just wanna say LOVING ur work 😚🫶 also, possible idea.... kneeling before sandor while he's still in his armor... slowly unbuckling it for him,,, but not before pressing ur cheek into the cold metal of his cod piece...
I don't have much past that sadly but I'd love to see what you'd do 😋
For Luck, Dog
The Hound x Handmaiden reader
@spadekissesgirls THANKS BABE 💕(Feast your eyes; this part came out cuter rather than dirty but bear with me. also lowkey when he gets back to that tent, handmaid is in for it) it’s not dirty -yet - just suggestive !! Part two do you reckon?
All other hound x handmaiden can be found here
The King’s tourney field is bogged in mud, carpeteted with fierce yellow leaves that have drifted off the trees. A bubble of people and a crush of activity under the spreading of a golden autumn sun. Sky wide and blue as peacock feathers, and no clouds to interrupt the rays.
It’s one mashing churn of Knights. Smithy’s. Smell of brazier smoke backed by horse dung hanging around like an omen.
Sandor had put himself forward. A tourney purse a mighty goal for a technically un-sworn, minor housed, sell sword. You and him were currently enclosed in a simple canvas tent. He’d chucked the duty of helping him fasten his armour on, your way.
The ground is flattened emerald grass with mud poking on through. A rug has been laid. As ever his furnishings are modest. A wonky dining table and one rickety chair. One chest. A barrel in the far corner. The din of men and squires bustles outside. The solid clank of a smithy’s hammer. No house banners or sigils strung up.
He’ll fight under his own name. Cause he’ll be damned if he shares the same banners or colours as his murdering cunt of a knighted brother. One whose surely enjoying far more riches and fares in his own tent across the field.
“They won’t pit you against him, will they?”
“Not unless they want a fucking bloodbath.” He warns. All gravel and growl. Making sure his dirk was in its usual place within reach.
That causes you to raise a wry brow. “Bloodbath seems to be his style.”
He merely grunts. You see the twitch of his mouth under those bristling whiskers.
“You seem nervous.” You state. Fixing various straps til the metal hung right. You can tell. He didn’t sleep right either. Up a good portion of the night. Until dawn crept it’s red dusting of light across the floorboards.
He glared. Face stony.
“Fuck off.”
You fight with a buckle for his cuirass. Yanking til it gives. It’s as inflexible as it’s owner.
“If I do who will be left to help you then, mutt?”
You catch his good eye. He’s not amused. He doesn’t like your ribbing.
But he does like how he can peer down the neckline of your nice dress from certain angles. It’s the one he bought you. Velvet. Long draping sleeves. A muted ochre gold. Belt cinching your waist. He liked the way the dog pendant he bought you swings at your sternum like a pendulum.
You turn to the side to grab something. He slaps your ass for that. So hard it s tings. Makes you lurch forwards. Hard enough to surely leave a handprint. One he’ll find and soothe later.
You take a moment to scan the canvas walls.
“No sigil? Not even one Clegane dog?”
He scoffs. All razors and derision. You’re looking at him. I am the Clegane dog, woman.
“I’m not a shagging knight. Remember?”
You gasp. Theatrical. Mocking.
“You don’t say.” You grin.
Reaching over to the heaped bowl of fruit he hasn’t touched. Pop a grape in your mouth. Burst its sweetness on your tongue. His glare could melt iron. He rolls his shoulder testing his movement.
Tent flap rustles from outside. You call over your shoulder, mouth full, without turning round as you sip his wine. Eat more red grapes. “Come in, Rody.”
Sandor frowns.
A reedy little boy, a guttersnipe, with blonde hair like a mad scarecrow comes wandering in. Wearing a too big doublet in drab and dirty muted yellow. He’s carrying a sword that is scarce taller than he is.
It’s Sandors sword. He spins back to find it missing from its spot. Leant against the wonky table. Where he set it earlier.
His mouth twitches. A growl tucked in his throat. Hunching up around his canines. “The bloody hell are you?”
He quickly grabs the sword off the boy. Who shrinks back, retreats, as Sandor advances. Scurried back like a mouse. A veritable wall of armour barrelling towards a kid who by comparison was built like a brittle chicken bone set to snap.
“What you doing with this, you little thief? Picked the wrong man to rob.” He warns. Squaring his shoulders.
The boy just stares up at him. Big blinking eyes that don’t look nearly scared enough. Sandor sneers his teeth at him to see if that provoked a reaction.
It did not. Still he blinks. Stands on the spot and stares up and up at the huge irritated man.
“Speak.” Sandor snaps.
You come to his aid.
You smile. “Thank you. Rody.” You bring the boy to your side. Hand on his twiggy shoulder. Bones of him virtually poking through the linen.
You cup him to your dress and push him towards the barrel and small stool in the corner. There’s a plate of cheese and some bread. A huge boned leg of turkey. And a half cup of cider for him to enjoy. Fair pay for fair work.
