#a world of whimsy writes

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

A brother's instructions

Day 5 for @manweweek

Rating: E

Prompts: Free of Evil | Opposition

Pairing: Manwë/Melkor for Sofie (nyarnamaitar)

Themes: Dead Dove | Smut

Warnings: Dub-con | Manipulation | Incest | Kissing | Marking | Handjob | Mild choking | Penetrative sex | First time

Wordcount: 2.7k words

Summary: Prior to his wedding to Varda, Manwë’s brother calls on him, offering to teach him how to satisfy his bride in a way he does not expect.

Minors DNI | 18+

This fic is also available on AO3

“I hear you are to be wed.” Melkor leaned against the doorpost, the dark pools of his eyes glinting in the starlight that spilled freely into his brother’s chambers. “And I have come to offer my felicitations, brother mine.”

Manwë turned to face him, his lips forming a bashful smile. His brother’s visits were always welcomed, especially now that an occasion of great significance loomed large before him.

“My thanks, brother,” he returned warmly. “Lady Varda’s wish to be wed to me was wondrous for me to hear.”

“Indeed, brother mine. Indeed.” Melkor was perfectly calm, perfectly amiable. Deep within him, however, anger rose like a tumultuous storm that would have stripped everything around him to its bones had he allowed it. His brother was to be married to another, and the notion distressed Melkor deeply. 

Look at him, he thought, while his brother kept up a lively chatter about his upcoming nuptials. Varda is unworthy of him. He is so radiant. So beautiful. So innocent and unsuspecting of the true motives and desires of others. 

Dark lips curled into a twisted smile. Manwë was beautiful and radiant, as any of the Valar should be. He was also an innocent who was free of evil and pure of heart, a being who could not truly fathom the secret notions and desires hiding within the dark recesses of the minds of others. And he had not seen the desires that dwelled in his brother’s mind, for they had always been concealed from him. Melkor was besotted with him. It had been this way since the moment his younger brother came of age and Melkor found himself smitten by Manwë after he made himself known to him. This feeling grew with the passing of the ages, and Melkor did little to dampen it.  

Innocent and unsuspecting, he repeated to himself. Too innocent and unsuspecting for his own good. Perhaps there is a way yet for me to achieve a sliver, at least, of what I desire, he realized, if I speak the right words. And if I am successful, I may yet have a taste of him before he places himself in the arms of another for all time.

“What you have said is all good,” Melkor began and set his plan into motion. “But it will not be enough. A marriage is more than just a pledging of vows, brother. There are times when a marriage needs more than just tender companionship to keep itself alive. Have you given any thought to the other aspects as well?”

“You mean pleasures of both the spirit and the flesh?” His brother flushed, wringing his hands. Manwë had indeed given the notion much thought, and he found himself praying that he would not fail to please his new bride in any way, for he had abstained from such acts despite the many invitations from others to do so. Oh, he saw nothing wrong with such invitations; he simply desired to wait until he found the companion of his life. “Yes. I know of this brother.”

“Do you desire it?” Melkor asked with feigned indifference. “Does your lady desire it?”

Manwë flushed again, unable to look his brother in the eye. “Yes. To both. Varda is said to be a most passionate woman, and I… I hope that I will be able to please her in every way.”

“I understand completely,” Melkor replied solemnly, pacing his brother’s chamber, his eyes darting to the wide featherbed and its silk sheets. The bed was barely slept in, for they, the Valar, did not require rest and true sleep unless their earthly vessels were weary. And Manwë was rarely weary. 

Perhaps it is time that featherbed was put to some proper use. Melkor stopped by the foot of it before turning to face his brother.

“Do you wish to know how best to please your future queen and keep her content?”

“I do. More than anything.” 

“Then will you allow me to teach you? I have some experience in this sphere. I could guide you.”

His brother—who had been gazing out the windows—snapped around to look at him, startled by this most unusual offer. “You mean I should listen to what you have to say?”

“Not just say,” his brother answered, laughing. “I will show you by allowing you to take liberties with my body. Come now, brother,” he added when Manwë grew pale. “Have you lost your courage?” 

“I… I do not think it is wise, brother,” Manwë said, puzzled. His brother sought to show him how to please his queen instead of just counseling him about what took place in the marriage bed. He did not know what to make of it. What he did know was that such acts were forbidden, not just for the Children, the Eldar and the yet-to-be-discovered Edain, but for the Valar as well. “And it is an abomination, brother, for you and I to cleave to each other in such a way even in the flesh.”

“It is far from an abomination,” Melkor sighed as if in defeat. “But I will leave if you do not desire my guidance.”

“So soon?” His brother cried when he walked past him, comporting himself in the manner of an aggrieved soul. “Please stay, brother; I cannot bear to see you leave so soon.”

Melkor paused by the door, his hand already around its golden handle. The key has found its way into its lock, he thought, pleased with himself, and pleased with how easy it was to bring his brother around. Now all I need to do is to turn it into its proper place. 

“You do not wish me to leave?” he murmured, his back to his brother the entire time. “But why must I stay, brother mine, when you call my offer to help a vile and monstrous act?”  

“Please stay, brother,” his brother beseeched him. “Please. I… I did not mean to insult you.”

“You will trust me and willingly do what I ask of you?” Melkor turned around to face him, his countenance grave. Deep within, however, he was rejoicing. “All of what I ask of you?”

“I…” Manwë paused and hesitated. Melkor invited him to do something that would go against everything they were taught by their creator. However, he wanted to trust his brother. He wanted Melkor to see that he did not doubt his intentions, and he yearned to know how best to satisfy his future queen. “Yes. But just in the flesh, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” Melkor agreed. “Just in the flesh, and not in the spirit. Too much harm can come to us if our spirits are bonded. Now stay here. There is something I must procure for us first.”

That something turned out to be a clear, crystal bottle of oil that Melkor obtained after some discrete searching. It gleamed atop the little table it was placed on, and Manwë regarded it, wondering how it would be used. Then he turned to face his brother, mustering the courage that threatened to desert him at that moment.

“I… I am ready,” he declared softly. His brother smiled.

“First,” said Melkor, “we must kiss. Come here, brother mine. Place your arms around my neck and close your eyes. I will show you how it is done.” 

Manwë obeyed, albeit reluctantly, gasping when he was kissed violently and his brother’s hand tangled in his hair. He willed his mind to open, more than a little frightened by the savagery of his brother’s embrace.

“It hurts,” he exclaimed when his brother tightened his other arm around his waist in a vise-like hold. “It hurts, brother.”

“Tis how it is, brother,” Melkor growled, savoring the warmth lingering in his brother’s mouth. And oh! The sweetness he found lingering within it, the cravings it gave rise to! “Varda will desire this, even act in this manner as well. Listen to me, brother, when I say this is the only way to keep a being like her content.” 

“I… very well, brother.” Manwë yielded, whimpering when he felt the sting of his brother’s teeth against his lips and when the heaviness of his brother’s arousal pressed against his lower belly. Melkor wasted little time, ripping the robes off his brother’s person in his greed to feel flesh against flesh. He was not disappointed in any regard, for when he freed himself of his robes and drew his brother close, he found himself sighing wistfully. 

He feels so good. His brother’s fair skin was uncommonly soft and smelled faintly of cool mountain air. And it was perfect, devoid of any flaw. Melkor had often dreamed of it—his brother’s pale skin pressing against his own and his soft, windblown hair spreading around him like silk. 

