I was tagged by @trickythedino , I am blowing kisses in your general direction
The rules of the game are to write one song for every letter in your url, and then tag as many people as there are letters in your url.
I am going through my recently played, which fair warning: are all my fic-writing playlist because ... well, I've been writing. :)
T - Thinking Out Loud - Daniel Jang
U - Use Somebody - 2 Cellos
M - Me Too - Megan Trainor
B - Black Betty - Ram Jam
L - Leavin' on your Mind - Patsy Cline
E - El Taki Ta - Conjunto La Primacia
W - When Stars Collide - Headland
E - Eye of the Tiger - 2Cellos
E - Every Time We Touch - Cascada, Kyano
D - Dashing White Sergeant - Jimmy Shand
T - Thunderstruck - 2Cellos
E - Excursion Around the Bay - Derina Harvey Band
C - Co-thrath - Tide Lines
H - Here Comes the Sun - Midnite String Quartet'
Bonus: Flowers - Ground Zero Academy Orchestra
This seems geared towards people who are smart enough to have shorter urls.
I am NOT tagging that many people. I'll tag a few you didn't yet - @jayofolympus @losersimonriley @bluroux (get rekd, blu, i wanna see what you pick for the x) @hungarianbee and @valandhirwriter
let's see what ya'll get xo
I thought I'd do better but there were just some things that apparently never crossed my dash. However, as a smut writer in good standing, I have to dust my shoulders off a bit at my results.
ARNAGHAD SHOVELLING SNOW IN SHORTS!!! ARNAGHAD CARRYING THEIR HUNT THROUGH THE WOODS IN ONE TRIP!!!! ALL THE BIG BOY - SZA.MP3 FEELINGS
Hello!!! INCREDIBLE prompt my dear, and for anyone that didn't see the Big Boys video, please enjoy on my part
Title: Two Cloaks, XXXL (Chapter 1)
Rating: E
Words: 1,376
Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland
Additional Tags: Order Of Witchers, Young OG Husbands, Pre-Divorce, Nudity, Domestic Fluff, Slight Voyeurism, Masturbation
Summary: Erland is determined to win the most difficult battle he's ever faced: getting Arnaghad to wear weather-appropriate clothing that properly covers every inch of his body. No matter how much the big bastard insists he's fine without it.
AO3 LINK
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Splayed out across their warm, wide bed, well-rested and better-fucked, Erland decides to indulge himself in his most favorite pastime. While he gets to spend the rest of the morning acting the layabed until the older trainees need their Signs training, Arnaghad has to get up early to clear the autumn’s first snow out of the courtyard —the tall bastard drew the short stick on duties last week, and had been none too amused when Erland made that exact joke. He can’t find it in himself to regret it. Even as the sheets beneath him lose their body heat, ogling his love keeps him plenty warm. Arni’s putting his clothes back on, unfortunately, but a clothed Arnaghad is still more than appealing enough, so Erland watches him anyway.
Linen braies, the pair with a hole in the gusset. Leggings of thick, waterproofed wool, wrapped in furs and lattice-tied around thick calves. Erland lingers his gaze there a minute longer, misses the layered tunics, but he manages to catch the curve of Arnaghad’s arse disappearing under his belted skirts. The bastard seems to know what he’s doing too, bending over his clothes-chest just so to dig out the rest. Soon enough, he’s ready to go, throwing on his winter cloak, a sturdy garment made of two elk-hides stitched together, and pushing their door open.
The damn thing slips off his shoulders. The hood barely stays on his head. The hem barely brushes his mid-thighs.
Arnaghad doesn’t even seem to notice, just ducks out into the corridor, leaving Erland to scramble out of bed, pulling a blanket with him to shield his bare arse from the cold. It drags several meters behind him on the stone floor, and he nearly trips on it, catching himself on the godsforsaken cloak. He straightens up, and tugs it deliberately. Arnaghad moves on his own, thankfully, raising one auburn brow in confusion, because he’s a thick-skulled idiot.
“Arni, what the bloody feck’re you doin’?”
His voice comes out slightly hoarse, his throat still more than a little sore from earlier, but it only makes that eyebrow lift further.
“Going.”
“With tha’ cloak? Ye’ll freeze half tae death if that damned thing won’t cover you.”
“Tch,” Arnaghad scoffs, “It’s fine, it’s not yet winter. I’ll add another elk-hide later if it makes you happy.”
