#*donnick

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fealty

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doffing armour (OCs)

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Donnick (my OC)

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🎄

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💕 For whoever you are feeling for this prompt!

drawing was easier for this idea 💕

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don n jacob drunk kissy 💙 ehehehehehe

Drunk kissy 🫵

(for context this setting is like like robin hood and maid marian if robin was an outlawed half-elf practitioner of magic and marian was a 6ft 4 armoured knight named Jacob)

"Wait until I tell them," Donnick titters into his cup. He knows the most comfortable thing in the world, sitting beside the charcoal kiln in the mild autumn air, would be to close his eyes and lie back on the soft leaf litter. But tears are crowding his eyes and when he looks over at the hunched man next to him, the urge to laugh just gets worse. 

"There.." A rumble starts in his throat and Donnick tries desperately not to burp. "There's the Duke of Isern about to pass out in the woods." 

The duke in question drags a broad hand over his face at a pace that could only generously be called sluggish. Donnick puts his cup down on the ground- fails to notice that it swiftly topples over- and reaches to pat Jacob firmly on the back. 

"His family honour in tatters, his motto flouted. Felled By None? Nay- felled by my mother's own cider! How will he ever regain his dignity, his reputation, his–" 

Donnick's words are smothered by a heavy arm thumping across his chest as the drunken duke turns to throw him to the ground. Even this deep in his cups, Jacob still knows how to use his weight. They both snicker like miscreants half their age when the man pins Donnick to the forest floor with all his weight. Donnick doesn't have the good sense left to even pretend to struggle. 

"They'll never believe it," he chuckles into the side of Jacob's head. There's nowhere else to put the words, because the duke has lain down on top of him and all his bulk is keeping Donnick from escaping. Not that he'd try. 

"Defeated by an apple." 

"Hush," Jacob grunts, and loosely takes hold of Donnick's chin. There's no escape. 

"Laid low by a peasant's brew–" 

He's hushed. Jacob's mouth is warm against his own. The man's aim is off, tasting the corner of Donnick's lips before slowly correcting and sighing deeply into the kiss. Before long he can't even keep his head up high enough and Jacob drifts his lips carelessly down his chin until he gives in and drops his cheek to Donnick's chest instead. 

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❤️ Jacob and Don!!! To celebrate the return of the kings 💕

Realisation ❤️

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"So what do you say, my Lord Duke?" 

Karo's voice wends its way through the music, the crowds and laughter and stamping feet, to reach his side. The half-elf thumps down onto the bench a moment later and Jacob moves swiftly to stop his cup from tumbling to the ground. There's colour on Karo's cheeks the same deep red as the punch they're all swigging like it'll never run dry. 

There's no time to chide Karo for the formal address- the elf doesn't give chance. It used to be a slight but now he flings it at Jacob like a pat on the back. 

"As fine a midwinter party as you've ever suffered through, isn't it?" 

When Jacob doesn't turn to follow his happy gaze across the room, Karo leans in close. There's no formality observed as he chuckles next to the duke's shoulder. "Better than a night stuck in a hall with half a dozen hearths. It was surely awful trapped up there at a high table with no one telling you the look on your face is turning the wine sour." 

Jacob's lips curl at the corner as he takes a sip of that wine. It's far from sour. He knows Karo spent the better part of the day mulling it over a fire with spices he'd been collecting all year. He knows it because Karo made sure to educate him after he simply said, it smells alright. 

"Isenholm doesn't have six hearths in its hall," Jacob retorts weakly. He turns his head a little. "Only five."

His smile is growing and it works- Karo barks out a merry laugh and finally claps him on the back with an open palm, thumping the duke so hard his wine jumps from the cup and down the front of his shirt. They laugh together until Karo's smile tempers down to something almost fond. 

"You're not stuck at a high table now, your Grace," he says with a sigh, and lifts his cup. He's got a finger extended to point across the celebration and Jacob does turn to follow this time. He twists all the way around and slings a leg out from under the table to sit comfortably and take in the view. 

The high thatched roof is keeping out the snow and the vast fire pit in the middle of the party, a tree-trunk burning long and low at its heart, is holding the cold at bay. That log will burn all night, but still the crowd is warmer. Firelight and candles turn the mist of the crowd's breath into a glowing haze above them, and every laugh and dance, and cry of happiness adds to it. 

Karo nudges his arm and Jacob follows again. In the dancing crowd, spinning in pairs to music as quick as a heartbeat and twice as light, is an achingly familiar face. Nothing is rigid in the midst of the party. No formation holds them all together, but still Donnick manages to hoist a young woman into the air and down again in time with all the rest.

Jacob's brows furrow upwards with a pang and warmth on his cheeks. He knows this dance. He knows what Donnick's laugh sounds like, even if he can only see the flash of the elf's smile across the crowd. 

Sharp pain cracks across Jacob's cheek and he nearly tips sideways on the bench. Spluttering, he looks around for what just struck him. 

Karo is already skipping away into the crowd, laughing. "That's a good opportunity just slapped you in the face, so you'd better know it! On your feet, your Grace!" 

Dazed, Jacob lets the chuckle bubble up and out of his chest. How different things are here, he allows himself to think. Isenholm isn't on the other side of the country but it could be another world. No one here would even blink an eye if he were to step in time, place his hands at Donnick's side and lift him high into the air. The thought was headier than spiced wine ever could be.

He stays sitting just long enough for another cup to sail high over the crowd. Jacob ducks this time and in the same motion gets to his feet, carefully- and quickly before another can claim his place- wading into the fray.

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getting more used to a procreate pencil brush. It's not bad