eye, leaving an empty eye socket behind.

Your eyes dart towards Aemond. Does he look like that under the eye patch too? Perhaps you should reconsider your thoughts on his attractiveness.

He lifts an eyebrow at you, amused to be the one catching you looking this time. You feel your face heating up, but force yourself to lift an eyebrow back at him.

He smiles, and lifts his cup to you, almost imperceptibly.

“My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

This time, you roll your eyes. It’s an unavoidable reaction to hearing someone spit such bullshit. The day you died was the day you forgot all the slights committed against you. The only way of erasing them was getting your pound of flesh from each of them.

You cannot believe what you are hearing. Only Aemond and the Lord Hand seem as resentful as you are. Everyone else seems either neutral or taken by the words of the King.

To your astonishment, the most taken are the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra. You grab your goblet, and chug your wine like there is no tomorrow.

“Everything alright, Lady Royce?” The Strong boy asks you, very politely. You want to grab him by his awful chamberpot-shaped haircut and smash his face against the table until his mouth is bloody.

Instead, you banish the violent image from your head and smile, as fake as you can.

“Just thirsty. Pass me the pitcher?”

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

You sigh. These people are delusional, and it makes you fear for the future of the realm. You have no idea what you were thinking by coming here. The hopes for a confrontation with your father seem absurd now, when he has done his best to hide from you and avoid you during your stay in the Red Keep.

He had never answered your letters, either.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Aegon leans towards the replacement daughter, whispering in her ear. If someone has drank more than you tonight, it’s him.

“I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The Strong boy springs up from his seat as if his pants were on fire. He clears his throat.

“To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. To you as well.”

“Beware… beneath the boards.” You don’t quite catch what Helaena says.

“Well done, my boy.”

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Helaena makes her own little toast, and you frown. She is married to Aegon, if you recall correctly. She also seems… Quite odd.

Some laugh at her. You do not. You cannot wait for this dinner to be over.

“Good. Let us have some music.”

Much to your dismay, the Strong boy asks Helaena to dance. His brother looks at you, and you give him such a murderous glance, he doesn’t dare rise from his seat.

You engage in quiet conversation with your uncle and the Queen. He calls her Aemma several times.

“I have a niece.” Viserys tells you, very softly. “She has hair like you. Dark. One day, she will grow to rule the Vale. We write letters.”

You don’t mean for it to happen, but a sudden wave of pity for the old man hits you. He is lost in memories, thinking Alicent is Aemma, and you are still a young girl. He had seemed so lucid before, even like he was doing well. Happy, with the merriment taking place around him. And then, a switch had been flicked, the conversation had started to become more stilted, and he was winded and lost.

“Guards.” Alicent calls out, and they rush to assist the King, who groans. They take him away as he orders for you to go back to dining.

You do, chewing your food in absolute silence. You can feel eyes on you. The conversation is stilted, the people gathered at the table both uncomfortable with your presence and with each other.

The awkwardness doesn’t deter you. You relish on it. You want them to suffer in your presence. Want the replacement daughters to feel guilty for getting to have a father, the Strong boys to be frightened by you, the whore he has for a wife to wonder if she will die next.

And your father? You want him to die a slow, agonizing death. But you will settle for his wife having a massive row with him tonight.

As the main course is placed on the table, the Strong boys and your male cousins exchange glances. Suddenly, Aemond slams his fist on the table and gets up. His expression is icy.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

You snort. The Queen doesn’t seem to think it as amusing as you do.

“Aemond.” She complains.

“Come… let us drain our cups to these three…Strong boys.” Aemond smirks, and you lift your goblet, eyes full of malice. Anything that hurts them seems nice to you.

“I dare you to say that again.” The eldest Strong boy, the one with the awful haircut, jumps up.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment.” Aemond goads, emboldened by your attention. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The boy lunges and punches Aemond. Rhaenyra screams. Aegon gets up and slams the other Strong boy into the table.

Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra try to separate them. So do the guards.

“Jace!”

“That is enough!”

You want to jump in, want to smash a wine jug on his face. Break a plate, strangle your father. But as you are reaching forward, ready to seize one of them, someone grabs your wrist.

The hand is warm, and holds you gently but firmly. A man’s hand.

Your father’s.

You look at him. His eyes are dark. This man, who you once thought larger than life, who killed your mother, who almost killed you. His eyes are dark, and wide, and so much like yours.

His other hand goes to your jaw. He brushes it, tenderly. For a second, you lose yourself in the thought. You are no longer the angry woman, but the little girl who wanted her father so desperately.

“You have…” His voice breaks your spell. Grown? Your mother’s eyes? Face? Hair? You never got to meet her, thanks to him.

You jerk out of his grip and flee the room.

THE PAIR OF breeches and a shirt feel much more comfortable against your skin than the dress you had worn to dinner. It wasn’t one of your modified styles, and so, had felt suffocating against your body. Too tight on your ribs, too heavy against your legs. You had not noticed it when wearing it, but taking it off had been an immediate relief.

Unfortunately, your anger doesn’t subside as easily. Your shoulders ache from swinging Lamentation over and over again, but you still want to scream. Scream and scream, until you wake the whole Keep.

When the moonlight illuminates a tall figure, you only feel more anger. Aemond’s face now has a bruise, a mark left by Jacaerys’ fist. You hate when other people dare touch what is yours. Much less, when they dare mark it.

He has no claim to him, this Strong boy that can barely lift his sword. Aemond is yours. The audacity astonishes you.

“My lady.” Aemond bows his head to you. He carries his sword on his hand. “Shall we dance?”

“I fear I might have gotten enough disappointments for a day.” You set Lamentation down on a bench. In truth, your arms are too sore, and you fear you might lose if you face him. Aemond is smart. He will not underestimate you a second time, and while you are good, you lose your advantage when exhausted. “Your brother has the smallest cock I've ever seen, and you are a poor swordsman. Are the Strong boys really the best House Targaryen has to offer?”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He stares at you in disbelief, a hint of anger briefly crossing his features, before barking out a laugh. He sets his own sword aside.

“You wish to goad me again. It won’t work.”

“Goad you into what? Mud wrestling?” You say, gesturing to your lack of a sword.

“Don’t jest.” Aemond rolls his eye. “There is no mud here.”

“Plain wrestling, then?” You arch an eyebrow.

“You are infuriating.”

“I live to please.”

“Have you given marriage any thought?” His voice is casual. Far too casual.

“No.” You say, plainly. “I wish to never marry, and let Tobar’s brats inherit everything.”

“Your abilities with the sword do not correlate to your abilities with deception.”

“You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” You step closer to him, feeling your amusement ebb into annoyance.

Aemond smirks. He is a bit taller than you, and seems to enjoy that fact greatly.

“I am a good prospect.” He captures your chin in his hand, and makes you tilt your head up.

You despise that you get a bit unfocused by how warm and big his palm feels against your face. It feels so good, you could close your eyes and melt into it. But instead, all that comes out of your mouth is…

“Your blood is unsavory, your manners lacking, and your skill with the sword could use work.”

“My, that almost sounded like a compliment.” Aemond laughs.

“It wasn’t.” You complain because you hate that he is starting to understand you. How when you feel scared about the too big feelings in your chest you lash out, and say things you do not mean.

He grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.

“I’ll ask for your hand in the morrow.”

“Do try.”

He does. Much to your dismay, Aemond asks his father for your hand, openly slighting yours. King Viserys finds the whole thing delightful. No one else but you seems to share his joy.

[mechanicalbloodlust]

✨complaining about gabriels armour yay✨

DISCLAIMER (please read): - i am doing this for fun. this is not a serious post. - this is not a criticism of gabriel's character design. - gabriel is an angel. obviously angels function differently to humans. the armour of angels in ultrakill could be purely decorative for all i know, but im evaluating it in terms of protection in relation to human anatomy. - i often specifically refer to protection against swords. this is because i am basing my knowledge off of medieval armour. (what im saying is: i know v1 uses guns im not stupid) - im not an expert on armour. i read about it for fun, as a hobby. if i get something wrong, PLEASE tell me i love getting new information about armour and i do not want to unintentionally spread misinformation.

initially i did a quick assessment of the gaps in the armour, which would be weak points. while ive seen some interpretations of gabriel wearing a sort of bodysuit, he is definitely not wearing a gambeson. this would make the armour uncomfortable to wear as there would be no padding under it.

the rest of the armour evaluation is in the images below. all of the text is also written out in the image descriptions.

after all this nitpicking, i decided to try to redesign gabriel's armour to make it more protective while keeping it similar to his original design and still recognisable as gabriel ultrakill.

• lowered pauldrons so they're not floating

• added an aventail to the helmet to protect his neck

• the golden parts of the cuirass no longer go inwards

• didnt add couters because i suck at drawing them but lets pretend that i did that to stay closer to his original design (besides he still has the elbow pieces on his vambrace to provide some defence)

• his gauntlets have articulated fingers now

• tassets are laminated rather than the layers he originally had. in retrospect i should have done tassets of three lame and decorated them similarly to gabriels original design but oh well

• i also imagine that he would be wearing a hauberk under the skirt

• added extra plates to the poleyns as well as side fins

• he's got proper sabatons now

• also he would be wearing a gambeson under his armour

• helmet is more like a visored bascinet

• there are actual holes for ventilation now, and there's more of them.

• there are also holes for vision yay

• didn't want to get rid of the gold bit that goes around the helmet so i changed the shape so that weapons wouldn't get caught on it, but would instead skate off. i think it should come closer to the visor on the side profile though. thank you for reading all of this i had a lot of fun doing this :-)

[druidwolf21]

Just saw your Lion el Jonson or Sanguinius question and I say just do which ever ones that make you happy.

Also may I request a Twin Sibling Blank/Pariah Reader x Konrad Curze smut or Sandwiched Lorgar x Reader x Mortarion smut, please. The first one can be about after finally bringing peace to Nostramo the two think it's time celebrate by having their first time together and for the second one both Lorgar and Mortarion having been secretly going to therapy sessions with our reader and somehow the both of them find out they are seeing the same therapist and so both wish to be in a relationship together while sharing reader.

Thanks Anon! It's always nice to have a bit of support when you're writing!

And thanks so much for the request!

I would absolutely love to write this for you!

It's probably not what you had in mind, but I still hope you enjoy it

Lorgar/mortarion/therapist (kinda) reader

CW:smut!

@kit-williams @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty @jaghatai-khock @kit-williams

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Your eyes raised from your work as you heard the door to the office open and close with a quiet click. Laying your cleaning rag aside, you rose to your feet and peered over the desk cautiously, eyes softening as you saw who had entered.

"my lord Aurelian, you gave me a scare, I'm sorry I didn't know you would need this room, I'll finish up and be on my way"

The primarchs stood before you, resplendent in robes of word bearers heraldry, intricate amber threads of holy scripture woven into the flowing silken gambeson. His hard eyes softened as they found your small figure and he wove his way around towards you, seating his large frame on a chaise lounge as he followed your movement with a lilac stare. He patted the cushion next to him and gestured his head.

"actually, I was hoping to find you. join me?" He questioned softly.

You threw a soft smile towards your lord as you perched in the edge of the seat. It was not uncommon for the colchisian to seek out your company and ear. He had found you to be a quiet listener and a sound advisor on matter or a more personal nature. He spent a lot of your time together relaying his childhood on colchis, the abuse at the hands of its priests, and the fervent beliefs that carried him through dark nights. In turn, you provided words of comfort and perspective he had not found anywhere else, easing the burdens on his mind as he listened to your soothing tones.

"of course, my lord, I am at your disposal"

He fidgeted slightly as you sat, his large fingers intertwined together before separating and fiddling with a loose thread on his tunic.

"I have a question I would ask of you, though I beg your answer be of your own thoughts and not one of duty"

Your frowned slightly, brows furrowed as you opened your mouth to speak, before the sound of the door opening again drew your attention.

The soft swishing of robes and the scuffing of boots heralded the arrival of another.

Mortarion, primarch of the death guard cast a long shadow across the room as he glared at you seated beside his brother. His ashen skin almost lucent in the dark light of the study.

"Lorgar" he growled, eyeing the priest suspiciously as he stalked slowly towards the edge of the seat, sea green robes sweeping the floor as positioning himself behind you like a jealous guard dog. "I need this serf, I will return her to you later, should you need her"

Lorgar shook his head, not moving from his seat as he eyed his sibling with equal distrust. "Alas, brother, I have a need of her also." He leaned forward slightly, threading his fingers into a peak. "She has provided comfort to me and I am in need of her perspective"

Mortarion eyebrows shot up towards his brow as he heard his brother's words. "Perspective from a baseline Lorgar? How you have lowered yourself" he sneered, leaning forward, unwilling to admit he has come for the exact same reason.

Lorgar's burnished skin flushed with rage as he purses his lips, biting back a snide he response, he quirked a brow quizzically a the shrouded giant.

"and pray, mighty death guard, what do you seek out the little serf for?"

You raised your hands at the lords, placating their rage with gentle movements as the air between them seemed the crackle with tension.

"my lord please! Do not allow me to be the cause of a petty squabble, I am duty bound to aid however I can, please, I beg you, let us discuss this sensibly! My ear is not so limited I cannot listen to you both"

"but, my lady, I do not just want your ear"

You blinked slowly as Lorgar's hand stroked your thigh, his touch sending goosebumps across your body. You eyes trailed from his grip to meet his face, his eyes dark as he lent down towards you and gently brushed your lips with his own as his other hand slid up your neck to your chin, holding your head up as he pressed into you. You felt yourself go limp in his touch and sighed into his kiss, your own hand moving to cup his cheek as he depends the touch, running his tongue along your lip and humming as you parted them allowing him to taste you.

Your thumb ran across the intricate tattoos on his face as you sucked his tongue, earning a groan from the man and a tight squeeze of your leg at your action. You pulled away from him and smirked slightly, relishing in the way his eyes fluttered open and his lips parted in a pant as you withdrew. Your gaze trailed across his skin, almost bronze under the harsh light and flushed from your touch. His eyes, violet and bright as amethyst, bore into your own as he blinked at you slowly before casting his sight to something behind you. You barely registered a lithe hand grasping your chin before your head was turned and another set of lips smashed forcefully against your own, cold fingers firmly gripping your jaw as his mouth worked against yours. The touch was rough in comparison and you gasped as the new hands roughly handled you, twisting in your hair and tangling in your clothes. Your head was roughly pulled back as mortarion' s burning stare devoured you.

