I don’t know what this is, it’s not going anywhere. It was just a thought I had after last night and that delightful little tidbit about Julius. This is entirely predictable, sorry.

It’s not until the third time that Grog goes to the brothel in Whitestone that the Madam who runs the house pulls him aside as he’s leaving.

“I paid up, I know I did,” Grog says immediately. “She counted it out for me and everything.”

The Madam - gray hair but not old enough for it to be anything but just the way most of the adult Whitestone residents are - laughs at him. “You’re fine, lad. You treat my girls right and you pay well. I’m not turning you away. I just had a question for you.”

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“Where order has broken down, where cruelty and lawlessness rule, Lawbringers are justice. They go wherever they are needed, and they come prepared. Their armor has no equal, its construction a secret of their order. And they carry the most versatile weapon ever invented: the poleaxe. Pray that you do not need them. And when they arrive, pray that you have done no wrong.”

Sword Fighting For Fic Writers: Chapter 1

It’s going to take me another day or two to finish the full guide, so I’m going to start posting these in chapters. I will continue to post one chapter a day, and also post the full guide as one monster post when it’s done. I may refer to future chapters in these, those will be turned into links as chapters become available.

You can follow the tag #Swords for Fics if you want to keep up without following me :) There will be around 12 chapters or more.

My background: Hey there! I’ve been training in the Italian method of sword fighting for about 7 or 8 months now. So I’d say I’m still quite the novice but I’ve learned a lot and I’d like to share some of that with you all! I’ve trained with two handed swords, one handed swords, sword and buckler, dual swords, dagger, spears, quaterstaff, and poleaxe. (Not rapiers though, sorry.) I also have a “writing” background in animation and illustration.

What’s this for?: As I discovered when trying to storyboard a fight a year ago, action scenes are a pain to write when you don’t know your options. There are a ton of great fics out there with great swashbuckling adventure, and you all do an amazing job at bringing out the most important part of any fight: how the characters feel about it. And while that’s often all you need for good story telling, this is for writers who want to spend more time playing in that action.

Terminology?: There’s a lot of terminology in sword fighting that the general audience won’t understand, or may not even share the same names depending on the school of sword fighting. I’ll be using some terminology as I learned it, but will mostly try to describe things in layman’s terms.

Though a rapier could be considered a one handed sword, it is used differently and I don’t have sufficient knowledge to go in depth for them. 

So let’s get started!

Available Chapters:
1: Dumb Ways to Die  2.May Your Blade Be True! 3.On Your Guard!
4. Making the Cut 5.Stick ‘em With the Pointy End 6.It’s Like a Dance
7.The Measure of a Man 8.A Crossing of Blades 9.Like Chess, but with Knives
An Interlude About Story Telling
10.You Can Barely Lift Your Sword 11.Buckle Some Swash 12.Dual Wielding
13.Everything is a Weapon 14.Got Your Sword!

Dumb Ways to Die
Beginner Mistakes

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No one ever expects a lefty 😜.

I’m a mediocre swordswoman (would prefer a poleaxe, really) but the left handedness almost always catches people off guard. Taken this week at Swordcraft LARP in Melbourne, Australia by @theprohobby.

MariChat May Day 13: SIN

I took some liberty with this prompt, as well. I’m trying to keep this to a single, continuous story arc, and I wasn’t ready for them to get naughty just yet. So, you’ll just have to make do with LUST rather than SMUT this time.

This is for @siderealsandman. You set the sin bar high, my friend. If anyone wants to read incredibly well written sin, go check out Sandman’s AO3.


Marinette checked her reflection in her mirror for the umpteenth time, because she was too antsy to sit still. Which was silly. She didn’t even know that he would be coming over. She swung away from the mirror with a groan, and began pacing. They hadn’t made any plans, but he had made a habit of dropping by on Friday evenings. He didn’t always come, but he did whenever he could.

And since she’d finished her Chat Noir outfit earlier in the week, she’d decided to go ahead and put it on, to surprise him with the complete look. After his reaction to the choker, she was quite looking forward to seeing his reaction to all of it. But what if he didn’t show tonight? What if he showed, but he thought it was ridiculous? What if he thought it was slutty?

