#make the leather tabards

[bluevelvt]

my anakin cosplay isn’t complete yet but i was walking back from the club i just heard a group of guys say “we just walked past a whole ass jedi” and i think that’s beautiful

[lokisgoodgirl]

Metal & Leather [Loki Odinson x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Prince Loki can't get to you soon enough after an arduous battle. (Yes, another one of those!😇) w/c 1.2k Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut/Fluff. Mild angst. Mild descriptions of injury. Loki x female reader.

The Einherjar’s roar swells higher, heating the cool night air. You run to your balcony overlooking the balustrade as Loki strides towards his mother and father standing poised at the furthest reach, waiting to welcome him: to congratulate him.

The crowds go crazy as Odin hands him something. One abrupt bow, Loki wrote in his letter from the victorious battlefield. One abrupt bow, and I make for my true reward without delay. Do not come to the ceremony. The underline had ripped the paper.

“Is that an order?” you’d asked the empty room while you imagined the wolfish glint of his smile as he wrote it. And now, he was finally here. He was finally home. The nights were long on the realm’s furthest battlefields, and although his victory had been by all accounts swift it still took weeks. Thirteen, to be exact.

Now, you can see the flutter of his cape as he makes a show of turning and striding from the dais where Odin and Frigga stand. He’s coming.

You turn, perching on the stone. You didn’t bother getting dressed properly, just a chiffon open-fronted robe tied loose at the waist. Warm air sighs over your skin as you wait, and wait. The main event is right here: and it starts in five…four…three— There’s an abrupt knock at the door. “Come,” you call sweetly. Loki pushes it open. His chin is lowered to the glint of his metal breastplate, his shadowed eyes swimming with promise in the flickering gloom. The hand curled around the ceremonial spear he just received from Odin tightens when he sees you, and his lips curl in a smile. Dark hair spills over his exaggerated, armour-clad shoulders and with a low whisper, the spear vanishes.

“The demon-brothels of Musselheim left much to be desired,” Loki sniffs with a sarcasm that can’t mask the affection in his eyes. “Heated in the most inconvenient of ways.” You search his face, noting the glint of his eyes and the twitch of his thin lips. “You’re terrible.”

He strides across the room, cape blooming like ink through water, and gathers you in his arms. “And I’m yours,” he replies as he dips and lifts your legs around his waist. "Aren't you glad, darling? In all my terrible, terrible glory."

The heat still hangs on his leathers from the Bifrost.

His lips slam into yours at force, the thud of his boots and the crisp rustle of his cloak making your thighs tighten. He nudges you higher, and eager fingers slip past his temples, fisting his hair, noting the ghost of bruises that shadow his face. Loki’s fingers pull at the ribbons holding your robe together, their slither between his calloused fingers and the nip of Asgard’s night air against your nipples flooding your brain. He’s home, he’s here, he’s safe. Thank you; thank you.

Your pussy slips against the metal buckle flush to his abdomen, and Loki’s kiss wanes. He pulls back as you’re rested on the wide flat of the balcony wall, towering over you like the victorious god he is. You reach to brush his tabard aside, but a hand flies out to stop it.

“No,” he says hoarsely, and for the first time you see the raw abrasions on his knuckles, the purple cloud edging from his wrist armour. He trails a finger down the valley of your throat, between the swell of your breasts. “My love..” The softness of his voice so at odds with the battle-weary figure he cuts. He never thinks you want him like this. Not at first: coated in the evidence of his destruction. You reach tentatively for his leathers, and this time he lets you brush the flap aside. Loki of Asgard stiffens as you unlace him, pulling him closer, kissing him deep. “My love,” you whisper against his heated, gritty skin. A shiver wrenches through him. When Loki returns from war, all the lust he’s re-directed bubbles over. This time is no different. You feel his fingers run over your hair, grabbing a clutch, tilting your head back. Loki’s mouth descends on your exposed neck: biting, sucking, groaning his need for you against the delicate, willing flesh. There’s a smack of metal against leather, a grunt as he positions himself between your spread legs. The balcony stone scrapes against the back of your thighs as he places a palm on your lower spine, protecting you from the drop. And then, he’s inside you. His cock claims the deepest part of you, and Loki swears as he bottoms out with a decisive thrust.

With one hand hanging against his neck, and the other gripping the belt slung over his shoulder, you ride the devastating thrusts he delivers with each jangling snap of his hips. Loki’s cock, and his love, are the missing pieces of you—the parts he takes whenever he leaves to fulfil his duty. But this is his duty, and you both know it. Ragged gasps scrape from Loki’s throat, his fingertips clawing against your back so desperately you know the truth of his desire will be marked on you by the night’s end. Purple, blue; just like the evidence of violence painted on his skin.

He curls close, and you wrap both arms around his neck, pulling the god’s face closer into the curve of your shoulder.

Loki’s illusion has wavered. His hair is matted, crisped with sweat and battle and bifrost and you inhale deeply, willing your love for him to wash it all away. His thrusts are sloppy now, out of time with the fiery grunts blasting against the shell of your ear. He smells like metal, and leather – and gods, you never want anything else.

“I’ll always come home to you,” he says, and you know he’s picturing the enemies he had to slay to get here. He never tells you everything of what he’s seen—but it changes him. It makes his love fiercer. The crowd packing the balustrade cheers at the conclusion of some speech: Thor’s, probably. But Loki’s body draws like a bow and you feel the tighten of his jaw against your neck. “I can’t stop it,” he pants, and you buck harder against him. There will be time for your pleasure later—Loki will make sure of it. In the baths, in the bed you share, in the blankets and pillows strewn through slats of amber sunlight on the endless days with him by your side. For now, in the torch-lit gloom where he wears the stains of hard-won victory, he needs this: he needs you. And right now, your pleasure is bringing his home.

The tunic, warm from your friction, scrapes your inner thighs as he seals his cock inside you once, twice, three times. On the fourth, he holds the throbbing tip at the entrance to your slit, his wild eyes meeting yours. “All for you,” he gasps, and his eyebrows peak.

Everything: he means everything. The sacrifice, the vulnerability he shares— the fact you’d only need to ask and he would tear the sky down in your name. Your lips touch, and he groans happily as he sinks inside a final, lingering time.

The force of his cum hits the back of your cunt and his whole body tightens. A tremble works through him while the grip on your back falters, and his knees wobble. He pulls you close, groaning his climax into your mouth; the heat of his breath and the fury of his love rippling across every nerve in your body. Below, drums begin: lyres, chanting, prayer. “You’re home,” you whisper, slotting your nose at the side of his. “You’re safe.” “Home,” he murmurs as the cool metal at his abdomen chills your flushed skin. He thrusts a final, gentle time, and you cross your ankles at his lower back, sealing him close. Loki smiles, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

❤️Tags in comments! x Next story will be Wednesday 18 Sept as I'm on holiday next week🌄

[stabbythespaceroomba]

Okay here we go again! If tumblr deletes this I’m gonna scream

Aeron - easy to see what he’s wearing, underclothing can be speculated

Aeron’s layers include breeches, tunic you can barely see under gambeson, gambeson (over something with long sleeves), tabard, gauntlets, gloves and belts, then then cloak

I’d argue you might have another underlayer of an undershirt, but that might just be the tunic you can see. We have nothing canonical for that, but it would make sense!! we can’t see if he’s wearing a quilted gorge or how his gambeson connects around his neck, meaning we can’t see if it’s tied or pulled over his head.

You can see a bit of a dip in the collar though so I would Heavily argue that it is tied down the front

-

Davos is now easy to know! Kieran Burton fed us GOOD today! Living for the fact that it’s Not a woollen tunic!

People into Davos-sexy times will be glad to know that the breeches are not just suspended but laced up (@benjicotblckwood thinking abt you lmaooo)(possible on both sides at the front, from the amount of string but I cannot see due to the shadow) . As is his under shirt, it laces at his neck

The next layer peeks out slightly!

It’s quilted and grey and I’d suggest it’s probably a quilted gorge maybe like

Or something more like that ^

Then comes the gambeson

Quilted and tied at the front, she looks lighter and is shorter than Aeron’s. The leather detailing would give extra protection and could easily be swapped with metal.

On top is his beautiful leather braided jerkin, woven leather gauntlets and cloak!

Everything seems to be tied together and nothing looks too heavy. This is a guy who prioritises moving fast

Layer check - breeches and undershirt, mystery quilted layer, gambeson, jerkin, cloak. 5 layers!!

-

So much work and thought have been put into these two, rather throw away outfits! They’re beautiful! I love how it shows Aeron in quite traditional knights wear. Aeron looks very proper for his station and yet is still underprepared! He doesn’t even have any mail on, bless him.

Davos on the other hand, his clothes are more of a wildcard and yet he’s clearly coming from money, he’s well protected himself and you can see that he’s well suited to fight with his knife. His clothing looks lighter but is no less unprotective (for border guarding, not necessarily a battle field 😬)

-

If anyone has any other idea or thinks I’ve named anything wrongly pls let me know! I’m a HEMA enthusiast and an medieval/early modern church historian not an armour expert!

[ringenthusiast]

i got so much of the skirt done but it's another trip to the fabric store for me before i can finish it

I FIXED THE SEWING MACHINE WE'RE SO FUCKING BACK MAEDHROS COSPLAY IS BACK ON THE TABLE

[anilovie]

Anakin taking care of you when you’re sick.

WC: 1.5k

TW: mentions of throwing up but very brief and no descriptions.

You distinctly remember thinking to yourself — “I better not catch whatever this is” — as soon as the third youngling came into the medbay puking all over the place.

You wore gloves, washed your hands, put on a mask, even knocked on wood— yet you still woke up in the early hours of the morning to an excruciating cramping in your stomach, making you curl into yourself and roll around your bed until your dinner worked its way up your system and out into the toilet (that you thankfully reached just in time).

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so lousy. Being a medic, you knew how to take care of yourself and rarely ever got sick. Much less with a bad GI bug, one that kept you in bed and away from your duties without letting anyone know.

It was very unlike you to go radio silent; which is why Ahoksa thought it was strange that you hadn’t met her in the great hall that morning to go on your daily caf run, like you always do before the day truly begins.

She sought you out in your room, where the lights were still off and it smelled of sickness, and you were bundled in your blankets in the midst of a fitful sleep.

Too weak to get up, you croaked that you didn’t think you could get caf with her today, to which she was completely understanding of. She let you be, cracking a window open on the way out to let fresh air in.

Then promptly went straight to Anakin.

You stirred to the sound of the door opening not even an hour later, lifting your head enough to catch sight of a tall, familiar silhouette equipped with leather tabards, thick utility belt, and lightsaber hanging off the left hip. Something twisted in your stomach, a ball of nervousness rising in you as you realized Anakin had come to see you… alone.

You let your head fall back to the pillows, closing your eyes at the uncomfortable aching in your stomach. You felt the bed dip by your feet as Anakin perched on the edge, metal hand coming up to rest on your shoulder comfortingly.

“Not feeling so good, huh?” He spoke in a hushed voice, rasping in the low register. Despite the pain in your tummy, you preened at his proximity and innocent touch. You’d had the biggest crush on Anakin for quite some time now, but he didn’t know that.

You let out a disgruntled “Mmm” and curled in on yourself further, overtaken by a wave of nausea. Thankfully, you’d forced yourself into a shower after your third round of puking, which was somewhere between midnight and dawn. You were clean, but you’d also slept on wet hair, so you looked all messy.

“Ahsoka said you’ve been getting sick?” He tried to get some words out of you, thumb rubbing soothingly across your arm.

“‘Think I picked something up from the younglings,” you mumbled, face still half buried in your blankets. “You might not want to get too close.”

“How many times have you been sick?” He completely ignored your request.