“I had him sharpen your sword. You’re in the lists for sword combat. Sandor. Trust me. It’s worth it.” You say as you continue to sort through his armour chest.
Still he frowns.
“Whose that little weed?” He said. Watching the boys cheeks bulge with food as he ate like a starving jackal. Big gulping mouthfuls. Tearing meat off the bone like an animal. Grease and fat smeared down his chin.
You tamp down his darkness with your sunniness. Treat him as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your new squire. My lord.”
The Hound looks like he just had a bad taste spat in his mouth. He doesn’t know if it’s the news you just offloaded. Or the title he hated tripping off your tongue.
“I don’t need one.”
“Well. Tough. You have him.”
“Probably crawling with fleas.” He eyes him with derision.
“He’s not actually. He was employed as a squire to the Tully’s. Then he worked for scraps as a cupbearer in the Red Keep kitchens. He’s squeaky clean and carries no lice. He’s also very fast and whip smart. Now he works for you.”
“Aye? Bet he’ll fill his pockets with silver and bread and run off first chance he gets.”
“You’re all piss and vinegar today aren’t you.” You supply calmly.
“Fuck off.” He leans over and snarls directly at Rody as he stomps to the table for his wine.
“Don’t listen to the big man. He’s a filthy temper. Doesn’t mean it.”
Rody chews his food. Still silent. Still wide eyed. Stayed plonked where you’d set him.
“I don’t need him. I have you.”
You eye him. Eyes narrowed to cool slits. “I was told to fuck off. Remember?”
His mouth twitches. Teeth grit. Throwing his own words against him.
“Changed my mind. You stay. He goes. Now get rid of him.”
“Afraid I promised him a living. He’s very helpful. Keen to learn.” You hold out. Picking up his gauntlet. He reaches for the wine goblet with his free hand. Drains it in its entirety.
He eyes Rody as he leapt up. Scurried to the table and picked up the heavy flagon. Poured him some more. All the while. Under the heat of Sandors glare. When he’s done, he scuttles away back to his food.
“See? He’s well trained.” You point out.
“Dump the brat at someone else’s door. I don’t need him.” He presses. Spitting nails.
You take his goblet off him. Retake his arm to slide his gauntlet on. He lets you. Despite his anger.
“You didn’t want me either. At first as I recall.” You say. Rounding him to check the buckles at his back. Which was truth. The way he’d barked at you when you’d first met. Flashed his teeth and bitten and roared and expected you to run like all the others. You didn’t so much as turn a shade.
He scowls down at you now. Steps closer. Crowding. Armour clanking. Yanks a fistful of your skirts and drags you right to him. Stumbling into unyielding plate metal.
His hand slips down your back - again to grip your ass. Hard metal pinching your rear. An amorous look takes his face. You have to clasp your hands to his chest. Feel every hard ridge of his armour against your soft velvet front. It gets you a little wet between the thighs when he handles you this way.
“He doesn’t have the same benefits as you do.”
“You mean he doesn’t have a warm cunt and a set of tits?” You say gently.
“Now you mention it.” He snips. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath. The spices of the wine.
“That’s the only reason you keep me around is it.” You state. Buoying one brow. Testing him.
“Aye. The only reason.” He leans down and nudged his nose to yours to slip you into a hot, lippy kiss.
Nothing else. No reason. Certainly nothing else that you both dare give a name too. One that strangles your moments alone. Threaded into the very air you share.
It’s not that little four letter word that binds man and woman together.
It’s not.
You pull back. Breathless.
“I actually do have something for you.” You say.
“Good.” He barks. Draws you closer. Damn this fucking metal codpiece. Now his cock was beginning to stiffen, it made it somewhat restrictive.
“It better be under that fucking dress.” He nods.
Your eyes harden to stones.
“You’ll get that if you win.” You promise lowly. All sultry and lust.
“Rody.” You call out. He twists eagerly round at the sound of your call. “There’s coin on the table. Go spend it on some more cider.” You urge.
He grabs it. Takes the half eaten turkey leg with him. Still gnawing on it. Flits out the tent.
You grab something small off the table. Take it to hand. Then you step back, and pull up your skirts, and sink to a crouch right in front of him. Your head level with his belly.
“Fucking hell.”
You glare up at him. “Down, boy.”
He looks far too content.
“While you’re down there, maid.” He sneers. Looking clever.
You ignore his lewd comment. He watches you tie something to his belt. A favour. A little plaited ribbon. Yellow and black for his house. Twined with a little yellow flower sprig for you. If he refuses his house colours, you’ll make up for it.
“There.” You finalise. “For luck.”
“Then, when you win, Clegane. I will sink to my knees and happily suck your cock for as long as I please, as your reward.” You eye him with a beam on your face. Fingers dancing over his codpiece. The damn thing nearly hurt now.
He smiles.
“But only if you win.” You smart. Pulling your fingers away. Brazen mare.
