#i know that's not what a gambeson actually is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lux-et-astra · 9 months ago

Text

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

#wizarding world #worldbuilding #fashion #fashion worldbuilding #harry potter #hp #wizards #a collection of my thoughts on what typical wizarding fashion would look like!#in my head the sourcing of material isn't a massive issue #because the wizarding world imports a lot from non-magical sources #this isn't necessarily harry potter by the way it started off like that but i did my best to make it vaguely wizard setting-agnostic #hp specific stuff should hopefully be skippable #i'd love to chat about it as well so feel free to ask me questions!!#if i were good at drawing i would illustrate what some of these are supposed to look like but oh well #please don't judge my lack of knowledge of fashion terms #i know that's not what a gambeson actually is #i did try to give some rationale for my fashion choices #but it's mostly “i think that would look rad”#“here's reasoning”

14 notes · View notes

arabellasleopardcoat · 9 months ago

Text

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.

264 notes · View notes

mechanicalbloodlust · 1 year ago

Text

✨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 :-)

#my posts #ultrakill #gabriel ultrakill #went to the royal armouries museum once and it changed my life not even kidding

382 notes · View notes

druidwolf21 · 6 months ago

Note

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"

#warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer x reader #lorgar aurelian #lorgar/reader #mortarion #mortarion/reader #lorgar x reader #mortarion x reader #smut #warhammer smut

70 notes · View notes

lemonjestercoffee · 1 year ago

Text

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

#my little pony #mlp fim #mlp redesign #mlp headcanons #princess cadance #shining armor #twilight sparkle #kai doodles

133 notes · View notes

domesticatedford · 3 months ago

Text

A Day Out

(A good ending story)

The smell of dust and leather pressed down, mingling with the hot air to create a truly stifling atmosphere. The astonishing number of human bodies had the same effect. There were. Too many people. D's thumb raked back and forth against the handles mounted to H’s wheelchair. Traced the grooves that had been specifically made for him to hold; five divots. He really did want to be here! It was just a lot.

The Ren Faire had been Jean-Paul’s idea. He and H’s relationship had healed to the point where it could be called an odd sort of friendship. Given the standards of their interactions in the past, that was wonderful progress. Apparently, before his transformation, the polymorph had attended such events several times. This was his first time returning in his new body (not that it was “new” anymore; it hadn’t been in years.) He was perched on D’s shoulders as the old man pushed H through the wide dirt path between stalls. Jean-Paul was dressed as a little bandit, complete with a hooded cape and a tiny mask tied around his head, mirroring his markings. He had insisted it was funny. D supposed it was.

“Most of this is utter shit,” H sighed, staring through the slats of his polished helmet at a selection of necklaces. They were glass beads made to look like dragon eyes, strung through with rough-looking leather cords. D hummed, bending slightly to inspect a small sculpture of a cat. It had another one of those dragon-eye beads in its paws. “Have you seen the price on these? $40. What is this, $7 of materials? Less? Ridiculous.” D made another noise of mild agreement as he picked up the cat. H liked to complain. D rarely had to say much; his friend just needed to know he was listening, that his complaints were being acknowledged by someone. He needed, D had realized, to get these feelings out of him like a machine venting steam.

D placed his chosen prize on the counter, giving the woman manning it a smile. She looked away from H’s back, which she was glaring at, and gave D a much more vibrant grin in return.

“Will that be all?” She asked.

“Yes, thank you.” D retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his coat. The garment was a deep blue-black, studded with star formations in gold stitching. H had designed it, so of course it was beautiful. D hadn’t had a wallet in a very long time; he hadn’t needed one. Hadn’t been allowed to have money, then had no use for it. It felt a bit alien to pry the leather pouch open and pluck what was owed.

“I like your mask,” the woman said as she wrapped the little sculpture in stiff, cream paper. D absently pressed a finger to the thin curve of white plastic propped over his glasses.

“Ah, thank you,” he replied, his smile growing fractionally. The Eus had “printed” the thing for him, and he’d painted alchemical symbols and swirling patterns atop it in gold paint. Although it really did make an excellent addition to his costume, its main function was to hide his identity. They were on 04’\, after all, and this was a crowded event. D didn’t really want to chance being recognized. That was, he supposed, why H had chosen to wear a full-coverage costume; a black-and-silver gambeson with scale armor, leather gloves and a helmet with slats that put D in mind of a predator’s teeth. H didn’t have the same aversion to public confrontation that D did, though, so he guessed the outfit had been chosen for his benefit. H really was very sweet.