You thought for a moment. “Three or four times. Haven’t had to in a couple hours though, so I think I’m getting better…”

“Show me where it hurts.”

He wasn’t asking, but his tone was so soft you couldn’t deny him. Plus, he’d come here for you.

You shifted around in bed, rolling onto your back so that you were now looking up at him, surrounded in a cocoon of blankets. You pushed them down to reveal your tummy, clad in your softest and warmest sweater.

“Just my stomach,” you refused to meet his eyes. “But it’s not so bad anymore. Just feel… icky.”

“Hm,” he hummed, eyes flicking up to your face before landing on the hands covering your stomach. You never forgot how handsome he was, but it still shocked you like a slap in the face whenever you were met with him head-on like this. Paired with that soft, raspy voice, the obvious concern in his eyes, and the fact that he’d come just for you— you wanted to melt into a puddle.

“Can I try something?” He spoke, and you lifted your gaze to his face warily. You trusted him, so you nodded your head.

He brought his hand — the flesh one this time— across your body and let it rest on your tummy gently. Just the one hand almost spanned your whole abdomen. You immediately squirmed your hips back, not expecting him to have touched you so brazenly. You and Anakin were friends… but you had yet to cross a line like this before.

You let his hand rest there, hoping he didn’t notice how squishy and bloated you were right now, and if he did, that he didn’t mind. Your hands were curled into fists, tucked under your chin as you peered down at his gentle touch on your tummy curiously, wondering what he was doing.

“Just like this,” he assured you when he saw your alarmed face. “How’s this feel?”

You focused on your stomach again, expecting to be met with that gross nauseous feeling that had been plaguing you for hours. It was still there, but now it was… dull. Muted, like he’d snuffed out the discomfort with a blanket.

Unable to help yourself, you brought your hands down to his, one hand closing over his wrist and the other fitting atop his outstretched hand, keeping him just where he was. “Feels better, Ani,” you sniffed, eyes fluttering closed as warmth from his touch seeped into your aching tummy, soothing it all away.

The corner of his lips pulled up slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Just kept the gentle pressure over your stomach with a little look of concentration on his face. Realizing he wasn’t going anywhere, you let yourself fully relax back into your blankets.

He thought you looked so cute — and slightly pathetic — at the way you melted back into the bed. Cheeks flushed with sickness, hair all messy, oversized sweater falling off your shoulder and over the hands grabbing at his own… he’d stay with you all day if he could. But alas, he had duties to attend to.

“This should last for about half an hour,” he spoke gently after a while. You groggily opened your eyes and frowned as he pulled his hand away, shivering at the loss of warmth and contact.

“Mkay,” you couldn’t keep the whine out of your voice, though you were too proud to complain. “Thanks, Anakin. Doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

“Good,” he cooed, this time with a full smile. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, eyes probing into your face as he scanned you over. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Can’t. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it down.”

“What about something bland… like toast?”

“Mmm,” you crinkled your nose up at the thought, gloriously subdued nausea making it easier to relent. “Alright. But only with a little bit of butter, not a lot.”

“Got it,” that strand of hair seemed to capture his attention, because he kept running it through his fingers, his touch tickling your cheek. “And some tea?”

“Sure,” you squeezed out a grateful, sheepish smile. “With honey, please. Thank you.”

“‘Course,” Anakin leaned over, planting a quick kiss to your forehead. Your skin tingled where his soft lips made contact, eyes blown wide at the sweet action. “Coming right up.”

He left like he’d done nothing at all. Meanwhile, you were lifting your hand to trace your fingertips over the spot he’d just kissed, the phantom touch of his lips still lingering.

You huffed lightly, flustered, and turned onto your side to curl back into a ball. You buried your lovesick smile into your pillows, clutching your favorite stuffie to your chest as you listened to the distant sounds of Anakin clinking around in your kitchen.

It didn’t take long, but you’d still fallen half-asleep again by the time he returned. With the pain in your stomach temporarily dulled and the exhaustion weighing on you from your sleepless night, it was easy to pass out again. Anakin woke you with another gentle touch to your shoulder.

“I’ll leave it here for you when you’re ready to eat something,” his tone dropped to a whisper, not wanting to disturb you anymore. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be back to check on you tonight.”

Your whole body filled with warmth at his words, from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You nodded and blinked open your eyes, blearily regarding him from your blanket cocoon.

“Thank you, Ani,” you slurred sleepily, shivering as he let his flesh hand cup your cheek in an affectionate touch. He was just taking care of you. It didn’t mean what you wanted it to… but it was nice to pretend. “Have a good day. Be safe.”

He just huffed out a silent laugh and withdrew his hand. You were still smiling when you heard his bootsteps recede and your door close. You allowed yourself to fall back into a blissful slumber, head fuzzy with the remnants of his simple touches, clinging to the fact that he would be back later to see you.

[daisymeade]

Armor

day 2 : veilguard 30

A chainmail tabard across his stomach, but nothing more than padded cloth on his sides. A silverite plate across his breast and piddling, exposed leather straps to keep it in place. It was no wonder the Grey Wardens needed preternatural abilities to fight the darkspawn. No amount of flexibility afforded by this armor was going to save your average fighter from an ogre's backhand.

Sidrin shifted uncomfortably in his new uniform, feeling exposed even standing idly within Skyhold's walls. The chilly air cut through his clothes despite that sodding quartermaster's guarantees that it would be warm. Considering she was Fereldan, one would think everything would come with fur lining.

Well, if I ever get truly desperate, I can shake a fur cloak out of that fake ass Warden...

As he was contemplating the logistics of shaking down the Inquisitor's lover, a familiar face appeared at his side: Gatsi Sturhald, builder of the mad Paragon Branka's statue. What a surprise it'd been to find such a fine artisan on the surface, a complex tattoo on his face and a job studying old mosaics.

Gatsi gave him a quick, appraising up-and-down before nodding. "It's a good look. You'll shape your fellow Wardens into something proper."

"If only we could start with this sodding excuse for armor," Sidrin hissed. "Have you seen the way they outfit their mages? You'd think those prissy flamethrowers couldn't cast through metal."

"I can't tell you anything about that," said Gatsi with a chuckle, "but if you want your new kit fortified I know a smith down in the valley, name of Tezpa. Traditional dwarven craftsmanship and a no-nonsense attitude. She'll have you the talk of the ranks in no time."

Sidrin nodded. "I might do that. Who's going to take me to task for it? I'd give them a piece of my mind and then some if anyone tried. This isn't how honored warriors should treat silverite."

"And if you're not busy later," Gatsi continued, stepping closer and resting a hand against Sid's lower back, "maybe you can meet me in the Herald's Rest for drinks."

That simple touch sent a spark like fire up Sidrin's back, only a gambeson and linen shirt separating skin. In the same instance, he felt himself turn and slap the stonemason's hand away, the breath pushed suddenly from his lungs like the falling of a boulder.

Sid glanced around before he turned back to Gatsi, jaw tight and a glare sharp as obsidian. You should know better.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath of the bitingly cold mountain air, Gatsi spoke again as if nothing had happened. "Cabot makes this great drink, real popular with our kin here in Skyhold. He's from back home too, but this mix is pure surfacer. Bet the deep lords have never even heard of it."

Deep lords? You've been up here too long, Sturhald.

As if he'd heard him Gatsi said, "You know, it's not as terrible on the surface as they wanted us to believe. It'll take a while to get used to things, sure, but some of those differences are good. Stones, if nothing else, we've got a lot more options here."

Sidrin stared across the courtyard, watching a dwarven scout walking past deep in conversation with the Tethras guy who asked too many questions. Gatsi stood silently with him for another minute before saying something distantly about completed mosaics and "too many reports", bidding Sid farewell with a pointed look.

Once alone again, it didn't take long for the Legion-Warden to begin heading for the elevator, desperate for heavier armor and a roiling forge.

[ontherocks21]

Someday I'll Write It:

Lady Vader Part IV

It took quite some time to set up the meeting.

First, there was the matter of identifying the correct individual to approach.

What Padmé proposed to do was equivalent to showing a Sabacc hand to her neighboring player and hoping that the combined knowledge of two hands was enough to defeat the opponent across the table. Choose the wrong person and the Rebellion's game was blown. Completely.

Then came coordinating the logistics to ensure everyone's safety. At least, as much as safety could be assured when working under the very nose of the tyrant one hoped to overthrow. Padmé had been adamant that the Rebellion's target would not suffer becoming one for the Empire. Anakin had been adamant that he felt the exact same... about her. He could bear the brunt of the unsavory tasks asked of him, he insists but he couldn't handle her standing unnecessarily in the crosshairs.

When she had pointed out that what she was doing was out of necessity, he paced their apartment floor, gnashing his teeth about her foolhardy stubbornness and the insanity of this plan. She had cut her teeth with legions of detractors when she was only a nascent teen. Her husband's ire was mere childsplay, even if he'd stalked about like the dark and stormy Sith Lord he was supposed to be.

As they reach their rendezvous, Anakin is again on edge. She gets the feeling from the hard thrust of his stride and the loud huffs he makes - likely holding back his protests - that now would not be the time to mention the old story about tension and gundarks.

Stopping outside the office door, his cobalt eyes plead with her before his lips can. "Padmé, I have a bad feeling..."

"Shhhh, Ani," she soothes, her hands unfolding from under her cloak to smooth his leather tabards. "I'll do all the talking, you just stand there and be intimidating."

He mumbles something in Nabooian under his breath, and the cheeky expression - no doubt learned from one of his nieces - calms the butterflies flitting about in her own stomach.

She nods once, and he palms the access panel to Galen Erso's office.

Almost immediately, the owner of the cramped workspace rises to his feet, the color draining from his face at the sight of the galaxy's most notorious couple standing before him.

"My Lord! My Lady!" He remembers to bow. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Lady Vader lets Padmé Skywalker smile at him. A real genuine greeting. He smiles back, nervously watching the other man in the room as he does.

She wastes no time in outlining the Rebellion's scheme. The one that relies on the head engineer making the indestructible Death Star beatable. The one that could burn it all to stardust or vanquish an Empire before it can take further poisonous root.

"What you're proposing is treason! Why are you involving me with this?"

Galen doesn't seem likely to fold, and Padmé isn't surprised. She's showing him a lot of their cards but she still keeps one close to her chest.

As the leaders of the Rebellion had grown more impatient with each passing day, little did they know that the delay actually gifted them a game-changing advantage.

Anakin fidgets behind her as she shrugs the heavy velvet cloak from her shoulders.

Galen's eyes widen at the gentle swell of her stomach.

"Because like you and Lyra, Anakin and I want our child to grow up in a free galaxy."

Image credit: Eli Hyder

[renlyslittlerose]

Kinktober Day 23 - Virginity

Today's prompt: hi are you still accepting kinktober prompts? can i request obikin's first time? you've referenced obi wan making moves on anakin just after his knighting in a couple of the fic so far and i'd love to see how that went down xx

Intertwined - 4,645 (lol) Rating: E Content: Loss of virginity; First time; Top Obi-Wan; Bottom Anakin; Anal sex

---

“Are you finished eating?”

“I guess I could—”

Obi-Wan grabbed Anakin’s wrist and tugged him up from his chair in the dining hall. Obi-Wan mumbled a quick apology to the rest of the table, fellow Jedi staring at the pair with raised brows as Anakin was practically dragged from the hall by his Master.

“What’s going on?” Anakin asked, the ghost of a laugh on his lips. He stumbled but stayed upright, his long legs catching him as they rounded a corner.

Obi-Wan kept his grip on Anakin’s wrist, his skin soft and warm to the touch, pulse point already beating rapidly.

“You’ll see,” Obi-Wan said, and tugged Anakin further along.