She stopped. Why was she freaking out over what Chat Noir thought of this outfit? Sure, a bit of anticipation and even nerves made sense. She did want him to like them, after all. But this level of anxiety was over the top, even for her. It was just Chat Noir, and regardless of what Alya thought, they weren’t dating. It wasn’t like that for them, it wasn’t anything like she was waiting for Adrien to show up.

“Get a hold of yourself, girl,” she muttered. She resolutely pulled a new library book from her desk, and sat on her chaise to read. Either he would stop by, or he wouldn’t. She opened the book to the first page, and set about getting herself engrossed in the story.

It was late when Adrien was finally released from that stupid black tie affair with his dad. It had been boring and superficial and excruciatingly long, just as those events always were, but this one was worse because it fell on a Friday night. It had somehow become routine to go visit Marinette on Fridays, and now, he couldn’t stand to miss one. So, even though it was probably already too late, he called for his transformation as soon as he was sure that Nathalie wouldn’t be bothering him any more for the night.

The journey across the rooftops was freeing, as it always was, and he’d managed to lose some of the tension from that interminable dinner by the time he reached her balcony. Her lights were still on, which was always a good sign. He peered in through her skylight, and saw that she was curled up under a blanket on the chaise, with a book. He tapped on the glass to get her attention, and waved. Her face lit up when she saw him, and when she waved him in, he wasted no time in joining her.

“I’d given up on you coming over today, Chaton,” she said as he came through the opening in her ceiling.

“Eh, I got tied up as my civilian self.” He pulled the trap door closed behind himself, and began to climb down from her bed. “I almost didn’t come over, as late as it is. And had your light been off, I’d have turned back.”

“Well then, I’m glad I left my light on.” She pushed the blanket back to stand, then turned to set her book down, and Chat realized that she was wearing something other than her customary pink.

She was wearing black.

No, she was wearing black and green.

His colors. She was dressed entirely in his colors, and he quite suddenly forgot how to breathe. It must be the outfit that she’d designed from her sketches of him. She’d elected to stay surprisingly close to the design of his suit, and the sight of Marinette’s trim form clad in something very much like his suit was wreaking havoc with his equilibrium.

She’d made herself a pair of black skinny jeans, but rather than using black thread and a traditional cut for pants, she had cut these to echo the lines of his suit and stitched them with heavy green thread. The result was striking, to say the least. When she’d bent to put down her book, he’d gotten a very good look at the horizontal line across her derriere, as well as the twin lines that traveled down the backs of her legs, making them appear even longer than they were. The waist band sat at her hips, like the belt that circled his own body, and was likewise stitched in the heavy green thread.

By this time she’d turned to face him, and he saw that while her top also echoed the lines of his suit, she’d taken greater creative license with it. It was not made of denim, like the pants, but of matte satin, and was trimmed all the way around in piping of the same green as the thread. In some ways, it resembled a cheongsam, though she’d taken a great deal of liberty with that, as well. She’d clearly modeled the shape of the cap sleeves on the lines on his shoulders, so that they came to gently rounded points. In place of the high neckline, she wore her bell collar necklace above a low “V” neckline that would have shown cleavage on a bustier woman. The green line continued straight down the middle of the shirt to the hem, and was further embellished by two matching green frog closures.

She’d found a way to combine the style elements of his suit with elements from her own heritage, and the over-all effect was stunning, and…provocative. He moistened suddenly dry lips with his tongue, and allowed his gaze to rove over her again.

“Um, Chat? I-is it ok?”

He jerked his eyes to her face, finally aware that he had been staring, and saw that she was watching him anxiously. “Guh, Marinette, you look—er, I mean, this is—this is incredible! And—are you wearing chopsticks in your hair?”

“I am!” She turned to show him her hair, which she’d coiled into a bun and secured with a pair of shiny black chopsticks, which were embellished at the ends with tiny green paw prints. “So, you like it?”