No he wouldn’t. Erland knew that damn well, so he has to solve the problem, or else Arnaghad would just keep wearing the cloak as is for the rest of the winter, stoic no matter how cold it gets. He can’t exactly give Arni any of his clothes though, the big bastard could probably wear his shirt like a mitten. An idea strikes him. Quickly, he turns around, strides to the stool by the fireplace, and whips his blanket off to lay it across his lap. He finds the shorter edge with one hand, holding the other outstretched.
“Give me yer knife.”
Arnaghad hasn’t moved, still hunched to fit inside the doorway.
Erland scowls, folding the blanket in half.
“You heard me. The trainees can wait two minutes, now shut tha door, I’m freezin’ my balls off. And give me yer knife.”
“You gonna make me a cloak out of that in two minutes?”
“Yes.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches those massive shoulders shrug, displacing the elk-hide onto Arnaghad’s back. Still, he finds the weight of a knife in his hand, the hilt too large to wrap his fingers around. The blade works just fine though, sharp enough to cut halfway through the woolen blanket without fraying the edges too much —he’ll have to hem it later, but for now, it’ll do. Most cloaks are just blankets with hoods anyway, and this one will keep his love warm. A motion of his hand brings Arnaghad closer, and a glare makes him bend down so Erland can drape his invention around those impossibly broad shoulders. The blanket, cut halfway in half, lets Erland tuck Arni’s head into the split. He brings each “arm” across Arnaghad’s torso before tucking them against his sides.
“Hold this,” he says.
“I have work to do,” Arnaghad grunts, but complies, “I’ll be late.”
“Then be late, and even better, be warm while ya do it.”
Just to soothe him, Erland makes sure to twist his hips that little bit more, and bends over that same chest of clothes until he finds his prize: a thick leather belt, also made of elk-hide because Arnaghad has a trunk like an oak tree. As deftly as he can, he wraps it around Arnaghad’s waist. It takes a bit of dexterity, pressing himself close to swing one end of the belt and catch it with his other hand, but he manages to tie it over the crossed blanket ends. He takes a step back, ignoring how even that flash of proximity made his cock twitch.
It looks…… good, actually.
The woad-blue flatters Arnaghad’s tanner skin, and the drape of the wool over all his other layers makes his chest look that much broader. The belt ties it all in, gives his big body some shape. Even better, his cloak goes down to Arnaghad’s knees, sheltering the thighs that Erland adores more than he cares to admit. The furs on his calves can handle the rest. Fuck knows what they’ll do if Arnaghad keeps growing though. It’s slowed, but as far as he knows, his love has seen twenty-eight winters, well past the age when he should have stopped getting any damn taller.
“Am I free to go now?” Arnaghad asks, a teasing kilt in his bass voice.
When Erland looks up, those amber eyes almost shine down with fondness. Arni smiles ever-so-slightly with that wide mouth, almost hidden by his dark beard, and brings an arm around to his backside. His hand covers Erland’s entire arse, and he wishes that didn’t make him so hard. He fights back a blush. The snow does have to get ploughed, after all. So does he, but that can wait. Probably. Summoning all his strength, he wills his prick to calm down, because he hasn’t pissed yet this morning, and he doesn't make a habit out of making chores for himself.
“Mhm, so don’ make yerself later.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re welcome, by tha way.”
A kiss finds Erland’s crown, and with a parting squeeze to his arse, Arnaghad turns for the door again, leaving Erland behind with his knife, no blanket, and a cock hard enough to hammer nails. After a minute or so, he chances opening the shutters to their room’s narrow window to stare at the training yard so many meters below. Snow keeps drifting down, but it’s no match for Arnaghad. His Aard has never been particularly powerful, but it’s enough to wash entire swaths of the courtyard clean, pushing the snow towards the gate. There, Arnaghad flexes his shoulders, broad as the walls themselves. Erland palms his dick, running a too-dry palm over himself and contemplating if it would be worth missing a moment of this view to go fetch some oil. But the blue cloak stretches a touch tighter over Arnaghad’s back, so Erland just spits in his other hand, switches his grip, and strokes himself properly.