They rounded another corner before following the hallway toward Obi-Wan’s quarters. It was only early evening, the sun still hovering above the horizon, with fellow Jedi tending to their duties. Obi-Wan knew it was brash and reckless and perhaps unseemly, but he couldn’t wait any longer than he already had. Anakin had been taken from him after being knighted, ceremony and courtesies having to be seen to that distracted them both, Anakin being pulled in one direction while Obi-Wan was expected to look the other way - to be contented with letting Anakin leave him to forge his own path.

But they both knew that would never be the case. Even as Anakin’s Padawan braid was cut the bond between them remained just as tight. Obi-Wan could feel Anakin as much as Anakin could feel him, a steady comfort broken up with spikes of fear, dashes of annoyance, and a persistent ache of longing. A longing that Obi-Wan had tried to quell - to swallow down whenever he caught himself staring too long at the length of Anakin’s lashes, or the jutting of his bottom lip, plush and pink and wet. Or the way Anakin’s body felt against his own while they sparred, muscles forming, his youthful limbs solidifying, the scent of him changing from pungent and sour to thick and dense.

It was improper to desire Anakin and they both knew it. Even though Anakin would stare at Obi-Wan in much the same manner, his focus sharp and his intentions clear. But Anakin was his Padawan - his charge, a boy he was meant to raise and protect.

Only he wasn’t anymore.

The braid had been clipped, their duty to each other complete, their bond softened.

It was still improper; still beyond what was right and honourable. And yet Obi-Wan didn’t care.

They slipped into Obi-Wan’s quarters, Anakin laughing as Obi-Wan swung him into the centre, their hands unclasping just at the last moment. The door shut and Obi-Wan locked it, his hands trembling as he pressed the buttons and turned back around. Anakin was stood in the centre, his robes fitting him more firmly around the chest and along his shoulders every day. It was still odd to not see the familiar braid hanging from behind his ear, the ends of it brushing the leathers of his tabards. His hair was still shorne and soft to the touch, but Obi-Wan had been obsessed with the small curls that appeared at the base of his skull and around his ears for almost a year.

Anakin smiled at Obi-Wan, a blush on his cheeks that shone through the bronze and golden tones of his skin. He was playing with the sleeves of his tunic, his grip tight and knuckles white as he ducked his head and looked at Obi-Wan through his lashes. Obi-Wan felt weighted and light all at the same time - like he’d float off into the stratosphere without proper mooring, but also like he’d sink in place if he didn’t move right away. If he didn’t take his chance. If he didn’t seize the moment.

The force hummed around them; a flicker that soon turned into a flame, once warm and now overwhelming. Obi-Wan knew Anakin could feel it - could see it in how he rocked on his feet and stared at Obi-Wan, unblinking and focused, ready for whatever lessons Obi-Wan had yet to impart on him.

Deciding that he’d rather float off into space than remain stuck to the ground, Obi-Wan surged forward and cupped Anakin’s cheeks between his hands. A moment passed as the two stared at each other, Anakin’s breath stuttering and smelling of sweets he’d eaten in the cafeteria. His skin was hot and soft, baby hairs along his cheeks giving way to the start of facial hair that Obi-Wan would hate to see develop further.

“Master,” Anakin whispered.

They locked eyes, dark blue with light, before Obi-Wan closed the gap.

Anakin gasped before moaning, soft and thrilling as they pressed their lips together. It wasn’t sweet nor slow, the build-up to all of this years in the making, with buckets of salt and tears spilled over just the thought of this moment - of this first kiss. Anakin was inexperienced, his grip tight along Obi-Wan’s waist, his lips wet and parted as Obi-Wan delved inside and licked across his palate. He let out another moan, desperate and needy, and Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut as he went in for more.

“Master,” Anakin whispered again, breath wet across Obi-Wan’s lips as he was devoured.

“You’re so sweet,” Obi-Wan said, his own voice sounding desperate in his head. He didn’t care and kissed along Anakin’s jaw and down his neck, tugging and pulling at the dense material of his tunic to reach more. “Such a darling thing.”

Anakin stepped forward, pressing himself against Obi-Wan, his hands still gripping Obi-Wan’s waist like he was holding on for dear life. Or like he didn’t know what to do. The fact that Anakin had never had sex before came rocketing up into Obi-Wan’s mind, and force save him, it made his cock throb obscenely in his leggings. Grabbing Anakin’s wrist, Obi-Wan dragged him toward the bedroom, their footsteps quick across the tiled floor.

He’d made his bed as he always did, sheets firm across the mattress, pillows fluffed, creases from the night before evident in the centre despite it all. He pushed Anakin down on to the bed and Anakin landed with a huff, all long limbs and eagerness as he shifted around. His tabards slipped open across his hips, exposing the outline of his cock as it strained against his leggings.

Obi-Wan whimpered and palmed himself a few times, overcome with the sight of Anakin on his bed, splayed out and waiting - always waiting, whether it be for instruction, for guidance, for Obi-Wan’s steady hand across his back and between his shoulder blades, grounding him. Anakin watched the action with hungry eyes, his lips parting in another moan. Obi-Wan knew Anakin was vocal - had heard him touching himself a few times during their longer missions over the years, wet, frantic gasps pushing through the tent walls or sometimes, when Anakin was feeling brash and bold, from right next to Obi-Wan. At first Obi-Wan had been embarrassed, and then it had become part and parcel with living with a young man.

And then it became something more; something that Obi-Wan wanted to swallow for himself.

The tips of Anakin’s fingers danced along the edges of his belt, his eyes locked on Obi-Wan as his cock spilled into his leggings, a wet spot appearing on the brown material. Obi-Wan sighed and stepped forward, wanting to undress Anakin for himself - unwrap him, and delight in the beauty on offer. A beauty just for him.

His hands trembled as he unclasped Anakin’s belt and made move to remove the folds of fabric across his frame. Strips of bronze skin was slowly revealed to him, Obi-Wan’s hands broad and flat against Anakin’s stomach. He reveled in how Anakin’s muscles stuttered beneath his touch, breathing frantic and excited. He pushed more away to reveal Anakin’s nipples, dusty pink and pert, and without thinking too hard he ducked down and laved his tongue across one.

Anakin mewled and cupped the back of Obi-Wan’s head as he pushed up into the touch, demanding more. Obi-Wan gave it to him, tongue slick across the hardened nub as he sucked, his hands slipping beneath Anakin’s robes to run along his ribs and back. Anakin started bucking up, grinding his cock against Obi-Wan’s stomach, touch desperate as he gripped Obi-Wan’s hair and pulled.

Raising his head Obi-Wan brushed spit from his beard, the hairs course against the pads of his thumb. He wanted to burn Anakin with them - rub his face along ever expanse and groove of Anakin’s body, coating himself in Anakin’s scent and his essence, and to see bronzed skin turned pink and red from the scratch of his beard.

“Patience, darling,” Obi-Wan mumbled as Anakin scrambled beneath him, trying to keep him in place.

“I c-cant, Obi-Wan. I just want you.”

Obi-Wan’s cock throbbed, already thick and swollen between his legs.

“And you’ll have me,” he said as he continued to undress Anakin. “You just need to hold on a moment longer.”

The more of Anakin’s body that was revealed, the more impatient Obi-Wan became. He’d seen Anakin naked before but they had always been hurried glances in the fresher, Obi-Wan following the long plains of his body, admiring how the water collected across Anakin’s shoulders and stomach; how it dripped off his soft cock, pearls of it sliding along the length and the foreskin that covered his pretty, pink head. Eventually he’d look up and realize Anakin was staring as well, and before they could make eye-contact Obi-Wan would look away and stare at the tile wall, cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal.

But he could admire now, freely and without shame. Anakin lay beneath Obi-Wan entirely naked, his long and elegant cock hard between his legs, his balls full, hair thick and curled around the base of his length. Obi-Wan watched as a string of precome slid down his length, making his cock glisten beneath the light of the setting sun.

Anakin didn’t shy from obi-Wan’s gaze, his body open, legs spread, lips parted as he gazed up at Obi-Wan through heavy lidded eyes, luring him closer. He had no shame.

Obi-Wan wondered where he got that from.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin huffed.

Obi-Wan let out a small laugh, embarrassment flush in his chest as he started to undress. “Sorry, darling. Just a little caught up in everything.”

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” Anakin said. He smiled then, low and seductive, his eyes tracing the lines of Obi-Wan’s face before falling further down as Obi-Wan exposed more and more of himself. “Caught you staring multiple times - in the shower, in the change rooms… that one time we got coated in some sort of goop in the middle of a mission. You kept staring at me as I undressed. You weren’t subtle.”

Obi-Wan knew he was blushing but there wasn’t anything he could hide behind, his robes now a pile on top of Anakin’s - cream and light browns mixed with dark and black. He liked how they looked. When he looked back up from the mess Anakin was staring at Obi-Wan’s cock. His pupils were blown, black swallowing up the blue hues that Obi-Wan had come to love more than any other colour. Lips parted, Anakin sucked back a breath, tongue sliding out to run along his bottom lip.

Obi-Wan wanted Anakin to taste him. He wanted to suck on Anakin’s cock, have Anakin choke him with it, overpower him and claim what they’d both wanted for so long. And he wanted Anakin to do the same - to rest between his legs and take the tip of his cock into his mouth, teasing him, tasting him. He wanted to see the innocence give way to experience, Anakin’s hesitant touch turning into bold and steady as he gripped Obi-Wan and pleased them both.

But there wasn’t time for that. Anakin was inexperienced and excited, his cock already slick and hard and pulsing, his hips twitching up incrementally. He was whimpering as he squirmed on the bed, attention still fixed on Obi-Wan’s cock - thicker than Anakin’s, but not as elegant.

Kneeling on the bed, Obi-Wan grabbed Anakin’s thighs and pulled him up on to his lap, Anakin’s breath stuttering as his taint and balls pressed against Obi-Wan’s length.

“Kriff,” Obi-Wan hissed as soon as his cock touched Anakin, sliding along his smooth skin and warmth, precome slick across Anakin’s underside as he rutted up against him.

Anakin wrapped his legs around Obi-Wan’s waist and sat up slightly, leaning back on to his hands as he thrust against Obi-Wan’s cock, mouth slack and eyes flickering shut as they ground against each other. Keeping a tight hold on Anakin’s thighs, Obi-Wan admired Anakin’s frame, watching the muscles across his stomach flex, his chest heaving, nipples pink with one still slick with Obi-Wan’s spit. He was making little noises with every movement, moans mixed with whimpers as he ground his ass against Obi-Wan’s cock, pressing into him until they were both shaking and desperate.

“I want inside of you,” Obi-Wan said. He knew he sounded desperate but didn’t care. He was desperate - for Anakin and his heat and his touch and his kisses.

“Please,” Anakin moaned. “Fuck me, Master.”

Pressing forward, Obi-Wan pushed Anakin back down on to the bed. Grinding their cocks together Obi-Wan kissed Anakin deeply, loving how Anakin used too much tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, the two covering each other up in their spit. There would be time to finesse Anakin’s technique - to teach him how to rub and please, how to suck on a person’s tongue and just where to bite. But for now Obi-Wan would enjoy Anakin’s enthusiasm, his hands brutal across Obi-Wan’s shoulders, fingers digging into his muscles as he held on to him.

Obi-Wan ran his hands along Anakin’s jaw and neck and up through his hair, short strands still long enough to grab and pull. Anakin let out a loud groan and thrust upward, his movements erratic as he ground into Obi-Wan.

But they both wanted more. Needed more. They couldn’t settle for just this, their cocks pushed between their stomachs, swollen and aching and ready to spill with the simplest of touches. They needed a connection - they needed to be joined so as to make a promise to one another that they would never be parted. No knighting could severe the bond between them; no traditions nor customs. They were to be together forever, in all ways from the physical to the spiritual.