“Cruel wench. Aren’t you?” He says. Adjusting his stance to make…. things….more, comfortable. Of a sort.
“And Rody stays.” You bargain.
His jaw grits. “Fine. The boy stays. But I’ll strangle the little fucker if he thinks he can cheat me.”
“He won’t.” You state. Rising to a full stand. He reached for the goblet again.
You push his hand down. “Enough wine. You’ll need a clear head”
He leers at you. “Worried I won’t win.”
You bounce up on your tiptoes. Right to his chest again. “Someone has to ensure you don’t get knocked on your ass. Dog.”
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i don't think anyone's done this yet i hope nobody's done this yet
Do you have a load of white haired blorbos? Do those blorbos have trauma? Then this is the tournament for you! Angsty anime boys, souls tortured by magic, and pale fellas in the torment nexus alike will all battle it out to see who’s the best out of the white hair and trauma crowd!
Little laydown on the rules:
white hair streak(s) with some form of significance count, bonus points if your character’s streak(s) were acquired in a traumatic way
Pale blondes don't count, their hair needs to actually be white. A platinum blond or phantom blonde might be allowed in if their hair is close enough to white, but all pale blondes will be rejected otherwise.
No restrictions on any fandoms or media! wilbur soot was unfortunately a character that came to mind for me. Just make sure the source isn't like. porn or anything. no ocs either sorry. Submit to your heart's content otherwise!
Submissions are primarily taken through google forms, but you won't get executed if you do an ask submission
SUBMISSIONS ARE CLOSED!!!! WE HIT 400 SUBMISSIONS!!! PRELIMS ARE SOMETIME THIS WEEK AND THE TOURNAMENT BEGINS MARCH 23RD!!!
Greetings everyone to the "Overwatch sexyman/woman/person" tournament (probably just going to go with sexypeople)
This will be a summer tournament all about which overwatch character is worthy of being crowned the most "tumblr sexymany" of the cast.
We have removed all of the animals (sorry winton), making it as of season 2 the tourney consists of 48 contestants, and it will be 3 brackets which each will last for 3 days (except for the semi and grand final)
Here is the current layout which i handcrafted in procreate, all of the lineups were made by a wheel. Even if they seem extremely intentional. Quality isn't perfect so for more info go down below to see the matchups and dates
ROUND 1 MATCHUPS! STARTING ON JUNE 1st
ROUND 1 BRACKET A
Date: June 1st, 8pm CET
Mercy vs Vendetta
Mei vs Moira
Hanzo vs Symmetra
Sierra vs Juno
Hazard vs Zarya
Freja vs Roadhog
Tracer vs Ashe
Illari vs Anran
ROUND 1 BRACKET B
Date: June 2nd, 8pm CET
Mizuki vs Reinhardt
Brigitte vs Zenyatta
Sigma vs Lifeweaver
Domina vs Kiriko
Sombra vs Soldier: 76
Genji vs Junkrat
Venture vs Lúcio
Baptiste vs Mauga
ROUND 1 BRACKET C
Date: June 3rd, 8pm CET
Torbjörn vs Pharah
Ramattra vs Emre
Orisa vs D.Va
Echo vs Wuyang
Doomfist vs Reaper
Widowmaker vs Cassidy
Sojourn vs Ana
Junkerqueen vs Bastion
In the meantime, submit your least favorite skins for the worst skin competition! (link here)
And our main tag is going to be #overwatch tumblr sexyperson tournament!
The Stag’s Smiling Turtle (Lyonel Baratheon x F!OC)
Summary:
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter IX: LINK
Chapter XI: LINK
Chapter IX: The Queen of Love & Beauty
The next opponent fell harder.
A Reach knight unhorsed so violently that his helm rolled halfway across the lists. Gasps turned quickly into cheers when the man staggered upright unharmed, but Lyonel barely acknowledged the acclaim.
He snapped his lance aside, breathing heavier now, shoulders rising beneath dented steel.
Pain lingered in his movements.
Victa noticed that too.
There was a slight stiffness when he mounted again.
The slower roll of his shoulder.
The bruise was darkening along his jaw where the visor no longer fully hid it.
Her smile faded with worry.
“He should rest,” she murmured without thinking.
Markis heard.
So did Ser Herold.
The knight’s jaw tightened. “He will not,” Herold replied quietly. “Not today.”
Below them, Lyonel removed his helm briefly, running a hand through sweat-darkened curls before tying the ribbon tighter around his gauntlet — securing it anew as though fearing it might slip away.
Then he looked up again. Saw her watching.
And grinned.
Victa laughed helplessly despite herself.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Round after round passed, victory followed victory.
The crowd shifted from excitement into something closer to awe. Even seasoned knights began exchanging looks. Murmurs spread through the stands like wind through dry grass.
The Laughing Storm was unstoppable today.
And worse... he looked happy doing it.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
By the final tilt, anticipation hung thick as approaching thunder.
Only two riders remained.
Lyonel Baratheon.