“I can’t believe you actually bought something from that tacky place,” H commented when D returned to him. D tucked his purchase in one of the leather bags on either side of the wheelchair.

“I saw a cat figurine I thought Mabel would like,” D explained. H snorted; he sounded congested.

“I’m sure you could make something better than that.”

“Maybe,” D hummed. “I’m not very good with sculpture, though.”

“Better than this shit that was probably squirted out of a mold and painted by a kid chained up in a basement somewhere.” D frowned.

“That’s… your dimension, I hope,” he said.

“Human depravity is pan-dimensional,” H replied. He wasn’t wrong.

The pair returned to Jean-Paul, who was sitting on a large rock; one of several that ringed a patch of manicured grass. He slurped down the last drops of a small water bottle. D stooped and held out his arms for Jean-Paul to hop into.

“Careful,” H warned as the raccoon skittered onto D’s shoulders. His perch. “Don’t go bending when you don’t have to. This is going to be a long day.”

“I’ll be fine,” D retorted gently, returning to his place behind H. “You’re the one I’m worried about.” H spread his hands, palms up. Leather creaked.

“I’m in the chair, aren't I?”

“You're also wearing a costume that weighs half as much as you do,” Jean-Paul put in. His voice came out choppily from the translator around his neck; bad connection. He dropped the empty water bottle into a trash can as they passed.

“Some of us value historical accuracy,” H snarked back. “My armor is a perfect replica of that worn by 72’\’s Fallen King, circa 1105. You look like a character from a children's cartoon.”

“You're so fucking pretentious,” PG replied.

The pair's bickering continued as D guided them through the crowd. Still too many people. D's heart rate spiked occasionally, and he tried to follow his grounding exercises, but everything was so loud and close and human that it really didn't help anything. Focusing on H and Jean-Paul's conversation did. The two of them were clearly having fun. Even with H's face obscured, D could hear the joy in his voice as he criticized the inaccurate matching of weapon to era in a shop display. PG countered with a point about marketability, further adding how, even in an event full of nerds, H got the gold star for being an obnoxious know-it-all.

“Oh, we have got to do the archery game,” Jean-Paul said. The words were warped, like they came from a toy that was running out of batteries, but were still understandable. “It's just up ahead, Phospho. Over there, next to the donkey.” H, who was walking beside D, taking some time to stretch his legs (that was the reason he'd claimed, anyway,) put a hand on his hip.

“You really are a child,” he said.

“No, I'm just not terminally self-serious, Mr. Goth Armor,” Jean-Paul sniffed. “Besides, you still have no idea how old I even am.”

“... Twenty-three,” H said after a pause. Jean-Paul chittered with laughter that his translator didn't know what to do with.

“He's in his late thirties,” D corrected. He sipped at a fluorescent lemonade he'd purchased to cure his parched throat. That, and the drink had looked interesting. He still had no idea what the chunks floating in it were, but he was excited to find out!

D set H's folded wheelchair against his leg when the trio reached the front of the small line before the archery game. He really would like to have sat down, but the very few benches D had seen were already occupied. He was getting a bit tired, and his feet hurt. He would be fine, though. Jean-Paul hopped onto the wooden fence that blocked off the grounds of the game.

“I'm a sophont and I would like to play your game,” he said. He'd gotten very direct about such things. The burly human attendant looked Jean-Paul up and down; the polymorph straightened fractionally.

“Yeah, think we got somethin’ in your size,” the man said. “Travis! Check the back.” Another man nodded, his thick, black beard bobbing, and disappeared behind the wooden wall that marked the edge of the game.

The fair had been erected within what had once been the bounds of the weirdness bubble. Not very far in, but an effort was being made to reclaim such territory. As such, while most of the guests were human, some were altered in one way or another through their exposure to weirdness. A few nonhumans were also present (D had spotted a small cluster of gnomes scampering about the periphery of the grounds,) but they were in the vast minority.

Travis returned with a couple very small bows. After giving Jean-Paul a once-over, he handed one to the first attendant and headed back to return the other weapon.