“Like it?” He stepped closer to her, and touched a claw to the paw print on one of the chopsticks with something nearing awe. Not only had she dressed herself in his colors from head to toe, but she had made every last bit of it herself. She’d all but marked herself as his. “I fucking love it,” he breathed.

She whirled to face him, grinning happily, and he found himself staring down into her blue, blue eyes, which were presently very, very close to his face. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips without consulting him first, and in that moment, he found himself faced with a very intense desire to sweep his hand over her curves, pull her against him, and press his lips to hers. He watched in fascination as her grin faded, and her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips before tugging the lower one in between her teeth. His breath caught, and he found himself swaying toward her.

“Ch-Chat,” she whispered, and he didn’t know if it was a question or an invitation or a rejection, but it was enough to bring his brain back online.

He straightened abruptly, and took several hasty steps back, aware that his pants were feeling uncomfortably tight. What in the hell? Where had all of that come from? She was watching him, wide-eyed, with something like disappointment on her face. He mentally kicked himself, hoping that she wouldn’t notice his uh, problem. Why did he have to go and make it awkward between them? He cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware that he was probably blushing enough for it to show around his mask. “S-sorry about that. I, um, ahem, I love it. You did a great job.”

She opened her mouth to speak, apparently thought better of whatever she was going to say, and closed it again. She looked down, tugged at the hem of her shirt nervously, and one half of it pulled briefly away from the other, revealing a flash of the skin beneath.

The shirt didn’t close all the way down, he realized. Those frogs weren’t just decorative; they were the only things holding the silly thing closed. He leaned heavily against the ladder behind him, feeling poleaxed all over again.

“Thanks,” she finally said, with a small smile.

He blinked, an idea forming in his mind. “Hey, uh, Princess?”


“Would you mind if I took a couple of pictures?” Crap, was that weird? He really hoped she didn’t think it was weird.

Her smile broadened, and it reached her eyes again. “Not at all.”

He tugged his baton from behind his back, and brought up the screen. After tapping the pad for the camera, he snapped a couple with her facing him, and lowered it again uncertainly. “Could you, uh…”

“Turn around? Sure.”

She smiled again, and turned away from him so that he could photograph the back. She had her head turned to the side, so he was able to capture her face in profile. Had she always been so…sexy? He gulped, and hoped that she couldn’t hear. “Perfect. Thanks, Princess.”

“Of course!” She moved to the desk, then, and picked up her phone. “Would you mind taking a selfie with me? I don’t have any pictures of us together…”

“Only if you promise to give me a copy.”

“You know I will, Chaton.” She brought up the camera on her phone, and moved to stand beside him, but the angle was weird.

“Here.” He took the phone from her hands, and stood behind and just to the side of her, and held his arm out to take the picture. He pretended not to notice that her face was right next to his, or that only a few centimeters separated their bodies. He took a few pictures before straightening and taking another step away from her.

He was discovering that her proximity was inversely proportional to his ability to think. He managed to say goodnight without embarrassing himself, and then made his escape. When he was safely several houses over, he stopped and looked pensively back toward her balcony.

They’d grown close over recent months, and he considered her one of his dearest friends. If he had found himself attracted to her, he’d chalked it up to the fact that she was a pretty girl and he was a normal 17 year old guy. He’d never thought beyond that, because he’d been so focused on pursuing Ladybug. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might develop feelings for someone else, and if anyone had asked him yesterday if there was something between him and Marinette, he’d have scoffed.

Now? He wasn’t so sure any more. She’d somehow left him aching without ever touching him, so whatever else he felt for her, he definitely desired her. He adjusted himself in his pants with a sigh, and continued on his way.


Anyone want to guess what he’s going to be doing when he gets home?

A little gift for @gentlesleaze, who seemed to like the idea of Benvolio in armor as much as I did… :)

Rough alarum bells rang out in violent echo through Verona’s streets – yet they were barely heard over the city-wide panic that seemed to grip its citizens by their very throats. Shopkeepers boarded their windows and barred their doors, looking to find some way to protect their goods from pillage and destruction. From open doorways mothers cried out for their children and then quickly pulled them inside to safety. Able-bodied men had been told to find a weapon – although some carried little more than kitchen cleavers and pitchforks – and, once assembled into small companies, to make their way to the city gates to meet the danger that now threatened them all.