And a hardened marcher lord whose reputation promised endurance rather than flair.
The charge thundered louder than all before it.
Lances shattered simultaneously, but Lyonel struck cleaner. His opponent toppled backwards, armour crashing into the earth as dust exploded into the air.
Silence... then eruption.
Stormlanders rose to their feet, cheering wildly as Lyonel circled the arena at a triumphant canter. He lifted his visor fully now, flushed, bruised, radiant with exertion.
Victa clapped without restraint, laughter escaping her openly.
She had forgotten dignity.
Forgotten watching eyes.
Forgotten everything but joy.
Her Stag had won!
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The herald’s voice rang across the field, sharp and triumphant beneath the open sky.
“Victor of the Tourney... Lyonel of House Baratheon!”
For half a heartbeat, silence followed, the kind born not of uncertainty but of disbelief.
Then Storm’s End erupted.
Cheers rolled through the stands like crashing surf against stone cliffs.
Small folk leapt to their feet, nobles applauded with measured dignity that quickly dissolved into open excitement, banners waving as the victorious stag guided his horse into a slow circle around the arena.
Dust rose beneath pounding hooves, catching sunlight in golden clouds that clung to armour and silk alike.
Lyonel barely seemed to notice.
His breathing came heavier now, shoulders rising beneath dented steel. Sweat darkened his curls where they clung to his brow, and beneath the lifted visor the marks of battle showed plainly... reddened skin, forming bruises, exhaustion earned honestly rather than hidden.
Yet he smiled. Gods, he smiled.
Not the careless grin worn for taverns or feasts, nor the arrogant smirk that followed easy victories.
This one was different. Quieter. Satisfied.
A squire hurried forward carrying the ceremonial crown upon a velvet cushion, woven fresh that morning from pale blossoms and trailing ribbons meant to honour whichever lady fortune favoured that day.
The Queen of Love and Beauty.
The boy offered it with his head bowed.
Lyonel accepted it absently at first, fingers closing around delicate stems still cool from morning air. Petals brushed against his gauntlet, fragile compared to sword and lance.
The crowd waited.
Tradition was known.
He should turn toward the noble stands now. Choose among the daughters of powerful houses. Reward alliance, favour influence, please watching lords.
Several ladies straightened instinctively. Fans stilled. Smiles prepared.
And then...
Lyonel turned his horse.
Not toward rank.
Not toward power.
But toward the smaller booth set slightly aside from the greatness.
Toward green silk and sea-born curls.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The shift rippled outward immediately.
Whispers ignited faster than flame meeting oil.
“He cannot—”
“Surely he means another—”
“The Estermont girl?”
Markis felt it before he fully understood it, attention collapsing inward upon them from every direction. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes followed the approaching heir with open curiosity sharpened by scandal.
Beside him, Ser Herold straightened subtly, instinct older than thought placing tension through his shoulders.
Below them, Lyonel rode closer.
Slowly now.
Deliberately.
As though each step mattered.
Victa watched him approach with growing confusion, a smile lingering from victory cheers that slowly faltered as realisation crept closer.
He stopped directly beneath the booth.
Close enough that she could see dust caught in the lines of his armour.
Close enough to notice the faint tremor of fatigue in his arm as he steadied the reins.
Close enough that the world beyond them seemed to fall away entirely.
He removed his helm.
Black and white curls fell free, damp with sweat. A bruise darkened beneath one eye, another shadow along his jaw; proof of blows taken and endured.
His blue eyes lifted. And found hers instantly.
Everything else ceased to exist for him.
“Lady Victa,” he called, voice carrying easily despite exhaustion, warmed by laughter still lingering beneath it. “Would you do me the honour?”
Only then did she see the crown resting in his hand.
Understanding struck all at once. Her breath caught.
Me?
Her fingers rose instinctively toward her lips, laughter escaping softly in disbelief. She glanced toward Markis, searching for grounding, permission, reassurance; anything to confirm this moment was real.
His expression betrayed worry… fear even.
But he did not stop her. Could not.
Hundreds watched.
Slowly, almost uncertainly, Victa stepped forward.
The descent from the booth felt longer than it truly was. Each step echoed louder in her ears than the cheering crowd.
Her skirts brushed dust as attendants hurried to guide her safely, though she scarcely noticed them.
All she saw was him waiting.
She stopped before his horse. They were nearly level, rider and lady separated only by height and expectation.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Lyonel studied her openly.
The wonder in her expression.
The flushed disbelief.
The joy untouched by ambition.
No other lady would have reacted that way. Would have felt the honour with such gratitude.
Only her. His smiling Turtle.
Something softened in him. Every ache in his limbs suddenly felt insignificant.
Worth it.
He leaned forward carefully, one hand steadying himself against the saddle as the other lifted the crown.
The arena quieted again, anticipation pressing heavy against the air.
And gently... almost reverently... he placed it upon her head.
Not as a conquest.
Not as performance.