They were as one.

Obi-Wan scrambled around in the drawer next to his bedside, trying to find a bottle of lube that he’d bought for this occasion. He didn’t do this often with others, his thoughts so wrapped up in Anakin for so long that pleasure couldn’t be found anywhere else. His delights were fixed on Anakin and everything he was - there could never be another. Finding the bottle Obi-Wan sat up, ignoring Anakin’s desperate pleas to remain on top of him.

“I need to prepare you,” Obi-Wan said, not unkindly.

Anakin nodded and lay back down. He spread his legs though he didn’t shift his hips, a sudden humility evident in his gaze as he waited for Obi-Wan to reach between his legs. Obi-Wan warmed the lube with his fingers, rubbing it between the pads while he pet Anakin’s thigh with his left, trying to sooth the little voice in Anakin’s head that told him this would be painful. Reaching down, Obi-Wan asked Anakin to tilt his hips forward before he slipped his fingers between his cheeks and searched. It didn’t take long to find Anakin’s hole - tight and whorled muscles hidden beneath the dense matting of hair. Anakin let out a soft sigh, body jerking away from Obi-Wan’s touch.

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” Obi-Wan asked, his rubbing becoming more insistent as Anakin started to relax.

“No. E-except to clean myself, that is.”

Obi-Wan groaned. The thought that he was the first made him dizzy with arousal. Anakin hadn’t even breached his own walls - hadn’t touched the velvet softness inside, hadn’t searched and explored, hadn’t stretched and pushed and rubbed. Obi-Wan would be the first.

“I want you to relax, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Breath evenly and deeply, and focus on my touch and not the strange sensations.”

“I don’t need a lecture on meditation,” Anakin huffed out.

But he did as instructed, his body relaxing as Obi-Wan continued to pet his thigh and rub his hole. A few moments passed, their bond humming calmly between the two despite it all, before Obi-Wan pressed a finger inside. Anakin tensed a moment and Obi-Wan stilled, finger only half-way inside, before Anakin let out a soft sigh and relaxed enough for Obi-Wan to push in all the way. Moving his finger in and out, Obi-Wan let Anakin adjust to the new sensation before adding a second. Again Anakin tensed and then relaxed, his eyes closed as he slowly started grinding down on Obi-Wan’s hand.

“That’s a lad… that’s a good boy.”

Anakin’s cock twitched, stringy precome adding itself to the mess across his stomach. “I-I try.”

“Sometimes you do.”

Anakin’s blush deepened.

Anakin’s walls were was warm and inviting as Obi-Wan suspected they would be, his ring tight along Obi-Wan’s fingers, his thighs slick with sweat. Obi-Wan took his time stretching Anakin, adding a third in before he curled and searched. It took a moment, Obi-Wan readjusting, before—

A shout broke out through the room, desperate and keening, and Obi-Wan watched with joy as Anakin arched up from the bed and ground his hips down, his heels digging into the mattress. The pressure of his grinding hurt Obi-Wan’s hand but he didn’t complain and simply rubbed, getting Anakin more and more excited. Anakin let out another string of swears both in the standard and in Huttese, his brows furrowed as he writhed on the bed. Obi-Wan admired his features for a moment, watching the sweat slide along Anakin’s temple, the parting of his lips, tongue wet in the darkness of his eager mouth, before he looked down Anakin’s spread legs to watch his fingers as they slipped in and out from Anakin’s most intimate of parts.

“M-master, please,” Anakin begged, his body shuddering as Obi-Wan stroked his spot again.

He was close. Obi-Wan could feel it in their bond, a frenetic energy that lashed and rippled and sliced. Obi-Wan would have been tempted to continue - to have Anakin come undone because of his fingers alone - but he’d waited far too long to end it this way. He needed to be inside. Reaching between Anakin’s legs Obi-Wan gripped the base of his cock, keeping the pressure from overwhelming him. He’d stalled his fingers inside and waited for Anakin to stop squirming before sliding his fingers out, slick with lube and sore from their manipulation.

“Calm yourself,” Obi-Wan said, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Anakin’s benefit or his own.

Never in his life had he ever been this hard. His cock throbbed between his legs, painful almost as it continued to bob and pulse, thick rivulets of precome sliding down his length to collect on the base of his balls. Normally he could hold out - wring every last pleasure from himself before he was ready for release, sometimes touching himself or his partner for hours before giving in.

But normally he wasn’t with Anakin - his beautiful, precious boy. His Padawan, forever and always despite it all.

He kissed Anakin quickly before sitting up. Grabbing the lube he coated his cock before taking one of the pillows and shoving it beneath Anakin’s hips. Anakin made a curious noise, but Obi-Wan shushed him by pressing the tip of his cock against Anakin’s entrance. They both moaned, the simple sensation of touch enough to make Obi-Wan fear he’d come before he could even sink inside the supple flesh on offer.

“This will hurt for a moment, but I want you to stay as relaxed as you can, Anakin.” Obi-Wan brushed Anakin’s cheek with his free hand. “Can you do that for me, darling?”

Anakin nodded, his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. “Y-yeah.”

Obi-Wan nodded and lifted Anakin’s hips before repositioning himself. He took a deep breath before he slowly pressed inside Anakin. Anakin let out a stuttered breath and squeezed down as soon as Obi-Wan’s cock-head had breached the rim, but with some soothing words he relaxed enough for Obi-Wan to sink half-way inside. It was then that Anakin’s body refused to go any further, and Obi-Wan remained where he was, cock half-way in and leaking into Anakin.

Marking him.

Another breath, more soothing words, and Anakin let Obi-Wan all the way inside.

Collapsing on top of Anakin, Obi-Wan peppered his cheeks and neck with soft kisses, trying to get Anakin to stop trembling.

“I know, darling. I know. It’s a lot.”

“Y-you’re not that big,” Anakin huffed, though Obi-Wan knew it was a remark told to make himself feel better about the whole thing.

He was big - there was no denying it. And Anakin was hot around him, and tight, his walls squeezing down until Obi-Wan thought he might break his cock off with one wrong move. Yet he didn’t squirm or demand Anakin relax, and tried to focus on the sensations of being completely inside Anakin.

There was a part of him that thought maybe this day would never come; that either he or Anakin would refuse to give in. That one of them would come to their senses and realize that this was a poor idea, brought on by desperate and weak minds. But they’d not come to their senses. In fact, they gripped each other’s hands and leapt into the abyss together. Foolish and unbecoming, but true to who they were.

Anakin started squirming after a time, hips rocking ever so slightly as Obi-Wan continued to kiss his cheeks and lips, tongue slick across his skin to taste tears and sweat. Pressing their foreheads together, Obi-Wan kissed Anakin deeply just as he pulled out and pushed back in. Anakin’s guttural moan mixed with Obi-Wan’s hiss of pleasure, the two panting in each other’s mouths as Obi-Wan started moving in earnest.

They moved together as if in battle, one pulling back while the other surged forward, a dance as old as time itself breaking out between them. Anakin was so tight and so soft and warm, cradling Obi-Wan close as he allowed Obi-Wan to fuck into him. Obi-Wan kept his movements slow and steady for a time, but eventually his desires overwhelmed him and he started pushing in faster, hips stalling every so often as Anakin readjusted before they resumed their punishing pace.

Anakin was breathing heavy and fast against Obi-Wan’s cheek, his arms wrapped tight around Obi-Wan as he held him close, his hips rocking up to take more of Obi-Wan. When Obi-Wan angled his hips and pressed his knees into the mattress he knew he’d found Anakin’s prostate, Anakin letting out a choked sob as his body shuddered beneath Obi-Wan.

“That’s a lad,” Obi-Wan whispered against Anakin’s neck, his nose pressed against sweat-slick skin that smelled of rich soaps and leather. “S-such a good boy, taking my cock like this. Such a good, good boy. So hot and tight around my cock.”

“M-Master,” Anakin sobbed. He gripped Obi-Wan’s forearms, his touch bruising as they rocked together.

Reaching between them Obi-Wan stroked Anakin’s cock once, twice, before Anakin was coming. Obi-Wan stilled his hips as Anakin shuddered beneath him, wanting to admire the sight before him. Anakin was writhing on the bed, cheeks stained with tears, his lashes coated in them as he bit down on his knuckles. The cords of his neck were strained, his chest pink, his skin covered in sweat and his own come, milky and tempting.

“Such a beautiful thing,” Obi-Wan whimpered as he came from the sight alone. Shoving his cock inside, he ducked his head and spilled his come into Anakin, coating his insides in his seed.

The Jedi could cut the braid and tell them to lessen their bond; they could instruct and guide them on how to remain separate people, with separate goals and separate lives; they could offer all the common sense and good judgment as they wanted, but it would fall on deaf, stubborn ears. Because Obi-Wan knew they were always supposed to be like this - bonded to each other, their messes painted upon each other’s bodies, their lives forever intertwined until it became impossible to separate one from the other.

The thought alone of what they’d done - the bond they’d created with such a simple, base action - made Obi-Wan’s cock pulse again, and he groaned as he gave all he had to the boy beneath him.

Once they were done Obi-Wan slipped out of Anakin and hovered above him. Anakin remained limp on the bed, his eyes closed as he breathed steadily through his nose. He was still crying, and Obi-Wan reached out to brush his tears away with the pad of his thumb. Blue eyes hazy with pleasure blinked up at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but return Anakin’s soft smile.

“Hullo,” Obi-Wan mumbled.

Anakin chuckled, wet and thick. “Hi.”

Obi-Wan kissed him, slow and lazy, before he got up and went to the fresher. He grabbed a towel and wet it before returning to Anakin. Anakin lay on the bed, a tangle of long limbs and sweat slick skin, his hair already curling slightly in the humidity of the room.

“You going to grow your hair out?” Obi-Wan asked, his hands steady as he cleaned Anakin up.

Anakin shrugged. “Maybe. Think I should?”

“I think you should, yes,” Obi-Wan said. Tossing the towel down on to the floor, he lay down next to Anakin and collected him in his arms. “Though, you’re no longer beholden to my instruction, so… you can do whatever you like.”

Anakin nodded and let out a sigh as he stretched before relaxing, body pressing into Obi-Wan’s. His arms were curled up between them, Anakin reached out to trace the sparse greys that had grown along the corner of Obi-Wan’s beard. Obi-Wan squeezed him closer, admiring the gold flecks in Anakin’s lashes as he came down from their shared release. Anakin already looked exhausted.

Obi-Wan would let him rest a moment before continuing. He still wanted more.

“I’ll always need your guidance,” Anakin mumbled, exhaustion making his words slur and his lashes flutter.

The confession made Obi-Wan’s chest squeeze a little, and he kissed Anakin’s brow. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Of course, I won’t always take your advice,” Anakin yawned. “I mean, if it’s stupid or I don’t want to do it.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “Perish the thought.”

“But if you want to teach me about how to suck cock, or eat someone out…”

“How about like right now?”

Anakin shifted, his eyes opening. He suddenly didn’t look quite as tired as he once had.

“Yeah?”

Obi-Wan kissed Anakin deeply before shoving him on to his back. “First lesson will be how to take a man’s cock all the way down to the base with your mouth alone…”

[sailorgundam308]

Trying to write a stupid thing (the original prompt is by @thepunchingbag ):

The morning sun crept into the modest wooden room, painting the floor gold and warming Karlach’s feet as she combed back dark locks of hair out of her face. She pulled her hair back between her two curled horns, into a neat ponytail, and artfully tied a leather cord to keep it all securely in place. It wouldn’t do to have stray strands block her eyes in her line of work - especially not today.