An army, led by the duke of Milan, was on its way – and it was growing ever closer as the day progressed. The host numbered eight thousand men, so the rumors said, alongside two thousand German mercenaries well-known for their savagery.

A citizen militia, however set they might be on defending their homes and their families, could do little against such highly-trained soldiers, so the prince had called upon the aristocratic houses, asking that each send forward their best men-at-arms to ride out against the enemy. And so Rosaline had spent the morning hours – like all the women of her house – in a whirl of activity, helping to ready the men for battle and the palazzo for the possibility of protracted siege. She had worked tirelessly, running from one task to the next with little rest, not wanting to let her mind lay idle, not wanting to contemplate what horrors might be unleashed were her Capulet kinsmen defeated and her city taken by the enemy.

The men had at last assembled in the courtyard, fully girded for war, led by her uncle, who sat sternly atop a hulking gray destrier. The women had donned ribbons of Capulet blue in their hair as a measure of support, and even with tears threatening in their eyes, they waved their handkerchiefs as the men departed in a cloud of hoof beats. Only once the dust had settled did it occur to Rosaline that she was tied not to one house, but to two. It was from a sense of duty – and only duty, she told herself – that decided she must go and bid farewell to one last man before he departed for the field of combat.

She did not bother to take a servant – it would have been too much trouble, and besides, she resembled one well enough, a fact that allowed her greater ease of movement through the streets. But the mood outside was riotous, a barely-controlled chaos that seemed ready to erupt at any moment, and so she avoided the crowds, skirting close to buildings and drawing the hood of her cape up over her head as she hastened towards her destination.

As she walked, the streets became less and less familiar – she had few dealings on this side of the river, the heart of Montague power – but she guided herself by landmarks, her eyes continually keeping watch on the tall granite bell tower that guarded over the abbey church of San Sebastiano. His palazzo, she knew, was just there, tucked nearby. It was not as handsome or as grand as her own home, she noted as she approached it from the street, but it bore the trappings of wealth nevertheless.

People were still coming and going from beneath the arched portico, and she hurried inside, hoping that she hadn’t come too late.

Within the house, few took notice of her – she was dressed plainly, after all – and she found herself moving aside to make way for a group of knobby-kneed squires bearing armloads of pikes and brightly-polished poleaxes. She had half a mind to stop one of them and ask where she might find their young master, until she glanced past them, gazing into the wide courtyard beyond.

Near the center of the courtyard, just next to a burbling fountain, a young man was quietly adjusting the leather straps of his horse’s bridle, wrapped deep in thought. Warm sunlight gleamed brilliantly against the burnished steel of his armor, curling over the fluted breastplate and the round pauldrons that encased his shoulders. His arms and legs were similarly covered, and a final plate circled protectively around his neck, ending just below his trimmed hairline. He had set aside his slim rapier, exchanging it for a heavy broadsword that hung from the belt around his waist. Looking at him, Rosaline felt her heart quicken with a sudden jolt. She did not understand how, but her Montague betrothed had been utterly transformed. In her mind, she had associated him with all the callow excesses of youth: irresponsibility, recklessness, a desire to live only for his own pleasure. In front of her, though, with his marble-cut profile and hair turned red and fiery in the rays of the sun, was a man, one arrayed to practice the lethal arts of war. Were it not for the somber, melancholy strain in his eyes, he might resemble Mars himself.

His task complete, he gave the animal an affectionate rub along the length of its muzzle, and moved to place the reins up towards the front of the saddle. With a turn of his head, though, his gaze found hers, his expression at once overcome by surprise and confusion.

Her feet compelled her forward, powered by an urge she did not fully understand, until she was but an arm’s length away from where he stood.  

“My lady… Rosaline…” he said softly, his brows furrowing inward. “Why have you come? Why have you not stayed at your uncle’s?”

