#💫whimsy's plot bunnies

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

"His plaything"

Pairing: Prince Nuada x Fem. Reader (Human / Third person POV)

Themes: Dark | Smut

Warnings: Dark! Nuada | Dub-Con | Power imbalance dynamic | Degredation | Explicit language | Spanking | Penetrative sex | Rough Sex | Oral (Male receiving) | Cream pie | Angst

Word count: 1.6k words

Summary: Nuada searched for a means to satisfy his physical needs. The opportunity presented itself in one of the mortal servants made to serve at court.

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥| Minors DNI. You are responsible for the media you consume. | 18+

Rules and tag form here.

Nuada was a disciplined elf. He spent hours pouring over books and stone tablets in his lord father's great library. When he was not reading, he was sparring.

The crown prince was a warrior without peer, so the singers said. Even when he was but an elfling, it was said no match could be found for Nuada's gift with spears and swords. His father, the high king of all elves, considered him to be the greatest warrior of their people. And the most accomplished. The prince was not just gifted with the blade and well-read; he was also skilled in craftmanship and music and even dancing. It was a strange thing indeed, to see such a brutal warrior glide across a hall like a feather on the wind.

Handsome and charming and dangerous in equal measure, the prince never wanted for company. Nuada was always surrounded by beautiful maidens, all of them vying for his attention. He was unwed, you see, and was expected to take a wife. That was one of his duties: to marry a maiden of the highest birth and produce an heir. The prince understood this. He was more than willing to pledge himself to marriage, but he just needed time to find a bride worthy of him. Until then, he decided, he would find other means to satisfy his needs, for he was a warrior, and as disciplined as he was, he had a warrior's many appetites.

Of course, it must be said that the prince would never sate his hunger by taking another elf to bed. Oh no. Nuada abhorred the very notion of sullying one of his own people that way, no matter how lowborn the elf in question may be. He turned his eyes to the servants instead. They were all mortal hostages taken by his lord father after a great and terrible war. King Balor tolerated them as well as he could manage, and turned a blind eye to how they were treated, provided certain decencies were observed. Those decencies were simple enough: No torture. No working servants to death. No forced couplings. Alas, these edicts had many and more cracks to find if one knew how to find them.

And Nuada found one precisely to his liking.

"Why are you whimpering, little mortal? He grunted. "I thought a good little whore like you wanted nothing less than being bedded by the crown prince Bethmoora."

Whore. That was the choice word he called her, among other things. And yes, y/n did desire the crown prince ever since the moment she first saw him. Her dreams had been haunted by sweet and tender visions of him wooing her before bedding her. She thought that should her dream ever become reality, he would be as generous and courteous and gentle with her as he was with the ladies of his father's court. Such blissful ignorance only lasted until he caught her looking one night while serving his dinner. The prince only waited till his guests took their leave of him before asking her to sink to her knees. He had caressed her cheek, almost in affection, and insisted she open her mouth for him. Not knowing what was expected of her, y/n obeyed. So much had changed since then.

She jolted when he slapped her thigh. His hand was large and had been roughened by centuries of fighting and wielding weapons. It left a mark all of its own. He slapped her thigh again and dug his nails into her flesh. Y/n licked her lips. The prince was expecting an answer.

"I whimper out of pleasure, your highness," she replied as fast as she could, hoping it would please him. She may have felt some pleasure; it was true, but it was so little. The prince would slake his lust upon her body and chase his release, and show little care for her own. As soon as he was satisfied, Nuada would order her to dress and leave.

"You are not lying to me, yes? You do know what happens when people lie to me, yes?"

"I know, your highness. I am not lying, your highness."

Nuada grunted and grabbed her hips, muttering indencies in her ear the entire time. His hands left bruises wherever they touched. Sometime he held her so hard her body would be sore for several days after. Then there were the things he called her, not caring about how they might make her feel. Y/n would not have minded any of it had he shown any interest in her during the act. Or showed concern for her after it.

"Such a good little whore," he said, picking up his tortuous pace and thrusting even harder, filling her as deeply as he could. His nails dug into delicate skin, leaving bruises in their wake. "But you must be fucking silent. I like you that way. Is that understood?"

"Yes, your highness." Y/n lowered her arms and rested her head against the pillows. That allowed the prince to find another angle. He rammed her and found a new place that made her moan long and deep.

"I said be silent!" He barked at her and soon lost himself in her flesh. Nuada moaned and grew drunk on the sound of his thighs slapping against hers. He chose well, he thought. Y/n was meek and discrete and obedient, a maiden who had not known the touch of men until him. She was so soft, her skin warm, and her cunt plush and sinful whenever it fluttered and tightened around his cock. Then there was that sweet little mouth of hers. Nuada enjoyed seeing it swollen and glistening with the remnants of his spend.

The bed creaked softly. Y/n bit her lip and buried her face in the pillows. A heady mixture of pleasure and pain overwhelmed her even as fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. They had sprung from the knowledge that she was a mere plaything to the prince, someone he could use and throw aside once someone worthy of him was in the offing. And there would be someone worthy. Nuada would take an elf-maid hailing from only the highest of births for a wife. She, on the other hand, was a mere mortal, the only child of a petty king who dared to march against King Balor.

"If only your pathetic father could see you now," Nuada grunts and stops just long enough to reach over to gather her wrists. One hand tightens over them, keeping them behind her back. The other curled around her hair. He tugged hard whenever he sheathed himself in her. "A slut servicing her master."

Her father had been allowed to live on the condition that she be sent to court as a hostage. He had no say in where she was placed or whom she had to serve. He was not allowed to know, either. Perhaps this was a mercy.

The air grew thick and heated. The room felt uncommonly warm. Y/n's neck ached from Nuada tugging her hair. Her entire body trembled with each violent thrust. Tiny beads of sweat formed over her skin. Her breath had reduced to shallow gasps and pants. A sweet tension gathered in her core. She was close. So close. But the question remained: will the prince let her have her pleasure just this once?

That was not to be. Nuada felt the coiling in his belly. He was on the precipice of his release, and he had no intention of spilling his seed in y/n's slick heat. As glorious as that would be, he did not wish to risk planting a halfling bastard in y/n's belly. The elves were the children of the earth. The golden blood of the true ancients and the elder gods flowed strong in their veins, and Nauda would never dream of mingling his blood with that of a lesser creature. He drew back and got out of bed, pulling y/n with him as he did. She knew what was to happen next and did well to hide the sadness welling within her.

"Open," he commanded, after she settled on her knees.

Y/n obeyed, letting her mouth go slack while he sank his length all the way in. She kept still while he set the pace, her breath filled with the clean scent of him. His cock was warm and heavy on her tongue. Y/n tightened her lips just enough, just as he taught her the first night. He moaned. She opened her eyes. His head was thrown back, and his mouth was slightly parted. Nuada moved, fucking her mouth and grunting whenever that sinful tongue of hers glided along his member. He sighed wistfully, grabbed at her hair, and went faster and deeper, delighting in the little gagging sounds she made. All y/n could do was keep her hands on her thighs and let Nuada enjoy himself. She was not allowed to touch him during the act or speak to him unless spoken to. He delighted in that too, for he believed that was where mortals like her belonged. Silent and by the feet of their betters.

A few more moments were all it took. "Fuck," Nuada muttered while his cock throbbed and twitched and a warm torrent of his spend spilled onto y/n's tongue. He pressed himself hard against her lips while still riding the high of his orgasm, groaning one last time before finally pulling his cock out of her mouth. The prince ran a thumb over the servant girl's lips, pleased to find them glistening and swollen as always.

"Swallow," he commanded, and brushed a thumb over her tears. He brought it to his mouth, as if to savor the taste. "Swallow my spend like the good whore that you are."

Y/n obeyed, trying not wrinkle her face when the salty essence of him washed down her throat. She knew Nuada would not let her leave until she had swallowed every last drop. Nuada grunted in approval when she opened her mouth and he found it empty. He lifted y/n to her feet and kissed her hard on the lips, his fingers digging into her skin. When he pulled away his eyes glinted in savage triumph.

"Get dressed, and then get out," he said without even looking at her. "I have had my fill of you this night."

Y/n gathered her clothes. Her fingers trembled, as if they had all turned to thumbs. She fumbled with the lacing on her dress, the ties of her neat little apron. She glanced at him. Many a turn of the moon had come and gone since their first coupling, and the prince could not bring himself to even pretend to show her a shred of kindness and respect. Y/n sniffled and looked away.

Nuada made a sound of disgust. "Spare me the sad little doe eyes. I will not fall for it. Now get out and get one of the others to draw me a bath."

Y/n slipped into her shoes and fled into the cold and empty darkness, finding it a welcome relief to the prince's company.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Lord and Master

Pairing:  Manwë x Fem. Reader (Elf |Third Person POV)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Angst | Dark

Warnings: Dark Manwë | Arranged marriage | Dub-con | Manipulation | Imbalance of power | Oral (male receiving) |Medieval sexism

Wordcount : 3.4K words

Summary: Manwë finally agrees to marry, but is angry because his ability to control his life is being stripped from him. Finally, on his wedding night, the chance to take back some of that control presents itself to him.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form here.

A/n: This is my first foray into dark/dub-con, so I apologize if there are any mess-ups in the story.

The wedding passed like an ugly dream. Manwë did all that was required of him, biting the inside of his cheek the entire time.   

When word of his trysts with Námo made its way into the light, ladies refused him one by one. Varda was the first to rescind her offer of marriage. She had declared she did not think highly of a prince who threw the one he loved to the dirt and walked away like it all meant nothing to him. And where she went, the rest followed: Vána and Yavanna agreed with their lady’s choice, as did Arien and Ilmarë. Even the dutiful ones like Uinen, Lëa, and Melian refused the prince’s proposal with a courteous chorus of "Thank you kindly, your grace," followed by "But no." Nienna would never accept a proposal, and Meássë simply laughed in the messenger’s face when he showed her the king's letter. The king had purpled and raged for days when he heard.

Manwë turned to his bride, a wave of deep-seated anger and resentment surging through his veins. Lady y/n was not his choice for a wife. After Meássë refused, Eru finally had to stoop so low as to ask a minor lordling for his daughter’s hand in marriage. That stung as well. 

He glanced at his wife again. She was well-bred and well-mannered, so the others said. Y/n loved singing, sewing, and reading, but she was not what the crown prince wanted in a companion. She was too quiet and docile. She certainly was not Námo, yet he must wed her and secure the line of succession. That was his father’s order and the council's. 

"Wed her, bed her, and put a child in her," the king commanded once the offer of marriage had been accepted. "You are capable of this, yes?” 

Manwë had clenched his fists so hard they turned white at the knuckles. "You command I wed someone I do not desire," he spat, "Yet you heartily agree to your Lord Commander's wedding and bedding a lowly serving girl. How do you justify it, your grace?"

His father’s icy glare pinned him to the chair he sat in. It made Manwë feel so small. "Our Lord Commander is not my son. He will never wear the crown. And Eönwë commands the near-fanatical loyalty of our army. He even saved your life once. Do you not remember? How he fought your brother and bled in your name?" 

Manwë flinched when reminded. "Father...” 

"Keeping a warrior like our Lord Commander happy is in this realm's best interests." Eru interrupted him and picked up his quill and a piece of parchment. The sight made Manwë feel like he was in a ship already listing dangerously to one side. "And yours. That is how I justify it. But if you wish to refuse this marriage," Eru said while dipping the quill in new ink. "You need only say the word, and I will marry the lady instead.” 