“Right, I’ll just be a sec,” the burly man said. He moved some of the smaller targets closer to the front, where Jean-Paul would be shooting from. The larger ones remained untouched. Jean-Paul grimaced slightly before hopping down onto the short-cropped grass within the fence, wobbling a bit as he landed. He was probably trying to keep his forepaws from touching the ground. The attendant handed him the tiny bow.

“You get six shots. Might want to aim higher than you think you need to, little guy.”

“I never would have guessed,” the polymorph replied.

Three of Jean-Paul’s shots hit a target. One even struck the second row of targets that had been moved for him.

“Excellent job!” D cheered, spilling a bit of his drink on his hand as he clapped awkwardly around the cup.

“Average,” H corrected. “You really are a median person.”

“Shush, he’s wonderful,” D chided.

“Thanks, Phospho, but my ego isn’t really riding on this,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ve never even done this before.”

“Then let me show you how it’s done,” H replied.

H moved into place with a showman’s confidence. Even now, crippled and aged, he hadn’t lost that. It was something D really admired about him. He slid into position easily, bow straight and arrow nocked. He pulled the string back. It looked like he wasn’t pulling back far enough for the shot he was trying to take. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Still, D could tell by the hesitant way he lowered his bow, the slight tremor in his arms, that H was unhappy. None of his arrows but the last one had hit the center circle. He shouldn’t be upset with such a result!

“Fantastic!” D shouted, clapping again. Now both his hands were covered in sugary liquid. D could just hear the sigh that whispered through H’s helmet as he strode back.

“Humiliate myself in front of the fucking raccoon,” he muttered. D stiffened. H had gotten so much better about treating Jean-Paul like a human. He really was upset.

“Y-you didn’t, really…” D reached out a hand to offer H’s arm a comforting touch, but twitched away when he remembered his hands were still covered in lemonade, and H’s costume was very expensive. He bit his lip and took a step back. “Y-you really… um…” D fiddled with the cup, feeling stupid. “You really did very well.” He knew H had wanted to be perfect, though. He was in public, and he was in front of Jean-Paul. And D couldn’t even touch him because he’d thought clapping like an idiot would mean anything to anyone.

D started when he felt a tug on his coat. He looked down to see Jean-Paul staring up at him.

“Phospho! Do you want to give it a try?” He asked. D rubbed his finger back and forth along the plastic straw. It made a horrible sound.

“I… um…” Did he want to? He looked to H.

“… Go ahead,” the other man said after a pause. “It couldn’t hurt to give the boy another reminder of just how out of his league he is.” D replied with an uncertain hum. He felt that he should defend Jean-Paul, but he really didn’t have a counterargument.

D chugged the remainder of his drink (the chunks were blue-dyed watermelon!) and tossed the cup before stepping into the game area. He forced himself to give the attendant a polite smile as he was handed the bow. D knew he moved with far less grace than H as he lined up the first shot. He hadn’t used a bow in a while. He probably wouldn’t do very well. He would like to, though. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Five out of six had struck the center ring. He supposed he’d done fine. He really should have been able to hit them all in the center; the targets weren’t even that far away. Dr. Oleander had told him to be kinder to himself, though, so. It was fine.

H was sitting back in his chair when D returned to him and PG, having given back the bow. Leather slapped against leather as H clapped; a moderate pace, like he’d just savored an extravagant performance and wished to retain the dignity of the moment.

“Well done, Kitten!” he boomed.

“Yeah, I seriously forgot how good of a shot you are,” Jean-Paul added. D fidgeted with the cuffs on his coat.

“Oh, no, I didn’t really do very well,” he said. “I mean, um. I was fine.”

“Stop being modest,” H sniffed. “Your virtue is one of your most annoying qualities. I’ll find a way to dampen it with a bit of selfishness one of these days.” His voice was regal yet fond. Warmth prickled in D’s chest.

“Before you go,” the attendant said, crossing the fence and approaching the group. “Got somethin’ for you.” He held out his hand, palm up, toward H and D. D took what was offered; a pair of plastic “silver” medals hanging from black, imitation silk bands. “You two are seriously good. You shoot often?”