And for once, I get to make my vision of us real. Melkor tumbled Manwë onto his bed and sat astride him, marking his throat and arms and torso with his tongue and his lips and his teeth. Manwë—despite the arousal that had already gathered deep within the pit of his stomach—thought this was all too much. Surely the pleasures of the flesh were supposed to be gentler than this?

“Too much, brother. Please.” He tried to resist, to push himself away. His nails inadvertently dug into his brother’s thighs during his attempts to break free. Melkor growled, inflamed, and wrapped his hand around his brother’s throat, pinning him to the featherbed. “Tis too much for me.” 

“It is far from too much,” he lilted, bracing his other hand by his brother’s shoulder. Manwë hissed softly when the pressure applied against his flesh increased slightly, and when the weight of his brother came to settle against the cradle of his hips. He could have used his mastery over wind and air to free himself, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could not bear the notion of wounding his brother in any way. “And it is how your lady would desire it—all heat and flames and passion. Do you wish to stop now, brother mine, when you are so close to discovering how to truly pleasure her?

“I… I do not know.”

“Precisely. You do not know. Which is why I intend to teach you. Now stop resisting my embraces, and let me show you the rest.”

His brother looked at him, his eyes wide and full of confusion. And Melkor, thinking an inducement was needed, released his hold and reached down to wrap his hand around his brother’s cock instead. It produced a much-sought-after effect. Manwë arched his back and let out a transported whine, his hands fisting against the sheets, when he felt himself being stroked for the first time.

“Is that a yes, brother mine?” Melkor asked, masking his elation with innocent warmth, when his brother thrust up his hips. 

“Yes, yes, brother,” Manwë—unable to stop himself—cried out, when yet another flash of pleasure tore through him. 

Melkor groaned when he was addressed so. He did not dwell on it, thinking it would undo him and drive him mad if he did. He set his eyes on the task at hand instead, turning his brother onto his belly, bidding him to wait, and telling him that he had to be prepared for what came next. Manwë waited, ashamed of the want that bloomed and surged through his being, and ashamed for wanting to know more of what his brother had in store for him. 

His brother had a great deal in store for him, though, at the time, he knew little of it. The first thing he felt after the weight of the featherbed shifted again was his brother’s legs forcing his own apart. He turned to look over his shoulder, but his brother commanded him to turn back with a heated thought. The next thing he felt was his brother’s hand, large and cool and slick with oil, caressing the small of his back. Manwë closed his eyes.

What will come next? He wondered. 

Pain came next. Pain like he had never felt before was searing through his insides. Manwë tried to look over his shoulder again when the finger that had breached him sank deeper. 

“What are you doing to me?” He demanded, his words feeble.

“Preparing you, just as I said.” Melkor thrust deeply, pressing his finger against a particular place that made his brother dig his nails into the sheets, tearing at them. His quiet moan was sweet and golden, like music to Melkor’s ears. He pressed his finger against that place again, and his name spilled off his brother’s swollen lips in a whisper. “For Varda may do it as well. There are even special implements that she could use for her pleasure as well as for yours. Would you like to know how she could do this?”

“I… that is yes, brother.” Manwë, still full of shame and self-disgust, moaned again when a second finger joined the first, opening him up even more. Melkor used a generous hand with the oil. He applied it along his length and pushed more inside his brother. Then, when he was more than ready, he gripped his brother’s hips and lifted them just high enough to breach him again without too much trouble. And without warning, he did so, pushing himself inside with one long thrust. 

Manwë cried out: from shock, from pain, unable to comprehend how he could accept such an intrusion, and unable to comprehend how he could accept so much of it. Melkor was big—uncomfortably, painfully so. Manwë felt him grunt against the back of his neck and heard him whisper “Finally,” when he sank home. Then he began to move, his shallow thrusts deepening as his pleasure grew.

This is wrong, thought Manwë, even as hunger for more flared through him, white-hot and blinding. This is wrong. This should not be happening. We must stop. I must put a stop to this. I must…

“Enjoying yourself, brother mine?”

Too late did Manwë realize that his moans joined the euphony Melkor had created with his own. Humiliated, he dropped his head, muffling his cries against his arm. His brother did not mind. He took his pleasure as and how he found it, striking the place he found before, bringing both himself and his brother to the very brink by chasing his own release. 

“You are close.” Melkor tightened his grip with one hand while the other moved to tangle itself once more in the pale silver of his brother’s hair. He grabbed onto it and tugged hard, delighting in the little whine he heard. “Your release is almost upon you. I can feel it in the tightening of your body. Do you want me to show you what that would feel like, brother? When your queen takes you over the edge while sharing pleasures?”

“I… that is yes, yes, brother.” Manwë was starting to think there was more to these lessons, something that Melkor kept hidden from his sight. Still, he could not dwell on any suspicion. Not at that moment. Not when golden light kept bursting to life behind his eyes. He whispered his brother’s name and chased after it, giddy and lightheaded, forgetting his shame, unable and unwilling to linger on his brother’s motives. He whispered brother’s name again, this time when he found that light. He let it wash over him and drown him in its brilliance, his body trembling and trembling while he spilled across the sheets, his brother’s name parting his lips in wild little cries. He was still shaking when he heard his brother’s deep cry, and when he felt the warmth of his brother’s spend flood his insides. Then his brother went still, and a hush settled over his chambers. It was everywhere, as all-consuming as the light that washed over him before. Manwë slowly opened his eyes.

Is it now over? He made a faint noise when his brother finally slipped out of him and collapsed onto his side. Has my brother’s lesson come to an end?

“Are your instructions over, brother?” Manwë murmured when he could finally lift his head and speak. He regarded his brother discretely, drinking in the shimmering, slate-gray skin and the hair that fell around him like a dark waterfall. Then he turned away, mortified for admiring him so. Melkor had seen him looking and did well to hide the triumphant smirk that threatened to burst forth. 

So trusting. So innocent. And finally, mine. Varda will never be able to claim all of him now. My mark will forever be etched on his spirit. 

“Our lessons are far from over,” Melkor began after he gathered his breath. “Rest, brother mine. I have so much more to teach you. They too will serve you well, I think, where your new queen is concerned.”  

[kanonavi]

Spoilers for Simulanka Day 3

There's a conversation that I've had with friends from time to time about the fact that the world of Teyvat is, at its core, incredibly kind. Shockingly so, even for most fictional stories that aren't directed towards children. Even though the traveler has faced many antagonists on their journey, the people around them have always banded together to overcome those challenges. Even when people are hurt it's very rare for anyone to die, and many of the antagonists in question aren't pure evil and have their own reasons for taking the actions they take. They may not always operate on the same morality as the traveler or the player, and they might not be "good people", but they still believe that what they have to do is right, or at the very least necessary.

To put it more simply, Genshin is filled with characters that are made to be liked. Not every player will like every character, but very few of them are actively trying to work against you, and even when they do there's still something there to like. Except for like, Il Dottore, but he's likable for how unlikable he is (I have to say that or my Dottore enjoying friend will be sad lmao).

I got to thinking about this when playing the last part of Simulanka because it was a reminder of how, despite the kindness that they've been shown by Teyvat for the past three and a half years, the traveler's morality is still shockingly black and white in many situations.