The words came slowly, trapped as they were between her head and her heart. “I have come to see you, before you ride out. To offer you a farewell,” she at last replied. “It is only fitting. For we are betrothed, are we not?”

He said nothing to her question, but dismissed it with a sigh and a shake of his head. “The streets are dangerous and the Milanese army almost to our gates. You ought not to have concerned yourself with me.”

She wanted to argue back, to tell him that she would concern herself with what and whom she pleased, to remind him that they were yet unmarried and for now, at least, his will would not prove a master over her own. But she bit back her tongue, knowing that she could not start a quarrel, not now. For she had not come all this way just to let him depart with only foul words having passed between them.

That he might never come back at all was a possibility she had not fully contemplated until this moment.

A curly-haired squire clad in dark red livery approached, carrying a round metal object polished to a high sheen, which he held out for his master to take.

“Your helmet, my lord,” he said.

Her betrothed grasped it tentatively, his gaze following the squire as the young man turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the house, and then finally falling upon the steel helmet in his hands. From his silence, his unfocused gaze, and the pale pensiveness that had begun to cloud his features, Rosaline could tell that he was thinking of the battle to come, perhaps wondering if he would live to see the end of it. She could not say why it pained her so to see him disheartened, for he was nothing to her – and she to him, no doubt – the two of them bound to each other solely by royal decree. Still, some small voice within her urged her to speak, to offer him the balm of what few comforting and encouraging words she had to give.

“In more chivalrous times, they say, a knight would go into combat wearing the colors of his lady, to furnish him with strength and to help him remember what he was fighting for.” She reached up and pulled the blue ribbon loose from her hair, holding it towards him. “Will you wear them for me?”

If he seemed surprised by her words, he said nothing, but raised his arm in acquiescence, allowing her to tie the ribbon around the top of the metal plate that encased his elbow. Once she had finished, she looked up at him once more, noting – with some small pleasure – that his mood had brightened. A ghost of a smile curled along the corner of his mouth, and there was something in his eyes as well, a trace of that brash, sardonic humor she had come to know well since their betrothal.

“Look not so pained, my lady,” he said in gentle mockery. “Perhaps I shall fall in battle, and then you will be free. And as we are not married yet, I’m certain your mourning period would be brief. You should be able to cast aside your black veil by Michelmas at the very least.”

She shook her head, feeling a smile begin to play upon her lips as well.

“If you could try not to die, for my sake at least, I would well be pleased,” she replied, realizing at that moment that she spoke the truth. She was certain – that is, fairly certain – that she had no desire to marry him, but she did not wish to see him taken from this earth. “For black does not flatter me,” she added, “and I would fain not have to wear it for so long a time as that.”

“Now there you are wrong,” he murmured, “as any color would suit, for such a face as yours.”

His compliment was unexpected, as was the warm flutter that stirred within her chest. She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile – and then, out of some unknown impulse, she leaned over and gave him a small kiss upon the cheek.

His eyes turned wide with surprise, his mouth open to speak, when suddenly a great clamor of shouting was heard throughout the courtyard.

“To arms, Montagues! To arms!”

The rallying cry had been sounded, armored men on horseback now thundering through the courtyard, and Rosaline knew that the moment had come to say goodbye. It seemed far too brief a time to her, though, too brief to voice the thoughts that came unbidden to her mind, too brief to do anything but look back at him, her breath turning raw and unsteady as she met his gaze.

His eyes were like two fierce stars, blazing with determination, but she had little time to wonder why, for without warning he grasped her by the waist and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth firmly against hers. Her palm was flat along the smooth metal of his breastplate, and she might have pushed away, struggled somehow to release herself from his hold. Yet she did not. Instead, she surrendered, her body melting against his as their lips met in passionate desperation.

And then just as quickly, he released her, and after having found his mount and hoisting himself up into the saddle, he circled closer and met her gaze one last time.

“If you would be so kind, lady, as to keep me in your prayers?” he asked. She nodded breathlessly, still feeling the warmth of his lips on hers, and with a spur of his horse he galloped from the courtyard to join his kinsmen, the dark blue ribbon on his arm fluttering against the bright gleam of steel.