She’d been doing this for years now, so long her body could go through the motions of the morning ritual while her mind wandered. Even so, she started each day with the same excitement. She had a roof over her head, decent pay, and a job she excelled in. She got to work for her favorite - living - person, and see to his interests and well-being in the most concrete way possible: by making sure his head was still connected to his neck at the end of the day. And, sometimes, that others’ heads weren’t.

Five years had passed since the day she crossed paths with the man called Enver Gortash. Karlach had been caught up in a brawl when he happened upon her. The scrawny tiefling kid was doing what she did best in those days - scam, steal and, sometimes, get caught. But if there was something Karlach Cliffgate was really, really good at, it was fighting - and winning. So she did not really mind getting caught. Sometimes, in fact, the girl would go out itching for someone to get on her bad side so she could throw a few punches. Life wasn’t easy during the years she had to live on and off the streets of the Outer City. As a young orphan - and worse still, a tiefling - there were few places one could run to. Luck had never been on her side, it seemed, until that fateful meeting.

So, when an amused laugh cut through the grunts and painful cries of her opponents, it caught her by surprise. She looked up from the fight to see a dark haired man leaning a shoulder on the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a charming smile. One of Karlach’s foes took advantage of her lapse in focus and swept her legs from under her. She recovered faster than he could strike again, though, as Enver Gortash watched on, genuinely entertained. He never made a motion to help her. She didn’t mind. They both knew she could handle herself just fine.

Now, in front of a frameless mirror, stood a tall, visibly strong young tiefling woman. Far from scrawny, Karlach had grown into an imposing figure - broad shoulders, lean but muscular, but more importantly: proud. Her tabard displayed the dark colors of the personal guard of Enver Gortash, and she, among them, was his favorite. It all began on that day so many years ago, in that dirty alley, when an ambitious man with big plans met an ambitious girl with a big heart, and their fates would become forever intertwined.

Done reminiscing, Karlach secured her scabbard and left the small but cozy room she called home in the Silvermoon Inn in the Lower City. The slightly wonky wooden door creaked behind her until it thud itself shut. Two steps at a time, she went down the narrow stairs and soon enough was on her daily journey up the winding cobblestone alleys and stairs into the Upper City, to where her boss had recently relocated.

Karlach was still in awe that her routine led her to traverse the wide streets of Baldur’s Gate’s Upper City. It was not a place she ever expected to see for herself, growing up as she did. Yet, there she was. And there she had been going with a permit for more than a handful of tendays. It was still new, and the looks she received - she was not only a tiefling, but an unusually tall one to boot - never bothered her. Not now, that she had a home, a job and a purpose to fulfill. Gortash needed her, and she was the one he could fully trust. He was the one who rescued her from the hand life had dealt her, and had become so much more to her in the many years she’d been beside him. It still put a smirk on her face when she thought about it - how good life could be. What greatness could the both of them still achieve?

Hopping two white stone steps at a time, Karlach went up to Enver Gortash’s new abode - an impressive estate in a prime location of Baldur’s Gate. An investment, he’d said, which would bring more legitimacy to his enterprise. She could understand. Gortash had come a long way from inroads dealings outside the city, and now his merchant empire had expanded to include weapons development, commercial caravans, transportation and, more recently, investing in ‘new ventures’. Gortash was smart and smooth - certainly the smartest and smoothest man Karlach ever knew. He had a mind for tinkering and building things no one had thought of before, and with Karlach’s loyal help, he managed to always have the upper hand in his endeavors - one way or another.

The fruits of his labor were materializing, and Karlach felt pride swell in her chest knowing she had contributed to it. It was a weird feeling for sure - being so happy at the achievements of another. She couldn’t quite put words to the feeling.

Before the intricately decorated iron gates of her boss’ estate were opened for her, Karlach’s cheeks were slightly hotter than normal. Still, with a spring in her step, she crossed the front garden.

“Early morning, huh?” The tiefling shot to Yunni, who was busy trimming the very intentional thorny bushes that surrounded all the walls of the property. The halfling man just grumbled and nodded at her. Yunni was an incredible spy - and like most of Gortash’s long-term entourage, had been reassigned to a new job as the boss expanded his many businesses. Only those who had proved their loyalty to Gortash were allowed to work in close proximity to him these days. Karlach, being part of his personal guard, had proven herself more times than anyone could count.

At twenty, she had already killed her fair share of people - horrible people, mind you -, and she’d learned it didn’t really bother her. She’d barely noticed the first time it happened. Since her early teens, Karlach had been in so many street fights that ended with a downed man bleeding profusely as she ran off, that it was hard to know if they were alive or dead. Not that she cared to stay and find out. The orphaned tiefling needed to survive and defend herself - she could not afford worrying about morals. And when she did it for Gortash, it felt even more justified. If she had to put someone down now, it was for Enver Gortash’s protection. For the protection of his - their - interests. One could hardly judge her for doing her job.

And Karlach's job, more than anything, meant standing by Gortash's side. As she pushed through the wide double doors to the main entryway, she called, "Hey, Gortash!"

Even though she had only been working at the estate for little over a month, Karlach walked through the entrance hall and past the kitchen area to the left as if she was home. And she was, in a sense.

No reply. She grunted. This place was so bloody big even her voice wouldn’t carry to the second floor where his office was.

“Better shut it, Karl. He’s got a fancy ass guest or something upstairs. Told us to ‘act proper’ or some ridiculous shit.” A human woman, a few years older than Karlach, popped her head out of the open kitchen doors, auburn locks escaping through the cloth tied around her head.

Karlach could not hold back a cackle. “And what the fuck are YOU doing in the kitchen, Tesh?”

Tesh huffed, a big bowl of pale goop in her arms. “Promoted.”

Karlach tried holding back, but soon her near hysterical laughter had the other woman rolling her eyes.

“Yea, yeah. Get it out of your system, you prick.”

Karlach wiped the tears off her eyes with the back of her fingers. “Gortash pulled a good one on you. Now, honestly, how many crossbows have you hidden in the pantry…?” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone, a white toothy grin on her face.

“I didn’t…” Tesh started, but Karlach just tilted her head with a raised eyebrow. That’s the bloody problem with knowing someone for too long. The human let her shoulders drop and relented. “Fine. Two heavy ones in the pantry, two hand ones in the upper cabinets and six explosives in the grain sacks.”

“Gods below, Tesh. Explosives? In the fucking KITCHEN?”

Tesh glared at Karlach. Clearly, her toes had just been stepped on. “You know how to do your job, I know how to do mine. I don’t remember ever questioning how you handle those giant metal slabs of yours.”

Karlach could only raise her two hands in a pacifying gesture. Tesh was right. If there was one thing that made them work - and survive - so far, it was trusting each of them knew their stuff. And if there was one thing Tesh knew, it was how to ignite and blow up the shit out of things.

“Aye, aye, ma’am. My bad. I’ll be on my way.”

Tesh accepted the apologies, then peeked left and right before adding in a strangely worried voice, “Just be quiet. Whoever the fancy fucker is, Gortash was almost flipping on his back for him. Must be a big shot from the city. You know the type.”

Karlach’s energy escaped her a bit with a sigh, before she nodded and continued down the corridor - so wide she thought it was offensive it wasn’t a room - and up the dark wooden staircase that curved right to the mezzanine and, finally, Gortash’s office. As she closed the distance to the last decorated double door, her steps got slower and the sounds of her leather boots were softened by the deep burgundy carpet. She knew the type, yes. More and more often, Gortash had been having high society visitors, the type Karlach felt a weird combination of disgust and fascination for. She had no idea how their minds worked, and she watched it like a curious and disturbing show when she had to sit through the encounters.

Her solid knuckles knocked four times on the door, exhaling before emptying her expression as much as she possibly could.

“Ah, Karlach! Come in!” Came a familiar voice from within. He sounded quite chipper this morning, Gortash did.

As she opened the door to step inside, her golden eyes rapidly swiped the room, but it was empty aside from her boss staring at her with a wide grin and slightly open arms. She immediately relaxed her posture, stepped inside and, with no signs of hesitation, sat on the ornate sofa usually offered as a seat to distinguished guests.

“Morning, Boss! Aren’t you in a good mood? Damn, Tesh scared me, saying you had some kind of visitor with an ass made of gold or something.” With a swing of her legs, Karlach’s toned calves were resting over the armrest of the sofa.

“Oh, a most precious morning, for sure, dear Karlach! Not that mornings aren’t precious when I have you around to assist me.” His eyes were dark and deep and warm, but became cold for one second, as did his voice. “Feet.”

Almost like a scolded child, Karlach promptly un-swung her feet from over the sofa and placed them back on the ground. Gortash smiled, knowingly.

Circling his varnished oak desk, Gortash approached his trusted guard, but did not take a seat. Instead, he stopped behind the sofa where she sat and placed his hands, fingers adorned with a number of intricate gold rings, on both of her shoulders. Even through her clothing and light armor, they were clearly muscular. He squeezed slightly. Affectionately. “But today, Karlach. Today we will start something new. Something grand, you and I.”

-

One floor above Enver Gortash’s new office was a spacious room with tall, wide windows lining up the entire entire west wall, each framed by deep ochre curtains held open by golden silk knots. Sat within, with immaculate posture, was a man - a pale elf with angular features. Dressed in a long deep green tunic embroidered in silver thread, the man absentmindedly tapped his long fingers softly on the velvety surface of the sofa. His silvery eyes flicked with a hint of gold, casually scanning the room and its contents. Gortash was a Lord in the making, Astarion knew, but he could not help but feel a tinge of contempt for these self-made types. Money, after all, was not all that made a patriar.

Despite seeming relaxed, Astarion had his elf years tuned to his surroundings. He had been forced to learn to keep track of his surroundings at all times since the incident 200 years before. That, and he was no fool to trust a weapon’s dealer and slaver like Enver Gortash just because the man was now wrapped in fancy clothing. Well, the two of them might have more in common than they’d be willing to admit - but that is precisely why Astarion was so distrustful of his associate. Nevertheless, it might very well be the reason they have crossed paths.

His sensitive hearing told Astarion exactly when his host - and someone else - climbed the stairs and approached the room. By the time the double doors opened, the magistrate was standing up, positioned carefully with his profile to the door in such a way that he looked casual enough but was able to immediately see who was entering the room. Astarion’s hand opposite to the door, hidden from view, slid lower into a slit in his tunic near his belt. His fingertips brushed lightly over the handle of thin, light and exceptionally sharp dagger hidden within. Was he being overly cautious? One could hardly blame him. Enver and himself were both less than honorable men.

”My dear Astarion! What a beautiful morning, isn’t it? I haven’t kept you waiting for long, have i?” With an unsettling familiarity in his voice, Gortash crossed the threshold to the room with a wide smile and knowing dark eyes. His stride was wide and confident. Of course - this was his turf.

The elf did a perfect job of looking slightly surprised by the opening door, while his eyes quickly and effectively scanned the two figures - Gortash with his honeyed poison gestures and a big red shadow whose sharp eyes seemed to immediately scan Astarion, swipe the room, then return to her master. She seemed to gather essential information as effectively as himself. ‘Oh. A tiefling. How quaint.’ Despite the unusual presence, the elf promptly ignored her. “Beautiful indeed. And worry not, Enver. Your butler made sure to offer me this most aromatic tea from Calimshan. A treat, indeed.”

There was an almost imperceptible raise in one of the tieflings eyebrows, but that went ignored by the two men in the room. They exchanged excessively friendly pleasantries that somehow felt as sharp as daggers. Still, Enver and Astarion both took seats across from each other on two facing sofas - a low table with an untouched tea cup in a silver tray separating them.

“How are you readjusting in the city? I hear you spent 30 years away.”