We see this the most in how they interact with the Fatui. The Fatui, particularly the Harbingers, have cause a lot of damage in the past, but a lot of the grunts are just ordinary people following orders. the commission line in Mondstadt with Viktor, Golden Apple Archipelago 2 and The Chasm come to mind for times when we've interacted with Fatui grunts in a way that really humanizes them and shows that a lot of them really are just people doing a job. Some of them have just been surveyors or low-level guards, but the traveler and Paimon treat them like they're cartoon villains until proven otherwise (and sometimes even after proven otherwise).

The way that they acted towards Simulanka Durin before the party gave him their blessings also seemed to reflect this, especially in comparison to the other party members. Wanderer was obviously the most sympathetic to Durin, since his memories were like looking into a mirror for him, but Nilou, Navia, and Kirara all stepped forward to give Durin their support while the traveler was still showing doubts. They were thinking about how the residents of Simulanka might not forgive Durin, or how his form was too big and scary to coexist with everyone, which was an incredibly unsympathetic outlook even though they were ultimately able to change Durin's form.

It honestly reminds me a lot of how the traveler treated Scaramouche/Wanderer in Inversion of Genesis, like he was a person to be kept the company of only out of necessity as a means to keep him under control, even after Nahida said that she trusted him. Even though something did go wrong at the time, it still showed that the traveler's suspicion and distrust of Scaramouche was strong enough to outweigh their trust of Nahida, despite Nahida having proved herself many times to be wise and worthy of trust in the past. That mistrust and even disdain for him even carried over into when he reappeared with no memories, as the traveler was forcefully adamant that he needed to reclaim his memories and atone, to the point that it seemed like they were being a little bit mean about it.

It's arguable that Scaramouche deserved that treatment, since he was kind of a little shithead who caused a lot of harm in the past, but the traveler was also witness to how deeply he was hurt and manipulated in the past, and therefore would have some kind of understanding of why he turned out the way that he did.

Despite the traveler's usual helpfulness in Simulanka, Nilou, Navia, and Kirara all feel like contrasts to them. Nilou's whimsical outlook and positive mindset allowed her to grasp the magic of creation and even gave her the initiative to try and change Durin's form with magic in the first place. Navia is used to taking care of "the little guy", as it were, through the Spina, and was therefore willing to listen and empathize with the toy people who didn't want to undo the power of prophecy. (With those guys also being called "conservatives" or a "conservative radical" in English, that doesn't really have a good connotation depending on your political leaning, but Navia listened to them anyway). And with Kirara, while I haven't played her little sidequest yet, the description of her outfit described how the little cat burglar stole and returned the emotions of the cats that they hadn't been given when they were created, casting her in the role of someone who can understand the balance that anger, sadness, and pain bring to happiness.

The three of them, as well as the Wanderer, all carry Teyvat's fundamental kindness with them, and it was then coaxed out of the traveler only when all of them had already stepped forward.

It made me wonder if this is some kind of lesson that the traveler has to learn before reuniting with their sibling, that they need to be more willing to put their trust in people, or at least be more understanding of others. While the abyss twin hasn't divulged too much of what they've learned yet, they've made it clear that there are lessons that the traveler needs to learn about the world before they reunite. While that likely has a lot to do with various truths about Celestia and the sky being fake and all that, perhaps they're hoping for their sibling to learn that at least in Teyvat, sometimes people who cause harm to others are simply trying (or have tried and failed and lost hope) to find a path towards co-existing with others.

Since the abyss twin is supposedly born of Teyvat as well, perhaps they've already understood that part of this world from the very beginning and are waiting for their sibling to catch up.

[lale-txt]

heartbreaking! one of your favorite artists makes fun of y/n fics!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

winston my quant of billions

[bleaksqueak]

Okay, if you like fromsoft games or love bloodborne/love a challenge/love horror juxtaposed against endearing whimsy, please check out Lies of P.

The part of me that couldn't stop laughing at the game's name and the concept of "Edgelord Pinnochio Bloodborne Clone" can no longer fathom thinking of the game as anything other than "AMAZING!!!!!!! SO GOOD!!!!!!!! THAT TEAM SHOULD BE SO PROUD!!!! WHAT AN ASTONISHING CREATIVE ACHIEVEMENT!!!" I already knew I was on the "i'd recommend this to anyone who likes these types of games or wants to try them" team, but now that is 10000% And even better, it has filled me with so much art inspiration after exploring its world and collecting beautifully designed costumes. The world building/world design is so, so so so very actualized and charming.

[ficyorick]

out of context chapter 7 line ✌️

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 4 - ENAMOURED

Efri leans over the scaled black fence until her feet are off the ground, spelled light quavering in the air above her hands, and says delightedly, “Oh, can I touch them?”

“Do not,” J’zargo says plaintive behind her, because all her friends are big boring babies, and Kazari huffs hard enough that she feels the fabric ruffle on the backs of her knees.

She wants to touch them. She wants to touch them very badly. She hasn’t had much chance at all to even look at them yet in the time they’ve been here in the underground village, since they spent most of it being watched (in, you know, a manner of speaking) and escorted and very carefully supervised, but she’s had glimpses of the big purple-black bugs in their fenced-off corners, wiggly as snakes and shiny as beetles, and now she’s finally getting to look at them properly and she wants to touch them. They’ve got these cool spikes along the ridges of their backs and huge sharp-looking mandibles that they click and clatter, making noises like the elves do, and she’s never ever ever seen a bug that big and she wants to see what it feels like.

Everything here is something she’s never ever ever seen before. It’s extremely exciting, and was from the beginning, even if it was also a bit scary, at the beginning. It would be hard for it not to be scary – snow ghosts are like dragons, a bit, things that straddle the line between fable and fact. Dragons were legends and yarns and then all of a sudden they were burning towns down; and Onmund says the clatter-coats were strange creepy stories from up in the high north, once, common enough in folklore, but unsubstantiated. Still not very well known. Seeing things you’ve never seen before, that you weren’t even sure are real, is always a bit of a fright (Efri was startled when first she met Kazari), and the snow elves had been threatening them with weapons, at the time, which didn’t help. But that was all a misunderstanding, and it’s cleared up now, and they’re being allowed to look around the cave-village without anyone needing to worry about fighting, so Efri wants to see all of it, right up close, like she couldn’t when they were all still wary of each other. She remembers seeing ponds, before, milk-white, with people all poised statue-still around the edges with spears or nets or traps; she saw the cave bugs, but only from a distance. She saw all the funny little huts but she hasn’t seen the inside of most of them. She knows so little. There is so much still to learn.

(It is hard to clear up misunderstandings when nobody speaks a lick of the same language, but they managed; a woman with sky blue veins and a little bit of hair twisted up in these amazing shapes did mind-magic, which Efri didn’t even know was a thing before today, so they could kind of communicate for a little bit. Brelyna says it’s rare and probably taxing, so they might not be able to do it again. Efri wishes she’d known what they were going to do ahead of time. There are so many questions she would have asked if she’d known to plan them all. She wants to know what their clothes are made of. She wants to know what the ridged tattoos are for and why almost everyone has them. She wants to know if everything is made of the bug-shells, because almost everything she sees looks like bug-shells. She wants to know how they talk and if they can talk to the bugs because they make the same sort of clattering noises and if they ever go into the grand halls of the dwarven ruin and if they ever make their way above surface, and she wants to tell them about the sky and the trees and the mountains and the snow. She’s trying to copy their tapping-talking, but they do need to get back to managing the Eye thing sooner rather than later and there’s not time to learn a language, worst luck. It’s all a shame. But it’s all also incredible, because they might not have long before they have to get back to business but they do have right now, and she is making the most of it.)