[my Still Star-Crossed ficlets are on AO3 – read them here] 


The poleax was a multi-purpose weapon: the spike was used for thrusting. the ax blade for cutting through armor, and the hammer head for crushing tissue and bones. This poleax has long langets and a rondel or disc to protect the bearer’s hands from weapons sliding down the shalt.


Developed by the Swiss in the 13th century, the halberd was primarily a slashing weapon. although its spike could be used lor thrusting.

The fearsome Swiss infantry used halberds to great effect at the battle or Morgarten, where they destroyed an Austrian army in 1315.


During the 16th century, halberds became increasingly decorative in style. but this example dated around 1500, is very much a utilitarian weapon or war. A powerful spike is combined with a diagonal ax blade and a hooked fluke.

Shifted - Part 6, Chapter 5

Every Tuesday I’ll be posting a chapter from my brand new AU story. The premise is simple - what if Claire had gotten pregnant with Brianna a month or two earlier in the story, and she and Jamie had re-evaluated their priorities and decided that the cause was lost, and they were able to slip away from the army and quietly return to Lallybroch?
Previous installments…

Part 6 - The Honeymoon

Lallybroch, Summer 1763

Chapter 5


“What is it, Jamie?”


Claire had finally come to bed. William had kept her long enough, wanting to share every last detail of the trip with his da. The people he’d met, the chores he’d done, the pheasants and rabbits he’d caught himself and roasted for supper. Claire’s heart had burst with love for her son, already showing the makings of a great man. Like his father.


Jamie had kissed her deeply when he returned, quickly whispering “I’ve something to discuss wi’ ye tonight” in her ear before seeing to the horses. And then supper, and then chores, and then she had spent time reconnecting with William while Jamie had spent time reconnecting with Brianna. It was past dark now, and she’d yet to have any kind of conversation with her husband.


Jamie turned back the quilt on Claire’s side of the bed and extended his arm towards her. “Come.”


Softly she padded over to him and eased beneath the sheets, nestling into his shoulder. He sighed contentedly and kissed her forehead.


“I’ve been looking forward to this ever since we rode out.”


“What? Sleeping in a real bed?”


He snorted. “Aye, that too. Grannie MacNab snores like the devil, I’ll tell ye. Good thing William sleeps like he’s been poleaxed, elsewise there’d be no way the puir lad could get any rest.”


He paused. “No, mo nighean donn – I’ve had almost nothing else on my mind except the desire to have ye back in my arms. To hold ye close. And speak wi’ ye of whatever’s on my mind.”


She nuzzled into his neck. “Mmphm. Flatterer.”


Gently Jamie laced the fingers of one hand through hers. His other hand played with her wedding ring. “I want to take ye on a wee trip, Claire.”


That surprised her. “Oh? To where?”


He shrugged. “It doesna matter. I only want to spend some days wi’ you – only you. Away from the bairns and the house, ken?”


“I ken,” she said softly.


“So. I was thinking on those three days we spent together after we wed – about how much we learned about each other. And how close I grew to ye during that time. Do you remember?”


Playfully she shoved his shoulder. “Idiot. Of course I remember.”


He smiled into her hair. “Weel. That was our – honeymoon, ken? So it’s high time we had a second one.”


She kissed his shoulder. “That’s a lovely idea. The children won’t mind – they’re old enough to get on without us.” She paused. “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever taken a trip away from them.”


“I dinna think we have. Murtagh can mind them – they’ll probably be excited to have us away.” Her free hand lay on top of his, and the fingers of their four hands tangled together, untangled, and traced to find each other again.


“When would you like to go?”


Jamie watched their hands make love to each other. “Tomorrow, or the day after next?”


She smiled. “Yes. Yes please.”


He bent to kiss her gently. “All right then. But I’ll ask one thing of ye while we’re away.”


She kissed him again. “What’s that?”


“Stay away from any stone circles, Sassenach. I mind what happened the last time ye took a second honeymoon.”


“Is this it, then?”