“50. No reason to return earlier.” Pale fingers made flourish in the air. “Baldur’s Gate is here as it has always been. Not much to adjust to, really. I made arrangements for my return when I left.” He checked his nails. This wasn’t even the first sabbatical he had taken, though it had been the longest so far - but 50 years was a decent span of time to let some of the old guard die off.

“Oh, the perks of an elvish lifespan.” Gortash chuckled heartily, but his eyes were steel.

“Very much so.”

“I gather your arrangements have worked seamlessly.”

“Well, yes. Of course. I’m back at work as a high magistrate. Faces changed, but not so much affiliations. I made sure of it.”

“That is good to know.” Enver’s tone shifted suddenly, from amicable and warm to direct and dry. “Things will start moving within the next month. I got word that the first ships have already sailed. The Zhent are none the wiser but they will catch up quickly. Same as the Guild.”

Astarion’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t add anything. The Zhent and the Guild would not be pleased, of course. But Astarion somehow had expected Gortash to have a solution for that up his sleeve.

“Which reminds me… Have you two met?” Turning back to look up at Karlach - standing still as a red pillar by the closed door - then back to smile at the pale elf sat across from him, Gortash asked with a glint of satisfaction in his dark eyes.

That was a question Astarion was not expecting. For a moment he had to look again at the woman who had been accompanying Enver Gortash. He had quickly assessed her as a non threat at the moment they entered - female, tiefling, red, tall -, but really had not paid any mind to her beyond that. One of Gortash’s entourage he probably picked off the gutter like the rest, he quickly assumed. By the look of confusion in the woman’s face, it seemed she wasn’t prepared for that interaction either. He turned his gaze back at Gortash. “Pardon?”

“Karlach, my dear, come closer!” Gortash’s voice seemed warm, but it was a command and Karlach knew it.

She only hesitated a moment before approaching. Each step less unsure, until she stood tall to the right side of Gortash by the sofa, her arms crossed slightly behind her, looking ahead - a red marble statue of the perfect guard.

Elves weren’t really tall by nature, but as the tiefling approached them, Astarion had to bend his neck to look up at her face. He had noticed she was tall, but, well. She was really tall, it turned out. He quickly gathered a few more impressions of the woman - cat like eyes, a pretty (maybe handsome?) face, young - he turned his eyes to Gortash with a questioning look.

“Astarion, meet Karlach Cliffgate - my most trusted… employee.” Enver’s eyes glanced up at his bodyguard and a quick flash of warmth - was that pride? - crossed his face. It was gone as soon as it came, and he continued. “My dearest Karlach, meet Astarion Ancunin, high magistrate of Baldur’s Gate.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Karlach opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to change her mind. Astarion continued looking at Gortash, his brow now furrowing visibly. ‘What on earth?’

“Karlach. Starting tomorrow, you work for him”

“…What?!”

.

It’s on Ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57264595

[tunastime]

okay for kalesa and julian again, i imagined them getting caught in the rain and having to take shelter somewhere and just waiting it out and having a moment, so…. “you’re my happy place.” & “don’t get cheesy on me.” + watching the rainfall — do with that what you will :3

"You're my happy place." "Don't get cheesy on me." / watching the rainfall (914 words) (x)

The first raindrop hits Julian square in the head. He blinks—startled when another thumps his shoulder, the drizzle picking up pace through the leaves. The air smells like wet grass and dirt in an instant as all the tiny blades of grass and flowers and leaves shake awake to receive all the water they can. He holds his hand out, tests the strength of the rain, and when nothing falls into his open palm, he turns his gaze back from where he was standing against the house, back into the small field in front, where the collection of kids smack around small wooden practice swords. A few of them have abandoned the lesson entirely to run in the slight drizzle of rain. 

Kalesa practices easy, calculated movements across the way as well, sparring in slow motion with one of the teenagers. He watches her for a moment, her tail flicking as she makes a hundred micro-adjustments to her stance, her sword form, the power she puts behind the wooden swing of the blade. Her brow is drawn tight in concentration as the rain falls, darkening her shirtsleeves. She drops her stance slowly as she notices the rain, stretching her hand out to test it, startling when the drops fall on her head. She looks over to Julian with wide eyes, face breaking into a grin. He doesn't see her nod to her partner or send her off, but he hears her laugh from across the small field as she makes her way over, weaving between the kids.

"Just going to leave me out there to melt?" Kalesa teases. "How very saintly of you."

"You know divinity was never my aim," Julian snorts, carefully sheathing the silver-coated blade he'd been holding. It sits tightly in its scabbard, the gem-inlaid hilt glittering as he sets it carefully against the front door. He's draped his tabard over the banister. A breeze tugs at the loose bits of his tunic, ruffling his hair, tossing about his boot laces. He sinks down against the wooden steps, stretching out his legs. 

Dressed in matching, simple pants and hide armor, Kalesa looks so similar to the knights he went to school with: slightly out of breath, beaming with pride, hair pulled tightly away from her face. The hide is dark in spots from rain and sweat and as she sits, he waves her over.

"It's just a little rain," he soothes, hands working to loosen the side straps of her leather chestplate. She moves without question to the other side. "You won't die."

"You never know," she argues. Julian laughs, pulling the chestpiece off in one motion as Kalesa ducks her head, pulling at her linen shirt to unstick it from her back. 

"I think I know," Julian says. Kalesa makes a noise in the back of her throat, one Julian has come to know too well to not catch. Thin ice, it says. It's not much of a threat, though. Not as Kalesa shuffles over and makes space in the curve of his side for her to sit. Her hand slides back around him and falls to his hip, tracing a soft line over where she knows a long, thin scar tracks, raised but healed. He lets out the rest of the breath caught in his chest as he easily burdens himself with her weight and leans to accommodate. The rain patters down into puddles in the front garden, soaking the shirts of the children running around in the sand and mud and grass. The warmth that weasels up in his chest sits right between his lungs and his heart, forcing him to swallow and breathe around it, to feel every stretch of that new ligament illuminated by love and light. It feels a lot like hope—a muscle he'd forgotten to work the knots out of, a muscle that strained and tore when pulled the wrong way, one he'd begun to cultivate again, to tug at, to foster. And as his heart thuds around it and through it and it moves with him, it feels. Easy. To breathe. Kalesa makes a warm line from shoulder to hip bone. Her clothes carry a scent like campfire ashes and charcoal, and he's never so badly wanted to smell like a bonfire.

"I think you're my happy place," he breathes, squeezing a little closer. Kalesa laughs, pressing her face into his shoulder.

"Are you getting cheesy on me?"

He snorts, warmth rising to his face. He can feel the cool band around his left ring finger, the fine, woven pieces of metal that made its latticework. He presses his cheek to the space between her horns, sighing sweetly.

"I sure hope so," he says. "I've always been the sappy one."

Kalesa laughs again, squeezing his side. A shudder of warmth prickles up his ribcage, curling around his stomach. Squeezing his eyes shut, he kisses the top of her head. The tingling feels a lot like love. It feels a lot like being wanted. And, with enough of it, and if he let himself, as he always did, he could drown in it. 

"I'm glad," Kalesa says quietly to his collarbone. "It's been long enough at this point. What, six years?"

"Just hit six," he hums. He hears her sigh, relax a little further, and return to the soft soothing of his side.

"Let's try for six more, mm?" she says. 

Julian hums his agreement, smiling into her hair.

[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 7 - Victory

"He's been down there a long time," murmured one of the miners as the pack of workers stared at the cave with worried glances. They shouldn't be this frightened but after so many years of torment by the Coven, Hexsworn, demons, and Tides knew what else had climbed out the gloom they had every right to be. Things in the night rarely didn't bump.

Foreman Strohnev crossed is arms and shook his head at the miner's whine, a loud 'hrmph' coming out from under his thick walrus mustache. "We jus gotta give em time."

For weeks things had been going well at the silver mine. Resources plentiful, work steady, and morale high as the profits that lined their pockets. The New Lion Mining Corporation was on it's way to becoming one of the most successful business ventures of this new Drustvar. A small work town had begun to spring up nearby in hopes of perhaps beginning an actual settlement as money was pumped back into the community.

Then the wailing had begun.

Most had hoped it would be some kind of soft cooing in the depths of the mine, something that would cause the willies and startled heads to rise thinking something was over their shoulder. This voice would have none of that. As a pick had struck rock, it came sharp and clear as a meal time whistle exploding through the carved tunnels to reverberate against stone and into flesh. High above in the upper corridors of the mine, men and women had cast aside tools to clutch at their ears in shock as they looked for the source. All eyes had traveled to the elevators further into the depths, whispers of those who might remain below.

None had come back up.

A search party was sent to investigate, the supervisor a hardy dwarf who had been down in the dark for years in the old country hills of Ironforge and Dun Morgh. Troggs, trolls, and beasts had plagued his life since he was a young beardling. He could handle a wail in a cave with a few other muscles to help him out.

The New Lion Mining Co was now short 12 men and had put up a posting for a new supervisor.

They hadn't had an interview yet.

Since the initial wail and disappearances, no one had dared to go down into the mine and memorials had already been scheduled along with letters of condolences to the families of those lost. Sad letters and pocket watches did not fill bellies or pay for supplies though, and word was sent east for aid from House Waycrest. Perhaps the guard would come or maybe a wizard to blast out the mine for the growing tragedy of New Lion as it was being whispered about. Foul moods, broken hearts, and no profits were stunting the fragile growth of this new colony.

The inquisitor arrived on a Tuesday afternoon upon an old black horse with a matching silent crow astride his shoulder.

He was an older man, his hair thin and gray to match the shabby beard he wore but his eyes spoke of a steel that ran deep and true despite the feet at the corners of them. With a crooked nose, chapped lips, and a voice to make men grimace as hard as him he had come to the office of the foreman. Broken leathers, tattered tabard, and an eclectic assortment of Tides knew what clinked among his carried belongings. The Order of Embers was always in dire straights with finances, but in service of Drustvar and House Waycrest there were none better to handle this sort of thing.

This inquisitor said his name was Eldridge. Eldridge Candell.

On Wednesday morning, the inquisitor had tied off his old horse and gathered his assortment of oddities to make his way into the mouth of the mine. He hadn't said anything to anyone, only asking for extra oil and a couple of lanterns to match some rough travel rations. With an old axe strapped to his belt to match an even older bayonet, Candell had swung a pack over his back and entered the mouth of terror.

The crow had planted itself in silent watch as the inquisitor disappeared.

Wednesday came and went.

Thursday passed without a sound.

Friday the miners began to murmur.

Saturday they gathered a watch.

Sunday broke with burning red sunlight and night fell with a spring storm.

Monday came with talk of what to do with the horse.

Tuesday was gone with the wind.

A week had gone by. No work. No news. No sound. No money.

No hope.

The crow sat silent in it's vigil. Was it waiting for the inquisitor's return? Or was it guarding the mine from the miners going in?

Or from what might come out?

Strohnev rubbed his mustache as he ordered the workers to get back to work. What work they would do, he didn't know but he wasn't getting anything for his coin having them worry and fret staring at a hole in the ground. He was not looking forward to writing to the Stand about needing another inquisitor or for them to at least come pick up the remaining effects of the missing man. Another man dead for this, what the hell was he gonna tell the authorities?

The crow let out a sharp croak, that made the foreman nearly jump out of his skin as he looked back to the mine entrance.

"Tides preserve," came a whisper that Strohnev was more shocked came from him as he stared at Inquisitor Candell.

The man leaned wearily against the frame of the door, his face grim and coated in thick layer of coal dust as his grimace caused the wrinkles to crack white lines across him. His pack was missing, his tabard was black and indiscernible of the colors of the Order. His knife was in his belt and a broken lantern hung loosely from the same. The man looked like hell had given him a proper chewing and spitting like he was the bitterest chew.