And if I refuse, Valinor will learn my lord father has yet another son who flees his duty, the prince thought bitterly. Oh yes, I can hear it now. Poor king Eru, plagued with selfish, disobedient sons who care for nothing but themselves. 

Manwë did not want others to see him as no better than Melkor, but he wished for the days when his brother was heir and life was a carefree dream, where he was master of his destiny and lived how he pleased. Now, with every word and every stroke of his father's quill, he felt his sense of control being stripped from him, sliver by painful sliver. Each day he felt a little smaller and a little weaker. He started to feel more like a boy desperate for approval and nothing like the man he wanted to be.  

Forever bowing my head to the will of someone else. Father, the council, the crown. Is that what I am? Someone who readily acquiesces? Someone helpless and weak?  

Someone coughed. It was the priest. The time had come to exchange vows. The bride and groom turned to face each other, one with eyes full of hope and the other wishing to see nothing before them. 

"One heart," they repeated in unison, "One soul, One flesh. Bound in word, body, and spirit, from this day until the end of all days." 

Y/n looked at her new husband through her veil, thinking how comely he looked in his rich black velvet doublet, and his silver hair falling down to his shoulders in beautiful waves. She hoped to find blushing cheeks, bright eyes, and a shy smile. All she found was darkness in his deep blue eyes and anger in his clenched jaws. It was a warning, a sign of dark things that may come to pass. There was great danger here, but she shrugged the growing sense of foreboding away and still gave him her hand, shivering when he slipped a thin gold band onto her finger. There was nothing else she could do. The contract had been signed, and the vows had been said. For good or ill, she was his now, and her duty as a wife was to obey her husband. That was what she was taught. 

"With this ring," Manwë declared to all present, his words clearly forced. "I pledge my love!" 

His bride did the same. Y/n’s words were sweeter, and filled with tender hope. Her lord father came forward and lifted her veil. Manwë ground his teeth and did his duty, leaning in and kissing her chastely before swiftly pulling away. He accepted the necklace his father presented him in a beautifully carved box and draped it around his bride's throat. Y/n was overcome with the shivers. Her new jewels felt like a noose. She took deep breaths to compose herself and clung to the hope that the prince was as kind and courteous as the songs said he was and that love would bloom between them over time.  

"What the Gods have brought together," came the priest's cry, "let no one tear asunder!" 

The crowd clapped and cheered in approval when the crown prince and princess turned to face them. Manwë dutifully offered his arm, but y/n felt his stiffness as they walked down the aisle together. The chapel was aglow with the light of a thousand candles. A riot of color bled from the stained glass windows onto the floor. Those standing in the upper walkways threw rose petals onto the couple while they walked beneath them. Swirls of red and white rained down on y/n and Manwë even as the doors to the outside world opened. Crowds gathered outside Taniquetil’s great chapel cheered even louder than those inside. Y/n raised her arm and waved to them, thinking her heart would burst with joy. She turned to face her husband, her joy soon wilting like a flower under the scorching heat of the sun. When Manwë turned to her, his eyes filled with something akin to hate. 

“Come, wife," he said stiffly. "It is time we took ourselves to the feast." 

An hour later, they were walking into the great hall for the feast. Y/n tried to talk with her husband during the carriage ride to Ilmarin to engage his attention. Manwë would look at her with little interest before turning away. His cool indifference stung, but y/n chose to be patient. She thought he was grieving the loss of his first love. This will pass soon enough, she thought. Someday she would be rewarded. She was certain of it. 

The feast was a splendid affair. Eru had spared no expense. Minstrels strolled between tables, singing and fluting and strumming lyres. Fire dancers walked on stilts, juggling flaming batons in their hands. Guests dined on thick mushroom soup and salads of beans, onions, spinach, and beets. There was roasted boar and roasted quail and squab, and pears soaked in red wine. There were flagons of mead and flagons of ale, glass pitchers of iced summer wine, and the finest hippocras money could buy. Many broke into loud applause when servants walked into the hall carrying a great swan pie between them. The dish was reserved only for royalty. On this day, it would be served to everyone. Seated at the high table on an ornate chair under a richly embroidered canopy, y/n had little appetite for her food, fine as it all was. Her stomach would tie itself into unpleasant knots whenever she glanced at her husband.  

Manwë's mood had darkened even more. Irmo of House Blackgrave was seated with the other high lords and ladies, but Námo was nowhere to be seen. He had been ill since Manwë sent him away. A common illness, so the messenger said, one that would go away under the tender care of his sister. The prince knew differently. Námo was sick because of him.  

It should be me tending to him, and not Nienna.  

He could not tend to Námo now. The chance to do so disappeared when Manwë put his name on parchment and agreed to take y/n for a wife. With each stroke and flourish of the quill, he felt his sense of control slip away even more, making him feel helpless and angry. 

Weak. Helpless. Forever bowing to the will of others. This cannot continue. 

He heard gentle laughter. It was the Lord Commander's wife. She was wide-eyed while she watched a troupe of tumblers perform incredibly daring feats. Her doting husband kept her in his lap, not caring a whit for what other people thought. Eönwë was content to feed her morsels from his own plate before stealing unexpected kisses, his arm tightening around her waist in a protective gesture when she leaned in and cupped his face. He would listen indulgently whenever she said something, beaming like a man who knew his love was well returned. The sight filled Manwë with despair. He wished to hold Námo the same way, feed him the same way, and drown in his laughter. He turned to face his wife. She was playing with her food. Anger seared through his veins again.  

"Does the meal not please you?" he asked in rough, clipped tones.  

Y/n was startled. It was the first time the prince had asked anything of her since their first meeting half a year ago. 

"It is excellent, your highness," she replied meekly. "But I fear my appetite cannot do it justice."   

Your highness. The way she said it, all soft and submissive. Manwë gave her a measured look.  

Small. Meek. And bound by oath to obey me. The thoughts came swiftly and unbidden. Manwë ignored such thoughts and looked away just as a herald called the guests to dance. His wife placed her hand over his.  

"Shall we dance, your highness?" she asked hopefully. 

Manwë’s mouth twisting into an ugly sneer was all the answer y/n needed. He did not want to dance, eat, or join in the merrymaking. He wanted this night over and done with. 

There is only one thing left to do, he decided, and rose. The music slowly died when he stood to his full height. Everyone's attention turned to him. 

"I confess, my lords and ladies, as much as I would love to dance," he declared with a forced smile, "I have more... pressing matters to tend to with my lady wife. Come, my lady. It is time we did our duty." 

The others laughed. Y/n forced herself to smile. When her husband offered his arm, she rose and took it, turning a deaf ear to the ribald jests shouted their way. She let Manwë lead her through lofty halls and cool corridors, all while her stomach was a roil.  

She had been prepared for her bedding, but the way Manwë looked at her, his eyes ablaze with cold fury, frightened her. She looked straight ahead, clinging to the hope that her fears were unfounded and the prince would surprise her with tender words and gentle embraces. 

That was not to be. When the couple entered an airy bedchamber and the doors closed behind them, Manwë pulled away from her. He walked over to a side table and helped himself to a cup of wine.

Manwë studied her critically. Quiet. Dutiful. Perhaps this can work.

"You must now obey me in all things, yes?"

“I am your wife, your highness. I must obey."

Small. Meek. Bound by oath to obey me. This time, he did not push the thought away. Y/n was bound by oath to obey him. Whatever he asked of her, she had to do it without protest. The knowledge of it was too much for him to resist. 

It is time I regained some control over my life. I will not bow my head to yet another. 

"Undress yourself," Manwë commanded. He walked to the bed, his new boots clicking over the stone floor.  

Y/n blushed furiously. She dreamed of her husband undressing her, giggling while he fumbled with the clasps and lacings in her dress. She did not expect him to order her to undress herself in front of him. 

"Undress yourself," Manwë urged, his words like honey. "Come now. You are a true and obedient wife, yes?" 

Y/n wrung her hands. "I... I wish to be, your highness." 

Manwë lifted his cup and drank deeply, draining it to the last drop. "Then prove to me you are a true and obedient wife. Undress." 

Y/n flushed. She was his wife. She pledged herself to him. Swore to obey him in all things. And obey him she did. She first undid her braids, removing the pins and clips, her fingers fumbling at her hair like they were all broken thumbs. Manwë was content to watch. Seeing her hair fall free in loose strands did something to him. Watching her comply with his command did something to him. Whatever it was, he soon grew drunk on it.  

"You are still dressed, my lady," he observed. "Your gown… it is beautiful to be sure, but it is too much. Unburden yourself. But leave the necklace; I like it."  

Y/n flushed again. This time in humiliation. "Your highness, I... should I be doing this?" 

"Yes, sweet wife," Manwë replied, enjoying himself thoroughly. "It is only proper that you do so." 

His wife managed somehow, her cheeks aflame the entire time. Her heavy gown and sash slowly slipped off her shoulders and pooled around her feet. Her stays and slip followed. When she finally stepped out of the wisps that passed for smallclothes, Manwë put his cup on the ground and stood up, surprised to find himself already hard. 

There were gooseprickles all over y/n's exposed skin. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. Manwë circled her once, then twice, like a predator circling his prey. He let his hand glide up her spine and play with her hair. She shivered when he palmed the soft expanse of her breasts. Manwë felt her tremble. He liked it. It made him feel powerful, for the first time in many moons.  

"Undress me," Manwë ordered, slipping out of his boots.  

Y/n kept her eyes on the clasps on his tunic. She fumbled again, her fingers turning back into broken thumbs. Manwë smirked and kept still.  

Her hands were soft and warm when they brushed against his flesh. She was unsure of herself and hesitant, but she did her work dutifully and quickly. Once freed of his doublet and undershirt, Manwë returned to the bed and stood by the edge. 

"Come, wife," he said, holding out his hand. "Come here." 

His wife took one hesitant step after another, uncertain of what he wanted. Y/n had not been taught much concerning matters of the flesh. Her mother had told her to expect certain things, like discomfort and pain, but she also said such things would go away and the rest would be nothing but magic. Y/n studied her husband. There was hunger in his eyes, and flashes of something far more sinister. She feared there would be no magic this night. Not for her at any rate. 

"Closer," Manwë cooed. "Closer. Good. Now. On your knees." 

Y/n looked at him, shocked. "Your highness... I... I do not understand."  

Manwë grinned wolfishly. "Get on your knees and undo my belt. Go on. You would do it if you really wanted to be a dutiful wife, yes?" 

Y/n licked her lips. Of course, she wanted to be a dutiful wife. From the first moment she saw Manwë all she had ever wanted was to be a good wife and earn his love. She nodded and sank to her knees, grateful for the rug beneath her. She undid the clasp of his belt, then the drawstrings on his breeches. Her cheeks heated when Manwë tugged them down just enough to free his cock. 

"Open your mouth," he said, and caressed her cheek. He ran his thumb across her lips, imagining what they would look like, swollen and glistening with the remnants of his spend. "Go on."  

Y/n looked up at him, thinking she had heard wrong. Manwë caressed her cheek again, almost in affection. "Open your mouth. You do not want to disappoint me, do you?" 

"No," she sputtered. It was a strange feeling, having his cock slip past her parted lips and sink further and further into her mouth. She felt him, thick and salty and heavy on her tongue. Y/n glanced up at him, surprised to find his eyes closed and his head thrown back. 

"Loosen your jaw," he hissed, and wrapped his hands around her hair, pulling it out of the way. "There. Like that."

Manwë's mind soon grew hazy with bliss. Gods, her mouth feels so good. His grunts grew louder and louder. There was nothing else—no whispered endearments—that would soothe his wife and inflame her passions. Manwë did not care. He simply wanted to regain some control. And it felt so good, to take back what control he had over his life. 

