Gays Of The Round Table - Blog Posts

✨Last line Tag✨

Thank you for the tag, @lancedoncrimsonwings! And I'm too lazy to tag anyone so if for some reason you're reading this and want to participate, feel free to do so.

Share the last sentence of your last wip. I'm going to put two because I don't want to and I can't decide. Also, all the two povs are Lancelot, the Weeping Monk. (My beloved)

"Come on, tell me you hate me." The son of a bitch speaks against his ear as he touches him. The monk presses his hand to his neck so hard that he leaves crescent moons marks of his nails on the knight's wrist.

This one is not the last sentence, but is my favourite and i wanted to share It. It's from a completely new one shot that I made in two dawns because I was feeling horny after two glasses of wine. The one shot is called "I still hate you" btw and i think this is pretty straightforward. (Ok i'll stop yapping now)

He would beg god like a dog if he didn't feel so rejected and cursed by him right now.

Yes, that one hurt me and this time it is the last sentence of the first chapter after the... I lost count edition.

They're so gay and sad. I loved It❤️

Hug, beauty and blood

Ok so "hug" is from Chapter 2 cause I struggled to find better than a bulletpoint in my WIPs with it in but yess I love these thank you!

Hug;

The boy hesitantly moved closer, then before Lancelot could say anything else, Squirrel hugged him. Lancelot bit down on a pained yelp, the embrace sending another incredibly sharp surge of torment through his side that made sweat bead up again on his brow, his vision swum and it took more than he cared to admit to stop himself from whimpering. He almost forgot to feel shocked the agony was so intense.

Beauty;

Lancelot's breath was coming in gasps. Gawain realised he too was panting, and he glanced out for just a moment to see they were towards the edge of the dance, but closer to the Bard, who eyed them both with those silver-blue eyes as he continued to sing;

"Where you see weakness, I see wit, Sometimes I fall to pieces, Just to see what bits of me don't fit,"

The piercing stare was too much, too invasive, Gawain turned quickly back to Lancelot. He drunk in the beauty before him.

"... And when I stand, oh, those folks will run, And tell their tales of what I've become..."

And by the Gods, Lancelot was truly beautiful. A man, a Fey, a gentle soul with a tender heart and a battle hardened warrior all at once. His colour swirling skin shone slick with sweat, supple muscles rippling as he moved and swayed with the enticing grace of a deadly predator, jaw tensed, chest heaving ragged breaths.

Blood;

Blood dripped steadily from Lancelot's fingertips. Oozing slowly from the carving upon his left shoulder, it traced rivers of crimson down his arm before collecting between the iron shackle and his skin. So severe were the iron burns, and so close was the metal to his sore, abraised skin that the blood now pooled up and over the outside of the cuff like an overflowing dam. It offered his burned wrist a modicum of relief. Scarlet glistened in the low light as it invariably flowed down down down, following the swell of his knuckles and the length of his fingers to splash into a coagulating puddle on the floor, steadily staining the cold ashen stone into a dirty red.

WIP Wednesday Saturday tag

Damn i completaly forgot to post this thing, school is eating me out alive. Anyways, thank you @lancedoncrimsonwings.

Things went by very quickly, months passed and it was already February. It was still damn winter, but everyone always tried to convince him that it wasn't that bad. And in the midst of the cold, the fey obtained resources and a willpower that Lancelot particularly envied and asked so that they could have a Lupercalia festivity. He remembers the three days of lupercalia where they held feasts for healing and fertility and drank with the fauns. It was also when lovers declared themselves to each other in a way he never forgot.

At the birth of Aphrodite or Venus, Goddess of love and beauty, she is created from sea foam and walked through the sand to find the other Olympians, consequently her symbol is a shell. Centuries ago, it was realized that when sand is exposed to a certain temperature, it crystallizes, and as Ashes have fire in their blood, handling this would not be as difficult just as with other metals.

Every Lupercalia celebration, couples or lovers go to the beaches, light a fire and look for the shell that most reminds them of their partner, and then return to their loved one's side. Then they gathered a handful of sand in their hands with the shell in the middle and heated it until the sand melted into a crystal. They made flowers with the crystal, usually the favorites of their loved ones, each one was unique due to the way it was made and the shell inside it, the shells were exchanged and then they spent the night celebrating and loving each other. On the next day, the previous year's flower was buried in the gardens or temples of goddesses related to love or fertility. They were called love-forges.

Many women appeared pregnant after the celebration. And in fact that's how he gained a younger brother.

When Lancelot was a child, he remembered seeing his father and two mothers making these flowers for each other and exchanging them among themselves, and then they decorated the house with them until the following year, where they buried them in the garden of the goddesses.

Now Lancelot is almost thirty years old and has never made a love-forge for anyone. He thought he would never do it until a jerk with green eyes came into his life last autumn.