“Not for some time,” D admitted. He held up the medal to inspect it. A lumpy gryphon was embossed onto its surface. D smiled. He made to hand one to H, but his friend held his palm up.

“Not a fan of tacky trash, Kitten,” he said. “You can keep it.” The attendant made an odd face, looking between the two old men for a moment, before crouching down to Jean-Paul’s level.

“This one’s for you, little guy,” he said. His voice pitched up when he addressed the shifter. “Those targets were really far!” He pressed a medal into Jean-Paul’s paws. The polymorph stared at it for a moment before pinning it to the front of his cloak.

“I am ecstatic to have the opportunity to provide you with free advertising,” he said. Instead of black, the medal’s fake silk was cherry red, and instead of a gryphon, the plastic circle bore a thumbs up sign. D’s face pinched.

“That’s the children’s design, isn’t it?” He asked. His voice had gone hard. The attendant looked at him as he straightened.

“I mean, yeah,” he said, like he didn’t understand the problem. D gripped his own medals tighter.

“He’s an adult,” he said, louder this time.

“It’s fine, D,” H said, grazing D’s elbow with his fingers. “That medal will fit well with his others. It’s even the same color as his Medal of Recognition from the Transplanetary Alliance.” The attendant raised an eyebrow, taking another moment to look Jean-Paul up and down.

“No, no, that’s not the right shade,” Jean-Paul added, adjusting the cheap plastic disc. “You’re thinking of the Sanctific Chrisming of the Bright God.” D took a deep breath in through his nose. His mask smelled like sweat and sugar. He saw the game now.

“If I recall correctly, that one’s black and gold,” he said. “Perhaps you’re remembering the Centennial Hallibraxian Medal of Service? I can see how it might be difficult to remember the colors, as you don’t wear them often.” He eyed the attendant. “Maybe you should.”

“Alright, man, you don’t have to wear these if you don’t want to,” the man muttered before turning his attention to a couple who had approached the game.

A couple hours later, the trio stopped for lunch. D was almost as grateful for the break, for being able to *sit down,* as he was for the food. His legs were properly hurting now, and stiffness had wrapped prickling chains around his spine. Jean-Paul had made him use hand sanitizer before he ate (an oversized turkey leg, its skin craggy from a rustic method of cooking. Fun!) He tried to pressure H into doing the same when he took off his gloves, but was summarily rebuffed.

“I’ve been wearing gloves all day,” he said. “Besides, hand sanitizer can damage leather.”

“Don’t blame me when you get sick,” Jean-Paul retorted, scrubbing down his own paws.

H slid off his helmet to eat the meal D had bought for him (he couldn’t refuse it that way.)

His face was red with blood.

“A-are you okay?!” D stammered, heart stuttering.

“What, what is it?” H asked, sounding entirely unconcerned.

“Y-your face! Blood!” D grabbed H’s face in his hands, fingers pressing into hollow cheeks, and pulled him closer, inspecting. “It’s… it’s a nose bleed.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” H said. “I thought it was sweat on my lip.” He gripped D’s arms and guided them away, the touch lingering. “You know how often this happens, D. You know it doesn’t mean anything. My nasal lining is just fucked up. You know that.” His thumb brushed D’s arm, deforming the thick fabric of his coat.

D forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Yes… yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” H chided gently. He scrubbed his face with a napkin with one hand. D frowned. H was *bleeding* and he was comforting him. That was a cycle that wouldn’t stop repeating.

Hooves thundered, kicking up dust. An announcer rambled out a story about rival houses over a loudspeaker. Two horses charged each other in choreographed unison. Lance struck armor and one knight slumped. Half the audience cheered as their assigned house claimed victory; the other half booed in good humor. D was supposed to be on the side that was cheering. He really didn’t feel like doing so. His legs, back and hips felt like they were on fire (not really; he knew what that felt like.) Sitting down wasn’t helping anymore. He gripped the fabric over his knees. Fuck, they hurt.

The crowd had begun to filter out of the open-air auditorium that held the jousting events. It wasn’t terribly large, but H’s wheelchair had granted them access to disabled seating. The other seats had been filled completely, leaving some to have to wait for the next show. H, with Jean-Paul nestled in his lap, had wheeled about, ready to move on. He was watching D expectantly. Only D couldn’t get up. His joints had locked up while he sat and watched the show. His body felt like it was eating itself, gnawing nerves raw as he tried to force himself up.