With a shovel large enough for a normal man to sleep in, Arnaghad shoves the snow outside the gates, and Erland knows damn well it’s piled so that if an Igni gets out of control, it will melt down the mountain. He has it down to an artform. Squats so those massive thighs flex with exertion under his cloak, stabs through the snow, and drives it like an ox plow. Rinse and repeat. By the sixth round, Erland has to spit on his hand again. By the fourteenth, when Arnaghad stops to lean against the wall and stretch, his calves feel taut as a bowstring. It’s then that the big bastard turns on a dime, staring right at him with dark, heavy eyes. The elk coat slips off his shoulder. His blue cloak, with rough edges and cut by Erland’s own hand, is still too short, but the color is lovely, and more importantly, it makes Arnaghad look like his.
Erland comes into his fist three strokes later.
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This was a delight to write, and since that video lived rent-free in my head for a good long while, I hope this ficlet does the same for you, Milena!! A part two is going up either tomorrow or later this week!
As for the cloak that Erland made in this chapter, you can make it too!! While similar versions have been found in many different cultures because of it's incredibly simple and practical design, the ruana is a traditional pre-Colombian garment from South America, a warmer cousin to the poncho. It's meant to stave off the cold of the Andes mountains, and from personal experience, I can say that it works! To make one, either follow Erland's process above and hem/trim the edges, or use this fun little tutorial.
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Taglist: @hellinglasses, @hungarianbee, @halehathnofury, @tumbleweedtech, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @girls-and-honey, @the-butch-of-blaviken, @alllthequeenshorses, @t4tlambert, @karolincki (if anyone wants to be added/removed, pm me and I'll have it done no problem)
Clovis appears in the Hexer, episode 2 "Study", where he is in a group of three who appear to be a cohort or class, as they train together and graduate together. He snorts something, to which Geralt looks unimpressed, and Clovis tells him to Shut Up. He fails at the task of dehorsing their trainer, at which only Geralt succeeds.
He mocks Geralt's more tricky way of fighting -
Avoiding - that's the way you fight.
Tricks and retreat.
You fight without honor, like some kind of viper.
He is dismissive and rude to Geralt, and implies he will tell the council of Geralt's subversive ideas (that they do not teach the young witchers enough about tactics).
This mockery of Geralt's "honorless" fighting is clearly projecting, when called on it (Who will tell them, you?), Clovis snatches up a hefty rock and immediately turns aggressive.
When Geralt tries to calm him, speaking in a soft voice saying he had too many drugs in his system, to calm down, Clovis drops the rock and (clumsily) draws his sword.
This fight is interrupted by Adela. With 2 months left until their final trials, Adela acknowledges that this is a tough time period. Clovis, however, is childishly chopping at vegetation with his sword.
Adela questions the use of potions without their teacher present, but Geralt deflects it, saying they are waiting for their next teacher to arrive. Whether or not she believes him is up for debate.
Either way, Geralt is polite, and clearly very curious to the women witchers. As soon as they leave, Clovis is immediately disparaging and mocking.
Bullshit. "What's your name?", "We know each other"
You're an idiot. These are women. Do you know what men need them for?
He answers his question himself, by whistling and crudely thrusting his hips, making it very clear he sees them only as sexual objects. Geralt takes only a moment to stare at him before punching him in the face.
Geralt is reprimanded for his reaction to Clovis - although it is admitted that Clovis' reaction to the women was disgusting. Later, they are confronted about the fight and forbidden drinking of elixirs, which Clovis quietly admits to.
He (as well as the other two) are given the punishment of "square", in which they stand on a rectangular stone for two days and two nights. They stand through the rain, and make it to the end of their punishment. Clovis collapses onto the ground.
However, the episode ends with Clovis, Gascaden, and Geralt all recieving their medallions, swords, and a small bag of medicines and potions while a small speech is given.
We've decided today that Clovis, Gascaden and Geralt are worthy to become messengers of our brotherhood. They will walk the path on which they'll find combat, pain and sacrifice. They are made for that. They are trained for that. Nobody will be thankful for that over there. But our mission doesn't expect gratitude.
Talismans will warn you of magic and evil power.
They are also the mark of your calling, and your place in the world.
Do you swear to fight to the death in order to protect humans?
Clovis, Gascadin, and Geralt: We do!
Come closer. Here you have herbs, elixirs and medicaments. Use them with care, do not let them turn against you. From now on, you're witchers. Let wisdom, power and spirit never let you down.
Clovis, Gascadin, and Geralt: We recall this custom!