You lent back against the leather sofa, looking between the two men breathlessly.

"my lord, I really don't think this is appropriate, a serf is not... Respectable for a primarch" you finally sighed as you ran your hands through your hair.

Lorgar looked away and rose from his seat, palming his hand across the crown of his head as he spun away from you. The gold ink of his tattoos reflected faintly as he paced backwards and forwards in front of you. Mortarion watched him as he moved before turning his amber gaze back to you, a small grimace creasing his lips.

"I don't care" he hissed. Reaching over he gripped your ankles, sliding you down to sofa length ways with a squeal, your head resting on the arm rest as his large hands moved from your calves upwards, pausing before flipping the fabric of your skirt over your stomach. The pale skin of his face flushed as his eyes wandered from your face, down to your panties, lingering on the dark wet patch discoloring the crotch of the lacy material. He sneered as he ran a finger along the slick material, earning a shuddering gasp from you. "You seem to be enjoying this a lot for something that isn't appropriate" he glanced back to the hulking figure who had stopped wondering to watch your interaction unfold.

"I'm willing to share, but if you're too proper to engage in such things, all the more for me" he ran his tongue along his dry lips and continued to press into your soaked clothed cored with a long callused finger, soaking up the sweet noises you made as he pulled the lace off you and lazily rubbed a circle into your flesh.

Lorgar watched hungrily as mortarion's head dipped between your thighs, he saw the way your body shuddered and your chest heaved as the primarch lapped at your cunt, heard the moans and heavy breaths. Your hands tangled in long hair and pushed mortarion's head down as your hips rise to meet his lips.

Lorgar moved his hand down to his crotch, palming his heavy erection through the material as he watched you squirm, lilac eye almost black from his blow pupils, dilated in arousal. He felt something inside him snap and muttering prayers to the emperor and holy terra he stormed forward, towards the end of the sofa where your head rested.

You looked up through heavy lidded, meeting the starved stare of the urizen before his soft hands gently guided your head backward, bending your neck over the armrest before fumbling with his trousers. You gasp as he released his throbbing cock, the thick member bouncing against his stomach as he pulled it free. He took the base of his shaft in one hand, guiding it into your open mouth and stroking your cheek with his other, muttering scared words, blessing the sanctity of your mouth as he slid himself slowly towards your throat.

Mortarion pulled his head away and admired his work, your cunt twitching and soaked from his touch, before looking up at his brother, smirking as he finally caved and took you. Settling on his knees between your legs and lifting your ass to meet him, He dropped his own bottoms and pulled his dick out, jerking his rough palm along his own length before rubbing the tip against your wet hole and admiring the way your stretched and spasmed to accommodate his size, strong digits leaving bruise in the soft fat of your thighs as he held you still.

You gasped around Lorgar, you thin fingers lashing out and squeezing his strong thighs as you felt mortarion enter you. His girth stretching you to your limit as you tried to cry out, finding your voice caught in your throat as lorgar thrust forward, his tip tickling the back of your throat. You felt your brain melting into hot mush as you were filled, mind blank as the primarchs thrust into you from both ends. Lorgar's heavy balls slapping into the bridge of your nose as he fucked your mouth and you ran your tongue along the hot hard dick in your mouth, tasting precum as you swirled along a vein towards his glans, savoring his stuttered groan as his gentle touch found your breasts, pinching your nipples and twisting them, you hummed, allowing the vibrations to reverberate through your mouth into his sex.

Mortarion suddenly thrust hard, demanding your mind return to him, bending you to his touch as he drove into your wet pussy, his limp hair tickled the flushed skin on your stomach as he leaned over, fucking you as deep as he could, you core warm and wet, tightened and spasmed around him as he rubbed against your G spot with each motion.

"all your advice was just words of temptation" he hissed, pile driving your sopping cunt, spurred on by your muffled cries "whorish words to corrupt us"

Lorgar nodded in agreement, swear glistened from his bald head as he slid relentlessly past your lips. "Do not fear, little one" he grunted, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration "I will drive the holy doctrine deep into you"

You could only close your eyes and cry out in muffled pleasure as the titans used you, your body bouncing between them as they fucked you senseless. The knot in your stomach tightening and snapping free over and over as your orgasm ripped through your body with each thrust.

Lorgar's soft voice reached your ears as his great hand found your throat, tightening around it gently.

"accept this from me, let me fill you," he panted, his movement becoming uncoordinated as he neared his end, you blinked up at him, doe eyes hazy and wet from tears as you lathered your tongue around his tip. He rammed his prick against the back of your throat as he came and you gagged as the salty fluid rushed into your mouth, spilling out from your mouth and dripping down your face as he pulled out panting.

Mortarion followed close behind, cursing at you as he felt your walls flutter around him. "Your cunt pleases me as much as your words" he growled, jerking into your erratically as he drove towards his own high "such a good serf, comforting her lords" your pussy righted at his words and he groaned as he finished, spending himself within you as he shuddered, pumping his seed deep inside.

Pulling out, he spread your lips as he watched his cum leak from you, nodding to himself. Stepping back and tidying himself, he stood beside Lorgar as they both looked down at the mess. You lay twitching and heaving, cum leaking from your face and used whole as you shuddered in pleasured aftershocks.

"we have been blessed this day, death lord" Lorgar sighed, signing an aquilla across his chest as he turned to look at his companion, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps, this is an arrangement that could be... Revisited?"

Mortarion shrugged the hand off, turned back to the door to leave. "That would be amendable" he offered, before swinging the door open and taking his leave.

You turned your head at the sound and watched through glassy eyes as the word bearer gazed down at you.

"we should clean you up and offer our praises to the lords for your service to the imperium"

[tinytime10]

I have more head cannons for warriors. Also thank you to everyone who voted on my, (What is the next story I write) vote. “Left in the cold.” is almost done. I'm just finishing up the editing. I should be able to post it soon but for now have some more head cannons centered specifically around the hylein body, and habits that manifest in a physical sense.

All right let's talk ears, Warriors have very expressive ears when he's relaxed and comfortable around the chain. He's very good at stopping his ears from portraying his true emotions when he's around the people he's trying to lie to.

Warriors will rub his ears when he's nervous or upset as a way to calm himself down. It's just one of his ways of self-soothing. Parents will rub their young children's ear to get them to stop crying because it feels good and comforting. So Warriors will do it with a mask when he is having nightmares or otherwise upset. Zelda will kiss the back of Warriors’s ear as a show of affection. Warriors loves it. He also finds the fact that time will kind of nibble at melon's ears and a playful affectionate way super adorable 

I think that the Hylian body is way tougher than the human one. You know how humans have like three layers of skin highlyans have eight. Their bones are just a lot more tough. They have better hearing and night vision but the sense of smell and touch is about the same. 

All of the links share the habit of messing with the back of their hair when they are nervous or embarrassed. I just find it hilarious that literally all of them do it.

 Just like myself, Warriors will comfort himself by hugging his middle. He absolutely hates other people touching his sides or his waste. But he'll hug his middle because it makes him feel more secure. During the war he wrapped his waist tightly with bandages, because that pressure feels comforting. After the war he wears a corset for medical reasons, that was actually a thing way back when. The Physicians made him one after the war to help with his injuries. He just kind of wears it all the time under his clothing. Cuz it's really easy to stealth the corset when his uniform is already so baggy.

 Speaking of uniforms, he is walking around in about 30 lb worth of chainmail. He has like 8 layers. an undershirt and trousers, a gambeson, chainmail, the Green Heroes Tunic, his armor, and his scarf. One side effect of all of these layers is the way they fall, he has extremely feminine hips because he cinches his belt so tight and his hip bones stick out so much anyway because he's so thin. The way the chainmail lays smooths out his figure, giving him extremely feminine hips.

 On that note he mastered that Mom hip carry. You know what I mean, where Mom will just stick out one hip a little further and rest the baby on it. He would carry Mask around all day, going about his duties in the war camp. Mask either loved it or hated it depending on the day. He frequently was made fun of by his own soldiers and a lot by his commanding officers.  He was called a Teen Mom for years he leaned into the title as a joke and it weirdly stuck, to the point where mask and tune would accidentally call him mom on occasion. Time will make a lot of jokes about Warriors being the mom friend during the linked universe adventure. He'll just start acting like the whole chain are his rowdy sons.

Warriors would never undress in front of any one of the chain for a very long time. Long after his facade cracked he still refused to let them see him even take his gloves off. He was fine with everyone else but not himself. At one point he is injured very badly and is unconscious. To Times utter consternation and aggressive objections, Twilight and Sky make the decision to leap over that boundary they know he has and undress him to get to his wound and save his life. When he wakes up shirtless and bound in bandages, the rest of his brothers have a lot of concerned questions. His brothers are smart enough to know what scars were earned from battle and what scars were done by his own hand.

 He has to explain his bad habits, and promise that he's getting better and not hurting himself very much anymore. Of course his brothers are horrified and heartbroken that the perfect captain they'd all grown to love had such terrible scars on his arms  and his chest there are scratch marks on his sides that only some of the older members of the chain recognized as being done by Hylian nails not the claws of monsters. Cia left her marks on him and Sky tried to ask about them but Time shot him down quicker than Warriors could.

 Another discovery they made that day was that Warriors has two tattoos. One, an eating disorder progress tattoo  and One he shares with time. He, Masks and Tune got matching tattoos at the end of the war. Wind is too young to have his, but he is the one who designed it during the war. It is a sword stabbed into the waves of the ocean, around the hill is tied a ribbon with the Kokiri symbol. A design meant to incorporate all three of the war brothers. 

Before the war the captain was a wild child, Impa punished him severely because that seemed to be the only way he would listen. There is a patch on his upper arm that is a mess of perfectly lined up scars overlapping years of punishment. It was a comin military punishment for drinking, 2 small cuts to the arm, not meant to really do any real damage just enough to hurt. Every time he drinks on duty he adds to that number of scars. Which is far too many to count by the time he joins the chain. 

Warriors is extremely suicidal at the beginning of LU. Even though he tries to hide it from his brothers, his sense of humor is extremely dark and twisted. Time and strangely enough Legends are the only ones who seem to really understand his darker humor. he makes jokes about suicide or self-harm a lot. They thought it was just jokes so when his brother's saw the scars themselves, they knew a lot of the methods he'd used against himself by that point, just from the jokes he'd made.

 Four Will aggressively braid comb and demand they wash their hair and bodies frequently see the last  repost for better clarification on why. He does this with the whole chain except for Warriors. Four is understanding about the fact that Warriors hates having his hair touched by other people. So Four takes meticulous care of Warriors’s gear. He’ll ask to oil and maintain Warriors’s weapons for him. He will service his shield and armor because if the captain takes care of himself so meticulously, Four will do the same for his gear, as a way of showing his friendship and care.

 All right, that's everything I can think of now. Thank you to the like two or three people who actually care. Us Warriors fans are starved for content. My fellow Hyrule Warriors fans I bring sustenance.

[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

[jadevine]

Minor Gambit updates and frustration

I started calling myself a Gambit Variant, because multiverses are fun.

Good news: My J Crew coat has shipped! Should be here in about a week, that expensive bastard.

There's also a little mini-convention in March, right in my town on a haunted former navy ship! I bought a ticket for the cosplay day and added the overnight ghost tour!

Bad news: I realized that Channing Tatum actually wears SHOOTING GLOVES for Gambit!!! Shooting gloves are not properly "fingerless" gloves, but a funky little hybrid of regular and fingerless gloves.

Technically, you CAN wear the whole range of "completely fingerless gloves" to "regular gloves" depending on what you're comfortable with, but it's just annoying that I got this detail wrong.

Meanwhile, I'm both trying and failing to find a purple vest/shirt that seems durable like Channing Tatum's armor, but the leather vests I've found are too tiny, too expensive, and too v-necked. I know you're supposed to wear a shirt/underlayer under a vest, but MEN'S vests have a much shallower neck! They don't have your whole heart exposed, like some dumbass who's trying to find a catwalk in the middle of a battlefield.

Plus if I wear a v-neck vest under a v-neck trenchcoat, people will barely see it. Purple is basically Gambit's color, and I am not spending 200USD on a vest that's going to be covered up... Unless I take GAMBIT'S COAT off, that is.

I may buy some denim or twill and make my own vest/tunic that looks like a sleeveless gambeson, so I don't look like I'm in a chainmail bikini.

[armory-rasa]

Project time: gambeson!

Been a while since I've liveblogged a new project, so I figured I'd take you with me on a voyage of discovery as I attempt to make a gambeson, aka arming jacket (among many other names), the quilted coat that goes underneath maille or plate armor to provide padding for comfort and protection. At its simplest, this:

I've always liked the look (when they're fitted better), but never had a use for one until the other day when I finally decided to bite the bullet and start doing SCA combat, as the local guys have been trying to get me to do for literally years. First fighter practice is next weekend, let's see what I can get done before then.

(Lolol, make no mistake though, I am not as good at sewing as I am at leather, because I only ever do it under duress. It's entirely possible that what I produce today by winging it will be underwhelming and/or unusable.)

So I looked at a BUNCH of pictures online to see all the various design choices available, and decided that I wanted:

Stylishly long, hitting right below the knee

Stylishly angled, with the hem coming to points rather than being cut square across

Detachable sleeves -- one, because sleeves are hard to make fit nicely, and two, because I'm undecided whether I want wide half-length sleeves (like the picture above) or fitted full-length sleeves. If they're detachable, I can have both.

Lacing on the sides -- because that's an easier way to get the fitted look than, y'know, actually tailoring it to fit. Also means it'll still fit even if I lose or gain inches.

Hat tip to this instructable for alerting me to the existence of pre-quilted fabric at Joanns, and also for doing it with two layers of that fabric, which was reassuring because I've never worked with it before and I was worried that just sewing single layers together would make it too bulky at the seams. I didn't need darts in the chest like hers did (lol thank god, because that looks Hard to do), and I wanted a less dramatic angle on the hem.

To that end, I used the pattern from my Anders brigandine as the jumping-off point:

Though I added some inches because I am no longer the skinny twink I used to be:

TIME TO CUT, BECAUSE I DON'T BELIEVE IN MUSLIN MOCKUPS AND I LIKE TO LIVE DANGEROUSLY.

(This, for the record, is why my sewing projects never turn out as well as they could, but I know myself and I know that if I do a mockup, I will be Fucking Done With Sewing by the time it's over, and then never get around to making the real thing. I expect this gambeson to be a learning experiment, and then wearing it for combat will further show me what I need to adjust for the next one.)