No, no, he could do this. It was just standing. That was easy. D gripped either side of his seat and slowly, painfully, dragged himself to his feet. He let out an involuntary groan through gritted teeth. H was standing beside him, out of his chair.

“I told you not to push yourself,” he nearly snapped. He sounded angry. Concerned.

“I’m f-fine,” D said. H pointed at his wheelchair.

“Sit down,” he ordered. D shook his head.

“N-no, that’s yours,” he argued. “You need it.”

“I need it a hell of a lot less than you right now. Sit.” D looked away. He felt himself hunching.

“I-I can walk,” he murmured.

“Barely,” H scoffed. “How do you fancy going back down that ramp; up the hill we took to get here? Please, Kitten. You need to rest.” H’s voice softened at the end. His hands wound around D’s arms and guided him down. He resisted at first, for a moment, before giving in. Once he was seated, Jean-Paul, who had moved to the bench when H stood, hopped onto his lap. D sighed and ran his fingers through the fur on his tail.

D’s arms, at least, were fine. He maneuvered the wheelchair far more awkwardly than H, but pushing himself was easy. H, who had retrieved his cane, walked beside him. D was glad he wasn’t trying to push him. He felt guilty for making H walk at all.

“What the fuck is this?!” D jolted. He wanted to turn toward the infuriated voice, but he wasn’t good enough with the chair to do so before its source had circled in front of him. They were just outside the auditorium now, and a red-faced man in a huntsman’s outfit was glaring between D and H. A woman was close by, holding a small child tightly by the hand.

“A raccoon,” H sneered, leaning on his cane. “I suppose, alongside the ability to mind your own business, you were never taught basic zoology.”

“I’m not talking about that, asshole,” the stranger snapped. “I remembered you two. You were behind us in line.” He jabbed a finger at D. “You switched places!” His glare shifted back to H. “You can fucking walk!” D gripped the wheels of the chair. He hated people yelling at him. He hated people yelling at H. He wanted to make him stop.

H paused before speaking.

“… My friend is tired,” he said. His voice sounded strained. “He’s having difficulty walking. Frankly, I don’t owe you an explanation, but maybe it can teach your child something. You certainly seem incapable of doing so.” The man took a lurching step forward. D’s hands shook. The man was getting in H’s face. D wanted to hit him. But he hurt, and there was a child. He groaned and pressed his hands over his masked face. There was a fucking kid. He couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t think of anything to say.

”You made my kid miss out on the show!” The stranger snapped. “You got let in after the cutoff because of the damn wheelchair you don’t need!”

“We were in disabled seating, moron,” H hissed. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Count yourself lucky your child gets to attend events like this.” The barest tremor entered his voice. D should do something. He should fucking do something. Why wouldn’t his body move?!

“Dude. Are you screaming at a guy in a wheelchair?” Another voice had entered the conversation.

“He doesn’t need it,” the first man scoffed. “These two switched places!”

“Yeah, man, they’re old,” said the new voice. “They probably needed to.” D peeked between his fingers. A young man had forced himself between H and the angry parent. He was wearing what could generously be considered a low-effort peasant costume. The two continued to argue, the first man shifting his attention to his new combatant. Jean-Paul pressed his hand against D’s arm.

“Let’s go,” he said, as quietly as his translator would allow. D nodded, but he couldn’t make himself move further. H pulled him back and wheeled him away. As soon as D calmed down, he took over.

The little group made their way back into the main area of the fair. H had stripped off the outer layer of his armor, including his gloves, leaving the gambeson and helmet. The rest was stowed on the wheelchair.

“I’m hot,” he’d explained when asked. He accepted a water bottle from Jean-Paul, removing his helmet long enough to drink it.

Stress clung to D’s chest and shoulders, winding up his neck. His jaw clenched involuntarily. He was terrible with the wheelchair. He kept bumping into people. They glared down at him, making him want to curl up into nothing. It felt so much more crowded, too. He wasn’t exactly tall, but when he was standing, he was roughly head level with everyone else. Bodies took up more space; a sea of torsos, shifting and crowding and trying to choke him-

“Are you okay, Phospho?” Jean-Paul asked from his lap. D gave a strangled noise in reply. He kept wheeling forward, because if he stopped, he knew he was going to freeze again.