I am in control.

Y/n did not know what else to do. She let him thrust into her mouth, her eyes stinging with confused tears. Manwë wiped the tear away with his thumb and brought it to his lips, as if to taste. He shivered when he tasted the saltiness of her tear on the tip of his tongue, and shivered when he felt the warmth of her mouth and the softness of her sinful lips. He wanted to kiss those lips while he claimed her maidenhead, but not now. He was so close that he could already feel a tightness in his belly. He brushed his hands over her hair and groaned when her lips tightened around his cock. Just a little longer. He needed to hold on for a little longer. And that was all he had. The world went still. Manwë let out a deep moan while his body splintered and shook with ecstasy. Y/n could do nothing but grip his thighs while the warmth of his spend filled her mouth.

Manwë panted and drew back, satisfied for now. "Swallow," he insisted, not moving another inch until y/n had swallowed every last drop. He stood back and admired the sight of his wife on her knees before him, her lips glistening and swollen just like he hoped they would be. That sense of feeling powerful returned, this time stronger than before. 

I am in control.

Manwë grabbed that feeling with eager hands, not wanting to let go of it. 

I am lord and master.

He finally walked away, setting himself to rights and picking up the rest of his clothes as he did so. "I will sleep in here," he said, opening the door to a smaller bedroom. "Good night." 

Y/n rose and turned to face her own bed. Her knees were sore, and her jaws hurt. She thought there would be more to this night. "But your highness, this is our wedding night. Should we be…" 

"Do not fret," Manwë yawned contentedly. An hour or two of rest was needed, and then he would consummate their marriage. "I will claim your maidenhead and consummate this marriage. But it will be at a time of my choosing. Not yours. Never yours. Am I understood?" 

Y/n opened her mouth in reply. She thought she deserved to have some say on how this night went. Manwë leaned against the door, his arms crossed, and his eyes darkening again. It frightened her, made her whisper, "Yes." 

"Yes, what?" 

"Yes, your highness." 

"Good," Manwë muttered. "Never forget what I am, wife. Your lord and master, nothing less than that." 

Y/n tried to blink back her tears when he slammed the door behind him. Her hopes slowly crumbled like brittle clay. There would be no love. No tenderness. Not with him, not after tonight. Manwë made it plain with his few words that she should not expect more from him. Suddenly more tired than ever, she crawled into bed and slipped beneath a soft pelt, waiting for him to come for her again. 

The thought made her blood run cold.

tags: @cilil​ 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Feast of the Warrior

The Feast of the Warrior is held on the day of the last new moon of summer. A special dawn service is held in septs all over Westeros. Before the building of the Great Sept of Baelor, the most elaborate service was held in the Starry Sept of Oldtown. Everyone is invited to join, but the purpose of the dawn service is to honor the Warrior himself and the warriors amongst the faithful.

Cities and towns and villages are decorated with banners and penants of red (for the blood of the faithful’s foes) and gold (for victory and to represent the gold of the Warrior’s armor). All those who could afford it would dress in garments heavily accented with these colors. Those who could not make do with flowers and threads and ribbons. Septons would organize collections for the poorest, so that no adherent is left out of the celebrations.

This feast is not held in the North and the Iron Islands as they honor other gods. 

Warriors that had survived previous battles and those aspiring to take up arms would come forth with offerings. These offerings include:

⚔ Freshly baked bread and choice cuts of richly flavored meat prepared by the hand of the one offering it. ⚔ Fresh Ale and Mead. ⚔ Miniature replicas of weapons. ⚔ Original prayers and hymns written by adherents themselves. ⚔ A piece of armor.

Those who have lost someone to war would also give offerings and ask the Warrior to give the soul of a loved one fallen in battle favorable judgment. Septons would lead a choral procession of all those bringing offerings to the alter of the Warrior. Prayers are recited before the offerings are placed. 

Once the more solemn acts of the day are over, newly anointed knights, members of Household Guards, and in the case of King's Landing, the newest members of the King's Guard and Gold Cloaks are presented to others present. In the case of knights of the King's Guard, they must ride until they reach the main square before dispersing so that members of the commons can see them.

Then the revelry begins. There would be plays based on the Warrior’s deeds, horse races and archery and spear-throwing contests, boxing and wrestling matches, and even mock duels fought with blunted tourney swords. Nobles would collect purses to give as prizes to winners. Newly anointed warriors from well-to-do families can look forward to feasts in their homes. The Gold Cloaks feast new members in their Baracks. For new members of the King's Guard, a feast is held in the White Sword Tower. The royal family always attends both this feast and the feast held by the Gold Cloaks. 

a/n: inspiration from festivals/offerings sacred to Ares/Mars

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

"Mistress"

Pairing: Varda X Eönwë | Location: Ilmarin

Themes: Smut (Lemon/Graphic)

Warnings:  Kissing | Mistress kink | Cockwarming | Wings | Bondage (hands and ankles) | Explicit language | Eönwë begging | Domme Varda | Sub Eönwë | Penetrative sex | Cream pie | Breath play (mild choking)

Word count: 1.5k words

Summary: Varda and Eönwë act out a proposition she puts to him after he admits to wanting her.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume. 

Eönwë could not move, no matter how much he wanted to. And he yearned to do so—to run his hands over her naked flesh and bask in the glory that was her. 

That was not to be. Varda wanted him bound, hands and feet both, and he agreed. She wanted him to obey her in all things during the act, and he still agreed. His wings rustled, unleashing a riot of unbridled lust when Varda brushed her hands over silken feathers. 

"So soft," Varda pondered in wonder. "And yet, strong enough to carry you through the highest clouds and the strongest of winds, taking you to places few others could go."

His wings were indeed soft and strong. And so sensitive that the smallest touch was enough to send waves of rapture crashing over him. Eönwë let out a lusty whine when Varda brushed her hands over his feathers a second time, then a third. Heat surged through him even as queenly fingers glided over the tops of vivid blue-green wings. Varda laughed, the sweet sound of it rippling across the chamber. 

"Is my little herald unraveling already?" She teased, this time running her hands over his arms, his wrists, his fingers. Hardened muscles tremble beneath her palms.

Eönwë sighed, for he was indeed close to unraveling beneath her. Time had passed by in a blissful haze as he lay like this, bound and prone, his cock already sheathed in her warmth. Varda had taunted and toyed with him, strumming him like a harp, and there was nothing he could do in return, nothing to give her pleasure. His queen refused to move, no matter how much he pleaded for her to do so. It was agony of the most acute kind, to not be able to lose himself in her completely.

"I am, mistress." Eönwë writhed against the bed, sighing wistfully when Varda ghosted her hand over his cheek.

How the queen enjoyed being called mistress! Varda had heard countless titles and countless epithets from the lips of more supplicants than she could care to count, but the way Eönwë called her mistress, his voice dripping with profound veneration, appealed to her baser nature in a way the others could not. It roused her even more. She shifted just a little. The delicious friction that came with it was too much; it almost sent Eönwë over the edge. He writhed again and his length sank a little deeper, filling her even more. Varda moaned. She fought to regain her sense of control.

Not yet, she told herself. I must hold out a little longer. 

"Poor little herald," she began, tilting her head and studying him keenly. She marveled at how glorious he looked when bathed in the starlight that streamed through wide, arched windows. Eönwë was fantasy made flesh, all lean muscle and luscious lips, and lustrous black hair. "Unable to touch me or even move, unable to do much but yield to my will. Tell me, do you wish for me to put an end to your misery?" 

Eönwë groaned under his breath when her thumb drifted over his lower lip. "Yes, my mistress. Please. Oh, please, yes."

"Open!" Varda ordered with barely a second thought. 

His lips parted at her command. Eönwë shivered when her thumb dipped into the warmth of his mouth and pressed down on his tongue. Elated, he brought his lips around it, gently sucking down on her finger, his eyes fixed on hers the entire time. Shimmering gray eyes now burned like they had been set ablaze, their light flickering like the stars themselves. Varda cried out despite herself, engulfed by the white-hot sparks that rushed through her in furious response.     

"Clever little herald." She purred and drew back. "You are making me forget myself.”

Eönwë pouted. “While I be denied even more as punishment?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” A slow smile worked its way across her face, softening the regal air around her. “We must see.”

Her smile was now as radiant as her eyes. His breath hitched at the sight, for he found her to be even more glorious than before. Her hair dazzled, as if a thousand tiny stars were hidden within each strand. Her fana gleamed as if lit from within. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, and he declared it so.

Varda laughed again and said, "I should say flattery would get you nowhere, sweet herald, but in this instance, I have decided to make an exception."

She rolled her hips, slowly and gently, delighting in how quickly Eönwë’s vivid eyes closed. Varda leaned forward and dipped her head, capturing his lips with hers. He moaned again, this time when her tongue brushed against his lips. The sharp sting of nails raking down his chest when his mouth opened beneath hers was barely felt.

"Mistress…" was all he could say. Varda kissed him even harder for it. His shudders and quickening gasps were intoxicating. It was all she had hoped for and more, ever since she first set her eyes on him many an age ago.

Had it been so long? Perhaps that was the case, but it did not feel that way. And Varda had her dreams to keep her occupied, the chief of them always filled with the Elder King’s herald. Such visions were haunted by the image of her having her way with him, never the other way around. Varda had even spent many a delightful moment pleasuring herself by thinking of him and how his strong arms and his beautiful wings would wrap around her. And when Eönwë finally mustered his courage and confessed the depths of his desire for her, Varda listened to him and put forth a proposition after he finished. She would gladly give all of herself to him, she had said, but her consent came with a condition. Just one. When he pressed, she went on to say she was his queen and was to be treated as such even while they were abed. She was to lead, not him. Ever the one in command, Eönwë’s curiosity had piqued at the notion of letting another command him. 

"This is new to me, mistress," he replied after a moment's reflection, "but I accept your terms."

Varda had been well pleased with his reply. Now he was here, in her bed and beneath her and inside her, keening wantonly into her mouth. 

Eönwë took a deep breath of air when she pulled away. His lips were bruised and swollen by the time she straightened herself and began riding him, her hand sliding over to curl around his throat. 

"Yes?" Varda questioned.

"Please," Eönwë pleaded without shame. His hands gripped the silken ties that bound his wrists, his talon-nails digging into the soft fabric. A hand as soft as silk gripped his neck, guiding the very air he breathed. It tightened and released, leaving him lightheaded, weak, desperate to surrender. He opened his eyes, drinking in the sight of his queen heaving over him, her head thrown back, her hair swaying from side to side, her mouth parted in silent cries. All he could do was watch this bewitching scene, his toes curling when heat and tension pooled in his belly. 

"More, mistress!" he cried. "There mistress! There! Oh —"

Varda brought herself down harder and faster, her grip around Eönwë’s throat tightening each time she sank down on his cock. Now she was filled with a craving to have his hands caressing her, gripping her, her hips, bringing her down even harder.

The next time, she tells herself. There is a soft rip. Eönwë nearly ripped into the wisps that bound him. She tuts, leans down, and clasps his hands. They are now pinned against the featherbed. Her fingers knit around his, her hair brushes over tingling skin. Eönwë moves and thrusts his hips, trying to match her rhythm for rhythm.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Varda releases him and rises again, her own fana vibrating, as if electrified. She touches herself. Eönwë watches, his eyes clouded with lust and greed. She sees it.

“If I give you the freedom to do so, will you ruin me?”

“In every way possible, mistress.”

