if you're not an adult (18+) get lost. this is a porn blog
i'm a butch dyke, getting under women by getting inside a suit of full plate
knight/armor/sword/royalty kink stuff abounds here
more written posts than art, some of it will be original (tagged as #jules originals)
i also have some long form prose, most of it revolving around two older lesbian OCs, red and credence (tagged as #c-red-ence, also cross-posted on ao3 here)
this also will likely be a progress log as i start hema longsword training ⚔️ (tagged as #hema log)
oughhhh the sinking visceral horror of "I did it all for you" when what they've done is appalling. the look of fierce devotion with their hands bloody, standing in the sickening viscous mess they've made. "I've done everything for you" oh god
what if I told you a story about an angel who, for millenia, had known only three things: combat, faith, and observation. a heavenly soldier, a warrior of god, a tool made of light and holy power, crafted to follow orders. for so long, those orders were to watch. so they did. watched unseen, bodiless, as the human world flourished and withered again and again like winter chasing summer. appreciative, devout, rapt. always on their best behaviour, and yet they were thought strange by their peers. too curious. odd. they had friends, but the closest of them were lost, one by one. fallen, stripped of their grace, their holiness. what an awful fate they earned, but the fault rested on each of their own shoulders. so this angel kept in line, followed orders, fought when they were told to, but mostly, they watched.
until they were tasked with bringing a human, a broken but righteous man who had sacrificed himself for his loved ones, an important man, chosen by the almighty, back from the dead and shepherding him along a holy path. their orders, god's will. no choice, no question but to follow. this was their duty. so, dutiful, they did. went to earth, flesh and bone, to be with him, to watch over him, to stand at his side.
this human, he changed everything.
he prodded, he questioned, he sobbed and raged and demanded why. he spit in the face of fate. faced with impossible odds, the angel watched this man as he refused to accept what every power told him was inevitable, all for sentiment, for loyalty, for love, for humanity. how strange a creature, how fascinating. inspiring, even. he says no, and somehow, he eschews destiny.
the angel began to doubt, the worst of all sins, and it weighs heavy on their wings. but what if this man, this tired resilient soul, was right? what if you didn't have to surrender to the current, to fate? what if god wanted them to swim against it? he'd brought them together, after all. tied them to this human, this brazen and brave, soft and hurting thing, this mind that thought so differently than their own. what if their duty was to follow in his footsteps, to push back against destruction, against the end of everything, even if it was lauded by all their fellows as the inevitable, as god's plan?
the man's question echoed though every part of them, every refraction of their light: what does god want from me?
the angel prayed for guidance. god did not answer. once faithless, now struggling with holy purpose he did not want or understand, the man prayed. god did not answer. so the angel answered. whenever he called, whenever he was in trouble, they came to him. he was their human charge, after all. they were his angel.
so many trials, so much pain. what heaven tried to put him through was unfair, unacceptable. so the angel did the unthinkable: they pushed back. refused orders. fought their brothers and sisters, killed their own kin. for him. to save him, to give him a chance to follow the path he felt was right, the one he chose for himself. he showed them how to be free.
and oh, how beautiful that freedom was.
the angel stayed by his side, through the impossible and after, and as they went, he taught them so much, intentionally and not. the angel watched; curious, rapt. he taught them about mercy, about comfort and indulgence, about sentiment, about sexuality, about selfishness, about friendship, about family. about pain and about love. about what it was to be human. sensitive, fragile, bonded.
his angel. their man.
they both brushed death countless times (and sometimes lost to it, but always found a way back), through perils and oddities and miracles, at the hands of monsters and horrors undreamt of by those who had a home to go back to at the end of the day. home, such a profound concept to humans. this man, he had no home. neither did the angel, not really. not after what they'd done, rebelled against heaven; not that they had one to begin with. that wasn't how it worked for angels. home was a foreign, human concept.
how gut-wrenching to come so close to understanding such a thing, and yet be so far from it.
when the man lost everything, the angel wanted to be merciful. to allow him peace, rest, retirement. a home, a family of his own. a simple life. despite the chaos still raging in heaven, hell, and earth; despite how he was all the angel had, the only one to turn to; they left him be. let him rest. mercy, comfort, love.
pain.
the angel did what they knew: they fought, and they watched. they tried to help. they were neck-deep in a losing battle. they stood, unseen, at the sidelines of a simple human life, watching their man live quietly, care and be cared for; resisting the temptation to reach out and tap him on the shoulder, to call to him.
they prayed. no one answered. they fought, and watched, and they were losing, and everything could have fallen apart. evrrything. they couldn't let that happen.