Now the monk suddenly finds himself waking up at dawn and voluntarily going out in the cold to go to the nearest beach and walk along the sea coast looking for the shell that most reminded him of his best friend. But how could a single shell remind him of someone like Gawain? It wasn't possible. Gawain would never be someone who could be described in a single, small shell.

After a good few minutes of walking along the coast, Lancelot's eyes fall on something small, bright green that almost immediately reminds him of his best friend, and suspiciously to his stupid heart, desired lover.

A small, flat, chubby shell, with a spiral shape as captivating as his green eyes. Its color was a vibrant light green, the base was greener than its center, which was turning white, the marks caused by the spirals looked golden, and it was so beautiful in the moonlight that it made his heart beat faster. How could something so small remind him of such an important person? The shell did not remembered him any other than Gawain. It was only as perfect as him.

Lancelot takes the shell between his hands and returns to the sand, taking a small handful between his hands. His heart was racing too fast to be considered normal, but at least it kept him warm. He places the small shell in the middle, burying it with more sand and blowing fire several times, melting the sand until it forms a malleable crystal. His hands work to create the petals, round and large, leaving the shell in the middle.

He delicately made each petal, each one held something he liked about his friend, or a moment of them together. The smell of his hair, the captivating eyes holding him as he talks, the hands helping him put his clothes back on when his ribs were broken, the way their lips almost touch when they whisper secrets to each other, the stolen clothes and teasing at breakfast. Everything that reminded him of him as each round petal was placed delicately and slowly on a gardenia, a flower that signified secret love. He finishes the flower as in tradition, a kiss on the petals on the shell.

"What is that?" Suddenly Gawain's voice sounds behind him, scaring him and making him look over his shoulder to where the other man is looking at him. Gods, was he so distracted that he didn't hear or feel Gawain nearby?

“Just a flower. It was a tradition of my people and I wanted to do it now that I, well, came back.” He responds, the heart accelerating the closer Gawain comes, until he sits next to him, but much closer than is friendly permitted.

He turns his face away from the flower to look at Gawain, their lips almost touching for a moment and both men take a few seconds to compose themselves and stop looking at each other's lips. “Does it always end with a kiss like that?” Gawain whispered, sliding his eyes to the crystal gardenia in his friend's hand. "Yes." The other responds without turns.

The green-eyed man extends his hand, touching Lancelot's and holding the gardenia with him, and speeding up both their hearts even more. “May I?” He asks, and Lancelot nods, sure that he's talking about the flower, but is surprised when suddenly his best friend's lips are on his. It's just a peck, a press of lips, but it makes the blue-eyed man's brain stop and it takes a few seconds before he responds to the kiss with a press of lips of his own.

Gawain's lips were as soft as he imagined, and Lancelot knows that his marks are glowing with the amount of happiness and passion he feels in that moment. The kiss seems to last forever, even though it was only a few long seconds. They break the kiss, both looking at each other and again the other man is the first to speak. “We should get back to the tent, before you freeze from lack of heat.” The man nods and they both get up with each other's help, but Lancelot is surprised again when Gawain pulls him to his chest and whispers in his ear. “I’ll cuddle you all night so you don’t get cold.” Lancelot feels his marks glowing brighter, his cheeks heat up and he probably looks like a tomato judging by the way his love laughed triumphantly and walked away, while he stood still for a while before following him back to the camp with the flower in his hands.

That man was still going to give him a heart attack.

Here is the inspiration for the shell and what a gardenia looks like:

This was inspired by me and the person i like showing that we like each other through origami of our favorite flowers. My heart skipped a beat when they said that they have each of the lilies I gave them in a different house. And since Lancelot has no idea how to show love I decided to put this on him too.

Happy valentines day, also late.

*Throw Lancelot homosexually thinking about Gawain at you and run.*

It’d been a month since NightPearl had adopted Lancelot as it’s mother. He didn't mind at all, in fact he found the little dragon adorable. It would sneak anywhere it could find, and its favorite place was his lap. The only problem was when it brought a dead rabbit in the tent and he had to throw it away, but other than that it was perfect.

On days like today, when he was lying on his back, NightPearl would come and sprawl on his chest, enjoying every fraction of Lancelot's natural warmth that it could get, while Lancelot caressed its long body and just listened to Squirrel’s nonsense or listened to Gawain's voice. He never really paid attention to what Gawain said, it was usually something boring about what the council was thinking about him or about his wounds, instead he paid attention to his voice, which was much more engaging than what was friendly allowed.

Sometimes Pym would make a joke about how Gawain would be jealous of NightPearl for being able to snuggle into Lancelot's chest while the two of them couldn't even sleep in the same bed. The monk always rolled his eyes and said it didn't make sense, even though his stupid heart beat a little faster every time he heard that. And thank God NightPearl didn't understand what the redhead was saying or it would bite Gawain from head to toe. He and Gawain barely saw each other, nor did they speak to each other properly, since talking was not something that Lancelot was taught to do often. It was not even part of his routine.