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Halla

Lavellan x Blackwall

18+ (implied) animal violence, grief, (implied) torture, death, miscommunication, guilt, sub/dom, grinding, handjob, breast worship (m!), oral (m!), deepthroat, talks about pregnancy, tokophobia

Reunited with a Dalish clan, Vella hopes to help any way she can. And, returned to the soft of his bed, hopes her love will let her help him as well...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

"Where are we going?" Sera whined, throwing her head back.

"Sera. Hush." Blackwall growled.

"I'm enjoying our walk." Iron Bull offered easily.

"Would it help if I gave you a turn on Ghilana?" Vella smiled.

Sera huffed.

"...Maybe."

Vella nickered to Ghilana. He circled back from ahead, kneeling down to her.

"You know, people usually keep their mounts with them." Iron Bull appraised the great stag.

"Why? Do they need babysitting?" Vella looked at him curiously. Helping Sera up onto the thin saddle.

"Oh, that wasn't a slight. And yeah... you make a good point."

The stag stood again. Sera patted his side uncertainly, but Blackwall could see the wonder in her eyes.

"How's the saddle treating you?" He trailed his fingers along the engravings. It worried him that she might get thrown off in battle riding bareback. He had borrowed many tools from around Skyhold to craft something fit for her. "I'm not a trained leather worker, I can already see improvements that need made."

She gave him a soft glare over her shoulder.

"It's beautiful, don't sell yourself short. And it fits me perfectly."

She slipped her fingers under his gambeson, trailing them up the base of his spine. Whispering close to his ear.

"Almost like someone was taking measurements."

Blackwall's neck flushed red.

"Oh, she keeps you young, huh?" Bull laughed.

"Can ya'll not play grab ass in front of Ghilly?" Sera covered his eyes with her palms. The mount held still, seeming to humor her.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm older." Vella laughed. "Dalish calendars don't line up like that, but I've got him beat by at least a summer."

"Wow. Elven genetics, eh?" Bull whistled and gave her a full look up and down. She gave an indulgent twirl in response.

"She's trouble, that one." He laughed to Blackwall.

"Oh, I'm aware." He pinched her side. Ignoring the vague lust that reared at seeing another man fully undress her with his eyes.

Vella gripped Blackwall's arm suddenly. Her eyes flashed with silver, wide and searching.

"What's up, boss?" Iron Bull reached over his shoulder towards his great axe.

Vella held up a hand. Then blinked, a wide smile splitting her face.

She cupped around her mouth and called out. A haunting imitation of a cry of a fox with a small whoop up at the end.

They waited. Then, a responding cry echoed through the trees.

"No way." Blackwall breathed. He had heard that distinctive cry before. An ill omen that his men heeded. The party always eager to move on when it would rise through the hills. "That was..."

"Elfy shit..." Sera grumbled.

Vella only smiled, moving towards the sound with certainty. Walking in a fast clip.

When they rounded the treeline the red sail of an aravel peeked through the canyon. Vella rushed forward, speaking in Elven to the Dalish scout.

Elvhen. Not Elven. Solas' haughty voice echoed in his mind.

He had been supplementing her Elvhen lessons with him, determined to get some fluency. Solas was a much less patient teacher, often sighing out at his pronunciation. And his lessons in history were dour and jaded by his own bias. But he was good at translation. Miserable little man.

He struggled now to follow the quick of their conversation, only getting a hazy outline of it. A clan ahead, it seemed.

Vella thanked him, and urged them forward.

"One of yours?" Bull offered.

"My clan is from the Free Marches. We're far from our... from their territory. Dalish keep distance, but clans always know each other." She sighed the last part. Telling a weary history.

"Yeah, the Qun are like that too." He sighed with his own strife.

They came down a ridge to a low river, an encampment settled on the opposite bank.

The Dalish stood, eyeing them with weapons drawn. But Vella let out that cry again, and their shoulders softened.

"Let me go first." She hushed. They all nodded, not eager to be riddled with arrows.

She crossed the river, a man who must've been their Keeper met her at the bank. A tense conversation unfolded quiet to them. The Keeper gestured at them, and Vella gestured at herself in turn. Her hands soothing in arcs.

After a moment of quiet, the Keeper nodded and Vella waved them forward again.

"Jumpy." Sera chirped with thinly veiled amusement.

"You know damn well why." Blackwall growled. Sera gave a permissive sigh after he burned his gaze onto her.

"Yeah. I get it."

Vella introduced each of them to the Keeper, a small gathering of curious clan members behind him. She stepped forward to press her hand to Blackwall's chest when she got to him. Adding a prefix to him.

"My Arlathan. Blackwall."

He wracked his mind for that one. A city?

It seemed to warm them to him, regardless.

"Why do you get a title?" Sera huffed.

"I don't want to hear it from you, young lady."

He leaned down to Vella.

"Arlathan?"

"Oh! It's technically our original homeland. But it means 'this is a place of love'. Elvhen language is a loose thing." She laughed.

His heart ached at that. He paused her to press his hand to her chest.

"Arlathlan."

She smiled brightly.

"Your pronunciation is getting good."

They spent most of the day helping with small tasks. Sera refused to participate after the first one, electing to sit with the halla in their cool cave. Vella waved her away easily, no harm in her dismissal.

They had just gotten back from gathering some herbs when a voice rose behind them in a reverent gasp.

"Hanal'ghinan."

A young man came to her side, breathing a greeting. His eyes wide on her. He introduced himself as the halla herder. Telling her there was a golden halla (her lathallan... sister?) in a valley nearby.

Vella nodded, assuring him she would find it. He cupped her hands in his, smiling gratefully.

"We're after a halla?" Blackwall offered.

"Wow, your lessons are really sticking, huh?" She teased, eyeing him knowingly.

"Solas might be helping."

"And how's that treating you?" She pulled her armor over her shoulders as she spoke, handing it off to him.

"Well... he's effective."

"Less kisses?"

"Ugh. I prefer your lessons."

She slung only her bow and quiver over her back. Standing in her stays and tights. Kicking her boots off.

"My lady?"

"I need to do this alone." She assured. Tightening her quiver.

He nodded. Solas had told him of of Dalish trials. These small journeys. Proving yourself to a path.

The clan seemed to see this as well. Gathering in a curious circle. The herder offered her a blanket from one of the halla's backs.

"Ghilana." He smiled. Her mount turned his head at his name.

Vella tied it to her waist. Nodding at him.

"To guide." She agreed. Then she set her eyes on the dip of the mountain. "To guide."

She took off in a silent run. Hair whipping behind her as she bobbed and weaved through trees.

The Keeper laughed, watching her go.

"Sunbeam that runs."

Blackwall approached the halla herder. The others seemed wary of him still, but the young man met him with open curiosity.

"Who are you?" Blackwall tried in Elvhen.

The man immediately perked up, smiling wide.

"Irithen!" He gestured to himself. Calling over another young man excitedly. "Loranil!"

"Blackwall." He held a hand to his chest.

"Wall of black..." He nodded.

"Warrior?" Loranil asked, a glitter of excitement in his eyes. Pointing at the sword on his hip.

"Yes. Inquisition." He gestured to the insignia on his shield.

"Join! He would like." Irithen nodded.

"Oh!" Blackwall searched for the word. "Uh... welcome! You. You're welcome."

The keeper came to their side. Glaring down his nose at Blackwall. Speaking Common coldly.

"He is not. A word?"

Loranil hung his head. Following obediently.

"He's just scared for him." Irithen sighed. Appraising Blackwall again. "The hanal'ghinan is your love?"

"She is. I'm very lucky."

"You are." He agreed easily. Watching the horizon for her return.

"I was actually wondering..." He gestured at his leather boots. "Those are traditional, yes? Is there a blueprint I could study?"

"Blue print?"

"A... uh, a design? A map to build with?"

"Oh! No. We learn from an elder. But I have a spare if you want to see them. Make a blue print."

He nodded.

He sat with the boots, turning them, marking measurements and notes in the small journal that he kept her language in. Admiring the craft of them as he did. The leather tough but giving. Sewn with dark sinew in small methodically looped seams.

He would lift his head to ask Irithen questions who was sitting near, still watching him with eager curiosity. Another of the clan joined, Master Taniel, the merchant and craft master. Answering questions with a far more gruff authority.

"Holy shit." Bull rose to feet.

Blackwall's head whipped around.

Vella strode towards them with the golden halla at her side. The little thing was draped in the blanket, seeming shaken but trotting with her.

Vella's front was completely soaked in blood.

Blackwall rushed forward, but she held her hand flat to him. Eyeing the nervous little halla. It stayed at her side.

She was given a wide reverent berth as she re-entered the camp. The small clan hushing to each other. Particularly pointing their mouths, and the blood dripping from hers.

The little golden halla descended happily into the cave. A small cheer from Sera reverberated from within.

The Keeper met Vella solemnly. He raised a hand and pressed it flat to her blood-soaked chest. Then rose it to an aravel. Pressing the print there.

Vella's eyes welled with ichor and a further murmuring rose. The Keeper spoke again.

"Sun that bites wolf. Welcome."

-

Wildflowers laden in her arms, she held them close to her chest. Cradling the blooms with head bowed.

"I miss you." She whispered to the flowers in Elvhen. To the effigy of each of them. "I miss you so much. I miss home."

The grass waved around her shoulders.

"Can you see me? I can't see you."

Insect song moved through hills.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to bury you. That I didn't get to sing for you then. I tried. They stilled my tongue. They..."

She took a shuddered breath. Rolling the silver piercing into her soft palate. A touchstone of wounds since healed.

"I wish I had known. Known that morning that it was the last time I would be home. Would that have made it harder?"

She smiled as soft tears clouded her vision.

"I would have walked backward. So I could watch it go."

She gave a sorrow swollen laugh.

"Father would've hated that."

A fennec fox chuckled far in the hills.

"My lady?"

She looked up, smiling gently at him. Holding the cradled bundle up.

"I think it's helping. The flowers."

She could see him put context together. His eyes creased in sorrow at the amount she held to her.

"Oh, my love."

He kneeled down with her. Laying a hand on the gathered totem of her loss. The rough wide of his hand surrounded by soft green and purple.

"I don't remember all of their faces anymore. But I know the number. The chantry kept records."

The bitter entered her again. A pain she couldn't move through anymore without the burn of rage.

"I couldn't feel the anger then. I didn't have room for it. It was only numb, then survival. I had to learn to be good. To be civil for them."

"But now I don't know where to put it." She held a palm tight to her chest. "Where do I put my anger? On the chantry? On the mercenaries that killed my family in cold blood? On their Maker?"

"I could put in on them. Men who saw me as gold. As an idol and as coin. But they weren't sorry. What happened to my family was barely noteworthy, a scribble in a margin. And I'm not sorry either. I'm just sorry it had to be me to do it."

Blackwall's gaze burned into her. Feeling her confession building.

"Vella..."

"It wasn't even revenge. I took no satisfaction from it. No joy. I burned them in their chantry, then I found those men. I found all of them. I kept count, like my father taught me. Three nights, it took. Standing in the dark while they slept. One by one. I didn't eat. I barely breathed."

She could still feel the tack of it if she focused. Remember the feeling of sliding it up her arms. Blood as clay.

"It wasn't for justice. Men like that will always have a place. Ready to commit any atrocity if you hand them a heavy enough purse."

Blackwall was very still next to her.

"No, they massacred my family, and it meant nothing to them. It meant nothing. But their blood changed that. I made them feel it. The terror of being the hunted."

Her eyes met his again.

"I was in a cold rapture doing it. Absent from my mind. I wasn't angry. But I am now."

"And now we have to go to a Grand Ball. Full of people who see Halamshiral as nothing more than a name difficult to pronounce. I'm shocked they bother."

"They built their gaudy fucking castle on the ruins of a promise. And I'm supposed to appease them. To play nice. At least they'll openly revile me. There's honestly in that."

She let out an exhausted sigh.

"Gods, I want to stay back. Do you think my inner circle would notice if I ditched?"

He smiled gently, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

"They might. I'm not going if you don't."

"Shit. We're going to need the muscle. Wait... what if we both-"

He leaned in and kissed her soft.

"I'll be miserable with you, my love. We'll have an awful time."

"Promise?" She whispered, holding his forearm. Looking deep into the steel blue of his eyes.

He spoke in her tongue.

"I swear to you."

-

He lovingly cupped over the curve of her hip, kissing the perfect dimples on her lower back. Careful to not rest his elbow on the golden wave of her hair as he settled on the hay next to her.

Of course she was already here. Sleeping in his meager bed. In his tunic that swallowed the curves of her. Waiting for him.

Maker, he would never get used to her. Sleeping on her side, high in the barn loft. Like that wasnt an impossible dream. Always finding him.

"Mmm..." She hummed, turning on her back to smile sleepily at him. "What a lovely way to wake."

"I didn't mean to rouse you." He kissed her palm as she reached for him. "Its very late. Go back to sleep, love."

"What if you kissed me instead?" She hushed, twisting to hook her leg around his hip.

"Tempting." He sighed, balancing on a forearm next to her head. Her long legs folded over his lower back. His body a shadow over hers.

"Please, could I get one kiss?" She pouted, looking wide eyed up at him.

"That's cheating." He growled. Her lower lip stuck out slightly, knitting her brows together.

"Evil." He chided. Kissing her lips softly. "Evil woman. Wearing my clothes. Laying in my bed."

She giggled into his kiss. Her lips so soft, exploring him languidly. Cupping the back of his head, sliding her fingers through his hair. Tender as she took him completely apart.

Maker, he was twice her size and utterly helpless to her. Putty in her elegant hands.

His body saught against her, the ridge of his erection pressed against her center. The heat of her pulling a throb from him. He huffed breath as she slowly rocked her hips against his. The wave of friction melted his mind into animal haze. His hips meeting her rhythm with their own will.

He was reaching his breaking point. His body needed to be inside her. To bury into her as deep as he could go. He knew the tight slick of her around his fingers. He had touched himself countless to the thought of it around his cock.

"That's so good." She sighed, her head fallen back. He kissed the curve of her throat, pulling up on her nape to suck gently at the soft skin. Her hips stuttered as a sweet whimper left her.

His body begged for more. Weeks of need coiled in him. But he couldn't. He refused. He didn't deserve to fall into her.

"Please fuck me." She whispered.