Jamie nudged the horse down the slope toward the empty cottage. “Aye, ‘tis. Did ye truly think I’d make ye sleep in the heather, or under a tree, Sassenach?”


She settled against him in the saddle. “Wouldn’t be the first time – though it has been quite a while since we’ve done that.”


“Aye, weel. The croft has been empty for some time now – the family emigrated to the New World a few years back. I’ve taken William here now and again, to show him how to mend a few things. That’s how I ken there’s a table, chairs, and bed inside.” Gently he lay a hand on her thigh, grinning. “All we need, I suppose.”


She could only smile back. “Indeed.”


Jamie eased the horse to a stop in the small dooryard. He slid off and helped Claire to the ground. “Shall I take our things inside, then?”


“Aye – I’ll hobble the wee beastie and be in straight away.”


Claire lay a hand on his forearm, and Jamie turned to meet her eyes. Quickly she kissed his cheek. “Hurry,” she whispered.


Jamie swallowed. Emotion surged within him – desire, want, need, love. Always love for this fine, rare woman.


“Get inside, Sassenach. I dinna plan to let you out until mid-day tomorrow at least.” She grinned, effortlessly undoing their bags from the horse’s back and slipping inside the croft.

Patater Week - Feb 8 - Fake Relationship

Kent doesn’t know why he says what he does. Literally any other explanation would have been better. 

Literally. Anything. Else.

But no. Kent is standing outside Alexei Mashkov’s hotel room with a bucket of icy water in his hands, fully prepared to lean it against the door and then quickly knock and ditch, when someone two doors down yells, “Parson? What are you doing here?”

Kent freezes and snaps his head. It’s the goalie, Snowy. The guy’s wearing a frown, which makes sense, because there’s no reason for Kent to be on the Falc’s floor when the Aces’ floor is one down. It’s pure dumb luck that the Falcs hadn’t yet cleared out of Minnesota by the time the Aces had arrived and settled in, and Kent had thought, Hey, Mashkov’s been ribbing me all over Twitter for the last two months, wouldn’t it be hilarious if I pulled an IRL prank on him? 

That is the exact explanation he should give. The words “I’m pulling a leaner on Mashkov, wanna help?” should come out of his mouth. But they don’t.

Instead, what Kent says is, “I’m making a booty call, duh.”


“What?” Snowy’s eyes don’t bug out but he does look poleaxed. “You–And Tater? Since when?”

None of your fuckin’ business,” Kent says, instead of what he should say, which is “Since never, oh my god you should have seen your face!”

What is he saying? Why is he lying? His hands are going numb from the bucket of ice water and meanwhile he’s sweating bullets under his sweatshirt.

Snowy doesn’t look pleased by the brush-off, but he also looks–apologetic? “Tater’s out,” he says. “He didn’t tell you?”

“I thought I’d surprise him,” Kent says, still going along with this, why the fuck is he still going along with this lie. His feet, mercifully, carry him a few steps back from Mashkov’s door and back down the hall in the opposite direction from Snowy. “Guess I’ll head back.”

Confusion is plain on Snowy’s face. “I’ll tell him you stopped by?”

“No, no, I’ll text him, it’s cool!” Kent’s grin might be manic and his voice might be a shade too high. His voice might be several octaves too high. “No need to bother him!”

“If you’re sure–”

“Insanely sure!” Kent waves and fucking flees.


Oscar Nominee Rooney Mara Talks Cate Blachett and her role in ‘Carol’

Peter Travers: When Carol walks in, she’s Cate Blanchett but she’s dressed by Sandy Powell. She’s like this perfect example of glamorous femininity and you are sort of poleaxed by it. You’re looking at it saying, 'What is this?’ ( link )


Knight Attire 02 by Pshaman

anonymous asked:

heeeeeyaaaaa ♥ if you wanna: the chocobros (plus luna and aranea if it's not too much?) with a friend that calls them babe, love, darling etc - like how would they react the first time their friend goes "hey honeybunch, whatcha doin?" - that kind of thing ^^;

Everyone else calls him Prince Charmless, but when you drop Prince Charming into casual conversation for the first time you’re going to thoroughly derail Noctis from whatever he was saying.  His face will be the poster for poleaxed, but when he recovers he’ll toss the nearest available object at you.  If you get Gladio saying it he’s going to kill you.