So she nearly tips over the edge of the fence in her excitement to lean over it, and Sissel squeaks, and their friend – the one snow elf still escorting them around, making sure that they don’t do things like fall into the bug enclosures – reaches out quick as a wink to grab the back of her mantle and haul her back onto the ground.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching awkwardly around to tap her fingers on his arm in acknowledgement, as seems polite, and he hums. (In her head, she calls him Whistle; she thinks he told them his real name, but part of it was whistling, and when she tried to copy it she just ended up spitting and he made the sort of dry hissing clicking noise that she’s pretty sure is how they laugh. So Whistle it is. Kazari could hum the right pitch but she can’t whistle or do the tongue-teeth click-clucking, and Onmund can whistle long and loud but not quite high enough, and not as clear and clean as it was supposed to be.)

 The light bobs and sputters above her hands. It’ll go out soon, but for now it’s still going strong. Efri wriggles, leans forward to press her chest against the bug-shell fence again, says, “Look at them! They’re so big!” The smallest ones are at least as long as she is tall, with mandibles as big as her head; the biggest one is enormous, as big as three horses, probably. She could sit cross-legged on its head with room to spare. It could swallow someone and they wouldn’t even get stuck in its throat.

“Looking,” J’zargo says. “Not liking.”

“Chicken,” says Efri without even looking over her shoulder, and he makes a very offended scoff.

Sissel is hanging back somewhere with Brelyna; she also doesn’t really like the cave bugs, but she’s not such a baby about it. Efri can hear her feet shuffling. “I wonder what all they’re used for… do they build everything with them?”

“I don’t know!” Efri is bouncing on her heels, a bit. (All the buildings are made of layers of careful-wrought purple-black shell; all the tools, too, all the utensils and knives and spearpoints and everything. She doesn’t know how it’s worked, how it’s harvested, if maybe it’s different kinds of exoskeleton for a house than it is for a platter or a chopping knife.) “It looks like it. I wonder if they eat them, too, like livestock. Do you?” (She directs the last question at Whistle; who, of course, does not answer.)

“Not much meat on it,” Sissel points out.

“I want to touch them,” Efri repeats, and she takes Whistle’s arm; he lets her, ears twitching. (He’s cold to the touch, like a dead fish, and he has the scar-patterns all down his wrists, but she ignores all that because that’s not the point.) She manipulates his loosely curled fingers until he’s pointing, pulls at the limb so the pointer finger jabs against her shoulder, strokes his wrist in the awkward motion one might use when patting a bird, and then shifts his arm again so he’s pointing in the vague direction of the bugs in their fenced-off corner. “Can I touch them?” she repeats, and then, for good measure, “Please?”

The light bobbing over her hands spits and flickers. It’s really hard to try to read Whistle’s face, which is actually very interesting – making faces doesn’t have much utility when no-one you know has eyes, so the snow ghosts don’t seem to quite know how, and Efri hasn’t learned whatever their equivalent is yet – but his ears move more than any elf she’s ever seen, so she mostly focuses on that. (That’s saying a lot, because Brelyna’s ears quiver when she’s annoyed. Not more than the Khajiit, though; they move them as much as their mouths when they’re talking, and J’zargo, at least, never shuts up.) After a moment, he half-straightens, the crooked angle of his back shifting before he eases back into it; he clatters his tongue, pats Efri’s arm, and hops the fence in one smooth motion.

(They’re so fast, and they move so fluidly, even though they don’t look like they should be able to, hunched over and made small with their shoulders stooped and centre of gravity held low. Efri considers, briefly, trying to see if she could move like that; but she suspects it wouldn’t work for her, and anyway, bugs.)

Efri follows gleefully – scrambles over the strange chitinous scaling of the fence and lands a little bit on her knees in the dirt. “Efri, be careful,” Onmund implores, and she turns around on purpose to stick her tongue out at him.

Kazari inclines their head in something like sympathy, signs no stopping her when she gets like this, and Efri sticks her tongue out at them, too. Then she turns back around to follow Whistle – who, it looks like, has paused to listen, face turned like a sunflower towards her. In the light bobbing over her hands, his skin practically glows.

“Bugs,” she says, and taps his arm again. She can see them down the other end of the enclosure, skittering, light glinting off their ink-dark carapaces. The big one lies mostly still, except when it moves its head, mandibles clacking.

Whistle presses a few narrow fingers into the dirt and clicks a rapid pattern with his tongue, and they come swarming. And Efri gets to touch a big bug.

They’re slippery-smooth, and ridiculously quick – she jumps out of the way at first, she’s so startled, but Whistle just leans against them, spreading his hand against sheets of keratin like people might rest their hands on the back of a dog, so Efri copies him. Runs a hand over the jagged plates along one of the bugs’ sort-of-neck, looking at its face side-on, its beady little eye flashing like a cat’s when her light bobs out of the way. Its head is spiky. The scale-plates are thick and gnarled and oil-dark, like the dead material she’s seen almost everything made out of but raw, unfinished-feeling. It clatters its mandibles at her, and she brushes her fingers along one of them, out of curiosity; her hand comes away slick.

“Eugh,” she says delightedly. “They’re slimy.”

The slime, she thinks, might not be good, because suddenly Whistle grabs her wrist, making a very shrill keening noise, and pulls her down to rub her hand on the dirt until it’s scraped dry. Maybe it’s poisonous – they look like the sort of animal that would be poisonous. Or maybe it’s just gross, to the clatter-coats, like walking around with chicken poo on your fingers. He directs her hand back firmly to the top of its head. She says, “Thank you,” even though she knows it won’t get across.

(She’s getting to touch the big maybe-poisonous bugs, and she got to sort-of talk to someone here, and maybe, if there’s time, she can go see the ponds again and learn how they fish, if it’s different with chitin-tools and underground; it’s a shame there’s so little time. Maybe, once the Eye is handled, she could come back. She wants to learn all about this place. And she’s already basically friends with Whistle.)

(All the rest of her friends hang back, even when she tells them it’s fine – she calls them fraidy-cats, and J’zargo takes mock offence – except Brelyna, which is a bit of a surprise. She has to jump to get herself over the fence, and she approaches the bugs with very little worry. Efri grins at her, and Brelyna half-shrugs and says, “They’re just insects. The way they all act sometimes, I think they’d wet themselves if they ever saw a nix.” Efri makes a note in her head to learn, when she has a moment, what a nix looks like.)

(Then Efri’s little light goes out, and she waits for someone else to strike one, because she’s been using her gloves an awful lot since she came underground and if she doesn’t let the enchantment rest they’ll probably unravel themselves.)

So that’s one thing on the list of things she’s curious about; there’s more, of course, an endless spiel. She wishes she could ask what the bugs are kept for, and how they’re reared, and what they’re called; she wants to put them in her word-book, but she doesn’t know the name past big bug and those words aren’t really worth the page space. She’d really like to see what she can find out about fishing next, because she’s certainly never tried fishing underground, but by the time she’s done patting the beetle-things – the really big one, she discovers when she works up the courage to approach it, likes to be knuckled in the chinks of its belly-armour, like a dog (or she thinks it likes it, anyway; it clicks and lolls its head when she does) – Onmund and Kazari are saying that they’re hungry, so Efri has to figure out how to try to get that across. She ends up putting Whistle’s hand on her cheek and miming chewing, which is the best way she can think of to communicate eating short of biting his fingers, which feels rude.