He groaned. His body raw and screaming obscenities as he pulled back from her.

"Is it something from before...?" She rose up on elbows. Still breathless, but her eyes saught sweetly from him. "You seem to want me in other ways."

Did she... did she think he didn't want her fully?

"Its..." He struggled. Pressing his palm against his eyes.

"Hey, its okay." She rose up, wrapping her legs around his back again. Pressing warm palms to his chest. "I promise. We don't need to."

His body vehemently disagreed.

"I want to. Maker, I want to. I want you so badly."

"'But'..." She whispered.

He only shook his head.

"Could I...?" She snaked her hand between them. Pressing her palm to his aching cock.

He sucked a breath between teeth. His hand fell from his face to brace next to her hip. Just the pressure of her palm pooled precum in his trousers.

"Yeah?" She hushed, searching his eyes.

He nodded, tightly closing his eyes.

She rose onto knees, pulling his hip to lead him onto his back where she had been. The pelt still warm with her.

She pulled open the ties of his gambeson, pressing her palm to his hard in mind numbing waves. Revealing him one tie at a time.

His mind was puddled with lust. With the unbearable promise of release. Watching her through haze. Hands grasped tightly to the thick of her thighs.

His gambeson fell away, and she lifted the tunic beneath to his clavicle. She sighed to herself at his bare torso. Crossed with scars and dense hair. Staring at him through eyes dark with lust. "I crave this, seeing you under me."

His cock jolted at her words. She smiled, pulling the ties on his trousers. "Do you crave that too?"

He nodded, gasping as the strain of his cock against his smalls was finally relieved. Her warm palm wrapped around the pillar. Pulling a moan from deep in his chest.

Helpless. Completely helpless.

She spat a long trail of saliva down to her hand. The obscenity of it made him dizzy. The head of his cock nearly purple with tight pooled blood.

He knew the gentlemanly thing, the right thing, would be to offer her her own pleasure. To refuse to be given to so selfishly. But he was so swollen with need. The ache inside his body nearly risen to nausea. And the relief she offered was nothing less than divine intervention.

"You've been starving for this, haven't you?" She twisted her hand in a tight pull, and he nearly saw stars. His body shuddered with long withheld pleasure. Her grip so terribly perfect.

"Gods, I'm so wet." She breathed. Watching the rhythm of his need pulling along his body. Waves that she commanded with her hand. "I want to watch you fall apart."

"Vella..." He moaned, looking up at her through strained eyes.

She slowed her torture, but her hand only tightened. His hands dug into the pelt.

"What do you need, baby?" She asked so sweetly. Kissing his lower belly, looking up at him under her lids.

"Your mouth!" He gasped, finally snapping. His guilt and shame dwarfed by the tidal wave of his need. Pulled ever higher as he remembered the piercing in her tongue.

She smiled against his belly. Rising up him, licking a trail up the whole way. The bump of the silver sphere sent a salacious tingle up his spine.

Her tongue drug up his nipple. "Here?" She murmured, lapping in waves against the hard bundle.

He twisted under her, panting. The torment of her sucking his nipple and slow stroking his cock a dual pulse set to unravel him. Nearly giving into it when she nibbled into the sensitive nub.

"Please..."

"Please, what?" She teased, kissing the pleasure raw bundle.

"Please suck my cock!" He hissed.

"Good boy." She purred. Giving his nipple one more soft bite as she descended down his belly. Her ass curled up behind her, trailing deceptively sweet kisses down the dark hair.

"Oh, you're dripping for me." She smiled, thumbing over his slit. His breath forced out in a huff. Her mouth hovered above her finger, breathing hot air on him. Watching the tight twitch with delight.

The teasing was building a force that begged to snap in him. His patience only as strong as the drive of his hips.

"Oh, I love toying with you. But you've been so patient." She sighed, then finally drug her tongue flat up up his cock.

His belly clenched as his hips fought hard to push forward. Taking all of his will to keep from thrusting into her. The piercing adding a new sensation that made him feel mad. Gasping out.

"Oh, there we go." She smiled. Sucking the tip as her tongue flicked against his slit.

"Fuck!" He cried. Fisting the pelt.

"I want to see your thighs tremble." She laughed, eyeing the writhe of his hips. Descending back to suck his tip again. Her hand pulling tight strokes beneath her mouth.

It was mind melting. His eyes rolled up into his head. Breathing through a pleasure tight throat. Pulling at the pelt in a white knuckled fist.

Her mouth slowly descended, dripping saliva down to her hand. Taking him easily to the back of her throat.

He rose up on elbows, staring down at her in shock. Then fell back again sharply as she started to bob her head. Sucking hard and wet, moaning into him. Her mouth and hand working earth shattering pleasure from him. Obscene in her sloppy enthusiasm.

She moaned affirmation, staring at his thigh. Gripping the trembling limb around his hip. Using it as leverage to yank him further into her mouth. The tight of her throat gripping the head of his cock.

"Maker!" He cried, his chest risen into a curl. Teetering over the abyss. His orgasm clenching tighter and tighter in his pelvis. Well past the point of no return. Hips fucking up into her beyond his control.

Her hand left his thigh to trail up to his chest. Head bobbing faster and faster. Her fingers pinched and rolled his nipple.

He was shoved over.

He held a pillow to his face as he shouted out his end. Spurting wave after wave down her throat. Pleasure striking him merciless, impaling arrows through his pelvis. One after another after another.

She swallowed happily, cupping his balls. Massaging them in tight circles. His body twisted, his legs tight around her shoulders. Trying to escape his own pleasure.

She laughed around him, only massaging slower. Deliberate in her torment.

He finally fell boneless against the pelt. His limbs thrown wide. Emptied in all ways.

She leaned back, rising slow up his length. Giving a little cheeky pop of her lips as she released him. Blowing cool air with pursed lips on his cock. Giggling at the twitch.

"Feel better?" She teased, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Patting his hip affably, smiling wickedly at the jolt of muscle.

"I..." He tried for words, but was a soup of a man. Still straining his breath to return. Eyes glazed and rolling in sockets.

"Hmm?" She hummed, doing up his trousers. Tucking him so sweetly back into his clothes. "Sorry I didn't catch that."

"You're..." He glared at her. Trying to rise on elbows, but his arms gave. Loose as rubber.

"Mm-hmm?" She encouraged, sliding up his body again. Her chin propped on her hand above him. Trailing fingers ever so light up and down his chest. Straddled with a curved leg over his hip. "I'd love some constructive feedback."

He pulled on her thigh, squeezing the fat between his fingers. "You know how good that was." He growled after a few regaining breaths.

"Oh, I know. Your body told me loud and clear." She smiled. "I'd love to hear it in your own words, though."

"Perfect." He sighed, trailing the back of his fingers over her still tender lips. "Everything. It was everything. You're everything. I love you so terribly. You're all I've ever wanted."

"Oh..." Her eyes started to well with ichor. "Wait. Go back to being grumpy."

"I love you so much. I dream about you. About us. About making you breakfast. About us in a simple kind of joy. Quiet. Sitting doing nothing. Still."

A tear slow rolled down her cheek. Taking a few shaky breaths.

"Where are we, in your dream?"

He smiled loose at her, pulling her chin to kiss her soft.

"On the road. We're traveling. Deep in the forest next to a river. We spend the night curled together in a small tent, sometimes I fish during the day."

Her head settled on his chest.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know yet, I wake up before we arrive. But we keep to small winding trails. You're singing, always singing."

He hesitates to say the other part of the dream, but offers it up anyway.

"You're with child. Only along a few weeks."

She freezes. Her body stiff against his.

That's what he feared.

"Blackwall..." She rose back onto an elbow.

"No, no. I'm sorry." He offered quickly. Cupping her face tenderly. "Forget I said that."

She cupped over his hand. Closing her eyes.

"It's just..." She sighed. "With my bloodline..."

"I understand." He pulled her down to kiss again. "I'm sorry, my love."

"Thank you. Do you think..." The vulnerable of her voice made his heart ache. "Oh Gods, now I understand." She sniffled.

"Hmm?" He looked deep in her eyes.

"My parents. Why they tried with me. Why they tried to beat the odds."

He smiled gently, pulling her hand up to kiss the tips of her fingers.

"Do you think we could?" She whispered.

"Probably not. Given the shit luck we've got."

She laughed, her voice wet with sorrow. Leaning down to kiss him again.

"But there's no one I'd rather try with more." He whispered against her lips.

-

"The dress is in!" Josie chirped, carrying a black silky cover over her arm.

Vella tried to make the reports on her desk matter. Sitting on the cool wood, staring down accusation at them. The heel of her hand pressed to her mouth, elbow propped on her knee.

"Oh, you're going to rattle them in this." She hung it inside her wardrobe.

"Ugh..." Vella thumped her head against the desk. "I'm Dalish, don't make me go. I'm going to want to kill everyone there."

"Everyone does, my dear. You'll do brilliantly, I know it. Oh, and Harritt finished this." Josie slid a gilded cigarette case on the corner of the desk.

"You're sure about this?" Josie tapped her fingers on the case.

Vella nodded, rising back onto elbows. "We'll need the advantage."

Josie stacked the reports neatly onto a chair, then hopped up on the desk with her. Sliding a plate of food to the fold of her legs and sat two small bottles of mead between them. "You've been brooding all day. Eat."

Vella sighed, the rumble in her belly agreed. Picking up the pasty to take a full bite. Her eyes rolling at the creamy gravy and spiced meat.

"Good girl." Josie patted her knee. "Something troubling you? Well, besides the obvious."

Vella gestured towards the direction of the stables around her mouthful.

"Ah, I thought so." Josie smiled. Picking up a fried green bean to pop in her mouth from the plate. "Go on, then." She urged beyond the cup of her hand.

Vella rolled her eyes emphatically, raising a finger, and Josie nodded. Vella practically bursting when she swallowed.

"He said, well insinuated, that he wants to have a baby."

"Oh!" Josie startled, then gave a thoughtful glance down. "Actually, that makes sense."

"But he won't lay with me!" Vella waved her hands.

"Oh...! Wow, that's much more surprising."

Vella took another bite, pointing at Josie. Nodding vigorously.

"And has he said why...?" She led.

Vella shook her head, rising her palm up in an anxious flick.

"Hmm... that is frustrating. And contradictory."

"He's keeping something from me." Vella took a swig of mead.

"Well, the man is as secretive as he is gruff. But I'm surprised he's keeping it from you. It must be... oh, it might be bad..."

"How bad?" Vella moaned, leaning her head into her hands.

"Hey, come on." Josie rubbed her shoulder. "He's a good man. You wouldn't have fallen for him if he wasn't. Your standards are too high."

Vella laughed.

"I'm still stuck on the baby thing." Josie offered sheepishly.

"Right?" Vella huffed. "How can you insinuate, very earnestly, I might add, that you want that when you refuse to bed me? Well... everything but bedding me."

"Everything...?" Josie arched a brow.

Vella waved her hand in a so-so motion.

"A puzzle, that one." Josie sighed. "Do you...? Y'know, want...?"

"What I want isn't even a factor in it. I can't... not in good faith. Not with this curse."

"But do you?" Josie offered softly.

"I... I honestly don't know. Maybe? I think with him..." She curled her folded legs up to her chest. "Maybe it could be nice." She picked at a seam on her knee. "Or miserable. One of each?"

Josie smiled. "I think you'd look lovely with child. And make a better mother."

Vella shuddered at the word. "Ugh! Don't bring that dark magic in this room. Not in my time of need."

Josie laughed brightly. "Either way, I think you'll both go far. The love between you is so soft and full. It's become a bright point for us all."

"And!..." She gestured toward the wardrobe. "You have a beautiful dress to spin in. Really drop his jaw for a night. That man is made of stone, but I doubt he'll be able to resist after seeing you in that."

"Mmm..." Vella pointed at her. "Subterfuge... I see."

"You'll be scheming all night. What's a little more!" She smiled mischievous as she hopped off the desk with her bottle of mead. Diving back to snatch another green bean. Vella slapped playfully at her hand.

"Let me know if you want to try on the dress, I'd love to see a twirl. And Vella..."

She turned to her, ponting with the hand that held her mead.

"Stop throwing knives in here. Think of the upholstery!"

Vella chucked a cushion at her. Josie laughed as she scampered down the stairs. Dodging another cushion with a delighted squeal as she ran out the door.

Vella laughed breathlessly. Trailing over to her practice knives. Lifting one in her fingers.

"Celene's Grand Ball..." She sighed. Walking downstairs to the drafty balcony, snapping the blade into a beam.

"Well, we'll be crashing, won't we?" She smiled at two ravens that sat preening each other. Appraising her with knowing dark eyes.

~

Next Chapter

[h3lfaerie]

Hey Fae! I was wondering for PoA what kind of like armor you were writing hiccup in? Is it like his HTTYD 2 armor? or like a cross between HTTYD and HTTYD: THW ? 100% you don’t have to answer i’m just curious

(also hope calling you fae is fine :))) )

Okay, first of all-

Being called Fae is now my new favourite thing. Excuse me? I am now using that. Thank you so much!!

As for Hiccup's armor, I really like to think he has a variety of gear depending on things like vocation, tasks, expeditions, the freaking weather.

Normally when I refer to the black-scaled armor I'm referencing his gear from The Hidden World. Particularly in Chapter 4, when the Reader's blade gets embedded in the plating.

However, when I was originally writing that scene, I was kind of still figuring out how and where to search for concept art and failed to see that the area around his waist is predominantly (from what I can see?) cured red leather. Which would arguably warrant an injury that is... a whole lot worse than "just a graze", considering he outright leapt at the FMC from Toothless' back mid-flight and impaled himself in the process.

So, considering that it was a pretty important injury that we can see has some pretty harrowing consequences later on, I couldn't really change the placement. So I tried my best to 'alter' that particular part of his gear to have similar plating as the rest of his get-up. I mean my guy has a freaking cod-piece and chose not to wrap himself from head to toe with that obviously very durable combination of dragon scales and (likely?) Gronkle Iron?

I've noticed other members of the gang have the plating all throughout their design, without it impairing their dexterity. So, I can't really see the reason behind those big red "stab be here" areas in Hiccup's design, other than cosmetics.

So, I have done my best to describe his gear as true to canon as possible with the exception of those patches of red leather. It's quite funny actually because Astrid seems to have that very same area in her gear reinforced.

And we've seen her perform some Olympic Level Acrobatics in THW, so it doesn't seem like said design choice would impair Hiccup's mobility.