What’s up buttercup?  You better have fast reflexes, because sneaking up behind Prompto while he’s lining up a beautiful shot will more than likely have him dropping his camera.  Not even from fright, but because of the nickname.  Catch it and nab a picture of him while his face is still red.  Steal his camera a couple of weeks later and you’ll find he kept the picture.

You might only be friends with Gladio, but you’re not blind.  So it’s only natural that you ever so casually call him Hot Stuff at some point, although maybe saying it just as he’s waking up from being charged by a garulessa isn’t the wisest idea.  You just want him laughing, and instead you have him wondering what cosmic drink the Astrals are piss-drunk on if this is his afterlife confused.

What’s cookin’, good lookin’?  Now Ignis is not a man easily ruffled, you know this.  You’ve seen the outright war of wit and words between Gladio and he.  So you really, really don’t expect him to drop the spoon.  But he does.  Right into the soup, never to be seen again, unless he wants to burn his hand fishing for it.  It’s the first time you’ve been witness to Ignis Scientia speechless.

You don’t really mean to call Luna cutiepie, it just sort of… slips out.  In front of Ravus.  Who takes immediate offence to it and you’re preeeeeeeeetty damn sure he’s two seconds away from running you through with his practice sword, but Luna starts laughing and calls you sweetheart and pretty much saves your ass from a royal kicking, you could kiss her for that quite honestly.

Hey honeybunch, whatcha doin?  It seemed harmless enough to say, but when your back connects with a wall and you have certain death glaring you in the eye you realise teasing Aranea Highwind might not be your smartest idea ever.  “You, if you’re lucky.”  And then she’s smirking at you and sauntering away and wow, okay, your cheeks are warm to the touch and she totally wins that round.

neveserene  asked:

Quiet me :D

Take two!

“I’m sorry,” Thor says. It was all his fault, and he is sorry, but he knows it’s not enough.

“Oh are you,” Loki sneers. “Isn’t that fabulous. You’re sorry.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“You think you can do whatever you like as long as you bat your golden eyelashes and say sorry afterwards, don’t you?”

“I don’t -”

“Save me your bleating,” Loki hisses.

Thor’s tongue is cleaved to the roof of his mouth, useless. He frowns unhappily.

“Oh get that stupid poleaxed expression off your face,” Loki says, his mouth twisting downward. “I cannot bear to look on it.”

He steps forward, crowding into Thor’s space, jabbing a finger into his sternum.

“You cannot make me accept your apologies this time you witless, brainless, spineless, pathetic excuse for a -”

Thor sinks lower and lower with every word, unable to form a retort, an excuse, anything, and the venom keeps spitting from Loki’s mouth and Thor needs it to stop he needs it to stop right now and so he shuts Loki up the only way he can think of.

He kisses him.

When he pulls back Loki’s eyes are very wide and he’s breathing very fast.

“I -” Loki starts.

Thor kisses him again.

And for once in his life, Loki is quiet.

anonymous asked:

Sir Knighty Knight! In D&D, there are three types of weapon damage, bludgeoning, piercing and slashing. Are these these main descriptors in the real world for how a weapon is used?

Kind of.

They encompass a fair amount of how damage is dealt, though I’d call ‘slashing’ damage ‘Cutting’ instead, as slashing is a strange term (notably Musashi describes cutting and slashing as two different things, cutting being cutting THROUGH something and slashing as merely touching it; or, cutting as being the act of cutting, and slashing being the movement).

Also weird because swords in particular can be any of the three, depending on context, armour used, and how dead you want your opponent.

On the whole though, yeah, though technically any weapon can fal under any of the above. Including maces and clubs weirdly - Aztec Macuahuitl are CLUBS that do slashing, bludgeoning, and some piercing damage. Poleaxes can do all of them, and a sword can do the same. Weapons can be used very weirdly.