Eating is probably about as good as fishing, anyway, because Whistle does the hiss-click-laugh sound and leads them neatly through the gnarls of the village to a half-open hut they haven’t been to before, and there’s people cooking there so Efri gets to learn about snow elf cooking, and there’s a baby there so she gets to learn about snow elf babies. It’s in a cloth sling over someone’s chest, looking very small and squishy, eye-spots all wrinkly and ears floppy and skin as pale-translucent as the belly of a crab. “Aw,” Efri coos, “It’s a baby.” Which is obvious, but still worth noting.

Sissel says, “You don’t like babies,” which, as a general rule, is true. They’re loud and whingy and don’t do much, and it means they’re pretty boring, even though it isn’t their fault.

But, “It’s an interesting baby,” Efri says. She’s never seen a snow ghost baby before. No-one ever mentions babies in the stories. Its mother lets her hold its hand. Its knuckles are purplish; its nails are tough, like chitin.

It’s nice to get to sit by a fire, too; there’s precious little of it down here, it seems. Fire’s good for light and heat and snow elves don’t need much of either. But it makes it easier to watch them all work, weaving in and out of the sparse furniture and each other, as if they all know where everything is at all times. Efri gets to help mash something in a bowl. She’s not sure what it is. It might be some kind of vegetable, though she doesn’t know any that would grow down here. Someone takes the bowl away again, and she sprawls out over the dirt to watch. All her friends have sat down, too.

“We’ll need to keep going, soon,” Onmund says, quiet, firelight casting strange shadows through the wisps of his hair.

Efri tips her head back. “I know,” she grumbles. “It’s just all so interesting.” The staff will be interesting too, she knows; you can find something to be interested in everywhere. But she’ll miss the snow elf place. It’s all so cool, and there’s so much more to learn.

Whistle is listening from where he’s doing something to the coals of the fire; she can tell because his ears, batlike, are twitching her way. She tries, one more time, to make the right whistling noise, and again she spits all over her chin, and again he laughs, strange and alien and rustling like dry leaves.

[deadrlngers]

WIP DAY

i was tagged by @moonmothers @devilbrakers @flymmcargo @nuclearstorms + @hibernationsuit thank you guys so much!! <3

tagging: @morvaris @faarkas @shadowglens @voerman @faerune @ladyshar @liurnia @halsin @gortash @risingsh0t @necroticpetals @druidgroves @malefiicarum @feypacts @florbelles @calenhads @thedeadthree and anyone else i missed! can't remember exactly who writes or not so if you see this just say i tagged you

disclosing my violante/ruven/gortash (pre-game events) agenda,,even if it's mainly vio here but if i added any more of the wip in here you guys would kill me bc it's already so long. anyways who doesn't like masked balls?

“Dare I ask who I'm in the presence of?” The gems nestled in the fine silver net adorning her hair made a gentle tinkling sound as Violante tilted her head forward in a courteous bow tasked to open the dance. When she rose to meet her partner’s gaze once more, she resumed: “And most of all, is it friend or is it foe?”

Even beneath the mask, the wicked shine of Enver’s dark eyes appeared brighter than the play of light on the golden wings that stretched from the front of the mask to his hair. “Vicare, the only human man that could fly.”

Vicare – Violante wished to laugh. Was his arrogance the cause of her amusement? Or perhaps it was his full, unabashed, commitment to that little theatrical play they were staging? Whichever the reason, she found that trying to conceal her smile around him was beginning to verge on the impossible. Disgraceful…but thrilling, she couldn’t wait to let Ruven hear of it.

The music carried their voices along the notes like they were part of the sheets; it was a concerto of violins, lutes and harps. Violante could hear the distinct sound of a few wind instruments as well but failed to recognize them. The melody was slow and soothing, inviting the dancers to know one another, play their coy games before dealing their full hand when the culmination of the song would strike.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, barely letting the fabrics of their clothes brush one another as they drew a circle on the floor with their steps: a dance that resembled more the stalk of two wolves ready to attack, reach for the throat and sink sharp teeth in the flesh and let fate settle who was going to bleed out first and declare the other victorious.

“The name holds a familiar sound.” She spoke calmly, voice just above a whisper but carrying confidence, pride. A pride soon betrayed; a quick glance stolen with the tail of her eye to the dark haired man, searching for any hint on his half covered face that would reveal his thoughts to her. She hoped for the stars, yet she was no astronomer at all. Whatever Enver Gortash was thinking, from amusement to annoyance, remained a well guarded secret. “I’d like to hear the tale of the man of the golden feathers, if he’s willing to share.”

The violins played a grave note and as if spells were casted, each performing pair jumped into position – facing each other, one arm up as the back of their hands brushed the one of their partner in a gentle kiss of the knuckles. His hand to her waist, her touch above his shoulder. "Do I have to tell? I'm sure you know well how the story goes. The one that dreamt of flying too high in the sky – accused of free will, punished with the amputation of his wings.” He leaned forward, a cunning smile curling his lips upwards charmingly. “They used shears, if I remember correctly, to make me never wish to fly again. Quite the gruesome spectacle it was.”

Enver’s back was straight, tense as the string of a bow ready to let its arrow strike the prey, yet the movement of his steps was nothing but light and elegant as they spun in unison with the other dancers like a gentle breeze barely caressing the marble under his feet. He was a great dancer, Violante couldn’t deny it.

“Yet you persist, don’t you? Behind those walls you still look up for the cobalt sky.” A swirl, restrained in perfect graciousness learned in years of training with a certain drow, the rich crimson fabric of her gown twisting around her body like a tail. “Which amount of punishment is enough to make you learn, I wonder.”

His eyes narrowed yet that wicked grin didn't falter. “Flying is a thought, and nothing can stop an idea. The wind reached me even when my feet were bound to the ground." They waltzed into an outside spin and moved into the next step with a final touch of the wrist, pulse against pulse. “Besides – I can take a fair amount of penance, if rewarding.” His fingers twitched against hers, nothing more than a controlled and quick brush tauntingly demure, yet just enough to make Violante wonder, take the hint of that touch and let her mind carry it on as it pleased. The power of a thought, wasn’t it? 

Enver appeared no less pleased, be it the quick flash of her surprised expression or the sudden rigidity of her muscles. “Now that I’ve answered your question, allow one for myself: who are you in turn?”

Violins stood out from the choir of instruments with a strident sound this time, separating the couples as if the touch of one another was akin to reaching for a flame with naked skin. Violante arms rose up in a fluid movement, like the fluttering of a bird’s wings or the stroke of a brush, while Enver’s form bended in a half-bow, one arm behind his back and the other circling his waist.

“Death.” She expressed sharply, excited as if her time in this play had finally come. “And if I recall correctly, even Vicare couldn’t escape Death.”