In short, Hiccup's armor (in the segments where I've described him wearing this particular get-up) is relatively true to canon with the exception of the "stab me here" patches that are instead a reinforced segment of his gear, layered on the same way we have seen on Astrid's design.

So far I've described Hiccup's outfits in detail for three very district reasons: his gear, because he got stabbed, his slutty little regalia in Chapter 5, because he got stabbed again and shirtless (no explanation necessary).

I particularly love his 'amalgamation' outfit, where he seems to have retained some parts of his armor from the second movie like the pauldrons and the gauntlets while also tying in this gambeson tactical brown tunic thing (lovely description, I know).

I can provide an even bigger info dump but I feel like this is enough for now 😂

Thank you so much for your question ❤️ As always, thank you also, for enjoying my writing.

I did not expect PoA to receive so much love and I am unbelievably grateful. I am leaving you with sexy masked Hiccup pics, because... Sexy masked Hiccup.

Love you, byeee~

P.S. Okay, but imagine him doing biker antics.

[dragonnwriter]

Inviolable Bindings

Aemondxfem!OC and Aegonxfem!OC

All Chapters Here!

***NSFW Chapter!!!*** 18+ No Minors!

Chapter 27

During the final hours of the morning, it was only the chambermaids who graced Viserra with their presence. She cherished the quietness, providing her with the opportunity to seek solace before embarking on the events of the day ahead.

She had neatly laid out the armor on her bed, studying how beautiful and well made each piece was. It would be a hassle to put it all on herself in a timely manner, and once she decided that she wanted to try it on, she thought briefly about asking her chambermaids for assistance.

The thought swiftly dissipated from her mind as her innate stubbornness prevented her from seeking such help. Slowly and carefully she dressed in the form fitting, quilted gambeson which made her think the actual armor might feel clucky and cumbersome over the top. To her surprise, she found the thin steel to hug her curves in all of the right places. It rested seamlessly on her mobile body parts, affording her the freedom to move effortlessly.

For a moment, she allowed herself to admire her reflection in the mirror. The excitement now seemed to grow with each passing moment. Perhaps it was the tangible experience of dressing the part, but she reveled in the sense of empowerment it seemed to grant her.

Finally, she grabbed her sword and made way out of the room, hoping that Aemond would not be difficult to track down at this hour. As she opened the door still lost in her own thoughts, she almost walked straight into a body that was standing in the doorway.

The tall, one-eyed man stood before her, almost as if he had been there for quite some time.

“Aemond,” she gasped, gathering herself in an attempt to hide her surprise.

Arms crossed behind his back, it was clear Aemond was not as startled as she was. “My brother said that you will be leaving on the morrow,” he spoke, his eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. “He claims it was him who thought it would be the best move, but something tells me that you might have had something to do with that.”

Viserra thought briefly about deflecting the truth of the accusation, “Speak plainly, what is it that you are accusing me of?” She asked without letting her tone waver.

“I know my brother. He would keep you from the entirety of battle if it was his decision alone,” he spoke, his gaze now shifting to her attire. Slowly, he inspected the armor carefully, patiently waiting for her to admit her part in this plan.

Although her initial instinct was to deny the influence she might have had, Viserra realized there was no point in trying to distort the truth. “Tell me that it isn't the most prudent option,” she spoke firmly while crossing her arms in front of her chest. “We cannot leave the castle defenseless and the presence of a dragon on our initial siege will send a resounding message.”

Aemond nodded, lingering his line of sight over the curve of the breastplate. “I did not say it wasn’t a good idea.”

She watched him suspiciously before finding her next words.  His intent was not obvious and she did not want to unintentionally back herself into a corner. “All of us had discussed each possibility without agreeing on a solution. Putting emotions aside, letting Rhyn and I depart with the men tomorrow is the most strategic choice.”

“Hm,” he sounded, taking a step into her room and looking sharply down at her face.

“It would not be wise to leave Aegon here alone, and there is no need for two dragons to take Duskendale,” she spoke with determination.

“Agreed,” he said, untwisting his arms and bringing his hand up to brush the hair from her face.

Viserra felt her defenses soften as soon as his fingers grazed her skin. The discomfort of feeling out of control was something she knew they both shared. Little by little she became aware that he paid exceptionally close attention to her despite his quiet nature.

Letting a long breath escape from his lips, he shifted the conversation’s direction and turned his attention to her attire. “This suits you,” he observed, running his fingers over the etched designs in the steel.

Viserra welcomed the shift in conversation with a sense of relief. “If I am to be honest, I am concerned that the stiffness will be a hindrance,” she admitted. “I would like to train a bit today in hopes it becomes more familiar.”

Aemond's serious demeanor dissipated, and a faint smile teased at the corners of his lips. However, his gaze remained fixated on the armor, causing Viserra to briefly wonder if he had truly heard her. She tilted her head and took a small step closer in an effort to capture his complete attention.

“Will you join me in the yard today?” She asked, knowing he would not turn down such an opportunity.

Aemond held his smile as he brought his eye up to meet hers. “Of course. Would you like to go now?”

She nodded, thinking it was probably the most opportune time to leave. She had already donned the armor and he seemed to be eager and available in that moment. 

Without another word, they left her chambers and began to make their way out to the training yard. The tension in the Red Keep was palpable and it seemed that the castle was rushed in their preparations to send the army off the next day. Even when they made their way to the courtyard, they found it unusually busy and bustling with activity. 

What surprised her most was Aemond’s relatively subdued stance of her impending departure. His usual assertiveness was evident, yet he had not pushed as forcefully as she had expected. She continued to realize that he possessed the ability to keep his reservations hidden until they served his purpose. A trait that both impressed her and caused her a great deal of frustration.

Their training commenced much like any other day they shared in the yard. Viserra felt acutely aware of the structure that her newly acquired armor held with movement and each step she took. Though the afternoon of sparring felt quite productive, they were careful not to train to exhaustion. The sun began to dip below the higher towers of the castle and the cool breeze seemed rather apparent once the heat was no longer shining down on them.

Aemond had been the one to call an end to their afternoon once he had her pinned and forced to yield. Sheathing his sword and extending his hand to her in a friendly gesture, he had helped her back to her feet.

Viserra took a moment to catch her breath. The weight of the armor hung heavily on her body, trapping the sweat against her skin. She gazed up at Aemond, exhaling deeply, and securing her weapon back in its place at her hip.

“You should retire to your chambers for a meal and to rest,” he advised, his voice showing just the slightest hint of concern. “You will need to have both your wits about you and your strength for tomorrow.”

Nodding in agreement, a sudden sense of apprehension washed over her. This would be their first offensive move and there was no doubt that she needed to be prepared, not just physically but mentally as well. Her excitement had been rooted in a feeling that she was finally where she was meant to be but the anticipation of the next day had only begun to sit its weight on her shoulders.

Their walk back to her chambers was notably slower than their journey to the training yard. Viserra remained just a few paces ahead, but Aemond maintained a close distance, following her every step. His quiet presence remained a comfort, even as no words were spoken.

Reaching the familiar wooden doors, Viserra was surprised when Aemond continued past the guard and entered right behind her. She turned to him with an eyebrow raised curiously. She was suspicious of his intentions, especially after proclaiming that food and rest should be her next priority.

As they walked through the doors, Elia and Cassella entered the room and promptly stood at attention. Viserra, finally breaking the silence, turned to address both of them. “A bath and something to eat,” she spoke kindly, giving the girls a soft smile.

“Enough for the both of us,” Aemond requested sternly. “And wine.”

Cassella departed swiftly, leaving Elia standing and staring at the prince as if she were waiting for further instructions.

“Did you not hear, girl?” He spoke, his voice cold and firm. “Your Lady and Prince have issued you a task.”

Viserra looked back to Aemond, eyebrows now furrowed at what she thought was an unnecessarily harsh way to speak to the girl. The abruptness of his tone achieved the intended result and Elia had scrambled from the room before Viserra could mend the interaction.

She shook her head and walked away from him to her mirror, her fingers reaching up to begin unfastening one of the straps that held the pauldrons securely to her shoulders. Before she could get them off herself, Aemond had appeared just behind her.

“Let me help you,” he spoke, his voice now much softer than it had been just moments before.

Hesitating as her sense of independence was again challenged, she felt his fingers brush lightly against the exposed skin of her neck. “I-I can manage it myself,” she insisted, but her voice wavered just slightly and her gaze unintentionally met his in the mirror.

Aemond, however, was unyielding. His hands were gentle and deliberate as he continued to work on removing the armor from her body. As he loosened more straps and lifted up the weight of the breastplate, she felt his lips press against the curve of her neck.

The cool air of the room chilled the stale sweat on her newly exposed skin. She let out a soft gasp as the combination of touch and cold sent a shiver rushing down her spine. Her initial resistance to his help had all but crumbled and she found herself closing her eyes to savor the sensation of it all.

The last piece of armor had been removed and all that remained was the thin, damp garment underneath. He moved in close and his lips brushed against her shoulder a second time. As she observed him intently, she leaned back to rest her weight on his body. Aemond’s eye met hers again in the mirror and a sudden smoldering intensity burned through her. A smirk played at his lips as he watched her face flush in response.

“You may be fierce when on the battlefield, Viserra,” he murmured into her ear, “But do not forget that you also possess the softness of a woman.”

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer against him and she could almost feel her heart pounding through her chest. She knew he had her right where he wanted her, armor set aside and vulnerable again.

The chambermaid’s door suddenly swung open causing Viserra to jump and pull herself away from the warm body behind her. Looking over at the intrusion, she noticed they did not seem to pay either of them any attention. Her hopes were that they had been focused on the tasks at hand and not just willfully ignoring what they had walked in on. A moment later, three more more servants entered behind them carrying the large steaming pots of water.

Glancing back at Aemond, she noticed that he was again standing straight with his hands behind his back. The smirk he had previously worn was still plated on his face. To her annoyance, he seemed much less bothered by the sudden intrusion and possibly even somewhat amused. She was once more reminded of his ability to remain impassive, no matter the circumstances and sometimes at others expense.

Walking past her, Aemond crossed the room to pour himself a cup of wine. “Come, let us fill our bellies while your bath is filled,” he spoke, reaching for the other cup to fill as well.

Taking in a deep breath, Viserra was able to compose herself quickly. She couldn’t help but be drawn to his unwavering demeanor, even when it caught her off guard. She walked to him, taking the cup of freshly poured wine out of his hand and letting the cool liquid touch her lips.

The food was hot, something that did not often happen if they did not join everyone else in the dining hall. As they ate, they shared a few moments of comfortable silence. The fresh food and wine were a welcomed break from the tension that loomed both outside and in her chambers.

Viserra had just finished her meal and had raised her cup for more when she suddenly became aware of Aemond’s quiet presence, his eye firmly fixed upon her. She wondered what he saw in her at that moment: her silver hair remained disheveled from training and a faint sheen of sweat still sat on her skin. In that instance, she was acutely aware that she did not conform to the traditional standards of Westerosi beauty, yet he remained utterly captivated by her.

Rising from his seat, he moved himself closer and gestured towards the braid in her hair. “Let me help you untangle this mess,” he offered, his tone both casual and genuine.

“My Lady, the bath is ready,” Elia interrupted, her nervousness evident as she stood before the prince.  “Is there anything more you require at the moment?”

“Leave us.” Aemond’s voice was firm and unfriendly. Viserra found herself irritated again at his tone towards her chambermaid, but in all honesty she was also eager for privacy.

Elia did not need to be told twice and she gave a slight curtsey before quickly exiting the room. 

The room fell into another bout of silence and Viserra felt a hand gently lift the braid from her shoulder. Aemond’s insistence on tending to her this evening was evident and she battled the urge to pull away from him to do it herself.

With gentle fingers, he began to unfasten her hair. Training had left some of the strands tangled, but he worked carefully to unwind them without too much pulling. When he finally finished, he allowed the now wavy hair to cascade down her back, admiring the texture created by the braid.

The hands that had been brushing through her hair now made their way to her shoulders. His proximity was intoxicating and she couldn’t help but lean into his touch. The newfound privacy reignited the undeniable attraction that simmered beneath the surface.

As she stood up from her chair, he removed his hands from her body, leaving a lingering ache in their place. When she turned to face him, she found the familiar smirk on his lips and a suspicious look in his eye.

“I’d like to bathe,” she stated, as if it weren’t next in the natural course of events for the evening.

Aemond’s hands found her skin once again, this time making their way under the top she was wearing. Her breath hitched as she felt his fingers begin to lift it off of her damp skin. His touch was somehow both gentle and possessive as he peeled the fabric from her body, slowly revealing her nakedness to the warm glow of the room.

His eyes roamed over the top half of her exposed form and she watched as his breath quickened in his chest. Without waiting for him to make the next move, she hooked her fingers on the top of her pants and smoothly slid the linen down and off of her body.

The cool air assaulted her bare skin as it quickly responded with goosebumps. Wrapping her arms tightly around her chest and turning away from him, she clung to herself in an attempt to ward off some of the chill. It seemed painfully long before she felt the other pair of arms close in around her. His enveloping warmth made her realize that he had also removed his shirt during their brief moment of separation.

Aemond let his body contour around her with the intention of giving her the warmth she craved. As his eye roamed over her curves from above, it became evident that his hunger and desire were only growing more and more. His body language shifted and the hardened bulge at her backside revealed that he was now fighting against his own impatience.

Viserra let out a breath she didn't know she was holding as he uncurled his body from hers. The lack of warmth gave her the shivers once more. He took her by the shoulders, leading her in the direction of the bath. But instead of passing under the archway, his hand suddenly reached out to press against the wall, effectively trapping her between his body and the cold stone.

“Tomorrow you will lead with your strength and valor,” he whispered, his voice low and sultry, “but tonight I want to see you surrender in my presence.”

As she attempted to look over her shoulder in his direction, he pushed her more firmly against the wall. She let out a gasp as the stone scratched at her skin but she realized that the sensation was not unwelcome. His warm lips found their place on the nape of her neck. The contrast between his roughness holding her fast in her place and the tenderness of his touch made the heat pool between her legs.

Aemond’s hands continued to roam over her body, exploring the curves and dips he found so familiar. She found the anticipation was almost unbearable as his fingers dipped lower to trace the skin of her inner thigh. There was something freeing about relinquishing control as she realized she ached for his touch and his dominance alike. 