It excites Varda even more. Now she is relentless, frantic, wanton. She shook, then drowned in the rapture that rose to consume her. Her fana still rose and fell, not stopping until she heard her name fill the air like a sob, and Eönwë emptied himself inside of her. She collapses against him, still pulsating from the aftershocks that gripped her. Eönwë sighs, satisfied and replete. He barely feels the weight of his queen. His wings rustle beneath him, then stop. He says not a word until Varda opens her eyes and rises to her knees. She smiles at him. He smiles back at her, his eyes mirroring the deep satisfaction he sees. What happened between them was more wondrous than anything he could have dreamed of, and he wondered, What else does his queen have in store for him? 

"Stay like that a little longer," Varda gently insists. "Just a little longer, my sweet herald, and I will release you. I hunger to see how well you take me with nothing to hold you back.”

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Re-embodied Finrod in Mirkwood

This is a series of headcanon I came up with after being inspired by a recent Thranduil x Re-embodied Finrod x Reader request.

There is a spot of NSFW towards the end of the post.

Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form here.  

💫 Finrod perished in Tol-in-Gaurhoth after killing a werewolf with his bare hands and teeth. The venom in the beast's blood spread through the elf's bloodstream before reaching his heart and changing him before he died. Because of the Doom of Mandos, his fëa was destined to remain in the Vala's halls.

💫 Upon his arrival, his first stop was the Grey Havens, where, after having explained his tasks, he was hosted by Círdan. Finrod remained in the Grey Havens for quite some time, learning of the new customs and races prevalent in Middle-Earth before departing. He also spent time with Elrond in Rivendell and with his sister, Galadriel, in Lothlórien before leaving for the realm now known as Mirkwood.

💫 This all changed during the Third Age, when the dark influence of the Necromancer spread through Greenwood the Great. After he had claimed the abandoned fortress of Amon Lanc for himself, Mawë and Námo approached Finrod to give him a choice: remain in the halls or go back to Middle Earth and aid in the fight against the corrupting influence of the Necromancer. He will then be allowed to return to Valinor whenever he desired. The former choice came with an added caveat. He was to bear the mark of the beast he slew until he returned to Valinor for all time. Only then would it be removed. Finrod still accepted it. He ached to leave the halls and feel the grass beneath his feet again.

💫 Mirkwood's king, Thranduil Oropherion, was wary of him, and Finrod received a less than warm welcome. He was one of the Noldor and bore the mark of a werewolf. Believing him to be a threat to his people, Thranduil kept Finrod confined to a comfortable suite of rooms until he could meet with his council and decide what to do with him. When it became clear the Valar themselves allowed Finrod to return, and with a purpose, the king reluctantly agreed to let him live freely in his halls.

💫Finrod took up playing the harp again and would sing tales of his own life before his demise in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He would also sing tales he had heard while in the Halls of Mandos.

💫Finrod would try to advise the king, and the king would brush him off, unwilling still to trust him. This mistrust continued until one day, when Finrod risked his own life to save Thranduil’s while they battled spiders living around the outer border of Dol Guldur. Thranduil slowly came to trust Finrod and claim him as a friend, and Finrod earned a place on the king’s council.

💫Finrod remained in Middle-Earth until the War of the Ring and returned to Valinor with Legolas and Gimli.

How the mark of the werewolf affected Finrod:

💫The taint did not mean he could shape-shift, as the werewolf that attacked him could not. However, it did make him stronger and harder to slay in battle.

💫Besides increased strength, Finrod had keener senses, and his eyes would glow. They would be at their brightest if he was aroused or angry. Even his nails and teeth became sharper.

💫Finrod craved meat cooked rare.

💫He was more prone to acts of aggression. It was only with Elrond's and Galadriel's guidance that he was able to control his need for violence.

💫He had a much higher libido and had kinks for breeding, consensual non-consent, marking, and dominance.

How did this affect his preference for relationships:

💫Finrod would agree to a multiple partner scenario if he is happy with the other partners involved. However, if he did bond with only one S/O, he would be fiercely protective of them. He also had a jealous streak and would mark his partner if he believed someone other than him showed interest in them.

Why did Finrod have to bear the mark:

💫 The Valar did not want to make it too easy, or make it look like they were too forgiving, for fëar of other exiles doomed by the prophecy. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“Anything”

Pairing: Meássë x Tulkas

Themes: Smut | Medieval! Ainur

Warnings: Kissing | Explicit language | Dirty talk | Foreplay | Rough Sex | Oral (Fem. receiving) | Cream pie

Summary: Meássë returns to explain her actions to Tulkas.

Word count: 2.3k words

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥 | Minors DNI. You are responsible for the media you consume. | 18+ |  Rules and tag form here.   

A/n: This is a continuation of this ficlet.

Tulkas stood beside the fireplace when she walked into the hall that evenfall. "Come for more, my lady?"

"I have come to explain." Meássë straightened her spine and looked Tulkas in the eye. She was not telling him how his kiss had preyed on her all day. "My kiss was just a means of distraction. That is all. Your kiss... it... it meant nothing to me."

Tulkas, pretending to be wounded, pouted before giving his favorite student a measured look. "Nothing, you say. However, you are different whenever we dine together, if we train, or if I am near you. You are quieter and more likely to listen and rein in your temper. I have not seen that in you when you are with anyone else. Not even your twin."

Meássë had the decency to blush. Tulkas, not wanting to press the issue, took pity on her and said, "Come. Dine with me. We can carry on like nothing untoward took place."

"You are not angry?" She asked, confused. Despite his ready laughter and easy smile, Tulkas had a temper and his pride.

"I am not Makar, my lady," Tulkas replied, and strode to the small dining table on the dais. "I will not hold a lady's refusals against her. I certainly do not believe in taking what is not offered to me freely.”

Meássë blushed again, this time with shame. Still, she followed Tulkas and took her customary place by his right hand. Her lord lifted a little bell by his side and rang for the food.

Tulkas knew how to set a generous table. It was in his nature to do so. Elves came into the Lord's Hall carrying polished wooden trays laden with roast fowl and olives and cheese and beets and greens, followed by little onion tarts and fresh river fish roasted with herbs and apples baked in cinnamon and sugar. Meássë was served generous portions of each dish, but found her usually hearty appetite deserting her. Every time she glanced at Tulkas, she found him gilded by the faint light of nearby candles. His hair was like new gold, and his amber eyes were warm and open. Her gaze drifted to his lips. Meássë blushed and turned away.  She remembered how her skin prickled when that thick, coarse beared of his brushed against her cheeks and remembered his kiss, how his lips simply crushed hers, how it set her body ablaze with hunger and need. Thoughts of his lips gliding over her skin slowly seeped into her mind. She turned to face Tulkas again. Her lord was studying her silently and intensely. 

"Leave us," he commanded. The elves gracefully curtsied and bowed before leaving the hall and closing the great doors behind them. He turned to Meásse as soon as the doors slammed shut.

"My kiss meant nothing, you say," he observed, drumming his fingers against his cup as he did so. "Then why do you look at me with such burning hunger?"

Meássë felt a flush creeping up her neck. "You imagine things, my lord," she mumbled in a rush.

"Do I?" Tulkas pushed his chair back and rose. He set his cup to one side and inched his way over to her. "Then why are your cheeks tinged in pretty shades of pink? Hmm? Why is your breath ragged? Your eyes too curious for their own fucking good?"

"I..." Meássë's tongue tied itself in knots when Tulkas curled his fingers around stray locks of her hair. "My lord..."

"Your hair," he coos, "How I have often pictured it spread all over my pillows under a spill of starlight."

"You have?" Meássë nearly fell out of her chair in her hurry to stand. 

Tulkas grinned in triumph. "Yes," he replied softly before letting go of her wisps of hair. "Many a moment when I lay in bed. I have seen your hair spread out all over my pillows. I have felt your nails raking down my back while I filled you with my cock and my seed. The things I have done to you in my dreams... Words alone cannot describe them."

"You are being impudent now, my lord," Meássë retorted, embarrassed by how easily her body prickled and heated at the thought of him bedding her. "I would be within my rights to strike you and leave."

"I am merely being honest." Tulkas simply smiled and spread his hands. "And as I said before, I do not take what is not given to me freely. If you do not wish to go beyond us sparring and sharing meals, you need only say the word, and this conversation will end here."

Meássë licked her lips and studied him. She wanted to say, "Thank you, my lord, but I must decline," and would have succeeded had her own curiosity not gotten the best of her.

"What do you do to me in these dreams?"

Tulkas did not answer with words. He grabbed her and leaned in, his lips possessing hers. Meássë suddenly found herself unraveling the same way she did when Tulkas kissed her the first time. Her entire body was aflame with raw, unbridled lust. Her eyes flutter shut when she felt him flush against her. Desperate to draw him even closer, she tried to throw her arms around his shoulders. Her attempts were a failure. Tulkas was tall, taller than even her twin. But she did not have to say anything. Tulkas crouched and slipped his arms under her thighs, lifting her up with ease. He growled when she returned his kisses with equal passion.

“Eager!" he laughed into his kiss and set her down on the table. "And so desperate. Will you let me do whatever I want to you tonight?"

Meássë found herself being pulled into a dark tunnel of desire. Tulkas was over her and around her. His kisses were rough, his lips greedy, and his hands gentle, despite being callused after years of fighting and sword use. White-hot jolts of pleasure licked up her spine when she felt them palm her breasts and play with her nipples over the fabric of her tunic.

"Anything," she pleaded, even as she surrendered and her body grew pliant. "You can do anything."

There was a sharp rip. Tulkas had shoved his hand down the front of her tunic and tore it down the center before tugging his own over his head and throwing it to the floor. Meássë whimpered when he drew her back into his embrace and she felt his skin over hers.

So warm, she mused, her mind growing hazy by the fury of his kisses. His skin is so fucking warm.

Tulkas shivered when she slipped her arms around his shoulders, and her nails gouged into his back. "Anything?" He hissed through his teeth. "Wonderful."

He dropped down to his haunches and went to work on her boots. One joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The other followed not long after. Tulkas rose again and loosened the lacings of Meássë's riding leathers, fully aware her eyes were on him the entire time.

His hair was like a river of gold now, and those tattoos of his—how they gleamed in the light. When they lay in bed, she thought to ask about them, what they meant, and touch every one of them. She could let her lips and tongue glide over them if he liked it. But that was all for later. When he said so, Meássë lifted her hips, and her leathers and small clothes were pulled down her legs and thrown along with the ruins of her tunic unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her exposed. Tulkas took a moment to drink her in: her alabaster skin, her seashell-pink lips, her thick, auburn hair. Then there were her eyes. They were sharp and a vivid green, eyes he imagined himself drowning in.

"You are a vision, my lady," he whispered in admiration.

Meássë blushed and looked away. There may have been others, but no one looked at her like Tulkas did, with eyes filled with reverence. It left her speechless. He gripped her chin, and his mouth opening over hers soon drowned out her thoughts. His kiss tasted of honey and cloves. The sweet, clean scent of him soon filled her with each breath. When he cupped her back her legs slid open and moved up his thighs before resting over his hips. Tulkas growled softly.

"When I take you to bed after this, I am going to fuck you until you cannot walk," he vowed, nibbling the shell of her ear.

"I will hold you to that vow," Meássë murmured helplessly. 

"I have dreamed of this," he said as he slid a finger over her slit, groaning when he found her slick and wet and ready for him. He tightened his other arm around her waist while slipping his finger into her hole, sending waves of unimaginable bliss coursing over her entire body. "And not just sinking my fingers inside of you, either. I want to feel you come around my cock."