[autumnbrambleagain]

i'm glad i save random things to my hd because i foudn this fucking nonsense i wrote in a fugue state 14 years and 2 months ago at 2am

the door is locked

whokilledem

the answers ghosts pat always ghosts

all these years in my line of work

a hundred murder cases and ghosts

all of em

henry you are the worst detective get out of here i am not hiring you anymore go back to

drinking whisky

and talking in metaphors

little did pat know that i was collecting evidence on him

evidence of crimes

ROARING TWENTIES CRIMES

dame sashayed into my door

legs short and compacted

like revolvers

her body long and flowing

like the smoke trail of revolvers

her eyes glistened black in her dangerous looking face

like the muzzle of a revolver

her whiskers twitched as she leaned over my desk

like a revolver sliding out its holster

in a weasely voice

like a revolver's report

she said she needed my help

like a revolver does for to be pulling its trigger

i couldnt resist her

just like a revolver bullet passin through my soft body

dame weasel i said

mickey is gonna come afta ya

you need a place to stay

like a holster

for revolvers

she leaned her long little body over my lap

like revolvers gearing up to be aimed

and she asked if i had an idea

like revolvers waiting to be fired

i told her to hide out with me

and my revolvers

we ended up in my bedroom

with my revolvers

and then she pulled out a revolver

it was a revolver

and she pointed it at me

like it was a revolver

and told me there was a change of plans

like revolvers changin' cylinders

and that mickey and his boys were coming for me

with revolvers

and if i stayed shut and still shed make sure they went easy on me

like well oiled revolvers

and i said to her

flapper stoat dame

i like ya babe

but no one points a revolver at

revolver henry

so i took out my revolver

and we shot at one another

with revolvers

and in the heat of the moment

like the heat of revolvers

we began to make love

with our revolvers

does it really end like this

i asked

as i stared down the snub nose of her revolver

yeah she said

cocking back her revolver

i was the crime boss all along she said

steadying her revolver

it is okay though

she said

shooting her revolver

if i hadnt noticed

she said

over the din of her revolver

she was

under that dress

a zombie thing

with a revolver

and shed bring me back

as a zombie

and i asked

as i felt my blood spill out

like the bullets of revolvers

if i could get to use revolvers

when i was a zombie

she said yes

and

for the first time in my life

i was happy

like revolvers

firing their first rounds

being a zombie

and a gangster

is not bad

like revolvers

i get to wear a suit

with stripes like the cylinders of revolvers

and i get to use guns

like revolvers

and taking orders from a compact chick

tough like a revolver

does something for me

i think i have found where i fit in

like bullets

in the chambers

of revolvers

[itssideria]

just. arcane season two. shadow and bone tv show. percy jackson tv show. i miss when we could call bad media bad and shit on the writers and it would make them write better. instead you get some weird fandom hivemind where apparently its okay to write bad boring disconnected stuff that completely butchers its own themes and ignores its own canon because "tHE oRiGInaL wRItEr sIGNeD oFf oN It doN't BE a HaTEr!!!11" and like. guys do you remember when tv shows had time and effort put into them and if they ignored their own canon people got pissed off. do you remember. genuinely if the percy jackson movies came out in 2025 and rick wrote the script people would call it a needed change i think. i miss when tv shows followed their own canon and were well-written

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi and congratulations again!

I'd like "a thrall's brand" for Eönwë and Gothmog in the Valinor Falls AU with some fluff and smut between them (though the prompt and verse in itself are more on the dead dove side so...😌). Let's say they're in love, at least Gotty is, but the circumstances are dark.

Smut DNWs: Anything goes, our DNWs match up

Dark content details: I suppose it would go into dub-con territory somewhat due to the thrall situation

Thank you!♥️

I plunged into the dark. As always. I hope you like this story!

“Little bird”

Pairing: Gothmog/Eonwe

AU: Fall of Valinor

Themes: NSFT | Dark | Smut

Warnings: Character death prior to the beginning of the story | Dubious consent | Branding | Torture | Smut | Coaxing/Manipulation | Master/Slave | Some fluff

Wordcount: 2.4k words

Summary: Gothmog is given Eönwë as a war prize, and he must brand him and then tend to him after the others take their leave of him.

A/N: This story has been inspired by one of these prompts, and it’s a follow up of sorts of these and these fics. Hope you enjoy reading this!

Minors DNI | 18+

Gothmog stood in the center of a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by many others half-hidden in shadows. “This will hurt a great deal, little bird,” he uttered softly, “but it must be done.”

Eönwë struggled against the great chain around his wrists; it had been affixed to a hook driven into the ceiling, keeping him upright and with his feet dangling over the floor. His mouth had been gagged with strips of fine silk; they muffled the screams that broke free when a red-hot brand was pressed along his waist, causing him to writhe in agony. He could feel the heat searing into his skin, burning it and leaving a charred ruin in its wake. Then it abruptly stopped, and he trembled. A tear coursed down his cheek.

“It is finished, my king,” Gothmog said, suddenly ashamed in a way he could not comprehend. He brushed his thumb against that single tear, wiping it away. An attendant took the still blazing hot brand out of his other hand. “I trust this is enough to satisfy you.”

“It is indeed,” Melkor replied, stepping into the light. He smiled when his gaze came to rest on the many scars adorning Eönwë’s naked form and the tendrils of smoke still curling around the brand he must now bear upon the earthly vessel that housed his worn spirit. Such torment and humiliation was well deserved, the Vala thought. “My brother’s servant is now yours, Lord Commander. Do with him what you will.”

“My king,” the Balrog returned, bowing deeply. He returned his attention to the being he claimed as soon as the others took their leave of him and beaten bronze doors half again as tall as Melkor himself closed behind them. The ceremony of claiming had come to an end; Eönwë was now his. 

The Herald of Manwë desired nothing more than to sob in relief when the silk binds around his mouth were removed and the chain around his wrists loosened. Large, meaty hands held him gently as he was lowered onto the marble floor. Eönwë sighed; the icy chill that lingered on the surface provided a welcome relief from the pain that surged through him whenever he tried to move his limbs.

“Shhhh, little bird,” his captor said, crouching down to his haunches. He brushed his hand over all that remained of Eönwë’s once long sable hair. “It is over now.”

Eönwë compelled himself to open his eyes. When he looked up, he was greeted by the Lord of the Balrogs. Gothmog had chosen an elf-like form for himself; his horns had been adorned with golden chains and rings, and his clawed, cloven feet were bare against the floor. Supple leather breeches were all he had worn for raiment; anything more would have hindered the dark wings that dragged the Balrog behind like a train whenever he walked.

“Little bird,” he whispered after he clutched onto what was left of his strength. “Twas the same name you called me all those years ago.”

“Aye,” Gothmog said. He gathered Eönwë into his arms and lifted him with ease. “And ‘twas I who found you long before that, lying wounded against the snow. Do you remember that, little bird?”

“I remember the presence of another,” Eönwë forced himself to say, “and the warmth of their breath. But that is all I remember. Was it you? Was it you who found me and then saved me? It cannot be.”

“You are surprised by the revelation,” Gothmog said. He climbed up winding steps that led to the upper floor and his sleeping chamber. “And perhaps I cannot fault you for being so. We were sworn enemies, you and I.”

“We still are,” Eönwë said. “Pray where are you taking me?”

“My chambers,” Gothmog said. “The claiming is now over, and you are mine.”

The other Maia struggled against him in a bid to escape his grasp. “Escape is futile, little bird,” Gothmog said, holding Eönwë closer. “Compose yourself and obey me in all things, and you will find me a most charitable master and a most kindly companion.”