But with surprising care, adjusting it so flowers rested safely among her curls rather than crushing them.
Petals settled against dark hair. Sunlight caught the gold thread.
Victa laughed, startled, bright, utterly unrestrained, cheeks burning crimson as realisation finally settled over her.
She had never been chosen.
Never singled out before so many eyes.
Never honoured beyond the quiet affection of home.
Her gaze lifted to him again, shining with astonished happiness.
And Lyonel smiled back like a victorious boy rather than heir to Storm’s End.
In that instant, unspoken and reckless, a promise formed within him:
As long as she watched… he would keep winning.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The arena exploded.
Cheers. Gasps. Applause tangled with scandalised murmurs spreading faster than celebration itself.
Above them, Lord Baratheon leaned slowly back into his chair.
Understanding settled heavily in his chest. So... It was not amusement. Not passing curiosity.
His son had chosen.
Across nearby stands, young lords exchanged dark looks; one gripped the railing so hard his knuckles blanched white.
Ladies whispered sharply behind raised fans, smiles tight with displeasure.
Ser Herold’s gaze met Lyonel’s briefly.
A warning. Clear as drawn steel.
Protect her… or answer for it.
Lyonel did not acknowledge him. He looked only at Victa.
And throughout Storm’s End, gossip took root.
The Laughing Storm had crowned his queen.
Not a political bride.
Not a daughter of power.
But the smiling turtle from a distant isle.
And nothing unsettled the Stormlands more than seeing their future lord look utterly and dangerously pleased with his choice.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
For several heartbeats after the crowning, Victa remained where she stood.
Applause still echoed around her, rolling through the arena in waves that seemed distant now, muffled beneath the rush of blood in her ears.
The flower crown rested lightly upon her curls, fragile petals brushing her temples whenever the wind shifted from the sea.
She lifted a careful hand toward it, almost afraid it might vanish beneath her touch.
Real. It was real.
Lyonel lingered a moment longer before her, reins loose in his grasp, studying her reaction with open satisfaction.
Dirt streaked his armour, sweat traced lines along his throat, and yet he looked prouder now than during any victory announced that day.
Every bruise had meaning.
Every fall was justified.
His gaze softened when she laughed again, small, breathless, disbelieving.
Then the herald called for the next proceedings, attendants moved, and the spell fractured beneath necessity.
Lyonel inclined his head toward her, something almost intimate hidden within the gesture despite hundreds watching.
“My Queen,” he said quietly enough that only she heard.
Her cheeks flushed deeper.
Before she could think of an answer, he turned his stallion and rode away, greeted again by cheers that followed him like loyal hounds.
And only then did Victa realise.... everyone was still looking at her.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The walk back to the booths felt entirely different from the walk down.
Servants bowed as she passed. Not deeply, not improperly, yet noticeably lower than before.
A knight stepped aside to clear her path.
Two noble ladies paused mid-conversation, smiles freezing upon their lips as she approached.
One inclined her head politely, though her eyes lingered too long upon the crown resting in Victa’s hair.
Measured. Evaluating.
Behind lace fans, whispers bloomed instantly.
“That was no accident.”
“Is he seriously choosing her?”
“She is hardly suitable—”
Victa caught fragments without understanding their weight. To her, it sounded no different from crowded markets or bustling ports — people speaking because people always spoke.
She smiled politely at one passing lady, entirely unaware that the woman stiffened in surprise before returning the gesture.
Up in the booth, Markis watched her ascent with tightening breath.
She looked radiant. Happy.
And gods help him. That frightened him more than scandal ever could.
Ser Herold exhaled slowly beside him, arms folded across his chest, his sharp gaze tracking every lord and knight watching her return.
Too many. Far too many.
By the time Victa reached them, the cheering had begun to fade into ordinary tournament noise once more.
She approached almost shyly now, fingers brushing the crown again as though needing reassurance.
Markis rose immediately.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
At the flowers.
At the attention still lingering like storm pressure before lightning.
Victa laughed softly instead, stepping closer. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered, turning slightly so he might see it better. “I did not even know this was part of the victory.”
Her innocence struck him harder than mockery ever could. “Yes,” Markis answered carefully. “It is.”
His hand briefly adjusted one slipping petal, a brother’s gesture more than a lord’s, though worry shadowed his eyes.
Behind them, an older knight leaned toward another and muttered just loud enough: “Baratheon wins crowns the way other men win tavern girls.”
Low laughter followed.
Ser Herold’s head turned sharply, gaze cold enough to silence further commentary without a word.
Victa missed it entirely.
She had already turned back toward the field, searching instinctively. And finding him.
Across the arena, Lyonel stood proud again attendants spoke around him. As though sensing her gaze, he looked up.
Straight toward her booth.
Straight toward her.
He turned his body to face her, ignoring the squire attempting to adjust his armour, just to ensure she watched.
Then he grinned.
And raised his hand, still wrapped with her ribbon.