[ID: The first image is a screenshot of a google search. In the search bar, it says, "aromantic visibility day." The results show the date: "June 5th, 2023." The second image is a gif of an aromantic flag flapping wildly in the wind. End ID]
💕 self-love time! talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics) you like the most then send to other creators to do the same 💕
Took me like, 2 weeks to reply, sorry about that, dear, life can suck sometimes. Anyway. I once again show my bi tendencies and can't choose just one, bear with me :')
The creation I'm most emotionally attached to is carry on, try to bear the agony. It was the first rare pair fic I posted and shared willingly with people, swallowing down nervousness. The reactions and overwhelming support I got still fuel me to this day to dip my fingers into unknown territories and fish out pairings and characters that have little to no audience, bc they deserve to have their time to shine.
The fic, on the other hand, that I reread the most, is my latest: inked lion. You know how there's a point when you can look at your own shit and go "I really did improve, huh?". This one was that for me. I crammed out those 4k words under 2 days (honestly, a record), and I genuinely enjoy the result. Like a coherent string of vignettes, making up a kick-ass character analysis, if I do say so myself. (People also seemed to like the non-shippy aspect which came as a pleasant surprise.)
Thank you, @blackberrywars for the tag, these are always fun <3
Favoured Trope Game
slow burn or love at first sight // fake dating or secret dating // enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers // oh no there is only one bed or long-distance correspondence (aka PINING) // hurt-comfort or amnesia // fantasy au or modern au // mutual pining or domestic bliss // smut or fluff // canon-compliant or fix-it // reincarnation or character death // one shot or multi chapter // kid fic or roadtrip fic // arranged marriage or accidental marriage // high school romance or middle aged romance // time travel or isolated together // neighbours or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au // body swap or gender bend // angst or crack // apocalyptic or mundane
Preference noted with red. I decided to introduce blue (mehh about both) and orange (gimme both) too, bc I'm undecisive as ever :')
Something in my teeth?
No, I just like the way they look up close
Prompt: “1. Aiden shamelessly flirting with Lambert, to the latter's frowny consternation (read: internal delight and panic). Guxart in the background sipping his mead thinking about how he managed to bag Vesemir and calling Aiden an amateur. If you're cool with doing fem!Laiden I'll squeal, but I love your male versions too so that's completely out of my hands”
@blackberrywars, your first piece for the Sketching Wolves Fest! I’m keeping your original Ask prompt in my inbox so that I can address #2 separately on Pillowfort, where it will be in disturbed. I’ll message you when it’s finished!
I loved this so much I noodled some words for it, and I put them here for y'all too. Be warned, it was written in discord and no, I haven't beta'd it. But it gave me a Mood and I thought I'd share.
I'm not goin' down that Easily
Lambert was a puzzle. She was brash and loud, and as clever as she was cocky. The self assured slant of her smirk lit every single spark in Aiden's gut that loved a challenge.
They were both the youngest of their schools, and while the Wolves didn't seem to treat Lambert any differently than her brothers, Aidan couldn't help but wonder what the full keep would've felt like.
Where did this bravado stem from?
Aiden always did enjoy puzzles.
And what a lovely puzzle to behold. Broad shoulders and a slim waist, Lambert's lithe form belied her strength.
She stood half a head taller than Aiden, with the wingspan to match. There was much to be said about knowing your strengths, and Aiden knew how to be small and fast. The first time she managed to slip inside Lambert's guard was a revelation in intent.
Lambert had been so surprised by Aiden she was literally on her back foot, an aborted Aard only a hairsbreadth from her chest.
Lambert's eyes were wide and Aiden curved around her open hand, allowing Lambert's fingers to brush her ribcage as she slid the sparring dagger up along her side, the blunt steel catching softly on each knobbled rib.
It wasn't fear in Lambert's wide eyes. Aiden didn't know what it was but she definitely wanted to find out.
Aiden preferred a direct approach, trying to survive this continent was an exercise in distrust and a healthy amount of paranoia.
This visit to the Wolves' keep, however much Guxart claimed it was to keep relations healthy, had proven to be a far more diverting experience than she expected.
There was the stereotype, of empty headed, tongue lolling dogs that so many of her kin favored, a joke of cats versus dogs that had spanned millennia.
It was true the Cats prefer stealth as their wild counterparts did. But the Wolves seemed both to treasure the playful and gentle outlook of their domesticated kin- while never forgetting the calculating stillness of their school's namesake.
Aiden was in a school of predators, but they had accepted her in their ranks and allowed her to set the weight of watchfulness at the door. They still needed to carry caution as they traveled with the Caravan, and the relief from vigilance left her mind free to peruse other things.