The foreman strode forward as the other miners spotted him and began to call out at the return of their 'savior'. A sick wet thud stopped him in his tracks as a stained leather sack flopped into the loose gravel.

A few tentative steps forward brought him to the sack as he leaned down to gently peer into the rank leather bag. The torturous withered face of an eyeless woman stared back at him, her face pockmarked with holes like a termite ridden floorboard. Her tongue languished out of her mouth, stained with black much as the stump that might have been her neck.

Foreman Strohnev shuddered as he quickly covered the bag back up and looked up to find the inquisitor standing over him looking grim. The older man grimly reached up to his shoulder and growled as he plucked something from his neck, a soft high squeal much like a piglet. It was insanely unpleasant as he felt his hands come to his ears, holding them tight as he looked in the inquisitors hand.

Squirming in his gloved hand was the oddest bug he'd maybe seen in his life. Bulbous red eyes, black body, orange legs with crystalline orange wings to match. It buzzed and flitted a bit in his hands as it struggled to right itself in his palm, the flecks of the old man's blood still shining on it's pincer mouth as it continued to wail.

It didn't last long as Candell closed his hand around it and squeezed hard enough to shake with as much violence as it took to snuff out the insects life.

Strohnev gaped at his hand and looked up into the inquisitor's face as he finally spoke with a dry cough and hoarse growl.

"Get back to work."

@daily-writing-challenge

[askmothmanmiquella]

The Prince of Death's visit to the Haligtree was long overdue. Many of his years as The Golden Prince was spent writing to his siblings and sending gifts and supplies aplenty, but never actually visiting to see the progress of the Haligtree. He teased a visit for so long, yet could never pull through in fear of what his mother would do in response. Oh, it all seemed to revolve around Mother, didn't it?

But he was a new man now, a free man most importantly. He decided to bring a few things, some gifts and supplies that he could bring in a satchel. Evidently, he brought a guest. Armed with their proposal rings, Godwyn brought his beloved fiancée, Fia. She was soon to be a part of the family, so why not bring her here to get acquainted with them?

They took their time walking down the entrance to Ephael, soaking in the beautiful architecture that hugged the Haligtree. They spoke quietly to each other along the way, pointing out unique parts of the archways and statues that lined down the halls. It was breath of fresh air compared to the snowy hellscape of the consecrated snowfields. It felt warmer too, only the most gentle of breezes brushing past them as the sun peaked through the branches.

Godwyn was only at the entrance, and he was already astonished at the progress they made. How did they manage to make a paradise on such a small piece of land?

@deathblightprince

(He finally visiting the Haligtreeeeeee)

I young woman wearing the leather tabard of a Cleanrot squire approached down the causeway. Despite her small stature, her red hair and golden arm were all too familiar.

The girl's eyes widened when she spotted the two of them. "Lord Godwyn? You've arrived early." She offered her hand, a hint of nervous formality in her manner. "Please, come with me. My mother and uncle would have received you at the gate, but you were not expected before nightfall."

[catebees]

@eurekq I'm answering in a post on its own cause this got a bit long. First of all, thank you so much! I try to take inspiration from medieval and early modern fashion but in no way am I an expert. That's why I mix in a bunch of fantasy/anachronistic stuff as well. Most of the references I used I found on Pinterest actually, but it took a lot to make the algorithm understand that I was not interested in the "Halloween costume" type‬ of medieval costuming. A good way to deal with that is to search for a specific year for clothing (1450s is always better than late medieval), or even the name of a specific garment worn at the time (houppelande, tabard, hennin...). Wikipedia has some pretty exhaustive explanations of what people used to wear, century by century (example). You can also check out museum collections, some let you browse by era and location (the MET and the Victoria and Albert Museum are two that come to mind rn). Other resources I used for this were: Priorattire's videos on YT (they often show all of the steps to getting dressed, so you can see all the layers） CrowsEyeProductions's Tudor royal household video (same thing, especially centered on royal servants and nobles in early/mid 1500s England） Robinswords's shorts (big fan of the guy, knows a lot about swords, sometimes makes special vids for artists posing with certain weapons.) (For armor I mostly just look for cosplayers/reenactors who seem to know what they're doing, and try to find something that may look like a realistic version of the in-game ones. I'm also really partial to the ones from the Witcher III).

I also think a big thing I do to stay somewhat consistent is to pick an era of fashion for each region of Thedas and stick to it. Ferelden is 1300/1400s Britain and France (ironcally), while the Free Marches are 1500s/early 1600s depending on the city. Kirkwall is also a pretty steampunk place, so if an Amell is wearing accurate Tudor era clothes‬, a pirate or a Crow may lean more towards a bodice-ripping, audience-pleasing tight leather fit.

I think this is all, I wish I had a more exhaustive reference list but it's mostly stuff I absorbed through the years and pure imagination. Hope this was helpful!

[fractured-shield]

thanks for the tag @finickyfelix!! these are always so much fun to look for and choose which of each word to use, when there's more than one

my words are final, open, late, and dark

Final:

Idhren's armor was of a particular style used in some of Linador's vanguard units in the kingdom’s final years. He had already finished wiping the leather panels clean and checking the buckles and joints, and had moved on to oiling the pieces of metal plate. He worked with practiced precision, having done the same task countless times before, even if it was a bit more difficult than usual. His hands hadn’t stopped trembling since he left the market street.

Open:

Therien woke a little after first light. Just like before, she didn’t remember falling asleep. In a terrifying instant she came to all at once and found herself still sitting atop the warhorse’s tall back. She flinched, leaning back and colliding with her papa’s chest.

“Good morning,” he said. He sounded awfully tired.

She tried again, easing open bleary eyes to the sight of the same road and plains as she'd seen last, the sky just barely lightening and the first birds of the morning beginning to call from their hiding places among the grass.

“Do you see the convoy?” He asked her, switching Fuinar's reins to his other hand.

Late:

The entrance was small, sparsely-lit, and empty save for the innkeeper and the woman he was talking to: a woman with dark, well-kept curls and Ilgostian-style clothing. The innkeeper was turning aside as they entered, back into the main room. The woman spun to face the two of them.

“Um—sorry. We’re here to meet someone,” Therien put on her best impression of a Riddana child, a respectable one who didn’t carry a lingering smell of sheep.

The woman smiled, in a particular manner that meant Therien’s efforts had failed. “Really? That doesn’t sound right,” she said politely, eyes flicking warily between the two of them, then back towards the common room with its warm lighting and crackling fire. “Should you be out this late at night?”

Therien pulled Condel the rest of the way inside, and shut the door—louder than she’d meant to—like it would convince the woman to let her stay.

“We’re here to meet someone,” she repeated, raising her chin defiantly.

Dark:

One of them stepped forward: a man with dark curls and a thick beard. There was a red lion on the back of his dark tabard, and hovering over its head a crown, and beneath its feet crossed swords. He bowed to the Lochieru stiffly, in a fashion foreign to her, and spoke loudly.

“We offer our strength, such as it is, and the influence of our name in the house of high lords. We offer to use our influence in attempt to overrule any agreement by the governing lords that would be against Lochieru efforts, and to introduce motions that would be in your favor, if subtlety may allow it. We offer the standing armies of our house for your use in making war, if war is what you desire.”

okay, let's see...tagging (no pressure!) @nczaversnick @ryderwritings @leahnardo-da-veggie, plus an open tag for anyone else who wants to join!

your words are endure, patience, spine, and pluck

[piermanwalter]

I had a dream there was a goofy Totally Accurate Battle Simulator type game called The Mirror of Princely Deeds and Knighthood where you play as a squire using overly realistic and purposefully horrendous physics-based controls to carefully dress your liege in every piece of clothing and armor before he goes off to procedurally generated battle you have absolutely no control during, but you can watch play out, where how well you prepared your knight has vital impact on how well he survives and excels in combat. The game's charm comes from the dissonance between feature-film-quality music and voice acting combined with vague nonsensical characters and settings, the terrible outfits you can send your knight out in, and extremely broken physics.

It's normal and expected to spend half an hour to equip your knight. For example, if you wildly swing a helmet around, you can hit your liege in the head so hard he dies. If you forget to put his gambeson on first, and then pull the leather straps holding armor pieces together too tight, the chafing causes open wounds that make him die of infection after battle. Then, after you learn to put his gambeson on, you put the armor plates on in the wrong order, so whole plates fall off, leading to your liege getting stabbed and dying in battle. Then, you put his armor on in the right order, but while on a galloping horse, the plates shake loose and he gets stabbed and dies again. When you finally arm and armor him properly, and he completely obliterates the enemy, it turns out you never gave him a tabard, heraldic shield, or standard, so he can't take credit for his heroism and you lose anyway.

In Sandbox Mode, you have access to every outfit and armor piece and can choose the type of battle, and number/type of enemies and allies. If you want, you can funnel 700 knights down both ends of a joust field and form a horrible ever-growing mountain of human and equine flesh in the middle, or cover your knight in a spherical mass of armor and make him trudge through a storm of arrows. In this mode, you can only serve Sir (Insert Name Here) (you can't pick and choose a name this is literally how his name is displayed and pronounced) with no distinguishing traits and a different randomly generated appearance each time he dies, but speaks of how eager he is to prove himself in the battlefield, making it all the more tragic when you send him out wearing a necklace made from 10 helmets strung on a rope and nothing else.

In Campaign Mode, your kingdom is at war and you aid your liege in seeking glory through 100+ predetermined battles with branching paths depending on how well you do and the whims of your liege. Not only do you have to survive each battle, you also have to undress and apply dubiously effective medical treatments to your knight, as well as fix and replace progressively more damaged equipment. Here you have a choice between serving three different knights: Sir Bernard is fuelled by bloodlust. Skilled and accomplished in battle, he is too proud to complain if you are doing anything wrong or of any injuries sustained during battle, no matter how severe. An inexperienced squire can coast off Sir Bernard's indomitable strength, but you need to be extra careful making sure he doesn't have secret gangrene or is stoically bleeding to death. Sir Bernard takes trophies from noteworthy foes, giving you access to unique equipment.

Sir Leonard is dependent on the favor of his Lady. Every few battles, he receives a new gift, progressively weirder physics items of little or no practical use. Sir Leonard can endure a number of mortal blows equal to the number of gifts he is carrying. If sent to battle with no gifts, or all carried gifts are lost or damaged during battle, Sir Leonard will fall into despair and be reduced to a sobbing meat wall. Easy enough to make him invincible with handfuls of rings and kerchiefs folded beside his heart, but don't be careless with his Lady's gifts lest you are left with a 20-foot embroidered tapestry, a shield-sized crystal dish, and a squirmy spoiled pet white ermine.

Sir Richard is a resourceful tactician. He has accurate and extensive knowledge of battlefield conditions, enemy composition, and the state of your allies, which Sir Richard will tell you about as you dress him. Sir Richard is also independently wealthy enough to easily afford new equipment to take advantage of this knowledge. He has scoliosis and is the only person in the entire game with a unique base model, which presents some challenges in dressing him properly.

If you choose one knight, the others will be allies for the rest of Campaign Mode. If your knight dies, you will serve Sir (Insert Name Here), who will always be on the gruelling frontlines, and you will miss out on character-specific interactions and endings.

There are important plot decisions, but these decisions are not made by you. For example, if some knights are conspiring to disobey the king and pillage a wealthy merchant town, Sir Leonard and Sir Richard are unlikely to join them unless your supplies are critically dire, but Sir Bernard can't be stopped. The ruling family of that town are so powerful that they pressure your King to stop the war, and the game ends. The only things you as a squire can do is outfit Sir Bernard so badly that he dies before pillaging anything, or dress him without identifiable heraldry, so the ruling family can't pin the blame on your kingdom. At any point, any of the other characters can die during a regular battle, or even outside of them. Your King's army gets encircled by the enemy and Sir Leonard goes off to rescue him. But if you use Sir Richard's funds to buy out all the good equipment, Sir Leonard and your King both die offscreen and the game ends.