Victa’s answering smile came instantly.
Unrestrained.
Unthinking.
Dangerous.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
From the central booth, Lord Baratheon observed everything.
The exchanged look... The ribbon... The way his son searched for her approval before acknowledging the crowd.
Understanding settled more heavily now than before.
This was no fleeting amusement. No drunken fascination.
Lyonel fought differently today. For someone.
The older stag’s fingers tapped once against the carved antlers of his chair.
Across the field, alliances were already recalculating.
Some lords watched with curiosity. Others with quiet displeasure.
One young nobleman stared openly at Lyonel with poorly concealed resentment, pride wounded before a contest had even begun.
Storm’s End had gained entertainment. But politics had gained a complication.
Unchanged. Still Victa. Still unaware that something irreversible had begun.
He swallowed. Because he now understood what frightened him most.
Not Lyonel’s interest. But how naturally she belonged beside it.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
And somewhere below, the Laughing Storm prepared for his next victory... already planning to look up again.
Just to see her smile.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Evening descended slowly upon Storm’s End, reluctant to surrender the day.
The echoes of celebration still wandered through the ancient fortress, distant laughter rolling along corridors, tankards striking tables somewhere below, songs rising and falling beneath the restless howl of the sea.
Torches burned along the stone passageways, their flames bending beneath drafts that never ceased within the storm-forged castle.
Victa stood near her chamber window for longer than she intended, the folded parchment turning again and again between her fingers.
She did not need to read it. She knew the handwriting instantly.
Bold. Uneven. Confident strokes pressed too firmly into parchment, as if patience had never existed within the man who wrote them.
A walk beneath the western wall.
When the sun sleeps.
No name. None required.
Her lips curved before she realised she was smiling.
She had not changed
The sage dress still flowed around her legs, faint dust from the stands clinging to its hem. And upon her curls rested the crown, woven flowers already beginning to soften at the edges; petals bruised from hours worn yet carefully preserved.
She had not removed it.
She could not quite explain why.
Perhaps because every time she touched it, she remembered the moment, the roar of the crowd, his laughter, and the way he had looked at her as if victory itself meant nothing compared to her smile.
So she went.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The western wall overlooked chaos made eternal.
Night gathered there first, shadows swallowing stone while the sea below hurled itself endlessly against jagged cliffs.
Spray climbed upward in ghostly mist, salt settling upon skin and lips alike.
He stood waiting.
Lyonel Baratheon faced the sea, broad shoulders outlined by torchlight and moon glow alike.
Gone was the dust and sweat of the arena. His dark hair had been groomed back, though rebellious strands already escaped the effort.
A finely tailored black doublet shaped his frame, gold embroidery catching faint light whenever he shifted. A heavy yellow cloak rested across his shoulders, clasped proudly at his throat.
And upon his head... the antler crown.
He turned before she spoke. As though he felt her.
The grin appeared automatically… then softened.
His eyes lifted. And stopped.
On the crown still resting in her hair.
Something quiet moved across his expression, pride stripped of arrogance, satisfaction untouched by mockery.
A boyish relief he would never confess aloud. You kept it.
“You came,” he said, voice lower than usual, carried half away by the wind.
Victa smiled gently. “You asked.”
She stepped closer. And only then did she notice the bruise.
Darkening beneath his beard along the line of his jaw. Another shadow lingered near his eye, swelling faintly beneath torchlight.
Her smile faltered immediately. “You are hurt.”
Lyonel exhaled a soft laugh through his nose. “I have endured worse.”
“That does not mean it does not hurt.”
Her hand lifted without thought, instinct overpowering propriety, only to halt midway as awareness returned too late.
A lady should not touch a lord so freely, Grenda would have scolded her.
Her fingers hovered uncertainly between them.
Lyonel watched the hesitation. Watched restraint fight curiosity.
Slowly, carefully, he reached forward and caught her wrist.
Not firm.
Not possessive.
Guiding.
He brought her hand to his jaw himself, pressing her palm against warm skin and rough beard. “See?” he murmured.
Her breath caught faintly.
His skin was warm. Alive beneath her touch.
The coarse texture of his beard tickled her fingertips as she traced the bruise carefully, almost reverently, as though afraid careless pressure might worsen it.
Her touch lingered. Exploring without intent.
Following the sharp line of his jaw… the faint swell beneath skin… the steady warmth radiating outward.
Lyonel did not move.
Did not joke.
Did not boast of victory or pain.
He simply watched her, blue eyes darker now, breathing slower as if grounding himself in something unfamiliar.
His hand rose, larger and rougher, settling over hers.
He did not remove it.
He trapped it there instead, palm against his jaw, her fingers held securely beneath his own; silently asking her not to pull away.
Victa did not. Her other hand lifted almost timidly before resting against his chest.
Beneath layered cloth, his heart thundered.
Fast. Strong. Alive beneath her palm.
She felt it clearly. And realised, dimly, that her own breath had begun to match his.