so they made a deal, a wicked deal with a unholy beast. mutually beneficial, the demon called it. the angel had already fallen so far, what's another on the pile? they couldn't give up, not now. there was too much at stake.
suddenly, they were a commander instead of a soldier. they were pushing back, standing up, renouncing their brother who would see everything they love destroyed. rallying troops. mounting battles. they had started a civil war in heaven, and they cannot stop.
there was, is, too much to lose.
now, in quiet moments, they beg to be stopped. no one answers. so they march on.
but this deal, it is a sin, graver than any they've done, even than doubt. their friends in heaven and on earth would be horrified. so they lie. they deceive. they hide it, do the messy work in private.
working with demons, making monsters into weapons. making the sacrifices that war demands of them, justifying atrocity. killing old comrades, former friends. endangering innocents, collateral damage. high prices. blood money. greater good.
the dead pile up. they look away and wash the blood off their hands and lie through their teeth to their closest ones, their friends. to him.
they are free, but there is only one choice. they cannot stop, all because of him, of what he taught them. all for him.
when the secret slips, when denial turns to questioning, demands for the truth, the angel tries to explain all this. but it's too late.
the emotions on his face are the gutting. betrayal, disappointment, appal. after seeing him take on so many horrors with a straight face or a smile, he looks at them and is horrorified.
they try to make him understand. this is for your own good, your protection. to keep the world you live in turning, to keep all of creation from being rendered ash by a tryant or an unfair fate. this was them trying to do right by him, to be his guardian, his angel.
their man looks sick to his stomach. this isn't how we do things. you should've asked for help. you should've come to me, we could have found something else, anything but this.
I did it all for you. I did it all because of you.
he can't stop.
then, a line the angel has heard again and again from this man's lips, words that inspired so much courage and pride in them, inspired them to step off the ledge and plunge into the unknown.
there has to be another way.
but, he tells them, you made the wrong choice. the worst choice. that can't be undone. he can hardly believe it, after denying and defending them against the suspicions of his family, that his angel could do this, and in his name. he trusted them. god, what have you done?
disappointment, disgust, and grim acceptance on the most familiar, most beloved of faces. their man.
I fell for you. rebelled for you. everything, everything, everything for you.
doubt burns like hellfire in their core. they had been so sure.
you lied to me. you lied because you know what you're doing is wrong. beyond wrong. you have to stop. I'm telling you to stop.
I can't. please understand. it's me. you made me into what I am. you taught me free will. I am made in your image.
he stares at them not as his comrade, not as his guardian and confidante, not as his friend, but as someone, something that has done so much damage, so much wrong, so much sin.
I don't even know you.
now they understand. it's simple. freedom is a length of rope; god wants you to hang yourself with it.
a truly fallen angel.
...
and then what if I told you that's the plot of the cw's superna—? [I am swiftly and efficiently beheaded]
thank you @armoured-fantasies & @her-kngt and anyone else who read this far. sorry I made you read about destiel lol
oughhhh the sinking visceral horror of "I did it all for you" when what they've done is appalling. the look of fierce devotion with their hands bloody, standing in the sickening viscous mess they've made. "I've done everything for you" oh god
the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
It just feels more proper that way, for reasons that entirely escape her. It’s not like Lys hasn’t seen the rest of her before, and it’s not like they both aren’t aware of the end that she was hoping for when she invited herself back to Lys’s quarters instead of her own to freshen up before the closing banquet. But familiarity is tempered by time, and it’s been long enough that she knows she ought to keep her distance, at least for now, lest she fall back into the routine of a self she outgrew years ago.
So Red turns away when she begins to pull off her shirt, facing the standing mirror and stepping close enough in that she can still glimpse Lys, sprawled sideways like a graceful whore across her bed, but Lys can’t catch any tantalizing peeks of her own.
She stays quiet as she runs a damp cloth across her skin. Face, then arms, then chest, cleared of the sweat and grime of the day. She grits her teeth and lets out a small hiss as she drags the cloth over a few particularly deep bruises, already beginning to purple.
“Oh, come on now, I didn’t hit you that badly,” Lys drawls.
“No, but I also don’t heal as easy as I used to,” Red calls back. “And besides, I’ve been out of the ring for a while. Tolerance is lower now, but it’ll return.”
“Sounds like excuses to me.”
Red rolls his eyes. The criticizing banter’s always been their main form of communication, competition sparking through even their most intimate moments. He can see Lys’s eyes flick up and down his form as he bathes. She bites her lip and pushes herself to sitting as Red reaches over his shoulder to begin cleaning his back.