Eönwë scoffed. “I will never be your companion. I will never serve you.”

Gothmog looked at him and said, “Tis too late, little bird, for you are mine now. The brand upon your skin is proof of this.” He softened his voice, adding, “It is for the best; you will see. Our new king would have claimed you for himself had I not spoken for you, and you would have found yourself enduring a worse fate if that had happened.”

Eönwë would have struggled even more, but he could not do so; the strength he had held onto slipped through his fingers, leaving him helpless. He rested his head against Gothmog’s shoulder, repulsive as the notion was to him. He was too weak to do anything else.

“Rest against me,” the Balrog said, seizing the moment. He would have to coax Eönwë into obeying him, and his task was made all the easier with the other Maia finding himself in such a weakened state. “I will have you cleaned and abed soon.”

Eönwë fought away a shiver and closed his eyes. Gothmog would have him bathed and cleaned, and he would place him in his own bed. But where would it all lead to, Eönwë could not say. And that very notion was enough to fill him with a strange sense of dread. Still, he remained as he was, for there was naught he could do. He no longer possessed the strength to fight. He did not even know where he was.

“Where are we?” He finally asked at length. The walls were brilliant white marble veined with blue, but such were the walls in many a manse and palace found in Valinor. They could have been anywhere in the Blessed Realm.

“Ostmalta,” Gothmog said, entering another dimly lit chamber. Elven thralls with golden hair neatly arranged in thick, simple braids bowed and curtsied before scurrying away in fear. “In the palace King Ingwë once called home. The city in its entirety is mine now.”

The Maia who once served Manwë found himself overcome with much sorrow. Ingwë was slain, as were many an elf who refused to turn against the Valar. Their blood drenched the fields just beyond the borders of Tirion, and he, the one who should have kept them safe from such a fate, had been condemned to a life of enslavement.

“Why is it so cold?” Eönwë inquired. His breath came out like thin puffs of mist, and the air around him was as cold as the floor he had lain on. He had perceived this same chill during the journey that brought him to this place, and he could not understand the cause of it.

“Tis the time of winter, little bird,” Gothmog said. “Your king’s fall and my own king’s rise brought to this realm seasons that change, not just the season of eternal spring. But this place will be made warm, and soon. The thralls have already wrought braziers for the burning of wood and peat.”

“What will become of me?” He said. Gothmog crossed over to the bathing chamber. The water in the sunken pool was steaming, and the air was warm and fragrant with herbs. He would have sighed with pleasure had he forgotten who held him.

“You are my companion,” Gothmog insisted, lowering him onto a step beneath the water. “And you will remain so for as long as I will it.”

“And how long will that be?” Eönwë sat as comfortably as possible and stole a glimpse of the Balrog. Gothmog was disrobing himself. He arranged his belt and breeches on a wide pillowed bench by one wall before turning to face the pool and the one who already occupied it, smiling to himself when he caught Eönwë flushing from cheek to chest.

“Throughout the long years of my life, little bird,” Gothmog said. He reached for the beaten gold bowl left for him on the bench. “And not a moment before that.”

Eönwë looked away. He girded himself when water rippled all around him, and Gothmog took his place on a step above his. “I see,” he murmured, before crying out in torment. Warm water flowed down his back and his sides and over the wound from his marking. It was still red and raw as it should have been, and the pain that followed was nigh unbearable.

Gothmog stopped. He drew Eönwë closer to his body and whispered into his ear. “Breathe deeply now, little bird. Lay against me and breathe deeply. This will soon pass.”

Eönwë’s fingers dug into the Balrog’s thighs, marring them with little crescent-shaped bruises. He was breathing in quick, ragged gasps, but when Gothmog breathed deeply, he followed his lead, taking one deep breath and then another. Soon, his head dropped back against Gothmog’s chest when near-unbearable pain lessened to a dull throb, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Forgive me, little bird,” Gothmog said. “I should have taken greater care with you. But you heeded me, which is a good thing. Continue to heed me, and you will find that having one such as me for a master is not a dreadful notion after all.”

“Why should I do such a thing?” Eönwë told him. He glanced back at Gothmog, his eyes spitting fire. “Why should I heed you?”

“Because I could be very generous to you, and I can be generous in many ways. Let me show you.”

The Balrog’s hands slipped around the other Maia’s waist. “No!” Eönwë cried. He twisted in his captor’s embrace when those same hands glided down his belly and over his thighs. “Please do not do this!”

“Hush, little bird,” Gothmog crooned gently. He grabbed Eönwë’s hands by the wrists, carefully pinning them to the other Maia’s torso. His free hand he allowed to wander freely. “And obey me. There will be much pleasure for you in this.”

It was hard to deny the truth in such words. Even when in pain, Eönwë felt a flickering of pleasure rising and falling in his flesh, and he was amazed at how tenderly the Balrog restrained him. Nevertheless, he fought valiantly to dampen all that he felt. Gothmog did not deserve the satisfaction of witnessing such things.

“There will be no pleasure for me,” Eönwë declared weakly. It was a false declaration, to be sure, for when Gothmog palmed him between his legs, he whimpered despite himself.

“You lie, little bird,” Gothmog said. “Yield to me, and you will taste greater delights than this.”

He continued his ministrations, uttering half-whispered commands and honeyed words to cajole Eönwë into obeying him. Perhaps, Gothmog thought, there were other ways to gain submission, other ways to convince his gift to yield to him. At the moment, however, he could conceive of none. All he could do was continue as he did and enjoy arousing the being who had haunted his every dream ever since he came upon him all those years ago.

It was not something considered possible, a Balrog like him being in love with one who served the enemy of his master. Still, it happened all the same that fateful day when he came upon Manwë’s herald lying helpless amidst the snow, his eyes closed, his physical form covered in many bruises. Duty commanded him to slay the wounded being or, at the very least, bring him to the master he served. Gothmog could not do either, for something he did not truly comprehend at the time stayed his hand. Later, he would learn what this was and what the others called it. And he lamented greatly, for he knew such a being would never be his. Such sadness lasted only until the Great Wars came, Valinor was conquered, and his master, the new King of Arda, asked him to name anything he desired as a gift. 

“Please,” Eönwë pleaded, bringing Gothmog to the present moment. He found himself surrendering little by little to the gentle commands, the softly spoken endearments, and the skilled hand that stroked his cock. It shamed him to lose the battle against the wanton demands of his body, and to yield in such a manner to the one who claimed him as a war prize.  “I should not feel such things. I cannot—”

“But you can,” Gothmog Interjected. He groaned when Eönwë cried out his pleasure. “Oh yes, you can. Yield to me, little bird. Give yourself to me fully. Will you do so?”

"I... yes." Eönwë was utterly lost. All he could think of now was the heady warmth of the fragrant air, the deft hand that drove him to the point of rapture, and the ecstasy that came from both; his pain, grief, and the knowledge of his current circumstances were all but forgotten. And it was good. It was all so good. The pleasure that at first flowed through him like a mild trickle turned into something more powerful, something that threatened to sweep him away and drown him whole. Soon, he was moaning without shame, arching his back as the one who held and caressed him took him to the very edge and beyond it. Then Gothmog pulled away, sighing wistfully, while he spilled into the water. 