“What’s wrong?” H asked from behind him. He leaned heavily on the back of the wheelchair. Nothing, D wanted to reply. He didn’t say anything.

“Hey - do your breathing exercises,” Jean-Paul prompted. It was only then that D realized he was practically hyperventilating. He couldn’t slow his breaths. His head felt hot. “Seriously, Phospho, stop. I need you to calm down,” Jean-Paul said. D bumped into someone else. Another glare, followed by an expression of permissive pity. A whine choked from D’s throat.

A hand from behind pulled him to a stop. Jean-Paul hopped off his lap.

“Stay with him,” he said.

“As if I’d leave,” H replied. He put his hands on D’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Kitten.” Fuck. He was doing it again. He was making H comfort him. He was freaking out over nothing. It was nothing!

Jean-Paul returned some time later. D didn’t know how long. He was sure H did.

“I found somewhere a bit quieter,” the polymorph said. “Follow me.” With a bit of coaxing, D was able to make himself move again. He kept his eyes locked on Jean-Paul; tried to ignore everything else. The shifter’s cape dragged in the dust. He led them to an open, grassy area on the edge of the fair. There were still people, but fewer. There were even a couple free benches. D maneuvered himself beside one and H slumped down heavily. Guilt squirmed inside D.

Jean-Paul left again, returning with an icy lemonade and a large pickle half-wrapped in wax paper. He hopped onto D’s lap and offered them to him. D had calmed down enough by then to accept the gifts.

“You actually went to the pickle guy?” H asked, raising an eyebrow. His helmet sat on the bench beside him.

“Electrolytes,” Jean-Paul explained. “Plus, he was charming.”

D petted Jean-Paul while he ate the pickle and drank the lemonade (it was strawberry mint and he loved it). Jean-Paul and H’s easy banter resumed. It was nice to listen to. Suddenly, a wet nose pushed itself against his leg. D looked down to see a Labrador retriever tethered to a flustered-looking woman.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “Sally! You know better than that. Heel!” A quick, minute tug on Sally’s leash had her standing at the woman’s side. She was still staring at D with large, golden eyes that stood out against her chocolate-colored fur. She was beautiful.

“It’s fine,” D said with a smile. “I have treats. Does she have any allergies?”

“Um, chicken,” the woman replied. D nodded.

“A common one.” He reached into his pocket. “Is beef okay?” The stranger smiled back.

“Yeah, she’d love that.”

D held out a treat for the dog to take. At a command of ‘free’ from her owner, Sally trotted forward and lapped it up. D laughed and stroked the dog’s fuzzy head.

The woman sat on the bench beside H.

“I saw you guys earlier today,” she said. “Love the costumes. And your raccoon is so cute! Is it a pet or a service animal?”

Jean-Paul answered ‘neither’ at the same time H said ‘service animal.’ The woman blinked.

“He’s a human,” H said.

“I have a raccoon body now because of a series of frankly ridiculous circumstances,” Jean-Paul added. D didn’t have anything to say, so he continued to pet the dog. Her tail wagged lazily.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry,” the woman said. She nervously adjusted the front of her corset. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” Jean-Paul chittered a good-natured laugh.

“An honest mistake. Besides, my circumstances are pretty unique. Can’t expect every raccoon you see to have an undergraduate degree.”

The woman continued to chat with H and Jean-Paul, with D contributing occasionally. He slipped the dog a few more treats, lavishing her with attention. The crowd slowly began to clear. It was reaching the end of business hours. The woman parted with an amiable farewell, the feather on her tricorn hat bobbing in the still air as she departed. The heat of the day became less oppressive as shadows lengthened. H stood, looking less fatigued. The three friends slowly made their way back to the entrance.

#domesticated ford #gravity falls au #text #official fanfic #good ending #good ending h #good ending d #pet guy #crossover #alexthebordercollie

26 notes · View notes

tinytime10 · 6 months ago

Text

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.

