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)
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.”
You can pull a knight in by the collar of the their chest plate- hey did you know that you can pull a knight in by the collar of their chest plate like a collar— hey its imperative that you know you can— *arrow pierces my armor and kills me instantly*