"And as I said, my lord, you can do anything to me." Meássë was overwhelmed by what he was doing to her. Tulkas was exceedingly skilled, even when it came to giving pleasure. He made her feel like she was drowning and being pulled under the waves repeatedly. And he was so perfect. So utterly perfect. All through the day, all she could think of was his kiss. Now he was before her, making her feel pleasure she had never experienced before.

"Good girl," he whispered approvingly. Tulkas sank to his knees and pressed little kisses over the expanse of her legs. He did not stop until he reached the apex between her thighs. Meássë threw her head back and cried out softly, her hands digging into the edge of the table when he ran his tongue over her cunt again and again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Tulkas would grunt with each lick, his hands gripping hard at her flesh whenever he pressed deeper. She murmured under her breath. Her secret sweetness soon poured onto his tongue and lips and even his beard. He flicked his eyes at her and found her pretty green ones dark and needy and wanton. Meássë sighed and trembled. A sweet tightness grew in her belly. She was close. She could feel it. But it was not enough. His tongue, as sinful as it was, was not enough.

"I need you inside of me," she breathed, her voice hoarse and ragged.  

Tulkas did not have to be told twice. He stood up and moved his hands to his belt, tugging down on his breeches just low enough to free his cock after he undid the buckle. Greedy hands moved to her hips. He kissed her again, and Meássë could taste her essence all over his lips and tongue. His beard tickled against her skin just like it did while he was between her thighs. The prickling feeling proved too overwhelming, and she kissed him all the harder for it.

"Desperate little slut," Tulkas laughed softly against her skin. "Yes?"

Meássë, utterly lost in a red haze of lust by now, managed a weak, "Yes."

Tulkas laughed again, taking his time to kiss all over her throat before nipping it with his teeth. Meássë moaned softly when he guided his cock into her velvety core, prodding her open little by little. He felt thick against her walls and she squirmed as he moved inch by agonizing inch. When he filled her completely and started to move, she jolted. Pleasure and pain mingled in a heady mix while she shuddered and sobbed his name.

"You are so fucking tight," he muttered and slid his arms around her waist. The table slowly creaked every time he thrust and bruised the insides of her thighs with his hips. "So tight. And how well you take me. It is as if you were made for me."

"And you feel so good inside me," Meássë could not help but reply. Every time Tulkas found that place that gave her indescribable pleasure, it made her see stars behind her eyes. "My lord."

Tulkas whimpered softly. "Touch me," he urged, desperate to feel her hands all over him. "Please."

It was even better than his wildest dreams. Elegant hands glided over his arms, splayed over his torso and the small of his back, setting him ablaze whoever they touched. Meássë's skin was so soft, like her velvety insides. Tulkas groaned when nails raked through his hair and sinful lips kept seeking his. He grew drunk on it all and was soon lost in her flesh.

"Scream for me," he commanded when Meássë bit back her cries. "I want to hear you scream for me."

"But the elves… your attendants…"

"They will not say a word even if they hear. Let go. I command you to let go."

It was as if a dam had burst. Meássë’s cries spilled free and rattled around the hall. Tulkas thrust even harder, and new jolts of pleasure struck them both. He pushed her onto her back before quickening his already tortuous pace. The new angle he found sent her spiraling. Her back arched every time he drew his hips back and pushed them back in. Meássë had to grab at anything she could to try and keep herself steady. She knocked a glass over in her bid to hold onto something. It fell to the ground with a loud crash.  

“Mine," he groaned whenever her walls fluttered and grew tighter and tighter around his cock. "You are mine."

His words undid her completely. Meássë’s body shook as her orgasm ripped through her. Hot flashes of pleasure spread all over her while Tulkas thrust one final time, moaning deeply when he filled her with his spend, his nail digging into her hips. Meássë could not move and lay there, too lost in her own state of bliss to even care.

The world came into focus little by little. Tulkas pulled out of her, leaving her feeling strangely empty. Meássë tried to regain a sense of bearing and soon found herself being carried and covered in something incredibly soft. She opened her eyes. That something soft was a pelt finer than silk. Tulkas crooned sweet words of endearment into her ear while he settled into his chair, keeping her with him as he did so. He brushed his lips over her hair. She sighed wistfully and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Eat," Tulkas said gently, and proceeded to feed her with morsels from his plate. "You had so little during dinner. When you have had your fill, I am taking you back to my bed."

If you enjoyed this, please consider commenting/reblogging it!

tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @wandererindreams

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Stonehearth, seat of House Shield and Medieval! Lord Tulkas

The fortress is built over a small rise and can only be accessed by two entryways. A massive curtain wall encircles the interior grounds and buildings, and has two imposing gatehouses and watch towers facing four directions. These towers can be accessed through the Northern or Southern gatehouses.

Thanks to gravity-fed pipes, the Keep is never short of water. However, three wells have also been constructed in case of an emergency.

1. The Lord's Manor: This building has three floors above ground, along with a basement and cellar.

The uppermost floor has spacious apartments that have been partitioned off. The largest set of rooms is for Tulkas's personal use, while the others are for his guests. The Lord's Hall is located on this floor, and is used by Tulkas whenever he wishes to entertain his attendants and hold intimate gatherings. The second floor has rooms for his attendants, along with a small library and hall for their use. The ground floor is for receiving guests and is complete with a great hall, the main library, the healers' hall, rooms for the servants, and the kitchens.

The Keep has an interior courtyard that is surrounded by an arcade.

2. Warehouse and stores.

3. The stadium: This has built-in seating and a large field in the center. Horse races, archery contests, jousting, melees, and other contact sports can be held here at any time of day or night. There is a large glass dome in the center of the roof to let in more light while shielding everyone from the elements.

4. Stadium kitchen: Underground tunnels allow servants to come and go between the buildings.

5. The baracks. Most of Tulkas's warriors live here. This is the only other location where one can access the watch towers.

6. Smithy.

7. Armory.

8. Barracks kitchens.

9. Stables.

10. Kennels.

House Shield coat of arms: A rampant brown bear on a field of gold and silver checks.

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil @wandererindreams @edensrose

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

High Tree Hall, seat of House Archer and Medieval! Lord Oromë

Rules and tag form here | Prompts for requests here.

A/n: Silverwood tree is something I invented purely for this AU.

High Tree Hall is located deep within the ancient forests of Hunter’s Pass. The forests are rarely, if ever, infiltrated by an enemy, as the trees form confusing paths and dead-ends similar to the Labyrinth of Alqualondë. Still, elves and attendants loyal to Lord Oromë carry out regular patrols in and around the forests. Any guests or outsiders visiting High Tree are met on the outskirts of Hunter’s Pass and led down winding paths on horseback while blindfolded.

High Tree Hall and its outer buildings are surrounded by a curtain wall made of stone and mortar. There are two gates, the Hunter’s Gate and the River Gate, and the curtain wall has four bastions facing different directions.

High Tree has its own water supply due to the presence of pools fed by underground springs. Despite this, wells have been dug into the earth in case of necessity.

1.High Tree Hall: High Tree is a long house built around a giant Silverwood tree, and the structure itself is made out of a mixture of roughly hewn stone and mortar and thick wooden bark. The lower branches of the redwood tree spread out beneath the roof.

High Tree has one floor above ground, along with a basement. The floor above ground is partitioned into three separate sections. One corner section is for Oromë’s personal use. This section comprises a bath chamber, a small hall for when Oromë wishes to hold private meetings with his advisors, a little library, Oromë’s bed chamber, and his own armory. The other end is sectioned into small, but well-appointed bed chambers for Oromë’s guests. Each room has its own private bath. 

The center portion of High Tree is called the Great Hall. This hall is used for feasts, dances, and larger meetings. Even on days when there are no planned meetings or festivities, the residents of High Tree would all gather here for their daily meals. Pelts of animals slain during hunts are spread out all over the floor and furnishings, and the skulls are hung on the walls. There are no fireplaces here, only braziers and beeswax candles. The basement comprises a kitchen and cellar. Like all of the Great Houses of Valinor, High Tree has its own ice cellar.

2.The Stables

3.The Kennels

4.The warehouse and stores

5.These buildings are used by Oromë’s warriors, attendants, and their families. Each building comes complete with its own armory.

6.These buildings are used by Oromë’s servants and their families.

7.These buildings are guest manses, and are used to house the retinue of Oromë’s guests.

All buildings listed under 5, 6, and 7 come with their own bathhouse.

8.Smithy

9.Sparring yard

House Shield coat of arms: A mounted archer on a green field

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil @edensrose @wandererindreams

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Pairing: Manwë x Eönwë

Themes: Angst

Warnings: Mentions of wars / Death / PTSD / Trauma 

Wordcount: 2.2k words

Summary:  Eönwë, plagued with dreams of the War of Wrath, goes to  Manwë for comfort. Their meeting does not go according to the way he thought it would. 

Image source: Pinterest 

Rules and tag form can be found here.

The dream started as it always did. On a battlefield.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and gore. Swords clashed, the bitter song of steel mixing with the sounds of the wounded and dying, the calls of great birds, and the cries of fell beasts. Eagles and drakes fell from the skies, their wings burned and torn. A beast mightier and more terrifying than anything else in existence finally took to the clouds, its roar threatening to tear the very earth beneath it asunder. Its wings brought forth a great tempest, its shadow shrouding everything in darkness. 

Eönwë took in the ruinous devastation all around him, horrified by what he witnessed. Mighty trees had been reduced to charred stumps. The earth was wet and slick from the blood of the fallen. Something grabbed his arm, something bloodied and scarred beyond recognition, pleading for comfort and succour. Eönwë had none to give as the great beast above swooped down on them all, jets of white-hot fire pouring out of its terrifying maw. Fear clutched at his heart and sheer agony whipped at him like fresh coils when a river of flame washed over him. Eönwë tried to escape, unfurl his wings and fly away. In the end he could not, for his doom was already upon him. He fell to his knees, a silent scream trapped in his throat. The world darkened mercifully fast.

The Maia's fana had been shaking violently when he abruptly sat up, that silent scream still trapped in his throat. His dream had felt so real, so raw, that he looked around to make certain he was safe in Ilmarin and not in some watery grave of the now-sunken Beleriand.

Everything on that distant battlefield was gone. A soft featherbed and a pale tiled floor had taken its place. Outside the wide windows, the wind howled around Taniquetil like a living thing.

Just a dream, he told himself. It was just an ugly dream, one that hounded him like a hungry beast. Eönwë buried his face in his hands and sighed. 

True slumber had evaded him yet again. Blending living night and deep dream the way the Eldar did failed. He could not close his eyes or give in to rest as memories of past battles tormented him. Unable to sleep, Eönwë crawled out of bed, his fana worn by the lack of respite. He walked over to one of the windows and looked out.

It was a beautiful night, and the stars were out in all their glory. A great bank of clouds had already formed further down, their tops bathed in the light of Ithil. Once, such a magnificent sight would have been enough to make him forget all his cares. Now they did nothing to ease his troubled fëa.

Eönwë turned towards the bed. His side looked like it had been the scene of a small war, but the other side remained untouched. His shoulders slumped. His king was away again, leaving him to fight the horrors that plagued his dreams all alone. Eönwë tried to talk to him about his struggles, but Manwë was too consumed by his own duties to listen, always dismissing him with a curt wave of the hand. 

The herald rubbed the hot tears that had already started to sting his eyes with the back of his hand. Gut-wrenching loneliness coursed through him when he gazed upon the bed. That feeling had been a mere trifle in the beginning, one he easily ignored. Now it had grown so strong that he could no longer bear it.

I will talk to him, he decided, and make him see. If not, if he refuses...

Eönwë did not want to think of what could happen if Manwë refused to hear him. Still, it had to be done, at least for his own sake. He needed Manwë to really hear him and not shut him out again. If not, hard choices would have to be made. Eönwë held onto the hope that it would not come to that.