A possible final battle against the enemy King is set on the coast where a ship laden with pepper catches fire and runs aground, causing everyone to stop every 30 seconds and sneeze in unison, with horrific consequences if your knight has an ermine crammed under his cuirass.

There's also Multiplayer Mode, where you have access to any item found during Campaign Mode and either have 10 minutes to dress your knight before sending him out to in whatever state he's in to fight knights dressed by other people in 10 minutes, or have an unlimited time to preemptively dress your knight, then save him in whatever state he's in and instantly send him to fight other knights dressed in an unlimited amount of time.

[renlyslittlerose]

Kinktober Day 27 - Somnophilia

Today's prompt was: Somnophilia

You Look Rested - 2,138 Rated: E Content: Consensual Somnophilia; Hand job; Oral sex; Come swallowing

---

“Master, did you ever—”

Anakin snapped his mouth shut when he saw Obi-Wan lying on his bed, completely and utterly dead to the world, the galaxy, and all the troubles in it. Pressing his datapad to his chest Anakin was about to step back out of Obi-Wan’s room when he noticed that, in addition to being very dead to the world, he was also very naked. He was collapsed on top of the sheets, chest rising and falling evenly with his hand resting on his stomach and the other across the pillow. His legs were slightly spread, soft cock resting on his thigh which Anakin could still make out in the gloom of the room, the sight of it tempting even in its relaxed state.

Obi-Wan must have truly been exhausted if he’d not even bothered to slip under the covers. Anakin didn’t blame him. Obi-Wan had been run off his feet for the last few weeks, asked to carry out different duties at the Temple while he was planetside. It seemed the Council and all of Obi-Wan’s various responsibilities didn’t care about the term ‘Leave.'

Like 'leave Obi-Wan the fuck alone.'

Continuing his admiration of Obi-Wan’s body, Anakin soaked in the strong muscles lax beneath pale skin, hair dense and thick across his chest and groin, lips parted in a soft snore that Anakin adored when he wasn’t also trying to sleep. Obi-Wan’s cock was still ridiculously large even in a soft state, foreskin pulled up over the head, with his balls tucked tight beneath, round and full and heavy.

Anakin swallowed the spit in his mouth and stepped quietly toward the bed, eyes skirting up toward Obi-Wan’s face to make sure he was still asleep.

There had been a spoken rule between the two at the very start of their relationship, that should Anakin ever feel the urge to do something while Obi-Wan was sleeping, he has permission - just as long as he didn’t do anything too strange. Anakin wasn’t sure what Obi-Wan considered strange, but as he’d not been kicked off the bed yet he supposed he was still within his limits.

Obi-Wan looked like he needed this. He deserved it, in fact. Some relaxation to go along with his… relaxation.

Dropping the datapad on the side table Anakin stripped off his leather tabards before approaching the end of the bed. Obi-Wan hadn’t moved an inch since Anakin had stepped inside, his breathing still even and body still pliable. Sitting on the edge of the mattress Anakin reached out with his flesh hand and took Obi-Wan’s soft cock in it, letting it rest across his palm, weighted and warm and soft. Obi-Wan remained quiet, breathing even, legs still spread obscenely.

Anakin wasn’t really an expert on cock. He’d seen some in the communal ‘freshers that he tried to ignore, and watched a few in holovids, but other than his own, Obi-Wan’s was the first one he was allowed to touch. And to kiss. And to suck. And then, take inside him. But despite his inexperience, Anakin was certain Obi-Wan’s was the best there was. Thick and heavy when fully hard, it stretched Anakin’s lips and hole apart in the most satisfying way, filling him up until he was quaking and quivering, orgasm after orgasm ripped from his body. His foreskin was also a delight to Anakin, Anakin teasing Obi-Wan by playing with the tip, pulling it gently before letting it slide back down, coating Obi-Wan’s whole entire length in his precome.

That too was a joy to collect on his tongue, salty and sticky, marking the skin across Anakin’s cheeks and chin.

Making sure Obi-Wan was still asleep Anakin played with Obi-Wan’s foreskin now, gently tugging the skin before sliding it down to expose the spongy, pink head. He did this a few more times, liking how the velvety skin felt beneath the pads of his fingers, and how the soft manipulation was enough for Obi-Wan’s cock to twitch in interest. With his mechno-hand he reached between Obi-Wan’s legs and rolled his balls, pressing his thumb between the seam.

Obi-Wan sighed and shifted, but otherwise remained asleep.

Tilting his head to the side Anakin admired Obi-Wan’s cock as it twitched, and pulled the foreskin back again to watch a pearl of precome bead up at the slit, thick and glassy coloured as it dropped on the leather glove of his mechno-hand. Sighing, he unclipped the glove and tossed it onto the floor along with his tabards before slipping between Obi-Wan’s legs. His shoulders bumped Obi-Wan’s thighs apart, weight causing the mattress to creak, but Obi-Wan didn’t move much save for a small stretch that opened his legs up even further.

Maybe he was dreaming about these sensations - of Anakin’s mouth and Anakin’s hands and Anakin’s hole, twitching and eager and already sloppy. The thought of Obi-Wan fantasizing about fucking him made Anakin moan softly, and he collected spit in his mouth before spilling across Obi-Wan’s semi-hard length. Holding back another moan as he watched the spit slide down the ridging and veins of Obi-Wan’s length, Anakin let it pool at the base while he pressed his nose against the crook of Obi-Wan’s hip and breathed in deep.

Obi-Wan smelled divine here - Anakin had always thought so. It was Obi-Wan’s musk mixed with soaps and sweat, unique to Obi-Wan and something only Anakin got to have across his cheeks and along his neck, dense on his tongue and deep in his lungs. He wore it like a perfume, reveling in how he smelled like Obi-Wan - like his sex and his come and his sweat. Anakin let out a desperate little huff before breathing in again, his flesh hand now stroking Obi-Wan to full hardness. Obi-Wan sighed and thrust up a little into Anakin’s touch, but his movements were stilted and slow, Anakin knowing that Obi-Wan was still in the throws of what he probably thought was a very relaxing dream.

A gentle probe through their bond confirmed it, Obi-Wan’s presence in it muted by sleep.

Poking his tongue out, Anakin laved it across Obi-Wan’s groin, tongue firm along the dense curls of his pubic hair and the soft skin at the base of his length. Coating Obi-Wan’s crotch in his spit, Anakin continued to stroke him to full length, loving the feeling of the muscle expanding beneath his touch, hot and wet with precome. The slick sound of Obi-Wan’s foreskin sliding up and over the head before being pulled back down resounded throughout the space, Anakin’s heavy breathing as he sucked on Obi-Wan’s balls mixing with it.

Force, Anakin loved Obi-Wan’s balls. They were so thick and weighted in his mouth, skin soft and smooth. Anakin loved how drool would collect along the sides of his lips and drool out, coating his chin in his desperation as he sucked and licked and kissed Obi-Wan’s balls. He’d once made Obi-Wan come from this manipulation alone, teasing Obi-Wan for once and not the other way around, his hungry mouth making Obi-Wan shake and quiver as he ground down and down, searching for more before—

But Anakin wanted more, and Obi-Wan deserved more.

Lifting his head he caught his breath, his attention focused on Obi-Wan’s features as he continued to stroke his cock with a lazy grip. Obi-Wan’s brows were furrowed and his chest was rising and falling faster, but other than that he was still oblivious to the fact that whatever nice dreams he was having was a reality.

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan whimpered softly.

Anakin bit the inside of his cheek to stop from moaning and waking Obi-Wan up, and instead took the tip of Obi-Wan’s cock in his mouth. Groaning softly as precome spilled across his tongue, Anakin closed his eyes and suckled on the tip. Running his tongue along the ridging of Obi-Wan’s fat cock-head, Anakin sucked and sucked, collecting more precome as Obi-Wan throbbed in his mouth.

Sliding down a little further he enjoyed the stretch along the corners of his lips, and how his spit slipped down along with Obi-Wan’s spend, the combination of the two making Anakin's stomach clench. Obi-Wan remained asleep even as Anakin started bobbing, slow easy movements that dragged Anakin’s tongue down the underside of Obi-Wan’s cock, vein thick and ridged. One of the first thing they’d ever done together was suck each other off, Obi-Wan dropping to his knees to take Anakin, his eyes like jewels as he stared up at him and demanded his focus even as he pressed his lips along the side of Anakin’s cock and licked all the way down.

Memories of that moment made Anakin do the same. Cupping Obi-Wan’s cock he dragged his lips up and down, groaning as Obi-Wan thrust up a little into the touch. The skin of his cock was so soft, slick with spend and Anakin’s spit, tasting of salt and skin and something else unique to Obi-Wan. He repeated the action a few more times, stalling at the base to suck before he took Obi-Wan back into his mouth, sinking all the way until his throat clicked.

Bobbing his head he started humming, taking Obi-Wan as far as he could - which was almost to the base at this point - before sliding back up. Bracing his hands on Obi-Wan’s hips he kept him pressed to the mattress, mindful of his weight as Obi-Wan continued to sleep through what Anakin thought was a pretty amazing blowjob. Keeping up the steady, luxurious pace, Anakin relaxed his throat as much as he could before stopping just as his throat seized and his nose almost touched Obi-Wan’s bush.

“Anakin…”

Pride flared through Anakin again at the soft, pleading tone. The fact that Obi-Wan was dreaming about him making Anakin delirious with pleasure. Of course Obi-Wan would only dream of him - could only dream of him. He was his Padawan, his lover, his everything. Even in dreams they were made for one another.

Sliding back up Anakin caught his breath, brushing his hand along his lips and chin. Obi-Wan’s cock was throbbing between his legs, thick and red and covered in a thin sheen of spit. His balls were pulled up tight, and the way he was fidgeting told Anakin he was almost there. With that in mind he returned to his duty, sliding Obi-Wan back into his mouth before bobbing.

Lips stretched, throat sore, tears springing up at the corners of his eyes, Anakin felt beautiful as he coaxed Obi-Wan to the edge. He could feel Obi-Wan’s hips stutter and stall, and latched his lips along the head just as Obi-Wan spilled. Suckling on the head, Anakin collected as much of Obi-Wan’s come as he could, swallowing it greedily as it was poured into him, thick and heady and delicious. Obi-Wan was breathing heavily, little moans barely heard amongst the pounding of blood through Anakin’s skull as he milked Obi-Wan for all he was worth.

Once done Anakin sat up and collected himself. Obi-Wan shifted, his legs closing as he rolled on to his side, Anakin slipping out from between them at the last second. He’d come too far to have Obi-Wan wake now.

Standing, Anakin took in a few deep mouthfuls of humid air, the smell and taste of sex dense in the the back of his throat. Brushing the back of his hand along his lips, he tried to clean himself up as much as he could. Grabbing his tabards he put them back on before taking back his datapad, his duties for the day still unfinished. He gave Obi-Wan one last appreciative look, noting the pink on his cheeks and the sweat beaded up along his brow, and how for once Obi-Wan looked truly contented.

Kissing Obi-Wan on the cheek, Anakin made sure his semi-hard cock wasn’t visible before leaving the room.

---

“You look rested.”

Obi-Wan quirked a brow and looked at Anakin from across the table, a pleased expression on his face. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Anakin said. He shoved a spoonful of soup in his mouth and chewed on the bits of vegetable. “You take a nap or something?”

“I did. And you’re right - I did wake up feeling very refreshed.”

Anakin grinned. “Good. You deserve it, Master.”