The bed creaks, then the floorboards, as she crosses the room. Red watches her approach in the mirror, bringing the cloth to still so Lys can pluck it from his grasp with one hand while the other snakes over his bare shoulder to steady him. Lys runs it in slow circles, subtle pressure easing the ache of battle out of his muscles with a knowing precision. He has to admit, it’s much nicer than trying to do it himself, even though the way Lys is pushing at him sends spurts of water running out of the rag and down to the small of his back.
“You’re getting my trousers all wet,” Red grumbles.
Lys hums with faux concern. “So take them off.”
Red’s hands fall to the drawstring, pulling it loose. Fabric crumples to his ankles, and he takes a few dancing steps to kick his pants fully off and aside. Lys sucks in a breath and the washcloth splats to the floor, along with the pretense. Her now free hand settles at his hip while her chin comes to rest in the crook of his neck, letting her take her first full view of his reflection.
“Heavens, dove, you really have turned out striking.” Her eyes shine greedily. The hand grasped around his shoulder flattens, slipping down his chest, down the full length of one of his breasts. “I mean, look at how these things have grown.”
Red doesn’t answer, save for the audible hitch of her breath as Lys’s fingers begin to spread and squeeze at her nipple, hardening it.
“And these, too.” Lys’s other hand wanders, from the dip of her hip down her thigh and up again, then back, to cup the meat of her ass. “You carry the weight so well.”
Red arches her back ever so slightly, pushing into both of Lys’s palms at once.
“Perhaps it’s just the freshness of lust after so long apart, but I really cannot take my eyes off of you. So fucking beautiful.”
Red lets a slight grin steal across her face at the compliment. “Well, thank yourself for that. You made me beautiful.”
Lys’s brow furrows, her hands both freeze in their path. “Oh, dove.” She tilts her head to press softly against the side of Red’s. “You were always going to be beautiful.”
Red scoffs, the grin fades. “What have these years done to you? I’m shocked you don’t want any sort of credit.”
“Not for that,” she says, twisting so her lips just barely brush Red’s temple as she talks. “I didn’t make you this way.”
Red’s eyes slip closed, and an all-too-familiar image appears in his memory.
It’s Lys, of course, almost fifteen years younger and half-silhouetted by the fire she sits beside. The harsh cut of her cheekbones and knuckles, highlighted by the flames glinting off her blade as she runs a whetstone along it. Several locks of sweat-stuck hair dropping into her face, even as she tries to blow them aside. The curve of her cracked lips and the bob of her adam’s apple as she laughs at his gangly stare. The pierce of her eyes as she looks him up and down for the first time, certainly not the last. The practiced smoothness of her voice as she asks if you were planning on just looking at her all night, or if you’d like to take a seat and learn a thing or two, new boy.
Sharp, and broad, and fierce, and breath-taking. The vision of a kind of femininity Red had hardly even known existed, until she needed it so badly she could barely breathe. There’s a reason this woman took her oath name to be Catalyst.
“You sure?” Red murmurs.
Lys’s hands begin to move again, curious and wanting. “Oh, I made you many things, dove. Just not this one.”
“What exactly is it that you think you made me, then?”
“I made you strong,” she says, murmuring into the shell of Red’s ear as one hand slips below her breasts to splay across her toned stomach.
“And I made you tactical,” as the other brushes across a scar from an arrowhead, pierced near inches from taking out her kneecap.
“I made you skilled,” Lys’s first hand begins to pull back, and up, dancing along each rib on its way.
“And I made you dextrous,” while her other finds Red’s fingers and spreads them, threading her own into the gaps.
She begins to move her head down, nipping at the underside of Red’s jaw. She drags their intertwined hands up the softness of his inner thigh. Her free fingers splay under his cheek as her lips press to the side of his neck.
“I made you hungry.” Her breath is hot on his skin, and her teeth barely graze his jugular as she talks. “So very hungry.”
She presses the back of his hand down with her own, flattening his palm to the dip of his hip. Her thumb grazes across the base of his cock, and he can feel the pulse of his own blood quicken under his hand. “My dove, I made you alive.”
They breath together for a moment, silent, her chest pressed flush to his spine.
“And above all,” Lys whispers, “I made you -”
“- Yours.”
Red can barely get the word out before her breath is knocked from her chest by the speed at which Lys is bending her over. The hand at her neck grips tight and thrusts Red forwards, her arms instinctively grabbing at the frame of the mirror as a brace. The hand on her hip instead tugs backwards, pulling the two of them flush. The hardness of Lys’s bulge is apparent against the back of Red’s thigh, welcoming the pressure to grind against. She can feel the strip of skin and hair where Lys’s shirt has ridden up and pants have ridden down as she leans over her.
“Oh, good,” Lys croons in her ear. “You remember.”