The long, vaulted halls beyond the chambers he shared with the king were lit with blue lamps that had gold filigree work. Eönwë walked across these halls silently, his feet bare against the cool marble floors, the tips of his wings barely a hair's breadth above the ground. There was no one around now—no supplicants appealing to the king for aid, no Ainu seeking the king out for his counsel. Many of the king's warriors had retired to the barracks. This was the perfect time to do what he intended to do.

He searched through many of the rooms and halls of Ilmarin before finding the king in his council room, surrounded by more of those blue lamps and stacks of scrolls. A sumptuous meal lay before him and a piece of parchment lay in his hand. Another report, no doubt, of Melkor's most trusted general. The Maia who was once known as Mairon had resurfaced after the fall of his lord, and many were already falling prey to the lies spilling off his tongue. The king closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on one thing and one thing only.

Where did they go wrong?

Manwë would often ponder this question at length and always found himself failing to come up with an answer. Or perhaps there was one, and he did not have the courage to face it. He looked at the parchment again. He tried to go over it once more but something else had caught his attention, telling him he was not alone. Manwë glanced towards the doorway and found that something was actually someone. His herald Eönwë was without, waiting for an invitation to come in. 

"Little dove," he said, his gaze cutting back to the parchment before him. "Why are you here?"

The Maia entered, bowed deeply, and came closer. “I came to talk to you, sire,” Eönwë said hesitantly.

“Sit,” The king commanded, gesturing to a chair in front of him. “But make it quick. I have matters of great import to tend to.”

A wave of resentment came out of nowhere, one that was wholly new to him. Matters of great import, he thought. Am I not important?

Once, all he had to do was say he was troubled and the king would set aside much of everything else for his sake. Only the most pressing matters were seen to. And now? Now the king barely acknowledged him even in the best of times. His duties had consumed him completely, making him take much of everything else for granted, especially his companion. It left Eönwë feeling more than a little bitter.

“Tis the dreams sire,” He breathed, “They are getting worse now and I am not sure of how to —”

“That again,” The king muttered under his breath. His brother’s disgrace and the War of Wrath weighed heavily on his shoulders, made him wroth. “Little dove, for nigh on half a moon you had been coming to me about these dreams. Truth be told, I grow weary of listening to them.”

His eyes started to sting again. Eönwë pressed on, a shred of hope still in his heart. If the king would only look up and see. If he could just see. “But it is more than that," he insisted. "These dreams are growing stronger and stronger. I cannot close my eyes; I cannot rest or sleep. I feel like my mind is slipping."

Look at me, he wanted to scream. Please look at me.

Manwë did not look up. He chose not to. He picked up a quill this time and dipped it in a small jar of ink. He wrote something on the parchment. "And what do you expect me to do about it?" he said curtly, his gaze firmly fixed to the task at hand. "Hold your hand while you sleep?"

"I just want you to listen," Eönwë ground out, his patience wearing thin. "Just once. Can you do that at least?"

“I have duties, herald.” Manwë put the quill down, anger rising within him. “Duties that demand my fullest attention. I neither have the time nor the patience for anything else.”

So this was how it was going to be. The king was not going to help him. Eönwë was starting to think the king did not even care. He struggled ignore the sharp pangs that threatened to cripple him.

"I will go to Lord Irmo then," he said, focusing his attention on the floor. He did not want Manwë to see his tears, certain he would not care about them either. "Or Lady Estë. They will be able to help me."

Manwë had gone back to writing. "Lord Irmo and Lady Estë are already burdened with the care of the Eldar who survived the War of Wrath. As is the Lady Nienna. You must wait."

"But this cannot wait!" Eönwë blazed, his patience finally exhausted, his fana trembling not only from sadness but also from anger. He slammed his hands against the table so hard the force sent parchment rolling onto the floor. "Not anymore! Why will you not listen and take me seriously?"

“Because I am the king!” Manwë roared and rose to his feet, his countenance dark with rage. “I cannot be expected to abandon my duties and be attached to you all the time!”

“I am not asking you to abandon your duties!” Eönwë rose, sorrow threatening to overwhelm him. What did he have to do to make the king listen to him? “I am just asking you to listen! Please! Why will you not listen?”

"Because I have more pressing burdens thrust upon me!" Manwë’s eyes filled with venom and fury burned through him. His frustration and deep-seated anger over the war and the very real harm his brother caused blinded him to good sense, making him lash out at the first available target. "I cannot be expected to deal with the pitiful complaints of a weak and pathetic Maia all the time! Eru help me," he went on, the words stumbling out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think. "But I wish I had never formed an attachment with you in the first place. All you do is trouble me and I have had enough of it."

By the time he had heard his own words and the sharp gasp that followed it was already too late. Heartache of the acutest kind clung to the air like a sickly perfume. The king could feel it, he did not need to read the thoughts of the other to know it. Shame and self-loathing slowly replaced anger and Manwë could not bring himself to look his herald in the eye. Eönwë had been nothing but accommodating to his will and pleasure, taking the good and the bad that came with being the Elder King’s consort in his stride. What he said was cruel and uncalled for and could never be taken back.

He still had to try.

"Little dove," he looked down at his trembling hands, more than a little afraid. "I did not truly mean—"

"Pray forgive me, sire." Eönwë cut him off, no longer wanting to hear another word. Manwë made it plain that he did not wish to be burdened by him, so he would burden him no more. "For troubling you the way I have. I... I give you my word that you will not have to burden yourself with me again."

Manwë went to him, to try and tell him that this was all a terrible mistake. He wanted to say that he did not mean a word of what he said. He wanted to show Eönwë that he was going to listen this time, that nothing was going to get in the way again. Eönwë no longer cared. He kept backing away from him, his heart already closing itself off to his king.

"Come to bed with me," the king implored, silently praying that he had not gone and ruined everything by his lack of care. "Come with me. We can talk about the dreams that have been troubling you."

"No need to trouble yourself with the pitiful complaints of a weak and pathetic Maia, sire," Eönwë retorted, throwing Manwë’s words back at him. "I will find some other way to manage."

"I can help you." His fear had grown stronger. He was losing him. He was actually losing him. Manwë tried to take his hand, his eyes filled with silent pleading. "Please. Let me help you."

Eönwë—already one foot out the door—physically recoiled from his touch. "I... I will remove myself to the barracks, sire," his voice was already cracking under the strain. He needed to get away before he fell apart completely. "On the morrow someone else will come and collect my belongings."

Manwë stood where he was, unsure of what to say. What could he say that could undo the harm he had already caused?

“Little dove,” he pleaded in the end, ready to go down to his knees if necessary. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

"I will bid you a good night, sire," Eönwë managed before turning sharply on his heel and fleeing down the hall, a blur of blue and green feathers trailing behind him.

Manwë rushed out himself, only to watch Eönwë disappear down a corridor.

He should have gone after Eönwë, showed him that he was not a burden. The King found himself lacking the courage to do so. Eönwë was always the brave one, the one who would be the first to strike and take the lead. Manwë would hesitate, listening and always taking careful measure of every situation before rushing in.

If only he had the done the same now. If only he had actually listened, Eönwë would be with him instead of fleeing from him. Manwë slowly returned to his private chambers, unable to eat, not wanting to spend another moment on those wretched pieces of parchment or on his duties. The walk back to his now cold rooms proved to be a long and lonely one.

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese​ @fanfictionfordays​ @floraroselaughter​ 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Saltstone Keep: A layout of Olwë’s palace and surrounding grounds

The Saltstone Keep is built atop a small hill. This hill sits above a large aquifer of fresh water. By channeling through the rock, Olwë's miners and artificers constructed a network of terracotta pipes that ensures the Keep is supplied with clean water and not dependent on the city beneath it.

The curtain walls of the Keep and the palace proper are made with a mixture of stone quarried from the Saltstone cliffs, coral slabs, and mortar. Before the first kinslaying, the outer curtain wall purely served as a decorative function, and was built to resemble the shape of a turtle. There was no second curtain wall around the palace. After the first Kinslaying, the following additions were made:

The outer curtain wall was raised and fortified.

Bastions, watchtowers, a drawbridge, and a bell tower were added to it.

A deep, dry moat was dug around the outer walls.

The hunter’s lodge was turned into a proper barracks. A smithy and armory were also added.

A second curtain wall and a portcullis was added around the palace.

 Here is a full list of buildings and structures on the grounds.

The Royal Palace: Residence of the royal family and members of court.

Guest House

Great Hall (for feasts and dances)

Granary and warehouse

Glasshouse (Green house)

Barracks

Kennels

Sparring yard

Smithy

Armory

Library Tower

Dovecote

Healer’s Tower

Stables

Wells

Bell Tower

Drawbridge

Dry moat

 An/: this is a continuation of this post. 

Inspiration for the outer curtain wall: The Jaffna Fort

Inpiration for the terracotta pipe system: The pipe system of the Sigirya rock fortress

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Pairing: Fëanor x Námo

Themes: Angst

Warnings: None that I can think of

Word count: 1.5k words

Summary: After passing onto the Halls of Awaiting, Fëanor hopes for an audience with the Vala who loved him once.

A/n: Words in italics are for communication via osanwë.

Turn of the moon – a full lunar month.

This post was inspired by this little exchange in the tags between @cilil and myself.

Rules and taglist form here.

The great hall and throne room were painted to look like the vastness of the night sky. Tiny blue and white jewels all over the domed ceiling glittered with a light of their own. Fëanor had walked—no—flitted from hall to hall until he reached the vast and cavernous chamber his lover favored when meeting the fëar of those that awaited judgment. 

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. The jewels were of his making and given as a gift. He remembered Námo's smile when he walked in and saw them glittering like stars. It was a rare and beautiful thing. Fëanor treasured that memory dearly.

My lord Fëanor. Nienna had come up behind him. The Valië of mercy, pity, and mourning was all shimmering silver mist. She did not take on a physical form in her brother's halls. Not unless the occasion demanded it. You have come to this hall yet again.

And I will do so again and again, most gentle lady, Fëanor said softly and respectfully. Nienna was beloved by her brothers, and they would not take kindly to any insult to her person. And Fëanor did not wish to add to the miseries already plaguing him. Until lord Námo is ready to receive me. I have to try, my lady. I have to try for another chance.

The air around him stirred. Nienna drifted closer. The mist shifted as if it was taking form. Fëanor felt something warm and comforting caress his cheek.

He does not wish to see you, she said tenderly. Her voice was as soft as a kiss and tinged with great sorrow. Not now. Not ever. My brother cannot bring himself to forget what you did. He will never forgive you for what you did. He does not wish to give you another chance. Not even I could sway his thoughts on this. I am so sorry.

There is no need to apologize, my lady. The fault is all mine. Fëanor turned his attention back to the throne room. Námo looked resplendent in the inky black and violet robes he wore. A silver circlet crusted with amethysts sat amidst a black hood. A sheer grey veil concealed his face. His favorite hound, Gorgumoth, slumbered by his feet. But I must try.

Nienna accepted his choice. Then I will stay with you.

They stayed hidden and watched. Fëa after fëa drifted up to an imposing throne carved out of a single large block of black stone. Their words were barely louder than a whisper. Námo listened, patient as always, before pronouncing his verdict. Some accepted his words with gladness. Others grew mournful. Námo would counsel them before one of the Maiar that served him guided each fëa onto the Halls of Awaiting for cleansing and reflection. 