Viserra grabbed at his hand to bring it to the ache that needed him most, barely able to contain the moan that came from her throat. He let her guide him, his fingers playing between her folds, pleased to find her slick and ready for him to explore her more intimately.

His hand was gone just as quick as it had come, the sudden lack of contact causing her brow to furrow and her core to ache with need. She felt him shift behind her and before she could voice her frustrations, a firm hand had gripped on to her hip.

In one motion he slid his readied cock into her and something mixed between a yelp and a moan left her mouth. She brought her hands up to brace herself against the stone, the force of the thrust causing her skin to scratch against the uneven texture. Instinctively, she arched slightly against him, melting into the union of their bodies.

As he quickly found his rhythm, Aemond continued to let his lips trail along her neck. His one hand never left her hip, while the other scooped underneath her arm and held fast to her shoulder.

In a surge of desire, Viserra turned her head again just slightly, this time his lips met hers in a passionate kiss. The intensity grew with each thrust as the need for release built steadily within them both. She could feel fingers digging into her skin on her hip, knowing that they would most likely leave marks once he released them.

The world around them seemed to fade away as neither could focus on anything but the heat between them in that moment. Her body trembled as his thrusts became more powerful and urgent.

Aemond rested his head to the side of hers, soft grunting noises escaping his mouth as he continued his steady movements. The warm breath at her neck and his moans were enough to finally send Viserra over the edge. She tried clinging to the wall as she felt herself topple over the last wave of pleasure. Her legs weakened and she was suddenly very grateful of the tight hold he had on her.

The sight of her coming undone brought him quickly to his own peak. Continuing to hold her there, he finished with the next thrust, leaving himself sheathed inside her. She reveled in the sensation of him pulsating within her, filling her with his seed and still being pinned to the wall.

Their heavy breathing filled the room until she felt him slowly relax and pull from her. Carefully, he released his hold, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting her turn to finally face him.

Viserra’s mouth remained slightly agape as she looked into his dilated pupil. Each time they coupled, she found herself dazed and in a haze. It was as if their union was laced with some sort of magic. He brought his face down to hers, placing a gentle but lingering kiss to her lips. Her back pressed against the cold stone again, a shocking sensation compared to the previous heat of his body.

He finally broke the kiss with a smile and she could not help but reciprocate the expression. His hand reached up to gently brush the hair from her face, his once dominant touch was now tender and affectionate.

“Viserra,” he murmured, “you are a formidable presence. I am honored to fight alongside you, both on the battlefield and in these bedchambers.”

The words hung in the air as she processed his praise. They were two souls cut from the same cloth and she was pleased to hear him admit his admiration for her. Her smile widened as she felt the excitement and anticipation of the next day swell within her once again.

“It will be exhilarating to finally stand next to you in battle,” she breathed, “My only hope is that I am not so distracted by your presence as I am in this very moment.”

“I share the same concern,” he chuckled, taking a small step back and letting her come away from the wall.

She reached up to cradle his face with her hands, standing on her toes to give him one more soft kiss in an attempt to express her mutual sentiment.

“Now, if I should find my last bath before battle to be chilled, you will see that my mood will be soured for the rest of the night,” she teased, turning her gaze towards the adjacent chamber.

“We cannot have that,” he concurred, his face now reflecting a softer and more relaxed expression. Reaching for her hand, he guided her in front of him. The anticipation of the next day still lingered as she settled into the hot water, but they both realized they found solace in each other’s presence, even if just for a fleeting moment.

Author's Notes: Another chapter out! Yay! Thank you all for the follows and reads. <3

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Violent Delights (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: As a dornish princess, you live by one saying. All is fair in love and war. When Prince Daemon stumbles into your life, you start to reconsider your stance.

Warnings: Fluff. Pining, yearning, childhood crush. Mentions of sex, sexual thoughts, noncon (Baby reader catching Daemon in the act, it doesn't last long, adults intervene) all the usual Daemon warnings.

A/N: Meet dornish reader! I wanted to explore how Daemon can be in character and be with an actual age appropriate woman. Enjoy.

The first time you see Daemon Targaryen, you are twelve years old. Twelve years old and fascinated by the rain. It’s not something you usually see in Dorne, so as you trail your older brother around the Red Keep, you slip away to get a closer look.

You have never been good at orientating yourself, specially in such large spaces. You climb a stair and go in circles, before you decide to start opening doors. Unsure of which wing you are in, you decide to enter the first empty room you see.

Much to your delight, it is a sitting room with large windows. You choose the biggest one, underneath which a tiny windowsill will do quite nicely for a resting place. The window is heavy to your child self, a monstrosity made of a darker wood unseen in Dorne. You manage to pry it open with great effort and sit by it, one hand extended to feel the raindrops.

It's freezing. It feels just like running water does, but much colder. You close your eyes, committing the feeling to memory. In Dorne, desert and sand extends for miles and miles. When it rains, it's never like this. There are small drizzles, but nothing like this absolute downpour.

If it were to rain like this back home, panic would spread among the population. Crops would get ruined, houses would end up sunk in mud. But as you look down, you do not see hurried servants spreading sand or sawwood in the entrances, much less dragging furniture inside. Everything here seems to be built to withstand the climate.

You close your eyes again, feeling utterly at peace. The soft patter of the rain, so frightening at first, now feels much more calming. This is nice. You could get used to this, you think. Perhaps, when you are older, Qoren might marry you off to a kingdom where there is rain. You would like it, you think. It's a very marvelous thing. Majestic, even. There is a certain beauty in the natural forces making themselves known.

The door opens. You startle. When you look up, you are greeted by the sight of a couple kissing passionately. It’s a blonde man, tall and handsome, and a serving girl. Frozen in place, you stay quiet. You aren’t sure what the protocol is for this, if you should clear your throat or walk out quietly.

The couple parts. The man, young, around her age, pushes the woman down to her knees and starts undoing his clothing. He is a noble of some sort, you know it by the gambeson he wears. It's too finely crafted to be otherwise.

And sure, you are dornish. Someone has given you the talk about the birds and the bees already, along with some necessary knowledge of the feminine mystique. It doesn't mean you want to witness an unknown couple going at it.

As you get down from the windowsill, your shoes thud a little too hard on the floor. The woman doesn’t take notice, her mouth already… Well. But the man, blonde, Targaryen blonde, you think, looks up.

At first, it is as if he doesn’t see you. His face is contorted with pleasure, eyes nearly closed. He is beautiful, you think. His features stand out to you, specially because you are not used to people being so…white. The way he is lost in his pleasure, too, speaks to you in ways you can't yet comprehend.

Then, his eyes meet yours and widen. He is surprised at your presence, but it barely lasts. Without any ounce of shame, he gives you a superior smirk and winks.

You shriek. The serving girl pulls off him as if he were on fire. The man groans.

“Shut up, little girl.” He says, to you, as he pulls the serving girl back on. “In a few years, you too will be on your knees for a man.”

“My Prince!” The girl sounds scandalized. You can tell she is on the verge of placing herself between him and you. It's all over on the way she stands, blocking your view of his nakedness. You wonder if she fears damaging your innocence or what the man might do to you in a fit of temper. You have heard these Targaryens are quite spirited. “She is a child!”

“A dornish one.” The man, the Prince, shrugs. “Now, she can either stay or get out, but I am…”

Whatever he is, he doesn’t get to say it. No, because the door opens yet again, slamming against the wall. You startle, and so does the Prince. The serving girl starts quietly weeping, something along the lines of how she is sure she is about to lose her job.

Helplessly, three pairs of eyes shift to the door. There are guards, spears at the ready, at the forefront of it. One of them even drops his weapon, before shielding his eyes.

“What in the…”

The King and your older brother step inside the room, pushing past the men. Your brother's eyes are frantic, his hands reaching desperately for you.

The Prince still has his pants down.

Your brother takes one look at you, and one look at the Prince and loudly declares:

“We are leaving.”

Safe to say, Dorne does not join the other kingdoms that day.

There are many thoughts in your head about Daemon Targaryen after that. That he is handsome, and bold, and you always smile when told of his exploits. It's not a trait you should admire, as a second daughter, but you like his rebelliousness. When he gets the moniker of the Rogue Prince, you think it fitting.

You grow, during those years. You turn into a beautiful woman, sharp and bold, flourishing in the way women do when free to pursue their interests. But in your suitors' eyes, you have one fatal flaw: You live as you please and bed exactly the number of people you desire to bed.

In Daemon's eyes, though, you are a ghost. A memory that haunts him, every once in a while. He has heard of you, of your beauty and independence. He wonders if he was the one to initiate you into the world of pleasure, if that's why you have turned into such a siren. It's not often that Daemon does, but when he wonders, he recalls the face you had made when shattering your innocence.

But you don't know that yet. The more you grow, the more you forget him, even starting to feel a mild annoyance towards his house.

“You can never trust a Martell.” Or so King Viserys said, when your brother's offer to fund his side during the war at the Stepstones reached him. But he certainly finds it convenient because he pockets the gold so fast, one might believe him a dornish lover.

While it was true that you had an unfortunate habit of deceptiveness, it was not as if you changed sides as fast as a viper shed her skin. You only do it twice a year. Every six months is the perfect time to conduct an assessment of your investments.

Because that was what it was. War was no more than profit, for you, and most of the nobles in Westeros. The only difference is that you were much more honest about it than most.

It wasn't necessarily profitable in terms of gold. No, sometimes it meant gaining lands, or getting other kingdoms to respect you, so you could retain your freedom. But regardless of what you were gaining, you tended to look at things in a rather practical way. Some things were worth the sacrifice, some weren't.

Qoren lacked a business instinct. You had told him time and time again that the Triarchy was not a good investment. You would be losing men and funds, only to stick it to the Targaryens. Grievances aside, it was not worth it. You had to think about the good of your people.

Yet no matter how much you insisted, Qoren refused to see reason. Too proud. He had argued that the Iron Throne was going to scam you, in some way or another. When he had finally conceded to jumping ships, you had found out that he might be right.

While much more profitable than your time with the Triarchy, considering that you were now about to win the war, you were pretty sure you were being robbed. The funds you gave them slipped though their fingers faster than sand. They were either very dumb and got duped every time they bought supplies, or they were inflating the costs on purpose.

The deal had been clear. You would foot one quarter of the expenses for the lasts months of the campaign. But it seemed like you were footing the whole war with how much they were asking for.

While Qoren ruled Sunspear, you had always done your best to be involved in his politics as much as you could. Having been raised with the freedom most dorsnishwomen were, you had not been eager to make a political marriage or leave your home for a land that would think you too unconventional. Instead, to guarantee not being sent away, you had endeavored to make yourself as useful as you could.

But as you grew, you had proven to be much more than so. While he had made a good marriage, with a kind woman, she had not been raised in the way that you had been. You had turned indispensable in the ruling of Sunspear, his Lady in all but the fact that you did not share his bed.

It helped that, unmarried as you were, you retained your title. And as the Princess as you were, you didn't stand for being made a fool. That fact, aided by the hot-blooded nature of the Martells, had been what had prompted you to travel by yourself to the war camp.

If the lords loyal to the Iron Throne did, why couldn't you?

Much to your surprise, when you finally arrive at the Stepstones, it seems like the war is over. You find men pillaging the caves where the Crab King kept his few riches. A few wounded lay on the floor, others already taken by the Stranger.

You step in the sand, kicking a few bodies away to make room for yourself. The whole place is a mess. There are some fires going. Some men are rounding up the enemy’s soldiers, either killing them or placing them in chains. You wrinkle your nose in disgust at the smell of blood and burned flesh.

Slowly, you start to make your way forward. You have made sure to be dressed in the bright yellows and oranges of House Martell, to avoid being confused with someone else. The heavy, male boots you are wearing contrast sharply with the daintiness of your attire.

As you make your way forward, some men try to approach you. You gesture to your guards, a second son of House Dayne and a young man by the last name of Sand, to block their paths.

“Who is that?” Some men ask, dumbly. You roll your eyes. What sort of allies were these, that they didn't recognize your standard?

“Hey, Lady, you can’t be here!” And oh, the sheer stupidity of them all. If you didn't know their lords to be much more cunning, this display might have actually led you to believe that they were, in fact, being duped time and time again instead of inflating the cost of supplies.

“… The Maiden…” Now, that one was a bit better. You looked good in your traveling dress, despite the chunky boots.

“What is she..?”

You bat them all away, set on reaching the center of the smoking ruins. You know the men you seek must be there. The faint screeches of dragons tell you that.

Your knights locate a rock for you to sit on. They stand guard, their backs turned to you. You eye the carnage around you and decide that yes, the rock is precisely where you wish to sit. It's high enough that you get a vantage point to watch the terrain, but not too tall you will need aid to get up on it.

When you sit down, carefully spreading your skirts to not let them touch the dirt, someone sits by your side. You don't need to look up to know it's who you seek. Your guards wouldn't have let him approach if he wasn't.

“Quite the entrance.” He says, casually leaving his sword on the sand. “You have grown.”

Pretending not to recognize him, you look at your nails, casually. His voice sounds exactly as you remember it.

“Do I know you?”

“More intimately than you probably wished at the time.” He laughs, and you finally risk your first glance at him. Daemon Targaryen is still in his armor, covered in so much blood he looks positively feral. His hair, in intricate little braids, is as beautiful as you remember, even if limp and tinted red. A shame he will probably have to cut it now because by the looks of it, the blood and sooth are not coming off.

You are no longer a girl of twelve years old, and he is no longer the young Prince you once caught in the act. Yet, he is still disarmingly handsome. Despite the years and the self assuredness you have managed to cultivate, he leaves you weak at the knees.

How could one say this in a polite manner? Daemon had featured in quite a few of your teenage fantasies, as you grew older. After catching him in the act, you had had an interesting conversation with Qoren. It had opened your eyes to a whole new world of pleasure.

Twelve years old was an impressionable age, especially for young maidens. You had flowered not long afterwards your first exposure to sex. Back then, you hadn't understood what you had witnessed properly, but as you grew, your imagination did too. And Dorne was not a place for the shy.

As you started to look at the world with the eyes of a woman, you had experienced your first infatuation, and it had been on him. Never before had you met a northern that was as open-minded about pleasure as Daemon was, and that fact had made you wonder what it would be like to share his bed. And then, the war at the Stepstones had reawakened your teenage urges.

“You!” You play it cool, as if you had not set up this whole thing on the odd chance of getting to see him. Dornishmen were no strangers to pleasure, after all. And you had never been good at denying yourself of anything you wanted. “The boy in the sitting room.”