Like the way Lambert's body curled around her own, every time she got too close.
Lambert was as tall as her brothers, if shy only a fingerswidth. She talked with her hands, wide sweeping motions, her hip cocked and her eyes glittering. Aiden couldn't help but stare when she was irritated, her arms crossed, framing her small chest, and highlighting the definition in her arms and the miles wide shoulders.
It never lasted when Aiden dared to come close- Lambert would curl like a skittish cat keeping distance between them, eyes wide and watchful. She would stop talking, shift into the stillness that any wild thing adopted.
Every time Aiden had backed away first, not wanting Lambert's stillness to burst into flight.
But there was something different in Lambert's eyes, lately, and the sharpness of her teeth seemed enticing, instead of dangerous. Aiden had her own fangs and claws, and she was done waiting to understand Lambert's silence.
She leaned in close again, enjoying how the curve of Lambert's spine mirrored her own. Her hands were mid-gesture, the movement of an eager after dinner conversation, and Aiden leaned until her shirt brushed the tips of Lambert's still fingers with every slow, deep breath.
Her eyes were wide, studying Aiden's face, betraying nothing. Aiden tilted her head and leaned ever so slightly closer.
Lambert's weight was on her back foot, and with half a breath Aiden could have been across the room from the strength of her Aard, but she didn't move. It was the longest stalemate they'd had yet until the slightest frown caught Aiden's attention and her gaze dropped to Lambert's ridiculously soft looking mouth.
"Something in my teeth?"
Aiden's resulting smile was slow, and predatory, and she relished the way Lambert's eyes widened, swallowing heavily as she purred, "No. I just like the way they look up close."
Thank you @tumbleweedtech, I'm blowing all the kisses your way
Comfort food: Uhhhh. A weird one, but probably eggs, sunny side-up, with runny yolk, cucumber and frankfurter. Also: hazelnut cereal in milk, when I'm especially lazy
Comfort movie: The Man from Uncle. I can recall every scene and a *lot* of lines by the soundtrack only. I probably forced my fam to watch it more times than they care to admit during exam periods rip
Comfort clothing: I got a purple-grey scarf from my aunt like a decade ago. My throat always feels naked without it in the cold seasons. The other one is an animal-patterned golden shirt I got second hand. Similarly soft and loose, I feel extra nice in it.
Comfort songs: I'm a song repeater as well. Nowadays I usually resort to game OSTs (be it Hollow Knight, Witcher or Ryuu Ga Gotoku).
Comfort book: I don't exactly have one? I used to be a bookworm until I took a burnout in the knee, and I haven't touched a book by choice in a year or so. It's sad. But just the other day I've recalled the works of Jenő Rejtő (particularly: The Three Musketeers in Africa; and: The Frontier Garrison), a hungarian writer with amazingly bizarre humour.
Comfort games: Don't at me, but old school minesweeper. I can listen to a video or podcast and shut my brain down playing it for hours.
I don't have the spoons for a full round of tags, but hey, @thirstyforred @blackberrywars @lohrendrell @andtosatvrn , if y'all want to, here's sth chill :)
I waited to get on my laptop, but will proceed to ask for two doodles because I am greedy and your work is stellar
Fem!Lambert and fem!Aiden. They're the loves of my life, and I did draw +post them, but I am not good at it, so offer them to you the same way a grandmother presses those strawberry candies into your hands. Maybe it could just be them walking a forested Path hand-in-hand, with their swords and their scars and their smiles. Idk, I would adore anything with them quite honestly
Guxart having a nap on top of one of the caravans, which he crawled onto in the hopes of getting some gods-damned Peace. I usually imagine him as that one gif of Oscar Isaac smoking but 15 years older, but I really just want him graying and exhausted. At least one kitten has managed to find him and snuggle under his arm though.
Best of luck with the event, lemon! <3
Okay I have to admit I don't know many of the cat witchers and I still need to look up Guxart, see some references, and get a good feel for him. But... Hopefully you will find this temporarily satisfactory in the absence of both drawings!
Please enjoy fem!Aiden and fem!Lambert bathing in a river.
AHHHHHHHHH THEY’RE GORGEOUS HOLY SHIT. I am SO happy with them their expressions are murdering me in my sleep and I’m so in love with the lines and the muscle shapes. The way you made their eyes and scars pop is just stunning. Anyway I adore them I adore you thank you so much.