Time did not exist here. A turn of the moon could have come and gone and they would not have noticed. They waited and listened, watching as one fëa after another came and went. Námo seemed to tire. His veil fluttered, and his robes lifted and fell as if he was sighing. Fëanor stirred, hoping Námo was done and he could finally have an audience with him. Gorgumoth's ear twitched. He opened his eyes and sniffed at the air. The hound caught wind of something he did not like. He turned his attention to the shadows, where Fëanor and Nienna were. He lifted his head and bared his teeth, his growl echoing off the walls like thunder. The other fëar quailed at the sound.

Námo turned his attention to the shadows. He placed his hand on Gorgumoth's head. The hound quietened in an instant. 

"Beloved sister," the Vala called out into the dark. "You have a friend with you."

Nienna urged Fëanor to go with her. Make haste, she said, and pulled him with her as she drifted down the stairs. You will not receive another opportune moment like this.

Námo rose and made his way down the steps. Nienna changed her form and walked up to him, dipping into a deep curtsy when she reached the throne. Fëanor stood a few paces behind her. He did not hear what they were saying, but brother and sister looked at each other intensely. Námo made a sound of disgust and turned, his eyes filling with rage when they rested on Fëanor. The slain elf trembled and lowered his gaze out of fear and respect.

"Please, brother," Nienna pleaded softly. "All he asks is for a chance to talk to you. Please! For my sake."

Námo sighed softly. His fingers brushed her cheek as if he was wiping away a tear. "I never could deny you for long," he murmured, and removed his crown. "Very well. I will hear him out."

Nienna curtsied again. She took the crown off her brother's hands and went to several ornate chairs beneath the throne. When Fëanor raised his eyes, she already had taken a seat, the crown safely on her lap. It was a sign that while she acted on Námo's behalf, her verdicts did not carry the same weight as his. They could be overturned at any time. Námo's Maiar came to her. Gorgumoth silently padded over and stretched out beside her. The fëar peacefully formed another line, all waiting for her to hear them out.

"Walk with me, Fëanor, son of Finwë." Námo turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the throne room. Fëanor had little choice but to follow him through one silent corridor after another.

He wanted to weep. He trembled when he could not. There would be no tears, none came to fëar, but he mourned all the same. Fëanor, son of Finwë. That was what Námo called him. Once, in another life, it was "my own heart."

You tremble, Fëanor, son of Finwë. Námo did not turn or look over his shoulder. To do either was a sign of forgiveness, of a softening in his stance. Námo could not do that, no matter how much it pained him. And it did wound him more than words could say. Fëanor had been his other half once. Where Námo was stoicism personified, Fëanor brought with him every emotion imaginable. If Námo was the ice, then Fëanor was the inferno that threatened to burn the world to ash. And he nearly did. And Námo could not bring himself to forget or forgive. He looked straight ahead and tried to harden his heart. What troubles you?

You. Fëanor kept a steady gaze on Námo's broad back. He tingled when memories of that back trembling beneath his fingers came unbidden. I know I wounded you, and...

Wounded me? Námo whirled, his eyes ablaze with pain and black fury. Long-buried sorrow and rage bubbled to the surface. You dare speak of such a thing? You who stole and murdered and encouraged others to do the same? You who forgot what we meant to each other and shattered every hope, every dream?

And Námo was not done. I would have helped you. He touched the corner of his eye. There were no tears. What tears he had left were frozen in his heart. Had you come to me, I would have gone to the others, and we would have found a way. Why? He asked, his voice thick with sadness. Why did you not come to me? I know how much you loved your father. I know how much the silmarils meant to you. Even more than me, I think. 

Why indeed. It was a question that had plagued Fëanor for as long as he could remember. Why did he not go to Námo when Melkor murdered his father and made off with the Silmarils? Why did he not seek the aid of others instead of being consumed by his arrogance and need for vengeance? Fëanor did not have an answer. All he had was shame and sorrow and guilt engulfing him. Námo was right. Fëanor valued the silmarils even more than the love Námo bore him. He could not bring himself to look Námo in the eye. 

I wept for you. Námo looked into the distance, despair coursing through him like mighty waves when he caught glimpses of what could have been. Yes, he nodded when he sensed Fëanor's shock. I wept for you. Many were the tears that were shed, and how I mourned your fate, how it crushed me to pronounce your doom. Watching you spiral into a world of darkness and chaos was more than I could bear.

My own heart, Fëanor inched his way closer, slowly and respectfully. He stopped when Námo flinched and backed away. Through the veil, he could see Námo's countenance contorting in pain. Is there nothing I can do to take away your pain? There must be something, surely. Please tell me. For the love we bore each other...

Love. Námo said bitterly. He thought of what they had, of what could have been. He wanted to weep over a future that no longer existed and how it all pained him so. He had to end the conversation and leave, lest his frozen tears finally break free. I knew love. The love in your fierce heart, in the flames that burned bright within every fiber of your being. It warmed every ounce of my spirit and filled me with so much hope, a ray of light for me to grab onto even in the darkest of times. That light is hidden from my eyes now. The words came out like a strangled sob. I cannot see it, no matter how hard I try.

Fëanor reached out to him, his despair as keen as Námo's. So much had been destroyed, and by his own doing, no less. My own heart, I...

Never call me that again. Námo turned away just as the first bitter tear fell. And never seek me out again. We are finished.

Fëanor could only watch him leave, silently damning himself in the darkness that crept in after Námo's departure. 

 tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @fictionfordays​ 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Temple of Eru

A further expansion of  Alqualondë, this time on Eru’s temple.

Eru’s temple was built on the edge of the Silver Lake Forest, in a meadow between the forest and Silver Lake. It was established by Olwë after the Teleri settled in Alqualondë during the 1162 Year of the Trees. The building was constructed with a mix of stone quarried from the Sandstone Cliffs, blocks of coral, and mortar.

Exterior layout and gardens:

A circular wall runs across the perimeter of the grounds. It has four slender spires facing different directions. Intricate scenes of Arda’s history and the Ainulindalë have been carved onto the columns. Perfectly formed white pearls and jewels decorate the top of each spire.

The gardens are vast and trees ranging from poplar to cypress to pine and beech can be found here, along with every flower that could be found in Valinor. There is a small pond in one corner, and a grotto devoted to Eru. This shrine has miniature carvings of The All High and his attendants. Weddings are held here, and celebrants often have picnics by the pond once the ceremony ends.

The sanctum itself has a covered arcade that runs along the entire structure. It has floor-to-ceiling windows made entirely out of stained glass. These depict scenes of Arda’s history as well, along with scenes depicting the Ainulindalë. The roof has a large glass domed skylight in the center, and four smaller ones on each side. 

The interior layout of the temple:

The interior is a single-story floor rising up to twenty feet. More carvings can be found on the interior walls and columns, along with perfectly formed pearls and jewels used for eyes and ornamentation. Marble plinths bearing sculptures of the Valar form a circle under the glass skylight, and a carving of Eru stands in the middle of them all. 

Silence is enforced here. There are no seats, but soft rugs, pelts, and cushions can be found for anyone wishing to pray or meditate. There are no lamps here. Only beeswax candles are lit and placed around the statues. 

Due to its proximity, hunting within Silver Lake Forest is prohibited. 

A/n: interior floor plan inspired by floor plans projected by Michaelangelo for St. Peter’s Basilica. I’m not an architect so I apologize for discrepancies in the layouts. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Fisherman and the Mermaid

Pairing: Maron Grey x Maelstrom (fem. | mermaid )

Themes: Some danger | Soft ending

Warnings: Mentions of death | Mentions of storms at sea | Mentions of possible drowning | Brief mention of nudity

Summary: Maron, a poor fisherman from Pyke, makes use of a boat gifted to him by friends, and ends up lost at sea. 

Word count: 2.2k words

Minors DNI

Long before the building of the Wall and the Battle for the Dawn, there once was a young man living on an island now known to all as Pyke. He was a poor man, with neither birth nor fortune to his name. He had no horse, and no lord to command his services. All he had was a shack, a tiny spit of land to call his own, and a boat.

He did not mind. He believed in carving out his own destiny with the strength of his back and the sweat of his own brow. Day after day he would put his boat to sea, and day after day he would return, his body worn and his catch meager. And still, he did not mind. This man was content, you see, for while he may have been poor in coin, he was rich in loyal friends: Blacktide and Botley and Drumm, Greyiron and Harlaw and Tawney, and so many more. They broke bread with him, laughed with him, and listened to him when he wove his webs of dreams, and one day, on his twenty-fifth name day, they all collected what they could and brought him a new boat.

It was no great beauty, that boat. It was neither large nor grand, but it was beautiful in his eyes, for it was a gift gladly given. He thanked his friends heartily for it, and the next day, at the break of dawn, he set off again.

The day started gloriously. It was all warm sunshine and vivid blue skies and great big puffy clouds. The young man cast his nets, and waited. And waited. The hours passed and the sun rose higher, and his nets were empty. He rowed further out to sea and cast his nets. The sun rose higher still, and his nets remained empty. The young man did not give up. He rowed further still, hoping a third time would bring him luck. He cast his nets and prayed. His eyes grew heavy, and he yielded to sleep, thinking he was still safe.

The sky turned orange and gold when the sun began to set, and still he slept. The stars started to rise, one by one, and still he slept. The winds grew stronger, the air grew colder, and still he slept. The sky darkened, his boat rolled from side to side, and still, he slept. It was only when thunder boomed and lightning split the sky like a white-hot lance did he open his eyes. The young man looked on, sweat dripping down his brow and the sound of waves roaring in his ears, while clouds as dark as sin obscured the light of the stars and rain fell on him like an angry beast. There was not an inch of land to be seen. He had gone too far out to sea. Fear sank its talons into his flesh, threatening to rip him apart. The young man held onto his boat while it listed from side and side, praying to any god who could hear, to save him from a watery grave.

That was not to be. No God heard him. The storm raged and the man wept, blaming himself for his wretched fate.

If only he had kept to safer shores! If only he had been content and gone back, he could have lived to see another day! Alas, that was not to be. The young man wept and held on while the wind and rain slashed at him, certain of his doom. The winds grew stronger, and the waves rose higher. He closed his eyes and mustered his courage to meet his end.

That was not to be either. The temper in the air calmed, degree by slow degree. The wind, once howling and raging like a living thing, began to die down little by little. The waves, once roiling and threatening to drag him under, slowly calmed and stilled. The young man wanted to shout and laugh. He was alive. The skies and the seas had unleashed their worst, and he was alive. Never had he been more grateful than just then. He wanted to turn back and try to find land. Some land. At least until he could gather his bearings and set out again. He picked up his oars, ready to row long and hard.

That was when he heard it, drifting over the waves like a mist. It was a song, but unlike any melody he had ever heard. It was rich and haunting and beautiful and bewitching and tender, like a sweet confession to a lover. The young man stopped for a moment to listen. That song grew louder and drew closer, and yet he listened. He had never heard such a wondrous melody before. He may hear its like again. He rested his chin on his hand and waited.

The waves grew as still as a looking glass. The young man listened to the song, paying no mind to the small ripple in the water or the silhouette beneath it. There was another ripple, this time louder. The singing stopped. The clouds drifted, revealing a bright full moon. There was a strange stillness in the air. The young man felt like he was being watched. He looked over his shoulder, fearful of what he might see.

At the bow of his boat was a woman. She was half out of the water, leaning on the edge with great ease. The young man was struck dumb by the vision before him. The woman’s skin was the color of a glorious moonlit sea, and her eyes shone brightly like twin stars. Her hair fell past her waist like molten silver. She looked on with barely disguised curiosity. The young man inched closer and closer, equally curious about this creature. He peered over the edge. A beautiful tail of black and silver swished beneath the water. He was taken aback to find he was in the presence of a mermaid. 