“The girl at the window.” Daemon conceded, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “And here I thought I would have to lower my pants.”

You snickered. Daemon looked perplexed for a second, before snickering too. You could tell he was impressed by your lack of a reaction to his joke, probably because he had thought it would scandalize you.

The moment is cut short, though, by his own sobering up.

“You shouldn't be here, little dornish girl.”

“Oh?” You extend your legs in front of you, getting comfortable. Will he mention the elephant in the room, or will you have to?

“These men have not seen a woman in months.” Daemon answers, lightly curling his hand over the pommel of his sword. You look around you, noticing that some of the men are, in fact, staring hungrily at you. It's not something that bothers you, any longer. Despite the nickname Daemon has bestowed on you, you are no girl. Younger than him by a few years, you are more of an old maid. You were used to men's attention. As the Princess of Dorne, you had come to expect it.

“And that concerns me, how?” Because there are much more interesting matters you wish to discuss, rather than the ogling of some uncouth northerns. For one, where was your gold going. Second, what were you having for dinner. Third, if he was going to join you.

“Do I really have to explain?” Daemon arches an eyebrow. Deciding to play coy, you give him a sweet look.

“Please. Do not deprive me of the pleasure of your opinions.” And if it comes out a bit ironic, Daemon doesn't seem to notice, too entranced by the way you are twirling one of your dark curls between your fingers.

“Plenty of hungry cats.” He says, as if in a daze. Apparently, Daemon hasn't seen a woman in months either, if seducing him will be this easy. “And you are looking an awful lot like a little mouse.”

You fight the urge to snicker. You were no mouse, but a viper, and you were ready to strike. But if he fancied himself the protector, you didn't mind playing into it.

“Well, good thing you are here. Now they think this little mouse is spoken for.” You run a hand over his arm, softly. Your hands lift a trace of the blood in his armor, leaving behind a drawing made up of empty space.

“Are you?” He arches an eyebrow, unbothered at the contact. You retract your hand, staring at your now bloody fingernails.

A scattering of images comes to mind. Maidenheads, bloody sheets. The girl you were at twelve. The man he is now. Your nails scratching lines on his back, biting at his throat, nipping at his lips. Unable to connect the thoughts, you let them go until only a pleasant smile remains.

“Are you a hungry cat?”

“No, little mouse.” Daemon tucks a loose curl behind your ear. As his hand comes down, he caresses your neck, lightly. It's barely a brush of his fingertips, yet your breath falters. He leans in, as if sharing a secret. His next words come out in a whisper. “I am a hungry dragon.”

Predictable, if a bit witty. Targaryens and their dragons. Despite it, you enjoy how much of an effort he is putting in. As a Martell, people often expect you to do all the seducing, not noticing you like being seduced as well. It's good that someone finally acknowledges it takes two to dance.

“That explains the never-ending appetite.” You tease, leaning towards him as well. The sun is starting to settle around you, some of his men lighting fires. They do not seem about to stop their pillaging. You wonder if Corlys Velaryon is near, and if so, why he doesn't stop them.

“You have no idea.” His voice is low and smooth. His hand is still on your loose curl, lower, this time. Barely touching your collarbone. His eyes are dark, and you doubt it is from the change in lighting. "A taste would never satiate me.”

“Shame. Little mice make for small bites, I think.” Your lips quirk up at the corners, barely suppressing a laugh. Expert in denial as you are, you know now is the time to retreat. You want him hooked on you so badly, he never sees your next move.

“I would make sure to do so very slowly. Savor it.” Daemon's thumb rubs just between your collarbones, tracing a path towards the valley of your breasts. You move away before he can reach it.

“Maybe, hungry cat.” You stress the last word, already knowing how you will lead Daemon into your trap. It will only take a few well-placed prods at his ego.

“Hungry dragon.” He repeats, a bit annoyed. The idea that you do not recognize him by his proper title upsets him. You laugh.

“Oh, but you look like a starved cat. A stray.”

“I am no stray.” Daemon complains. You arch an eyebrow, coolly.

“What else is a Prince doing fighting a war so far from home?”

Daemon stares at you. You are willing to admit it was quite mean on your part. Perhaps a tad too vicious. But you have yet to accomplish what you wish to, hence why you take it even further.

“You have until tomorrow to deposit the gold you have stolen from us in coffers.”

His whole face shifts, flirty expression replaced by a mask of indifference that is not fooling anyone. Caught off guard by your words, Daemon resorts back to his only defense mechanism.

“And if I don't?” He thrusts his chin up, defiant.

“You will find yourself at war with Dorne.” Your tone is even. Your voice doesn't waver, as if you were discussing the weather and not defying a kingdom much larger than yours.

“And you will declare war with two knights?” Daemon laughs.

“Have you met Dalton Greyjoy, perhaps?” You lean back on the rock, tilting your face up to the sun. Soaking in it. “Awfully young ironborn. Eager to prove himself, much more so if it's to beautiful women. Or so I hear.”

“You have allied yourself with the Iron Islands?”

You say nothing. Instead, you give him an enchanting tilt of the head, as if he was no more than one of your suitors. Your lips stretch into a coy little smile, one that tells him you have a secret he is not privy to.

“I do not believe you.” Daemon shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, before uncrossing them and shaking his head yet again. Stunned. “No. Prince Qoren would never allow it.”

“Qoren would not?” You repeat, mockingly. “And pray tell, since when do you know him so well?”

“Do you know why he dropped the Triarchy?” The question is unexpected. Before this, you had not bothered to wonder about your brother's motives. Used as you were at things going your way, you had assumed Qoren had seen the wisdom of your advice and decided to take it.

“Because I told him it was a bad investment.” You answer, refusing to back down. What could Daemon Targaryen know of the motivations of a prince of Dorne? Nothing. He had to be bluffing, searching for a weakness he could exploit to get out of this.

“Because the Crab King, over there…” Daemon gestures vaguely in the direction of the corpses. “Had eyes that lingered too much on you. And if this Greyjoy boy is the same…”

You blink a few times. It makes sense. The Crab King had never tried to seduce you, yet you know men like that are not used to asking. Instead, they order. You can only guess the face Qoren made when faced with such a demand. He is as proud as you are.

Daemon could be lying, of course. Trying to make you doubt Qoren. Divide and conquer, and all that. You can't let that happen. Everyone knows the two of you are a team. Whatever grievances you have to air with him, they will be on private. You tuck away the piece of information for later, and focus on what's in front of you.

“If Qoren is willing to turn into a turncloak for my sake…” You narrow your eyes at Daemon, menacingly. You know as well as him that the easiest way to stop you is to hurt you. Kill you, perhaps. But it would mean war. “Think of what he will do to you, if you hurt me.”

“You will have your coffers tomorrow, Princess.” Daemon says, bitterly. He knows he has lost. You outmaneuvered him. House Martell has never bowed to dragons. If Daemon declares war on Dorne, his brother will pull the support from the Iron Throne. Corlys Velaryon will not want to get involved, no matter how much he has benefitted from their plot. He cannot wage war alone.

You get up. You dust off your skirts.

“Good. And make sure you bathe before touching the gold. Wouldn't want you staining it.”

You do go back to Dorne with a chest full of gold, and then some. As it seems to be a tendency with Daemon, you almost forget all about him before he is barging into your life again.

It happens on an odd afternoon, while you are trying to broker a deal with a foreign King. The tart taste of the berries makes you scrunch up your face. It's more acidic than what you are used to, but good nonetheless. You smile at the King in front of you. He looks on the verge of drooling.

“I am glad you like it, my Princess.” He simpers. “I must say the shade compliments your caramel skin quite well.”

Caramel. Ugh. How you hate when men compare you to food. It's always your caramel skin, your cherry lips, your golden eyes. Can they get more unoriginal?

You beg to the skies for fortitude. This alliance is important, you remind yourself. Qoren needs them, Dorne needs them. They grow more fruit than you could ever hope for.

As it often happens, your prayers are heeded in a way you could not have expected.

“Princess.” A guard suddenly sprints into the room. “There is a situation at the gates. Prince Qoren needs you.”

You spring up from your seat so fast, one might think there were needles on your cushion.

“I apologize, my King. The berries were lovely. Perhaps you could send some more? For the people?”

“Oh, I understand.” The King gives a jovial laugh. “Duty calls and all. You are right, I shall send you…”

“Good.” You cut him off, and walk out of the parlor. As you start to reach the gates, you slow down your walk. You can't have Qoren thinking you rushed to his side, after all.

“Have you developed some sort of mind reading ability?” Qoren turns at your words. He is facing the gates, right in the middle of the watchtower. It's not an actual watchtower, but rather a ledge on one of your lower walls, right aside to the actual tower. Its slightly off center position allows for a better view of the gates, despite not being very high.

“What's that supposed to mean?” He asks, reclining precariously. Your stomach turns. This is a recurring occurrence, Qoren watching from places he is not supposed to. You often fear he will fall to his death, yet he has yet to even slip. He is noisy enough to not care about the dangers of the world.

“You knew I needed an out, I gather.” You keep your tone flat. While you enjoyed being his right hand, you disliked that so many of your allies thought flirting was the way to do business.

“I didn't. Come here and take a look.” Qoren sounds uninterested in your grievances, which is highly unusual for him. Whatever he is looking at must be fascinating. You start climbing the steps, aided by the guard that led you here. You try to do so gracefully, but it's daunting in a dress as the one you wear.

“How did you even get up here?” You huff, crouching on the ledge before slowly starting to stand.

“Invaders.” Qoren says, unbothered. You nearly fall off, shrieking. The guard pushes you upright again.

“At ease, Princess. We got you.” He says. “Look closer.”

So you do. You narrow your eyes at the horizon, and what you can see of the gate. You can barely make out a giant red blur. A dragon, perhaps? One you already know, by the eerie calm he is sporting.

You only know one dragon. It happens to be red.

“What did you do to that man?” Qoren laughs. Your mouth opens and closes. It has been almost two moons since you departed from the Stepstones, half of the gold you had originally given to the Iron Throne back with you.

You had gone on with your life. Taken a few lovers, here and there. Ate good food. Pawned off resources for alliances. You know, the typical. Daemon Targaryen, though, clearly has not. Because he now stands at the gates of Sunspear, dragon in tow.

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear.” You reply to Qoren, still open-mouthed. “Is he trying to declare war?”

Qoren laughs at you, poking you in the ribs. You squirm away, before remembering you are standing on a ledge. You slap his arm.

“Don't do that! We could fall!”

“The only falling being done here is that dragon prince for you, dear sister.”

“Huh?” You frown, confused. What is he on about? Despite your desire to bed Daemon, you had walked away from the meeting with the certainty that he was not interested in you. You were not a maiden like the ones he chased, nor were you young, and you had done a good job of alienating him after threatening him with war. This could not be a mere visit, for you had parted on bad terms.

But Qoren doesn't answer. He only raises his voice slightly.

“Truss him up in chains!” The order is clearly not meant for you. “And place him on the Princess' solar.”

“What are you doing?” You ask, bewildered, as the guards hurry to carry out his order.

“I'll give you a chance to deal with him.” Qoren says, mysteriously. “I think he is about to ask for your hand.” And with an agile jump, he is off the ledge and getting down the wall. You scramble to follow.

“Qoren!” You scream, nearly falling off in your haste. He is too fast for you, already entering the palace. The guard steadies you again, and you gather your skirts and run after him, but it's too late. You do not know which direction he has turned. “Qoren, what do you mean by that? Have you spoken to him? He asked you for… Qoren, dammit!”

His cheery voice reaches your ears.

“Do try to get rid of him, alright? We can't have our people thinking we have been invaded.”

You chase after the sound, but he is gone. You could follow him to the throne room, but you decide for the more amusing option. No matter if Qoren is teasing about the marriage proposal, you decide to go and freshen up a bit. It will take a long time for the guards to subdue Daemon, and to drag him inside. Plenty of advice for you to change clothes.

Be it for declaring war, or rejecting a marriage proposal, you like to be well-dressed for the occasion. You take your time choosing your outfit, strapping a tiny dagger to your thigh.

Only when an hour has passed, you walk towards your solar. There are a few knights stationed outside, one of them being your Dayne companion. He approaches you cautiously.

“The Prince left instructions for us to enter at your call. One scream, Princess, and we will be in there before he can draw his sword.”

He sounds worried. It's actually kind of sweet.

“Don't worry. He won't hurt me.”

But despite your words, as soon as you enter your solar, you are grabbed harshly by the arm. You look up to find Daemon not only free from chains, but furious.

Perhaps the guards thought it would not be very diplomatic to chain him up. A shame. You jerk off his grip, and go serve yourself some wine. It's a very neat trick, one you have learned from the men in your life. One must let the other do all the nagging while pretending to be entirely innocent, so they sound insane. Often, it leads to the person reproaching you actually thinking they are going mad. You only use it when you feel particularly cruel.

"You took your time.” Daemon follows you, stomping and huffing. “I have been waiting for nearly an hour.”

“I was not decent. I had to change into my afternoon clothes.” You give a little twirl, enjoying the luxurious feel of the skirt against your body. You know it will only anger him further. “Do you like them?”

“You have some nerve.” Daemon scoffs. You offer him a goblet of wine, which he takes. “Do you know what men say of you?”

“Does a viper pay attention to the mumbling of worms?” Your voice is calm and sweet. In truth, you do pay a attention to what they say. Who doesn't? But Daemon doesn't need to know that for the game you are playing.

“You are hardly a viper.” His eyes narrow at you, in a flutter of pretty lashes and lilac. Good Gods, what right does he have to be so handsome. You hate him.

“I like to think I am one.” You drink from your wine, giving him a coy little look over the rim of your goblet.

“They say you are a witch. That you place your spell on them and have them dancing at your tune.” He complains, gruffly. So far, he seems very angered by you, which is fair considering the way you parted. What makes no sense is the fact that he has come this far to make his displeasure known.

“It's not my fault men are often led by their cocks.” You shrug. It's rather crass, but you are unbothered by it. If men are allowed to speak how they please, why shouldn't you?

“Perhaps not.” Daemon cocks his head. “But I do wish to ask something of you.”

“Oh?”

Daemon places his goblet down. He plucks yours from your fingers, all soft movements. He raises your hand to his lips, and kisses your palm. His eyes never leave yours.

“Remove your spell from me.”

You laugh. You stare at him as if he has two heads. You laugh some more.