The world around Lancelot has never been so calm, and so boring. He was used to leaving very early, around six in the morning, half past six if he was feeling particularly lazy, and going to track the fey by tracks and scents. At ten o'clock he would return to camp and make an oral report of everything achieved, go to the fields to train for two hours, then go for lunch, have lunch, and leave again. After lunch he would go to the already tracked tribes, this time with a group of paladins, and would decimate and burn whatever they found. At sixteen hours he would escape from the rest of the paladins and take a secret bath to remove the excess dirt and blood that bothered his senses and skin. At seventeen o'clock he would be back at church and praying something particularly long, if it were Saturday he would pray a rosary, if it were Sunday he would be at mass. After mass, or pray, there is dinner, but if it were Saturday he would be fasting. Ten or nine o'clock at night he should already be in bed, because it's a few hours before Salt's torture sessions start and he would at least get a good rest if he slept earlier.

There is nothing in his routine about talking to anyone, except about reports and prayer, but only because it was part of his job and he should always seek God daily.

But now, with the fey, his entire meticulously memorized routine were thrown into the fifth of hells. Now his routine consisted of: Waking up, being forced by Gawain to eat breakfast followed by a lecture on why it’s important to eat every meal, then listening to Squirrel tell a story, lunch, Polly, actually now Pym, coming to check on his injuries. And now Pym stayed and told him about something that happened while she was with the Raiders or some new gossip at camp, which is strangely interesting. Squirrel arrives again, tells ‘em about his day. Gawain arrives with dinner for everyone, they talk and Lancelot is grateful for not being included, gods know how much he hates interacting while eating. Dinner ends, Pym and Squirrel go somewhere else, Gawain stays and cleans his injuries. They don't say anything, just stand there in the only alone moment they have. Gawain slowly cleans his broken skin with a wet cloth, his body closer than he had ever let any man or woman get close to him, he could hear his breathing behind him, The drops of water running down his back make him shiver, and he could feel Gawain's intense gaze on him the entire time. His careful hands went all over the length of his back before slowly pulling away. Gawain pulls away and tells Lancelot that it is ten o'clock, his usual bedtime. Lancelot turns and covers himself with the sheet that Squirrel stole for him on the first day, but that doesn't stop him from faintly hearing the other man change his clothes on the other side of the tent. The boots being thrown away, the shirt being taken off and discarded, the belt being left aside, the pants coming down his legs, as well as the new pants being put on, but no sound of the shirt being put on, Gawain did not sleep with his shirt on, and finally the sound of him laying down on the mattress and covering himself. He listens to every movement every night. Not that he was a pervert, he just had no option.

Now, NightPearl always comes and snuggles up to him, which makes his heart progressively slow down. God, what kind of demon did he come to live with to leave him like this? He would embarrass himself by the end of the year at this rate. Damn Gawain for having sounds so- NO! He couldn't think that! They are just tentmates, nothing more. Lancelot would curse Venus and Cupid before going to sleep, they are two motherfuckers for doing this to him.

 And on his worst days, Lancelot would have an unwanted dream about those sounds. But the gods know he would rather cut his own tongue out than say that to anyone.

for data: Venus=Aphrodite; Cupid=Eros.

@lancedoncrimsonwings @dinogod

Pretty sure Lancelot is the type of boyfriend who would just steal their partner's clothes.

One random day Gawain wakes up and sees Lancelot wearing a colorful shirt and immediately realizes it's his shirt. Lancelot doesn't say anything, and Gawain doesn't say anything because he was trying to suppress his smile cause he think it's cute how his boyfriend steal his clothes.

"New shirt?" Gawain asks, still trying to supress the smile, and falling miserably. Lancelot gives him a glare, but doesn't reply his tease.

"Did you like the smell?" He tries again, giving up on hiding his smile and leaning against the wall.

"Smells like trash." The ash replies. But it was a lie, or pure sarcasm. He loved Gawain's scent and the knight could have an idea of that since his shirt was stolen.

Gawain rolls his eyes and comes closer to Lancelot "Sure It does." The man anwsers, kissing the ash cheek, and then his jaw, and finally his mouth.

@lancedoncrimsonwings i think you deserve to read some casual - which I don't usually post very much.

@dinogod ✨Gays of the round table✨

This is Gawain and Lancelot and no you cannot convince me the contrary.

Disarming a knight

Knights of the Round Table (1953) | More clips at Arthuriana Daily

I made another one and added some 'details' in pen. And I thought you might like to see it.

I did some of Squirrel as, well, a squirrel, too. But those are for tomorrow.

And i do not wanna do this same post twice so I'm tagging you again @gwalch-mei

Well ladies and gentleman, i fear everything i have to offer you - for now - is this really simple drawing of silly bear Gawain in his green knight's helmet. But literally.

And here's him whitout the helmet. The picture is linda bad, sorry.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

@gwalch-mei i don't know but my head is telling me you would like this for some reason