"I am hungry," she said in his tongue. It shocked him. "Pray do you have anything to eat?"

The young man gulped in fright, but remembered his courtesies. "Just salted fish and bread soaked through, my lady," he replied, cautiously crawling over to the other end. "Will that serve?"

"Yes," she said as she swam beside him, her smile radiant, her voice like a song. "That will serve."

The young man nodded and dug around a worn oil-skin bag, wrinkling his face when he pulled out the wet food. Strange creature or not, he did not wish to serve anyone such pap. "This is all I have, my lady."

"It will serve," she replied again, her eyes filled with curiosity as she studied the man. Of men, she had heard of and seen plenty. The wretched tales the youngest among her sisters told her were enough to feed her nightmares. But this man… he seemed different. "Lost, are you?"

The young man laughed bitterly. "After a fashion, my lady." He unwrapped the parcels and presented the food, such as it was, to her. "I grew too bold, too greedy, and too desperate. Then I fell asleep. Now I am here." He looked around, his eyes widening at the endless expanse of sea. "Where is here, anyway?"

"You are near Lonely Light, sir," she replied, biting into the bread. It was soaked, just as he said, but she ate it anyway.

The name gave the young man the shivers. "I thought none but the dead may go there."

"My sisters and I are the judges of that," she said even as she helped herself to the salted fish. "And only those who come seeking things they should not meet their ends. Not those whose hearts beat true. They may stay for a night or two before leaving."

"Really? Then does my heart beat gentle and true?" he challenged, his lips tugging at the corners.

"Perhaps," she said, and finished the fish. "You seem decent enough. Tell me, sir, why are you here, so far away from your home?" 

"The fish," he said truthfully. "I thought I would have better luck with a better boat." 

"I see," she murmured, and studied the boat. "It is well made. Did you make it?"

"No. I do not have the coin for such fine wood and tools. My friends gave this to me as a gift."

"Loving friends indeed, to give you such a gift."

"They are indeed."

She studied him again. There was nothing in his easy manner and a ready smile that gave her cause for alarm, and unlike her younger sisters, she could peer into the hearts of mortals. It was a gift that was both a blessing and a curse, but Maelstrom was still grateful. She looked into his, and found it just as she expected it to be.

He has a good heart. And he has been generous with what little he has. A reward is in order.

"What is your name?" she asked finally.

"Maron," came his answer. "Maron Grey."

"My name means Maelstrom in your tongue," she said, before swimming away from the boat to sing.

Her singing was the same as before—utterly sweet and bewitching. Maron watched, his eyes widening, when more mermaids appeared in the water, each as beautiful as the next. They swam up to the boat. One of them tied a thick length of rope made of seaweed to one end. They all took turns swimming and pulling the boat along with them.

The stars were out in all their glory now. Maron could see them glimmering in the water like diamonds. The mermaids started to sing, their voices a glorious harmony filled with magic. He was content to listen, and his eyes widened once again when a strip of land appeared before his eyes. 

Lonely Light. None but the dead may visit here, so the minstrels said. The creatures that lived here were of myth and legend. Each was thought to be as generous and cruel as the sea. They would bless whomever they chose, the songs said, and hinder whomever they chose. Maron hoped he was the former and not the latter. The wrath of a mermaid was a terrifying thing, the songs said.

The boat was guided to a sheltered cove. The air was so thick with salt that it stung the eyes, but the sand was soft and warm beneath Maron’s feet. The mermaids bid him to stay with rest and entertain them with his tales. Maelstrom joined him on the beach, shocking him even more when her tail turned to legs the moment they brushed over the earth. She was unclad, and he looked away, his cheeks aflame, humble words of apology dripping off his tongue. Maelstrom laughed merrily and said, "What gentle manners this one has! Come, eat. You must be famished."

Maron glanced at his feet. A woven platter filled with fresh fruit and roasted fish lay before him. He ate until he had his fill, before accepting a cup of mead so light and sweet that he sighed as in a dream.

"Now sleep," Maelstrom urged, moving to one side while one of her sisters brought a soft mat of woven reeds for him to rest on. "On the morrow, I will guide you home."

Sleep claimed him without a struggle. Maron slept and dreamed. What beautiful dreams they were. When he awoke at dawn, his boat gleamed under the sunlight. The other mermaids were gone. Maelstrom was all that remained.

"My sisters and I will help you find the way back," she said, her feet barely leaving a mark on the sand while she walked. "Now come. I will guide you home. Your friends must surely be worrying over your safety."

Nearly a day passed before Maron reached his home and friends, but he never forgot the maiden who helped him. He would take his boat to see her daily and was pleased to find her waiting for him. Maelstrom showed where to fish and how much to catch. She told him stories that were strange and too outlandish to be true. He listened still, and told her tales of his home. His hauls and income grew, but he spoke to no one of the cause of his good luck. Oh, he shared his good fortune and helped his friends, but he would never tell his secret. Even as a wealthy man, he would still take his boat to sea, to meet the mermaid that had captivated him and haunted his dreams. Their bond grew, and a spark flashed between them. A deep and abiding love soon grew from that spark. Maelstrom would swim towards the shores Maron called home. He would meet her there in secret and take her to his place, where they dined and laughed and share pleasures. Their love soon resulted in a child. Maelstrom gave Maron a son, but he could never stay with his mother. His blood bound him to the lands of mortals, and he was to remain in his father’s world. The laws of Maelstrom's kin deemed it so. There was nothing either one of them could do.

Maron crafted a tale where he claimed to have bedded a serving girl while trading on the mainland. Since the mother in the story was lowborn, no one questioned him. The child grew strong and came to know his true mother. Maron would take him to sea to visit with her, or Maelstrom would join them at night for supper. She taught her son all she could and showed him all the secret ways of the world. That child became the Grey King, the slayer of Nagga, the first sea dragon, and the founding father of House Greyjoy. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

City by the sea

Pairing: Varda x Uinen (Varinen)

Themes: Soft | Fluffy

Warnings: None

Word count: 1.1K words

Summary: Uinen takes Varda around the city she considers a second home.

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

The light shed from Laurelin gilded the lands around it, and Alqualondë was breathtaking.

Here, in the city by the sea, everything was beautiful. Varda and Uinen walked amongst the elves, garbed in cloaks of black velvet slashed with cloth of gold. The elves knew of them; their king had been told of their coming. And Uinen insisted they carry on regardless. Neither she nor the queen wished to get in their way.

Varda took everything in, wide-eyed and giddy. She had never seen Alqualondë with her own eyes before this; tales about this city did not do it justice.

There was the archway of glossy green coral, the only way in and out of the harbor. Beyond that, she could see Tol Eressëa and the Enchanted Isles. Varda took a deep breath and sighed. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sea. There was sweetness too, from beautiful flowers growing on strange trees. Frangipani, Uinen called them. Elven ladies would weave them into their braids.

And the city itself was enchanting. Brilliantly colored roofs and doors and shutters broke up the chilling white of walls and pathways. She found jewels and pearls and bits of coral atop doorways and lamps, windowsills and walls. A canal threaded around the city like a snake. Boats of red and blue and green drifted over its waters, carrying families and lovers. Something bright caught Varda’s eye. When she turned her attention back to the harbor, she found a slender white tower atop an islet that rose high above the still waters. The bright white light came from within its highest chamber.

"The lighthouse," Uinen explained, her footsteps as silent as Varda’s when she padded over paving of polished stone and coral. "White is for calm waters. They change it to red if they catch so much as a whiff of Ossë’s rage."

Ulmo once painted a most harrowing picture of his Maia’s rage. The reminder gave Varda the shivers. "And the ships return?"

Uinen glanced at the beautiful swan ships, their golden beaks, and the unfurled sails that held the devices of Alqualondë’s noble houses. The waves and crowned star of the royal House of Olwë stood out from the rest. She wondered where those ships would sail to and what adventures their crews would find.

"Yes," she said, and slipped her arm around Varda’s. "They must, if they wish to live. My friend sometimes cannot recognize friend from foe when he is exceedingly wroth."

Varda could feel Uinen's arm through the velvet of her cloak. She trembled, but found it was for a different reason, one that had nothing to do with fear. She bit her tongue, lest it bested her and ruined the magic of that moment. Uinen guided her around the city. She took Varda to the Plaza of Merchants first. They stood by and watched while traders unloaded their goods and arranged their stalls, and poured coal into braziers. Soon, the scent of herbs and roasting fish replaced the smell of salt and sea and flowers. Varda took deep breaths, her mouth watering from the smells. She wandered around the stalls with Uinen, nibbling on salted fish roasted to crackling. They admired what was on display, gawked at others, and praised the elves before moving onto another plaza.

The lamps here had been dimmed, and seating had been arranged in a half circle. The Valier took their places with the rest. Elves garbed in figure-hugging garments came forth, all holding slender batons in their hands. They bowed to the audience and took their places. Another elf rushed in with a torch. She lit the batons on both ends, and soon, a beautiful but dangerous dance commenced. Varda was enraptured. As a being who delighted in heat and light, she found genuine joy in the dance.

The elves twirled and tossed their batons into the air, creating beautiful arcs of orange and yellow and golden light. They danced and moved with flames between them, the crowd gasping and cheering as their acts grew more daring. Varda watched, her eyes wide, as the elves pushed themselves to the extreme of their skill, even going so far as to swallow flame. Her disappointment was near palpable when the dance came to an end. Still, she rose and heartily cheered with the rest, tossing coin to the dancers.

"That was splendid." She leaned in and whispered to Uinen. "Thank you for bringing me here. There is so much I do not know about this city."

Uinen smiled, flustered, and flushed at the same time. "There is so much more." She looked straight ahead, her cheeks heating. Her very spirit trembled when Varda leaned in and she felt her breath against her ear. "Come, my lady. You have not seen the weavers as yet."

Varda let Uinen take her hand and lead her to the Plaza of Weavers. Her mind was a roil. They had met all but twice, and already the Maia preyed on her thoughts. Uinen’s voice was sweet and dusky, her skin as soft as silk. Varda kept silent still, wanting more time, time to decide what to say and how best to say it. She was still lost in her thoughts when they came upon the Plaza of Weavers. They spoke to the elves, admired the tapestries already on display.

Such beauty, she thought, and admired a half-finished scene of Oromë coming upon the first elves at Cuiviénen. And by those frailer than us. It is as if they possess a magic all of their own. 

It was a humbling thought. She looked over others, running her hand over soft wool, flushing whenever Uinen’s fingers brushed over hers. More than once, one would catch the other stealing a glance. Uinen would smile shyly and look away. Varda would find herself flustered. She kept her composure, breathing a sweet sigh of relief when they walked back to the harbor. They stopped briefly when elflings ran past them, kites in hand, their laughter echoing around corridors and empty pathways.

Varda walked up to the harbor wall and admired the swan ships once more. I will need to speak to her, and soon. I need to know if she feels the same as myself.

Uinen had been thinking the same, and was just as anxious as the queen.

What is coming over me? She joined Varda by the wall and looked into the sea. We have met only twice and already I feel lightheaded and more than a little giddy.

"I enjoyed this outing," Varda mumbled, her tongue finally getting the better of her. "Perhaps we could meet again?" She realized what she had said, and coughed. "The ships," she insisted in a rush, "I would like to see the ships."

Uinen’s ears, webbed and gorgeously colored in blue and gold around the edges, twitched. It was something that only ever happened when she felt happy.

"I would be honored to show you," she said, her smile as bashful as Varda’s. "I will speak to king Olwë and make arrangements."

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