"I'm serious. You have bewitched me. Ensnared me with your charms and feminine…” He lets go of your hand, angrily gesturing. The laughter dies in your throat. Daemon is not joking.

“I have what?” You repeat, confused. Now you are actually thinking him a madman.

“You have made it so I can't lie with another woman. I only get relief when I think of you. Remove your spell, or I shall…” And it's too good, too much of a joke not to laugh. You restrain yourself, knowing angering him more could be bad for your health.

“You shall what?” Despite your attempts, your amusement must show because Daemon grabs you by the shoulders and gives you a tiny shake. It's not enough to hurt you, but it startles you into seriousness.

“I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.” His eyes do not show the emotion his words imply. While his face reflects need, Daemon has not drank nearly enough to have such a loose tongue. Something is amiss. “Let me have you. If you don't remove your spell, I need to have you.”

His eyes don't show need, but eagerness. He is trying to manipulate you. The thought of him implying that you must let him have you makes your blood boil. You are angered beyond belief. Has he really come all this way to make some half-assed marriage proposal, in the hopes of trapping you with him? Who does he think he is dealing with?

If you were another woman, more inexperienced, you would let this man manipulate you right into his bed. But you are not. You are old enough to know that lust can be cured with a few well-placed hot baths and enough time and distance. His excuses are a poor attempt. You almost prefer the other men's simpering.

“I am no witch, you fool. Now, out!” You point at the door.

Daemon straightens. He eyes you carefully.

“I need you.” He repeats. It's clearly a lie. You wonder what else is, too. Is it odd to feel flattered by him being so set on you, he is willing to manipulate you into marriage?

“You do not. There is nothing interesting here, go find a whore.” You cross your arms over your chest. Your traitorous heart seems to disagree. You don't want him to leave, says the heat in your cheeks. Not yet, answers the harsh ring of your pulse in your ears.

“I do.” Daemon steps closer. He seems slightly unsure and that is what gives him away. If you are trying to manipulate someone, you have to go all in. You can't hesitate because they call your bluff. His seduction techniques need serious work. “You have to let me have you.”

“I don't have to do anything.” You scowl at him, getting right up on his face. To you, it doesn't matter if you are shorter, you will put the fear of the gods in him or so the Seven help you. “And I do not believe a word you say. If you wanted me to fuck you, you could have merely asked. I do not appreciate you trying to manipulate me. I do not need to be coerced into it, I am no maiden.”

“And if I were to ask?” His nose brushes against yours, tenderly. Daemon's eyes have turned dark, his body nearly vibrating in excitement at your anger. You had heard Targaryens had queer customs, but had not expected him to be so aroused after getting yelled at.

“Too late, out!” You push your index finger into his chest, hard. Daemon smirks. He takes a step forward, forcing you to back off or get your finger crushed.

“You said I had to only ask for what I want.” He gets closer still, backing you against a wall. “No more games.”

“No more games.” You agree, a bit shakily. He noses along your temple, softly. You look up at him, all big, surprised eyes. How has he turned the whole situation into his favor so fast? And when, exactly, did you lose control?

“I want to know what is behind your eyes.” Daemon presses a soft kiss to your brow, then to your eye. You let go of the breath you are holding, eyes fluttering closed. Your lips tingle with the urge to be kissed, alight with the rush that comes from being seduced. But you do not intend to make it easy for him, no. He can't just expect you to submit just because he asks.

“No, thank you.” You duck beneath his arm, leaving behind your moment of weakness. He still tried to manipulate you, after all. He deserves a bit of suffering.

“What do you fear?” Daemon grabs your arm, pulling you towards him. He nuzzles your neck. “It certainly isn't modesty, you said so yourself. You are no blushing virgin.”

“I do not want to marry you.” You jerk free of his grip.

“Perhaps, you think I would enjoy you less. Or you fear I might not like what hides behind your eyes.” He kisses right behind your ear, softly hugging you to him. “The thoughts you have… The things you crave…” His hand traces an upward path, from your belly button to your collarbones. “To me, it only means you are already mine.”

“I'm not interested.” You say, but your whole body is saying yes. You just can't help it. His attention is overwhelming. His hands are gripping at your waist, your hips, everywhere. You shake against him as if you were an innocent still, and not a woman seasoned in the arts of love.

“I made you like this.” Daemon presses scorching hot kisses against your neck. You wonder if all Targaryens run as hot as this one. “Do you remember, little dornish girl?”

“You did not.” You pull away once more, and grab your wine again. You take a hearty sip. The memory you have obsessed over is one he has thought of too. Daemon had awoken something in you that rainy afternoon, and it's clear you had done the same to him.

“I taught you something, even if unwillingly. I always wondered, when I heard of your exploits, if you thought of me too.” And you have. Oh, how badly have you thought of running into him and bedding him, but you are not willing to admit it. You know if you look at him, you will give yourself away, so you keep stubbornly looking somewhere else.

Daemon chuckles.

“Let me see those eyes.” He gently grabs your jaw and lifts your head up. “Ah. So I was right.”

Furious at being caught, you place one of your hands on his hair and tug. Hard. Hard enough to force him to expose his neck.

“How do you feel about my eyes now?” You snarl.

“They are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Daemon's brows are pinched together, his back slightly arched. Your punishing grip on his hair is hurting him, and you are glad for it. Yet, his lips are parted as if experiencing the sweetest delights. “They are those of a woman in the throes of passion.”

“Do not test me.” You warn, forcing him to his knees. He goes willingly.

Daemon reaches up slowly, his much bigger hand curling around your wrist. He coaxes you to let go, softly massaging.

“I can taste the arousal cursing through your blood, Princess.” He pulls you into him, until both of you are sprawled out on the floor. “I see how your chest heaves, how your breath is getting heavier, how your lips plump… You are excited.”

“So what if I am?” You huff. It's all cornered animal. You cannot deny it any longer, you want him too badly for it.

“It means you and me… We are the same.” And he finally kisses you. His mouth meets yours in a hungry kiss, into which you pour all your frustration. But Daemon coaxes you to go slower, to kiss more passionately instead of hurriedly.

“I want you.” He says, when you part. His forehead rests against yours. “Let me keep you. Be mine. A woman as bloodthirsty as you cannot stay alone forever.” As he lays you down on the floor, as he gets on top of you and his hands pin yours down. “Let me keep you.”

And this time, you say yes.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

It’s been ages since I posted anything about this, so. I’ve actually accumulated a pretty damn full set of gear for all my swords-related activities.

Including a second, longer and way chonkier jacket/gambeson (and some upper arm and shoulder protection, not shown here) so I’m not as bruised up as often. Yes, yes, git gud, I know, I know.

Anyway I wish I could just wear pants like these all the time. Obviously what is really important in life is that this is a comfy pose to hang out in.

[thedarkrose17]

I decided to show what I ended up with when trying to make an oc for 15. I've altered some things but I got some help from @groovytimetravelflower thanks for that

Xanthe (Zan-thee) Adler (golden/yellow eagle)

Age: 27 (born 6th of June)

Height: 5ft2

Cis woman

It's long ish so under the cut

Appearance:

Pear shaped body with an oval face

Has some scars from different hunts: bite mark on right hand from a voretooth, puncture mark not far from collar bone from killer bee, big scar running down her spine (she doesn’t like to talk about that one)

Has a beauty spot not far from the corner of her lip on the left side

Left arm is a full floral tattoo sleeve of flowers from her native home Galahd

Doesn’t wear a lot of make-up

Chestnut brown hair usually in a braid/plait over her right shoulder

Hazel eyes 

White sleeveless turtleneck top with a bat necklace around her neck, black shorts and gun holsters on her shoulders, dagger sheathed and strapped to her thigh, black ankle boots

Switches between dagger and guns

Personality:

Comes off as distant/closed off reserved at first. She likes to assess the situation and figure the person out before she lets her guard down

She’s somewhat of a lone wolf preferring to work alone with her chocobo but she will work with other hunters if she has to

She might come off as a bit of an arsehole at first or stand off ish

She’s quiet not really used to talking to many people so might be awkward 

She’s more street smart than book smart

Comes off as older than she actually is due to the fact her and her sister had to grow up somewhat quick

Adores animals and children it’s like she’s a different person around them

Has a somewhat motherly side and will probably mother people when she gets to know them well 

Backstory: 

Lost parents when she was young when the empire invaded. Raised by her older sister. Her older sister remembers their parents but rarely talks about them

She left home fairly soon after her sister got engaged not wanting to be a third wheel somewhat

She lied about her age (15) when she first joined the hunters claiming to Dave she was older than she actually was. She eventually told Dave expecting to be kicked out but the hunters helped train her

She found her chocobo when she first started as a hunter. It was a chick alone and vulnerable that sort of imprinted on her

She has some undiagnosed mental health issues but usually puts on a facade to hide them but it falls around her chocobo and sometimes under high stress

She has vague nightmares about her parents. She doesn’t remember their faces but hears distorted voices telling her and her sister to flee

She first came to Lucis at age nine after the fall of Galahd

Her sister is seven years older than her and balanced several jobs to make sure they had food and a roof over their heads as they grew up in Lucis

They went from a working class family in Galahd to  somewhat poor orphans in Lucis 

Family:

Athanasia (A-thana-sia) Adler (immortal eagle)- 34- sister Athanasia kept her maiden name due to her work. Is a blacksmith who makes weapons for hunters and mercenaries

Tulio Gambeson (Born in Lucis)- 36- brother in law. Makes armour for hunters and mercenaries with his wife at the their shop Adler and Gambeson

 Nikko Gambeson- nephew- 11- he's a massive fan of Li’l Malbuddy. Xanthe tries to find any merch he doesn’t have whenever she’s near any shops to give him when she sees him next

Amilia Gambeson- niece- 8- she’s really into chocobos right now and moogles. She adores whenever Xanthe visits with Fireball and will happily put flowers on the chocobo’s feathers who’ll happily “preen” both children

Fireball- chocobo guide animal, companion, protector- Chocobo Xanthe has raised from a chick who helps with combat and helps her when she needs comfort

Dave and the hunters-found family-finished raising her, she considers him like a father

Extra facts:

She has a charm hanging off her gun, a cactuar with a hammer. It’s the mascot of her sister’s business. 

Is good at patching up outfits and wounds 

Tends to spin her guns when waiting for a target on hunts or when nervous

Voice is husky somewhat

Usually has purple or green nail polish on, it ends up chipping more often than not either due to combat or nail biting

Probably doesn’t get enough sleep

Loves gemstones, always keeps at least one on her person for protection or luck

She keeps her dog tags hanging off one of her belt loops on her shorts

She’s got a good sense of direction and is able to track hunt targets with ease due to years of experience

She’s probably witnessed a lot of hunters perish, it never gets easier

Fireball:

At first he is basically this emoji: >:( until he gets to trust someone then he’s sassy little baby

Fiercely protective and loyal

Will hiss at others if he doesn’t trust them or he’s trying to do something

Can and will steal things

Is an actual menace

Will casually go find things and give them as gifts sometimes it’s nice things like flowers other times it’s bugs or something

He’ll mostly only preen Xanthe and is just joined at the hip with her

You may pet him once if you try when he’s unsure of you he will try to bite

[greatprotector-if]

Okay, I'm a bit of a medieval weapons nerd so I gotta ask for.... Something.....

What kind of armor exists in the world? Is there plate armor? Gambeson? Have craftsman figured out brigandine yet? Also is there some kind of ultra strong metal like mithril in this world? Can we have equipment made of this material if it exists?

Finally as a personal question for you, what is your favorite sword and why is your favorite sword the hand and a half sword (the best sword in existence)?

...... What? You didn't think I called myself weird for fun did you? Niche and obscure topics are part of the weird package

i'm gonna be so honest with you i didn't know what ANY of this meant so i googled it and i would just like to say... Thank You. sincerely. i've been missing out wtf!!!! later when i have more time i will dedicate myself to going down a full rabbithole ancient armour and weaponry is so fascinating

the story takes place in a warmer climate inspired by south asia (and a bit of east asia) so while other stuff exists in other places, for here i don't think we're in the gambeson era that shit looks too stuffy. i mean it could work because alchemy + magic reasons but idk. i usually envision varying degrees of plate armour (and i genuinely have no idea what's going on with brigandine feel free to enlighten me LMAO I JUST LOOKED AT THE PICTURES AND WAS SO CONFUSED)

i take a lot of inspiration from pre-colonial era filipino armour, chainmail & plates. but also colourful and fancier looking because my brain loves colours and fancy looking shit. for a lot of character design stuff i usually evoke the Anime Outfits Suspension of Disbelief because i do not understand anything sorry for this absolute mess of an answer!

there's some ultra strong metal that you can make stuff out of yeah!!! however i have not come up with a name for it. it's a huge player in the economy of a neighbouring empire, but it's also mostly kept within the empire and rarely shared with outsiders. other stuff is DRAGON SCALES (AWESOME) (but only the ones from full-blooded dragons) (very tough and there are different kinds of dragons so you can make your shit out of different dragons based on the climate in your region) (don't worry the dragons aren't being hunted for materials they just shed their scales) (ok they're hunted sometimes but the hunters never succeed because Dragon)

also the armour does vary by species and region (obviously) and there are. so many. species. a lot of them. a lot of the armour employed by non-humans is magical or enchanted in some way idk it's just lore stuff

also yes you're right my favourite sword is the hand and a half sword as of uhhh checks watch.. two seconds ago. i googled it and this versatility sounds pretty awesome. also if i believe an alternate name is the 'bastard sword' which is fucking metal. but magical swords that slowly suck out the life force out of its wielder also hold a special place in my heart

okay this answer was so rambly and i feel like i just used as many words as i could without actually saying anything substantial but this is the best i got for now! but i will definitely revisit this topic in the future, so thank you tumblr user that-wierd-guy! (+ this topic isn't weird it's awesome)

[lit-in-thy-heart]

so we all know about lancelot's white shirt from 1x05 but what i hadn't realised is just how plunging the shirt he wears in 2x04 actually is:

[ID: two images from the 'Lancelot’s Wardrobe' page on Merlin Wiki of Lancelot in a shirt and gambeson in series 2, episode 4. The shirt is grey and the strings are loosely woven through the eyelets. The first image shows most of his torso and the bottom of the shirt opening looks like it falls to where his sternum would be, just above the elbow. In the second image, only half of Lancelot’s torso is pictured but the shirt is taut, revealing much of his chest. End ID.]

he is just. out there with half his chest out at all times.