“Was that good, little bird?” The Balrog said, releasing the other Maia’s hands.

“Perhaps,” Eönwë said, offering no protest. He slumped against Gothmog, his chest still heaving from his release. The pain that burned through him slowly returned, but that did not alarm him as much as what he felt pressing against his back. “Will I have to reciprocate?”

“Later. When you are ready to do so. And you must be ready to do so. The others will expect me to lash you in the city square if they hear of your refusal to serve me in any way.”

The thought of such a possible humiliation was too much for even Eönwë to consider. “Then… then I shall serve.”

“Good. Do not give your heart over to fear, little bird. If you serve me well no further harm shall come to you.”

“Do you lie?”

“My vows are not fickle things,” Gothmog swore. “They do not bend and break like the thin reeds I trample beneath my feet. Serve me well, little bird, and I will stay true to my word. Heed me in all things, and no further harm shall be inflicted upon your person.”

“Then I shall serve you without question,” Eönwë said. His king was lost to him, as were so many others. He was very much on his own now, and wholly dependent on the mercy of darker, fouler beings. Perhaps, by serving Gothmog, his fate would be better than most.

“It pleases me to hear you say it. Now be still, little bird. I need to clean you and tend to your wound before I could let you rest.”

[indie-bard-maiden]

Black Crescent Bay

(my NOVEL on wattpad, not to be confused with the short story in my short story collection 'The Ballad of Hollowfaye'! This is just another siren story that also takes place in my fictional town of Hollowfaye. Different characters but same setting.)

Esmarie Kestrel is a human girl. A normal human girl. She's 21, attends Hollowfaye Community College, and JUST wants to make it to the fashion show at the end of her senior year. She's a seamstress, a designer for her school's Theater, and that's ALL she cares about. Who needs math? But also who needs sleep? ESMARIE DOES! So she'd appreciate it if this siren fishboy who calls himself her mate would stop haunting her dreams and giving her DREADFULLY awful romantic visions of their lives together! And while he's at it, he could TAKE her stupid mermaid tail back because EW!

(2)

a party

My best friend is an old lady named Waverly Adler, and her best friend is a middle-aged man named Heath Merrick. Waverly's been divorced twice and made it out, luckily, without any children to waste her life raising. Her second husband did have three children of his own, and she was happy to never see any of them ever again. She moved to Hollowfaye when she was 68, ready to start her life over and go to college, determined to make something of herself.

Heath was an ex-con, ex-drug dealer who'd lost everything including his husband and their five adopted children when they moved to a place only reachable by goblin tolls and portal-circles made of mushrooms and flora.

I figured he was still micro-dosing whatever drugs he used to do when he explained his sad life story. It wasn't far off. Plenty of people in Hollowfaye had issues dealing with reality.

On the third day that I was too exhausted and anxiety-ridden to endure any of our lectures, Waverly stopped by my apartment with a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of rum.

"Get dressed," she demanded, and gasped when she saw the ghastly circles under my eyes, "And clean your face up, girl. You're gonna scare everyone away." She pushed past me and inspected my disatrous humble abode with a scoff. "Goodness me, what have you been doing in here?"

I tried to shut the door, but Heath stopped it with his beer belly. He shoved his way through with a smile which quickly fell when he saw me and my surroundings.

"What happened here?"

"Homework," I muttered, and moved stray fabrics from one side of the floor to the other side with the tip of my toe.

They both tsk'ed me. "Well... We're going to a party." Heath looked at Waverly, "You did tell her that we're going to a party, right?"

Waverly gestured at me before sitting down on the velvet sea-blue sofabed. She set the rum in the cup holder and pulled out a cigarette and placed it saltily between her lips.

"I did, but she won't listen to me."

It was only then that I registered their outfits. Heath was in a powder blue tux from the seventies with a ruffled black button-up and a fuschia bow tie, Waverly was in a neon chartreuse-sequin formal gown that looked like it belonged in 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes' or  'The Divorcee'. I couldn't even form a comment before Heath was ushering me into the bathroom. He sat me down on the toilet and got to work beating color into my face and beating the color out of my bags.

He didn't touch my hair. Well, he did. Just curled some of the tresses around his fingers with a smile before he said, "We'll leave this be. It really frames your face."

"Thanks... But I cannot go to a party tonight. I'm distressed. And overwhelmed. And I'll just ruin the night for both of you."

He scoffed, "Please," he lined my lips with a jewel-tone plum liner, "you don't possess the skills to ruin my night." As he was glossing on a blood-red lipstick over the plum color, he shouted to Waverly, "Doll, find her an outfit and some shoes!"

There was rustling in my bedroom and then the sound of shoes being thrown across the floor and drawers being pulled open and slammed shut. I was scared of what I'd find when the door opened. But then there was Waverly with a wide smile and the chiffon sage green and slate gray dress I only just finished the night before.

"This is just gorgeous. You have to wear it tonight."

I blushed, "Thanks. You should've seen how long I struggled with the boning of the corset."

She looked down at it and held it up to her chest, staring at herself in the mirror and adjusting the red in her otherwise white hair. "This will just work wonders on your bust, won't it?"

I blushed harder. This time out of embarrassment. I hadn't done that intentionally in the design, but the corset did create a look that was nothing short of a miracle on my flat chest. It gave the illusion that there was something there worth grabbing. The asymmetrical waterfall skirt, however, was intentional, and it made my buns look like the finest in the bakery.

It wasn't my proudest creation, but it was up there.

I was almost excited to wear it, and then Waverly pulled out the vibrant red thong she'd paired it with. My smile fell at once.

"What? Just in case,"

I shook my head, but Heath held me still as he finished sculpting my eyebrows, "I never wear that."

"Never say never. Besides you might find yourself a handsome beau tonight, and you'll be quite disappointed in yourself if you decide to wear your granny-panties instead."

"Listen to that one, Sweetheart," he gestured at her with the tip of the makeup brush, "she knows allllll about granny-panties, don't you, hun?"

Waverly let out a hmph and dropped the red-violet wrap-up chunky heels on the ground, "A lady never reveals her age."

She had. Literally the first day we met. She was 69 next spring.

It took only a few more minutes for Heath to add the finishing touches to my face. A touch of highlight on the tip of my nose, some sparkly setting spray, and a spritz of Chanel No. 5 on either side of my neck and behind my ears.

"Gorgeous! Now let's get you dressed."

I stopped them as they both reached for me, "I'm quite capable of doing it myself, thanks." I put it all on in a flash, forboding the thong, and opting to just let my cheeks hang free. It would at least rid me of a burdensome panty-line around my hips.

"Where is this party anyway?" I asked as we were leaving.

Heath explained it was some celebratory thing to cheer on the one of our sports teams. He forgot which one, and we all figured it was unimportant anyway. We all thought sports were for people who WEREN'T us. Waverly grabbed the rum and the cigarettes on her way out, and we pre-gamed on our way to the New England, eggshell yellow colonial-house where there was nowhere to park and barely anywhere to stand.

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[backgroundelf]

Here is my @whiteoliphaunt gift for @a-world-of-whimsy-5 featuring some dork lord cuddles!

[bookoramaenderteeth]

Can't even exist in multiple simultaneous contradictory states any more. Because of woke.

[bcneheaded]

huwahgh HELLO... i live, more or less. just popping in to say hi ?? also to [makes a bunch of garbled, incoherent noises] yeah