Their closeness erased distance without either noticing when it happened.
Her gaze lifted.
Their eyes met.
Searching. Quiet.
The wind faded.
The sea dulled.
The world narrowed.
Lyonel lowered his head slowly, giving her every chance to retreat.
She didn’t.
The kiss came gently, impossibly gentle for a man known for excess. His lips brushed hers first, hesitantly, testing, learning.
When she answered, warmth bloomed between them.
Her hand remained trapped against his jaw beneath his, fingers curling faintly in his beard. The sensation made her shiver; unfamiliar yet comforting.
His arm circled her waist, drawing her closer but never tightening, never demanding.
Holding. Only holding.
He deepened the kiss slowly, carefully, as though memorising rather than claiming. Her lips softened beneath his; her hand pressed more firmly against his chest, feeling the powerful rhythm beneath.
Fingers curled above the fabric, attempting to hold it; to ground herself with it.
Time stretched. Breaths mingled.
Salt air and warmth tangled together until neither seemed aware of the cold anymore.
When they finally parted, it was not choice but necessity for air.
Foreheads hovered close. Their noses brushed faintly with each shared breath.
Neither stepped back.
Her fingers still rested against his jaw. His hand still covered hers, thumb brushing absent circles against her skin without thought.
He looked at her differently now.
Not amused.
Not playful.
Something quieter.
More dangerous.
For a moment, he weighed the situation. Leaned an inch closer, ready to steal another kiss. And one more after that.
Boot steps echoed along the wall.
Lantern light swept briefly across the stone as guards passed nearby, voices low in conversation. Reality returned in fragments.
Lyonel closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through a reluctant smile. “The castle disapproves,” he murmured.
Victa laughed softly, breathless.
Still, he did not release her immediately.
When he finally let go, his hand lingered at her waist one heartbeat longer; reluctant surrender rather than decision.
“My queen,” he said quietly, kissing her knuckles before letting go of her hand.
The words landed more softly than before.
Not performance.
Truth spoken before caution could stop it.
Her cheeks warmed instantly beneath the moonlight. Head lowered, she offered a courtesy. Simple, slow... hers.
Below them, waves shattered endlessly against stone.
And somewhere within Storm’s End, whispers were already learning her name.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Asks are open for submissions. Submissions are closed
﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏
The following criteria must be adhered to for the submissions:
For the purpose of this tourney, "ship" primarily refers to nautical ships defined as water-borne vessels, generally larger than a boat.
In exceptional cases and with the right propaganda, boats may be permitted.
Air- and spaceships are not eligible to be submitted. If anyone feels passionate enough about this, I might be able to be convinced otherwise though. are now allowed as well. Someone felt passionate enough about this.
The ships may be real, fictional, mystical or conceptual.
Propaganda of all kinds is welcome.
﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓊝﹏
Any updates will be added to this post. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.
I'm getting deep into my ASOIAF era and I'm rewatching Game of Thrones and
Damn. Robert Baratheon's tourney looks so small compared to Ashford Meadow. Ik it has a lot to do with finding funds and Ned Stark not wanting to spend that much on the tourney, but still 😭😭
Jane was the mascot who wore the knight costume before she became a cheerleader.
Three boys who tried out for the Tourney team but didn't make the cut—Tanner, Dave, and Luke—became the horse mascot.
Tanner Bakersmith is the son of Sir Taran and Claire Bakersmith.
He has one brother named Theo.
Dave Dwarxie of Prydain is the son of Doli Dwarxie of Prydain.
He's an only child.
Luke Auberjonois is the son of Chef Louis and Carlotta the Maid.
He's an only child.
Bashful Jr—Bash for short—tried out for the team but didn't make the cut and is still very salty about it. Mostly because he saw the fucking video from the web series where they were discussing the tryouts and saw Chad make fun of him.
Bashful Bergmann Jr is the adoptive son of Bashful Bergmann Sr and Queen Delightful of Jollywood.
He has one brother named Shy.
He is dating Zoe Liddell-Carver.
Ben's jersey number is #7.
He is the team captain and is a Left/Right Forward.
He's been on the team since freshmen year and was apart of the middle school team as well.
Al-Khayateh Never, son of Hem and Abdul, is a reserve member. His jersey number is #39.
Prince Hans 'Hodge' Westergaard Jr of the Southern Isles is the son of Prince Lars Westergaard of the Southern Isles and his wife, Helga. He's a reserve member and his jersey number is #3.
Finn Tweed, the adoptive son of Widow Tweed, is reserve member and his jersey number is #81.
Chad's jersey number is #23 and he is a Left/Right Forward.
Carlos's jersey number is #101 and he is a Left/Right Defender.
Jay's jersey number is #8 and he is a Center Forward.
Herkie's full name is Herakles 'Herkie' Amphitryon Tiryn-Theban-Athanasiou of Argolis and he has four younger siblings (Harmony, Harvey, Macarla, and Manto).