#legends of zelda #linked universe #hyrule warriors #lu warriors #lu time #lu legend #hw link #legend of zelda #loz #lu sky #lu #lu mask #lu wind #hw mask #loz hw #hw tune #lu twilight

34 notes · View notes

guysarestripping · 18 days ago

Note

hi!! i LOVED your kcd series so much, your writing is so clear and beautiful!! can you share anything about your process, how do you get your ideas to translate so cleanly onto the page? ♥️♥️

hi! thank you for the kind words (i’ll get to your ao3 comment soon), i’m glad the series resonated so well with you :-)

i do want to immediately note that i’ve recently discovered beta readers (very notably @sableghost and @magnuspuerauritus) which as a concept, which has upped my game an infinite amount. jayce rawdogging my writing and cracking down on a lot of latvian-core non-sensibilities made me learn a lot!

how the sausage gets made under the cut:

for kcd i spend most of the time working out the aged english lol!

the main thing though is just that english itself isn’t my first language—which (i think) actually helps more than it hurts. latvian sentence rhythm is heavier on aspect and vowel length, so when i write in english it’s like i’m naturally hunting for mouth-feel: i read every paragraph aloud and listen, and then anything that clunks gets reworked (but by latvian standards lol). i’m milking the power that comes with being a non-native speaker bc you hear the language at a tilt, which is where all the more interesting shadows fall for me.

when enough concrete nouns pile up, scenes begin to auto-populate: if the rapeseed is blooming, then the air has that stink; if the yard is downslope, rinse water will pool by the gate. etc etc. specificity buys credibility imo, and credibility buys room to get a little operatic (?) elsewhere. once that happens, i know the reader will feel mud in their boots whether they want it or not.

when the lexicon is generally in place, as an ex-film student and minor actor, i run any scene like blocking a shot: camera height, distance, light source, message. i need to convey how a gambeson rides up or how a draft combs the hairs on the back of a hand. if the image stays fuzzy still, i sometimes rope in my bf to act it out and to catch the microscopic things that make prose behave.

sensory scenes all come from experiences i already know and deeply love. example: the bohemian meadows of kcd map right onto the latvian selia. i think it’s very important to passionately and intimately see™ what you’re trying to tell™, and then telling™ it in the way that you feel™ it. i tend to put down whole scenes, and then run over them again and again, moving things around, fleshing out what i specifically want to be said out loud until it feels right, but there is no real science to it and i've never studied writing.

if this makes any sense or helps, you’re welcome!?!

#mailbox

19 notes · View notes

jadevine · 4 months ago

Text

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.

#gambit #channing tatum #x men #deadpool and wolverine #cosplay #closet cosplay

8 notes · View notes

spinnerprincess · 3 months ago

Text

Making Jam (Fire Emblem: Sacred Stones, Amelia/Neimi, 452 words)

Femslash February prompt for 2/14: Crush

"Neimi!" Amelia waves to her from across the encampment with utterly rotten timing.

"Hey!" Neimi looks for an excuse or an escape, and finds none.

The thing is, she was trying to figure out a way to confess her feelings to Amelia. How is she supposed to do that when she keeps winding up talking to Amelia? She really needs some kind of romantic gesture to make sure Amelia considers her properly, but Neimi doesn't know what.

Resigning herself to another day of failure, Neimi heads over.

Amelia has found a log to sit on, and has a jar of berries in her hands. "Look!" she says. "I was talking with some of the mercenaries who joined the army recently. One of them mentioned that if we liked michew berries so much, we should make jam."

"Michew berry jam…" Neimi crouches, awed by the idea. "I'm certain my grandpa used to know how to make that kind of thing."

"Not something he taught you?"

"He taught me all that I know… But I can't say I learned everything he knew." Neimi looks up, sighing. "I wish we'd had more time."

Amelia accepts that statement in an understanding silence. She has a few extra supplies with her. After a moment, she offers, "Want to try? Before we do anything to cook it, we want to really mash the fruit up." She hands Neimi a mortar and pestle.

Neimi accepts the tools. At Amelia's nudge, she reaches into the jar and grabs a few of the berries to work on grinding up.

After bit of work, she finds that it's surprisingly fun. When she was younger and tried using this kind of tool, she found it much harder. These days, she's much stronger, physically and mentally, and it shows. The arm muscle she developed by stringing and shooting bows is definitely good for something, from time to time.

She glances up. Amelia is watching her - judging her technique, probably. "Am I doing it right?"

Amelia reddens, ducking slightly into the collar of her gambeson. "C-crush!"