His jersey number is #97.
His parents are Megara and Hercules.
Brendan's full name is Prince Brendan Andrew Westergaard-La Bouff of the Southern Isles.
He is the son of Charlotte ‘Lotte’ La Bouff and Maximilian Westergaard of the Southern Isles (the brother closest in age to Hans).
Brendan has four sisters (Aloisia, Mia, Carolina, and Cassidy-Pearl) and one brother, Montgomery.
His jersey number is #20.
Brendan and Tyrone are god brothers because their moms are best friends.
Tyrone's full name is Prince Tyrone James Rogers of Maldonia—he is the son of Naveen of Maldonia and Tiana Rogers.
He has one sister named Tatum.
Miguel's full name is Miguel Melchor Marquez Madrigal Jr—he is the son of Isabela Madrigal and Bubo Marquez.
He has three siblings named Zoey, Arlo, and Avila.
He is a triplet.
His girlfriend is a cheerleader named Becca Colyar.
Miguel's jersey number is #44.
Taylor Porter is the adoptive son of Tarzan and Jane Porter.
His jersey number is #99. He's the main Dragoneer of the term.
His full name is Taylor Archimedes Porter.
He has two siblings. An older brother named Korak and a younger sister named Andromeda Amarande.
Akio of Avalor is the son of Tomiko. His jersey number is #42.
He has one brother named Haruto, who is a cheerleader.
William Darling's full name is William George Stuart-Darling. He is the son of Edward Stuart and Wendy Darling.
He has one older sister named Jane and one older brother named Danny along with a ton of cousins.
His jersey number is #12.
Li Bubbles is the adoptive son of Cobra Bubbles.
He is Blasian.
He has an adoptive younger brother named Makaio.
Emir's full name is Prince Emir Bint Aladdin Bin Cassim Al Hamed of Agrabah.
His jersey number is #26.
Aziz's full name is Prince Aziz Bint Aladdin Bin Cassim Al Hamed of Agrabah.
His jersey number is #11.
They are the sons of Jasmine and Aladdin.
They have three older siblings—Jenna (30 years old), Rafi (26 years old), and Salima (15 years old)—and two younger brothers—Ali (10 years old) and Zaahir ( 8 years old).
Aziz is 16 years old while Emir is 15 years old.
Emir has a crush on Sarah White that everyone on the team knows about, much to his embarrassment.
Aziz has a crush on Jordan.
Every Tourney team is made up of at least 7 players but many, like the Auradon Knights, also have reserve players in the case of another main player not being able to perform for some reason or another.
There are three forwards on each team whose main duty is to pass the ball around and score.
There's the Left Forward and the Right Forward, who are generally made of the best scorers and fastest players and the Center Forward, by far the most offensive player who leads the charge into the opposing team's side, and blocks almost as much as Defenders.
There's also 2 Defenders, whose main duty is to protect their fellow players from projectiles and actively block and stop their opponents, one Left, and one Right.
As well as 1 Goalie (self-explanatory) and 1 Dragoneer, the player that mans the Dragon Cannon.
Every tourney players' uniform consists of a helmet, a tourney stick, body armor (worn underneath their jersey), shorts, gloves, spiked cleats, and their jersey.
The Fighting Knights Tourney Team's colors are blue, black, gold, and white. Their logo is a knight.
Each member on the team looks up to Coach Jenkins a lot, though some are more willing to admit it than others.
All of them were both amused and mortified by the 'did I mention' debacle—which Ben will never live down.
Though to be fair, none of them will be living down their dancing since that video is out on the internet forever.
Whenever one of them gets annoyed with one another, they'll search for the video and send the one who annoyed them a clip of their dancing.
It's basically becoming a running gag between them.
They threw a party for Ben when he eventually left the team.
They've kept in touch.
They still haven't removed him (or Bashful Jr) from the Tourney group chat.
Aziz and Emir didn't like Jay at first but he grew on them. Eventually.
Herkie accidentally sent Carlos flying across the field with a fist bump on the shoulder. He still gets embarrassed whenever it's brought up.
One time as a prank someone slipped Aziz's songs into the Tourney Practice playlist.
Aziz hasn't found out who yet but when he does they will be a dead man.
It was Miguel Jr and Emir.
Whenever the team wins a game, Coach Jenkins and Sappy take them out for some victory pizza.
The team hangs out a lot outside of games and practice since they all get along a surprising amount.
They all have a scary amount of blackmail material on one another.
Each of them have a team that they get just a little more competitive when facing—for Herkie, it's the Olympus Tourney Team. He has a lot of cousins on that team.
It varies for the rest of them know.
Coach Jenkins and Coach Sappy always keep water, herorade, and snacks on hand for the team—though they always have a little extra on hand for the cheerteam and the band in case they need it.
They also keep a med-kit on hand because Coach Jenkins, though he'd never admit it, is a worrywart.
Bash does eventually make the team when Ben leaves.