"Not good enough? They look pretty crushed to me," Neimi says, looking at the pestle dubiously.

"I mean, um, yeah! You crushed it!" Amelia takes a deep breath, then shows Neimi her own pestle, which holds a handful of mangled berries, with plenty of lumps. "You're better at this than me, actually. Can you share any tips?"

"Sure," Neimi says, smiling. She always appreciates Amelia's friendliness and humility. It's nice to have someone else to learn with, particularly in times as troubled and an army as vast as this. She wants to help, especially when it's over something as wonderful as michew berries.

Confessing can wait another day, surely.

#fire emblem: sacred stones #fire emblem #amelia/neimi #femslashfeb2025 #what if two girls were just like. really oblivious

7 notes · View notes

lin-sterling · 16 days ago

Text

DRIP POST 2: the remake of the sequel

so... I think there might be something wrong with me. but after another unhinged day of... whatever this is, I feel the outfits and screenshots are better

the version of this post with links to outfits

new format - Henry gets the whole post to himself, Pebbles gets the reblog

Black Knight v1, cuirass inside

this is MY HENRY, iconic outfit, never gonna give you up never gonna let you down

2. Black Knight v2, cuirass outside

both versions of black knight use italian bascinet but I have a mod that hides it in dialogues and cutscenes most of the time so taking shots w/o helmet seemed more true to form

3. Guardian Angel

my Henry doesn't usually go for white or silver, he's black&gold kind of guy, but I decided we need one outfit

4. Trosky Traveller (before the waspening)

not fully happy with this outfit but it's already err a historical one, I've already gone through Trosky wearing it so I won't retcon it haha

5. THE WASPENING

same shit here, it's a piece of my playthrough history now. weird, bright yellow history

6. Leipa Simp

and now I make new history

7. Bluebell

wasn't expecting this one, it just sort of happened and I weirdly like it

8. Shifty Fella

is he trying to steal your wallet? is his back hurting? why not both!

9. Horse Thief

up to no good this guy. steal your heart, steal your horse, get 60 groschen for his trouble... wait, horse industry is a scam!

10. Armed and Armoured Robbery

can't shoot straight because he's on his way to bisexual awakening

11. Mushroom Enthusiast

those mushrooms won't gather themselves, you know! *cronch*

12. Falconer

all hail the birbs

13. Noble Bastard

when you need something fancy but not too difficult to pull off

14. Night Reader

casual comfy outfit with optional reading glasses. read a nice book at 3 am and watch your boyfriend as he sleeps!

15. Dubious Doctor

impersonating a medical professional during "Fifth Commandment"

16. Reverse Ball and Chain

when you miss a fucker so much you start wearing his colours. except the yellow gambeson you've found had aggressively magenta belts and you had to reverse the order of colours. I figured clown shoes were appropriate in this situation

17. That Mine Is Mine

impersonating a rich fuck during "Via Argentum". rich people wear golden armour, right?

18. Red Wedding

this wedding also ended in a bloody mess

19. Nostalgic

kcd1 starting outfit colours but now Henry can afford better clothes

20. Dandelion Dance

what a surprise, more yellow shit

that concludes Henry's part (for now, at least), Pebbles is in the reblog

mods used:

Henry and Hans Edits

Refined Garments

Outer Garments

Boring Black Swords

Custom Clothing and Armor

Alluring Wreath Recolor (and Fix)

More flower wreaths

Reshaped Cuirasses and Waffenrocks

A Pebbles Compendium

and here's the first Drip Post (the actual first one, not the electric boogaloo I'm currently remaking) if you're interested. I feel like I've grown a lot since then as a fashionista and as screenshot taker lol

#kingdom come deliverance #kingdom come deliverance 2 #kcd2 #kcd2 screenshots #henry of skalitz #jindřich ze skalice #sterling screenshots #medieval dress-up #drip #pretend I didn't post almost the same thing like 3 days ago #humour me #fashion is my passion #i'm unhinged #fewer hinges every day #sterling drips

65 notes · View notes

armory-rasa · 1 year ago

Text

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.)

#gambeson #liveblogging projects #gremble attempts to sew

60 notes · View notes

arabellasleopardcoat · 2 years ago

Text

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.

699 notes · View notes